Blood Red

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘They’re not going to look for it, Primavera. They’re sticking with what they’ve got. The prosecutor is going to ask a judge to issue a warrant for your arrest, tomorrow, Alex reckoned, at the latest.’ He sighed. ‘He’s guessing that we’re in touch. He said last night that if he was in your shoes, and had your resources, he’d adopt a new identity and disappear. I hate to say it, but he may be right; as you’ve told me, you’ve done it before.’

  I was shaken. ‘Are you giving up on me, Gerard?’ I asked, tersely.

  ‘No!’ he protested. ‘I’m trying to keep you safe.’

  I’d wounded him; instantly I was sorry. ‘I know,’ I sighed, ‘but I don’t think that your way’s working. I’m going to try something different, from here. You don’t need to know about it, though. Give me a couple of days; I should know by then whether it’s paid off.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Then I’m coming home.’

  ‘You can’t. If you’re convicted of double murder you’ll go to jail for thirty years.’

  ‘I didn’t do it; I won’t be convicted.’

  ‘That’s not what Gomez thinks; it’s not what Alex fears. You can’t come back, Primavera.’ He sounded desperate.

  ‘Then only one thing will keep me away. You bring Tom to me, and the three of us will disappear together. You’re right; I’ve done it before, and I have the means to do it again.’

  ‘Primavera . . .’

  ‘If it comes to it, that’s what I want. Will you do it?’

  ‘I’ll bring Tom to you. The rest . . .’

  ‘If you bring Tom, you’ll be walking away from your career. Gerard, I might not be Irena, but . . .’

  I heard his intake of breath. ‘He told you.’

  ‘Yes. The whole story.’

  ‘And what do you think of me now? I’d have killed my own father, but for Santi arriving when he did.’

  ‘If the man had tried to rape me, I’d have killed him myself, no mercy, no second thoughts.’ I pulled myself up, sharply. ‘Which is probably not what you want to hear from a murder suspect, but it’s true nonetheless. I’m glad Santi stopped you, but for your sake, not for your father’s.’

  ‘Try your other way, Primavera,’ he sighed. ‘Try it and let’s hope it works. If not, then we’ll see.’

  Forty

  I’d been a lot more confident with Gerard than I really felt. It’s much more difficult to disappear into thin air than most people imagine. I’d been able to do it before more by luck than judgement; I was no expert. To make it work for three people would take money; I have plenty, but accessing it would be difficult.

  I knew that I’d do it, or try to, if it became unavoidable, but before we got to that stage, there was Plan B.

  During my time with Oz, I met a man. His name is Mark Kravitz and he runs a very discreet business that he describes as a security consultancy. That covers a variety of services; some are pretty secret, others involve high-level contacts in places of influence. He has worked for Oz on occasion, and in the recent past, when I had need of him, I’d been able to turn to him for help. My fingers were crossed that I could again.

  I finished my shopping, then retraced my steps, until I found an internet shop that I’d noticed earlier. I’d been going to make the contact anyway, but my discussion with Gerard had concentrated my mind on it. I went into the shop, bought an hour’s time, and settled into the booth that was furthest away from the door. I’d planned to send Mark an email, but as soon as I switched on the terminal, I came up lucky. I saw that it was loaded with Skype, that clever internet tool that lets you eyeball friends and family around the world; that’s how Dawn and I keep in touch. (We’ve tried to get Dad into the way of it, but we’re wasting our time.)

  I was pretty sure that Mark would be there as I slipped on the headset that was plugged into the computer. He has MS, and is having increasing motor difficulties, so he rarely leaves his home-office. I opened the software, keyed in his contact details and pressed the green button. It didn’t ring for long before he answered and his face appeared on the monitor screen. He was in his wheelchair, thinner than the last time we’d spoken, and his hair was a little greyer, but the old light still burned in his eyes.

  ‘Primavera, what a nice surprise,’ he exclaimed; then he frowned. ‘What have you done to your hair?’ he asked. ‘And where the hell are you?’

