For all the upheaval and unexpected responsibility, Mac looked to have enjoyed his break. He was the colour of well-oiled teak, and looked rested . . . perhaps because he hadn’t played all the golf that he’d anticipated. I hoped that Mary would approve of the state in which he was being returned. I saw him off to the departures gate, after making him promise that they’d both come back for the wine fair in September.
I’d been so busy that I was on my way back to L’Escala before I got round to thinking about what Alex Guinart had said the night before about the likelihood of an arrest. I was intrigued to know who it would be, but from everything I’d heard of Planas, I guessed it was likely to be someone I’d never heard of, someone with a grudge big enough to kill over, ruthless enough to take care of Dolores when she got in the way, and smart enough to set me up to take the rap after he’d picked up some inside dope from the police. This was Catalunya, after all; much as I love it, the place is full of people who meet those requirements, even if they are heavily outnumbered by the good. No point in speculating, though, I told myself, as I headed back to the school.
It was out for the summer, as Alice Cooper has been insisting since I was about four years old, a half-day, and so I took my son for lunch to celebrate. We took the Jeep home, picked up Charlie and walked along to the Hostal Ampurias, a white-painted hotel near the Greco-Roman ruins, sitting almost on top of a beautiful little bay. When Tom cycles to school he goes past it. He asked for a Catalan salad to start . . . he likes his meat, and that’s what it is . . . while I settled for wild green asparagus. (It grows all over L’Escala, but only the old-timers know where to find it, and it’s hard to spot.) As we ate I told him that I had a job, one that might take me out of town for a couple of days at a time.
‘Can I come?’ he asked.
‘When you’re not at school, if it’s convenient, and I don’t think you’d be bored. Other times, there’ll be somebody to look after you.’
‘Can Gerard look after me?’
‘Gerard has his own job.’
Tom frowned. ‘Somebody at school said he’d left.’
I felt a tremor in my chest. ‘What?’ I gasped.
‘One of the girls said her mother saw him leaving, and that he isn’t going to be our priest any more.’
I snatched my phone from my bag and called Gerard’s mobile again; again that purring voicemail message, ‘At this moment . . .’ I found Alex’s number and pressed the green key.
‘Primavera,’ he said, quietly, before I had a chance to speak, knowing my number off by heart and recognising it. ‘I’m in the office. It’s very busy and very noisy, so I can’t really speak. However, I can guess what you’re calling about and the answer’s “yes”. I’m sorry, but it’s true.’
‘That might be the answer, Alex,’ I hissed, leaning away from Tom so that he couldn’t hear me, ‘but what’s the fucking question?’
‘You don’t know. God, the rumour is all over town. The man they’ve arrested, for both murders. It’s Father Gerard.’
Forty-six
I couldn’t tell Tom, of course. Equally I couldn’t keep my panic from showing on my face.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ he asked.
I pulled myself together. ‘Nothing.’
‘There is,’ he insisted, stubbornly, ‘you look as if you’ve had a fright.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I repeated, with a hint of a warning not to push it in my voice. ‘Something’s happened that I didn’t expect, that’s all. Nothing to do with you, young man, so mind your own.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ He sighed as kids do when they want you to know they see through you but they’re indulging you anyway. Happily his spaghetti bolognaise arrived just at that moment, to distract him. He’s less messy when he eats it than he used to be, but he still has to concentrate to make sure he doesn’t wind up wearing some of it. Me? I had a piece of sole, and nothing else. That extra kilo, remember.
When we got back home he asked if I’d go to the beach with him. It was a little windy, but I took a sun lounger and sat under a mushroom-shaped parasol, watching him in the water, but thinking at the same time. Finally, because I could come up with nothing else to do, I rang the residence again. This time Father Olivares answered in person. I wondered whether he’d want to speak to me, but he actually seemed pleased that I’d called. The old chap was as distressed as I was, but he didn’t have to hide the fact from anyone.
‘This is madness,’ I said to him. ‘Do you know what’s possessed them?’
‘Or is it him who’s possessed?’ he countered. ‘They said when they came to arrest him that they have clear evidence.’
‘You were there when he was taken away?’
‘Yes. It was people I didn’t know. They came to our house in uniform and with guns, and asked for him. They said that they had very clear evidence that linked him with both murders. At first, he seemed amused. He laughed at them and told them that they were making it up, but they said that they could prove with science that he had been at José-Luis’s house, at the place where Dolores Fumado was found, and in her car. They could prove it, categorically, they insisted. They said that he would be charged with murder and with attempting to implicate you, by putting the poor woman’s body in your house, to be found.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘He said to them, “You can actually prove that?” and they replied, “Absolutely.” With that his attitude changed. “Then do so,” he said, “for I’ll be saying nothing.” So they took him away, to Girona, in a closed van. But before he left, he did say one more thing, to me, very quietly. He asked me to say to you, Primavera, that he was sorry, but he could do nothing else. He admitted it, my dear. I am so sorry. I know what you have come to feel for him, and I’d begun to suspect that he had the same regard for you. But no, it seems that he’s betrayed us all.’
