I surely did. It was nearly as big as mine, with thick, rugged tyres, strong off-road suspension, and what looked like around twenty gears. The saddle was set right down, so there was plenty of room for growth. ‘I hope you said a proper thank you,’ I told him.
‘You mean in English?’ he asked, ingenuously.
‘In every one of your four languages.’
I let him lead the way upstairs to the kitchen, where Mac was waiting. It was his turn to hug me. He had a Coronita in each hand, and he gave one to me. ‘I thought you might appreciate this,’ he said.
‘And the one after it,’ I admitted, killing half of it in a single slug. ‘But first . . .’ I headed for the stairs and for my bedroom. As soon as I had closed the door behind me I stripped off my clothes and stepped under the shower. I left it cool, short of lukewarm even, and stayed in there for a good ten minutes, shampooing my hair three or four times in the hope of at least toning down the chestnut. Neither Tom nor Mac had mentioned my new colour, but I’d had as much of it as I wanted. I knew I couldn’t wash it out, but I promised myself that as soon as I could I’d find something as close to my natural shade as I could, repair the damage and then let it grow out.
But I wasn’t simply washing my hair, or washing off the sweat and grime of the journey. I felt that I was cleansing myself of the whole experience, and that when I emerged from the shower, I’d be the woman I’d been a couple of weeks before, the Primavera who’d never heard of José-Luis Planas, or of Dolores Fumado.
That’s not how it turned out; I couldn’t erase the memory of the angry little man in his office, or of the swelling corpse on the rocks beneath the wall, or of the bulging-eyed, purple-faced woman sitting on the logs at the end of my storeroom. I don’t believe I ever will. I couldn’t escape my desire for a conclusion either. Whoever had put Dolores there had tried to frame me for both murders. I had to know who it was, and I had to know that he was out of the picture, for my own peace of mind, and possibly for my safety and that of my son.
I had to steer clear of the continuing investigation, though. I’d caused some very thick strings to be pulled, ropes almost, and one of them had tightened around the neck of Hector Gomez, maybe choking off his career in the process. In truth, I hadn’t wanted that to happen. He was a straight cop, even if he had been misguided about me. And I certainly hadn’t wanted any misfortune to come Alex Guinart’s way. His flow of information to Gerard had shown that he was on my side, not that I’d ever needed proof of that.
What I did need was to see him, as soon as possible, as soon as it could be arranged, but after I’d contacted Gerard. He was my top priority; I hadn’t heard from him since leaving Granada, and that had surprised me. As soon as I’d towelled off, blow-dried my hair, and dressed in something pale green, light, airy and cotton, I dug the mobile out of my bag . . . and replaced it straight away.
I might be more or less in the clear, but Gerard wasn’t. He’d planned the escape of someone the police wanted to arrest for murder, and he’d lied about it afterwards. His guilt didn’t disappear with my innocence. That phone was evidence against him, and the sooner it was at the bottom of the Mediterranean, or somewhere just as inaccessible, the better it would be for him. As a first step I opened it, took out the SIM card, held it up by a corner, and set it on fire with a Zippo that I keep in my room for lighting mosquito candles on the terrace.
Once I’d flushed the ashes down the toilet, I picked up the landline phone and called his regular mobile number. It rang six times then switched me on to voicemail. ‘It’s me,’ I told him. ‘Plan B worked, you’ll be pleased to hear. I’m back at the house, and I’d like to see you as soon as you can make it. Or I’ll come to you if you’d rather.’
However, that didn’t satisfy me; as I’ve said, I’d always made a point of not calling him at the residence, unless it was absolutely necessary, but this was one of those times. Voicemail again; this time the announcement wasn’t spoken by a gushing female Movistar voice, but by Father Olivares. I didn’t leave a message.
Instead I went downstairs, for my second beer, and to see my lovely boy again. He was in the computer room, knocking hell out of his lovely grandpa at a realistically violent game that seemed to have appeared in my absence. ‘Nice bike, Mac,’ I said. ‘Not so sure about that, though. There are age categories for those things.’
