by Les Cowan
Benefit of the Doubt
Text copyright © 2017 Les Cowan
This edition copyright © 2017 Lion Hudson
The right of Les Cowan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Lion Fiction
an imprint of
Lion Hudson IP Ltd
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 251 0
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 252 7
First edition 2017
Acknowledgments
Scripture quotations taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Cover images: Fedora © blackwaterimages/iStockphoto.com;
Figure © PeteSherrard/iStockphoto.com;
Edinburgh © Arcangel Images Ltd
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
For Fiona
Contents
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1: Bruntsfield
Chapter 2: La Movida Madrileña
Chapter 3: Buccleuch
Chapter 4: Vallecas
Chapter 5: Hacienda
Chapter 6: Plaza Del Ángel
Chapter 7: Morningside
Chapter 8: Radio Dynamis
Chapter 9: Muirhouse
Chapter 10: Southside
Chapter 11: Drylaw
Chapter 12: Holyrood Park
Chapter 13: Little France
Chapter 14: Pennywell Gardens
Chapter 15: Marchmont
Chapter 16: South Clerk Street
Chapter 17: Edinburgh
Chapter 18: Madrid
Chapter 19: Torrejón de Ardoz
Chapter 20: Warehouse 66
Chapter 21: Southside and Muirhouse
Chapter 22: Policía Nacional
Chapter 23: Parador de Toledo
Chapter 24: Conferencia
Chapter 25: Out and In
Chapter 26: Valdepeñas
Chapter 27: Calatrava la Nueva
Chapter 28: The City of God
Chapter 29: Scotland
Acknowledgments
Grateful thanks are due to those who have helped in one way or another in the evolution of David Hidalgo and Benefit of the Doubt.
Firstly, to those who took the time to read and comment on excerpts, early drafts, or entire texts and who provided crucial encouragement: principally Fiona Cowan, Angus Mackay, Gillian Morrison, Mija Regoord, Jan Gordon, Dot Hanson, Janet Burgon, Ron Ferguson, Andrew Greig, and Morag MacInnes.
Secondly Tony Collins, Jess Tinker, and the team at Lion who were willing to take a chance on something a bit different. Also Julie Frederick for her zealous editing and amazing attention to detail.
Thirdly special extra thanks to Morag MacInnes for her inspiring writing groups in Kirkwall and Stromness, which unfailingly gave me energy to keep going.
Finally, thanks to the many wonderful friends we have made in Madrid, Galicia, and elsewhere in Spain over the years, for their kindness and generosity in sharing their culture with us.
Prologue
An ordinary day – phone calls, messages, oficina de correos with the post, last-minute copying for Sunday. Tidy up and it’s time to go. Then Marisol from the rehab programme turns up and wants to talk. She’s fallen out with her boyfriend who doesn’t approve. He wants her to drop out and move with him to Malaga. She needs an older sister to help her say no.
Finally, bus stop in the dying light. It’s late and the streets are deserted. First a push – “perdona Señora” – then two dark-suited men she doesn’t recognize – one on either side. A black 4x4. She can hardly cry out before she’s shoved in the back, a fat strip of sticking plaster on her mouth and arms wrenched behind her. A searing blow on the head puts the lights out.
A routine appointment for a busy pastor, taking calls about his work. Then the last caller he expected. A sound like the cracking of dry twigs. A frantic drive to the hospital. “I’m so sorry,” the doctor says. “Can you come this way?”
That’s when the nightmare began.
Chapter 1
Bruntsfield
David Hidalgo leaned forward in an attitude that could either have been prayer or desperation. He took off a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and dropped them on the desk, rubbed his eyes, and ran his hands through what was still a fairly full head of sandy hair. How on earth was he supposed to finish a sermon – now getting distinctly urgent – in a freezing cold flat, surrounded by boxes, not a clue where his books were, the constant rumble and hiss of Edinburgh buses outside the window and an equally constant stream of interruptions? Neighbours, his new landlady, market surveys, political canvassers (preserve us), even someone encouraging him to carry a post-mortem sperm donation card. Where did these people come from? For a second he felt the inner toddler whinge it’s not fair, then caught himself. Of course it wasn’t fair. Who said life was fair? Brutal and clichéd but direct and to the point. And only a cliché because countless generations repeated it to each other in the face of what definitely did seem unfair. Everything from a slightly overdone Sunday lunch to bereavement and ruin.
Indeed it was not fair. And the next point please.
He put his glasses back on, ripped the half-written page from the pad, crumpled it up, dropped it in the cornflakes box doing duty as a wastepaper bin, and wrote Sunday’s date yet again in small neat script at the top of the page – 19th February. AM. Luke 10:25–37: The Good Samaritan – then leaned back and tried to pull his thoughts back together again. So a sermon is basically biblical explanation and application – ok. But what had originally meant something to near-eastern farmers, fishermen, builders, and bored teenagers (presumably teenagers have been bored throughout history) in a minor province of the Roman Empire was still supposed to mean something to Edinburgh teachers, students, account managers, nurses, secretaries, and harassed mums with two squirmy kids under five all in the second decade of the twenty-first century. Then it was recommended to be actually interesting as well as informative and moral. Who would want to hear twenty minutes of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason on a Sunday morning? Or indeed at any time. So maybe a bit of humour as well – but surely not stand-up. Finally, something that actually might prove a bit of help on Monday morning as well in the face of dreary repetition, deadlines, slimy bosses, and sweaty colleagues. Probably pompous to call it wisdom but the aim was somewhere in that ballpark. Some little pearl that might make a difference to somebody’s chaotic universe. And this week we’re up to Luke 10. What on earth could be said about the Good Samaritan that hadn’t been trotted out a thousand times before? And probably there’d be those present who’d heard it a hundred times.
He dropped his pen again, got up, and went through to the tiny kitchen, blowing fog in the freezing air. He’d forgive an interruption now if it was somebody from Scottish Gas to turn the heating on. He filled the kettle, then a hot water bottle, and made a pot of Russian Carava
n tea – a small though rather expensive treat from Whittard’s on Princes Street. He took a sip, breathing in the smell of bonfires on the Silk Road, and shuffled back through. So where were we?
The ancient, burned, chipped, battle-scarred antique that was more or less a desk had an A4 notepad on it, a couple of Bible translations, the one commentary he’d been able to find in the mess, and a single framed photo. It was the girl in the raspberry beret. His favourite – photo and girl. She was sitting at a table in the Plaza Mayor, a glass of Rioja or Ribera in front of her and a Zara bag propped up alongside. She was holding up a new silk scarf and looking as pleased as if she’d just been voted cutest in Madrid. Actually not an altogether unlikely event. A busking jazz quartet was frozen in the background, their double bass player the size of a prize fighter grinning at a tiny trumpeter whose cheeks looked like they were about to pop. They seemed to be playing just to each other, the mixed crowd of Madrileño natives and tourists milling around behind just a good excuse, not really part of the joke. Behind their heads the murals round the square were vague splashes of earth colours: orange, red ochre, and shades of beige. A line of dark rooftops was sharp against a firmament of solid blue. The girl in the raspberry beret was grinning as well and he knew the cameraman was grinning too. Himself. Everyone was grinning as if they’d put something in the water that day. Then another cliché came to mind: if I’d known then what I know now…
The harsh clanging of the doorbell broke into his thoughts but this time he welcomed it.
“Southside Seconds, mate. For…” the delivery man pulled a pink flimsy chit out of his top pocket and peered at the address. “Eh… Reverend David Hidalgo.” He looked up. “That you then?”
Together they hauled, slid, walked, and carried a sofa, two armchairs, bookcase, standard lamp, and wall unit up the stairs and into whichever room they were destined for. Then some individual boxes with pots and frying pans, Pyrex dishes, an old brass candlestick, a set of chipped wally dugs, picture frames, and a white china chamber pot.
“House clearance,” the driver said. “Never know what you’re gonna get. I can keep some o’ that if ye want. Somebody’s dead granny must’ve liked it ’n’ tha’ but that disnae mean you huvtae.”
“Right,” said David. “We’re not quite in the land of chamber pots yet.” So half of the last box box was sorted out and repacked.
“Ok.” The process complete, the driver fished out his chit again and scanned down it, leaning on the door jamb. “Two hundred and fifteen, seventy five. Cash on delivery.” He didn’t offer to let David check it and stood waiting.
“Right. I wasn’t actually expecting you’d need paid right away…”
“Naw? Well that’s how it works. That’s how we keep the prices down. Ah telt the wife tha’ phoned.” Just then a commanding Morningside voice well used to tradesmen and the like echoed up the stairs.
“Driver! Just a minute. I’m coming right up.”
“Short shrift” was the phrase that came to David’s mind over the next few minutes as the awesome Mrs Marjorie MacInnes swiftly and efficiently dealt with items that had never been ordered (“That’s not ours; nor that one”), some that were but proved unacceptable (“I don’t care if it is second hand. There’s good second hand and bad. This is not fit for sale”), some that had been ordered but hadn’t appeared (“Monday morning. First thing. I’ll be here”), and a few extra items that were clearly needed though not on the list (“And a decent chest of drawers if you’ve got one. Good condition now. And no more than twenty pounds”). Then a carefully counted out pile of tenners and some change out of a stout, serviceable handbag that would probably have survived trench warfare. No wonder she dealt with church finances with such ruthless efficiency. But in that case the aim was keeping the lights on, a decent Christmas for struggling families, some of the more expensive books for penniless students, and above all proper care of the pastor. So once Southside Seconds had been packed off with a flea in their ear and she’d apologized for the third time for arriving a bit late in the middle of a potentially awkward situation, she took an unbidden tour of the flat, shaking her head and tutting in every room.
“Señor David, I am so embarrassed.” The nickname had been given by some of the church teenagers and seemed to have stuck even among the adults. “When we signed the lease I was promised all this would have been taken care of – the heating, decent crockery, the phone, furniture, bookshelves. None of it done. I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I’m sure we can get things sorted out. At least one warm room would be good though.” However, Mrs MacInnes was not in the soft soap business.
