Page 10 of His Worst Crime

“And? Come on, tell Uncle Ned… all the details… Is she a looker? You gone all the way yet?”

“Ah…yeah… no… It’s early days. What were you…?”

“Give her a call. Tell her to come for a drink.”

“No, she’s working.”

“Tell her to take a sickie.”

“No, Ned. Change the subject, alright?”

And finally, seeing he’d got his hackles up, Ned backed off. To change the subject, David said the first thing that came into his mind:

“So has Owen been getting much heat from the cops?”

Ned’s eyes narrowed.

“For what?”

Where had that come from? It had just slipped out. He’d had too much to drink and was just saying stupid stuff.

“Come on, he’s always in trouble with the cops, isn’t he?”

But Ned wasn’t buying it. He was silent as he took a long pull of his beer. That was it. David couldn’t afford to do this. It was too risky. He pulled some money from his pocket and slapped it on the bar.

“I’ve got to go. Work to do. Horses don’t train themselves. Good seeing you, Ned. Great catching up. Say hi to Owen when you see him.”

“Wait, I haven’t even finished my beer! Neither have you!”

But David was already heading out the door. Once in the street he broke into a run, wanting to dive around the corner before Ned came to his senses and followed him. Looking back as he ducked into the next street, he saw Ned hadn’t left the bar yet. But he kept running, pelting along for all he was worth, changing direction every time he came to a corner. And even once he knew Ned hadn’t followed him, he kept running, wanting to work the fear, adrenalin and alcohol out of his system. He ran until he came to Montjuïc, and then, as he began toiling up the mountain’s steep slope, he slowed to a walk. He was hot and panting, sweat pouring off him. As well as that, having got drunk so early in the day had left him feeling sick and sluggish. But he’d lost Ned, at least. And that was that—no more contact. It was bad enough they knew he was in Barcelona. He was enjoying being at the stables, and didn’t want to have to leave. Where else would he find a set-up like this?

Carme his girlfriend! God she would kick him ninety-six ways from here to Christmas if she knew he’d used her as his decoy like that. But he could hardly have confessed he was daydreaming about Ramon, a sexy cop with piercing eyes and a hot ass. Where to now? He was still really drunk and probably stank of alcohol. And it was barely even two in the afternoon. He’d go to his special place and sleep it off. At that point he realized his phone was buzzing. Taking it out of his pocket, he saw three messages and a missed call from Ned. He ignored them and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Should he change his number? He’d have to think how to explain that to Carme. He couldn’t say he’d lost it; she’d tell him just to get a replacement SIM. Damn Ned! Damn his brother! Everything had been so brilliant and now it was all a mess.

six

It was Saturday lunchtime. Ramon wanted to be here. It was his goddaughter’s birthday, of course he wanted to be here. He had organized the clown, for God’s sake. He took a pull of his beer and watched the kids throwing themselves around the bouncy castle set up in Jaume’s backyard. Maya passed by, carrying a potato salad in her hands.

“Don’t think that your godfatherly duties stop at just keeping an eye on them,” she warned in passing. “Soon as you finish that beer, you’re up as games master until the clown gets here.”

“I’ll make sure it lasts then,” he called back, rattling the almost empty can.

But she was already gone, her short buxom figure fussing over the long table that had been set up in the garden, so packed with food there was barely room, for the eleven—no, twelve—plates set up around it.

“Twelve?” he called out. “Isn’t that symbolic of something? Who else is coming?”

Because Maya normally laid the plates five a side and one on the end for big events like this: Jaume and Maya, himself and Clara, Maya’s brother Joan, his wife Elena and their two kids, and Jaume’s sister Paula, her partner Enric, and their son. But today she’d laid an extra plate at the end of the table.

“When twelve people sit down to dine, two will marry!” she called back.

He finished his beer and grabbed another from the ice bin on the veranda, before walking across to join Maya at the table so they wouldn’t have to shout. He tended to drink a little too much at these events, the stress of being the perfect gay policeman among all these heterosexual couples.

“You’re all married though,” he countered. Then the penny dropped. Oh no, she hadn’t done it again! The last time Maya had attempted to matchmake him had been a disaster. Like many straight people, she seemed to think that the fact he had “gay” in common with another human being meant they’d make a perfect match.

“Please, don’t do it,” he pleaded.

“He’s nice. Just get to know him,” she returned. “He hasn’t been in Barcelona long and doesn’t know many people. At least be pleasant. You can do that, can’t you?”

Ramon groaned inside, but to her he just said: