Blood Red

by Quintin Jardine

  I left her and headed home, I just had time to get there before Tom, and to whip up something for lunch, specifically a long baguette stuffed with tuna and mayonnaise, followed by chunks of diced, fresh pineapple. Tom had more of the sandwich than I did; the boy could eat for Catalunya, or Scotland, or for any other country for which he might be qualified to compete. When I saw him off, for the second time that day, I felt a lot brighter than when he’d left in the morning. My burst of creativity down at Ben’s had chased away my mood and, in addition, I was beginning to look forward to Mac’s visit. I’d kept my promise and not dropped the slightest hint to Tom that Grandpa Blackstone was coming to visit. My plan was to find a pretext to drive him to school in the afternoon, rather than let him take his bike, then pick him up and head for the airport. If the flight was on time, we’d get there around the same time as he did.

  I was smiling at the prospect as I programmed the dishwasher, when the door buzzer sounded. I checked the video screen in the kitchen, and saw Alex Guinart peering into the camera. There was someone else with him, another uniform, but I couldn’t see who it was. I pressed the button that opens the gate, and went to the front door, to meet them.

  As they approached through my small garden, it was Intendant Gomez who took the lead, Alex a couple of deferential paces behind. ‘Good afternoon,’ I greeted them. ‘You don’t usually travel together. Where’s Inspector Garcia?’ Given what I’d learned from Gerard, my question was mischievous.

  ‘He’s in the office in Girona; we have a big caseload. I’ve asked Sub-inspector Guinart to work with me on this matter. After all, this is his town.’ That was all Gomez volunteered. I didn’t press him; whatever the visit was about, his face said that it was serious. Instead, I showed them into the television room, just off the entrance hall.

  ‘What brings you here?’ I asked. ‘Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see you, but . . .’

  ‘We need to talk to you again. The autopsy on Senor Planas has begun. It’s not yet complete, but already things have changed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He didn’t have a heart attack.’

  ‘Okay, he fell and landed on his head.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  I was waiting for him to continue . . . when I realised what was wrong with my mental picture of Planas, dead in his garden. ‘He was lying on his back,’ I exclaimed. ‘He must have fallen backwards over the wall to wind up that way. But Garcia found the plastic in his right hand . . . incidentally, I know what it was now; Father Gerard told me. If he’d reached out for the Majesty palm to break his fall, and ripped off the label . . . The pot was on the wrong side; he’d have grabbed it with his left hand, not his right.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Alex, his eyes widening, ‘that’s true. And we hadn’t got that far yet.’

  ‘No,’ Gomez agreed. ‘But thanks for pointing it out. That takes our thinking forward; in fact, it helps our developing theory. The autopsy has been interrupted because our pathologist realised that he needed a second opinion, that of someone with more specific experience than he has. So we’ve called in someone from the university in Barcelona. She’s an authority on blunt force injuries, and she’s given evidence in criminal prosecutions all over Spain, and even in other countries.’

  ‘Why do you need her?’

  ‘To confirm our examiner’s theory,’ said Alex, ‘. . . if it’s viable, that is. He’s suggesting that Planas may not have died where he was found, or if he did, that he didn’t sustain his injuries there. He reckons that he was attacked, hit hard enough to leave him dead or dying, and then thrown over the wall and down on to the rocks.’

  ‘And the label?’

  ‘Put in his hand to make it look like what we assumed it to be, a reflex reaction to a trip and a fall. The intendant and I have just been back to the house; he’s sent the scene of crime technicians back in to take another look, across a wider area.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gomez confirmed, ‘but already there are new possibilities to explore, and new questions to be answered. Think back to the scene, senora. Do you recall a patio with doors that opened on to it, from the house?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, with a sort of pagoda structure over it. And a table. And chairs.’

  ‘Indeed. And on the table there was?’

  ‘I can’t remember that.’

