‘I’ll ring him and arrange to see her on my way through.’
When Larche put down the phone, he sat back, trying to assess the implications of all that Heycroft had been telling him. Then the telephone rang yet again. Larche picked it up, only to hear his Chief’s voice, asking him urgently for news of the missing boy. He gave him the latest details, and most of his concern for Tomas vanished as he began to organize the stepping up of the hunt.
Part One
Chapter 1
They had lunch next day at El Escorial in the gloomy coolness of the Hotel Santiago. For once, Eduardo ate with his staff. He told himself it would be an ideal opportunity to get to know them a little better; after all his secretary and research assistant had been with him for several years now. In his heart, however, he knew that it was really because he could no longer cope with being alone.
Carlos Mendes, his personal bodyguard, was swarthy and short, with powerful arms and shoulders and eyes that constantly travelled every rooftop and corner, every alleyway, each passing vehicle. Julia Descartes took down in shorthand his every thought, and Damien Alba, his research assistant, could produce full biographical notes on any Spanish or foreign minister or official – and could just as easily tell him a journey time, an airline schedule or where to buy a good wine even if they were in the remotest part of Spain or in a foreign capital. They were not stimulating company, but Eduardo felt a twinge of shame that he had never bothered to see them as people before, and was only doing so now to suit his own convenience. They had flown from Barcelona to Madrid, and Eduardo was pleased that not only had airport security been very tight but they had been tailed first to Barcelona and later to the Hotel Santiago.
Over lunch, Eduardo played the good listener, occasionally passing his hand distractedly through his soft wavy hair. He discovered that Mendes was a soap opera addict, Descartes didn’t know what to do with her teenage daughter and Alba was worried about his weight, although Eduardo noticed with irony that this didn’t seem to affect his liberal consumption of red Rioja. But Eduardo was only superficially attentive. At forty-eight, tall, commanding, physically dominant, he had rarely known panic. A few glimpses, perhaps – he remembered an incident with a horse as a child, later another in a speedboat race – but nothing permanent. Not like this. None of them knew – not Anita – not Salvador – not Marius – none of them knew how afraid he was, how the cold fear of being stalked filled his entire consciousness. But the worst thing was the breadth of possibility, the anonymity of it all.
Later, washing his hands and combing his hair in the wash-room, Eduardo pondered on his failure to cope. His thoughts slid as usual to the disastrous mistakes he had made in Sebastia. As if the death threats weren’t enough, he had all that to worry about too.
Hurrying back to the rubber plants and polished tiles of the foyer, Eduardo found, as he had suspected, that his own staff were in a semicircle with their backs to the latticed picture windows, and the manager, under-manager, chef, head waiter and wine waiter of the Hotel Santiago were facing them, beaming ingratiatingly. He smiled blandly at them, wrung their hands and wondered if any of these bastards had ever been on the spot, as he was now. To hell with them, he thought. All they are is a bunch of grovelling arse-crawlers. Eduardo pressed the last palm and thought of Molino, his wife Anita and his son Salvador – Molino, the rocky wilderness with its lashing Mediterranean storms, the sunlit cave where he and Salvador dived – all contaminated now by what had happened on the island and, as a result, what might happen if it all came out. There could be no connection between Sebastia and the death threats, of that he was certain; he’d thought it through so many times. But Miguel, perhaps Miguel really did have some information for him. Eduardo hoped to God he had.
As Mendes drove the Mercedes out of Escorial and on towards the Valley of the Fallen, they listened to a tape of Anita playing the cello. It was a Schubert sonata and the haunting fullness of the sound soothed Eduardo. In no time they were easing into the valley and his first sighting was the gigantic stone cross that soared above the enormous cave church. Eduardo had attended official ceremonies there on half a dozen occasions during his political life, and the place depressed him just that little bit more each time. Not that Franco had not done the Tomas family proud; during his regime his father and uncle had both occupied high office. Now, ironically, although his father was dead, both he and his uncle had happily performed a volte-face to the left. Just under the cross, stark under the burning cobalt of the sky, was a series of large sculpted figures; lions, eagles, giants deep in thought or political lament cluttered the base of the steel-supported cross, which was reached from the valley by a cable railway.
