‘Even if I was a little self-indulgent over Trudi Friend’s mother?’
‘What was self-indulgent about that? If I’d been here I’d probably have farmed it out to a detective constable down in Peebles and we’d have heard no more of it. You did it your way and you uncovered a mass murderer, or what was left of him. Congratulations, Chief.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d say all that to Chrissie: she still thinks I’m an old showboater who fell for a pretty face and went out of my way to impress her. As for your congratulations, I’m not sure I deserve them. I never did find Annabelle Gentle, and now, I never will.’
‘Oh, no? What did you find?’
‘Claude Bothwell, dead, and that was that: no trace of the women, no more leads, case closed.’
‘What did you expect to find under that shed? One dead woman, or maybe two. If that had been the case it really would have been all over. But you didn’t. You had a triangle, but not the way you expected.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Proud. ‘I’m old and tired. Walk me through this.’
‘Rubbish,’ Skinner retorted. ‘You’re an outstanding police officer, you can work it out for yourself. Jimmy, a few days ago I found myself telling a guy in the States that nothing in this world is unbelievable. Now I’m being shown the truth of that yet again. I think I know these women.’
Ninety-six
‘They come here every day that the weather permits,’ the captain told him, as they walked at a leisurely pace up the narrow street. ‘Except for Mondays, of course, when it is market day and very busy.’ They passed cafés, a pâtisserie, boutiques and a shop offering leatherwear, before stepping out into a sun-bathed square. ‘This is it, the Plaça de la Vila, the town place, you would say in English, and this is where they will be, at a table outside the Bar Isidre.’
‘Thank you,’ said Proud. ‘And you’re sure they have no idea I’ve been asking about them?’
‘I haven’t spoken to them, nor to anyone else. I have handled this thing myself.’
‘Good.’
‘I think it’s best I leave you to wait for them. They won’t be hard to recognise. They are still very beautiful.’ The policeman gave a brief salute, then turned and walked out of the square, not by the way they had come but up another street that wound its way up towards the old church.
Proud settled into one of the plastic chairs outside Bar Isidre, his favourite spot in Torroella de Montgri. There were people around, but in January they were few, retired, mostly, from northern Europe, escaping dark winters; his ear caught German voices at the next table, English at another. He ordered a coffee and a croissant from the beaming proprietor, and settled in to wait. He knew the square well, and he loved its quirks. There was the big painted sun-dial on the south-facing aspect, three centuries old, set to Greenwich Mean Time, and ten minutes fast, whenever the sun shone. Opposite stood the restored building that was a care centre for the elderly, north-facing to keep it as naturally cool as possible in the summer months. Across the square there was the old exhibition hall with its spindly clock tower, topped by bells that rang the hour, then did it again two minutes later, in case anyone had missed them, or miscounted.
He dunked his croissant in his coffee, listening and counting as they rang twelve times. And then he saw them, two figures walking up the hill towards him, each slim, each elegant, each with silver hair piled on the top of her head.
They were chatting as they approached, the smaller of the two laughed at something, calling out a few words of Catalan: Proud could see her daughter in her face. He beckoned to the proprietor, whose name, printed on the sugar packets, was Josep. ‘Would you ask the ladies,’ he said quietly, ‘if they would care to have coffee with me?’
He studied their faces as his invitation was conveyed, taking in their surprise, returning their glances with a smile and a nod, rising to his feet as they came to join him. ‘Good morning,’ he greeted them. ‘I’m very pleased you can join me.’
‘You’re Scottish,’ the taller woman observed.
‘I am, from Edinburgh, as it happens.’ He stood until they had taken seats, then resumed his own as Josep, unbidden, returned with two cortados, strong coffee with milk, served in small glasses. He smiled. ‘My name is James Proud,’ he began. ‘Forty-two years ago, I was a reasonably good athlete. I won a trophy at my school sports, and you, Señora, presented it to me. I’ve never forgotten you; I think I’d have recognised you anywhere.’
Montserrat Rivera gasped; her mouth opened slightly and her face seemed to pale very slightly under her tan.
‘What do you do in Edinburgh, Mr Proud?’ Annabelle Gentle asked; her tone was more suspicious than curious.
‘Actually, it’s Sir James,’ he said, almost shyly. ‘I’m the chief constable.’ Their eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have found you. I promised someone that I would.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Your daughter, Miss Gentle.’
‘My. .’
‘Her name is Trudi Friend. She wants to find you because your granddaughter is getting married, and also, I believe, although she hasn’t said as much, because she thinks it’s time. She’s waiting in L’Escala, at my friend’s house, with my wife.’
Montserrat Rivera gazed at him coolly. ‘If you’ve found us,’ she murmured, ‘you’ve found Bothwell. It was I. I killed him, not Annabelle. It was what he planned to do to me, I know it.’
‘So do I,’ Proud told her. ‘He’d already killed two wives.’
Her eyes creased as she winced. ‘Why does that not surprise me? He was an evil man. Charming and handsome on the outside, but when you saw what was within him you knew that it was rotten. He beat me.’
‘I know.’
‘He stole from me; all the money my father gave me when we married.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘He seduced Annabelle. He told her I was a monster and that he was leaving me, after the school year was over. And then Annabelle and I met. She sought me out, because she wanted to see for herself how wicked I was. She bumped into me, as if by accident, in Patrick Thomson’s, the department store. We got to talking; we met again, and eventually she told me the truth. I was no fool. He had bought a new hut for the garden.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Imagine!’ She snorted. ‘A man is leaving, yet he does that, and buys cement to make concrete to stand it on. I saw him dig in the garden, and I feared what he was digging. So when he tried to kill me, in the kitchen, with a hammer, I was ready for him, and I killed him.’
‘No.’ Proud was startled by Annabelle’s forceful whisper. ‘That’s not what happened. We both killed him. I came to the house and we confronted him. He went berserk, flew into the most horrible rage I’ve ever seen, and he attacked us both with the hammer. I grabbed his arm and Montsy stabbed him. That’s how it was. When it was dark we rolled him in a rug, we buried him in the hole he had made, and then, next day, Montsy mixed the concrete and covered him. When it was hard, we moved the shed on to it. When we were finished we left, made a run for it in his car and came here, to Spain, where there was no extradition.’
‘You’ve lived here ever since?’
‘Yes,’ Montserrat replied. ‘We went to work in my father’s hotel, and when he retired, we took it over. We sold it five years ago; we’re retired now.’
‘What about Bothwell’s money?’
‘I found a bank-book for an account in the Channel Islands. I took back what was mine and left the rest. I still have the book.’ She looked at him. ‘So. . Sir James. . what happens now? You will have us arrested here, I suppose, and taken back to Scotland. There is extradition now.’
‘And what the hell would I do that for, Señora?’ Proud replied, with a chuckle. ‘I’d be a laughing stock, prosecuting two lovely senior citizens for defending themselves from a double murderer. Even the very worst advocate in the country would be sure to get you acquitted, and your defence would be handled by the best.