Sins of the Fathers: He's out, now innocents suffer

by Les Cowan

Overview

Father Ramón was a priest with a problem. How can a normal healthy young man cope with both the demands of the priesthood and his attraction to women? Appealing to the bishop doesn't help. Do what you must but make sure I don't find out, was the astonishing reply. Fifteen years later, Ramón comes out of prison. Instead of feeling guilt and remorse, he is now bent on revenge against those who testified against his shocking exploitation of children. Most are easy to find but there is one last piece missing in his puzzle: Andrea has moved to Edinburgh. David Hidalgo continues to pastor his church. Nowadays, this includes an English chat group for the many young people leaving Spain and looking for work in Edinburgh, people like Andrea. As Andrea slowly realises her past has terrifyingly become her present, once again David Hidalgo finds himself in the middle of a problem he wasn't looking for. Can David help halt Ramón's revenge or will there be further casualties...

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781782642732
Publisher:	Lion Hudson
Publication date:	10/18/2019
Series:	A David Hidalgo novel , #3
Edition description:	New Edition
Pages:	288
Product dimensions:	5.12(w) x 7.80(h) x (d)

About the Author

Les Cowan has lived in Madrid, Edinburgh and Galicia all of which arelocations brought to life in writing his suspenseful David Hidalgo series. He studied English Language and Literature and has worked in the criminal justice system. Les is a member of the Crime Writers Association.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

CAFÉ CÓRDOBA – THE FOLLOWING SPRING

Andrea Suaréz Morán did not like the way the guy at the corner table was looking at her. She carefully set down the tapas he had ordered – sardinas a la plancha, pinchos morunos, albóndigas, chorizo en vino – and a bottle of San Miguel and headed back to the safety of the bar.

"¿Piensas que ese tío parece un poco raro o es solo mi imaginación?" she asked José as she wiped the tray and slipped it back with the others.

"Hey, speak English, chica," he said. "That's what we're here for."

She rolled her eyes but knew he was right. Her English had improved enormously in the six weeks she'd been in Edinburgh, but it still needed more mental effort, particularly if she was worried or tired.

"Ok," she tried again. "Do you think that guy is a bit weird or is it just my imagination?"

"It's not your imagination," José confirmed, stealing a glance from under thick black brows as he dried a glass. "He comes in twice a week, orders exactly the same, always on his own, never smiles, no tip. Definitely weird."

"And he only ever speaks Spanish. There's something familiar about him but I don't know where from."

"I'll mention it to Martin so we can keep an eye on him. When do you finish tonight?"

"Ten."

"Ok. I'm on till eleven. Just wait in the kitchen till I'm done and I'll see you home."

"Would you?"

"Sin duda. ¡No hay problema, guapa!"

"Hey, speak English, dude – that's what we're here for!"

She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder and glanced around, laughing. The guy in the corner was watching, not laughing, and that took the smile off her face.

In the kitchen, while she waited for José to finish his shift, Andrea pulled out a second-hand copy of Sons and Lovers she was trying to plough her way through. The language was a struggle; she'd expected that. What she couldn't work out was why the British seemed to get so worked up – was that the right expression? – why they got so worked up about sex. Well, maybe that was just the mystery and also the fun about other cultures. People just see things differently, that's all. Es lo que hay – that's just how it is. She'd read that in Britain it was polite to keep your hands off the table at meals. In Spain it was just the opposite. If your hands weren't in view, maybe you had a dagger under the tablecloth you were just about to stab your host with. Total opposites for random reasons. Attitudes to sex, religion, politics, humour, physical contact, even greeting friends and strangers – all different. Why? Because that's just how it is.

She couldn't concentrate with all the orders being shouted through, pots and dishes clattering, and onions sizzling, so she put her book down, leaned back against the slightly sticky wall, and dropped her mind into neutral. Having a real job, earning real money, and being independent again had all come in a bit of a rush, but she was loving the sensation. It made her mind spin that so much could change in such a short time. It seemed incredible that it had only been six weeks ago she'd kissed and hugged Mamá and Papá at security at Madrid–Barajas Airport and got on the easy Jet to Edimburgo – "Edinburgh", as she now had to call it.