‘This is eight and over, Mum,’ Tom exclaimed. ‘Anyway, I’m nearly nine.’ To a kid, eight years and one day old counts as nearly nine. Soon he’d be nearly ten.
‘Something came for you this afternoon,’ Mac announced. ‘Sorry, I forgot to tell you earlier. It arrived by courier; extra special delivery, all the way from London, with a big red stamp saying diplomatic mail. I’d to sign for it.’ He walked through to the hall, returned with a brown A4 envelope, and handed it to me. ‘Go on,’ he insisted, ‘open it. It took me all my time not to do it myself.’
I tried to open it neatly, but that’s difficult when you’re gripped by curiosity and the envelope has been taped shut. In the end I made a small hole in the wrong end, widened it with a finger and ripped it open. The contents slid out into my hand; five documents. The first was a letter, addressed to me. It was on the crested notepaper of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office; it advised me that Her Majesty the Queen had that day been pleased to appoint me a special counsellor attached to her embassy in Madrid with immediate effect, and it was signed by someone called Joseph O’Regan, MP, Minister of State and Minister for Europe. The second was another letter, on slightly less majestic notepaper, but still with the FCO crest. It had come from one John Dale, a deputy secretary in the diplomatic section; it welcomed me to the team, told me what my pro rata salary would be . . . that made me blink . . . asked me to make contact with the ambassador in Madrid at the earliest opportunity, and to call him to arrange what he called ‘familiarisation’ meetings in London and Edinburgh. The third was a note on the rights, privileges and responsibility of diplomats, the fourth was a form for completion and return to the human resources department, and the fifth was a declaration, for my signature, accepting that I was bound by the terms of the Official Secrets Act.
I handed them to Mac, one by one, as I read them. ‘Jesus, Primavera,’ he whispered, as he read, ‘what’s this?’
‘You could call it my stay out of jail card,’ I told him. ‘On the other hand you could call it a major job opportunity.’
‘Congratulations, girl. Did you apply for this?’
‘No, it was offered.’
‘Convenient timing. You really do have friends in high places if they can do that for you.’
I smiled at him. ‘Looks that way, doesn’t it.’
‘We’ll have to start calling you “Ma’am”, Tom and me.’
‘ “Mum” will be fine, thank you. And now she’s going off to think about feeding her boys.’
‘Don’t bother; I’ll take us out. After all, you’ve got a new job to celebrate.’
I shook my head. ‘I’d rather not. I want to keep my head down for a bit; tomorrow I’ll let the new investigating team know I’m back, but tonight I’m staying in.’
There was one more thing I had to do; I picked up the cordless phone from my desk . . . Mac must have taken to carrying it with him everywhere . . . went through to the first-floor living room, and dialled my father’s number. He doesn’t have voicemail; if he’s working on a piece when the phone rings, he’ll always take a few seconds to finish what he’s doing before he answers, so when he tried the service it was always cutting in before he got there. I waited for the usual ten rings or so, before he picked up. ‘David Phillips,’ he announced. Dawn bought him a phone with number recognition, so my name would have been displayed, but that makes no difference; it’s how he always answers.
‘Dad, it’s me.’
‘So I see. Where are you?’
‘I’m calling from home, Dad; that’s why your screen’s telling you it’s me.’
‘Ahh,’ he exclaimed, as if
I’d just switched on a light and he could see clearly, ‘that’s how it works, is it.’ The age of information technology is still waiting for my old man to catch up with it. So, for that matter, are the Iron and Bronze Ages. He’s a Wooden Age man, and that’s where he’ll always live. ‘Mac called to tell me you’ve been in one of your scrapes again. It’s all sorted now, is it?’
‘Yes; as far as my involvement’s concerned at least. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you myself, but I wasn’t able to. I hope you didn’t worry too much.’
‘Primavera, once upon a time you had us all thinking you were dead, for the best part of a year, and then you popped up again. After that experience, I can switch off worry where you’re concerned. I never had any doubt that you’d take care of whatever it was.’
‘Did you tell Dawn?’ I asked.
