Blood Red by Quintin Jardine Page B

time to time I get horny. So it was that morning. When you’re celibate, and you get that way . . . well, I find that the best thing to do is to put on a pair of trainers and run like hell. I flashed my membership card at the entrance, changed, and went up to the fitness suite. It was busy, but there was a treadmill free. I switched it on, starting at a modest ten kilometres per hour, winding it up to twelve once I was warmed up. One of the nice things about our town gym is that there are no mirrors; people go there to exercise, not to admire their six-packs. Instead of looking at yourself sweating, as you pound out the distance, there’s nice views of the pool below and of the clay tennis courts outside. That morning I saw only one swimmer, but the three courts were all in use, even though the sun had only reached one of them.
    I’d done six kilometres of the ten I’d set for myself, when I was aware of a figure climbing on to the static bike next to me. ‘Good morning, Senora Primavera,’ said the newcomer. I glanced to the side and saw Angel Planas.
    I was running smoothly; I can go faster than the pace I’d chosen, so I had the breath to reply. ‘And to you,’ I replied. He had spoken Spanish, as we had in our previous encounters, but I chose to reply in Catalan. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’
    He switched languages. ‘Normally, I come during my afternoon break, but I’ve closed the shop until after the funeral.’
    ‘As a mark of respect?’
    ‘Of course. It wouldn’t have been seemly to do otherwise. Besides, my father may have been at odds with me, but . . .’
    ‘He was still your dad. I understand. Has Gomez given you any indication about the funeral?’
    He set himself a programme, and started to pedal slowly. ‘He’s told me that after the examination this morning, he will ask the public prosecutor for authority to release the body. Unless something unexpected comes up, that will happen tomorrow, so it will be on Thursday morning.’
    ‘Doesn’t give you much time to let people know.’
    ‘We have a very good informal system for spreading the word. We put the details on notices in shop windows and on lamp posts, all through the old town. It works.’
    ‘What about the other parts of L’Escala?’
    Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a smile on his face. ‘To my father, the modern areas barely existed.’
    He set to pedalling, and I cranked up my speed a little, putting further discourse beyond either of us. I finished my programme with a sprint, then wound down for a couple of minutes, before stepping off the treadmill. As my heart rate settled back to normal I did some stretching exercises, until finally I reckoned I had burned off most of my raging hormones. I waved goodbye to Angel and went back to the changing room.
    By the time I made it back to L’Escala, looking presentable and fit for the day . . . I tend to use very little make-up, just Garnier sun cream as a base and a little lippie, and keep my hair shortish and spiky, the straight from the shower look . . . I had worked off breakfast and was fairly hungry. It was still well shy of eleven, but Meson del Conde’s tables were out and ready for the day, so Charlie and I sat down and I asked Cisco for a cortado . . . a café solo with milk . . . a bottle of Vichy Catalan, a croissant and a dish of water for the dog.
    I had just killed the coffee and was tucking into the crab-like roll when Ben Simmers came into the square, looking neither right nor left but heading straight for my house, his distinctive gait so brisk that it was almost a trot.
    ‘Hey!’ I called to him, between bites. ‘If you’re looking for me, try here.’
    He spun round, saw me and came across to my table.
    ‘Want a coffee?’ I asked.
    ‘No, no time.’
    He seemed more than a little agitated. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘quit acting like the white fucking rabbit and tell me what’s up.’
    ‘My mum,’ he blurted out. ‘She’s down at the shop, and