“Very kind of you to put it like that but nevertheless… I’ll get on to the powers that be and we’ll get things knocked into shape. Never you worry.” David thought he wouldn’t care to be among the powers that be. “And in the meantime, you can’t possibly work in this.” She glanced around with obvious distaste and gave a shiver, whether from cold or an allergic response. “So what I suggest is you take yourself off and have a nice lunch somewhere. Then with a bit of luck – or should I say God willing – we’ll have things sorted by the end of the day.” Five crisp fivers were thrust into his hand – he felt like a twelve-year-old sent off to the pictures to let Mum get on with the spring cleaning – but he was grateful. “I recommend the restaurant at Jenners. Not particularly cheap of course but quality and good-sized portions. Or John Lewis of course. Anyway, what am I saying? You know Edinburgh as well as I do and you’d probably want something a bit more… well… exotic, I suppose.”
“No. Not at all. I’m sure either of these would be fine. Anywhere with the heating on.” They shared a companionable smile.
“Right. Off you go. Leave it to me. After everything that’s happened you surely deserve a warm house at least.”
Up to that point David had been feeling somewhat relieved and relaxed. Some movement on the heating, the prospect of a nicer lunch than he had been planning, and a more robust state of mind taking over on his behalf. Then that “everything that’s happened” brought him back down to ground zero. It had certainly happened and it did seem to be “everything”. Because of “everything that had happened” he now found himself in Edinburgh, not Madrid. Pastoring a congregation of sleepy conservatives instead of in the thick of it with people who really did need a higher power. And in the bitter damp east coast cold instead of winter sunshine and crisp clear days. Also, not to be forgotten, on his own. It was so much better not to think. To be distracted by a furniture delivery, a sermon outline, a kindly church treasurer or even lunch with the middle-income, middle-class, middle-aged ladies of Morningside or Corstorphine. It didn’t really matter. It could have been fish and chips in the Rapido Fish Bar. Anything was better than the one thing that wouldn’t go away.
Anyway, he had his marching orders so he climbed into an overcoat, screwed down a battered blue fedora, tucked in a faded grey scarf, and left Mrs MacInnes perched on the arm of a chair between the crates and cases deploying a very “Don’t take that tone with me young man” approach to Scottish Gas Customer Services in Bangalore.
Even at 11.00 am there was still frost on the slopes of Bruntsfield Links as David headed briskly downhill, then over the Meadows, up through university land round George Square (nice to be here without an essay to write), then along Forest Road and up George IV Bridge. He paused for a minute to listen to Javier hooting and tooting his alto sax at the top of Cockburn Street, waited till the end of “Honeysuckle Rose”, then dropped one of the fivers into the makeshift collecting case.
“Hey. Muchas Gracias man! Qué tal David?”
“Bien. Surviving. And you – still making a living?”
“Yeah, well, you know what it’s like. I’d rather be back in Bogota but at least here the dealers don’t hold you to ransom in the street.” Javier stamped his feet, blew into his cupped hands, and shivered from head to toe.
&nbs
p; “Sure. I guess they’re here though. Just maybe not so obvious.”
“I know. I try to keep out of their way and hope nobody from the Medellin Cartel comes to the Edinburgh Military Tattoo on their holidays.”
“Ok. Take it easy. Buy some gloves. Your hands must be freezing.”
And so down the hill, over Market Street, along Waverley Bridge, sidestepping queues for the next open top tour and the lone piper mournfully screwing out the “Flowers of the Forest”, then a left onto Princes Street, past Thunderbird Three cunningly disguised as the Scott Monument, and finally to the doorstep of Jenners. He pushed open the heavy swing door, took in the number of people, the perfume-saturated air, a Dante-esque vision of chrome, glass, glaring lights and assistants who didn’t consider too much make-up a possibility, then fled to a hot dog street seller across the street and a park bench in the gardens.
It took at least ten minutes till his heart rate dropped back to normal and he was breathing calmly again. Just when he had thought he might be on what they called the road to recovery his autonomic system coughed politely and informed him that as yet nothing had changed. So he tried to clear his mind and think positive, calming thoughts instead of – well, just instead. But it turns out this is another of these little things you have as much control over as your thumbprint or blood group. Distraction, like beer, proves to be only a temporary solution, and just when you drop your guard for an instant Reality jumps up and gets a grip like White Fang. This wasn’t where he was supposed to be and this wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. “Let’s go round again” the Average White Band used to sing the last time he lived in Edinburgh. A nice trick if you can master it, but not so easy in your fifties as when you’re twenty-two.
He dropped some crumbs of stale burger bun for the squirrels and watched them squabbling with some starlings for the biggest share. A couple of Goths wandered by snacking on each other. Appropriate for vampires somehow. Winter was a lean time for everyone around here; you had to take what you could get. And here he was, getting what he could like the rest. The people he should have been with and who maybe needed his help were two thousand miles away. But what help could he be in this condition anyway?
