Blood Red

by Quintin Jardine

  The palm print on the chair: I had an answer for that, and I was pretty sure that a good lawyer would keep me out of jail, if only that was all they had on me. But it wasn’t; there was something nasty in my woodshed, and that wasn’t deniable. Planas killed. Then Justine’s mum kidnapped; done away with. I assumed that there had to be a connection, but I had no idea what it was. I had even less of an idea as to why anyone would choose to plant her body on me. I had . . .

  I had nothing. I was sitting uninvited in my absent friend’s home, with four thousand euro, a change of knickers and no idea of what I was going to do next. I couldn’t stay there for ever, I knew that sooner or later they were going to get round all my friends, and that would include calling on Shirley. When they found the house empty . . . they’d be over the wall, for sure. Even with Alex running blockers for me, and I doubted if he’d do that again, not after the latest development, I reckoned I had a day’s grace, no more. My imagination grew more bizarre by the minute. Did they use bloodhounds in Spain? I wondered.

  I was puzzled, I was scared, I was uncertain, I was missing my boy, all the more because I was afraid to call him to explain that I had to go away for a while. I had to assume that there would be a tap on my home phone and that they’d be monitoring my mobile as well. The one thing I wasn’t, was hungry. I’d raided Shirley’s freezer, microwaved a lasagne from her stock, and washed it down with a bottle of fizzy water.

  I’d found something else too. Shirley has a great mane of hair; she’s very proud of it, and in recent years she’s taken to changing colours and styles all the time. Occasionally she’ll go blond, but usually she prefers a darker shade. She prefers DIY and often I’ll help her, so I knew where to search. It didn’t take me long to find what I was after, a box of her preference of the moment, a deep chestnut colour. I had plenty of time, so I took great care, and after an hour or so . . . I wasn’t unrecognisable, but anyone who’d been told to look out for a blonde was going to give me a miss.

  I knew I was going to need more than a change of hair colour, though. Men on the run have a great advantage, over a few days they can grow facial hair as a disguise, or if they had some to begin with, over a few minutes they can take it off. Us girls, we’re stuck.

  It seemed to take ages for the darkness to fall. I spent the time wondering where I was going to go. Air travel was out, and probably trains as well. For a while I considered following Matthew Reid’s example and heading for the British Consulate in Barcelona. I gave up on that notion fairly quickly, however; his innocence had been demonstrable, while to a neutral eye, indeed to any sensible eye, mine was questionable. There was also the consideration that as soon as the consular staff ran a check on my background, they’d come up with my criminal conviction. I wasn’t a retired brigadier with dangerous secrets to protect. I was an ex-con and no reputations would be risked on my behalf. Plus, Avinguda Diagonal was a long way off on a bike. Hard as I thought about it, I could come up with no better solution than to cycle up into the mountains and hide out in a rented apartment or on a campsite in the hope that . . .

  In the hope that what? That whoever had decided to set me up, and had made such a good job of it, would have a crisis of conscience and confess?

  ‘Let’s face it, girl,’ I murmured as the big swimming pool reflected the first of the moonlight, ‘you’re fucked.’

  A second or two later, I heard a creak; there’s a heavy iron gate at the back of Shirley’s property, and it needs a touch of oil. I shrank back into the summer house and waited, not quite certain who was coming, hoping that Gerard hadn’t fallen victim to a crisis of conscience himself, or been followed by Gomez and Alex.

  He was alone, though; I shouldn’t have doubted his trust in me or his caution in making sure there was nobody on his tail. Puig Sec, the area where Shirley lives, is very quiet, even in the summer and so it’s easy to spot a following vehicle. I could see him from my hiding place as he walked up to the poolside; thick chested, narrow waisted, in T-shirt and jeans, his soft leather moccasins making not a sound. He carried a bag, over his shoulder.

  ‘Hey,’ I called out, stepping out of the shadows. He turned towards me and for the first time in more than twelve hours, I felt something other than despair. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  He grinned as he walked towards me. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’

  ‘What’s been happening?’ I asked him.

