Blood Red by Quintin Jardine Page A

you’d be wrong if you did. I was there to see my men at work. Even though my relationship with Gerard had defined limits, my feelings were proprietorial as I watched him conduct the service, and even more so as I looked at his white-robed assistant, my son the altar person. After the travails of the previous week, there was a . . . a niceness about it, a family feeling, that gave me a warm glow inside. Maybe I shouldn’t have been there; once or twice I caught women in the congregation glancing at me over their shoulders. But I didn’t feel that there was anything wrong about it, so I simply smiled at them, redirecting their attention to the main event.
    I hadn’t been first into the church, but I was first out. I went straight down to Can Coll, and found an outside table, taking a seat facing the way I had come, from which I could watch the worshippers emerge.
    ‘What can I get you, Primavera?’ asked Joaquim, the master of the café.
    ‘Coffee Americano with a little milk, and a fizzy water, please.’
    ‘And will Tom be joining you?’
    ‘He will, once he’s finished his tidying up duties and gone home to fetch the dog. But I’d better not make any choices for him.’ I knew he’d want Fanta orange and a ham sandwich, but he always made a show of studying the menu.
    I looked back towards the church. Gerard stood in the doorway, shaking hands with his people as they left, spirits lifted and ready to face the day. His fan club was out in force; quite a few, especially the ladies, paused for a word.
    I hadn’t realised that the mayor was there; she must have gone in before the sound of the bells had faded away, and been in one of the front rows. I had her labelled ‘unconventional’ in my mind, after seeing the way she dressed for the office, but her church-going outfit gave that notion the lie; black dress, black shoes, black lace around her shoulders. She was the last person to leave. It may be that she had been dealing with some of her own congregation inside. Whatever, she stopped beside Gerard, just as Tom emerged, no longer white robed but in shorts and T-shirt, trotted past them with a quick, ‘So long,’ and headed next door.
    I watched as they spoke, neither glancing in my direction; their conversation didn’t seem to be casual, for there were no smiles. I wondered whether they were discussing the wine fair, and Planas’s extortion, then chided myself for such a self-centred thought. They were both important civic figures, dealing with many things, and ours wasn’t the only game in town.
    I’d been right, though. Justine saw me almost as soon as she and Gerard parted; she waved, and headed for me. My coffee and water arrived just as she did. She asked for the same, and took a seat at my table. ‘Father Hernanz and I were talking about you. I came to church here today because I wanted to take another look at Plaça Petita. I’ve done that; I’ve even paced it out, to judge roughly how many square metres it is. Primavera, I’m not going to be complicit in this thing, and I’m not going to allow the council to be either. You will pay exactly the same rent per square metre, per day, as every other business in St Martí does, not a cent more, not a cent less. I’m taking a stand against Planas; I’m going to negotiate on my programme with the council’s Green members, and deliver as much of it as I can.’
    I stared at her. My day had just got even brighter. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Absolutely, and I apologise for ever even thinking about allowing that man to dictate to me.’
    ‘Hey,’ I said, just as Tom arrived, with Charlie on his short leash, ‘I was going to pay him, remember. I was prepared to let him dictate to me as well.’
    ‘No. You beat him. He quoted you a figure that he thought would be impossible for you, but you accepted it without batting an eyelash. He tried to bully you politically and he tried to bully you financially. You kicked his ass both times; you humiliated him