This afternoon, despite the heat, the valley was swarming with frenzied-looking tourists who were being ferried by cable cars from the garish souvenir stand to the cross. Eduardo’s official car drew curious stares as it purred on until it arrived at the paved area in front of the cave church. Just behind them, a large Peugeot also drew up.
‘Julia and Damien, get yourselves a cold drink. I’ll not be longer than half an hour. Carlos, you’ll escort me as far as the confessional box, then I want to be alone with the Father.’ Eduardo spoke authoritatively, brooking no argument.
Mendes opened Eduardo’s door for him and a few onlookers watched the distinguished, beige-suited man leave the Mercedes and walk briskly towards the cave church with his short, swarthy companion just a few metres behind him, casually looking around. To some of the idlers, Eduardo’s face was vaguely familiar, but such was the speed of his progress that they had no time to identify him.
They walked into the sudden welcoming coolness of the interior, down the highly polished floor towards the cross. The tunnel-like nave was suffused with the smell of incense and candle-grease as Eduardo and Mendes trekked past huge Fascist angels, each with an avenging sword, past dark chapels, wall paintings and statuary until they arrived at the plain, circular altar where Jose Antonio Primo de Rivera, founder of the Falangists, was buried. Opposite his grave lay Franco’s plain slab. This area too was full of tourists, some of whom were no doubt security men.
Eduardo had known Father Miguel almost all his life. He had been prominent amongst the churchmen who had supported and ministered to the Franco government, but he had also acted as an undercover agent to the Tomas family who had always wanted to know a little more than they were told. Eduardo remembered his father once saying, ‘Father Miguel has gradually come to abuse the secrecy of the confessional. This has been very useful to me – to us as a family – but of course he is not a priest we confess to – will never be a priest we confess to.’ The old man had childishly delighted in playing his double game, well paid by the Tomas family for his information which had so often allowed them to be one jump ahead in Franco’s power games. Even today Father Miguel still had his ear to many keyholes.
Eduardo looked at his watch. Just on four. He wandered casually back from the altar and began to look for the box. It was not long before he found one with Father Miguel’s name posted outside. As Eduardo entered, Mendes unobtrusively took up his position, checking with a security man further up the aisle.
Eduardo knelt down in front of the grille.
‘It’s Eduardo, Father Miguel.’
Father Miguel’s familiar gravelly voice said, ‘I’m happy to see you.’
‘How are you?’
‘Not good. But I’m glad you’ve come. I have some … information for you which is not very pleasant.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Eduardo, unable to react immediately to what the old man was saying. He felt numb.
There was a short silence. ‘Wait a minute,’ Father Miguel said slowly. ‘I think somebody else wants to see me.’
‘What?’
He leant nearer the grille and caught a muttered enquiry. Then there was a dull thud and almost instantaneously Eduardo felt a crashing impact that knocked him forward. He looked up at the grille, saw that it was shattered a
nd felt a strange mistiness of both vision and sound. There was an insubstantial luminosity to the confessional box around him, and a sense of unreality possessed him. Something warm was seeping down his shirt. Then everything stopped.
Mendes was dimly conscious of someone leaving the other side of the box, but his attention was distracted by a young woman who had just fallen to the floor, centimetres from the door that hid Eduardo. She appeared to be having some kind of fit, rolling and thrashing on the ground and emitting a high-pitched animal whine.
A small crowd gathered around her and for a moment, Mendes felt uneasy. Any one of these people could be waiting to kill Eduardo Tomas. Then he saw the trickle of dark blood seeping over the floor, between the feet of the onlookers. It could only be coming from one place. He knew that. For an instant Mendes froze – and then raced into frantic action.
