Last Resort (9 page)

‘I have one,’ he replied. ‘Would you consider having lunch with me?’

The loss of my mother in my infancy and my single-parent upbringing combined to make me precociously cynical. I am notoriously difficult to surprise. It happens maybe once in every year, and that may have helped to make me a good lawyer. Three months earlier I’d learned that I had a teenage half-brother. That came out of the blue, and I’d reckoned that was my annual quota, but Roger McGrane’s question set me back in my seat.

I stared at him, for longer than I should have, and he read it wrongly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve embarrassed you, forgive me.’

‘No,’ I replied slowly, as I recovered my composure, ‘you haven’t embarrassed me at all. You asked me a straight question, would I consider it, and I’m doing just that. The answer is, yes, I would consider it. Having done that, I have no urgent appointments this afternoon, it’s that time of day and the alternative would probably be a sandwich at Harthill service area on the motorway. So, did you have anywhere in mind?’

He smiled, in a different way than before, giving me an opportunity to admire the most perfectly aligned set of teeth I’ve ever seen on a man of his age.

‘There’s a place I go nearly every day. I have a lunch table permanently reserved there. It’s not gourmet dining, but I like it. Normally I walk, but today we might drive.’

‘A mystery restaurant,’ I said. ‘I’m up for that. We’ll take mine; it’s parked outside.’ That was not a suggestion, and Dr McGrane realised that. Accepting an impulse lunch invitation from a strange man is one thing, but to get into his car as well is a step too far for any cautious woman.

He led the way through reception, passing Mrs Harris at her desk. ‘Usual place, Yvonne,’ he told her, ‘and my mobile will be on if you need me.’

I thanked her for her help; as we left, I had the impression that her smile was just a little less warm than before. I was about five years younger than her boss and she was maybe five years older. Did she have a crush? Might there even have been history? If so, sorry but tough luck; I was going to lunch and she wasn’t.

‘Nice car,’ Roger murmured as he eased his tall frame into the passenger seat of my Honda. He glanced in the rear-view; from his angle he could see the child seat in the back.

I read his thoughts. ‘I have a half-sister,’ I told him. ‘She’s approximately twenty-five years younger than I am. I took her to see Santa Claus last weekend. My young brothers are no longer believers, so I left them behind. Seonaid and I are bonding, now that she’s starting to turn into a human being.’

‘You’re not married?’ He glanced at the plain gold ring on the second finger of my left hand.

‘No. I’m a career woman, in a comfortable long-term relationship with a career man. You?’ I asked quickly to deflect supplementary questions.

‘Was. Kendra-Jane couldn’t hack Glasgow. She’s a Californian; anything below twenty Celsius and she gets hypothermic. She left after a year, and divorced me in Reno a year later.’

‘How did you feel about that?’ I asked as I started the car.

He shrugged. ‘I signed the papers and sent them back express delivery.’

His directions took me out on to Sauchiehall Street, where it becomes two-way, turning right, away from the city centre. We hadn’t gone half a mile before he told me to turn right, and directed me into the car park of Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum.

‘I love this place,’ I exclaimed as I got out. ‘I used to come down here to study, believe it or not. I’d sit in the central hall; it was quiet and nobody would ever bother me.’ I looked up at the great red-stone building. ‘I haven’t been here in years.’

‘It was refurbished a few years ago,’ he said.

‘I know; I gave them a donation.’

‘I don’t know if they put the restaurant in then, but it’s nice, particularly when the day is sunny, like today.’

He led the way inside through the Grand Entrance. There is a Glasgow urban legend that the thing was built back to front and that the architect jumped off one of the baroque towers when he saw what had been done, but it’s not true. The building was designed to look across Kelvingrove Park, as it does, and up towards the university spire beyond.

The restaurant is in the lower ground level, and Roger’s reserved table was beside a floor-to-ceiling window, taking full advantage of the view. He barely glanced at the menu, then smiled across the table.

‘I have haggis once a week, and today’s the day.’

‘Suits me too. I take it Kendra-Jane didn’t like haggis either,’ I ventured.

‘She genuinely believed that the haggis is a creature.’

We ordered our lunch, and sparkling water. ‘How much time do you have?’ I asked.

He gazed into my eyes. ‘As much as you like, Alex.’

I gazed into his. ‘Are you trying to pull me, Roger?’

‘Are you pullable?’

‘Do you mean am I the sort of woman who meets a single guy, fancies him, and isn’t averse to a quick, no consequences, afternoon shag at his place, which I’m guessing isn’t too far from here?’

He grinned. ‘I suppose I do. You’re wonderfully direct.’

‘I was brought up by my dad, on his own,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t do subtle, and that’s rubbed off on me. As for your question, a few years ago I might have been, but now I’m not. However much such a prospect might interest me . . . not that I’m saying it does . . . I’d have to tell Andy afterwards. It would hurt him very much, and I wouldn’t do that for the world, because I care for him.’

