I nodded. ‘Yes, with a sort of pagoda structure over it. And a table. And chairs.’
‘Indeed. And on the table there was?’
‘I can’t remember that.’
‘A bottle. Faustino One, red, from La Rioja, a very fine wine. Beside it, a glass, half full, although there would have been a little evaporation between it being poured and being discovered. The bottle was empty, Senora Blackstone.’ I frowned, wondering where he was going with this. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. ‘But Senor Planas didn’t drink it all himself.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘From the contents of his stomach. One partly digested steak and French fries, consumed earlier that night in Hostal Miryam. . where he had no wine, only a small bottle of water and a coffee. . and forty-two centilitres of red wine. The bottle held seventy, the glass contained eleven, allowing for evaporation. Someone else had the other seventeen.’
‘Maybe he drank the bottle over two nights,’ I suggested.
‘The corkscrew was on the table, with the cork still in it; it’s logical that it had just been drawn. Left open, it would not have been drinkable on the second night. For sure, he had a companion, and after he was dead, that person cleaned the second glass and put it away, or simply took it when they left.’
‘It’s possible that person left before Planas was attacked.’
‘And he was so tidy that he washed the second glass right away? Possible, but it’s a tight timescale. Our examiner says that he died between midnight and four in the morning. He didn’t leave Miryam until just after ten. The time on his bill, when it was printed out, was two minutes before. No. I believe he got home and had a caller, maybe someone he was expecting, maybe not, but someone he knew well enough to give a glass of damn fine wine. And I believe that caller smashed his head in, arranged things so that we stupid cops would buy it as an accident, then got to hell out of there.’
‘Your second pathologist will be able to confirm this?’
‘She’ll be able to determine the exact shape of the fatal injuries, and tell us how much force was used.’
‘Do you have any idea what the weapon might have been?’
‘We found various substances in the wounds, dirt from the ground, stone chips and other debris. We plan to match everything against items in the rockery, as far as we can.’
‘I hope you get a result. Now, much as I appreciate being told all this, why are you here? You haven’t come for my advice.’
‘No,’ Alex agreed. ‘We’ve come for a sample of your DNA.’
‘Are you saying I’m a suspect?’ I blurted out, indignantly.
‘You did have an argument with the man,’ Gomez pointed out. ‘He tried to extort money from you.’
‘Which I would have paid.’
The intendant smiled. ‘I know. You’re not a suspect, I promise, but you were at the scene. We’re taking samples from everyone who was, police and paramedics too, so that we can identify any traces we find, and eliminate those who had business there.’
‘Do you have a swab?’ I asked.
He nodded and produced one, in a container, from a pocket in his tunic.
I took it from him and wiped the probe across the inside of my cheek, returning it with a sizeable saliva sample. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Now let me warn you. . if that winds up on a national database, there will be trouble. I am not a fan of Big Brother.’
Both he and Alex stared at me as if I was mad, and then I realised why. Poor old Orwell, I thought. His greatest creation consigned to obscurity by a crap TV show.
Eighteen
But did I really believe Gomez? Hard as I tried to get on with the rest of my day, that question kept interrupting it. After all, I did have a major argument with a murder victim a matter of hours before he attained that status. Had I been sweet-talked into volunteering a personal sample that no lawyer would have allowed Gomez to take without an order from the court? I thought of all the cops I’ve known over the years. In those circumstances Ricky Ross, when he was in Edinburgh CID, and even Mike Dylan, bless his imperfect soul, would have been all over me like a nasty skin condition. When I looked at the situation, dispassionately, even I would have had me down as a suspect.
After all, Gerard had dropped me off not long after midnight, at the very start of the four-hour period during which, the pathologist said, the guy had been killed. Ben Simmers had gone home as soon as I’d got back, leaving me alone with Tom, who was sound asleep. There was nobody to say that I hadn’t crept out again, gone to Planas’s place, talked myself past the entry system, had a glass of wine with the old shit, then bashed his head in. But, I asked myself, why would I have done that? The devil’s advocate in me replied: the police could argue that I was saving myself twelve thousand euro. I might counter that, by my standards, that amount isn’t worth the risk, even if I was the homicidal type, but. . my father has a saying: ‘There are two sorts of money. There is money, and there is my money, and one’s attitude to each is completely different.’ Christ, I had some sort of a motive, I had no alibi, and it was pretty much certain that they would find my DNA at the scene, somewhere. The problem with that was, given all those other factors. . I couldn’t think of a way of proving that I’d only been there once.
The way things stood, the only person in the world who knew for sure that I hadn’t killed the guy was me. I won’t say I was scared, but I felt a few butterflies. I called Gerard, for the comfort of hearing his voice as much as anything else, and told him about the change in the situation. I was surprised by the fact that he wasn’t.
‘Father Olivares grew up in L’Escala and he’s known Planas since they were boys. He told me that he came from a long-lived family,’ he explained. ‘His father and his father before him, they both lasted into their nineties. As I understand it, José-Luis was only 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.