‘How did you know that?’
‘Father Gerard told me.’
‘Ah,’ Angel murmured. ‘But Gerard probably doesn’t know that it was his boss, the old priest, who insisted that he go. He told him that L’Escala would never trust a man who would boycott his own son’s wedding Mass. Papa’s very proud of his position in the town; it’s the only thing anyone could threaten him with.’
‘Then maybe I will.’
‘It won’t work. His voters don’t care about an Englishman holding a wine fair in St Martí, or anywhere else. They’d support Papa if they knew what he was doing.’
‘So you won’t speak to him about this?’
‘It would only make him more resolved. Let me tell you something else about our wedding, something nobody knows. As I understand it, in Britain the custom is for the bride’s father to pay for the wedding feast. We don’t do that; here each family invites and pays for their own guests, and so do the couple. My father didn’t invite anybody. So Elena and I put him on our list. He came, didn’t say a word to anyone, and left as soon as he could. Two weeks later, after the honeymoon, when I went back to the shop and sorted through my mail, I found an envelope with cash in it, enough to cover the cost of a single meal. I found out from the caterer that he’d asked him how much he had quoted per head. That’s my father. You’ve never met anyone like him, when it comes to getting even.’
‘Oh, but I have,’ I said. ‘And I was married to him.’
Eight
I
asked Angel for his father’s address, but he told me that there was no point in giving it to me, since I wouldn’t get to see him there. He said that he had a video entry system on his gate, and that he’d never open it to a stranger . . . although, he added, undoubtedly he’d know who I was. It seemed that I was a hell of a lot better known in the town than I realised. That came as something of a shock, but maybe I was being naive, given my surname, and given the hornets’ nest that Oz and I had disturbed during our final stay there.
My best plan, I was advised, was to run him to ground in one of his haunts, of which there were five: the town hall, where he had an office that he used occasionally, the restaurant in Hostal Miryam, where he ate most evenings, a bar in Carrer del Port (‘Carrer’ means ‘street’ in Catalan) that his grandfather had opened eighty years ago, another, on Avinguda Girona, that he had founded himself, and the estate agency that had been owned and run by Angel’s mother, until her death.
I talked over the options with Ben, after I had unloaded my new table, and moved its predecessor down to the garage beneath the house. Ingrid was looking after the shop while he and I, and Matthew Reid, walked the three dogs along the passage that links St Martí and L’Escala. I’m told that it used to be a dirt track, before millions were poured into the area to prepare for the arrival on the beach of the Olympic torch for the games of 1992, in Barcelona.
‘What do you think, guys?’ I asked. ‘Where should I face up to the old lizard?’
‘I think you should let me tackle him,’ said Matthew, ‘since he hates women . . . or at least he has no respect for them. Given the history, there’s no way that Ben should do it, but he might be more responsive to a man-to-man chat.’
‘Thanks for the offer,’ I murmured, ‘but I’ve never backed down from a man in my life.’
Not even from one who was holding a gun at the time
, I thought. ‘I’m not about to start now.’
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘you don’t want to get yourself barred from the Miryam, since it’s one of the best restaurants in town. Starting a barney in a Catalan bar might not be too clever either. That leaves the town hall or the estate agency.’
‘I’d have to make an appointment in the town hall. I’m known there, since I more or less forced my way into Justine’s office, so I couldn’t use a false name, or anything like that.’
‘The estate agency then,’ Ben declared, before a frown crossed his face and his manner seemed to change. ‘Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless we forget the whole thing?’
Matthew took a deep breath, but said nothing. I took a deep breath, then said plenty. ‘Are you saying that you’d fold this project because of the blind, stupid, antediluvian prejudice of a vicious old man? Is the village behind the wine fair? Yes it is. I know this because I’ve been talking to people myself. Everybody supports it. Are you going to let them down?’
‘But . . .’
‘How many wine producers have you signed up?’
‘A dozen,’ he admitted. ‘As many as I can handle, all my targets, the best in Emporda.’
‘And you’re going to let them down too? Ben, why did you come up with the idea for the fair?’
‘To promote the shop and make it known outside St Martí, to promote Empordan wines, and of course to make money.’
‘Noble motives all, and worth standing up for. So don’t even think about scrapping it. And even if you do . . .’
‘What?’
‘I won’t. You brought me into the fair’s organisation, you gave me a job and I’m going to do it. This is personal now: I will not let this fail. There are other venues.’
He frowned. ‘Where?’
‘My house was my original thought, but I’ve had a better idea. The car park beside the village. It’s vast; I can rent as much land there as we’ll need, for as long as we’ll need it. And it’s flat, so we can hire a big tent, as insurance against rain.’
‘But all that will cost.’
‘And I’ll underwrite that, if it comes to it. But that’s still second choice. The fair should be within the village walls, not beneath them, and it should be in Plaça Petita. It’s public land, the people’s land, the people want the event and they’re fucking well going to have it, or my middle name isn’t Eagle . . . and now you know that, I’ll have to kill you both,’ I added.
Matthew laughed, as he tugged on Mustard’s lead, diverting his attention from a Dalmatian bitch. ‘The snowball’s rolling, Ben, and the further down the hill it goes, the bigger it’s getting. Better off behind it than in front.’ He looked down at me; he’s quite a big bloke, six feet or so, and chunky with it. ‘So it’s the estate agency, Primavera?’
‘Looks like it.’ I frowned as a truth took hold. ‘But I’ll need to make an appointment there too, and if I’m as well known in L’Escala as people say I am . . .’
