Blood Red

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Could be, but I’m keeping it to myself for now.’ I sighed as I started to make my fruit and veg choices. ‘Life does get complicated, though. One thing about Oz; he had a way of slicing through problems.’

  ‘Oh yes? And what would he have done in this situation? What would he have done about Planas?’

  ‘If the old clown got him mad enough, he’d probably have had him taken out.’

  Matthew laughed . . . but he couldn’t see my face.

  Ten

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Gerard asked. I had just reached the end of a blow-by-blow account of the morning’s events, over dinner in La Lluna, a restaurant in L’Escala that’s as far off the tourist track as you can get . . . and that means, not very. More often than not, Tom would have been with us, but I’d wanted to talk to my friend on my own, and Ben had been happy to sit with him. Cher and Mustard had also been happy to sit with Charlie. About a year ago, Father Olivares, the senior parish priest and Gerard’s immediate boss . . . although Gerard would counter that his immediate boss is God . . . attempted to give him a very gentle hint about the propriety of dining à deux with a divorced woman. He was told, pretty sharply, I suspect, that he was a priest, not a monk, therefore a member of an open society, and that the reverend father would have thought nothing of him dining à deux with a divorced man. (In other words, he told him to fuck off, but in clerical terms.)

  ‘Yes, I do. Are you shocked, that I could love someone who’s capable of such a thing?’

  ‘I’m shocked,’ he conceded. ‘But not by that. I’ve been hearing confessions for long enough to know that love is blind, deaf, dumb, and has no sense of smell. Also I’m human, and as susceptible to rage as the next man. No, I’m shocked because I’ve seen a few of your late ex-husband’s movies and wouldn’t have suspected that he’d be capable of such a thing.’

  I stared at him, astonished. ‘You never told me you were a fan,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I didn’t like to,’ he said, head bowed, but grinning.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to shatter your illusions, but not only was he capable, he did. The last night that he and I ever spent together, in New York, he told me everything about his life that I hadn’t known before.’

  Gerard sighed; I had shaken him. ‘Did he ever confess these sins?’ he asked.

  ‘As in, to a priest? No chance; I was as close as he got to that, and we were hardly in the confessional at the time . . . although I suspect that there may be as much truth told between the sheets as in your wee cabinet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that . . . but it could be that there is less omitted.’ He shivered for a second. ‘And you, Primavera,’ he whispered. ‘What are you capable of?’

  I looked him in the eye again. ‘Protecting the people I love, whatever it takes.’

  ‘Does that include me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then please promise me that you never will, not for me, that you’ll always leave me to look after myself.’

  ‘I’ll make that promise when I can tell the future, but not before.’

  We sat in silence for a while, sipping wine. (One of the great things about being out with a priest is that he always insists on driving, so you’re never going to be stopped by the police.)

  ‘Are you really going to pay this money?’ He had moved on.

  ‘Sure. I’ve said that I will.’

  ‘But two million pesetas is a ridiculous amount. What if Justine refuses to sanction it?’

  ‘She will. Planas went to see her this afternoon, and she called me as soon as he had left her office, to check that he wasn’t lying in his teeth. When I told her he wasn’t, she was livid. She told me that she wouldn’t allow the council to be a party to blackmail. I told her that it was an agreement between the old man and me and that I was prepared to pay for his approval. She took a bit of persuading, but eventually she agreed to sign the permission.’

  ‘I feel the same way as she does,’ said Gerard. ‘You are my sister, and I don’t take kindly to seeing you being abused. As for calling you a whore, if he was a younger man, I would take off my collar and meet him after dark.’

  ‘Father! Wash your mouth out and say a hundred Hail Marys, or whatever the going rate is.’ I made light of it at the time, but I was taken aback by his smouldering anger. ‘You never have done anything like that, have you?’ I asked.

  He looked into his glass. ‘None of us is perfect, Primavera. A long time ago, but it was within my family . . . although that’s no excuse.’