  ‘What do you think? The mayor’s mother has been found murdered. When Senor Blackstone called it in, all hell was let loose in L’Escala. The police . . . all the police; the Mossos, the municipals, even the Guardia Civil . . . stopped and searched every car heading out of town for five hours afterwards, looking for you. Eventually they stopped; they now believe that you’d left the area already.’

  ‘Have they put out a description?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s all. They don’t have a photograph of you on record, and when Gomez asked Senor Blackstone for one, he refused him.’ He paused. ‘Do you have your passport on you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then give it to me, and your credit cards; you won’t be able to use them anyway, and you don’t want to be found with anything that identifies you.’ He grinned. ‘I like the new hair, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I growled. I dug my passport and cards out of my haversack and handed them over. ‘Alex has pictures of me,’ I told him, ‘taken after Marte’s christening.’

  He nodded. ‘And Gloria told him what would happen if he gave one to Gomez . . . or rather what wouldn’t happen, for the foreseeable future.’

  That gave me my first laugh of the day. ‘How did they handle Mac?’ I asked.

  ‘Politely. He told them that he hadn’t seen you since last night.’

  ‘What about Tom?’ I asked him, anxiously. ‘Did they question Tom?’

  ‘We wouldn’t let them, his grandfather and me. They were content for Mac to ask him when he had seen you last, then tell them. He said that you’d given him his breakfast, and that everything had been as usual.’

  ‘You said Mac and you. They questioned you?’

  ‘Of course they did . . . or at least Gomez did; I think he now feels that Alex is too close.’

  ‘You mean he’s kicking him off the investigation?’

  ‘No. But he’s doing all the interviews himself.’

  ‘What did you say to him, Gerard?’

  ‘I told him that we’d had a very public argument on Wednesday morning and that I hadn’t seen you since.’

  I stared at him. ‘You lied for me?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, shocking, isn’t it?’ And then he chuckled. ‘Come on, what was I going to say? That the last time I saw you, you were pedalling towards Puig Sec? Primavera, my dear, if I thought for one second that you killed Planas and Dolores Fumado, I would have handed you over to Gomez this morning, but I know you didn’t. So I’ll protect you, and I can square that with my conscience. If, eventually, others take a different view, I’ll deal with that.’

  ‘You’re a darlin’ man,’ I told him. ‘One thing I must ask you though: the police have my DNA all over the chair that Planas was hit with, and Dolores was found in my shed, so how do you know, for sure, that I didn’t do it?’

  ‘Simple,’ he replied. ‘I believe in you, in the same way that I believe in God. I have faith in you. What’s the definition of faith? Belief, devotion and trust despite the absence of any logical proof.’

  I felt my heart melt, and my eyes mist over. ‘And I believe in you too,’ I told him. ‘But I have plenty of proof. You give it to me simply by being here. I wish I could just stay with you, and let you protect me.’ I grinned up at him. ‘You couldn’t give me sanctuary in the church, could you?’

  ‘I wish I could, but the sanitary arrangements are pretty basic; you’d give yourself up to Gomez within a couple of days, just for a shower. Plus, it would provoke the sort of confrontation between church and state that each of those institutions is desperate to avoid.’

>   I knew that was true, and as I thought about it, I realised something else, the gravity of Gerard’s own situation, and what he was risking personally, for me. Defrocking, disgrace, arrest; they were all possibilities, and I had put him in harm’s way. ‘Go,’ I said, suddenly and earnestly. ‘Get out of here. You’re crazy to have anything to do with me, and I’m wicked to have asked you for help.’

  ‘No. I’m proud that you did. I’ll go all right, but only when you’re safely on your way. When you’re gone, we’ll keep in touch and I’ll let you know what’s happening here.’

  ‘Do you know what the police thinking is, Gerard? What connection do they see between the two deaths? Or do they see any? Do they think I’ve just been picking off people I don’t like?’