He has a lovely soft chuckle that’s always made me feel warm. ‘My dear, most people who know me are free to believe that I’m slightly round the bend, but it upsets me if they imagine I’m stupid with it. Of course I did not tell your sister; that would have been unspeakably cruel.’
‘Dad, she has a right to know about family problems; she has to learn how to handle crises maturely.’
‘She never will; she’s a throwback to my mother. She was as excitable as a wasp’s byke poked with a stick. No, I meant that it would have been cruel to Miles. He’d have had to handle the flak; I like my son-in-law far too much to do that to him. Anyway, what would have been the point? You’re fine, as I always knew you would be.’
‘I love you, Dad. Come and see us soon, yes?’
‘Book me a flight, give me the usual notice, and I’ll be there.’
‘Will do.’ That’s our usual arrangement. Dad wouldn’t know how to go about booking his own travel, so Dawn and I do it for him. ‘See you in a month or so, then.’
I was smiling as I ended the call, standing in the doorway that opens from the living room on to the patio; smiling at the thought of him, but also at my home village. There had been times during the week gone by when I’d been at my lowest, when I’d feared that I’d never see it again. Had I panicked? Hell no, I’d missed arrest by minutes, and as Gerard had warned, once inside the Spanish judicial system, escape is pretty much impossible. And he should know, I thought; but for his brother’s intervention all those years ago, it might have swallowed him. Thinking of him, I called him again, on both numbers, but had the same response on each. I stepped on to the terrace far enough for me to see the front of the church, but there was no sign of activity there, and his car wasn’t in its usual slot in the parking area to my right.
I was about to step back inside when my name was called, from the square. I recognised the voice. I turned and walked to the patio railing. ‘Hello, Alex,’ I replied. He was out of uniform, looking up at me; he was frowning, and I don’t suppose I was beaming at him.
‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked.
‘Sure, as long as I can come back home afterwards.’
He smiled, and the ice was broken. When I joined him at a table in front of Meson del Conde, having told Mac where I was going, there was a lime-wedged Coronita waiting for me. I was glad I hadn’t got round to the second one I’d promised myself earlier. ‘When did you get back?’ His voice was quiet, conversational.
‘About an hour ago.’
‘Going to tell me where you were?’
‘Do you need to know?’
‘No.’
‘Best I don’t then.’
‘Yes, I suppose. It’s none of my business anyway; Hector and I have been taken off the investigation. But can I assume that you know that, since you’re home again?’
‘Yes, I knew about it. I’m sorry if it’s affected you career-wise, Alex.’
‘It hasn’t; I’m the new boy in Girona, remember. The bosses in Barcelona have barely heard of me. For Hector it’s not so good; they’ve told him that he ran a shoddy investigation, that he made a few facts fit a convenient suspect and that he quit far too early.’
I shrugged as I pushed the lime down into the neck of the bottle. ‘I can’t disagree with any of that,’ I admitted.
‘Maybe not, but it wasn’t all his fault. He reports to the public prosecutor; he’s an ambitious guy, on the lookout for quick results and high-profile cases. He saw both in you, so he told Hector to arrest you, purely on the basis of your palm print on that chair, even before Dolores’s body was found in your trustero. I tried to stall him, and I succeeded for a day or so. You must have noticed that he didn’t come over to talk to you at Angel’s funeral reception. It would have been too awkward; that was why. After Friday morning, though . . . I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad you got away. I’m not going to put you in an awkward place by asking you how, for I can guess anyway.’ He paused. ‘As for Hector, yes, he’s in the doghouse for now, but Madrid has crapped on the public prosecutor. The right people know what happened, so it won’t harm him long term.’
‘If you get the chance, tell him I’m sorry.’
‘Why should you be? You’re the one who was being set up, and we’re the guys who fell for it.’
‘I’m still sorry that he’s in trouble. I didn’t mean for that to happen.’
He stared at me. ‘How could you have made it happen?’ His eyes widened even more as it dawned on him. ‘It was your government, wasn’t it? You did like Senor Reid, you got to your consulate and made a complaint of false accusation. Then you hid somewhere while they put it right, or they hid you. That’s the story, isn’t it?’
