Blood Red

by Quintin Jardine

  I followed Gerard’s instructions to the letter, even though they took me along a crazy wee road running alongside the river, about a car and a half wide, where I had to take turns with tourist pedestrians for much of the way. Eventually it opened out on to something called the Paseo de los Tristes, ‘the passageway of the sad’. It looked pretty cheerful to me, with bars and restaurants on my left as I drove along, serving tables on the other side of the street, all of them with an unobstructed view of the Alhambra.

  I turned left at the end, then took another left at the top of a steep hill, then a right, then a left until I began to feel dizzy, and for the first time, lost. The road narrowed all the time, but I kept an eye out for the sign that marked the end of the journey, and finally, there it was, rising up ahead of me . . . Cuesta de los Cabras, Hill of the Goats, and rarely was a road better named.

  It was a dead end, and Gerard’s house was almost at the end; stone built and painted white, with a tiled roof. There was nothing to say that I couldn’t park there, and so I did. I gave the red-hot bonnet of the Suzuki a pat of thanks as I climbed out and dug the key out of the bag.

  The place was dark as I stepped inside. There was no entrance hall; I found myself in a big room; it was mercifully cool, for the shutters were closed. I gave myself time to let my eyes adjust, until I could see where everything was; heavy wooden table with four chairs to my left, with two doors beyond, two central heating radiators (Gerard had told me that it gets cold in Granada in the winter), two chairs to my right on either side of a fireplace, big plasma television in the corner . . . not that rustic then . . . and patio doors facing me, locked from the inside. I sniffed; for an unoccupied house the place smelled fresh. I supposed that he must employ a housekeeper, or perhaps his aunt was still alive and looked in on the place.

  I went across to the twin doors, turned the key in the lock and opened them. The shutters were secured by small bolts top and bottom. I unfastened them, pushed them open, and stepped outside on to a tiled terrace . . . to find myself staring directly across at the full width of the Alhambra Palace, a huge structure that seemed to go on and on. It was the first time I’d been able to take a proper look at it. I gasped; I’d never seen anything quite like it.

  Once I’d stopped gawping I looked around. A flight of steps led down to a garden area. I frowned as I saw it, and imagined Gerard, enraged, and beating the crap out of his brute of a father. I stepped back inside, to banish the vision as much as anything else, and explored the rest of the house. There was a kitchen off the living room, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. The units and the lighting were modern, there was a gas combi boiler on the wall, the range cooker was as impressive as mine and a large American fridge freezer stood in a corner. I took a look inside. There were two unopened cartons of UHT milk in the fridge, and half a dozen tins of San Miguel, but nothing else. The freezer was well stocked though, with peas, broccoli, pizzas, fish, chicken, vacuum-sealed pork fillets, butter, and three round sliced loaves. I’d gone shopping in Carrefour with Gerard once and this was exactly the sort of stuff that he’d bought, the sort of food he wolfed down when we were out or when he ate at my place. He went away on leave once a year. ‘On retreat,’ he said, and I’d never asked him where, but it seemed that now I knew.

  As I thought of him, I remembered my promise to call him when I arrived. I went back out on to the patio, switched on the mobile he’d given me, unlocked it, then called the lone number that was programmed into its memory. An overly friendly Spanish lady told me that the phone I was dialling was switched off, but invited me to leave a message. As she spoke I checked my watch. Five minutes past twelve, Sunday, idiot; he’d be in church.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, after the beep, ‘it’s me and I’m in your lovely house. When I think of the other place I could be right now, it makes me realise how lucky I am to have you looking after me. I’m tired, but I’m not going to sleep until you’ve called me back.’

  I checked the charge on the phone; it was full. I put it in my pocket and went back inside, to resume my exploration. The second door of the living area led to a stairway and down to a lower floor, with two bedrooms, one of them en suite, with a door that led into the garden, and a second bathroom, with a full-sized bath and shower above. Like the kitchen, the bedroom furniture was contemporary. I got nosy and looked in the wardrobes. The one in the second bedroom was empty, but there were clothes hung in the other, jeans, a pretty respectable suit, a couple of shirts and two jackets, one winter weight; again, Gerard-style gear.