Less than a year before had been the monumental three-day end-of- degree party which, looking back, now felt like an official farewell to youth and a welcome to the real world. That had been as long-drawn-out a group goodbye as they had been able to manage. Four years together at the Complutense University of Madrid in the leafy suburbs to the north-west of the city had made them more than friends and closer than family – a few had even become lovers. Now they were simultaneously ecstatic at the thought of no more lectures and exams, terrified at landing directly on the unemployment scrapheap in the midst of the crisis, and heartbroken at the thought of losing each other. So they drank for three days straight and swore the current fate of 52 per cent of Spanish youth would not be theirs. They toasted their successful futures to come, cursed Prime Minister Rajoy and his infernal Partido Popular, blessed the new indignados protest movement, and prayed to San Isidro, La Macarena or any other god, saint, or virgin open for business for good results and a real job. On the final evening, after many riojas too many, she and Jorge had slept together one last time for old times' sake even though they'd broken up more than a year before. It seemed the generous thing to do. They kissed and swore they'd keep in touch, all the time knowing they wouldn't. The morning after, she had packed the last of her stuff, took her Beatles, Dylan, and Lorca posters down, gathered up bits of discarded clothing from around the flat, left the pot plants for the new tenants, and took the Metro from Moncloa to Atocha, changing at Sol. Finally, easing into her seat on the AVE train to Sevilla, she exhaled slowly, looked out the window, and dabbed away a tear.

Then the real battle began, compared to which essays and exams were frankly a stroll in the Parque del Retiro. With her father, older brother, various uncles and neighbours all out of work and her mum only doing part-time seasonal work at the bullring, she thought she knew what she was up against. But it's different when it's you. Very quickly she found she was fighting on two fronts, not one. Number one: get a job. Number two: keep positive and don't slide into self-pity and misery while dealing with number one. So she waitressed at the Rincón de Pepe (again), tried a cold- calling sales thing from home (phone bill more than the commission), and even tried her hand as a miracle cleaning products home demonstrator, soon to find her mother's prediction was true: Spanish women thought soap and water was cheaper and bleach more effective. The day came when she actually thought about offering her services at Kiss Club just off the autovía south to Cádiz and finally decided enough was enough. She had to get out while she still believed she was better than a hostess in a brothel. So instead of poring over her job applications database on her laptop that morning as she always did, she opened Facebook and sent a personal message: Hey José.

You were right. This country is in such a mess there isn't any chance any more. I'm getting out. Anything going in your direction?

Un besito. Andrea.

Then she met a friend for coffee and tried not to keep checking her mobile under the table. It beeped after only twenty minutes.

Hey guapa.

What took you so long????? Edinburgh is beautiful. The boss is always looking for real (gorgeous) Spanish waitresses. You qualify. He says come. You can stay in my piso till you get a place. Let me know when to collect you.

Besos. José.

Wow, she thought, that's incredible. It wasn't that hard. Escocia, here I come!

Good as his word, José met her at the airport, paid for her tram ticket, and welcomed her to the second most beautiful capital in Europe (he said). After a coffee with a view of the castle he took her to his flat halfway down Leith Walk where they dropped her stuff, then went straight to Café Córdoba to meet Martin, the owner. She started the following day. Bingo!

Suddenly the smell of burning meat caught her attention as Hector, the Catalan cook, grabbed a pot off the stove and threw it bodily into a sink already full of dirty dishes while bawling at his beleaguered assistant. She tried to stifle a smile just as José appeared around the corner with a jacket and a beanie hat on.

"Ready?" he asked. "Your mystery admirer's gone."

"Gracias a Dios," she muttered, getting up and giving him a grateful peck on the cheek.