‘It was my government,’ I conceded, ‘but that’s not exactly how it happened. Don’t ask me any more about that either, Alex, for I really can’t tell you.’
‘Whatever, I’m glad it’s worked out. You know I did what I could to help, don’t you?’ he added. ‘Even after you’d gone.’
I smiled at him. ‘If by answering “yes” I’m not going to incriminate anyone, then yes. If I am, then I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He nodded, and smiled.
‘What else do you hear?’ I asked him. ‘I might be on solid ground again, but I’ve still got an interest in this. I’m as keen to solve this mystery as you guys are.’
‘I don’t hear much, Primavera, not any more. The new team, the guys from Barcelona, they’ve been told not to speak to Hector and me. Mostly they’re sticking to that, but I did my recruit training with one of them; he’s been telling me stuff.’
‘About DNA, linking all three crime scenes?’
‘How the hell did you know about that?’ he exclaimed. ‘Or that they were looking at three scenes now? Mother of God, Primavera, who are you?’
‘I’m your daughter’s fairy godmother, that’s all. So what’s your friend been saying?’
‘They’ve identified a common DNA pattern from each of the three locations; only one, but the new prosecutor reckons it’s grounds for action. They’re ready to make an arrest, so it looks as if pretty soon you’re going to know who it is that’s had it in for you. As for me, I have no idea. That’s as far as my pal would go; he said that it was more than his career was worth to tell me anything else.’
‘I can wait,’ I said, unashamedly vindictive, ‘but when I find out I’m going to savour the moment. This character would have seen me go down for the rest of my life; I hope he doesn’t forget that as he contemplates his.’
Forty-five
I took Tom to school next morning; it was the end of term and he was hyper, so I judged it best not to let him take his new bike, in case he got carried away and started doing tricks on it. He was curious about the Suzuki in the garage; I told him the simple truth, that I’d been using it while I was away, and that seemed to satisfy him.
Since it was right next door I went to the gym after I’d dropped him off, and put myself through a fairly strenuous workout, partly to sweat off the extra kilo that I’d acquired with all that eating in Santi’s Granada haunts. I thought of him as I ran; chances were he was halfway across the Atlantic
, bound for Los Angeles in his flying bus.
I thought of his brother too: I’d heard nothing from him and had called him again before I’d left the house, with no more success than the day before. I thought of what had been said at Shirley’s; we’d both been very emotional, but I knew that I’d stepped across the invisible barrier that I’d put between us. I thought of what I’d said on the phone in Granada, about the last resort, and of how he’d reacted. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that was why his mobile was switched off. He knew that our old relationship had been compromised, at the very least, and that next time we spoke I was going to have some very personal questions to put to him . . . all the more personal now that I knew about Irena. There was a relationship with a woman in his past. Had he been put off for life by its horrible conclusion, or did he feel at least some of what I felt for him? I had to hear his answer, and strangely, I was scared by the prospect . . . whatever he might say. If he turned me down . . . it would be the end even of what we’d had. If he said, ‘Yes, I do love you and want you’ . . . Jesus, that might be even tougher to handle. He might insist that we leave St Martí. Would I do that for him? I’d have to; my sacrifice would have to match his.
My musing came to an end as my treadmill programme ran out. I did some stretching exercises to warm down, then changed and headed back to the village. I had things to do. There was Mac for a start; he’d stayed on for days longer than he’d planned, but the previous evening I’d managed to book him on to a flight from Girona to Stansted that would link up with another to Edinburgh and get him home in time for dinner. I had to have him there for eleven fifteen, then be back to collect Tom at lunchtime.
And then there was my new, unlooked-for, job. I’d gone to sleep asking myself whether I wanted it, and woken up realising that I did. I fancied the challenge, I needed to be stimulated intellectually and I liked the thought of what it involved, being an informal sub-ambassador for Scotland in Spain. Hell, I thought, if I’d seen it advertised I probably would have applied for it. Could I manage that and a new situation with Gerard at the same time? Sure I could; maybe I wouldn’t have to recruit one of Mark’s soldier girl housekeepers. Mental note: never use the word ‘nanny’ to Tom.
Blood Red Page 21
