Blood Red

by Quintin Jardine

Not so. But I’ll get there.

  The wine shop was open when I got back to St Martí; it was a lovely day and midweek or not, the village was starting to get busy. I headed through the square towards Plaça Petita, but slowed my approach when I saw a shape half in, half out of the doorway and realised that Ben had customers. One doesn’t get in the way of a potential sale, after all. It was only when I got closer that I realised who the people were.

  Ben’s mum, Ingrid Simmers as was, is a part-time resident of L’Escala. She is also one of his best customers. She and his dad are divorced; she’s Ingrid Reid now, and the bulk I had seen filling the door frame was that of her second husband, Matthew, a retired PR guru. They split their time pretty much equally between their two homes, the other one being in East Lothian, in Scotland’s golfing country. Oz and I once went to the beach there; got up to mischief in the secluded and sheltered dunes (‘What’s in it for me?’ ‘Sand.’) up on a high point from which he claimed that he could see his old man’s house through his binoculars. (Scotland’s a village, really; the first time I met Matthew he told me that he knew Oz’s dad, Mac, having played against him once in a golf match.)

  I’ve never asked, but I reckon that Ingrid must be about the same age as the formidable Dolores Fumado. Around the same height too, but that’s as far as it goes. I wouldn’t mind her figure and her blond hair is so natural that I wonder if she’s ever been to a stylist in her life.

  ‘Hello, Primavera,’ she said warmly, as I slipped into the shop. ‘I hear you’ve been dragooned into the wine fair.’

  ‘She volunteered, Mum,’ Ben protested.

  She ignored him. ‘Have you been to see that awful mayor?’ she asked.

  ‘Justine’s not awful,’ I told her. ‘In fact, she isn’t the problem either. It seems that the blocker is a local dinosaur called Planas, who seems to have an effective right of veto on the council.’ I looked at Ben. ‘What the hell have you done to upset him?’ I asked him, in Spanish.

  And that’s when he blushed. I don’t think Ingrid noticed, suddenly she was too busy studying the shop’s range of specialist olive oils, but Matthew did. I could tell by his raised eyebrow; it was very expressive, and I knew I’d stumbled on something.

  ‘You interested in one of those, Mum?’ Ben asked, as blatant a change of subject as I’ve ever seen. ‘Take one and try it if you like.’ He broke off as two more customers came into the shop, and started speaking to them in passable French.

  I went outside and said hello to Cher and Mustard, who were tethered to one of the bollards that keep cars out of the plaça. After ten minutes or so, the French customers made their choice and left, closely followed by Ingrid and Matthew, who winked as he waved me goodbye. I realised that his Spanish was better than I’d supposed.

  ‘So what’s the story?’ I asked, as Ben emerged to take the dogs inside, out of the sun. ‘How did you cross swords with this old bastard?’

  ‘I’ve never met him,’ he said, as I followed him.

  ‘The mayor said I should ask you about him.’

  ‘Justine did?’ And then he grinned, reflectively. ‘No, that doesn’t really surprise me.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that you knew Justine.’

  ‘I don’t, not really.’

  ‘Come on, Ben, either you do or you don’t.’

  What’s beyond sheepish? Goatish? I don’t know, but if it’s there, Mr Simmers was it, at that moment. ‘I’ve only met her a couple of times,’ he confessed, ‘at parties: she doesn’t have much time for a social life. It’s Elena Michels I know better.’

  ‘Elena?’

  ‘Justine’s sister.’

  ‘Not the one who’s married to Planas’s son?’

  ‘That’s the only sister she has, and I can see where that might be where the problem lies.’

  Scales fell from my eyes. Young, free and single: I should have guessed there would be a woman involved somewhere. ‘Oh Jesus,’ I heard myself exclaim, with an alarming hint of matronly disapproval, ‘tell me you didn’t . . .’

  ‘Well, yes, but hey, there was nothing wrong with it, in anyone’s eyes but old Planas’s. It was before she and Angel were married. Elena and I had a thing.’

  ‘A serious thing?’

  ‘We thought it was . . . at least I did. We lived together for a while, but it didn’t work out. I saw the writing on the wall, so I left.’