  ‘Who did you fight with?’ I asked. ‘Your brother? Santiago?’

  ‘No, no. Santi and I could never come to blows; we’re too close. Primavera, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

  I took his hand, linking my fingers through his; maybe I expected him to flinch from the physical contact, but he didn’t. ‘You know, Gerard, I think the opposite’s true. I believe that you’d love to talk about it, that you’d love to have someone to share your pain, other than a confessor. Well, that’s what I’m here for.’

  He gave my hand a quick squeeze, then released it. ‘Not my brother,’ he whispered. ‘My father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was a harsh man, a cruel man; he was heavy handed with Santi and me when we were kids. All the time we were growing up, there were never words of encouragement, only complaint. We lived with it, and got out of there as soon as we could. I went to the seminary, Santi joined the Spanish air force. One time, I was given a weekend’s leave, unexpectedly; I went home, and let myself into the house. As I did, I heard a scream, from not far away. I rushed through to the kitchen and found my mother, on the ground and bleeding from the mouth. He was standing over her, cursing her.’ As he spoke he clenched his hands into fists. ‘I yelled at him to stop, to leave her alone. He told me to go back to my novice’s cell, although not in those exact words. I pulled him away from her, and he punched me. And then he laughed, and said, “Go on, Jesus, turn the other cheek.” He stopped laughing when I hit him, when I knocked him across the room. Instead he roared like a bull, and launched himself at me. He was a big man, my father, a locksmith, with strong, heavy hands from his work. But I was full-grown, and I was more than a match for him. I threw him outside, into the small courtyard at the back of the house, and we had it out. I knocked him down half a dozen times, until finally he stayed there, cut above the eye and with blood and snot coming from his nose. I left him lying, went back inside and locked the door, locked him out of his own home, and tended to my mother. She told me that he’d been abusing her since the beginning of their marriage, Primavera, as he’d abused my brother and me, but she’d kept it from us. I told her that she’d be safe from now on. I packed some clothes for her, and took her to my aunt’s house, close to the Alhambra, above Granada. Then I went back home to confront my father again. I had cooled down, and I wanted to talk to him, to try to understand why he had this thing in him that made him behave that way. But he was gone. I waited for him at the house, for two days, but he didn’t come back. Before I left for the seminary I went to my local church, confessed what I had done, and received absolution. I also received my priest’s promise that he would look after my mother, and ensure that she could live in safety once he returned.’ He shook his head. ‘But he never did, Primavera. He never came back. That’s my last memory of him, seventeen years ago, lying where I left him in the yard, spitting out teeth. What a farewell between father and son, eh, my dear.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’ve never tried to find out.’

  ‘Has your brother?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Santi doesn’t know what happened. Mama and I let him think that the old man ran off with another woman; maybe he did. If so, may God have kept her safe.’ He tried to smile, but didn’t get halfway there. ‘So, Primavera, my precious, what do you think of your perfect priest now?’

  I wanted to hug him. I wanted to take him so
mewhere quiet and make him feel better, in any way I could. But that wasn’t possible, so I turned his face towards me and I told him, ‘I think he’s only a man, and I’ve never met the perfect specimen yet. But I’m proud of him, for doing the right thing. After all, God’s smitten a few foes in his time, hasn’t he? And didn’t JC lay into the money-changers in the temple? What would he have done if he’d caught Joseph hitting Mary? I don’t think any the less of you; if anything, I admire you even more.’

  He squeezed my hand again, and this time held on to it; we were in a corner, and his back was to the rest of the diners. ‘Thanks. Your absolution means more to me than the other one. But I still don’t feel cleansed. Because I know that when I fought him, it wasn’t just for my mother. It was more than that, it was for Santi and me too, for all the thumpings he gave us when we were kids, for all the cruelty, and for the denial of all the love we should have had as his children.’

  ‘He had it coming. Tell me, if it had been Santi who’d beaten the crap out of him, rather than you, would you have absolved him?’

