If the length of the wall was anything to go by, it enclosed a pretty substantial plot of land. ‘Whose house is this, Alex?’ I asked, as I stepped out of the cool of the vehicle, into the heat of the day.
‘You’ll see in a little while.’ He led Justine and me through the gate into a garden that was mainly lawn to the front, apart from the swimming pool to the right. The house itself was splendid, as fine as any I’d seen in the area. It was two storey, stone built also, with a loggia over the entrance, and wooden shutters framing each of the small windows. Older Spanish houses were built to keep the sun out; now that there are things like air-con and heat-reflecting glass, the country’s architects have been liberated.
We followed a paved path round the side. As we turned towards the back of the house, we stepped under a pagoda frame with a canvas cover that was set up to shade a small patio. I almost tripped over a chair, a solid wooden white-painted thing, but grabbed its leg to save myself, then trotted on to catch up with Alex.
As I looked around, I saw that the ground at the back sloped downwards, and that the stone wall enclosed the property completely, save for a gate at the back. Only the area of the garden along the length of the house was level, with a mixture of lawn and paving. It was defined by a small wall, of white cast concrete pillars, with plant pots set on top at regular intervals a few metres apart. A middle-aged man was sitting on the wall beside one of them, sweat forming dark patches under the armpits of his green uniform shirt. I recognised him. His name was Gomez and he was an intendant from the Mossos d’Esquadra criminal investigation branch.
He blinked when he saw me. ‘Senora Blackstone,’ he exclaimed. ‘What connection have you with this?’
‘The mayor suggested that she come,’ Alex told him. ‘And . . . well, she’s the mayor, OK.’
‘Connection with what?’ I asked.
‘Come and see.’
Gomez beckoned me forward. I approached him and as I did I could see over the wall, into the lower garden. Four crime-scene officers, in sterile tunics, were on their knees, searching the ground, square metre by square metre. Two paramedics stood off to one side, holding a stretcher, as if waiting to be called into action. At the foot of the steps that led down to the area, I saw a second uniformed officer: I had met him before too, Inspector Garcia, the intendant’s more abrasive sidekick. He and I exchanged not very friendly glances; and then the smell hit me, that and the buzzing of what sounded like a thousand flies.
I stood against the pillared wall and looked down. Beneath me, maybe three metres below, there was a rockery, with cactus plants in the sandy soil, and in its centre, teeth bared as if he was snarling, glaring up at me as he had in his office, lay the unmistakably dead form of José-Luis Planas.
Justine came to stand beside me, and gasped in horror, even though she had been told what she had been brought to see. ‘When was he found?’ she asked Gomez.
‘About two hours ago,’ he replied, ‘by his gardener, when he came in to check the watering system. Apparently it had been faulty for the last week or so.’
‘He’s been there for a while,’ I said. ‘You’d better move him pretty quick. I’ve seen this; I nursed in Africa for a while in a combat zone. Decomposition has a different timetable in the heat.’
‘So how long would you say he’s been here?’ asked Garcia, who had climbed the stairway. ‘Our medical examiner . . . he’s gone back to his barbecue . . . says at least three days.’
‘Then he’s a fucking idiot . . . pardon my English. If he’d been here for three days in these hot weather conditions he’d be starting to go black; he might even have burst open. I’d say less than two days, that he died Friday night or Saturday morning.’
‘And you know better than our doctor, do you?’ he sneered. ‘It’s possible; his housekeeper comes in three days a week; her husband says that she was here on Friday, but that she has her own keys and often comes when he’s not here. So he could have been lying here all that time and she might not have known. The husband, the gardener, he was last here on Wednesday.’
‘In this instance, I do know better than your medic. I had a meeting with Senor Planas in his office . . .’ I checked my watch; it showed 2 p.m., ‘. . . exactly two days and two hours ago.’
‘And I had a visit from him in mine two hours after that,’ Justine added. ‘And I promise you he was alive when he left, frustrating as I may have found that.’