  ‘I see. But you’re history. Why’s the old man so set against you?’

  ‘He’s like that. From what Angel told me he blames me for splitting him and Elena up.’

  ‘But I thought you said . . .’

  ‘I did, and they weren’t. But they had been engaged. It’s . . .’ He broke off as a British couple in beach clothes came into the shop, looking to buy a bottle of water. As he served them, I took the dogs through to the back room, returning as I heard them leave. ‘As I was saying,’ he resumed, ‘it’s a long story. Angel and Elena were at school together, and they were a pair then. She went to university, and he went into his dad’s furniture business, but they drifted on and got engaged.’

  ‘Very conventional by today’s standards,’ I commented. ‘Did they share a place? Or wouldn’t Elena’s mum have approved . . . or her dad, since he must have been alive then.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard of him, Henri wouldn’t have been bothered. It was Angel’s dad who’d have put the mockers on it.’

  ‘Justine did say he’s old school.’

  ‘And the rest. Maybe he was the reason they split up. I never asked, but he could have been. All Elena told me was that she got cold feet. She told Angel that she didn’t think she wanted to marry him. He’s a gentleman . . . I know him; I like him . . . he said he understood, and they went their separate ways. They’d been apart for more than a year when she and I started seeing each other.’

  ‘When did you know you had a problem with old man Planas?’

  ‘Not fully until today. Elena’s mother told me that he wasn’t happy with what Elena had done, but that was all anyone ever said.’

  ‘Why did you and she break up?’

  He frowned. ‘The kindest way I can put it is that she found she was wrong, and that she really had wanted to marry Angel all along. She never said as much, but I knew. When they did get back together, very soon after we split, I was the least surprised man in town.’

  ‘And you bear no grudges?’

  ‘Absolutely none. But Planas does, it seems, and he carries them a long way. What are we going to do about him, Primavera?’

  ‘I’ll talk to him. Maybe I’ll buy some furniture from his shop, then get round to talking about the wine fair.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work?’

  ‘Then I’ll make sure that everyone in St Martí, and L’Escala, gets to know what he’s doing, and why. See if he gets elected then.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d like that; it would harm Angel and Elena.’

  ‘Then I’ll find another solution; fuck it, if we have to we’ll hold the wine fair in my house. It’s just about big enough. Way to go before that, though.’ I smiled, as a thought struck me. ‘You know what your real problem is, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You picked the wrong sister.’

  He pulled a sad clown face. ‘I’d have had to join the queue.’

  ‘What’s she like? What’s she got going for her? I mean, this is a very male town, yet she’s a young woman and she’s its mayor. Looks don’t get you elected in a place like this.’

  He scratched his stubbled chin. ‘Justine gets results,’ he replied, ‘because she has the gift of making people do things for her, sometimes without even asking them, simply because they want to please her. Looks don’t get you elected, no, but charisma does.’

  ‘Does she have a partner?’

  ‘Most of the single guys in this town, and a load of the married ones, I’ll bet, fancy Justine Michels. And they’re all wasting their time. There is a man somewhere, hidden away. I haven�
��t a clue who he is, though; nobody has, not even Elena.’

  ‘Pity we don’t know. If we could tell him that Planas is giving his lady the mayor a hard time, he might sort him out.’

  Six

  ‘José-Luis Planas?’ Gerard exclaimed, as he swallowed a mouthful of melted mozzarella on my front terrace. ‘He of the furniture shop? Of course I know him . . . but not as a parishioner of St Martí. Senor Planas will be seen in the front row of the big church in L’Escala at the funerals of those he considers important, and at the marriages of those whose parents consider him important enough to invite. He will be there on saints’ days, and on other occasions which he believes warrant his attention. But only in the big church; he hasn’t set foot in mine, not since I’ve been here, at any rate. Senor Planas only acknowledges priests of his own generation. He’s the sort who approaches God on his own terms, as an equal, and who frowns his disapproval at Jesus, as he would any young radical.’ He reached for another slice, but Tom beat him to it: Primavera’s pizza feasts always turn into a race when my son’s at the table. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I know the man in the furniture shop,’ Tom said, as he slipped Charlie a piece of crust. I encourage him to join in adult conversation. I don’t subscribe to the ‘seen but not heard’ school of motherhood; Dawn and I weren’t raised that way, although my sister was more reticent than I was. ‘Mum and I went there once, to buy my bed when we moved here. He’s nice; he gave me a lollipop. And he’s the same age as you.’