  ‘They believe there is a link, but I don’t think they know what it is. Alex has to be careful what he says to me now, but he told me when Gomez was out of earshot that they’re not reaching any conclusions until they’ve got the results of an autopsy and, he said, of other forensic tests.’

  ‘There’s one big hole in their case, isn’t there? Why the hell would I kidnap Dolores? Why would I want to harm her? Why would I burn her car? Justine spoke to her mother on Sunday, after Planas’s body had been found. If the two deaths are linked, why would I snatch her so much later, after I’d killed Planas?’

  ‘I asked Alex those same questions. Justine spoke to her mother by telephone; the thinking is that you had her by then and that she was forced to make that call, to give you time to decide what to do with her. They assume that you burned her car to destroy any evidence that you’d been in it, after you’d taken it where you thought it wouldn’t be found, for a while at least. When it was, they believe you went back home and killed her; you were seen to leave the reception just after they did.’

  ‘But why would I have done it?’

  ‘That, they don’t know . . . or if they have a theory, Alex hasn’t told me.’

  ‘But even if I had a reason, how would I have done all this? Dolores was a sturdy woman.’

  ‘Gomez found your taser weapon in your open safe; he reckons you threatened her with it. Anyone who didn’t know the difference would take it for a real firearm, and someone who did wouldn’t want to be shot by it. Or, he thinks, maybe you did shoot her with it, to subdue her.’

  I whistled. ‘If you were talking about someone else, I’d believe she did it. I’m helpless, Gerard.’

  ‘No, you’re not; you have me on your side, and I suspect that you also have Alex.’

  That alarmed me. ‘Please make sure he doesn’t risk anything for me; it’s bad enough having one of you in jeopardy. Two, I couldn’t take.’

  ‘Don’t worry; he’s being professional. What I have to make sure is that Gomez isn’t using him, having him feed me information in the hope that I’ll pass it to you and flush you out.’

  ‘Then don’t; don’t pass anything to me. That would be as big a risk for you as me . . . bigger, for I’m done already.’

  He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Primavera, I’m not going to abandon you. I have this all thought out.’ He reached into his bag, produced two mobile phones, one red, one blue, handed the red one to me, and put the other in his pocket. ‘These are new, pay as you go; untraceable. I bought them this afternoon, in Figueras where nobody knows me, in two different shops. I was dressed like this, so no one will remember a priest. Your charger’s in the bag. There’s a car parked outside with a full tank. Nobody will spot that either; it’s my spare, an old banger of a Suzuki that I keep in a garage in case my Fiat should give up on me.’

  ‘But where do I go?’

  ‘You go to Granada, by a route that I’ve planned for you, one that doesn’t involve autopistas where you might be recognised at the toll booths.’ He held up the bag. ‘There’s an address written down in here, a road map, a street map to get you there, and a key to get you in. It’s my old family home, my private bolthole, and nobody will follow you there. You’ll be safe; it’s in the Albacin, and there you’ll be anonymous, just another tourist.’

  ‘For how long?’ I whispered.

  ‘For as long as it takes. Don’t worry, Mac will look after Tom; I’ve already made sure of that. His wife will come here, if necessary. You didn’t kill these people, Primavera, but somebody did. I’m not going to rest until that person’s been found, and you’re in the clear.’

  His certainty made me feel stronger, but I couldn’t shake all my doubts, all my fears. ‘But what if that person can’t be found, Gerard? What if it’s somebody from Planas’s past, or Dolores’s, someone you and I have never heard of, and they’re gone already?’

  He drew me to him and pressed his forehead against mine. ‘Return my faith as you say you do, Primavera; I’ll make you safe, and I will keep you safe. That’s my most solemn promise, and I won’t break it. And there’s something else; we are not alone. Now, you really must get on the road.’

  It was nice to know that God was with us, but at that time I could only deal with the immediate practicalities. ‘How can I be sure I won’t be stopped at the first roundabout?’ I asked.