  ‘I’ve decided on a change of colour,’ I told him, ‘and I’m away from home.’ I looked around to check that there was nobody within listening range, for at least half the voices I’d heard that morning had been speaking English, most of it with an American accent. When I felt secure, I explained why. I told him everything, every last detail.

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmured, when I had finished. ‘You don’t get into small trouble, do you? I bet you’ve never tripped over a step and skinned your knee, or picked up half a dozen parking tickets in a fortnight. No, with you it’s always grand scale stuff, like that business last year with your cousin.’

  I had to admit that there was something in what he said. I’ve survived an air crash where others did not, been duped by one of the cleverest con men ever to have worked a scam, but I’ve never picked up even one parking ticket, let alone half a dozen in a fortnight. And no, I don’t remember ever falling and skinning my knee, not even as a child.

  ‘You say the police are happy with the evidence?’ he continued.

  ‘Yes, and it points to me.’

  ‘But you didn’t do it, so they must have missed something.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It could be that whoever killed these people didn’t leave a trace.’

  ‘Everybody leaves a trace, Primavera; miscarriages of justice come about because investigators stop looking when they’ve found enough to satisfy them, and to fit a particular theory.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to frame me, Mark?’

  ‘From what you say I don’t think they did; not at the outset. I think they killed this Planas man, and kidnapped the woman. The police thinking has to be right in that respect; they didn’t expect her to be there. You seem to have been a convenient fall . . . person.’

  ‘You keep saying “they”. The police are prepared to believe that I did it all on my own.’

  ‘That’s another weakness in their case against you. It’s possible, but bloody difficult. The dead woman; was she weak?’

  ‘Anything but, from what I saw of her.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You can handle yourself, Primavera, but you’re not a giant. Probability says to me that you couldn’t have done all that by yourself. Put it this way; if I was contracted to do a job like that . . . not that I handle such work, of course,’ he added, hastily, ‘. . . I’d send three people, two to do the wet work, and one to get them there, keep a lookout and get them away again. I wouldn’t be sending a lone woman.’ I saw him frown. ‘No, there’s something about this that stinks.’

  ‘Tell me about it; I’m at the really smelly end.’

  ‘And who put you there?’ He frowned. ‘When did you become a suspect? I mean when did they even begin to consider you a possibility?’

  ‘I suppose it would be when they identified the murder weapon and found my DNA on it.’

  ‘Exactly. And when was the woman killed and planted in your cellar, or whatever it is?’

  ‘Friday morning.’

  ‘Exactly. After the link to you had been established.’

  ‘And after Dolores’s car had been found . . .’

  ‘. . . confirming that she hadn’t run off, but had been abducted, forcing the hand of her kidnappers, making them realise they had to get rid of her there and then.’

  ‘Right.’ I knew where he was going and I didn’t like it.

  ‘They killed her with your scarf and they chose your place to dump the body. Why would they do that?’

  ‘Because they knew by that time that I had handled the chair, and that the police were about to ask me why.’

  Over a thousand
miles away, by flying crow, he nodded. ‘That’s it. The police set you up, or helped.’

  ‘No,’ I protested. ‘One of the investigating officers . . . he’s just about my best friend. I can’t believe that.’

  ‘One of . . .’ Mark repeated. ‘But not the only.’

  ‘I know Hector Gomez too.’

  ‘How well?’

  ‘Not that well, but . . .’

  ‘Look, it needn’t have been either of them; leaks rarely come from the most obvious point.’

  ‘It doesn’t help me, though.’

  ‘It gives me somewhere to start.’ He gazed into his webcam, and through it, into my eyes. ‘Primavera, I want you to give me an hour. Go away, do something, then come back to where you are and get back online. With luck, I’ll have come up with something.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What many people do these days when they’re up against it. I’m going to phone a friend.’

  Forty-one

  I still had plenty of cash left, but I had bought all my essentials and anyway, shopping for frills wasn’t really on my agenda, even if I did find myself looking longingly at an iPod Touch that looked just like Santi’s clever phone.