Instinctively knowing what he would find, Mendes ripped open the door of the confessional box. Tomas was kneeling, facing the broken grille, his head resting in the aperture. There was a small hole on the side of his skull from which blood was slowly pumping, and a rather anxious smile on his face. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead, and one of his hands had grasped the broken scorched wood around the grille.
When Mendes numbly and automatically pulled open the adjoining door he gave a little grunt of disbelief. Father Miguel was also slumped forward, his shattered head against the partition. Unlike Eduardo Tomas, most of his face had been blown away.
Chapter 2
The decor of the restaurant in Lyon promised more than good food; it provided an ambience that was both discreet and comforting. The light wood panelling of the walls, the occasional painting, the tiled floor, the heavy white tablecloths, the widely spaced tables, the total absence of background music – all produced an atmosphere of expectancy and sharpened the appetite.
Marius Larche was already at a table reading Le Monde, scanning an editorial. A subtle, inviting tang of garlic, herbs and strong coffee lightly pervaded the air. Several times he glanced at his watch, knowing Monique would be late, but wondering how late. Pushing a lock of his long grey hair out of his eyes, he sipped at his pastis. He was a good-looking man, slightly going to seed; there were bags under his eyes and his tanned face was lined around the mouth. But apart from these signs of ageing, Larche had a distinctive Roman head with strong features and unusually light blue eyes. They were memorable – steady, probing, discerning – but there was also a slight ambivalence to them.
‘I’m sorry, darling.’
Monique had swept in, her tall figure in some disarray. She was wearing an elegant suit, but the small black box-like hat had come somewhat adrift, releasing strands of dark hair. She had expressive eyes that communicated her mood at once, and Larche could see immediately that she was slightly flustered – and behind the fluster there was worry. They had been married a year now and he had never ceased to marvel at how happy they had been. Yet he also knew how fragile that happiness was, and how much there was in his past that could easily destroy everything they had. She had no real idea of how powerful his relationship with Jean-Pierre had been and how, like a living force, it still intruded on the present, thrusting its way into their love and aching like a bad tooth. Larche knew that she didn’t quite trust him, but he also knew how hard she tried to banish the fear from her mind. He loved Monique more than any woman he had ever loved in his life, but the power of the past dogged them, however much they both tried to put it in perspective. Larche’s journey to Spain was to be their first real separation, and he felt uneasy about telling her that he was going. He also felt a sense of guilt, for not only had he put off telling her about it but he had suddenly found he was looking forward to this short breathing space. He loved Monique – he had no doubt about that – but he had been alone a long time and living with somebody had turned out to be a demanding experience.
‘I went to Benoits,’ Monique said, stumbling over her words.
She sat down and ordered a negroni from an attentive waiter. Larche didn’t reply immediately and she gave him an appraising look, as if asking him to commend her initiative.
‘I love their material. Whatever you choose I know it can only enhance those shabby old rooms.’
The waiter returned with her drink almost immediately and she put it to her lips, taking a sizeable gulp.
‘We should have started on the house much earlier,’ he said quietly.
‘Well, Alain took a long time making up his mind.’
‘Doing a life sentence may have lessened his sense of urgency,’ said Larche drily.
‘He offered.’
‘Yes, but I never thought he’d honour the commitment.’ Larche folded up his newspaper and put it on the floor. He began to toy with the menu.
‘Don’t let’s order yet,’ she said. ‘I want to relax a little.’
He put down the long strip of card reluctantly; his stomach had been rumbling for some time.
‘Just think,’ she said. ‘We can start the restoration immediately. Alain has been … generous.’
‘For a man who killed my father. Yes.’
She gave a little shrug and he immediately wished he hadn’t been so crude.
‘I’m sorry.’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘No. I’m being thoroughly insensitive.’
He increased the pressure on her hand. ‘I want the house restored. God knows I want it. And with my mother in the nursing home there’s nothing to stop us. We’ll be living there one day.’
