Blood Red

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘The mayor, Justine Michels, and her sister Elena, Angel Planas’s wife; they’ve just reported their mother missing.’

  Twenty-eight

  Justine’s mobile number was on the business card that she had given me on my second visit to the town hall, two days earlier, to pick up the permission for the wine fair. As I dialled it, I recalled that I’d been greeted in reception by a junior clerk, not by Dolores the Dragon herself.

  Business hours were over, but wherever the mayor was there was plenty of background noise. ‘It’s Primavera. Are you able to speak?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes. I’m at a gathering of our party group to discuss the agenda for this week’s council meeting, but I haven’t called it to order yet; we’re still waiting for someone to turn up.’ Her voice was strained, not that of the confident politician I’d met before.

  ‘I’ve just heard about your mother. I had a visit from Gomez; he told me. What’s happened?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘How long’s she been missing?’

  ‘We don’t know that either. On Sunday, after she heard what had happened, she told me that she felt she should be with Elena. Even though things were as they were between Angel and his father, it had still come as a terrible shock. My sister’s always been a little bit fragile . . . no, that’s the wrong word . . . emotionally susceptible. I told her that was fine with me, and that she could come back to the town hall when she was ready. I thought no more about it. I was very busy on Monday and Tuesday, both days. It was only this afternoon that I got round to calling Elena, to see how she was, and to find out the time of the funeral. I asked her if Mother was still there, and she said, “What are you talking about?” She’d never been near her; she told me she hadn’t seen her since last Friday.’ Spanish people and Catalans always speak faster than Brits . . . I guess that’s why I always have trouble following the in-flight English of Spanish cabin crew . . . and the further she got into her tale, the more Justine went at it rapid fire.

  ‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, ‘slow down, calm down. When did you see her last?’

  ‘I told you; on Sunday, when we agreed she should take time off work.’

  ‘What did you do when you found out she wasn’t where she was supposed to be?’

  ‘I called her, of course,’ she said impatiently, ‘on her land line and on her mobile. No reply on either; in fact the mobile was switched off. I picked up Elena and we went to the house . . .’

  ‘So you don’t live with her?’

  ‘No, I have a town house in Carrer del Mig; my father bought it, restored it and gave it to me. Mother still lives in our original family home, that was my grandparents’, on the top of Puig Pedro. Elena and I went there, but there was no sign of her. Her car wasn’t in the garage, everything inside was neat and tidy. But she’s gone; she’s vanished.’

  ‘But are you sure she’s missing? Justine, she’s a grown woman and she’s not in her dotage. Doesn’t she ever do things on the spur of the moment?’

  ‘My mother? No, never. As I told you, she’s old L’Escala, very set in her ways. She’d probably never have been further away than Girona if it wasn’t for my father. He made her go on holidays, took her to Belgium . . .’

  Wow, I thought, but stayed silent.

  ‘. . . to Paris, to London. She’s hardly been out of town since he died.’

  ‘How did she take his death? Has she been depressed since then? Do you think she might still be?’

  ‘She dealt with it better than Elena and I did, to tell you the truth. My dad was a really nice man, a good father and a good husband, but he and my mother probably fell out of love years ago. I don’t remember any great affection between them . . . you know what I mean, as there is between lovers.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ I asked.

  ‘He died,’ she replied, curtly. ‘He just died.’

  I moved on, quickly. ‘Does she have family?’

  ‘She has a brother, but I have no cousins. They’re the last of the Fumado tribe around here. He hasn’t seen her, and has no idea where she could have gone.’

  ‘How about your father’s people? Could she have gone there?’

  ‘She barely knew them.’

  ‘I thought you said that you had an uncle, your dad’s brother.’

  ‘Yes, Georges, but he lives in Brussels. My mother probably met him three times in her life, at her wedding, at Papa’s funeral, and once when Elena and I were kids, when Papa took us to visit him.’

  ‘So he’s not part of the Belgian community here?’