  Rather than wander for the rest of the hour I went into a place that I’d noticed earlier, a busy café called the Alhambra . . . there’s imagination for you. There’s a delicacy, a confection, in the south of Spain in particular, called churros. Imagine something that looks like a doughnut, only lighter, in strips rather than circles, and deep-fried. I’d never tried them before, and since I doubted whether they’d be on the menu at Barcelona women’s prison, I thought I’d better. I looked around and saw that most of the people were eating them dipped in hot chocolate, and so I went along with that. My waiter brought me a great pile of the things, so many that I suspected that he’d assumed I was waiting for someone to join me. It was heavy stuff, and may have accounted for the fact that many of the other customers were on the chubby side. I managed two, then had the hot chocolate replaced with a straight café con leche, more to my taste.

  It took me the rest of the hour to munch my way through what I decided would be a once in a lifetime experience. I paid the bill, and went back to my internet shop. The booth I’d used earlier was occupied, but I found another that was almost as far away from the door, and with nobody on either side.

  Mark Kravitz came on line instantly when I called him up. ‘Hiya,’ he said, then seemed to peer at me. ‘Is that chocolate on your top lip?’ he asked. There’s a small box on the screen in Skype in which you can see your own image. I checked and it was; I wiped it off, hurriedly.

  ‘How did your phone call go?’

  He smiled. ‘Every bit as well as I expected and more.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me who you rang?’

  The smile stretched; I’d never seen him look so amused. ‘The Home Office. Top floor.’

  I saw my image stare at him. ‘Justin Mayfield? The Home Secretary?’

  ‘That’s the man.’

  A year and a half ago, when I’d got into the situation with my cousin, Frank McGowan, to which Mark had alluded earlier, it had led the three of us to cross the path of one of the British government’s rising stars, a friend of Frank. It had also left Mr Kravitz and me in possession of some information that could have turned Mayfield into a black hole overnight and had him banished to the furthest known point of the political universe. We hadn’t used it; Mayfield had been stupid rather than criminal and we didn’t see any point in terminating his career when there was a chance that he might actually be good at the job to which he’d just been appointed. I’d been keeping a distant eye on British politics, and that’s how it seemed to have turned out. Word was that all doors were open to him. ‘You’re not thinking of . . .’

  ‘Hey,’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t threaten him, not at all. I told him that I’d been contacted by a British subject who was being stitched up in a murder investigation on the basis of leaked information and a crime scene investigation that would be a pure fucking joke, if its failings weren’t so serious. He was appalled; then I told him who was on the wrong end of the business. I didn’t have to mention last year; he’d have done something anyway. For you he’ll push it all the way.’

  ‘What’s he going to do?’

  ‘He’s done it. He phoned his opposite number in Spain, and got him to agree to a specialist forensic team from Scotland Yard being flown over, “to assist the local investigation” as he put it, by examining the crime scene, and all the other evidence. He called me back fifteen minutes ago, to tell me they’re on the way.’

  ‘Won’t the crime scenes be compromised by now?’

  ‘Yes, but not hopelessly. Justin’s established that the house and garden have been under guard since the man’s death was found to be murder, and there’s a new security lock on your storeroom. There’s every prospect of finding something.’

  ‘But if they don’t, am I not deeper in it?’

  ‘Justin says no; he’s vouched for you personally with the Spanish, and he says he’s got something else up his sleeve.’

  ‘Does that mean I can go home now?’

  ‘No, not yet. He said to give the Scotland Yard people a couple of days. They have three scenes to examine, remember.’

  On screen, I saw myself look puzzled. ‘What’s the third?’

  ‘The car; the Dolores woman didn’t leave it there, or set it on fire. But don’t worry; the Home Secy’s well on your side. Almost the first thing he asked me when I mentioned your name was how you were doing.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him that you were festering away as an Earth mother out in Spain, casting around for things to do.’

  ‘Why did you tell him that?’

