He chuckled. ‘I’ve known quieter times. Did the priest deliver your friend home safe? Imagine, you sending him along to rescue him.’
‘I sent him along to translate, Alex . . . only I didn’t send him, he volunteered.’
‘Did he have a choice?’ He laughed. ‘His language skills wouldn’t have been needed anyway. Senor Reid’s Castellano is just about as good as mine.’
‘Which is why you two spoke Catalan in front of him?’
‘Exactly.’
‘His story will check out, you know.’
‘I know it will. I’ve already spoken to Jaume, in Taverna Anxova. Unless our first pathologist has got the time of death badly wrong, he couldn’t have done it. Not that we ever thought he had. He’s not the homicidal type.’
That’s all you know, I thought. ‘What about your second pathologist?’ I asked
‘Professor Perez is maybe the most thorough woman in Spain. She’s insisted on performing the full autopsy for herself, from the beginning. We hope we’ll have her report by the end of the day. If not . . .’
‘Angel can’t have the funeral on Thursday.’
‘Exactly. Poor guy, it’s not natural, having to wait so long.’
‘Are you any closer to finding out who did it?’
‘We thought we were, when Planas’s office guy told us that Reid had visited him and they’d had what he called a violent argument. What we can’t figure out is whether it was before you saw him or after.’
He still hadn’t worked it out. ‘Alex,’ I explained. ‘There was only one meeting. We saw Planas together. Matthew’s appointment was just a way of getting me in there to tackle him about blocking the wine fair, out of spite against Ben.’
‘Aw, Primavera,’ he moaned. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’
‘Relevant? Primavera, I won’t suggest that you didn’t say anything because you were trying to protect him . . . but Hector Gomez will. Your first thought was that he might have done it, wasn’t it?’
‘No,’ I insisted.
I could tell he wasn’t buying it, friend or not. ‘Sure,’ he drawled. ‘It may concern you to know that he must have thought the same thing about you, since he said nothing about your being there.’ He paused. ‘He isn’t right, is he?’ he added with a soft chuckle.
‘Alex!’ Suddenly I was rattled again.
Twenty-two
I spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden . . . ‘pottering’, my mother used to call it, an inadequate description for the carefully organised vegetable crops she used to tend, and which my dad still does . . . uprooting every weed I could see and doing some dead-heading and judicious pruning. Charlie kept me company, but he was no help at all; afternoon is his siesta time, and he spent it dozing in his kennel. The information booth kept me busy too, with a regular flow of callers, until I closed it at four, to give myself time to make myself extra presentable for the trip to the airport.
I changed from shorts . . . my usual summer uniform . . . to a light cotton floral skirt, and a pale pink sleeveless shirt. For once, I put on a bra, thinking that it might not be seemly to bounce too much when meeting my former father-in-law. I also paid a bit more attention than usual to my hair and make-up. When I judged that I looked okay, I fed the dog . . . earlier than usual, but I didn’t want him getting hungry and kicking up a fuss if Mac’s plane was delayed . . . and headed for the school.
He jumped straight into the passenger seat, as I held the door open for him. ‘I know what it is,’ he announced, as he fastened his belt. ‘My friend Alexia says I’m getting a new bike, because my old one’s too small for me now.’
I hadn’t expected that one, but Alexia had a point. Tom was getting bigger by the month, if not the day; also he was getting stronger and, being a boy, rougher on his bikes. But, he’d had his own computer for his birthday, and it was a long time to Christmas. ‘No,’ I said, as I put the car in Drive and moved off, ‘it’s not that.’
His face fell. ‘Aw.’ He paused. ‘But can I?’ he asked. ‘I do need one; I can put all my feet on the ground when I’m in the saddle; and I can’t make it go any higher.’
I’m not soft with him, honest, but buying a kid something he needs isn’t spoiling him . . . and he probably did need something more heavy-duty. ‘Okay,’ I told him. ‘But not today, that’s not where we’re going.’
He sat, contented, as I drove out of town, fiddling with the radio until he found Flaix FM, as we headed straight on, ignoring the Figueras slip road. ‘Not the dress shop, then,’ he murmured as we passed Camallera.
