They’re big on cava in Catalunya; it’s the local fizz. They used to call it Spanish champagne, until the protectionist French put a stop to that, forcing the producers to create a new identity. They’ve never looked back since.
Xavi left the room, through the door that Sheila had used, leaving the two of us together.
‘June’s told us a lot about you too,’ she said, as we sat facing the massive hearth, in which a log fire was burning. ‘Xavi speaks to her often, on Facetime, and sometimes I’m there. I gather you’ve been very helpful to her over the years.’
‘I hope I’ve been helpful to all the editors,’ I countered. ‘Well, maybe not all of them; most of the Scottish outlets have been fair to me over the years, but there have been one or two that have stepped over the line.’
‘Where’s your line drawn?’
‘Between my professional and private lives; the second is off limits.’
‘Mmm,’ she murmured. ‘Xavi will sympathise with you there. When he and I met up again . . .’ She paused. ‘You know we met twice, sort of? Briefly, when we were in our teens, then later, after we’d both been through the mill.’
She glanced up at the portrait of Grace. I nodded. ‘So I understand,’ I replied.
‘The second time around, Xavi was really withdrawn. He spent nearly all of his life running the Saltire, and cut himself off from everything else. His day consisted of cycling to the office, via the gym at his health club, then cycling home again, usually around midnight. He never accepted business or social invitations, not ever. If he hadn’t come into the minor injuries clinic after he fell off his bike and buggered his knee, we might never have met up again, and he might still be doing that.’
‘But he did,’ I said, ‘and all’s well.’
‘Yes, but he didn’t become any less private, not even after Paloma was born.’
‘How old is your daughter now?’ I asked.
‘She’s twelve. She’ll be here soon, in fact; my son Ben’s gone to pick her up from school, in Girona. He’s here with us just now. He’s as fond of his half-sister as Xavi is of his. He should visit her more often.’
‘He doesn’t live in Spain, then?’
‘No, he’s in Scotland, still; he’s never been tempted to move here. He works as a bookseller, or rather he did, until his company folded a couple of months ago.’
I’d noticed the collapse of a book chain earlier in the year, but hadn’t focused on it, having my own worries at the time.
‘It’s the impact of eBooks,’ Sheila continued. ‘It’s happening to newspaper sales too. Everything that you and I grew up with, Mr Skinner, it’s all changing.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I grunted, with what was meant to be a smile but probably came across as a grimace. ‘It’s not just in the media that things are being stood on their head. We’re in the middle of a social revolution, and it’s having a greater effect than any other period of major change in our history, because it’s all happening so fast.’
‘The social revolution: I like that, Bob. I may suggest to our editors that they focus on that phrase from now on.’ Xavi had re-joined us, carrying a tray with three glasses and a bottle of Freixenet Elyssia. ‘Are you a one-man resistance movement?’
‘Hell no!’ I retorted. ‘I’m for everything that improves people’s lives. In my book man’s three greatest inventions have been the wheel, the condom and the Internet.’
‘I know some old guys here who have no time for two of those, and would get by without the third if they could.’ He popped the cava and filled the three glasses. ‘But you have limits?’ he continued, as he finished and handed them round.
‘Yes, I do. I’m not against change, as long as it’s for the better. I’m not against cost saving either, as long as there are benefits. It’s okay to fix things, even if they ain’t broke, as long as you don’t make them worse. For example . . .’
‘The new Scottish police service?’
‘A prime example,’ I agreed.
‘Why?’ Sheila asked. ‘We have a National Health Service, so why not a national police force?’
‘We’ve had an NHS for over sixty years, and we still haven’t got it right,’ I pointed out, ‘not the management of it, at any rate. Very few things in this life are black and white; every large community has its own culture and its own problems. In policing these have to be handled sensitively, and sometimes with a large dose of common sense. To do that properly, the decision-makers have to understand the issues involved. They also have to work with the local authorities, the councils.’