  ‘You can’t, so avoid them all. There’s a track, opposite the football ground; if you follow that it will take you all the way to Sobrestany. From there you can get to Ulla, and on to Verges; you’ll be in the clear by then.’ He handed me the bag. I took a look inside, found all the things he had mentioned, plus a couple of bottles of water and what looked like sandwiches, wrapped in silver foil. ‘On your way now. I’ll take your bike back to L’Escala and hide it in my garage. Call me on the mobile when you get to Granada; the unlock code is four zeroes and the number of mine is in the memory of yours. But remember, call only me, no one else. You can’t even send Tom a text or you’ll risk being traced. That’ll be the hardest part, I know, but you have to deal with it.’

  I retrieved my mountain bike from the summer house, we walked to the back gate, and stepped outside. The street was deserted and the only vehicle in it was a small, battered four-by-four; looking at it I realised that it would take another act of faith to accept that it could get me to Granada.

  ‘The key’s in the ignition,’ Gerard told me. He took my hand, put it to his lips and kissed it. ‘God bless you,’ he whispered. ‘It may be that when your troubles are over, our troubles will begin.’

  Thirty-three

  I found the track that Gerard had described; it was rough and even in the rattletrap I was driving I had to go cautiously in the dark, for you can find potholes on those dirt roads that an elephant could hide in. It took me to the hamlet they call Sobrestany, though, and from there I was able to plot my way out of the area without tripping over any junctions at which the police were likely to be waiting.

  It took me almost an hour to reach the trunk road south, but when I did, it was quiet and I was able to pick up some speed. I followed it as far as Girona Airport, where I switched to the trunk road that goes to Vic.

  Gerard’s route had been well planned. It took me inland, then south, through Manresa and beyond, skirting Llieda. For some reason I felt safer once I knew I was out of Catalunya, and off the patch of the Mossos d’Esquadra. I drove on through the night, but it’s a thousand kilometres from L’Escala to Granada and eventually there came a time when I couldn’t go any further. Fuel was becoming an issue too. I’d topped up once already in a small town garage but the petrol gauge wasn’t the most accurate I’d ever seen.

  I stopped in a parking area near a place called Vilastar and put my head down for a couple of hours. Once I judged that the tiny town would be properly awake, I found a gasolinera, filled up the tank, and then went exploring until I came across a small hostel, where I took a room. I almost dropped myself in it by speaking Catalan as I checked in, but remembered where I was at the last minute and switched to my most polished Castellano, explaining the odd time of my arrival by saying that my car had broken down further on up the road and it had taken me the best part of the night to get moving again. The own
er bought that story without question, and showed me to a room with a comfortable bed and a nice en-suite shower room, for which I paid cash, in advance. I spent most of the day asleep, until early evening, when I judged it safe to chance a meal in the small restaurant. I had decided that I was going to travel during the hours of darkness, and so just after nine, I left my key on the counter and got back on the road.

  I’d been worried that I might find the night humidity a problem the further south I went, but I hadn’t reckoned for the fact that much of the route was high above sea level. As it happened, the Suzuki’s heating system was well knackered, so keeping warm was my main difficulty. Eventually I decided to grin and bear it, letting the cold help me by keeping me focused. All the same, I was happy when the sun rose on that Sunday morning, and happier still when the road grew wider, almost to autopista standard, and the signs told me that I was almost in Granada.

  I stopped for coffee and a croissant in a roadhouse, having first checked that there were no television cameras in evidence. The last thing I wanted was to have driven all that way only to be fingered by CCTV. As I ate, I dug out the address that Gerard had written down for me and found it on his street map. As he’d said, it was in the heart of an area called the Albacin, on the other side of a river from the Alhambra.

  The city was bigger than I had expected, and the traffic much heavier. I was also surprised by its modernity; I’d been expecting it to be ancient, and heavily Moorish, but what I found as I entered were shopping centres, a science park and a conference centre, all very twenty-first century. Eventually, though, I found myself on something called the Grand Via de Colon . . . for an Italian, Columbus gets a lot of exposure in Spain . . . and as I reached its end, and turned into the Street of the Catholic Kings, I had my first real view of the Alhambra and of the way in which it dominates the city, perched on its great rock.