I grinned at him. ‘No, but that wouldn’t have been a very good surprise for you, would it?’
A little further on, we passed a girl, one of the regulars, sitting at the roadside on a white plastic chair. I don’t think Tom believes any longer that she’s waiting for a bus, but he hasn’t quizzed me yet on what she might be doing. That’s a conversation I’m putting off until the moment arises when I can’t. He knows about the reproductive process . . . in a place with a sizeable dog population you can’t avoid the subject . . . but I’d like to shield him from its commercial side for a little longer.
‘El Corte Ingles?’ he asked, hopefully, as I turned into the autopista pay station.
‘No,’ I replied, as I took the ticket.
‘Barcelona?’
‘No.’
He beamed. ‘Then we’re going to the airport.’
‘No comment.’
He turned the volume up a little as I fed into the traffic, and I let him, for he knows that I don’t like talking when I’m on that road. There are too many nutters about, guys who think they’re Michael Schumacher but will probably wind up like Ayrton Senna; you have to check your mirrors regularly and carefully, and concentrate full-time.
I don’t hang about myself, but it took me just under twenty-five minutes to reach the turn-off at junction eight. As I pulled into the pay station and handed the attendant my ticket and a ten-euro note, Tom dug me gently in the ribs. ‘I was right, Mum.’
‘Clever you,’ I said, as I took my change.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, more excited than I’d seen him in a while. ‘Is Ben looking after Charlie?’
It’s natural to want our kids to be perfect, or failing that, the best they can be, but, for me at least, there’s a perverse satisfaction when Tom gets something wrong. It reminds me that he’s a normal wee boy, like he should be, whatever high-flown hopes and dreams I may have for him.
I drove into the crowded car park, got lucky and found a space right away. I slung my capacious bag over my shoulder as we climbed out, patting it with my left hand as I locked up. ‘And this is all the luggage we need, isn’t that right? Change of pants for you, change of knickers for me, toothbrushes and passports. Come on then.’
I headed off for the terminal building, my son keeping pace with me. We walked through the departures entrance . . . I winced at the crowded concourse, and was glad that we weren’t really checking in, then I turned left towards arrivals.
Girona Airport is very busy, and the airlines rely on rapid turnaround times to keep to their schedules. This means that occasionally a flight will arrive early. So it was that day with the plane from Prestwick. Mac Blackstone was standing in front of the baggage hall doorway, his case and his golf clubs loaded on to a trolley. Tom saw him before he saw us. ‘Grandpa!’ he yelled, and all of a sudden he was four or five again, breaking into a sprint and rushing towards him, jumping and being caught in Mac’s bear-like grasp.
I let them have their hug-in for a minute or so, then moved up for one of my own. After we’d clinched, I stepped back and eyed him up and down. ‘Not bad,’ I said, and I meant it. I don’t remember what age he is exactly, but he can’t be short of seventy, he’s had an emergency heart valve replacement, and he’s lost his only son, so he’s no longer the man I met thirteen years ago. Nevertheless, he’s held himself together when he
might have been forgiven for going into a decline. I could still see a sparkle in his eye, and although he was a little slimmer, he was still pretty solidly built.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he replied. ‘I could say the same about you, but it would be an understatement. Who’s putting the bloom in your cheeks these days?’
‘He is,’ I told him, ruffling Tom’s hair. ‘He’s all I need to get by.’
‘Nearly a Marvin Gaye lyric,’ he chuckled. (Mac has an encyclopaedic knowledge of sixties music; his heroes are Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and Marvin Gaye. ‘Who’s the odd man out?’ he asked me once, then answered before I could . . . not that I knew. ‘Otis. He died in a plane crash, the other two were shot dead.’)
‘Fine,’ I grinned, ‘but don’t sing it.’
‘Not even in the shower,’ he promised.
His grandson looked around the concourse. ‘Where’s Grandma Mary?’ he asked.
‘Not coming this trip,’ Mac replied, ‘but she sends her love.’