I smiled, seeing an imaginary soapbox in the middle of the room, and realising that I was in danger of stepping on to it. ‘Ach, don’t get me started. Police Scotland’s a done deal, and there’s nothing more to be said about it.’
‘So that’s why you pulled your application form,’ Xavi murmured.
‘Who said I ever submitted it?’
‘My newspaper, the Saltire; it said so, based on information from good sources, and so did most of the other Scottish titles. My sister even ran an editorial about it, criticising you for going off in a huff.’
‘That’s June’s view,’ I retorted. ‘I wasn’t about to get into an argument with her about it.’
‘Are you saying she was wrong?’
‘Of course I am; she should have talked to me before she published. It wasn’t that easy a call for me. I might have gone ahead with my application, but something else got in the way.’ As I sipped the excellent cava, a small wave of suspicion rippled through my mind. ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘is that why I’m here? Is this really an interview? Am I being recorded?’
I’d never seen the big man look remotely angry, not even in terrible circumstances, but he did then. His eyebrows came together hard as he frowned. ‘Do you really think I would do that?’ he boomed. ‘Invite you to my home just to pump you for information? Jesus, Bob . . .’
I realised that he was hurt, as well as annoyed; guilt blew away my doubts. ‘I’m sorry, man,’ I exclaimed. ‘Of course I don’t think such a thing. I’ve been a bit paranoid these last few months, that’s all.’
He tipped his glass in my direction. ‘Apology accepted. Let’s change the subject.’
I’d have been glad to but in the circumstances I felt that a gesture was in order. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s time I shared this with someone else, as well as Sarah and Alex. But within this room, okay?’
‘Of course,’ Xavi agreed, ‘but I wasn’t asking, really.’
‘I know you weren’t, but I’m going to tell you. Do you remember, a few weeks ago, a case coming to the High Court in Edinburgh, in which a young man named Ignacio Centelleos pleaded guilty to the culpable homicide of his grandmother, a woman called Bella Watson, and to perverting the course of justice by dumping her body in the River Forth?’
‘The Cramond Island Woman story? Of course I do, it was big news. As I recall, the Crown accepted his story that Granny . . . whom he’d never met before . . . had gone berserk and tried to kill his mother with a cleaver. What did he get? Two years?’
‘Four, but half of it was suspended. Lord Nelson was the judge,’ I added.
‘Yes, that’s right. June wrote an editorial on that too, congratulating him on the fairness of his sentence. What about it?’
‘There’s something the court wasn’t told. Ignacio is my son.’
Beside me, Sheila gasped, but Xavi’s expression didn’t change, not by as little as a twitching eyebrow.
‘I didn’t know about him,’ I continued. ‘I had a one-night stand with his mother, going on for twenty years ago. She left Edinburgh very shortly after that, because of family problems . . .’
‘The same problems that led Granny to go for her with a chopper?’ Xavi murmured.
I nodded. ‘Do some research on Bella Watson’s history and you’ll understand. Anyway, Mia . . . that’s Ignacio’s mother’s name . . . ran off to Spain, and I didn’t hear from her again until a few months ago. That’s whe
n I found out; by that time all the bad stuff had happened.’ I sipped some more cava and stared into the glass. ‘Quite some mess, eh?’
‘He’s definitely your son?’ Sheila blurted out, then winced. ‘Sorry, that was . . .’
I forced a smile to put her at ease. ‘That was a natural question. Yes, he is. Our DNA says so, beyond doubt. There’s a resemblance, too . . . although it might not dawn on you straight away, not unless you’d known me when I was his age.’
‘Who knows about it?’ Xavi asked.
‘Sarah, my partner, she knows. So does Alexis, my daughter; she’s a lawyer and she organised Ignacio’s defence team. The detectives who worked the Bella homicide found out during the investigation. They kept it tight, so only a couple of their senior officers are in the loop. They’re all good friends of mine, so nothing will leak.’
‘How about the scientists who found the DNA match?’
I glanced at Sheila, who put the question. ‘They’re tight too. Their boss and I go way back . . . plus, I’d know where to find them if anyone did tip off the media.’