  Gerard shook his head. ‘You’re thinking of his son, Angel. Now he is a parishioner . . . I assisted at his nuptial Mass in L’Escala. He married the mayor’s sister; our church would never have been big enough for all the people who were invited. We had trouble seating them all even there. There wasn’t a restaurant big enough for the wedding feast; they had to have it in a marquee.’

  ‘It must have been hot in the church,’ Tom mused, ‘with all those people. It is even in our church in the summer.’ I should explain here that I’m not conventionally religious. I have certain beliefs, but they don’t include a God entity. (Gerard was okay about this from the off; he would never want me to pretend for his sake.) But I’m not about to impose anything on Tom. Our house adjoins the church . . . their origins go back to the same period, many centuries ago . . . and we hadn’t been here long before he was in and out of the place, ‘helping’ as he put it. Now he’s an altar boy . . . Gerard tried to tell me that ‘altar server’ is the new PC term; I told him that Tom is definitely a boy, so live with it . . . although he hasn’t been baptised into the Catholic faith, and won’t be, or into any other for that matter, until he feels old enough to make a choice for himself.

  ‘It was,’ the priest agreed, ‘so hot that the bride’s sister fainted, just as we reached the end of the Mass.’

  ‘The bride’s sister? Justine Michels? The mayor?’

  ‘All three of the above; she passed right out.’

  ‘Not very good for her public image,’ I suggested.

  ‘The congregation was standing at the time, only those at the front could see who it was. I picked her up and carried her into the registry; most people didn’t even know it had happened. She recovered very quickly; fresh air, a glass of water and she was fine.’ He paused. ‘Senor Planas saw, of course. Angel was going to help, until he saw that I had the situation in hand, but the old man, he just stood there and stared at her, as if he was annoyed at the inconvenience. Afterwards, once we were outside the church, Dolores Fumado, Justine’s mother, actually apologised to him.’

  ‘What about the father? Was he there?’

  ‘No, he had died a few months before that. In fact, the wedding had been postponed, out of respect. Both Planases, father and son, were pall-bearers at his funeral.’ He paused, as if he was looking at the scene. ‘And so was Justine. I remember, José-Luis wasn’t pleased; I heard him mutter to the parish priest, my senior, that women these days seemed to have forgotten their place.’ He beamed at me; Tom frowned as if he disapproved of something, but couldn’t quite work out what. (Happily, some concepts are still beyond him.) ‘Which brings me back to my question,’ Gerard continued, taking advantage of the competition’s preoccupation to nick a choice wedge of pizza. ‘Why are you so interested in the old reactionary?’

  Stage by stage, I told him of my meeting with Justine, and of the reasons for her inability to give the go-ahead for the venue for the wine fair. By the time I finished my story, his expression had gone from sunny to dark.

  ‘The man can be that petty?’ he growled. ‘I know that as a priest I can’t bless those who live together out of marriage, or who don’t remain celibate before it, but I deplore vindictiveness. If Planas had been in the crowd that Jesus challenged to cast the first stone, then that would have been the end of the woman taken in adultery.’ He was as annoyed as I’d ever seen him. ‘Know what, Primavera,’ he declared, ‘I’m going to have a few words to say about him in church.’

  ‘No, Gerard! Don’t do that. It won’t help Justine and it won’t help Ben. Plus, it would probably piss off your senior priest and get you banished to Tavertet, or somewhere else in the back of beyond. I’ll deal with this myself, the straightforward way: I’ll tackle the old bastard face to face. I’ll shame him into backing off. I promise you, I’ve squared up to tougher people than him.’

  ‘Then I wish you luck, for you may find that there’s no stronger armour than a man’s sense of his own righteousness.’ He broke off and stared at the empty plate on the table. ‘Hey, what happened to the last three pieces?’