Alex winced. ‘What happened?’ I asked him.
‘The doc reckons that he probably had a heart attack and fell over the wall. The back of his head’s smashed in.’
‘He fell backwards?’
‘Seems that way. Accidental death.’
‘Yes, Sub-inspector Guinart,’ Gomez conceded. ‘That’s what we thought when you left to collect Senora Michels. But after you had gone, one of the technicians found this, grasped in his hand.’ He reached into his pocket, took out a transparent evidence bag, and held it up.
All I could see was white plastic. ‘What is it?’ I murmured.
‘According to Garcia, who says he knows these things, it’s part of a priest’s collar.’
Thirteen
Intendant Gomez said no more about his find. Instead he questioned Justine and me, courteously, about our recent difficulties with the late councillor. We told him how the situation had developed, how I had confronted Planas and how he had come up with his proposition.
‘I wish you had come to me with this,’ he declared, ‘and made a formal complaint. I would have started an investigation at once.’
‘And you’d have been tied in knots,’ the mayor told him. ‘That old man was as slippery as a shoal of eels.’
Gomez smiled. ‘I’m the son of a fisherman,’ he said. ‘My father was a trawler skipper, and I used to go out with him. I’m used to eels.’
‘Maybe not this one.’
‘We’ll never know now.’
He also asked me about Ben Simmers, and about his attitude to the demand for money. ‘He knew nothing about it,’ I told him. ‘He left all that side of the organisation to me.’ That seemed to satisfy him.
‘And you were going to pay the money? Such a ridiculous amount?’
‘It would have been worth it . . . and afterwards I’d still have let the world know about it. I’d made no vow of secrecy.’
That was all he asked us. Matthew Reid’s name had never come up during our exchanges, and I saw no reason to volunteer it.
The interview had just finished, when we heard running footsteps behind us. Justine and I turned, just as Angel Planas appeared from the front of the house. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded, glaring at Gomez as he approached. Justine laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
‘I’m sorry, Angel,’ she whispered, but he ignored her.
‘Come on,’ said Alex Guinart, to us. ‘You’re finished here. I’ll take you home.’
‘Why did you come for the mayor?’ I asked him, as we walked towards his vehicle.
‘Gomez asked me to,’ he replied. ‘When she told me about your trouble with the old guy, I thought it best to save some time by bringing you along.’
He said nothing more as we drove back. Justine sat in the back for a change, and I was in the front. We had almost reached the village when he glanced across to me. ‘When did you last see Gerard?’ he murmured, barely audible above the engine noise.
‘Today, in church.’
‘I don’t mean that. I mean when did you last see him before that?’ I frowned at him. ‘For Christ’s sake, Primavera,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’m not out to crack the case here. Gerard’s my friend too. Sooner or later those two detectives are going to be visiting every priest in this area, and I’d rather know whatever there is to know before they do.’
‘We had dinner together on Friday.’
‘Where?’
‘In La Lluna, near your office.’
‘Did you tell him about your problem with Planas?’
‘Yes, I di
d.’
‘How did he react?’
‘How do you think? You know him; he was angry.’ I stopped short as I recalled his reaction to the story; that if Planas was a younger man, he might have taken off his collar . . .
I was afraid that Alex would press me, but he didn’t. ‘Yes,’ he said, as we crested the road into St Martí, and he drew to a halt in front of the church, ‘I can see he would have been. But you haven’t answered my question.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘When did you see him last?’
‘When we left La Lluna, he drove me back home; it would have been closer to one than midnight, for everything here was closed.’
‘And?’ He looked pained. ‘Sorry, Primavera, I need to know.’