I led the way back to the car park, and we loaded the Jeep, sticking his clubs through the split back seat. As we got moving, Tom unzipped the bag and took an admiring look. He and I play, but not very often in the heat of the summer. ‘New Callaways,’ Mac told him. ‘At my age, I need all the help I can get. I get embarrassed these days when I play with your cousin Jonny; he hits it further than I can see, and that’s only with his irons. He’s doing very well at college in the States. I think your Aunt Ellie had better get used to the idea that he’s going to be a pro.’
‘I’d like to be a pro,’ his grandson exclaimed, then paused. ‘That’s if I’m not an actor, like my dad, or a manager, like my mum.’
‘And what’s your mum managing?’ he asked.
‘Ben’s wine fair.’
Mac looked at me. ‘Long story,’ I told him. ‘I’ll fill you in later.’
Rather than go back up the autopista I took the quieter cross-country road, so that the two guys could talk along the way. And talk they did. Mac quizzed Tom about his school work, and his language skills . . . Mac speaks English, period . . . and was questioned in his turn about Scotland, about his cousins, Jonny and Colin, and of course about his dad. Every time Tom meets somebody who knew his father, he gets round to asking about him, and usually sooner rather than later. I don’t mind; it gives me serious pangs of missing him from time to time, but it’s his right to know, even if there are a few things I will always keep to myself.
We were just coming into Verges when Tom tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Mum, I’m hungry. Where are we going to eat?’
I’d thought about that myself, and made arrangements. ‘Esculapi. Outside, if it stays warm.’
‘Can Gerard come?’
I must have reacted, for a broad grin spread across Mac’s face. ‘Oh aye?’ he exclaimed. ‘And who would Gerard be then? I thought there was another reason for your cheerful demeanour, young lady. You’re like . . . like you used to be, and I’m pleased.’
‘Then don’t get too pleased, for Gerard is a friend of the family, no more, no less.’
‘He’s a priest,’ Tom volunteered, ‘and I help him in his church.’
If the old dentist had been a pipe smoker, he’d have bitten clean through the stem.
Twenty-three
I’d never even thought about inviting Gerard to join us on Mac’s first night there, so for once I said ‘No’ to Tom . . . it’s good for his soul. In fact he wasn’t all that bothered; when he had time to give it a second thought, he realised that another presence at the table could only come between him and his grandpa.
The evening did stay warm, so, after Mac had installed himself in the guest suite and freshened up from his journey, I stuck to Plan A and chose one of the pizzeria’s outside tables . . . close to a space heater, just in case. Maybe I should tell you, or remind you if you’ve been here, that Plaça Major in St Martí is a sloping square, bounded by the church, and my house, at its highest point and on the other three sides by old stone buildings, which house a total of five cafés, bars and restaurants. Three of them are seasonal, and closed in the winter months, but the other two stay open all year round, apart from a month or so, rarely overlapping, when their owners take their holidays, and carry out their annual maintenance.
Mac smiled contentedly as he settled into his chair, and looked around at the maze of tables. Little more than half of them were occupied, but that’s not bad for a Tuesday at that time of year. All the parasols were deployed. As well as providing shade during the day, they hold the heat in the evening. ‘God, you’re lucky,’ he exclaimed, his thick arms folded across a blue short-sleeved shirt that might as well have had M&S embroidered on the pocket. ‘When I think of what I left in Scotland. It chucked it down all the way to the airport.’
‘It rains here too, Grandpa,’ Tom told him. It was almost a protest; he’s very defensive of Catalunya and doesn’t believe there’s a single place on the planet that can improve on any aspect of its beaches, its food or its climate, good and bad. ‘Last month we measured three centimetres on Mum’s terrace in one night. There was thunder and lightning and everything.’
‘Didn’t it flood your mum’s bedroom?’
‘No, the terrace slopes and there’s a hole in the wall for the water to get out.’
‘So how did you know there was three centimetres? Did you measure them a millimetre at a time as the rain fell, with a tape?’
My son sighed at his grandfather’s apparent stupidity. ‘I’ve got a measuring box,’ he said. ‘Mum lets me keep it on her terrace because it’s the best place. I’ve got a wind gauge too, fastened to the chimney.’