  ‘No, and never has been. Believe me, Primavera, Mother will not be with him. Something’s happened to her.’

  ‘But what makes you so certain?’

  ‘I’ve checked with her hairdresser; she goes every morning, Monday to Friday, to have her hair arranged as you saw it when you met her; not Saturday, because it’s too busy, or Sunday because it’s closed, but every other day of the week, every other day of her life. My mother has her vanities, and her hair is the greatest of them. She hasn’t been seen there since last Friday morning, and that tells me for certain that something is wrong.’ She paused. ‘That and one more thing: her make-up bag is missing. Wherever she goes, it goes.’

  ‘I see.’ A mystery indeed, I conceded; no wonder Gomez had been a little stressed. ‘What did the police say when you and your sister went to see them?’

  ‘Their first reaction was much the same as yours. The sergeant we spoke to said that she’s neither a child nor an ancient, and that people have a perfect right to go off on trips without telling their families. I told her to go and fetch someone senior, and our friend the intendant appeared. Eventually he took me seriously. As for having any theories, that’s another matter.’

  ‘Yes, he was pretty perplexed when he spoke to me. Did he update you on his investigation?’

  She whistled. ‘He did indeed. So the old pig had been entertaining a lady. Gomez did say that they had a suspect, but I got the impression, although I’m not sure why, that they’re not moving heaven and earth to catch them. If that’s true, then good; it’ll give them more time to find my mother.’ I heard a voice in the background, calling her name. ‘At last,’ she replied. ‘Primavera, our latecomer has arrived, I have to go.’

  Afterwards, when I thought about it, I found myself coming back to one thing that the mayor had said. ‘I don’t remember any great affection between them . . . you know what I mean, as there is between lovers.’

  Yes, I know what she meant; it’s something I’ve longed for myself, from time to time. There had been a sadness in Justine’s voice; she had known such tenderness herself, but I found myself wondering whether, for all she had said of her mystery man, she still did.

  Twenty-nine

  Gerard didn’t turn up for supper that night. I wondered if he might be waiting for me to call him to tell him it was okay, but I wasn’t about to do that. So Tom, Mac and I had another pleasant family evening, even if for much of it I did find myself hoping that the gate buzzer would ring, and it would be him, apologising for being late.

  I had misgivings about going to the funeral of José-Luis Planas next morning, but in the end I kept my promise to his son. Maybe, since I had seen him in his final undignified pose, I felt the need to obliterate that as my last memory of a man I had known only briefly, or maybe I was just one of those cynics that Angel had said would be there only to make sure that he really was dead. Or maybe there was a deeper reason. The last funeral I had attended was that of my mother, five years before. When Oz died I was on another continent, and for various reasons I couldn’t make it back for his. So I suppose it’s possible that as I stood near the centre of the substantial congregation, I was looking at one coffin while my subconscious was seeing another.

  Gerard was there of course, assisting Father Olivares. I made eye contact with him at one point, but didn’t get as much as a flicker of recognition in return. Oh dear, I thought, I’ve really burned some boats with him.


  Justine was there too, but not beside her sister; instead she was seated on the other side of the aisle in the centre of a group of twelve, the remaining members of the council either paying their respects or giving thanks for the political stability that the death had brought. She wore a simple black lace shawl over her head. (No, not a mantilla. That’s held up by a comb.) It made me all the more aware of the lack of mine. I’d looked for it all over the house, but been unable to find it.

  The requiem Mass dragged on, and on, as they do, before the old priest pronounced the benediction, shook hands with Angel and Elena, then stood to one side as the coffin was carried out to the waiting hearse with the couple following behind. Angel looked grave, his face pale, but his wife was hollow cheeked and her eyes were hidden behind wrap-around sunglasses.

  As I filed out with the rest of the crowd, I saw that Angel was standing beside his limo; the door was open and Elena was inside, pressed into a corner, as far from the throng as she could force herself. I made my way towards him.

  I held out a hand, formally. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured; I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘Thank you,’ he responded. He seemed strange, friendly enough, but slightly distant; not unnatural, I supposed, for a man who was burying his father.