  ‘A bottle. Faustino One, red, from La Rioja, a very fine wine. Beside it, a glass, half full, although there would have been a little evaporation between it being poured and being discovered. The bottle was empty, Senora Blackstone.’ I frowned, wondering where he was going with this. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. ‘But Senor Planas didn’t drink it all himself.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘From the contents of his stomach. One partly digested steak and French fries, consumed earlier that night in Hostal Miryam . . . where he had no wine, only a small bottle of water and a coffee . . . and forty-two centilitres of red wine. The bottle held seventy, the glass contained eleven, allowing for evaporation. Someone else had the other seventeen.’

  ‘Maybe he drank the bottle over two nights,’ I suggested.

  ‘The corkscrew was on the table, with the cork still in it; it’s logical that it had just been drawn. Left open, it would not have been drinkable on the second night. For sure, he had a companion, and after he was dead, that person cleaned the second glass and put it away, or simply took it when they left.’

  ‘It’s possible that person left before Planas was attacked.’

  ‘And he was so tidy that he washed the second glass right away? Possible, but it’s a tight timescale. Our examiner says that he died between midnight and four in the morning. He didn’t leave Miryam until just after ten. The time on his bill, when it was printed out, was two minutes before. No. I believe he got home and had a caller, maybe someone he was expecting, maybe not, but someone he knew well enough to give a glass of damn fine wine. And I believe that caller smashed his head in, arranged things so that we stupid cops would buy it as an accident, then got to hell out of there.’

  ‘Your second pathologist will be able to confirm this?’

  ‘She’ll be able to determine the exact shape of the fatal injuries, and tell us how much force was used.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what the weapon might have been?’

  ‘We found various substances in the wounds, dirt from the ground, stone chips and other debris. We plan to match everything against items in the rockery, as far as we can.’

  ‘I hope you get a result. Now, much as I appreciate being told all this, why are you here? You haven’t come for my advice.’

  ‘No,’ Alex agreed. ‘We’ve come for a sample of your DNA.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m a suspect?’ I blurted out, indignantly.

  ‘You did have an argument with the man,’ Gomez pointed out. ‘He tried to extort money from you.’

  ‘Which I would have paid.’

  The intendant smiled. ‘I know. You’re not a suspect, I promise, but you were at the scene. We’re taking samples from everyone who was, police and paramedics too, so that we can identify any traces we find, and eliminate those who had business there.’

  ‘Do you have a swab?’ I asked.

  He nodded and produced one, in a container, from a pocket in his tunic.

  I took it from him and wiped the probe across the inside of my cheek, returning it with a sizeable saliva sample. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Now let me warn you . . . if that winds up on a national database, there will be trouble. I am not a fan of Big Brother.’

  Both he and Alex stared at me as if I was mad, and then I realised why. Poor old Orwell, I thought. His greatest creation consigned to obscurity by a crap TV show.

  Eighteen

  But did I really believe Gomez? Hard as I tried to get on with the rest of my day, that question kept interrupting it. After all, I did have a major argument with a murder victim a matter of hours before he attained that status. Ha
d I been sweet-talked into volunteering a personal sample that no lawyer would have allowed Gomez to take without an order from the court? I thought of all the cops I’ve known over the years. In those circumstances Ricky Ross, when he was in Edinburgh CID, and even Mike Dylan, bless his imperfect soul, would have been all over me like a nasty skin condition. When I looked at the situation, dispassionately, even I would have had me down as a suspect.

  After all, Gerard had dropped me off not long after midnight, at the very start of the four-hour period during which, the pathologist said, the guy had been killed. Ben Simmers had gone home as soon as I’d got back, leaving me alone with Tom, who was sound asleep. There was nobody to say that I hadn’t crept out again, gone to Planas’s place, talked myself past the entry system, had a glass of wine with the old shit, then bashed his head in. But, I asked myself, why would I have done that? The devil’s advocate in me replied: the police could argue that I was saving myself twelve thousand euro. I might counter that, by my standards, that amount isn’t worth the risk, even if I was the homicidal type, but . . . my father has a saying: ‘There are two sorts of money. There is money, and there is my money, and one’s attitude to each is completely different.’ Christ, I had some sort of a motive, I had no alibi, and it was pretty much certain that they would find my DNA at the scene, somewhere. The problem with that was, given all those other factors . . . I couldn’t think of a way of proving that I’d only been there once.