A lot of stuff went through my mind, very quickly. Going by what I’d seen of the body, from above and close to, as the paramedics had carried him past us, uncovered on their stretcher, I reckoned that he had lain in the open for all of Saturday, and Sunday, under cloudless skies and a blazing sun. Maybe he did have a heart attack and fall, while Gerard and I were having dinner. If he had, the autopsy would tell us, for sure. But maybe not. When he died, he’d been dressed in loose black trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and leather slippers, not the suit, tie and brogues that he’d worn for our meeting. He’d gone home and dressed for the evening. Maybe he was an early bedder, and he’d have been in pyjamas if he’d died after midnight. But I didn’t buy that. No, I feared that when we knew the time of death, it wasn’t going to help at all.
I almost said it: ‘And . . . he came inside. We stayed in bed until around nine next morning, then we had breakfast, before he left around ten, through the garage down below, where he wouldn’t be seen.’
It was on the tip of my tongue; it almost escaped, but just in time I realised that almost certainly it would destroy our friendship, our relationship, when he was asked to confirm it, as he would be. Also, I looked at Alex and remembered that I’d be lying to a man who trusted me enough to make me godmother to his child. And I thought of Tom. If it came to that point, Gomez and Garcia would be sure to want to interview him about his mother’s bedtime habits; no way would I allow that.
‘He dropped me off,’ I finished, ‘where we’re parked right now, and then he drove off.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Back to the priests’ house in L’Escala.’
Alex sighed. ‘Good.’
‘You were expecting something different?’
‘I wasn’t expecting anything, I promise.’ He paused. ‘What else?’ he mused. ‘Yes, how was he dressed? What was he wearing?’
‘His usual off-duty gear. Denims, open-necked shirt and that sports jacket of his. You know the one, with the elbow patches.’
‘Sure. Do him a favour, buy him a new one for Christmas, or his birthday, otherwise he’ll wear that thing till it dies.’
I laughed with him, relieved that he hadn’t asked me what colour the shirt was, or said anything that would have made me admit to what I’d seen sticking out of the breast pocket of the old jacket, the end of a white plastic clerical collar.
Fourteen
To my surprise Tom was still at the table in Can Coll, finishing up the biggest ice cream they have on offer - as I had allowed in my moment of weakness - accompanied by Ben, who had closed for his afternoon break, plus Charlie, Cher and Mustard. (By the way, before you get any ideas about Charlie and Cher, she’s been fixed; so, for that matter, has Mustard, when he wasn’t looking, although it hasn’t affected his sense of smell.)
‘Everything okay, Primavera?’ the shopkeeper asked.
‘Yes, but I’ll tell you later.’ He read the message in my eyes and let it drop.
My son didn’t quiz me about what we had been doing. He simply handed me back the fifty unbidden . . . he knows that’s too much money for him to carry normally . . . and told me that he and Ben were going to walk the dogs. Since I was long overdue lunch, I let them get on with it, and took over the table. Justine reckoned this was a good idea, and joined me.
Before we’d left, I’d made my mind up about what I was going to have, so I didn’t need to consult anything before ordering omelette and chips, but I did add a jug of sangria to the order, plus some water, for instant rehydration.
As our waiter left to get things under way, I turned to the mayor. ‘So,’ I said, ‘you’ve lost your majority on the council. Where does that leave you?’
She frowned. ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll need to consult our lawyer, but I believe you’re wrong. Planas was an independent, a one-man slate. Normally, when someone leaves the council, the party involved nominates the next person on their list of thirteen at the election, and that person takes over. In this case, there’s nobody to nominate; logically, the vacancy will be unfilled. That means that we have only twelve councillors. My party and the combined opposition have six each. I’m the mayor, I have the casting vote, so, our majority is now absolute.’
‘Hey presto,’ I chuckled. ‘But you realise that gives you a damn good motive for bumping him off. Hope you can tell Gomez where you were on Friday night and Saturday morning.’
She winced. ‘I hope I don’t have to.’
I winked at her. ‘Oh yes?’
‘It’s that obvious?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Shit.’ She looked at me. ‘Between us, yes?’
‘Of course.’
‘I wasn’t in L’Escala. We spent the night in a hotel in Figueras. He’s as busy as I am, and we meet up when it suits his schedule, and mine.’
