Free Last Resort by Quintin Jardine Page B

did would be on my terms, and I wouldn’t be calling anyone ‘Sir’ . . . the truth is, I was never very good at that . . . especially not him, the guy I’d given a leg up to as a raw young detective constable, twenty years before.
    I had made my calls from Xavi’s garden; there was a chill in the evening air, but nothing in comparison to December Scotland. I took a deep breath and then exhaled, gazing up at the stars. I’ve always liked dark skies; maybe, when finally I do retire, I’ll take up astronomy . . . that’s if I don’t buy that boat I’m forever promising myself.
    I heard the squeak of an unoiled hinge from behind me, and turned to see Xavi, standing in the open patio doors, his head touching the top of the frame. I strolled back towards him.
    ‘All well at home?’ he asked.
    ‘Sure,’ I replied, then moved on quickly. ‘Did you call your Mossos friend?’
    ‘Yes, and I caught him in his office, as I thought. I’m sorry it took so long, but here you don’t simply ask for a favour. You make a bargain, and Comissari Canals is a bloody tough negotiator.’
    ‘Even when you’re reporting a potentially stolen car?’
    ‘Particularly so, when it’s me calling him: the managing director calling the police chief.’
    ‘Did he ask the wrong questions?’
    ‘No, he’s a good guy; he’s having a major raid on drug importers next week, and I’ve promised him a splash in all our outlets when he’s ready to go public with the results.’
    I smiled. ‘I know how the game works,’ I said. ‘You and I played it ourselves a few times, in Edinburgh when you ran the Saltire .’
    He nodded. ‘I suppose we did,’ he chuckled, ‘but you always got a hell of a lot more out of it than I did. Come on, let’s have dinner and talk over old times. I feel a lot better than I did before you got here, knowing that I’m actually doing something about Hector.’
    He led the way indoors and through to a long dining room; there was a big pine table in the centre, and it was set for six, although it could have seated three times as many, easily. Sheila was waiting for us, and with her were Paloma, Joe and a woman I hadn’t met.
    ‘This is Carmen,’ Xavi said, leading me towards her, ‘Joe’s partner.’
    She smiled as she extended a hand; she was of medium height and slim, with dark hair and beautiful brown eyes. I knew that she had to be in her mid-fifties, but she’d have passed for ten years younger. In her presence Joe had a twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been apparent earlier.
    ‘The artist,’ I murmured, as we shook hands.
    She nodded. ‘The policeman.’
    ‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘your work is much more distinguished than mine.’
    ‘Wow!’ Xavi laughed. ‘Dad, you’d better watch this guy.’ He caught my surprise at the paternal reference. ‘I thought he was my father until I was in my twenties,’ he reminded me. ‘I’ve never broken the habit completely.’
    Dinner was a quiet family meal, a blend of local and British, with a salad of chorizo and other embotits (thinly sliced cold sausages; there are seventeen varieties in Catalunya) as the starter, followed by roast chicken and chips with fried onion rings on the side. Dessert was Crema Catalana, the local version of crème brûlée, but with more cinnamon; it was home-made, not shop bought . . . as most are, in most restaurants . . . and finished off by Sheila with a blowtorch, to melt and brown the sugar on top. I suspected that she had prepared it in my honour, for it’s quite fiddly to make.
    As we ate, I stuck to sparkling water; I don’t like mixing cava with anything else, and besides, I keep an eye on my intake these days, particularly when I’m away from home.
    As Xavi had promised, the dinner table chat was personal rather than business. Paloma was keen to hear about my family; I told her it was extended, and that my children with Sarah had a much older half-sister, just as she had Ben.
    ‘Does she