‘How did you guess that?’
‘Because that’s their case, that’s the link that would tie me to both victims, and give me a motive for killing Dolores. Sex, Gerard, sex; you’re never too old. This is what the police and the prosecutor will say. Are you ready for it?’
‘Let me hear it.’
‘Okay, it reads like this. José-Luis and Dolores were having it off on the quiet; when he got back from the Miryam, he had a visit from her. Gomez will say that Planas had just given her one and zipped up, and she’d gone into the house to, freshen up, let’s say, when I arrived, with the intention of saving myself twelve thousand euro. I’d just clobbered him with the chair when she came out of the house, taking me by surprise, for I didn’t know she was there. I subdued her, rigged the scene to make it look like an accident, took the glass to eliminate any trace of her having been there, and took her away in her car. I hid her at my place, gagged and bound till I figured out what to do with her, then dumped and burned her motor. When I heard at the old man’s wake that the car had been found, I decided that the time had come to kill her, and, when I had a chance, to put her body somewhere it would never be found, maybe under the flagstone in the storeroom itself, in what I reckon was once a limepit. But I got unlucky, they’ll say; first I left a print on the chair, and second, Charlie smelled her, once she was dead, and raised the alarm. My love,’ I used the term without thinking, ‘even you would convict me on the basis of that evidence.’
He was silent for a while. ‘No,’ he replied, eventually, ‘I wouldn’t. . faith overcomes all doubts.’ I felt a renewed burst of guilt at my suspicion over those feminine items. ‘I understand your scenario, though, and you’re right, that’s how Gomez, and even Alex will see it.’
‘So what can I do?’
‘Stay where you are, be patient, and wait. Nobody is that clever; there’s something wrong with the picture and in time we’ll see it.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Any other orders, sir?’
‘Yes. Get out of that bath; it must be cold by now. . plus, the bubbles must have disappeared and it’s starting to disturb me.’
Thirty-five
I chose the second bedroom. It wouldn’t have felt right to have slept in Gerard’s bed. The divan was made up, with a fitted sheet and another, loose, on top, all that was needed there in the summer. Too much, in fact, for I found when I woke at half past six, after about five hours’ sleep, that I’d kicked it off.
I dressed, then tidied up, took the few clothes I had left from my haversack and put them away in a small chest of drawers beside the door. When I was done I took the stuff I had worn on the journey up to the kitchen and put the lot into a washer-dryer that was plumbed in near the sink, with a dishwasher on the other side. I looked in the cupboard between them and found detergent and liquid capsules. There was no manual, but the controls were self-explanatory, the kind that even a man would find easy to work out.
I programmed the machine, and then turned my attention to the fact that I was starving. I could have raided the freezer, but I felt that I’d run up a big enough tab with my benefactor, so I decided to be brave and go out. There was another consideration. . I couldn’t find any booze in the place apart from the San Miguel, and I don’t like San Miguel.
I decided to head down to the Paseo de los Tristes; it had looked friendly, the sort of place where the police wouldn’t need to hang around, so I was sure I could chance it. I had no problem finding it, although I’d reached Goats’ Hill by a circuitous route. All I had to do was head for the Alhambra, and I’d be bound to get there.
The streets in the Albacin are narrow, many of them too narrow for cars, but it’s hardly a maze. Even so, I missed my way, and came out at the foot of a flight of steps, in the middle of the narrow street where I’d played tig with pedestrians, beside a building with a sign that announced an old Arab thermal bathhouse. . a thousand years old, to be approximate. I went inside, on impulse. I’d been to Andalusia before, but not exactly as a tourist, so I’d had few Moorish experiences. The baths aren’t operational any more. . and anyway, I’d just had one. . but the building looked as if it was seeing its second millennium. There were no windows, just star-shaped holes in the roof and walls that provided both light and ventilation. In Scotland, a place like that would be turned into a pub in the wink of an eye.
I didn’t stay long but joined the crowd outside as it weaved its way in the direction that I wanted to go. When I got there, I was lucky; the first two groups of tables I passed were fully occupied, but I managed to find one opposite the third café. It had a French name, but an Italian menu. . that’s Spain for you. I went for cured ham and bread as a starter, then tagliatelle with a pesto sauce, plus a bottle of Chianti, and some still water. From my table I could see that the kitchen was small, so I anticipated that I might have a wait before the food arrived, but the wine came by return, so I wasn’t bothered.
As a bonus, I was sitting in the shadow of the Alhambra. . not literally; the sun was heading west by that time. . being entertained by three buskers with guitars and a very nice way with the works of Lennon and McCartney and Eric Clapton. I felt. . looking back, it’s hard to explain what I felt, but there I was, accused of murder, separated from everyone I loved, yet I was exhilarated, and in that moment, utterly perversely, I was able to be completely honest with myself and to face the truth about myself; that although I had chosen the ideal environment in which to raise my son, I couldn’t just settle for that.
There were things I was missing; I had known excitement in the past, and I had thrived on it, but since Oz’s death I had run away from anything that smelled of personal fulfilment, other than Tom. I’d become diminished, and I knew of someone who would not have approved of that at all. ‘Okay,’ I whispered to him. ‘I’ll find myself again.’ And as a very first step in that process, I knew that I was going to break a promise. But what the hell; it was one that I’d been finding it hard to keep anyway.
Thirty-six
The food when it came was pretty good; the buskers were. . funny thing, but the more Chianti I drank, the better they got. When one of them came round the tables flogging their CD I bought it before I’d even asked the price. When I found that it was only ten euro, I bought three, the extras intended for Gerard and Mac.
It was dark when I left the pavement café. During the evening a couple of guys had tried to hit on me; it was good for morale, and happily neither of them had taken it badly when I’d made it clear they were wasting their time. I found Goats’ Hill more easily than I’d found the Paseo earlier; it turned out that it was more or less in a straight line up a passage that began directly across the road from where I’d been sitting.
The streets of the Albacin are poorly illuminated, but there was enough light in the moon to show me the way to my temporary home. When I got in, I watched a little telly. . Gerard had CNN in English as well as Spanish, and BBC World Service, but that’s crap so I didn’t stay on it for long. . until I decided that taking a shower then going back to sleep was a good idea, and did both.
I had left the bedroom shutter open, just a crack, but it was enough to wake me when the sun rose high enough to hit it. I felt refreshed, and hungry again, so I slipped on a knee-length T-shirt. . nightshirt, really. . and trotted upstairs. I dug out a couple of slices of bread from one of the loaves in the freezer. . I had transferred the butter to the fridge the night before. . stuck them in the toaster and pressed the lever down. Rather than wait for it to pop, I filled the electric kettle, from a five-litre flagon of drinking water that I’d found beside the detergent, and set it to work.