‘Not a local, then.’
‘I didn’t say that, but please don’t ask me who he is.’
‘Intriguing . . . but it’s none of my business. The truth is, Justine, you’re confiding in the right woman. I don’t care how many secrets you have, I’ve still got more than you.’
Fifteen
I must admit I was curious, but I didn’t try to ferret out the identity of Justine’s mystery man. The only other detail she let slip was that they had been together for three years or thereabouts, meeting wherever they could but never in L’Escala. Her mother and her sister . . . as Ben had said . . . knew of his existence, but that was all.
‘Are you ever going to settle down?’
‘Maybe, when his career makes it simpler, and when I feel that I’ve given all I can to L’Escala. My profession, when I go back to it, will let me go anywhere.’
‘What is that?’
‘I’m an accountant.’
The rest of the probing over lunch went in the other direction. Most people I meet want to know, sooner or later, about my time with Oz, and even the sophisticated mayor was one of those. She asked me what he was really like, away from the glamour of his movie career. ‘He used to fart in bed.’ She wanted to know what had brought us to St Martí, the first time. ‘We stopped for lunch . . . in this very café in fact . . . and bought an apartment.’ She wondered why we hadn’t stayed together. ‘The first time, he left me for somebody he had always been with, really, yet should never have been with at all.’ (That puzzled her, but it’s part of the biography I’ll never write, and there’s only one other person alive who knows of it.) ‘After she died, he went quietly crazy, became as unpredictable as me, and dangerous with it. We left each other, pretty quickly, but not before we’d made Tom. A while after that, he died.’
‘It still hurts, doesn’t it,’ Justine murmured.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You have tears in your eyes.’
I gave her my best nonchalant smile. ‘For all you know they could be out of relief.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She poured the last of the sangria. ‘What about Gerard?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Should we tell him about Planas? Should we warn him? Should we tell him what Garcia found?’
‘First of all,’ I replied, ‘I doubt we’ll need to tell him. Angel will want a priest, to do whatever needs to be done in these circumstances. Even if he doesn’t attend to
it himself, he’s bound to get to hear about it. As for warning him . . . leave that to me.’
She was happy with that. We finished lunch, then went our separate ways, she towards the car park, me back to the house.
One of the very few downsides about living in St Martí is the mobile phone signal, which varies from bad to very bad, and disappears entirely inside several of the old stone buildings. When I stepped into the hall, and laid my phone on the new hall table, I realised that it had been switched off all day. I checked the landline, and saw that I had two voice messages. I pushed the replay button, put the handset to my ear, expecting to hear Gerard’s voice . . . and almost dropped it again, as a deep, familiar accent reminded me of home.
‘Primavera, this is the other grandpa speaking.’ Mac Blackstone, Oz’s dad; something wrong? Mary, Ellen, Harvey, one of the boys? And then he chuckled. ‘Trust me to call when you’re at church . . . or sprawled on the beach more like. Can you give me a ring when you pick this up? I’ve got an opportunity, but I’ll need to know fast.’
‘What the hell’s this about?’ I murmured, as I dialled Mac’s number.
‘What the hell’s this about?’ I asked, as he picked up my call.
‘Puzzled you, did I?’ He chuckled. ‘Sorry to be mysterious, but you never know how long you have on these things. Do you fancy a visitor for a few days?’
‘Depends who it is.’
‘Me, woman. Who else?’
‘Well, there’s your wife, for a start.’
‘Ah, but she’s the reason. Mary’s cousin’s been ill; Isa, the one in Crieff. She’s had a hysterectomy, and now they’re discharging her from hospital, way too soon in my opinion. She’s on her own, and she’s going to need looking after, so Mary’s going to stay with her for a week. I don’t fancy any of that, so I’ve been thinking it might be nice to see my grandson and his mum. I’ve been looking around, and I can get a flight to Girona from Prestwick on Tuesday, for next to bugger all, going home next Monday. Would that be okay, or do you have other arrangements?’
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