Quintin Jardine - Hour Of Darkness

Her smile said that she wasn’t kidding. It was warmer than I’d seen it since the early days of our marriage, and it seemed to come from deeper within her. I couldn’t remember Sarah ever looking more relaxed. I hoped I looked the same, for that was how I felt.

We’d spent a whole week in L’Escala, and never left town; we’d walked, we’d swum, we’d eaten, we’d loved, we’d caught up with some friends, British and Catalan, but most of all we’d talked. We’d talked about us as a couple, we’d talked about Sarah’s career and we’d talked about mine. Yes, we’d talked about the kids too, but less and less as the time went on. More and more we’d found ourselves talking about me; about what I wanted, and how I wanted the rest of my life to be.

And at the end of it all, I’d made a decision.

That plan that Sarah mentioned? Oh yes, that was a good one. We’d have an early lunch in La Clota, then take the train to Barcelona Passeig de Gracia, check into a gastronomic hotel in Placa Reial and explore the city for all of Sunday, before getting back to Scotland and the family that we’d made, split asunder, but, thank God, reunited.

Everything was good, even the calamares. I’ve found that squid can be a risky choice in a restaurant, because not every chef knows how to cook it properly, but I’ve rarely had better than I did that day. I didn’t have anything else, as I wanted to keep space for dinner, but it hit the spot.

‘That okay?’ John, the ever-solicitous proprietor, asked, as I finished.

‘It’ll do,’ I replied: I like to keep him on his toes.

‘Good. My father-in-law caught it; I’ll tell him to fish in that place again.’

‘In that case I’m not going to ask where your beef comes from.’

He grinned. ‘Hah, funny man. You be back soon?’ he asked Sarah.

‘Yup,’ she told him. ‘We’re bringing the kids for the October school holiday.’

‘That’s good; we’ll still be here. Maybe you can help carve the meat. .’ he laughed, ‘. . or would that be too much like your work?’

I looked around; the terrace tables were fully occupied, and a few diners had been seated indoors. The staff were bustling around, doing their best to keep everyone happy.

‘You flying one short?’ I asked John.

‘What you mean?’

‘The kid who was here last weekend; I don’t see him.’

‘Nacho? No, he left. He said he had to go back to Cordoba. He’s a good waiter even though he doesn’t speak Catalan. He say he come back next year, but with kids, you never know.’

‘Tell me about it! We have our dropouts in the police force too. It’s a bugger when you’ve spent serious money training them, only for them to piss off and join private security firms.’

Sod it! He’d got me talking about work, and I had forsworn that for the rest of the break.

‘Gimme a bill, please,’ I asked. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’ To speed the process, I handed him a fifty euro note.

‘Thanks,’ I said as he left. Sarah looked at me, puzzled.

‘Thanks for what?’

‘Thanks for making my life complete again. For having faith in me. For showing me the way forward when I was uncertain and confused. For loving me. Come on, let’s go to Barcelona and have the time of our lives.’

We stood and I waved farewell to John, stopping him as he headed back with around twelve euro in change. Sarah took my arm and we walked off, towards Club Nautic, where our car, the one I keep out there, was parked, looking at the ranks of moored boats, and feeling the comfort of the early afternoon warmth, rather than full-on heat. In the days that we had been there the season had begun to change, as summer morphed into autumn.

‘One day,’ I murmured, ‘we’re going to spend more time here. Seonaid hardly knows this place, and the boys haven’t seen nearly enough of it. That’s my fault; if I hadn’t messed us up. .’

She squeezed my bicep. ‘We’re done talking about that. We messed us up, not just you, and now we’ve put us back together again.’

I kissed the top of her head as I clicked the remote to unlock the car. ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘I’ve never looked forward to growing old before, but I do now, knowing I’ll do it with you.’

It was a beautiful moment, one of those you wish you could encase in plastic and keep for ever.

And then, with timing that could have come from the pits of hell, the phone rang, and I took the call that started a chain of events that changed everything that I was, and might have been.

‘How far along is it?’ Karen Neville asked as Singh turned their unmarked police car into Caledonian Crescent.

‘I can see one of our vehicles right at the far end,’ he replied, ‘so I guess that’s it.’

The street was less curved than its name implied. On either side, grey four-storey tenement blocks rose above them. ‘I should know, I suppose,’ he added. ‘I lived here when I was a kid; number ninety-eight. It’s changed a lot since then. We didn’t have door buzzers in the streets; all the stairwells smelled like prisons.’

‘Prisons?’

‘Aye. You know; boiled cabbage and pish.’

He drove slowly between the ranks of cars; Saturday, so the resident parking bays were all full. There was a disabled space opposite their destination; he took it and put a ‘CID on business’ card in the window.

The police car that he had seen was unoccupied, and the entry door to one forty-two was closed.

‘Did Mackenzie give you a flat number?’ the sergeant asked.

‘No, he was too busy giving me a hard time. Smart-arse, indeed,’ he growled.

‘Live with it,’ she said. ‘Push some buttons till we get the right one.’

Singh was about to begin the process of elimination when, to his surprise, the door clicked and opened an inch or two. The two detectives stepped into the hallway, and came face to face with an elderly lady, standing at the entrance to what they guessed was her home.

‘I took you for police,’ she announced.

The DC beamed. ‘So much for plain-clothes duty.’

The householder smiled, gently. ‘You, son, could not be anything else.’ Then she frowned. ‘Here, did you not live in the Crescent, what, oh, twenty years ago?’

‘That’s right’

‘What’s your name again?’

‘Talvin.’

‘That’s right. I used to talk to your mother. How is she?’

Unlike quite a few other neighbours , Singh recalled. ‘She’s fine,’ he told her. ‘My dad died a few years ago, though.’

‘Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, son. You tell your mum that Greta McConnochie was asking for her.’

‘I will indeed.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose you know. .’

‘Where the other police are? Yes, they’re one floor up, flat one. What is it? No’ a burglary, I hope.’

‘We’re not sure yet. But it’s nothing for you to worry yourself about. Thanks, Mrs McConnochie.’

They left the neighbour on guard duty and headed for the stone staircase. Flat one faced them on the landing; they knew that not by the number but by the black-clad woman constable guarding the door. She recognised Singh, one of those ‘once seen, never forgotten’ people. ‘Hi, Talvin,’ she greeted him. ‘You got the short straw?’

‘Nah, Whitney. I’m popular, that’s all. This is DS Neville, she’s new to the division.’

The two women exchanged nods, then the constable stepped to one side. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘Forrest, my oppo’s with the girl from the law firm and the meter reader. He’s seriously pissed off with us, by the way, for makin’ him hang on.’

‘Tough luck on him,’ Singh observed. ‘We’d be pissed off with you if you hadn’t.’