Quintin Jardine - Blood Red

‘Then I wish you luck, for you may find that there’s no stronger armour than a man’s sense of his own righteousness.’ He broke off and stared at the empty plate on the table. ‘Hey, what happened to the last three pieces?’

Tom laughed; Charlie looked guilty.

In the light of everything Gerard had told me, and of his warning, I decided on an oblique approach to the problem. I decided also that a hall table I had inherited when I bought the house was in need of a move to the garage, and so I headed for Mobles Planas, the problem’s store halfway down Avinguda Ave Maria, L’Escala’s main drag.

It’s a big shop, warehouse-like, on two floors, with a range of furniture that had been drastically improved in the three years since my only other visit. Virtually all of the old dark, traditional stuff had been replaced by modern styles and modern materials; it seemed as if the business had gone from the nineteenth century to the twenty-first in a single bound. I guessed the reason, and so I wasn’t surprised when it approached me, medium height, slim, dark haired, in light trousers and a striped open-necked shirt with long sleeves; pretty formal working gear by local standards, a sign of authority.

‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said Angel Planas, in English.

‘And to you, sir,’ I replied, in Catalan.

He smiled, in approval: a good sign, since I’ve met people, invariably men, who pretend not to understand when I have the temerity to speak their language. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

I pointed to a Georgian repro semi-circular, three-legged wall table, one of the few pieces from the former stock that remained. I could see why, but my house is old, and it was quirky enough to fit in. ‘That,’ I told him. ‘I think I’ll have it.’

He nodded, checked the price label, then took out a calculator and hit some numbers. ‘I can give you a twenty per cent discount that will take the price down to one hundred and forty euro,’ he announced.

‘Done.’ I handed him my credit card.

‘Do you want it delivered, Senora Blackstone?’ he asked, as he entered the details into his reader, and handed it to me, to insert my pin.

‘No, my Jeep’s parked just outside; it’ll fit on the platform.’

‘I’ll carry it out for you. .’ he paused, ‘. . once we’ve discussed the other reason for your visit.’

So much for oblique, but I played it cute. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Justine told my wife about your call into her office, and about the problem that you and Ben have with his wine fair. You’ve come to ask me if I can twist my father’s arm and get him to relent.’

‘And to buy a very nice table, but yes, you’re right.’

‘I can cancel the sale if you like, for I’m not going to be able to help. My father and I haven’t spoken in over a year. He has never been in our house.’

I looked around. ‘But you manage his business.’

Angel shook his head. ‘No. It’s my business now, to my dad’s great regret.’

‘Does your father like anyone?’

He chuckled. ‘Good question. Not really.’

‘Then why does he keep on getting elected to the council?’

‘Because he stands for certain values that he shares with the majority of older Catalans. . and maybe not only Catalans, maybe most Spanish people of his age. He was anti-Franco in his time, in his suppression of our identity, but he was right-wing nonetheless. He’s against the European Union, against NATO, and against immigration. Foreign residents are anathema to him, just as most of his views are anathema to me.’ He grinned. ‘He’d never have given you the discount that locally born customers have always received. But he’s not a fascist, and he’s not a racist; he’s a monarchist to the end, and he employs a Moroccan couple as his gardener and housekeeper.’ The grin became a quick chuckle. ‘OK, it’s because they’re cheap, but I know people who’d repatriate them all.’

‘You sound fond of him.’

‘He’s my father. I am.’

‘But you don’t speak.’

‘His choice. When Elena and Ben broke up and we got back together, he was furious. He told me that she was soiled, damaged goods. I laughed in his face. When I told him we were getting married, he exploded. He said he’d disinherit me; tried to throw me out of this shop. I told him, “You’re too late, old man. You’ve already made this business and the property over to me.” He said, in that case he’d never set foot in it again, and walked out. He’s been as good as his word.’

‘Yet he went to your wedding.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘Father Gerard told me.’

‘Ah,’ Angel murmured. ‘But Gerard probably doesn’t know that it was his boss, the old priest, who insisted that he go. He told him that L’Escala would never trust a man who would boycott his own son’s wedding Mass. Papa’s very proud of his position in the town; it’s the only thing anyone could threaten him with.’

‘Then maybe I will.’

‘It won’t work. His voters don’t care about an Englishman holding a wine fair in St Martí, or anywhere else. They’d support Papa if they knew what he was doing.’

‘So you won’t speak to him about this?’

‘It would only make him more resolved. Let me tell you something else about our wedding, something nobody knows. As I understand it, in Britain the custom is for the bride’s father to pay for the wedding feast. We don’t do that; here each family invites and pays for their own guests, and so do the couple. My father didn’t invite anybody. So Elena and I put him on our list. He came, didn’t say a word to anyone, and left as soon as he could. Two weeks later, after the honeymoon, when I went back to the shop and sorted through my mail, I found an envelope with cash in it, enough to cover the cost of a single meal. I found out from the caterer that he’d asked him how much he had quoted per head. That’s my father. You’ve never met anyone like him, when it comes to getting even.’

‘Oh, but I have,’ I said. ‘And I was married to him.’

Iasked Angel for his father’s address, but he told me that there was no point in giving it to me, since I wouldn’t get to see him there. He said that he had a video entry system on his gate, and that he’d never open it to a stranger. . although, he added, undoubtedly he’d know who I was. It seemed that I was a hell of a lot better known in the town than I realised. That came as something of a shock, but maybe I was being naive, given my surname, and given the hornets’ nest that Oz and I had disturbed during our final stay there.

My best plan, I was advised, was to run him to ground in one of his haunts, of which there were five: the town hall, where he had an office that he used occasionally, the restaurant in Hostal Miryam, where he ate most evenings, a bar in Carrer del Port (‘Carrer’ means ‘street’ in Catalan) that his grandfather had opened eighty years ago, another, on Avinguda Girona, that he had founded himself, and the estate agency that had been owned and run by Angel’s mother, until her death.

I talked over the options with Ben, after I had unloaded my new table, and moved its predecessor down to the garage beneath the house. Ingrid was looking after the shop while he and I, and Matthew Reid, walked the three dogs along the passage that links St Martí and L’Escala. I’m told that it used to be a dirt track, before millions were poured into the area to prepare for the arrival on the beach of the Olympic torch for the games of 1992, in Barcelona.

‘What do you think, guys?’ I asked. ‘Where should I face up to the old lizard?’

‘I think you should let me tackle him,’ said Matthew, ‘since he hates women. . or at least he has no respect for them. Given the history, there’s no way that Ben should do it, but he might be more responsive to a man-to-man chat.’