Neither of us had broken eye contact. ‘Why do I not feel embarrassed or ashamed of myself?’ he murmured.

‘Why should you? You’re being honest. So am I; I wouldn’t be sitting here right now if I didn’t feel some . . . let’s call it personal curiosity.’

‘Can I see you again?’

Of all the questions he could have asked, it was the one I feared. My relationship with Andy was long-term, and as I’d told Roger, I saw it as comfortable and loving, even if it had become predictable. He made me feel safe, most of all because he never crowded me, even if we did little together but eat, talk and have sex.

And yet . . . people say I’m my father’s daughter, but none of them ever met my mother.

I frowned as I turned my head to look up at the university building that dominates the west of Glasgow.

‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. ‘My number’s on my card; call me in a week and ask me then.’ Then I smiled. ‘But you’ll probably have pulled some other lady visitor by that time.’

He smiled, a little gauchely. ‘That’s very unlikely. I’ll be in touch.’

Lunch arrived then, perfectly timed and very well cooked. Roger did most of the talking, about Forest Gate and how it operated internationally, about the new centre he was building, and about himself. I’d pegged him mentally as a public school boy, and he was, but through a scholarship. His father was a motor mechanic, he said, and his mother a nurse. Dad had died of cancer when he was fourteen, and his mother had raised him alone from then on.

‘My story’s the same,’ I told him, ‘although I was much younger than you when I lost my mum. With her it was a car crash. My father didn’t remarry until I was through university. He’s a great cop, but a lousy husband; his first divorce and his third marriage were both mistakes, but he’s corrected them both.’

Right on cue my mobile sounded in my pocket, as if he’d known I was talking about him.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’

‘Yes, up to a point.’

‘Not alone?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. How are you getting on with those things I asked you to do?’

‘The reading part, I’m progressing. The security situation is taken care of. The man Kemp is no fan of yours, but he’s sorted. As for the third task, I’m with Dr McGrane now, and I’m happy that Forest Gate is watertight.’

‘Water will get through anything if you let it drip long enough. I can hear crowd noise. Where are you?’

‘Glasgow. We’re having lunch.’

‘You sound as if you’re enjoying it. You watch yourself, girl.’

‘Pot. Kettle. Black.’

‘Stop winding me up. That’s all good news, though. It could be that Mr Baillie is on some kind of fishing trip. Maybe he’s put some random numbers together and come up with the right total, only he isn’t sure, so he’s dropping hints to see how we react. Even so, I don’t like him phoning Mia, and on an ex-directory number at that.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘she was pretty angry about it when we spoke.’

‘She’s not the only one. But don’t worry. Once I’ve sorted out some other business here in Spain, I’ll take care of the fucker myself.’

‘That’s what worries me more than anything else. What other business, by the way?’

‘Nothing you need bother about. A favour for a friend, that’s all. Thanks, love. Keep Mia calm, if you can.’

‘Your father?’ Roger asked, as I pocketed the mobile.

‘Yes. He’s supposed to be on a mind-sorting mission in Spain, but he’s a magnet for crisis, wherever he goes.’

‘While you were speaking,’ he said, ‘I remembered something, about the second time he visited me. When we’d done our business I showed him out. I expected to see a police car at the door, but there wasn’t, he’d come on foot. That’s understandable if he wanted the exercise. The headquarters building in Pitt Street isn’t very far from here.

‘I watched him from the window as he walked down the steps, and then I saw the strangest thing. A little way along the road there were two people in a car, a man and a woman. I took them for police, for she had a camera and I’ll swear she was photographing your father.

‘I couldn’t work it out and I still can’t. If I was right in my assumption about them, why would two cops be photographing their own chief constable?’

Ten

X
avi’s place isn’t very far inland from L’Escala, or more than a few hundred feet above sea level, but when I opened the window to clear the stuffiness in the well-heated bedroom they’d given me, I felt a crispness in the air that was instantly refreshing.

It was welcome, for I was a shade beyond grumpy at the time. I’d been woken from the best sleep I’d had in a week by Mia, on my mobile, which I’d left charging by my bedside. She was raging because she’d had a call from the man Linton Baillie, on her ex-directory landline.

I was pretty angry myself after Mia had given me a word-for-word account of the guy’s message, and frustrated because there was nothing I could do myself, other than tell her to call Alex and let her know.

I put the annoyance out of my mind, as best I could, and got ready to face a day that I had not expected at all less than twenty-four hours before. The weather helped improve my mood. The sun was only just over the horizon, but the sky was a clear blue and the few clouds were wispy. My room was at the back of the house, giving me my first daytime view of the bulk of the Aislado estate. I could see the place properly for the first time, and was impressed.

It was set on what might have been a volcanic plain, below a huge, layered escarpment that made me think of the Grand Canyon. Xavi had told me that it covered just over eighty hectares; that’s big enough for a golf course. More than half of it was woodland, not a wild forest but tall trees that had been planted in straight lines by the previous owner, half a century before, as an investment.

