Blood Red

Twenty-nine

Gerard didn’t turn up for supper that night. I wondered if he might be waiting for me to call him to tell him it was okay, but I wasn’t about to do that. So Tom, Mac and I had another pleasant family evening, even if for much of it I did find myself hoping that the gate buzzer would ring, and it would be him, apologising for being late.

I had misgivings about going to the funeral of José-Luis Planas next morning, but in the end I kept my promise to his son. Maybe, since I had seen him in his final undignified pose, I felt the need to obliterate that as my last memory of a man I had known only briefly, or maybe I was just one of those cynics that Angel had said would be there only to make sure that he really was dead. Or maybe there was a deeper reason. The last funeral I had attended was that of my mother, five years before. When Oz died I was on another continent, and for various reasons I couldn’t make it back for his. So I suppose it’s possible that as I stood near the centre of the substantial congregation, I was looking at one coffin while my subconscious was seeing another.

Gerard was there of course, assisting Father Olivares. I made eye contact with him at one point, but didn’t get as much as a flicker of recognition in return. Oh dear, I thought, I’ve really burned some boats with him.

Justine was there too, but not beside her sister; instead she was seated on the other side of the aisle in the centre of a group of twelve, the remaining members of the council either paying their respects or giving thanks for the political stability that the death had brought. She wore a simple black lace shawl over her head. (No, not a mantilla. That’s held up by a comb.) It made me all the more aware of the lack of mine. I’d looked for it all over the house, but been unable to find it.

The requiem Mass dragged on, and on, as they do, before the old priest pronounced the benediction, shook hands with Angel and Elena, then stood to one side as the coffin was carried out to the waiting hearse with the couple following behind. Angel looked grave, his face pale, but his wife was hollow cheeked and her eyes were hidden behind wrap-around sunglasses.

As I filed out with the rest of the crowd, I saw that Angel was standing beside his limo; the door was open and Elena was inside, pressed into a corner, as far from the throng as she could force herself. I made my way towards him.

I held out a hand, formally. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured; I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Thank you,’ he responded. He seemed strange, friendly enough, but slightly distant; not unnatural, I supposed, for a man who was burying his father.

‘Has there been any news of Elena’s mother?’ I asked, although her absence was a pretty fair indicator that there had been nothing positive.

He shook his head. ‘No. Nor do there seem to have been any new developments in the investigation into my father’s murder. The Mossos have not been at their most impressive,’ he added bitterly. ‘Justine has instructed them to inform her of everything they have, but all they can give her are suspicions that I for one cannot credit.’

That puzzled me. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing you need worry about. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’ He broke off as the undertaker approached, to tell him that they were ready to go, then turned back to me. ‘Listen, we are having a small reception in the terrace restaurant of Meson del Conde this evening, for my father’s council colleagues and for those people in the town who knew him best. It’s at seven; please join us.’ He slid into the big black car beside his wife, and closed the door before I had a chance to tell him that I was cooking for Mac and Tom that evening.