Quintin Jardine - Blood Red

‘About DNA, linking all three crime scenes?’

‘How the hell did you know about that?’ he exclaimed. ‘Or that they were looking at three scenes now? Mother of God, Primavera, who are you?’

‘I’m your daughter’s fairy godmother, that’s all. So what’s your friend been saying?’

‘They’ve identified a common DNA pattern from each of the three locations; only one, but the new prosecutor reckons it’s grounds for action. They’re ready to make an arrest, so it looks as if pretty soon you’re going to know who it is that’s had it in for you. As for me, I have no idea. That’s as far as my pal would go; he said that it was more than his career was worth to tell me anything else.’

‘I can wait,’ I said, unashamedly vindictive, ‘but when I find out I’m going to savour the moment. This character would have seen me go down for the rest of my life; I hope he doesn’t forget that as he contemplates his.’

Itook Tom to school next morning; it was the end of term and he was hyper, so I judged it best not to let him take his new bike, in case he got carried away and started doing tricks on it. He was curious about the Suzuki in the garage; I told him the simple truth, that I’d been using it while I was away, and that seemed to satisfy him.

Since it was right next door I went to the gym after I’d dropped him off, and put myself through a fairly strenuous workout, partly to sweat off the extra kilo that I’d acquired with all that eating in Santi’s Granada haunts. I thought of him as I ran; chances were he was halfway across the Atlantic, bound for Los Angeles in his flying bus.

I thought of his brother too: I’d heard nothing from him and had called him again before I’d left the house, with no more success than the day before. I thought of what had been said at Shirley’s; we’d both been very emotional, but I knew that I’d stepped across the invisible barrier that I’d put between us. I thought of what I’d said on the phone in Granada, about the last resort, and of how he’d reacted. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that was why his mobile was switched off. He knew that our old relationship had been compromised, at the very least, and that next time we spoke I was going to have some very personal questions to put to him. . all the more personal now that I knew about Irena. There was a relationship with a woman in his past. Had he been put off for life by its horrible conclusion, or did he feel at least some of what I felt for him? I had to hear his answer, and strangely, I was scared by the prospect. . whatever he might say. If he turned me down. . it would be the end even of what we’d had. If he said, ‘Yes, I do love you and want you’. . Jesus, that might be even tougher to handle. He might insist that we leave St Martí. Would I do that for him? I’d have to; my sacrifice would have to match his.

My musing came to an end as my treadmill programme ran out. I did some stretching exercises to warm down, then changed and headed back to the village. I had things to do. There was Mac for a start; he’d stayed on for days longer than he’d planned, but the previous evening I’d managed to book him on to a flight from Girona to Stansted that would link up with another to Edinburgh and get him home in time for dinner. I had to have him there for eleven fifteen, then be back to collect Tom at lunchtime.

And then there was my new, unlooked-for, job. I’d gone to sleep asking myself whether I wanted it, and woken up realising that I did. I fancied the challenge, I needed to be stimulated intellectually and I liked the thought of what it involved, being an informal sub-ambassador for Scotland in Spain. Hell, I thought, if I’d seen it advertised I probably would have applied for it. Could I manage that and a new situation with Gerard at the same time? Sure I could; maybe I wouldn’t have to recruit one of Mark’s soldier girl housekeepers. Mental note: never use the word ‘nanny’ to Tom .

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.’

Icouldn’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.