Quintin Jardine - Blood Red

I’d cracked her; I could see that. I stood there waiting for a response. But when it came, it was from behind me.

‘You’ll waken the sleeping giant, Mrs Blackstone?’ said a female voice, in English. ‘In that case you’d better come in.’

I turned, and saw a tall woman, in her mid-thirties, gazing at me with a half-smile on her face. She couldn’t have looked less like her executive assistant if they’d both worked at it. Her eyes were big and brown, long lashed, the compelling feature of her oval face. Her hair was dark, and fell to her shoulders in loose curls. She wore a white T-shirt emblazoned with the name and logo of the town’s anchovy museum. . no, I’m not kidding; L’Escala has an anchovy museum. . and tucked into blue denim cut-offs in a way that emphasised the swell of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist and the curve of her hips. As I looked at her my first thought was, ‘ How come this woman didn’t pick up every male vote in town? ’

‘I am Justine Michels Fumado, the mayor,’ she said, slipping into Catalan. ‘I can tell you don’t react well to the word “no”. Not many people get past my guardian. Congratulations.’

As she showed me into a small wood-panelled office, with a door leading out to a balcony that looked down on to the square below and across to the church, I pondered her name. ‘Fumado,’ I repeated.

She knew what I was asking. ‘Yes.’ She confirmed my quickly formed suspicion. ‘That dragon outside is my mother. She’s one of the old-time L’Escala families; half a dozen of them still own much of the town. When I moved into this office six years ago, she insisted on moving in next door. I was only twenty-nine then, and she thought I’d need protection. As you’ve found out, she still thinks so.’ She smiled. ‘She’s useful, from time to time, against those less formidable than you. In the summer L’Escala fills up with people who turn up to discover that they have problems with their apartments or villas. They don’t know the local system, so all they can think to do is march into the town hall and complain to the mayor.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment to us both.’ I paused. ‘And your first surname? Michels: that’s not Catalan.’

She pointed to a photograph, in a silver frame on a small cabinet. I looked and saw her eyes gaze out at me, from the face of a tall, handsome, silver-haired man. ‘My father was Belgian; he came to Catalunya forty years ago, to sell furnishings; my mother met him in his store in Figueras and snapped him up. His brother, my uncle, used to joke that he went to lay her carpets, but she laid him. Papa died two years ago, but I probably have him to thank for still being in this office. He was the unofficial leader of the Belgian community; they’re probably the original foreign arrivals in this town, and they’re my solid supporters, regardless of their usual politics. So, Senora Blackstone, you might have trouble lining up all the expats against me. . although I suspect that with your name, you could recruit the British, if you were determined to try.’

‘My name?’

‘I know who you are,’ she told me as she settled into the leather chair behind her desk, and as I sat opposite her. ‘I’ve known since you moved to St Martí, or back then, I should say, since you’ve spent time here before. Eyebrows were raised when an outsider was able to buy the house you did in the village, and there was talk; indeed there still is gossip about you. I’d be a pretty poor mayor if none of it had reached my ears. You are rumoured to be sleeping with the priest, Father Gerard, but I know him too, and I know, from someone very close to him, that isn’t true. You are the former wife of Oz Blackstone, the famous actor, who lived here with you once himself, but you are not his widow. Your son is his. Your sister is the actress Dawn Phillips, and your brother-in-law is the film director Miles Grayson.’ She smiled. ‘You can afford to send professional people to make your point. So why are you breaking my door down yourself?’

‘Because I don’t employ people like that. I’m a hands-on person, and I’ve been brought in by Ben Simmers to help organise his wine fair.’

‘Ahh!’ The mayor’s head fell back as she sighed; as she gazed at the ceiling I could see that her chin showed no sign of sagging. ‘That’s what it is.’

‘That’s what it is,’ I repeated. ‘Ben reckons we need your permission to hold it in Plaça Petita. Is he right about that?’

‘Oh, he’s correct. The people of St Martí like to think that they’re autonomous, but they’re not. That is and always has been public land, and the town council of L’Escala decides what happens there. As leader of the council, the executive power is in my hands.’

‘So? Can we do it, Madam Mayor?’

‘Justine, call me Justine. I don’t know; I still have to reach a decision.’

‘I’m Primavera. What’s difficult about a simple “yes”?’

‘Nothing, but this one isn’t simple.’

‘In what way?’

‘I have opposition to it within the town council. There is one member who’s determined that it won’t happen. And no ordinary member either; it’s my coalition partner, the man whose vote keeps my group in power.’

‘Your sister’s father-in-law?’

‘That’s him. José-Luis Planas Ros. He’s powerful within the council, because of his unique position, and also within the trading community in L’Escala. He owns the big furniture shop in the old town, a couple of bars, an estate agency, and a pizzeria on the seafront. When Ben approached the shopkeepers’ association, word got to him; he opposed it and the sheep fell into line.’

‘Even though Ben’s a member of that group?’

‘Even though.’

‘What’s this guy’s problem with Ben? Is it because he’s English? Because I warn you, if it is, I’ll follow through on the threat I made to your mother. I wouldn’t have to field my own slate either; if I deliver enough British votes to your main opposition. .’

Justine Michels threw up her hands. ‘I know, I know. That could swing the election. But I promise you, Mr Simmers’ nationality has nothing to do with it. . at least not directly. I think this problem would still exist, even if he was Catalan.’

‘Then what is it?’

The mayor opened her mouth as if to reply, then fell silent, for almost half a minute. ‘I think,’ she said, eventually, ‘that it would be better for you to ask your friend.’

‘I will, don’t you worry. And I’ll be asking Senor Planas as well.’

‘You’ll be wasting your time if you try to lean on him. Come what may, he gets re-elected to the council every four years as an independent. The expatriate vote doesn’t bother him.’

‘I’ll bother him, though.’

She smiled, sympathetically. ‘You going to make him an offer he can’t refuse?’

‘I’m going to reason with him.’

She laughed. ‘That’s a line from the same movie.’

‘I know; it’s my favourite.’ I had to chuckle myself, as I recalled The Godfather , and the man who woke up to find his thoroughbred’s head on his duvet. ‘Does he have a horse?’ I asked.

‘Not even that would shake José-Luis. He’s old school, and the problem you’d have with him is typical of his generation.’

‘As in me being a woman?’

She nodded.

‘How do you handle him?’

‘He tolerates me and gives me his grudging support because of my sister.’ She paused. ‘No, because of my brother-in-law, Angel. Most of the time, he doesn’t interfere with the administration. He has a portfolio, environmental services; he gets on with that and he’s good at it. But occasionally, if he gets agitated about something, he can be difficult. This is one of those times.’