  ‘Has there been any news of Elena’s mother?’ I asked, although her absence was a pretty fair indicator that there had been nothing positive.

  He shook his head. ‘No. Nor do there seem to have been any new developments in the investigation into my father’s murder. The Mossos have not been at their most impressive,’ he added bitterly. ‘Justine has instructed them to inform her of everything they have, but all they can give her are suspicions that I for one cannot credit.’

  That puzzled me. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing you need worry about. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’ He broke off as the undertaker approached, to tell him that they were ready to go, then turned back to me. ‘Listen, we are having a small reception in the terrace restaurant of Meson del Conde this evening, for my father’s council colleagues and for those people in the town who knew him best. It’s at seven; please join us.’ He slid into the big black car beside his wife, and closed the door before I had a chance to tell him that I was cooking for Mac and Tom that evening.

  Thirty

  ‘Of course it’s all right with me, woman,’ Mac exclaimed. ‘D’you think I’ve never made the tea before? You go to this wake, or whatever the hell it is, and I’ll allow my grandson to crush me at the video game of his choice.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ I told him. ‘If I don’t go now that I’ve been invited, it’ll look as if I’m snubbing them. It’s not that I’m looking forward to it . . . it’ll be weird . . . but Angel needs support.’

  With the go-ahead given, I decided that I’d better dress up for the occasion. I showered, shampooed, and gave myself a good going over with the Gillette Venus (confession: I’ve taken to shaving it all off in the summer; it’s cooler) before coating myself in a very expensive moisturiser that my sister recommended to me, and coaxing my hair into its most sophisticated presentation, rather than its quick and easy format. When all that was done I chose a light, below-the-knee, plum-coloured satin dress with a halter neck, and matching shoes. And that was all; yes, I often go commando, but I never tell anyone. My shawl would have set it off perfectly; I had another look around for it, but still couldn’t find the damn thing, so I settled for the shoulder bag in the same material, that I’d bought with the dress.

  Mac whistled when I came downstairs. ‘Are you sure this is a funeral reception?’ he asked. Even Tom looked a wee bit surprised.

  I was mildly embarrassed. ‘Yes,’ I retorted, defending myself. ‘You don’t know the way the women dress here; they do glam pretty well. I’m not going over there looking like a country mouse. And besides, I don’t often have the chance to get jazzed up.’ This was true. I’d always dressed conservatively whenever Gerard and I went out to eat, to avoid provoking the gossips even more. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours, I expect.’ I pointed at my son. ‘Do not wait up for me, young man.’

  I made my way outside and down the square, towards Meson del Conde; I drew a few looks as I went, but didn’t return any of them. The terrace restaurant isn’t quite as described. It’s a glass-walled, air-conditioned extension to the main building, with its own entrance. Angel was standing just inside the doorway. He was still wearing his dark funeral suit but the black tie was gone and his shirt was open at the neck. We shook hands, and he thanked me for coming. ‘Is Elena here?’ I asked.

  ‘No, she’s too upset . . . over her mother,’ he added, not that I thought there would be another reason, given that her very attendance at his father’s send-off had been a toss-up.

  As I stepped inside, a waiter offered me a glass of something pink with bubbles in it; Perelada rosada cava, I suspected, a little frivolous for the occasion but never mind. I took one, and scanned the room for a familiar face. As I’d expected, all the women were dressed to the nines. L’Escala is a competitive place in some surprising ways; I’ve learned to play that game, and I’m not accustomed to losing at anything, other than love.

  ‘Good evening, senora.’ The voice came from my left. I looked around and saw, to my surprise, the little figure of Father Olivares approaching. No cava for him, his hand clutched a glass of what looked like a dark garnaxa.

  ‘And to you,’ I replied.

  ‘I am pleased to see you here,’ he said. ‘Angel has told me of your difficulty with José-Luis. It shows a kindness of spirit that you have put that aside and come to pay your respects.’