‘Do you have to climb up there to read it?’
Tom laughed. ‘No. I’ve got a weather station in my room, it tells me everything. It tells me about wind speed, how much rain we’ve had, what the temperature is, what the humidity is, what the weather’s going to be like next. It’s great, Grandpa. Uncle Miles gave me it for my birthday. When he was young he worked on a weather station in Australia. I might be a weather man when I grow up, if I’m not a golfer, or a manager . . . or an actor, or have a wine shop like Ben.’
‘Yes . . .’ Mac began, just as the tall Antonio approached, bearing menus. He asked if we wanted drinks. Grandpa Blackstone said he could murder a beer, I said I could put one out of its misery too, and Tom pushed his luck by asking for a glass of sangria. There’s a non-alcoholic version that I make at home sometimes, but it’s not found in bars, so he settled for a squeezed orange juice.
‘As I was saying,’ Mac resumed, ‘who’s Ben?’ There was a raised eyebrow along with the question. Although they never say it straight out, I know that he and my dad would both like to see me with, shall we say, a man about the house. They don’t realise that’s something I’ll never do just for the sake of it.
‘Ben’s your friend Matthew’s stepson,’ I told him. ‘He’s settled in St Martí, and he runs a wee wine shop just down the hill there. He’s come up with an idea for a village wine fair; I’m involved with it, on the operational side.’
‘What does “operational side” mean?’
‘Helping to put all the bits together, sorting out town hall permissions, sales and marketing and stuff.’
‘Hah,’ he chuckled, ‘the ubiquitous “stuff” meaning all the things that everyone’s forgotten to do until the last minute. When’s this event going to happen?’
‘September. All the producers are signed up for it; all that we need at any rate.’
‘And you’ve got your permission sorted out?’
‘Yes, after some serious roadblocks, but don’t let’s dwell on them.’ I steered him away from the subject; Tom didn’t know anything about it, and I didn’t want him to, least of all about the death of Planas. I wasn’t worried that he might learn at school; homicide isn’t a playground topic in the third year of primary . . . well, not in L’Escala at any rate.
Antonio came back with the drinks and took our orders, one big tomato and
mozzarella salad to be shared three ways, followed by steak for Mac, pinxo (kebab) for Tom, and spaghetti carbonara for me . . . I’d had a busy day, and found that my body was screaming ‘Carbohydrates!’
‘Where can I get hold of Matthew?’ Mac asked me as he set his glass, minus half its original contents, down on the table.
‘He and Ben’s mum live on the other side of town,’ I told him. ‘They’re in the phone book; I’ll look him up and you can give him a call tomorrow.’ I paused. ‘He told me you two got to know each other through golf.’
‘That’s right; last summer. There was an inter-club competition for retired golfers, lower age limit fifty-five instead of sixty, to let in the suddenly redundant bankers that are filling the courses these days. Elie was drawn at home to Gullane and he and I wound up playing each other.’ He smiled. ‘I won, naturally, partly because Jonny caddied for me and made sure my club selections were spot on and partly because Matthew played crap. He’s good company, though; we got on and he invited me across to Gullane for a return match, with Jonny.’
‘Did he talk much about himself, about his career and such?’ I asked, innocently.
‘He said he’d been in public relations, but we didn’t dwell on our professional lives. If there’s one profession that no normal person ever wants to talk about, it’s mine. Be very suspicious of anyone who asks you questions about the detail of root canal work; they’ve got sadistic tendencies, for sure. Speaking of dentistry, how are my grandson’s teeth?’
‘Coming on fine; we had the gap-toothed smile over the winter.’
‘The new ones certainly look straight. I’ll take a look at them sometime . . . if he’ll let me, that is.’
‘For his Grandpa Mac, anything,’ I assured him. ‘How did your Gullane match finish up?’ I asked.
‘Matthew and I halved our game. Jonathan shot a sixty-six, off scratch, of course; never dropped a shot. When he drove the first green and just missed a putt for an eagle, the two of us realised that we might as well just talk among ourselves.’
Blood Red Page 10
