Blood Red by Quintin Jardine Read Free Book Online

take a dim view of physical assault, and Planas might well have had a few of the town cops on his payroll. I stood between them and stared deep into his bloodshot eyes. ‘And you would know,’ I hissed, ‘since you are the son of one.’
    His mouth opened, but he seemed to have run out of insults. For a moment I thought he was about to have a stroke . . . no kidding; I was a nurse once, remember . . . but it passed, and he seemed to sink into himself. ‘Get out, get out,’ he said. ‘Your wine fair will never happen.’
    ‘Ah, but it will,’ I told him. ‘That’s taken care of. One way or another it will, even if you go on blocking Plaça Petita. But if you do, I’ll promise you this. I will use my resources, and I have them, make no mistake, to make sure that everyone in St Martí, and in L’Escala, knows what you’ve done, and why. I’ll put posters in the streets, I’ll post an announcement on the regional website. I’ll give the story to the Girona press. Your name will be shit, everywhere.’
    He looked at me, and knew serious when he saw it. Then he shrugged. ‘I’m an old man. I should care,’ he sneered.
    ‘You should,’ I said. I turned to leave, ushering my companion in front of me, in case he decided to take a swing at him after all. ‘Come on, Matthew.’ I had gripped the handle when his voice came from behind me.
    ‘Wait a moment.’ His tone suggested that I got through to him, but not necessarily that he was beaten.
    We stopped. ‘Well?’ I challenged. I could see him regrouping, regaining some bravado. I could see a crafty glint in his eyes.
    ‘You want your little fair in your little village,’ he murmured. ‘You want me to give my approval, or you will try to ruin the reputation that I have built up through my long lifetime.’ His back straightened, as he drew himself to his full height, only around five feet eight, but tall for a Catalan man of his age. ‘Very well,’ he announced. ‘I will tell the mayor that should she wish to allow it, then for my part I consent. However . . .’ he paused, ‘. . . this is public land, and just as the restaurants in Plaça Major pay ground rent to put their tables in the square, then you must pay a proper amount for using Plaça Petita.’
    I knew that he was ready to fire his last bullet, so I invited it. ‘And what would a proper amount be, for one day of preparation and three days of the fair?’
    His right hand caressed his heavy jowls, as he made a show of considering my question. ‘I would say . . . two million pesetas.’
    Although the euro has been the official currency for nearly ten years, many Spanish people still think in pesetas and quote prices in the old units. I did a rough conversion in my head. The old swine was asking for just over twelve thousand euro, or if you prefer it in sterling, around nine and a half grand at the exchange rate then.
    ‘Wouldn’t it be for the mayor to determine a fair cost?’ Matthew growled, having done the same mental arithmetic.
    Old Planas laughed, and patted his right bum cheek, a crude gesture which I took to mean that he had the mayor in his back pocket, as well as the police.
    It was my turn to shrug. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘we’ll pay that. I’ll arrange to see Justine on Monday morning, to collect her signed permission. But I warn you now, if I find that the figure has gone up by even one peseta, then everything I promised will happen.’
    His mouth fell open again, in surprise this time, not fury. He had no more to say as we left the stuffy little office.
    We walked through the public area, and stepped back into the fruit market. I headed for my usual stall, to buy some peppers, onions, figs and nectarines, all on the shopping list that I had in the same place that Planas had claimed he kept the mayor.
    Matthew followed. ‘Primavera,’ he muttered, leaning over me. ‘We can’t do that. Ben can’t hope to cover that sort of overhead.’
    ‘Ben doesn’t have to,’ I told