  ‘I’m here for Angel and his wife,’ I told him.

  ‘I appreciate that, but the same principle applies.’ He paused, then glanced up at me. ‘If you’re looking for my young colleague, he’s not coming.’

  ‘I wasn’t, but thank you for telling me.’

  ‘He was invited,’ the old priest continued, ‘but he declined. He won’t tell me why, but he’s upset about something. In fact he was sharp with me when I asked him about it. You don’t know what might be troubling him, do you?’

  ‘I might,’ I admitted. ‘We had a disagreement; a rather public disagreement.’

  ‘I thought it might be something like that. And of course, you’re both powerful, proud and stubborn personalities, and neither is in a mood to apologise.’

  ‘I can only speak for myself; I have no idea what he’s thinking.’ I frowned at him. ‘Are you getting round to warning me off, Father?’

  ‘No, no I’m not,’ he said, quickly. ‘After some initial reservations, I’ve come to approve of your friendship. It’s good for a priest, especially a young, modern priest, to have a private circle, of people who are not necessarily of our church, and if it includes single ladies like yourself, I have no problem with that. However, there can be volatility within such groups, arguments, and they can bring out the worst in anyone. I have a great regard for Father Hernanz; I admit it, he’s my protégé. But I can see his faults; there’s a fire in him and as with all fires, if it’s fanned it can burn out of control. I don’t want that to happen. So, my dear, it might be for the best if you and he were to avoid each other for a while, until things have cooled and you are able to discuss your differences calmly and rationally.’

  ‘Would that include me keeping my son away from the church?’

  ‘Who would that penalise?’

  ‘Only Tom.’

  ‘Then of course you shouldn’t. Gerard won’t turn him away, I promise you, or treat him any differently.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Okay,’ I promised, ‘I’ll do what you ask and let time take care of it. Thank you, Father Olivares,’ I added. ‘I think I’d like to have you as a friend too.’

  ‘You have, my dear.’

  For a moment, I was on the verge of leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek, but I reckoned that some of the ol
der women in the room might have burned me at the stake if I’d done that, so I restrained myself. Instead, I moved on towards Justine who was standing with two of the men who’d been with her in the front row at the church. She was poshed up too, in a tight-fitting black silk dress that came close to making me feel frumpy. She detached herself from her group and joined me at a table where a pica pica buffet had been set out.

  ‘Any news of your mother?’ I began. As I spoke I saw Alex Guinart on the far side of the room, standing half a pace behind Gomez; he was looking in our direction, with a small frown on his face. I guessed that he knew what we were discussing.

  ‘Nothing. The police have even checked with my uncle in Belgium; I told them it was useless, and it was.’ She laid her glass on the table and picked up a plate. I followed suit and together we chose from the dishes on offer; a wide selection, prawns, quail’s eggs fried on circles of bread, feta cheese cubed, meatballs, olives, and a few things that even I had never seen before. ‘I don’t know what to do, Primavera; I’ve never felt so helpless. Elena, she’s a complete wreck; the doctor’s had to give her a sedative.’

  ‘She’ll turn up,’ I reassured her, inanely, for I had no greater reason for optimism than anyone else. I picked up my glass and drained it as we ate. One of the waiters saw that I was empty and came across with a refill; the quail’s eggs were loaded with salt, so to save him a return trip, I took two. ‘What about Angel’s dad?’ I asked her. ‘Has Gomez told you anything about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, but her tone had changed, become more hesitant. ‘But he insisted that it was in confidence, so . . .’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said at once. ‘Forget I asked. Anyway,’ I added, ‘I suspect that I know what his current thinking is.’

  She gave me a curious look, but said nothing more than, ‘Mmm.’

  We ate some more then went back to the table, where new, more substantial, hot dishes were waiting for us. I found that I was out of cava again, so I picked up a glass of red something. That was rather nice too; it was familiar, reminded me of one I’d had from Ben, even though I probably shouldn’t have been drinking it with fidua.