  I didn’t look anywhere else; I had a sudden feeling that I was invading his privacy. Instead I went into the bathroom . . . not his, the other one . . . relieved myself, and ran a bath. As it filled, I searched for towels and soap, and was first time lucky when I found them in the unit that housed the basin, white fluffy cotton and Dove cream, plus, unexpectedly, foam crystals. I was about to shut the door when my eye caught something else, a box, tucked away behind a couple of aerosols and a bottle of Nivea sun cream. I took it out; it had been opened, it bore a dealer’s stamp on the end flap, ‘Farmacia Xaloc’, and all but two of its original contents were gone. I blinked, hard, as if it would look different on second inspection. But it didn’t. ‘Oh no,’ I moaned, out loud. What the hell would a priest be doing with Tampax? Personally, nothing, but . . .

  Thirty-four

  As I lay soaking, I made myself think logically. I knew that there was, or had been an aunt. Aunts beget cousins. Gerard had a cousin, a female cousin around his own age or younger who has a key for the family home and who uses it occasionally, but who’s been told to keep clear for now. That was it. And if it wasn’t? If his annual retreat involved him getting his leg over a nice Andalusian girl, what business is it of yours, Primavera Blackstone, you who have made it very clear to him that your interest is in his companionship, and not in his body? None at all. If he can square it with God, he can shag who he likes, for you are definitely not interested in such transactions any more.

  When the mobile rang I had managed to put my find in perspective. I’d fixed on the cousin theory as the likeliest. But still, it’s unsettling to suspect that your idol’s feet might be even a wee bit crumbly. ‘You made it,’ he said. ‘Are you comfortable?’

  ‘Couldn’t be more so, although you might be upset if you could see me.’

  ‘Why?’ He sounded puzzled.

  ‘Because I’m naked, lolling in your guest bath, blowing bubbles all around the room.’

  ‘In that case the bubbles will preserve your modesty.’

  ‘That’s why I’m blowing them away. Does this phone shoot video? If it does I might send you some footage.’

  ‘Primavera, please. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No. I’m just feeling crazy, that’s all.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘Was Tom at church?’ I asked him, to break my mood.

  ‘Yes, he was. He was very good, as usual. Mac came to see him at work; he said he was very impressed.’

  ‘Him in a Catholic church? He’ll have to report that to his minister when he gets home. The roof didn’t fall in, did it?’

  He laughed; at once I felt better, and sorry for winding him up. No, those tampons couldn’t have had anything to do with him. ‘It’s stood solid for a few hundred years,’ he said. ‘I think it will take more than one heretic to bring it down.’

  ‘How’s my boy?’ I whispered.

  ‘He’s okay. Mac told him that something had happened, and that you had to go away for a few days. But there are whispers around town, and I’d rather he didn’t hear them. Mac and I have spoken about this and since there’s so little time left in the term, we wonder whether it might be better keeping him off school.’

  ‘That’s vetoed,’ I told him firmly. ‘If you do that you’ll have to confiscate his mobile too, for his pals are always sending him texts. I’m innocent; if he goes into seclusion it’ll make me look guilty. I know his teachers; they’ll look out for him. And I know
his friends too; they’re good kids.’

  ‘Very well, if you say so.’

  ‘You say there’s talk in town. Does that mean they’ve released my mug shot?’

  ‘No, and this is interesting. They haven’t released your name either. All they’re saying is that they have a suspect and that a hunt is under way.’

  ‘Uh? Why would they want to keep my identity confidential?’

  ‘You can thank your connections to famous people, or so Alex tells me. Public prosecutor’s orders, he says. He’s terrified that if word gets out that Dawn Phillips’s sister, Miles Grayson’s sister-in-law, Oz Blackstone’s former wife is a murder suspect, and that the police have let her get away, the story will become global, and his job will be on the line.’