  ‘Totally.’

  I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it, then set it down on the table ‘Then do the same for yourself.’

  Eleven

  I went to church that Sunday. As I’ve said, I’m not an adherent, but something drew me to put on a skirt and a black scarf that also worked as a shawl and a head cover, and go next door. I took a place right at the back on one of the long wooden pews. They were not designed for comfort. ‘They are all penitents’ benches,’ my father is fond of declaring. ‘Church-going is not a social occasion; you can’t win true believers with comfortable seats.’

  You might think it was social for me, but you’d be wrong if you did. I was there to see my men at work. Even though my relationship with Gerard had defined limits, my feelings were proprietorial as I watched him conduct the service, and even more so as I looked at his white-robed assistant, my son the altar person. After the travails of the previous week, there was a . . . a niceness about it, a family feeling, that gave me a warm glow inside. Maybe I shouldn’t have been there; once or twice I caught women in the congregation glancing at me over their shoulders. But I didn’t feel that there was anything wrong about it, so I simply smiled at them, redirecting their attention to the main event.

  I hadn’t been first into the church, but I was first out. I went straight down to Can Coll, and found an outside table, taking a seat facing the way I had come, from which I could watch the worshippers emerge.

  ‘What can I get you, Primavera?’ asked Joaquim, the master of the café.

  ‘Coffee Americano with a little milk, and a fizzy water, please.’

  ‘And will Tom be joining you?’

  ‘He will, once he’s finished his tidying up duties and gone home to fetch the dog. But I’d better not make any choices for him.’ I knew he’d want Fanta orange and a ham sandwich, but he always made a show of studying the menu.

  I looked back towards the church. Gerard stood in the doorway, shaking hands with his people as they left, spirits lifted and ready to face the day. His fan club was out in force; quite a few, especially the ladies, paused for a word.

  I hadn’t realised that the mayor was there; she must have gone in before the sound of the bells had faded away, and been in one of the front rows. I had her labelled ‘unconventional’ in my mind, after seeing the way she dressed for the office, but her church-going outfit gave that notion the lie; black dress, black shoes, black lace around her shoulders. She was the last person to leave. It may be that she had been dealing with some of her own congregation inside. Whatever, she stopped beside Gerard, just as Tom emerged, no longer white robed but in shorts and T-shirt, trotted past them with a quick, ‘So long,’ and headed next door.

  I watched as they spoke, neither glancing in my direction; their conversation didn’t seem to be casual, for there were no smiles. I wondered whether they were discussing the wine fair, and Planas’s extortion, then chided myself for such a self-centred thought. They were both important civic figures, dealing with many things, and ours wasn’t the only game in town.

  I’d been right, though. Justine saw me almost as soon as she and Gerard parted; she waved, and headed for me. My coffee and water arrived just as she did. She asked for the same, and took a seat at my table. ‘Father Hernanz and I were talking about you. I came to church here today because I wanted to take another look at Plaça Petita. I’ve done that; I’ve even paced it out, to judge roughly how many square metres it is. Primavera, I’m not going to be complicit in this thing, and I’m not going to allow the council to be either. You will pay exactly the same rent per square metre, per day, as every other business in St Martí does, not a cent more, not a cent less. I’m taking a stand against Planas; I’m going to negotiate on my programme with the council’s Green members, and deliver as much of it as I can.’

  I stared at her. My day had just got even brighter. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely, and I apologise for ever even thinking about allowing that man to dictate to me.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, just as Tom arrived, with Charlie on his short leash, ‘I was going to pay him, remember. I was prepared to let him dictate to me as well.’

  ‘No. You beat him. He quoted you a figure that he thought would be impossible for you, but you accepted it without batting an eyelash. He tried to bully you politically and he tried to bully you financially. You kicked his ass both times; you humiliated him privately and if the story ever comes out, he’ll be humiliated publicly as well. People have supported him because he said he stands for the best of the old values, but they didn’t include extortion.’

