Read Online Blood Red by Quintin Jardine - Free Book Online Page B

Justine sat in the back for a change, and I was in the front. We had almost reached the village when he glanced across to me. ‘When did you last see Gerard?’ he murmured, barely audible above the engine noise.
    ‘Today, in church.’
    ‘I don’t mean that. I mean when did you last see him before that?’ I frowned at him. ‘For Christ’s sake, Primavera,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’m not out to crack the case here. Gerard’s my friend too. Sooner or later those two detectives are going to be visiting every priest in this area, and I’d rather know whatever there is to know before they do.’
    ‘We had dinner together on Friday.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘In La Lluna, near your office.’
    ‘Did you tell him about your problem with Planas?’
    ‘Yes, I did.’
    ‘How did he react?’
    ‘How do you think? You know him; he was angry.’ I stopped short as I recalled his reaction to the story; that if Planas was a younger man, he might have taken off his collar . . .
    I was afraid that Alex would press me, but he didn’t. ‘Yes,’ he said, as we crested the road into St Martí, and he drew to a halt in front of the church, ‘I can see he would have been. But you haven’t answered my question.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘When did you see him last?’
    ‘When we left La Lluna, he drove me back home; it would have been closer to one than midnight, for everything here was closed.’
    ‘And?’ He looked pained. ‘Sorry, Primavera, I need to know.’
    A lot of stuff went through my mind, very quickly. Going by what I’d seen of the body, from above and close to, as the paramedics had carried him past us, uncovered on their stretcher, I reckoned that he had lain in the open for all of Saturday, and Sunday, under cloudless skies and a blazing sun. Maybe he did have a heart attack and fall, while Gerard and I were having dinner. If he had, the autopsy would tell us, for sure. But maybe not. When he died, he’d been dressed in loose black trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and leather slippers, not the suit, tie and brogues that he’d worn for our meeting. He’d gone home and dressed for the evening. Maybe he was an early bedder, and he’d have been in pyjamas if he’d died after midnight. But I didn’t buy that. No, I feared that when we knew the time of death, it wasn’t going to help at all.
    I almost said it: ‘And . . . he came inside. We stayed in bed until around nine next morning, then we had breakfast, before he left around ten, through the garage down below, where he wouldn’t be seen.’
    It was on the tip of my tongue; it almost escaped, but just in time I realised that almost certainly it would destroy our friendship, our relationship, when he was asked to confirm it, as he would be. Also, I looked at Alex and remembered that I’d be lying to a man who trusted me enough to make me godmother to his child. And I thought of Tom. If it came to that point, Gomez and Garcia would be sure to want to interview him about his mother’s bedtime habits; no way would I allow that.
    ‘He dropped me off,’ I finished, ‘where we’re parked right now, and then he drove off.’
    ‘Where did he go?’
    ‘Back to the priests’ house in L’Escala.’
    Alex sighed. ‘Good.’
    ‘You were expecting something different?’
    ‘I wasn’t expecting anything, I promise.’ He paused. ‘What else?’ he mused. ‘Yes, how was he dressed? What was he wearing?’
    ‘His usual off-duty gear. Denims, open-necked shirt and that sports jacket of his. You know the one, with the elbow patches.’
    ‘Sure. Do him a favour, buy him a new one for Christmas, or his birthday, otherwise he’ll wear that thing till it dies.’
    I laughed with him, relieved that he hadn’t asked me what colour the shirt was, or said anything that would have made me admit to what I’d seen sticking out of the breast pocket of the old jacket, the end of a white plastic clerical collar.

Fourteen
    T o my surprise Tom was still at the table in Can