Quintin Jardine - Blood Red

‘No, she did not,’ he declared.

‘Did she call you on the night that Henri died?’

‘Yes. She rang me quite late, to tell me that he had gone for a walk on the cliffs and hadn’t come back. She was worried about him.’

‘How late?’

‘I can’t be sure, but it was some time after ten.’

‘That’s late?’

‘For some.’

‘Not for Henri. Inspector Guinart did some asking around yesterday. It seems he was a regular in a bar on the crest of Avinguda Montgo. He dropped in there often, after he’d been on the cliff walk; never left much before twelve. But on this night, of all nights,’ he went on, ‘your sister was worried, so what did you tell her to do?’

‘To call the police,’ he replied at once. ‘Sure, I knew he was probably in a bar somewhere,’ to my ear that was too glib, too quick to grab hold of what Gomez had told him, ‘but it was late and I couldn’t be bothered.’

‘I’m sure,’ said the intendant. ‘One last question; when did you first learn that Henri was dead?’

‘When you told me.’

‘And that was the same time as you advised me you would handle the investigation yourself, out of consideration for your sister, although you knew that she’d been cheating on the dead man for fifteen years.’

‘I. .’ Fumado spluttered.

‘A simple yes or no, please, for the record.’

‘Yes!’

‘Thank you.’ Gomez reached across, stopped the machine. I checked the last few seconds on the disc to make sure that it was in order. When I was satisfied, I put it away in my bag. Our leader rose to his feet; Alex and I followed suit.

‘Hey,’ Fumado yelped, holding out a hand, ‘my file, please.’

‘It’s our file for the moment,’ Alex told him.

‘It can’t leave this office,’ the little man protested.

‘You can come with it, if you wish,’ said Gomez, ominously. There was no reply. We headed for the door.

‘What’s in it?’ the intendant asked, as soon as we were out in the open.

‘Not as much as there should be,’ Alex replied. ‘There’s a note of the original police call, a couple of pretty poor photos of the body where it landed, there’s the post-mortem report, and there’s a statement from Dolores. That’s it; almost. No interview with Planas, or with any witnesses. No public appeal for sightings of Michels either. These were all things we’d do automatically. Fumado must have been shitting himself until he got the post-mortem report and saw the reference to a heart attack. As soon as he saw that, he wound the investigation up as quickly as he could, only. . the report isn’t original.’

‘How come?’ I asked.

‘The autopsy was done in Figueras, as normal. The pathologist sent his findings as an attachment to an email. It was printed out in the public prosecutor’s office, which means it could have been edited.’

‘Then let’s find out whether it was,’ said Gomez. ‘Find the pathologist who opened up Michels and get hold of his original report, for comparison. Then call our best contact in Telefonica; Inez Medel, as I recall. Ask her to go back two years and to check all the calls made from the number registered to Henri Michels, on May the twenty-seventh, then to go a week forward and see how many calls were made to the same number, either from Javier Fumado’s home phone or from the prosecutor’s office.’

Alex nodded. ‘Now do you want to know what else was in the file. . by mistake, I am pretty certain?’

‘Out with it,’ I exclaimed, forgetting my place in the hierarchy.

‘There’s a note of a call made by a lady, Senora Hernandez, to our office in L’Escala on May thirtieth, two days after the body was found and passed on by them to Fumado, in accordance with his instruction. She said that she had information for the police. Her address is in Carrer Muga, same as Henri and Dolores, and although the house has a name and not a number, I’m pretty sure she was their immediate neighbour. The note is there, but there’s no sign of any statement. Either our friend didn’t follow it up, or he didn’t like what he heard.’

‘We better go see her,’ Gomez declared, ‘and hope her memory’s still good.’ Then he looked at me. Before I even had a chance to open my mouth, he said, ‘No!’

Tom’s first day at sailing school overran by quite a bit, and so it was almost three before we sat down to our light lunch. Happily, that’s not a problem at La Clota; it’s an all-day restaurant during the summer months. After we’d eaten, I had coffee and let him run through his morning. Actually he walked through it, step by step, knot by knot, tack by tack; the more he talked, the more I saw him as Johnny Depp, in his Jack Sparrow costume.

It was gone four by the time we climbed into the Jeep to go home, and I was hoping that Charlie hadn’t out-stayed his welcome with Ben. Still, a glance in the mirror as we pulled away, a glimpse of that Godawful hair, persuaded me that there was time for one last call, and so I stopped at the new Farmacia in Avinguda Girona and ploughed through its stock of hair tints, until I found the one that seemed to be most like I usually look.

I needn’t have worried about the dog; Tom found him happy with his pals, and his presence seemed to make Cher and Mustard less demanding of Ben. It was the quietest time of the working day in St Martí, so I expected him to be alone when I walked into the shop, but he wasn’t. A blonde woman was sitting on a high stool beside the counter: Elena Fumado. She didn’t look pretty; there were black circles under her eyes, and her face was lined. It struck me that she must have been crying over her mum for ten days.

‘You two don’t really know each other, do you?’ said Ben.

We both shook our heads. ‘We’ve met in the furniture shop,’ I told him, ‘and seen each other at a couple of funerals, but you’re right. Hello, Elena, it’s good to be formally introduced.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘I’m sorry about your mother; truly I am.’

‘You found her, didn’t you?’

I wasn’t ready to admit to that, so I stuck to the official version, which had a semblance of truth about it. ‘My father-in-law did. . my former father-in-law, I should say. He was walking Charlie and he barked at the storeroom door.’

‘And now our priest’s in prison.’ She paused. ‘Justine told me he’s guilty. That’s true?’

‘He’s confessed to both murders, that’s true.’

‘You don’t believe him?’

‘I’m finding it difficult,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve heard him admit it on tape, and I’ve learned a lot of stuff about what he was like when he was young, in Granada. Yet I’m still finding it difficult. I don’t care what he was like then, I know him as he is now, and I can’t come to terms with him having done something as awful as this. . or done anything awful, for that matter. Be honest with me, Elena, you must know Gerard. .’

‘Yes,’ she interposed, ‘when Ben and I were together, I went to church here. I know him; he’s a good priest.’

‘And a good man. Can you accept this?’

‘Not easily. . but I suppose I have to. He’s declared his own guilt, and the forensic evidence is absolute.’

There are no absolutes in humanity , I thought, and as I did so I felt a faintly uncomfortable wriggling, somewhere at the back of my mind.

‘In a way I’m glad it’s him,’ Elena continued.

My frown was so quick and strong I thought I’d pulled a muscle in my forehead. ‘You’re glad?’ I repeated.

She stared at the floor, avoiding my glare.

‘Tell her, love,’ said Ben quietly. ‘Tell her what you’ve just told me.’