Blood Red by Quintin Jardine

sixty-eight, and still danced a lively sardana with his cronies. When I told my colleague how he’d been found, he thought about it for a while then asked, “Did he fall or was he pushed?” Now we know, it seems.’ He paused. ‘This has upset you, hasn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, it has. I met the man, and hours later he was dead.’
    ‘Then the police turn up on your doorstep.’ He’s a mind-reader.
    ‘Yes!’ I said, a little too loudly.
    He laughed, gently. ‘Primavera, don’t be silly. This is a man who’s spent his life upsetting people.’
    I thought of Angel’s comment. ‘His son did say,’ I admitted, ‘that half the people at the funeral will be there to make sure he really is dead.’
    ‘Exactly. Don’t get yourself into a lather. If you want to safeguard your position, you could always hire a lawyer . . .’
    ‘Gomez might read something into that. No, I won’t be doing that unless it’s necessary.’
    ‘In that case, just relax. If they come back to you, let me know, otherwise . . .’
    ‘Will do,’ I promised. ‘Here, are you doing anything on Wednesday evening?’
    ‘Not that I know of at this moment. In my calling it’s always possible that something may arise, but as it stands I’m clear.’
    ‘Then would you like to come to my place, for supper? It’ll be above suspicion: Tom’s grandfather, Oz’s dad, is coming to stay. You’ve never met him, but I’m sure you’ll get on.’
    ‘Fine, thanks. Is he Catholic?’
    ‘No, he’s the same as me. Baptised Protestant, but broad-minded. You’ve got something else in common though. You both see people at their most vulnerable and afraid. He’s a dentist, or was, until he retired a few years back.’
    He was laughing as he hung up. Gerard’s laugh is soft, deep and musical, not the braying kind that always strikes me as affected.
    I had worked myself out of household tasks, and so I went outside and replaced the multilingual ‘Closed’ sign on the information booth with the one that reads ‘Ring for attention’. Four people did: two British, one French, one German, with a variety of questions. I answered them all, sold two tickets for the cruise boat, and sent the German on his way with a map of the cycle routes across Emporda.
    I was in the garden, reading Fatal Last Words , the latest Skinner novel . . . I’m a big fan . . . and waiting for Tom to get back from school, when the bell sounded again. I opened the door, stepped into the booth, and saw Alex Guinart standing on the other side of the wall. He was smiling, and I took that as a good sign.
    ‘How can I help you, sir?’ I asked. ‘Tickets for the carrilet ? A list of concerts in the church this summer? Contact numbers for local taxi services?’
    ‘They’re all on the noticeboard in our office. I’ve just had some good news, and I thought I’d share it with you. Hector Gomez couldn’t say anything to me until he had confirmation from our HQ in Barcelona; he had the call half an hour ago, and I’m now officially an inspector. It means a transfer to Girona, to join his team: as his number two, in fact.’
    I was dead chuffed for him. ‘Alex, congratulations.’
    ‘Yes, thanks. I’m pleased too, and so’s Gloria, although it’ll mean less-regular hours.’
    ‘What about Garcia? Will you be working with him too?’
    ‘No. He’s been transferred to Tortosa.’
    That was a new one on me. ‘Where’s that?’ I asked.
    Alex grinned. ‘It’s as far away from here as you can get without leaving Catalunya.’
    I winced. ‘You’d better behave yourself with Gomez.’
    ‘Garcia had it coming. He isn’t a good man. Hector made a point of never leaving him alone with a prisoner. I think he was biding his time; that nonsense with the piece of plastic gave him the chance to get rid of him. The guy was all ready to accuse Father Hernanz, after he heard about your argument with Planas, and since he knows that the two of you are . . .’ He hesitated, as if he was taking