  The way things stood, the only person in the world who knew for sure that I hadn’t killed the guy was me. I won’t say I was scared, but I felt a few butterflies. I called Gerard, for the comfort of hearing his voice as much as anything else, and told him about the change in the situation. I was surprised by the fact that he wasn’t.

  ‘Father Olivares grew up in L’Escala and he’s known Planas since they were boys. He told me that he came from a long-lived family,’ he explained. ‘His father and his father before him, they both lasted into their nineties. As I understand it, José-Luis was only sixty-eight, and still danced a lively sardana with his cronies. When I told my colleague how he’d been found, he thought about it for a while then asked, “Did he fall or was he pushed?” Now we know, it seems.’ He paused. ‘This has upset you, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it has. I met the man, and hours later he was dead.’

  ‘Then the police turn up on your doorstep.’ He’s a mind-reader.

  ‘Yes!’ I said, a little too loudly.

  He laughed, gently. ‘Primavera, don’t be silly. This is a man who’s spent his life upsetting people.’

  I thought of Angel’s comment. ‘His son did say,’ I admitted, ‘that half the people at the funeral will be there to make sure he really is dead.’

  ‘Exactly. Don’t get yourself into a lather. If you want to safeguard your position, you could always hire a lawyer . . .’

  ‘Gomez might read something into that. No, I won’t be doing that unless it’s necessary.’

  ‘In that case, just relax. If they come back to you, let me know, otherwise . . .’

  ‘Will do,’ I promised. ‘Here, are you doing anything on Wednesday evening?’

  ‘Not that I know of at this moment. In my calling it’s always possible that something may arise, but as it stands I’m clear.’

  ‘Then would you like to come to my place, for supper? It’ll be above suspicion: Tom’s grandfather, Oz’s dad, is coming to stay. You’ve never met him, but I’m sure you’ll get on.’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Is he Catholic?’

  ‘No, he’s the same as me. Baptised Protestant, but broad-minded. You’ve got something else in common though. You both see people at their most vulnerable and afraid. He’s a dentist, or was, until he retired a few years back.’

  He was laughing as he hung up. Gerard’s laugh is soft, deep and musical, not the braying kind that always strikes me as affected.

  I had worked myself out of household tasks, and so I went outside and replaced the multilingual ‘Closed’ sign on the information booth with the one that reads ‘Ring for attention’. Four people did: two British, one French, one German, with a variety of questions. I answered them all, sold two tickets for the cruise boat, and sent the German on his way with a map of the cycle routes across Emporda.

  I was in the garden, reading Fatal Last Words, the latest Skinner novel . . . I’m a big fan . . . and waiting for Tom to get back from school, when the bell sounded again. I opened the door, stepped into the booth, and saw Alex Guinart standing on the other side of the wall. He was smiling, and I took that as a good sign.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ I asked. ‘Tickets for the carrilet? A list of concerts in the church this summer? Contact numbers for local taxi services?’

  ‘They’re all on the noticeboard in our office. I’ve just had some good news, and I thought I’d share it with you. Hector Gomez couldn’t say anything to me until he had confirmation from our HQ in Barcelona; he had the call half an hour ago, and I’m now officially an inspector. It means a transfer to Girona, to join his team: as his number two, in fact.’

  I was dead chuffed for him. ‘Alex, congratulations.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’m pleased too, and so’s Gloria, although it’ll mean less-regular hours.’

  ‘What about Garcia? Will you be working with him too?’

  ‘No. He’s been transferred to Tortosa.’

  That was a new one on me. ‘Where’s that?’ I asked.

  Alex grinned. ‘It’s as far away from here as you can get without leaving Catalunya.’

  I winced. ‘You’d better behave yourself with Gomez.’

  ‘Garcia had it coming. He isn’t a good man. Hector made a point of never leaving him alone with a prisoner. I think he was biding his time; that nonsense with the piece of plastic gave him the chance to get rid of him. The guy was all ready to accuse Father Hernanz, after he heard about your argument with Planas, and since he knows that the two of you are . . .’ He hesitated, as if he was taking care to choose the right word.