Closer to the big house I saw an olive grove, and to its right a citrus orchard. Even from that distance I could tell that it was heavy with oranges, reminding me of a February break that Sarah and I had enjoyed in Seville, with our then infant son. James Andrew was unimpressed, but we loved the place.

The rest of it was devoted to vegetables: potatoes, carrots and calçots, a type of winter onion that’s a Catalan delicacy, and, by the way, one of the messiest dishes I have ever encountered.

Three buildings stood beyond by the stone wall that enclosed the
masia
gardens; one was either a barn, or it was a garage for the vehicles needed to manage and cultivate the place. The second was a white-painted cottage, where Carmen lived, I’d been told, and just beyond, there stood an older building that I guessed was the studio she had mentioned when we’d spoken at the dinner table.

She and Xavi were the only people in the kitchen when I got there. I’d found them by following their voices. ‘Ben’s in deep shit,’ the big man said, as I joined them. ‘Sheila was expecting him to do the school run with Paloma this morning, but he didn’t come home. She’s taken her instead. Normally I’d do it, but with our business . . .’

‘What would you like for breakfast?’ Carmen asked, in Spanish. She started to repeat in English, but I headed her off by replying, ‘Scrambled eggs and orange juice would do it for me; but let me make them, please, for all of us. More often than not I fix my own in Scotland.’

She protested, but I insisted. The eggs were fresh from the chicken run behind the studio. Way back, even before Joe’s time, Carmen’s parents had been the
masia
’s caretaker and gardener. The old studio had been their home until Joe had built the cottage, and she had looked after the hens even then.

I scrambled nine of them, and fried a few mushrooms, with some sliced potatoes left over from the night before. I’d assumed that Joe would be joining us, but Carmen explained that these days he goes to bed late and rises late, and that his daily breakfast is bread, olive oil, and coffee.

‘The same as Grandma Paloma,’ Xavi said. ‘She baked the bread herself even when we lived in Scotland, as I do here. She taught me.’

She taught him bloody well, because the bread was excellent.

Our breakfast conversation was mostly about Joe, and the influence he’d exercised over everyone’s life, Xavi included. ‘He made me a businessman,’ he said. ‘Without him, the
Saltire
would have gone down the pan years ago, and I’d still be a journalist in Edinburgh, squeezing out a living in a declining market.’

He was being hard on himself. If Joe hadn’t been around to save his paper, Xavi would have taken one of the many offers that came his way from rival titles, and would have been a major player wherever he’d gone.

‘He made my career too,’ Carmen added. ‘There are many, many very good artists in Catalunya. It is very difficult to be successful nationally. Joe helped me to break through by paying for exhibition space, first in Barcelona, then in major cities around Spain . . . Valencia, Bilbao, Cordoba . . . and finally in Madrid. Everything was planned by him, I had a new collection everywhere I showed and of course his newspapers and radio stations gave me lots of publicity.’

She smiled. ‘At every exhibition, Joe ensured that the local mayor did the opening ceremony; and of course, having done that, they all had to be seen to buy a picture, and after them, all their friends and hangers-on.

‘I did mostly still life in those days, but with one or two portraits included. These
alcaldes
and businessmen, they are vain people; several of them commissioned portraits.

‘When the president of the government, what you would call the prime minister, Bob, commissioned one of his wife, that was it: everyone had to have a Carmen Mali portrait over their fireplace.’

She rose from the table. ‘And now I must take breakfast to the man who made it all happen.’

She looked down at me. ‘He told me to go away, you know. Fifteen years ago he said to me, “Carmen, it’s time for you to leave me. Find a young guy, make yourself happy, get a life.” I told him, “Joe, I have the life I want.” And I have.’

As she left the kitchen carrying a tray laden with a cut loaf, a bowl of olive oil and a cafetière, Xavi gazed at her back. ‘That’s him,’ he murmured. ‘And to think, Bob, for the first twenty years of my life I thought he was an arsehole.’

How many people in the world feel about me the way Carmen does about Joe?
I wondered. Their numbers must be in single figures, and for sure, far more think that I’m an arsehole . . . the good news being that many of those are in jail or even lower down the scale of social acceptability, in politics.

‘So,’ the big fellow continued, ‘what’s the plan for today?’

‘Pilar Roca,’ I replied, ‘Hector’s mother. I want to go to Begur, see her and see where he lived.’

‘What about Battaglia?’ he asked.

‘What about her?’ I replied. ‘I know what you think, that she’s behind Hector’s disappearance, but we can only do one thing at a time. Let’s find the man himself first, alive or dead; after that, if we have to, we’ll look at her.

‘Go on, phone Pilar, tell her we’re on our way. Christ, man, you never know, Hector may have phoned her by now to tell her he’s holed up with a chick in the Caribbean.’

Xavi laughed softly. ‘You don’t know Hector. His relationships all collapse because he won’t take his chicks any further than the Palau de Musica.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Two streets away from his apartment in Barcelona.’