‘Aye, and who’d look after your boy then? Don’t beat yourself up over the imperfections of others. You were far more loyal to my son than he ever was to you, and as for this fellow, seems to me you’re lucky you didn’t get any closer to him.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, would you like me to come back out there, me and Mary? We could look after the wee man while you get stuck into this new job of yours.’
‘Thanks, Mac, but I’m not even sure I’ll go ahead with that.’
‘Hey,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ll get me angry in a minute. There’s every reason why you should. This guy’s kicked you right in the self-esteem. You’ve been given this opportunity because people think you’re worth it. If you walk away from it, you’ll be letting them down, Tom down, me down, yourself. . Ach shit, Primavera, you’re going ahead as planned, you’re going to let Father Gerard take his coffee and you’re going to wash him out of your hair along with that bloody dye. So, do you want us to come out?’
I considered his offer; then I turned it down. ‘It’s good of you, but if I’m going to do what you say, I’d best begin by standing on my own two feet.’
‘That’s more like it. Keep in touch, though.’
‘I promise.’
I was ready for the road; Mac had put some backbone into me. I found my way out of Girona and took the quickest way home, via the short hop up the autopista from junction six to five. I got home just as Tom was getting to the fretting stage, fed up with the dogs and worrying about me. I bought a case of Riogenc from Ben, partly as a thank you and partly because I was running low on pink wine, and took Tom and Charlie home.
The dog had barely settled into his kennel before Tom planted himself in front of me, looked me square in the eye, and asked, solemnly, ‘Mum, what’s wrong with Gerard?’ He didn’t add, ‘And don’t fob me off with some crap story about him going away to another parish.’ He let his expression do that for him.
‘He’s with the police, son,’ I replied. ‘He’s in trouble.’
‘I heard someone saying he’s killed people.’
‘That’s what the police say too.’
He looked at me scornfully, dry eyed. ‘Gerard wouldn’t do that. You don’t believe them, do you?’
‘He’s admitted it, Tom. He’s confessed to it; I heard him say so, on a recording.’
‘But has he told you that he did it? Has he told YOU?’ He shouted the last word.
‘No, he wouldn’t see me.’
‘He wouldn’t see you because he knew he couldn’t tell you a lie.’
He’s a tough little monkey, but he was getting close to tears. I drew him to me, and pressed his face into my chest. ‘Tom, my love, you don’t tell a lie that’s going to put you in prison for thirty years. I’m sorry.’
‘No!’ he shouted, then twisted out of my grasp and ran into the house. I didn’t follow him; since he was about three he hasn’t liked anyone seeing him cry, not even me. I’m not keen on it myself, so I went indoors too.
After a while, I changed out of my black dress, into denim shorts and a red shirt. I hung the dress up, tossed my new shawl into the box where I keep odds and ends like that, and went down to what I was going to have to think of as my office. I had it to myself, so I booted up my computer and Skyped Mark Kravitz.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, immediately. Christ, did I look that bad? A glance at my box onscreen showed me that I did.
I told him the story. ‘Jesus, Primavera,’ he murmured into his mike, ‘what a length to go to. Wouldn’t you have shagged him if he’d just asked?’
‘Not on the side,’ I replied, ‘not while he was still a priest.’
‘The police case is rock solid, is it?’
‘Rock solid and with a signed confession. I spoke to a cop who knew him back in Granada; this guy’s supposed to be the hardest man in town, but he didn’t think so himself, when the Hernanz brothers were lads. Gerard was, plus he has a history of violence when his women are insulted, or abused.’
‘Indeed?’ He looked at me. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Look after my boy; he’s broken-hearted. Then. .’ As I looked at him, I had an idea. ‘I’ve been told to get on with my life, so next week I’m coming to London to meet a man at the FCO. How do you fancy having an office junior for a couple of days; nearly nine, and big for his age?’
‘That would be great. Why don’t you both stay here?’
‘No, Mark, I wouldn’t impose that much. We’ll get a hotel; the FCO are paying for it, and I can’t remember the last time I was on expenses.’
Tom came into the room just as we finished our conversation. I wondered if he’d been listening, and immediately felt ashamed of myself; he doesn’t have a sneaky bone in his body. ‘We’re going to London,’ I told him. Normally a piece of news like that would have set him hollering, but all he did was shrug.
‘Do I have to?’ he asked.
‘Afraid so, buddy. I have to go, and I’d like your company.’
‘Okay then.’ He looked at me as he switched on his computer. ‘Can I visit Gerard before then?’
‘He’s in custody, Tom. You wouldn’t like it.’
‘Maybe not, but I’d like to see him. Please, Mum.’
‘It’s not my decision, son. The police would have to agree, and Gerard would have to agree himself. But if it’s what you want, I’ll ask the commissioner, I promise. It probably won’t be before Monday, though.’
‘Can I go to the church tomorrow? I suppose Father Olivares will be saying Mass; I’ve helped him before when Gerard’s been away.’
‘Of course you can. I’m sure he’ll welcome your assistance too.’
I was reading through the diplomatic service house rules when the phone rang. I saw Alex Guinart’s home number displayed.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Commissioner Valdes called me after you’d gone. He’s concerned about you. He might sound like an asshole from time to time, but he’s actually not such a bad guy. He’s been going out of his way not to upset Hector.’
‘How do you think I’m doing? I’m gutted.’
‘How’s Tom?’
‘In denial; that’s as good a description as any.’
‘Do the two of you have any plans for tonight?’
‘Huh,’ I grunted. ‘Put it this way. We’re not going dancing.’
‘In that case, come and eat with Gloria and Marte and me. We’re going up to St Martí this evening. Since it’s Saturday, we thought we’d try the other pizzeria, about eight thirty.’
I came close to turning him down, for I knew I’d be lousy company. Then I thought of Tom; I had to do something to break his mood. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask them to keep us a table.’
‘The other pizzeria’ is actually the second business of Meson del Conde; it opens during the summer months, when you could put out as many tables as the village can hold and they’d all be occupied. (I suspect the café owners would do that, but their kitchens could never keep up.) I took care of it there and then, or rather I delegated the task, asking Tom to run across and make the booking.
Suddenly, I was tired. The events of the day caught up with me; I told Tom, yes, he could watch cricket on television. . if it’s sport he’ll watch it. . then went upstairs to my private terrace off my bedroom, stripped off, and stretched out on my lounger. I’d probably have slept through till next morning if Tom hadn’t wakened me. I dreamed, of course; about Granada, about Gerard. . Or was it Santi? I can’t be sure now. . about Tom, on a rock, shouting, ‘Mum.’
His voice drifted from the dream into my consciousness. ‘Mum,’ he called from the doorway, for what was probably the third or fourth time. A couple of years ago, he’d just have prodded me awake, but he’s beginning to understand the concept of privacy, and so he feels slightly awkward about seeing his mother naked. ‘Wake up, it’s eight o’clock and the table’s. .’
I sat up and nodded, bleary eyed. ‘Thanks, Tom. I’ll shower and come down. You get yourself ready.’