  My sister, I thought. We usually speak online at weekends. ‘Does Dawn know?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘That will depend on your father. Mac felt that he was honour bound to advise him of what had happened. It’s for him to decide whether to tell her.’

  That would be a tricky one for Dad, I reckoned. Our Kid can be a bit of a flake. The last thing I wanted was her air-dropping into St Martí in a flood of celebrity.

  ‘We’ve got to get this sorted, Gerard,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’d rather be here than banged up, don’t get me wrong, but I’m feeling isolated, exposed, and it’s got nothing to do with having no clothes on.’

  ‘Don’t feel that way. I told you, you’re being watched over.’

  ‘That’s nice of God,’ I retorted, ‘but I’d rather He was looking over Hector Gomez’s shoulder and pointing him in the direction of who really did those murders.’ He laughed and started to say something else, but I talked right over him. ‘Have there been any other developments that you know of, any results from the Dolores autopsy?’

  ‘Alex told me that they’ve established that she was killed early on Friday morning. They found fibres from the shawl that strangled her . . .’

  ‘My shawl,’ I interposed.

  ‘. . . in her mouth, and believe that it was used to gag her while she was held captive. They say she’d have been pretty weak by the time she died; she’d been starved for a week.’ He hesitated, in the manner of someone who has nothing good to tell. ‘They found something else too, in the storeroom: a bag containing her make-up pouch, a wine glass, with her fingerprints on it, and traces of red wine.’

  ‘Eh?’ There are times when my brain works pretty fast; instantly I knew where this was going, and a bizarre picture formed in my mind. ‘That’s clever,’ I exclaimed, ‘really fucking clever. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that they’ve identified the wine and it’s Faustino One.’

  ‘How did you guess that?’

  ‘Because that’s their case, that’s the link that would tie me to both victims, and give me a motive for killing Dolores. Sex, Gerard, sex; you’re never too old. This is what the police and the prosecutor will say. Are you ready for it?’

  ‘Let me hear it.’

  ‘Okay, it reads like this. José-Luis and Dolores were having it off on the quiet; when he got back from the Miryam, he had a visit from her. Gomez will say that Planas had just given her one and zipped up, and she’d gone into the house to, freshen up, let’s say, when I arrived, with the intention of saving myself twelve thousand euro. I’d just clobbered him with the chair when she came out of the house, taking me by surprise, for I didn’t know she was there. I subdued her, rigged the scene to make it look like an accident, took the glass to eliminate any trace of her having been there, and took her away in her car. I hid her at my place, gagged and bound till I figured out what to do with her, then dumped and burned her motor. When I heard at the old man’s wake that the car had been found, I decided that the time had come to kill her, and, when I had a chance, to put her body somewhere it would never be found, maybe under the flagstone in the storeroom itself, in what I reckon was once a limepit. But I got unlucky, they’ll say; first I left a print on the chair, and second, Charlie smelled her, once she was dead, and raised the alarm. My love,’ I used the term without thinking, ‘even you would convict me on the basis of that evidence.’

  He was silent for a while. ‘No,’ he replied, eventually, ‘I wouldn’t . . . faith overcomes all doubts.’ I felt a renewed burst of guilt at my suspicion over those feminine items. ‘I understand your scenario, though, and you’re right, that’s how Gomez, and even Alex will see it.’

  ‘So what can I do?’

  ‘Stay where you are, be patient, and wait. Nobody is that clever; there’s something wrong with the picture and in time we’ll see it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Any other orders, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Get out of that bath; it must be cold by now . . . plus, the bubbles must have disappeared and it’s starting to disturb me.’

  Thirty-five

  I chose the second bedroom. It wouldn’t have felt right to have slept in Gerard’s bed. The divan was made up, with a fitted sheet and another, loose, on top, all that was needed there in the summer. Too much, in fact, for I found when I woke at half past six, after about five hours’ sleep, that I’d kicked it off.

