Quintin Jardine - Blood Red

I’d barely applied the handbrake before the door started to close, and before Tom stepped out from behind the Jeep. I jumped out of the Suzuki and he jumped at me; I hugged him for about a minute, until he got too heavy for me to hold up any longer, and I had to set him back on his feet. I’d been right about the tears too.

‘Mission accomplished,’ I told him, wiping them away. ‘No more unexplained absences, I promise.’

‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’ve had fun with Grandpa Blackstone.’ I wasn’t quite sure how to take that until he looked up at me, smiled, and added, ‘But Charlie and I are both glad you’re back.’ He looked back over his shoulder, to something that leaned against the wall, something that hadn’t been there when I’d left. ‘Do you like my new bike?’

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.’