  Tom had seated himself, and settled Charlie on the ground, as we spoke. He gazed at Justine, fascinated. I introduced her, formally: ‘Senora Michels, the mayor of L’Escala.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he told her. ‘What’s extortion?’

  She looked at me, batting the question to me. ‘It can be many things,’ I said, ‘but in this case it means forcing someone to pay too much money for something.’

  ‘And has someone done that to you?’

  ‘They tried to, but they failed, because it was worth that amount of money to me, or would have been.’

  He frowned, and in the instant, I saw a flash of his father in him. A quick shudder ran through me. ‘Who was it?’ he asked.

  ‘A silly man, who’ll know better next time. Now forget it. Do you want to see the menu?’

  ‘Don’t need to. I’d like a Fanta lemon and a chorizo sandwich.’ My boy’s tastes were evolving.

  I invited Justine to stay with us for lunch. She and I were considering our options when a shadow fell across the table. I looked up, half expecting to see Gerard, but instead found Sub-inspector Alex Guinart, of the Mossos d’Esquadra, standing beside us. Alex is a good friend of mine . . . one of my rare official visits to the church in L’Escala was to stand as godmother to his daughter . . . but two things told me that his visit wasn’t social. One was the fact that he was in uniform, and the second was the look on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Primavera,’ he said, ‘but I need to have a word with the mayor.’

  She groaned. ‘Town business on a Sunday, Alex?’

  ‘Not of the usual kind,’ he said, moving away with a nod of his head that indicated he wanted to speak in private.

  ‘Sorry,’ Justine murmured as she rose to follow him. ‘Hopefully this won’t take long.’

  I watched them for a few seconds, as they walked up the hill towards Alex’s police vehicle, a four-by-four, which he had parked in front of the church, then turned my attention back to the menu. A couple of minutes passed before the mayor returned, her expression sombre, and then some.

  ‘Alex needs me to go somewhere. Given what’s happened recently, I thought that you might want to come with us.’

  I was surprised, but I was intrigued too. ‘If you think so, and it’s OK with Alex. How about Tom?’

  She s
hook her head, firmly. By that time I wasn’t smiling either.

  ‘OK,’ I said. I handed my son a fifty. ‘Have your lunch, then either wait here till I get back, or pay for what we’ve had, then go down to Ben’s shop and see if you can help out there.’

  ‘Can I have an ice cream too?’ Tom knows when he’s in a good negotiating position.

  ‘The biggest one they have, if you want.’

  I spoke to Joaquim, to let him know what was happening . . . with him and Ben as minders, and with the added insurance of Charlie, who might be dumb but is loyal and can be formidable, Tom was in the safest hands possible . . . then headed towards Alex’s vehicle, wondering what the hell could have happened to have him wearing his sternest cop face on a Sunday.

  Twelve

  On the way, I asked Alex where we were going, but he kept his eyes firmly on the road. Justine was no more communicative; her forehead was set in a deep frown.

  We drove out of St Martí and back towards the main road. I assumed that he was taking us to L’Escala, but we were barely halfway to the junction where one of the tourist information centres is when he made a sharp left turn, on to a dirt track that I’d seen many times but never gone up, not even when I was running, or cycling, not even when Oz and I lived there in what I’m beginning to call ‘the old days’. It has a name, but I’d never paid any attention to it, and that afternoon we were past it before I could read the sign. I still couldn’t tell you what it’s called.

  I knew that there were houses up there, in the fields behind the ruins of the ancient Greco-Roman town, but I had never met anyone who lived there, so I knew nothing of them. The road rose gradually; the ground is quite high up there. I counted three houses as we passed, two on the left and one on the right, before Alex drew to a halt behind two other police vehicles and an ambulance. They were all lined up alongside a high stone wall, in which there was a double gate, partly open. I could just see the pitch of a roof from my raised position in the back seat of the car.