  I dressed, then tidied up, took the few clothes I had left from my haversack and put them away in a small chest of drawers beside the door. When I was done I took the stuff I had worn on the journey up to the kitchen and put the lot into a washer-dryer that was plumbed in near the sink, with a dishwasher on the other side. I looked in the cupboard between them and found detergent and liquid capsules. There was no manual, but the controls were self-explanatory, the kind that even a man would find easy to work out.

  I programmed the machine, and then turned my attention to the fact that I was starving. I could have raided the freezer, but I felt that I’d run up a big enough tab with my benefactor, so I decided to be brave and go out. There was another consideration . . . I couldn’t find any booze in the place apart from the San Miguel, and I don’t like San Miguel.

  I decided to head down to the Paseo de los Tristes; it had looked friendly, the sort of place where the police wouldn’t need to hang around, so I was sure I could chance it. I had no problem finding it, although I’d reached Goats’ Hill by a circuitous route. All I had to do was head for the Alhambra, and I’d be bound to get there.

  The streets in the Albacin are narrow, many of them too narrow for cars, but it’s hardly a maze. Even so, I missed my way, and came out at the foot of a flight of steps, in the middle of the narrow street where I’d played tig with pedestrians, beside a building with a sign that announced an old Arab thermal bathhouse . . . a thousand years old, to be approximate. I went inside, on impulse. I’d been to Andalusia before, but not exactly as a tourist, so I’d had few Moorish experiences. The baths aren’t operational any more . . . and anyway, I’d just had one . . . but the building looked as if it was seeing its second millennium. There were no windows, just star-shaped holes in the roof and walls that provided both light and ventilation. In Scotland, a place like that would be turned into a pub in the wink of an eye.

  I didn’t stay long but joined the crowd outside as it weaved its way in the direction that I wanted to go. When I got there, I was lucky; the first two groups of tables I passed were fully occupied, but I managed to find one opposite the third café. It had a French name, but an Italian menu . . . that’s Spain for you. I went for cured ham and bread as a starter, then tagliatelle with a pesto sauce, plus a bottle of Chianti, and some still water. From my table I could see that the kitchen was small, so I anticipated that I might have a wait before the food arrived, but the wine came by return, so I wasn’t bothered.

  As a bonus, I was sitting in the shadow of the Alhambra . . . not literally; the sun was heading west by that time . . . being entertained by three buskers with guitars and a very nice way with the works of Lennon and McCartney and Eric Clapton. I felt . . . looking back, it’s hard to explain what I felt, but there I was, accused of murder, separated from everyone I loved, yet I was exhilarated, and in that moment,
utterly perversely, I was able to be completely honest with myself and to face the truth about myself; that although I had chosen the ideal environment in which to raise my son, I couldn’t just settle for that.

  There were things I was missing; I had known excitement in the past, and I had thrived on it, but since Oz’s death I had run away from anything that smelled of personal fulfilment, other than Tom. I’d become diminished, and I knew of someone who would not have approved of that at all. ‘Okay,’ I whispered to him. ‘I’ll find myself again.’ And as a very first step in that process, I knew that I was going to break a promise. But what the hell; it was one that I’d been finding it hard to keep anyway.

  Thirty-six

  The food when it came was pretty good; the buskers were . . . funny thing, but the more Chianti I drank, the better they got. When one of them came round the tables flogging their CD I bought it before I’d even asked the price. When I found that it was only ten euro, I bought three, the extras intended for Gerard and Mac.

  It was dark when I left the pavement café. During the evening a couple of guys had tried to hit on me; it was good for morale, and happily neither of them had taken it badly when I’d made it clear they were wasting their time. I found Goats’ Hill more easily than I’d found the Paseo earlier; it turned out that it was more or less in a straight line up a passage that began directly across the road from where I’d been sitting.

  The streets of the Albacin are poorly illuminated, but there was enough light in the moon to show me the way to my temporary home. When I got in, I watched a little telly . . . Gerard had CNN in English as well as Spanish, and BBC World Service, but that’s crap so I didn’t stay on it for long . . . until I decided that taking a shower then going back to sleep was a good idea, and did both.