  ‘Friends, Alex,’ I told him, ‘we’re friends. Just as you and I are friends.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Primavera; not as we are. Don’t be so naive. You are a trusted friend of my family, and you stood for my daughter in church, beside Gloria and me. Gerard’s a priest, a modern priest, I’ll grant you, but he can’t have a public friendship with an attractive single woman, who’s around his own age, without tongues starting to wag.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment, but it’s a private friendship,’ I protested. ‘There is nothing in the vows or even in the practice of his church that says that a priest can’t have a private life. Our view is that we’d be wrong to keep our friendship a secret. Even old Olivares agrees with that, for he and Gerard had it out. Bottom line, we are friends, we are not intimate. We don’t kiss, we don’t cuddle, we don’t fuck, all right?’

  ‘Hey,’ he laughed, ‘don’t get on my case. I know that, but people tend to apply their own values to others. When it comes to the likes of a guy like Garcia, it’s fuel to him. He and Gerard have butted heads before too, and neither of them’s the type to back down.’

  ‘Are you saying I should just see him in church and leave it at that?’

  Alex looked down, and shook his head. ‘No. Like I said, you’re a trusted friend. You know what’s right and what’s not. It’s for Gerard to square the extent of your friendship with his duty as a priest, and to deal with the critics. But don’t be too surprised if he also winds up in Tortosa one day, or in some other place far away. Father Olivares will be retiring soon. Even though he likes Gerard, when the bishop and the monsignor consider his replacement, your name might come up in the discussion.’

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead; if Gerard had, then it seemed that he’d made some sort of a decision. ‘Fucking politicians,’ I growled. ‘They’re more trouble than they’re worth, wherever they are.’

  ‘So it seems, in Planas’s case, although it took a long time for someone to
do something about it.’

  ‘When does your expert get to work?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Our first pathologist was right, I’m sure, but we have to report to the public prosecutor’s office, so we need her confirmation of that. Meanwhile, the CSI people are doing the painstaking stuff along at the house.’

  ‘Any suspects?’ I asked, casually.

  He grinned. ‘Apart from you, you mean?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘There’s no chain of evidence so far. We have nothing to follow. All we can do is wait, to see what tomorrow may bring.’

  Nineteen

  Life is like a round of golf. If you drop a shot at one hole, you do your damnedest to get it back at the next, and it gives you real momentum when you do. So it is with days.

  The sun woke me next morning, rising beautifully out of the sea and into a cloudless sky. You can’t beat perfection. My moody Monday was a distant memory, and I could see a terrific Tuesday ahead.

  Tom was in an upbeat mood too; I’d told him the night before that I’d be picking him up at five o’clock (a long day for the kids, but with long summer holidays as a compensation) and taking him on an errand. He’d quizzed me, but ‘mystery tour’ was all I would say. He was up by seven thirty and wanted to go for a swim before school, so we all did, he and I, and Charlie. You’re not really supposed to take dogs on the beaches in the summer, unless they’re designated, but at that time of the morning you can get away with it. Anyway, Charlie’s good; he knows not to dump on the sand.

  Once we’d finished breakfast I drove Tom to L’Escala, leaving Charlie in his garden kingdom, and parked outside the town’s leisure complex. I watched Tom walk the last hundred metres or so, then took my gym bag inside. I was restless, and I knew why. I’ve always coped with my recent state well enough, but I’m a woman in my prime, and from time to time I get horny. So it was that morning. When you’re celibate, and you get that way . . . well, I find that the best thing to do is to put on a pair of trainers and run like hell. I flashed my membership card at the entrance, changed, and went up to the fitness suite. It was busy, but there was a treadmill free. I switched it on, starting at a modest ten kilometres per hour, winding it up to twelve once I was warmed up. One of the nice things about our town gym is that there are no mirrors; people go there to exercise, not to admire their six-packs. Instead of looking at yourself sweating, as you pound out the distance, there’s nice views of the pool below and of the clay tennis courts outside. That morning I saw only one swimmer, but the three courts were all in use, even though the sun had only reached one of them.