The receptionist turned the card terminal towards Vidal with an apologetic smile. “That’ll be eight hundred and sixty-eight pounds, please, Mr Montcada.”
“Vidal, please.” Vidal produced a black Amex from inside his coat and laid it on the counter.
The receptionist tapped the card against the terminal. Then she frowned, tapped again, and waited the requisite seconds while the screen thought about it.
“I’m so sorry, sir, it’s been declined. Could we try inserting it?”
“By all means.”
She inserted it into the machine. There was a loud beep, and his smile began to fix at the corners.
“One more time?”
“Of course, of course. These machines, you know — there is a place in Rome where I have had this exact problem twice, and both times it was something to do with the satellites they transmit to.”
Beauchamp watched Vidal’s face from his post by the door. The brightness was still in place, but the line between his brows had appeared on the third attempt, and had not gone away.
“I do not understand,” Vidal said. He plucked the card back from the counter and produced a second from the same inner pocket, this one navy with a gold edge. “Try this one, please. The other has been giving me trouble in restaurants. I suspect a fraud alert. The bank in Geneva is very protective.”
The navy card went onto the terminal. The terminal considered it, and then declined it with the same indifferent beep.
Vidal scowled.
Beauchamp stepped forward before Vidal could reach for a third card and laid his own on the counter beside Vidal’s elbow, Mercè still asleep in the crook of his other arm.
“On the household account, please.”
The receptionist took the card with visible relief. She tapped it, the terminal produced an affirmative chime, and a slip of paper began to scroll out of its base.
Vidal had gone quiet beside him. Beauchamp took the receipt, folded it once, and slid it into his inside pocket. Eight hundred and sixty-eight pounds was the better part of a fortnight’s discretionary float, and the float was meant to cover groceries and incidentals through to the end of the month. He would need to put in for an out-of-cycle reimbursement, which meant a form, and a conversation with the Comptroller’s office.
“Shall we, sir?”
Vidal didn’t speak on the way out of the surgery. He pushed through the door ahead of Beauchamp without looking at Penelope, who half-rose from the velvet bench with a hopeful little wave that Vidal didn’t return. The brass bell over the door gave its little chime as it swung shut, and then they were on the pavement in the thin April sun, and Vidal was walking towards the car at a clip.
Beauchamp shifted Mercè against his chest and lengthened his stride to match. The driver had the rear door open before they reached the car. Vidal slid into the back seat with none of his usual flourish, arranging himself against the far window. Beauchamp eased Mercè off his chest and into the carrier, settled it onto the seat between them, and climbed in after.
For half a minute after the car pulled away from the kerb, Vidal said nothing at all, which was a phenomenon on the order of a solar eclipse. Then he turned his head and looked at Beauchamp from under his lashes.
“Major. Thank you for what you did at the desk.”
“It was nothing, sir.”
“It was very gracefully done. Of course I will see to it that you are reimbursed by close of business. The cards, you understand, this is a temporary thing. A bank in Geneva that has become confused. I will sort it out this afternoon.”
“There’s no rush, sir. The household account exists for exactly this sort of contingency.”
“Nevertheless.”
“It’s not an issue, sir. Truly.”
Vidal nodded once and turned back to the window. His mobile was already in his hand pressed against his ear.
Vidal began to speak in Catalan, his voice low and even. Beauchamp kept his eyes on the back of the driver’s headrest and gave him the courtesy of pretending he wasn’t there.
It did him no good, because Vidal’s face was not built for privacy. His voice stayed level, but his brows did not. Beauchamp watched, in the reflection of the window glass, as they steadily rose up Vidal’s forehead. Vidal said something that ended on a rising note, and his jaw went taut. Whoever was on the other end spoke for some time. Vidal listened with his lips parted and one hand pressed flat against his chest. He saidSí, papà, very softly, and then a long sentence that Beauchamp did not understand. But the way that the colour had gone from underneath Vidal’s tan told its own story.
The call ended. Vidal lowered his mobile to his lap and turned his eyes towards the window.