With our children, she wondered, and then buried the thought.
‘What else did you spot?’
‘Just some furnishings. Curtains.’ She smiled. ‘I’m really beginning to play the role of the little woman now.’
‘You could never be that.’ He lifted her fingers and kissed them. ‘To see that place restored is everything to me. Everything. And our living there together would banish all those ghosts – all that …’
‘We could go down there over the weekend,’ she said, anxious to fill the awkward silence. ‘Just to plan. If you don’t want to stay in the house I could book the little pension in St Esprit.’
He frowned. ‘There’s a problem – one that I didn’t tell you about last night. Procrastinating as usual.’
Monique looked out at the early evening street, with its crawling traffic and lengthening shadows, and Larche knew that she wished she hadn’t been so quick off the mark.
‘I may have to go to Spain.’
‘Why?’
Larche searched for the right words. ‘Do you remember meeting Eduardo Tomas at the Music Festival in Barcelona?’
‘Yes, your old university friend. He’s a minister in the Spanish government, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, and he’s been receiving death threats. I have to go unofficially just for a few days.’ He paused. ‘There’s an added complication in that British security think they’ve sighted a hit man on his way to Barcelona, and there’s a young police officer who might be able to identify him …’ Larche paused again, not really wanting to embark on a complicated explanation.
She gazed at him steadily. ‘How terrible for him.’ Then she said, ‘You haven’t seen him for a while, have you?’
‘No. Shall we order?’ he asked.
She gave him a bright smile. ‘Yes, I’m starving. Tell me all about Eduardo.’
If only they could talk about Jean-Pierre as they used to, bring him into the open, thought Larche as he summoned the waiter again. But now it seemed impossible. It also seemed impossible to remember that her suspicions were natural enough. He had told her he was bisexual before they had married, and he had also assured her that he was always going to be faithful to her, but unless they talked about it a good deal, he felt vulnerable– and they hadn’t talked for some time.
The waiter brought the phone over while they were eating mussels.
‘Yes?’ Larche sounded brusque. He was often interrupted at meals but
still resented leaving addresses and telephone numbers with the office. He listened attentively and Monique watched the shock spread across his face. When the voice at the other end had finished speaking, he replied abruptly, ‘Give me twenty minutes.’ He looked down at his steaming plate and up into Monique’s wary eyes.
‘What’s happened?’ she whispered.
‘Tomas. He’s dead.’
They stared at each other in disbelief. Then Larche looked down at his plate again and focused on a piece of bread that was half buried in the sauce. He had dropped it there when the call had come and now it was slowly sinking. He watched it go down numbly.
‘How?’ she asked gently.
‘He was shot.’
She gazed at him, unable to reach him. The bread had almost sunk now and he stared at its remnants in a puzzled way.
‘I’ll have to go immediately. I didn’t – I didn’t take the threats seriously. I told him some crank was responsible. God – why was I such a fool?’ He looked up at Monique, his face working, the shock and pain and guilt stark in his eyes. ‘I had an appalling hangover after that damned dinner. I suppose I just wanted to shut him up …’ He couldn’t go on.
‘Did the hit man get him?’
‘It would seem so. Well, someone got him anyway.’ His voice died away and then regathered a little strength. ‘There was apparently a good deal of confusion with a young woman having some kind of fit. He was in a confession box and no one heard the shots. The assassin escaped.’ Larche stared at some distant point across the room and unintentionally caught the eye of an elderly woman. She darted an alarmed glance at him – and then returned to a detailed study of her cassoulet. As she did so, she made some remark to her older companion and he raised his eyebrows. Eventually Larche’s distracted gaze returned to Monique and he began to speak rapidly to her again. ‘I think he died at once. There was a priest killed too.’ He paused. ‘If only I’d damn well listened to him, insisted he didn’t make that damned fool rendezvous, but he was just another interruption to a bloody awful day …’
Confessional Page 3