‘However,’ said Matthew, ‘my son’s been talking about buying an apartment out here. He’s asked me to look around for him. If I call Planas’s office, say he’s been recommended as the best-connected agent in town and ask for a personal appointment, I’m sure I’ll get it.’
‘I want to see him myself,’ I insisted.
‘And you shall, Cinderella, you shall; you’ll be coming with me.’
Nine
T
he estate agency was housed in a ground-floor office that had once been a bank, facing on to a small square where a fruit and vegetable market is held during most weekday mornings. Angel had told me that his father had moved the business from its original home and had been given permission by the town council . . . now there was a surprise . . . to demolish that building and redevelop the site as apartments.
The sign over the door read ‘Immobiliària Ruiz’, Angel’s mother’s name, I guessed, from what he had told me. It had been attached over the previous signage, which was predominately blue, a clash with the yellow of the lettering, and the logo of the former occupant was still visible on the smoked-glass frontage.
It had taken two days for Senor Planas to find a space in his crowded diary to see us. Even then, I wasn’t certain that he’d be there. My fear was that he might have turned the appointment over to one of his sales staff.
‘Let’s go,’ said Matthew, quietly. We crossed the sun-bathed square, picking our way through the stalls, before stopping briefly to study some of the homes for sale that were displayed in the window. I’d seen many of them elsewhere; there are around fifty agencies in L’Escala, and very few of them have exclusive selling rights over properties. I’d wondered how they could all hope to survive, until I’d learned that there’s a loose cooperative agreement in place and that their standard commission rate is a whopping five per cent plus tax.
We stepped through the double doors and looked around. The place still looked like a bank; it was divided more or less in two by a massive counter, behind which I saw four desks. Three were occupied, one by a swarthy, tousle-haired, bespectacled man, in his early forties, I guessed, so way too young to be Planas, and the other two by women. The older of the pair looked up as we entered, and rose to greet us. She was in the same age group as her male colleague; her trouser suit, and the way her dark hair was swept back into a functional ponytail, gave her a briskly professional look.
‘Senor Reid?’ she began, in English; I might as well have been invisible.
Matthew nodded.
‘You are here to see Senor Planas?’
‘That’s right; about property.’
‘Very good. But there is a problem . . .’
Here we go
, I thought.
‘Senor Planas does not speak English. But we can get over that; I will translate between you.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Matthew replied, nodding in my direction. ‘I anticipated that and brought my own interpreter. No offence, I hope, but this is business.’
She was narked, and she couldn’t hide it completely behind her toothy smile, but she swallowed it. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Senor Planas is in his office.’ She pointed to a mahogany door to the left of the counter. ‘If you’ll wait a moment . . .’
We did, as she vanished through another exit at the back of the office. She was gone for more than her moment, but eventually, the entrance was opened and she reappeared, beckoning us into the inner sanctum.
The man seated behind the small, cheap desk was almost the same colour as the door. His skin was like leather, and looked as if it was folding off his face. I thought back to my crack about ‘the old lizard’ and reckoned that I’d been pretty close to the mark. He rose to his feet slowly, extending a surprisingly big hand as he approached Matthew: I say, ‘approached Matthew’, because again, it was as if I wasn’t in the room. He was shorter than his son, but stockier, and there was a vibrancy to him. His eyes were red veined, but his gaze was sharp. It was hard to put an age to him, but I settled for somewhere between sixty-five and seventy.
‘Senor,’ he intoned, in a gravel voice, ‘you are looking for property, I understand.’ He spoke in Castellano.
‘Indeed,’ Matthew replied, ‘and they say that you are the top man in this town.’ He spoke Spanish too, slowly, as British people tend to, but passably, taking me by surprise.
The reptile face cracked into what might have been a smile. ‘That’s true. Most people who know L’Escala do say that. Tell me what type of property interests you, and I’ll see if I can help.’
‘Something old. Preferably not in L’Escala itself.’ He was busking it; we hadn’t researched at all, but at once, I sensed where he was going. ‘I saw a house in St Martí d’Empúries that appeared to be unoccupied. That might interest me.’
‘Tell me the street and I will find out if it is available.’
‘Plaça Petita. It’s next to the wine shop of my . . .’ He stopped, stuck for the Spanish word.
‘His stepson,’ I said. ‘You must know where it is, for you certainly know him.’
The thin veneer of amiability vanished in an instant. ‘Pah!’ he spat then lapsed into Catalan. ‘This is a trick. I see you now; I see who you are. You are the woman who went to see our young lady mayor, to win her approval for this, this, this . . .’ Veins stood out in his forehead and once more I could see red behind a tan, only this time it was the hue of rage rather than embarrassment. ‘This presumptuous wine fair. That any Englishman should think to do such a thing.’
‘But your opposition has nothing to do with Ben being English,’ I told him, rocking him ever so slightly back on his heels by my fluency in his language. ‘This is all about your ridiculous, feudal attitude to women.’
‘Not to women,’ he shouted, switching back to Castellano, ‘to whores! This man took my son’s girl and he made her a whore, and then he threw her back to him. I’d have killed him, but my son doesn’t have the balls.’
‘Just as you don’t have the balls to argue with me in your own language,’ I countered, quietly.
His eyes bulged. ‘I know who you are, woman, and I know that if you support that English pup, then you are a whore also.’
I had to move quickly to block off Matthew as he moved towards him. The Spanish police 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.’