Page 22 of His Worst Crime

He corrected himself. Carme’d saved him, coming back when she had. Otherwise what could have happened? So you want to have sex, go do it. But not with a cop, not with a guy who’s paid to turn you in, send you to jail. He was absolutely nuts letting himself get so far with him. Talk about a near escape! And see what he’d done by giving in: he’d trashed the decent life he’d made for himself, all tossed into the garbage just because he’d fallen for a cop. He wouldn’t do that again.

Now he needed to consider his options. What he knew, all he knew, was working with horses. But Barcelona was too risky now. Ramon could track him down too easily. So, Andalucia? They had horses and stud farms down there. If only he hadn’t listened to his idiot of a brother. Then he wouldn’t be in this mess. And Dad? He wouldn’t let himself think about that. The image was too horrible. And then a small, creeping part of his mind murmured, well, if none of that had happened, you wouldn’t have met Ramon. Yeah, he didn’t want to have met Ramon. He was the reason everything had turned to custard. Why he’d had to leave his job, go back on the run.

He was going around in circles. And he was hungry. He’d go out to Pollo Rico, one of his old haunts from when he’d just arrived in Barcelona. They did a decent quarter chicken and chips with gravy, cheaper than anywhere else in the Old Town. Then tomorrow he’d leave Barcelona and try his luck elsewhere, down south.

He rolled off his bed and stripped out of his track pants and tee—virtually his uniform when he was at the stables—donning his only good jeans and a clean tee-shirt. As he went to stuff the dirty clothes in his pack, he saw the photo, crumpled inside his sole folded dress shirt. He straightened it out and looked at it briefly. Getting rid of the frame had been meant to conserve space, but it was getting creased. He should just throw it away. But from the secret pocket at the bottom of his pack he took out his passport, and slipped the photo inside, so that it lay flat and protected by the hard plastic ID page, where a more recent photo stared out at him, taken a couple of years ago, when they’d gone to France for a horse show, his first time out of the UK. Even so, he looked so young, confident, and innocent, like a completely different person. Where had that Davey gone? Gone with the name, Howard, that he couldn’t use ever again.

Out in the street, Barcelona seduced him as it always did. Working in the stables day in day out, he didn’t spend enough time down here in town. He left the hostel, walking out through the square to the Rambla. In his early days living on Plaça Reial, David had never tired of leaning in a doorway somewhere or sitting on the rim of a fountain, just watching the tides of people that ebbed and flowed up and down the broad pedestrian avenue at all times of night or day: tourists, buskers, hookers, pimps, restaurant hawkers, pickpockets, and scurrying through them all, harried office workers trying to avoid all the rest. It was all so different to Ravenscragg, where you knew everyone in the village, where a pensioner walking down to buy their daily milk was an event. Now he ambled up toward Sant Pau Street, just letting himself be drawn along at the pace of the crowd, but keeping his hands in his pockets to protect his wallet and phone from pickpockets. He’d learned a thing or two here. He turned left into Sant Pau Street, which was a more dubious area, but the bars and restaurants were cheaper. That’s where Pollo Rico was located. Inside, he sat up on one of the high stools at the bar that ran along its entire length.

“Hola Enric, un quart de pollastre i patates, si us plau, i una cervesa.”

“Hola, David! Benvingut, noi!”

Enric, the bushy-moustachioed waiter here remembered him, and seemed to like him because he always ordered his beer, chicken and chips in Catalan. His months at the stables had at least done that for David—he could now hold a limited conversation in the local lingo.

In record time the plate of hot food was slammed down on the bar beside his beer, and he began to eat.

“Gràcies,” he remembered to call out to Enric, his mouth already full.

But the waiter was by now down the far end of the bar, serving someone else. David was starving, having decided to limit himself to just two meals a day to economize until he was earning again. That meant a coffee and croissant in the morning, and chicken and chips at night. But by the time evening rolled around, he was always ravenous. He finished off the plate quickly, taking maximum advantage of the free bread to soak up all the gravy on his plate. Even then, it never felt enough. He resisted the urge to order dessert or coffee as that would blow his budget, but stayed there, eking out his beer in tiny sips, sitting over his empty plate as long as he could without seeming stupid, not wanting to return to his room just yet.

“Davey Dormouse, what’s a nice lad like you doing in a dive like this?” said Ned, sliding his long form onto the bar stool beside him.

Of all the terrible things to happen, how had Ned found him here?

“Hey, Ned, what are you doing here? Why are—?”

But Ned was already waving to Enric:

“Oi! Una beer over here, Matey!” It was only after Enric, slightly disgruntled at being yelled at in English, slammed a glass of beer in front of him, so that it frothed over onto the bartop, that he continued. “Why am I still in Barcelona? I like it here. This town has some possibilities, I reckon.”

“What… possibilities?”

But Ned just laughed, raising a finger to tap his nose:

“You know, business possibilities. You see,” he went on,” when you took it into your head to disappear so fast the other day, I wondered if everything might be OK with little Davey Dormouse.”

“Sure, things are fine with me. Why wouldn’t they be?”

“See, you had me worried, Davey. I started to wonder, why’s little Davey avoiding his nearest and dearest? I was rather concerned that things might not be quite ship-shape back in Old Blighty.”

“Things are fine. Why would you—?”

“I had an interesting call with Owen.” Now Ned’s gaze had turned hard, and he kept it fixed on David. “Your dear brother had some fascinating tales to tell about what’s been happening back in Ravenscragg.”

“So?”

“So, Davey?” Ned’s eyes widened. “The police are keen to speak with a certain Ravenscragg resident about events happening on the… which night was it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ned!”

“Keep your voice down, Davey, and I think you do.”

David looked around the bar. He had started to yell. But only Enric was nearby, making a coffee, and David wasn’t sure he understood much English. He gave no sign of having heard or understood any of their conversation. He turned back to Ned, who was taking a slow sip of his beer. David tried another tack:

“Thanks for your concern, but listen, I really can take care of myself. Let’s just leave what happened back in Ravenscragg back there, OK? It’s done and gone. Please don’t bring it up anymore. Here, let me get you another beer.”

“You know, Davey Boy, we think so alike, we could be brothers,” Ned was smiling at him. “Those were my thoughts exactly.”