I don’t think I’ve ever heard such despair as that which sounded in the old man’s voice. For a moment, I found myself accepting what he was saying . . . until I told him, ‘No! I will not believe that, never. I don’t care what they say, there is another explanation. A week ago, those people, or others like them, claimed to have proof that I committed these crimes. Gerard didn’t believe it then, as I don’t believe it now. I’m going to get him out of this.’
‘But if their evidence is as strong as they say . . .’
‘Let’s see what a lawyer thinks of it. Will the church appoint someone to act for him?’
‘My dear, the church is not used to having its priests accused of murder. There isn’t a precedent for this. It will need to be considered.’
I could hear the mills of God grinding, exceedingly slowly. ‘We don’t have time for that. Father, you’ve been here for a long time. Who’s the best advocate in this area?’
‘From what I’ve heard, that would be Josep Villamas. He has an office in Figueras, and he’s very well known in the courts. He lives in L’Escala; he’s a member of my congregation.’
‘Can you give me a number for him? I’d look it up myself, but I’m on the beach with my son.’
‘I think so. Give me a moment.’ I waited, listening to a rustling of paper in the background. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, then gave me two numbers, one local, the other, by its prefix, the office in Figueras. I keyed both into the memory of my phone. ‘Thanks, Father. I’m going to call him right now and instruct him.’
‘He’ll be expensive,’ the old man warned. ‘We priests are poor men, and there’s no guarantee that the bishop will agree to meet the cost, whatever the temptation to which Gerard may have succumbed.’
‘Cost isn’t an issue,’ I told him. ‘When I have something positive to tell you, I’ll let you know. You’ll be at home, yes.’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Apart from this evening, and tomorrow, of course.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Dolores Fumado’s funeral is tomorrow morning. It’s at eleven.’
‘I didn’t know.’
> ‘The body is being released to Justine and Elena this morning; it will be received into the church this evening.’
‘Then let’s hope we can put this nonsense to bed in time for Gerard to assist you at the requiem Mass.’
‘You are one of life’s optimists, my dear.’
‘I wasn’t a week ago; that’s something else I owe to him.’
He wished me good luck, but he still sounded low.
Tom wanted me to come into the water with him, but I told him I wasn’t swimming that day. He knows that sometimes I don’t, and he never asks why. Instead I called the Figueras number. A woman answered, in Catalan. I gave her my name and asked if I could speak to her boss. I expected her to ask me what I wanted, but she put me straight through.
I got down to business. No time for pleasantries; with lawyers the clock is always ticking. ‘Senor Villamas, I want to instruct you to undertake the defence of my friend Gerard Hernanz. He was arrested early this morning, and is being charged with two murders.’
‘And with fabricating evidence against you, Senora Blackstone,’ the advocate added, in a deep rolling voice; he sounded as Morgan Freeman would if he spoke Catalan. (Maybe old Morgan does: I don’t know.)
‘So you’ve heard what’s happened?’
‘Yes, I was told a few hours ago. When I learned of it I went straight to Girona, and offered my services to Father Hernanz. I know the man. He’s heard my confession, often. I like him very much, and I could not credit what I’d been told. He refused to see me; a policeman came to tell me that he’d said he didn’t want a lawyer, and that if one was appointed by the court, he’d refuse to cooperate with him. To be frank, I didn’t believe the officer, and I told him as much. I threatened to go straight to the court to demand access. He went away and returned a few minutes later with a handwritten note from Father Hernanz confirming what he had said the first time. And more; the message said that if I was asked to act for someone else in this matter . . . I suspect that he meant you . . . it would serve no purpose. He said that if the police have evidence against him, they can present it. He’ll let God defend him, and judge him.’
‘Does God have a law degree?’ I exploded. ‘Does he have much experience on the Bench? I’m sorry, Senor Villamas,’ I added at once. ‘I’m not getting at you. It’s just that he’s so . . .’
‘Resigned, I’m afraid,’ the lawyer said. ‘He seems to be accepting his guilt.’
‘Well, I won’t,’ I declared.
‘You may have no choice. After I’d left the police officer, I spoke to the prosecutor. I know the man; he’s very experienced, very capable and he’s in no doubt that he’ll secure a conviction. I’m sorry, I wish I could help, but other than appearing as a character witness when it comes to sentencing, there’s nothing I can do.’
What the hell is he thinking about? He was all that I could think about, as I lay on the lounger, propped up on my elbows, keeping an eye on Tom as he tried to catch a cresting wave with his mini surfboard. The whole thing was fantastic. Why would Gerard want to kill Planas? What possible reason could he have? The man had called you a whore, and you told him that over dinner. So what? Is that a reason to kill a man? What did he do when Irena was attacked? That was years ago, and it was rape, a far different thing. Unless, in his eyes, it was an insult he couldn’t tolerate. ‘Rubbish, Primavera,’ I said aloud. And then I remembered anew what he’d said in La Lluna and I shuddered.
‘As for calling you a whore, if he was a younger man, I would take off my collar and meet him after dark.’
Had he decided that Planas wasn’t that old after all? ‘Stop it!’ I called out, so loudly that a woman three mushrooms along turned and looked, to see what was happening. I fixed her with a glare, and she went back to her book. I wouldn’t believe it, I told myself, I couldn’t believe it; but so much seemed to fit.