  Tom laughed; Charlie looked guilty.

  Seven

  In the light of everything Gerard had told me, and of his warning, I decided on an oblique approach to the problem. I decided also that a hall table I had inherited when I bought the house was in need of a move to the garage, and so I headed for Mobles Planas, the problem’s store halfway down Avinguda Ave Maria, L’Escala’s main drag.

  It’s a big shop, warehouse-like, on two floors, with a range of furniture that had been drastically improved in the three years since my only other visit. Virtually all of the old dark, traditional stuff had been replaced by modern styles and modern materials; it seemed as if the business had gone from the nineteenth century to the twenty-first in a single bound. I guessed the reason, and so I wasn’t surprised when it approached me, medium height, slim, dark haired, in light trousers and a striped open-necked shirt with long sleeves; pretty formal working gear by local standards, a sign of authority.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said Angel Planas, in English.

  ‘And to you, sir,’ I replied, in Catalan.

  He smiled, in approval: a good sign, since I’ve met people, invariably men, who pretend not to understand when I have the temerity to speak their language. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

  I pointed to a Georgian repro semi-circular, three-legged wall table, one of the few pieces from the former stock that remained. I could see why, but my house is old, and it was quirky enough to fit in. ‘That,’ I told him. ‘I think I’ll have it.’

  He nodded, checked the price label, then took out a calculator and hit some numbers. ‘I can give you a twenty per cent discount that will take the price down to one hundred and forty euro,’ he announced.

  ‘Done.’ I handed him my credit card.

  ‘Do you want it delivered, Senora Blackstone?’ he asked, as he entered the details into his reader, and handed it to me, to insert my pin.

  ‘No, my Jeep’s parked just outside; it’ll fit on the platform.’

  ‘I’ll carry it out for you . . .’ he paused, ‘. . . once we’ve discussed the other reason for your visit.’

  So much for oblique, but I played it cute. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Justine told my wife about your call into her office, and about the problem that you and Ben have with his wine fair. You’ve come to ask me if I can twist my father’s arm and get him to relent.’

  ‘And to buy a very nice table, b
ut yes, you’re right.’

  ‘I can cancel the sale if you like, for I’m not going to be able to help. My father and I haven’t spoken in over a year. He has never been in our house.’

  I looked around. ‘But you manage his business.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘No. It’s my business now, to my dad’s great regret.’

  ‘Does your father like anyone?’

  He chuckled. ‘Good question. Not really.’

  ‘Then why does he keep on getting elected to the council?’

  ‘Because he stands for certain values that he shares with the majority of older Catalans . . . and maybe not only Catalans, maybe most Spanish people of his age. He was anti-Franco in his time, in his suppression of our identity, but he was right-wing nonetheless. He’s against the European Union, against NATO, and against immigration. Foreign residents are anathema to him, just as most of his views are anathema to me.’ He grinned. ‘He’d never have given you the discount that locally born customers have always received. But he’s not a fascist, and he’s not a racist; he’s a monarchist to the end, and he employs a Moroccan couple as his gardener and housekeeper.’ The grin became a quick chuckle. ‘OK, it’s because they’re cheap, but I know people who’d repatriate them all.’

  ‘You sound fond of him.’

  ‘He’s my father. I am.’

  ‘But you don’t speak.’

  ‘His choice. When Elena and Ben broke up and we got back together, he was furious. He told me that she was soiled, damaged goods. I laughed in his face. When I told him we were getting married, he exploded. He said he’d disinherit me; tried to throw me out of this shop. I told him, “You’re too late, old man. You’ve already made this business and the property over to me.” He said, in that case he’d never set foot in it again, and walked out. He’s been as good as his word.’

  ‘Yet he went to your wedding.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Father Gerard told me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Angel murmured. ‘But Gerard probably doesn’t know that it was his boss, the old priest, who insisted that he go. He told him that L’Escala would never trust a man who would boycott his own son’s wedding Mass. Papa’s very proud of his position in the town; it’s the only thing anyone could threaten him with.’