  ‘Because it’s true,’ he declared. ‘You’re bored out of your skull; that’s what I see every time we speak on this device. The voluntary information office you told me about, and showed me a picture of; what’s that other than a desperate attempt to keep yourself busy?’

  ‘It’s my contribution to the community; that and my involvement with the wine fair that kicked all this business off.’

  ‘You’d make a better contribution by getting a proper job.’

  ‘I’ve got one,’ I said stubbornly. ‘I’m an Earth mother, remember.’

  ‘Sure, and when you’re fifty, and Tom’s an independent young adult, what will you be then?’

  ‘Happy that he’s independent.’

  ‘And bored and lonely.’

  ‘Maybe not lonely,’ I murmured.

  He shrugged. ‘Okay, so you find a man, and you move on from being a mother to being a Spanish housewife. That’s not you, Primavera . . . and you know who’d have been the first to tell you so, if he was still around. He’d tell you to go out there and get your life back.’

  My vision grew blurred; I blinked to clear it. ‘But the part I want back the most, I can’t have.’

  ‘So move on; that’s what he’d say, like I’m saying.’

  ‘Where I live now, he loved it too.’

  ‘I didn’t say move house. Get a life, Primavera, get a life.’

  I scowled at him. He was helping me, but at the same time, he was telling me things I didn’t want to hear, not from anyone else, at any rate. ‘If you come up with any ideas about how I might do that,’ I growled, ‘be sure to pass them on.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, ‘I will. Call me back on Thursday; hopefully I’ll have good news by then, on all fronts.’

  Forty-two

  I was later than I’d anticipated when I got back to Goats’ Hill. I’d meant to use my bono turistica and jump on a bus, but when it came to it I wasn’t sure which route to take, so I grabbed a taxi instead and got him to take me as near as he could.

  I apologised as soon as I stepped inside, in case Santi had been worried about me, but he hadn’t; and anyway, the bags I was carrying told some sort of a story. He had been shopping himself and
had made lunch, a salad consisting of curly pasta . . . it has a name but I can never remember it . . . hard-boiled eggs, quartered, chopped black olives, capers and smoked salmon, all tossed in what looked like Thousand Island dressing, but had a bit more zing to it. I was still digesting churros, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I sat down and I tucked in.

  I was glad that I did; it was fantastic. ‘Do you ever think about doing this for a living?’ I asked him.

  He smiled, pleased by the compliment. ‘Maybe, one day, it might be possible. I don’t want to be flying airbuses forever; my airline will let me go on till I’m sixty, but fifty’s my personal retirement date. After that I’ll look at other options.’

  ‘What about your girlfriend?’ I asked. ‘Is that serious? Might you do something together?’

  ‘Oh, it’s serious, but where it will go? I can’t see two years ahead with her, far less eleven.’

  It was well after three by the time we’d finished eating, and I’d tidied up . . . that consisted of loading everything into the dishwasher . . . lavavajillas, in Spanish: lovely word, it means exactly the same thing as the English version, but looks so much nicer. We still had four days to go on the tourist pass, and plenty to see, so when we were ready we walked down into the city, slowly and in the shadows, for it was hot, heading for the cathedral. The heather sellers were out in force again, but I passed them by. My internet sessions with Mark had left me with a warm feeling, one that I didn’t want to put at risk from another round of Romany histrionics.

  Granada’s cathedral isn’t as big as that of its Andalusian neighbour Sevilla . . . that’s the biggest in the world, they say, since St Peter’s in Rome isn’t actually a cathedral . . . but it’s pretty chunky nonetheless, and beautiful inside. Once again, Santi guided me round, explaining the history, and the meaning of each of the nine stained-glass windows. As we sat in the centre of the aisle, beneath the enormous twin banks of organ pipes, the thought occurred that it would be nice to come back with Gerard, to hear his take on it. I fancied he might have been less impressed than his brother. He’d said to me more than once that he felt slightly uncomfortable when he was confronted by the wealth of his church, and in that ornate building there were great riches on open display.