I paused, but only for a second or two. ‘Be clear on this,’ I said. ‘I am not ashamed of the boy. If you’re wondering why I didn’t speak up for him in court, or haven’t acknowledged him publicly, I can tell you that has nothing to do with what people might think of me. In fact it’s the opposite.’
‘I think I know what you mean,’ Sheila murmured. ‘You’re protecting him.’
‘Exactly,’ I declared. ‘The day he’s released from Polmont Young Offenders’ Institution, in a little more than a year from now, I’ll be waiting there for him. But while he’s in prison, if it was known that he’s my son, he’d have a target on his back.’
Xavi nodded agreement. ‘True. Does that mean you won’t visit him while he’s in there?’
‘I’m afraid so. But Alex will; she’s on record as his solicitor, so that won’t raise any eyebrows.’
‘How did she take it when you told her?’
‘She was in her early teens when Mia was around. Even then she was old enough to know that I was attracted to her, so that took some of the surprise out of it. She’s very protective of her other siblings even though they’re children and she’s hit the thirty mark, and she liked Ignacio when she met him, so she’s fine.’
‘And Sarah?’ Sheila asked. ‘What about her?’
I shrugged. ‘Ignacio comes from the time before her, just like Alex does. As she was very quick to remind me, she and I have been through worse than the arrival of a surprise love child.’
‘What will he do when he’s released?’
‘He’ll be going to university, Sheila,’ I told her, ‘if I have anything to do with it. He’s a clever lad, a brilliant chemist . . . a talent that he hasn’t always put to the best use. Alex will be talking to him about that.’
‘Will his mother have a view on it? Or has she gone back to Spain?’
I grinned. ‘Mia’s outlived her welcome in this country. She’s gone back to her old career, as a radio presenter. She’s done a couple of stand-ins on Radio Scotland and they’ve helped her pick up a twelve-month contract with an independent station in Dundee.’
Xavi registered surprise. ‘She’s managed that, even with all the adverse publicity about her mother’s death?’
‘She’s never used her family name professionally. She calls herself Mia Sparkles; Bella’s maiden name was Spreckley; it springs from that.’
‘I see.’ His eyes met mine. ‘That’s quite a story, Bob, but I’ve heard nothing that would stop you from being a police officer. So why is your future in doubt? I know via June that the new Police Scotland chief executive is looking at a role for you.’
‘The doubts are in my head, Xavi. That’s why I’m in L’Escala: to sort them out. But it’s not why I’m here now, is it? You said you wanted my advice on a “situation”; your word. So, what’s up?’
My host rose from his chair, and refilled his wife’s glass and mine. ‘I believe that someone is attacking our business,’ he said, abruptly, as he resumed his seat.
‘How?’ I asked. ‘Are your shares under pressure? Is someone lining up a hostile takeover bid?’
‘Our shares aren’t traded. The group’s still in our hands, Joe’s and mine . . . and Sheila’s, of course. We’ve had bids over the years, from some global media players, but we’ve refused them all, politely. I’m very proud of what Joe’s achieved since he took over the old newspaper back in the seventies, and pleased with my own contribution since I got involved. We like what we do, Bob, and we have no wish to stop doing it.’
‘But someone else wants you to?’
‘That’s how it seems.’
‘Explain,’ I said.
‘Our success over the years has been based on two things: the quality of our journalism, and our ability to anticipate change. When regional radio began to expand, we were first there; today you’ll find the InterMedia brand all over the country.’ He smiled. ‘Only InterMedia, note; we dropped “Girona” from our corporate identity several years ago. We Catalans aren’t universally loved in the rest of Spain.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘But we’ve prospered in spite of it,’ he continued. ‘When the Internet arrived, we were the first company in Europe to realise its potential, and to exploit it. Every one of our newspapers has an online edition, with a total readership that’s now greater than the print versions, and significantly more profitable. Our larger radio stations were used as the basis for new television channels as soon as digital broadcasting arrived.’
