Blood Red

Forty-two

I was later than I’d anticipated when I got back to Goats’ Hill. I’d meant to use my bono turistica and jump on a bus, but when it came to it I wasn’t sure which route to take, so I grabbed a taxi instead and got him to take me as near as he could.

I apologised as soon as I stepped inside, in case Santi had been worried about me, but he hadn’t; and anyway, the bags I was carrying told some sort of a story. He had been shopping himself and had made lunch, a salad consisting of curly pasta. . it has a name but I can never remember it. . hard-boiled eggs, quartered, chopped black olives, capers and smoked salmon, all tossed in what looked like Thousand Island dressing, but had a bit more zing to it. I was still digesting churros, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I sat down and I tucked in.

I was glad that I did; it was fantastic. ‘Do you ever think about doing this for a living?’ I asked him.

He smiled, pleased by the compliment. ‘Maybe, one day, it might be possible. I don’t want to be flying airbuses forever; my airline will let me go on till I’m sixty, but fifty’s my personal retirement date. After that I’ll look at other options.’

‘What about your girlfriend?’ I asked. ‘Is that serious? Might you do something together?’

‘Oh, it’s serious, but where it will go? I can’t see two years ahead with her, far less eleven.’

It was well after three by the time we’d finished eating, and I’d tidied up. . that consisted of loading everything into the dishwasher. . lavavajillas, in Spanish: lovely word, it means exactly the same thing as the English version, but looks so much nicer. We still had four days to go on the tourist pass, and plenty to see, so when we were ready we walked down into the city, slowly and in the shadows, for it was hot, heading for the cathedral. The heather sellers were out in force again, but I passed them by. My internet sessions with Mark had left me with a warm feeling, one that I didn’t want to put at risk from another round of Romany histrionics.

Granada’s cathedral isn’t as big as that of its Andalusian neighbour Sevilla. . that’s the biggest in the world, they say, since St Peter’s in Rome isn’t actually a cathedral. . but it’s pretty chunky nonetheless, and beautiful inside. Once again, Santi guided me round, explaining the history, and the meaning of each of the nine stained-glass windows. As we sat in the centre of the aisle, beneath the enormous twin banks of organ pipes, the thought occurred that it would be nice to come back with Gerard, to hear his take on it. I fancied he might have been less impressed than his brother. He’d said to me more than once that he felt slightly uncomfortable when he was confronted by the wealth of his church, and in that ornate building there were great riches on open display.

That was it for the day, as far as sightseeing was concerned. I was able to concentrate on the cathedral, but as soon as we were outside my mind headed back home. It was early evening: I wondered how long it would take the London team to reach St Martí.

As it happened, the word got there before the reality. Santi and I were sitting in a pavement bar in Plaza Nueva, contemplating a litre jar of sangria that had just been delivered to our table, trying to guess from our first taste what was in it, apart from ice, when my mobile sounded. ‘Gerard,’ I said as I took the call, ‘say hello to your twin.’

I handed the phone to Santi. They exchanged very few words before he passed it back. ‘Sounds agitated,’ he whispered.

‘What have you done?’ Gerard asked.

‘You might call it direct action,’ I replied. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ve just had a visit from Alex. He told me that they’ve all been chucked off the case, him, Gomez, everyone. There’s a team on its way from Barcelona, senior officers, to take over. And he said something else, a story he’d been told by his boss, that some specialists are coming over from London, at the request of Madrid, to re-examine Planas’s house and your storeroom.’

‘Are they indeed?’ I said. ‘Poor Alex; I hope he isn’t too upset.’

‘Very far from it. Given your involvement, he’s relieved to be having no more to do with it. Gomez isn’t though; he sees it as a personal and professional slur.’

‘Maybe if he’d been a bit more professional, it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Primavera, did you have anything to do with this?’

I chuckled. ‘Gerard, do you think I can make a phone call to Madrid and this sort of thing happens?’

‘My dear, I would put nothing past you. Is this going to work in your favour?’

‘It can’t make it any worse, but yes, I believe it will.’

‘I’ll pray for it.’

I laughed again. ‘You mean you haven’t been?’

‘Of course I have. Morning, noon and night.’

‘Then maybe they’re being answered.’

‘So God’s hand is in this, not yours?’

‘Not unless he’s in a wheelchair.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Never mind. I hope I’ll be able to tell you all about it very soon.’

‘Let’s hope so, and not on a slow boat to Morocco. Don’t tell Santiago, though, not yet; he still needs to be totally innocent of all knowledge of this business.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I promised. ‘I won’t let any harm come to either of you.’