For once in my life I could not think of a single thing to do. I needed someone else’s input, but whose? Santi. Of course, Santi. He’d come up with something. But then I saw the snags. I didn’t have a contact number for him. I didn’t know where he was, but given the time it takes to fly from Barajas to LAX, I was pretty sure he’d be nowhere in Spain. I didn’t know for sure what airline he was with. I’d assumed that it was Iberia, but I couldn’t be certain, for he hadn’t mentioned it. Even if it was, I’d have been surprised if they had put me in touch with him, at least until they’d checked me out. I could try, and I would, but I held out no great hopes. Only one man could put me in touch with him quickly, and he was locked up in Girona.
I’d had enough of the beach. I was restless, plus, the wind was getting stronger by the minute. I called to Tom that it was time to go and feed Charlie . . . that always works faster than simply, ‘Time to go, Tom’ . . . rolled up my towel and stuffed it away in my bag.
The dog was pleased to see us, although he wasn’t fed until I’d made Tom stand under the cold shower in a corner of the garden to get rid of the considerable amount of beach that he’d brought back with him, then towel off before he went inside to fill Charlie’s bowl. He was halfway through his evening ration . . . That meant he’d been at it for less than half a minute. Have you ever seen a Labrador eat? . . . when I heard the phone ring in the hall. I was sand-free myself by this time so I stepped indoors and picked it up.
‘Senora Blackstone?’ A man’s voice.
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Comisari Nino Valdes,’ he said. ‘I am now in charge of the investigation into the deaths of Senor Planas and Senora Fumado.’ A commissioner, I registered. They have brought in the big guns. ‘I don’t know if you are aware, but we have a man in custody in respect of the two crimes.’
‘Yes,’ I snapped. ‘I am aware of it, and I’m quite certain that it’s the wrong man.’
‘That’s not what he says, senora. I am quite confident that we have a case, and I’m happy to explain it to you. It would be helpful to us if you would agree to be interviewed, purely as a witness, you understand. I know,’ he continued, smoothly, ‘that given your recently conferred status I can’t compel you to do this, but I would appreciate your cooperation.’
I was on the point of telling him that I wasn’t interested in helping him, only Gerard, but stopped myself. I’d be in control in any interview, and I’d volunteer nothing that would be of harm to him. ‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Excellent. When can I visit you?’
‘You can’t; I’ll come to you. I’d prefer it that way.’ I checked my watch; it was half past five. ‘You’re in Girona, yes?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I can be there for six thirty.’
‘I’m sorry, I have another appointment this evening. There’s no need to rush; no one’s going anywhere. Let’s make it two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Will that be convenient?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That’s good. I’ll be waiting for you. I appreciate this.’
I hope you’re as pleased when we’re done, I thought, you smug bastard.
Forty-seven
I did my best not to think about what had happened, until I actually had to. I went into the computer room . . . I’d have to start thinking of it as my office . . . and picked up my envelope from the FCO. I did what I’d been asked to do, beginning with a call to the ambassador in Madrid. She had gone for the night, so I said I’d try again on Monday morning. Then I rang John Dale, the man who seemed to be my point of contact; we were still in normal office hours, according to British Summer Time.
I’d expected a civil service mandarin type, somebody with a plummy accent, honed at Eton and Oxbridge; instead I found myself speaking to a bloke from Bradford, who’d made no attempt to lose his. Progress, I supposed.
‘Mrs Blackstone,’ he exclaimed, ‘good to hear from you. I was told not to expect a call until next week.’
‘Primavera, please. Who told you that?’
‘Joe O’Regan, my man upstairs; he got it from the Foreign Secretary, his man.’
‘Yes and no. I wasn’t anticipating anything in Spain, but there have been quite a few appointments like yours lately around the world, special counsellors with specific briefs. It’s been the practice of this government since they’ve been in office. If the Tories had done it they’d have called it “Jobs for the boys and girls”, but to this lot it’s “Bringing in a breath of fresh air”, which you sound like, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
I didn’t mind at all, as I told him. ‘If your man upstairs got it from his man, who did he get it from?’
‘From what I gather it was Mayfield, the Home Secretary. Am I close to the mark?’
‘Think Francis Urquhart.’
‘Uh?’
‘Novel and TV series, House of Cards, by Michael Dobbs. “You may say so, but I couldn’t possibly comment.” That’s the Urquhart character’s great line.’
‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, ‘that’s where it comes from, is it? Before my time, I’m afraid.’
‘Thanks, John,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Oops.’
I let him off the hook, although I did register that the guy was probably younger than me, for all his high rank. ‘That’s all right; they repeat it on nostalgia TV every so often. Tell me,’ I went on, ‘in the event that what you gather is true, how would the Home Secretary manage to pull off something like that in the Foreign Office?’
‘Well,’ he replied, stretching out the word as if he was framing a diplomatic reply, ‘word is there’s going to be a revolution soon. Our guy is very ambitious, and if he’s to succeed to the big chair, he’s going to need the younger group on his side . . . especially Mayfield.’
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