‘That’s very impressive,’ I told him, sincerely. ‘How did you achieve it?’
‘We did it through the skills of a very exceptional young man. His name is Hector Sureda Roca. He’s the son of our editorial director Pilar Roca and her husband, Simon Sureda. Simon is the finest journalist I know. When I met him, he changed my life. After listening to him I knew that there could only be one profession for me. Before I ever went to work for the Saltire, he was my mentor.’ He smiled, his mind back in his past for a few moments.
‘Hector inherited all of his parents’ journalistic instincts and skills,’ he continued, ‘and added to them through his understanding of the new world in which we’re operating. He was very young when we gave him his head, but it was no risk, because he’s a genius.’ He drew a deep breath into his massive chest. ‘And now he’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ I repeated.
‘Without trace, four days ago. He left home for the office last Friday morning, at eight o’clock as usual, but he never arrived. He hasn’t been seen since, or heard from.’
‘Could he have jumped ship?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Could he have gone to work for someone else?’
‘Not a chance,’ Xavi replied. ‘Hector loves his job; there is nobody on the payroll anywhere who’s more dedicated than he is. Money isn’t an issue either; he’s on a director-level salary, a healthy six figures after tax, plus a performance bonus. For the last three years, he’s been the highest earner in the entire InterMedia group . . . and that includes Joe and me. On top of that he owns a piece of the business. I said that the company is family owned, but over the years Pilar Roca has been rewarded with share options, to be exercised in the event of a sale, and since the digital revolution started, Hector’s been on the same deal. Today, they own ten per cent of the business between them.’
‘What’s Hector’s personal situation?’
‘He’s thirty-six, and he’s single. He’s had a few relationships, but he isn’t in one at the moment; they’ve all broken up because he’s so focused on his work. He has an apartment in Barcelona, but most of the time he lives in the family home. Pilar and Simon have a nice big house in Begur, and Hector has his own part of that, just as Joe has here.’
‘Do you know for sure that he left home at eight?’
‘One hundred per cent. His mother made him breakfast, then she hear
d his car leaving the garage. After that, as I said, he didn’t arrive at the office and nobody has seen him or heard from him since then.’
‘Are you sure he isn’t in love, and just slipped off for a few days? Lust can do strange things to people, make them behave out of the ordinary. My boy Ignacio is living proof of that.’
‘Pilar says no; she’s sure she’d have known if there was anyone new around. She’s going quietly mad over this, by the way. Besides, the one thing it would not have made him do is switch off his mobile phone. It never leaves him; it’s an extension of his personality. He’s one of those people who tweet everything, short of bowel movements, although I’m sure he’s shared a few thoughts while sat on the throne. His Twitter account has been silent since last Thursday, and likewise Facebook.’
‘Where’s his office?’
‘Hector’s based in our group headquarters on the edge of Girona. So are Pilar and I, but we’re not there every day, as he is.’ The big guy smiled. ‘I’m making up for the times when I was never away from the office.
‘Everyone in the company reports to me ultimately but my hands-on involvement these days tends to be with our bankers and those people and organisations whose goodwill is important to us.’
‘Politicians and civil servants?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If I understand you correctly, the group is run at top level by three people.’
‘More or less. Pilar supervises all our newspapers and magazines, with each editor reporting to her. Hector’s title is digital media director; he runs all the websites and has oversight of our radio and television stations, through assistants at sub-board level. We have a finance director, of course, Hilario Mendez. That gives us a six-person board, with Joe being the chairman, and Sheila as non-executive director.’ He grinned again, and glanced at his wife. ‘After we’d been here for a couple of years, I realised that I talked through every major business decision with her, and most of the smaller ones too, and that her input was pretty sharp, so we brought her into the circle.’
‘I was the same with Sarah,’ I confessed. ‘Her being a forensic pathologist, we’ve had some very interesting conversations over the dinner table.’ I looked at him. ‘So that’s your management structure?’
Last Resort Page 4