The following morning – Saturday – David Hidalgo stepped out into the clear northern light of a late spring Edinburgh day and let the heavy door of the common entrance slam and lock behind him. Left towards Tollcross, straight ahead across Bruntsfield Links, or the long way around by the Grange? He wasn't in a hurry; for once there didn't seem to be any threat of rain and he could surely do with the exercise. He turned right onto Bruntsfield Place, heading for Holy Corner. Like so much he remembered from the Edinburgh of his youth, Holy Corner had changed a lot since the seventies. It was so called for having four churches, one on each junction, several of which had changed hands and one had even been become the Eric Liddell Centre, celebrating Scotland's best known Olympian. Seeing as Liddell was a devout believer and had won his medal against all odds after refusing to run on a Sunday, if anyone thought losing a church to him made the corner any less holy, then too bad in David's opinion. So, past the coffee shops, delicatessens, florists, and convenience stores, smartly sidestepping dithering shoppers and sweaty Saturday morning joggers. When things were going well David acknowledged he had a definite weakness for whistling. Some might call it an ailment but he was unrepentant. He maintained it was a perfectly natural expression of feeling relaxed and happy. Why not? Free the inner whistler. Depending on his mood, it might be "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah" (in praise of wonderful days), Nina Simone's slow, bluesy "Feeling Good" (even the birds are feeling good today) or something else that fitted the occasion. This morning, maybe on account of the weather, "Blue Skies" came to mind. The sun was so bright and things were indeed so right. He smiled at the strangers he passed and breathed in the slightly hop-filled air.

Today was the once-a-month Saturday morning clean-up at Southside Fellowship's South Clerk Street premises. For some of them, such as Secretary, Treasurer, and general factotum Irene MacInnes, he knew it was all about "proper standards". What would the world be like, he could almost hear her say, if we just let everything go to the dogs? Morningside ladies like Mrs MacInnes knew that cleanliness wasn't just next to godliness; you'd be hard pressed to get an old-fashioned King James Bible page between them. While David had no objection to a bit of light sweeping and dusting, the way he saw it, that was more an excuse for the main event. Want to get to know your congregation? Forget the worship when everyone's in holy mode. And the post-service chat where people want to be encouraging despite that morning's sermon slipping out of mind quicker than the shipping forecast. To really find out what's going on there's no substitute for a football match, a new colour scheme, changing the order of service, or cleaning the hall. Then people said what was really on their minds. Christian theology might be profound and ethereal, but when it comes to the practicalities people can be alarmingly tangible.

Anyway, to more pressing matters: his contribution to lunch. Clean-up Saturday always involved a nice bring-and-share lunch and he liked to produce something unusual to spice things up. Mrs Buchanan's lentil soup was legendary, and Juan and Alicia would usually bring anything left over but still good from their Hacienda restaurant, often meaning half a pan of paella, tasty tortilla chunks, or plenty of fresh salads. But something out of the ordinary made it more interesting. So what to lob into the mix this week? Walking past the A&A MiniMart gave David an idea. Some of Ayeesha's fantastic marzipan and almond cakes and sweets would be perfect.

"Señor David, how are you? What can we do you for today?" The dapper little man behind the counter beamed at him. Sometimes David thought Ali was more British than he was. He always wore a collar and tie to work, had a flawless accent, enjoyed the Scottish Fiddle Orchestra, and read Conan Doyle and Stevenson. On the other hand, he was also enormously knowledgeable about his South Asian heritage and kept a wide range of hard-to-find spices and authentic ingredients.

"Good morning, Ali. We've got a clean-up group at church this morning and I'd like to take them something sweet to finish off after lunch. What have you got?"

"You're in luck, my friend. Ayeesha was baking all last week. We had a big order for a wedding at the mosque. Then the bride's family took cold feet so it's all needing eaten. There's gulab jamun, bonde, cham cham, malapua, and a few things that don't really have a name, just her own invention. What would you like?"

Ali led the way around shelves piled high with gram flour, basmati rice, poppadoms, fresh ginger, and spices in kilo bags to a chiller cabinet full of pastries, desserts, sweets, and drinks.

"I've no idea, Ali. I trust you. Give me a mixture. What can I get for twenty pounds?"

"Plenty. Let me see."

Ali went back to the counter for some cardboard cake boxes and started filling them up.

"You'll have to be careful how you carry this," he said, delicately fitting in as many as he could.

"Business booming, then?" David asked as the process continued.

"Sure thing. We can't complain. You know it's forty years since Amin kicked us all out." It didn't take much to click Ali onto his favourite theme. "Our family had been in Uganda for generations. Then, just like that," he settled a bright green marzipan into the corner of the box and snapped his fingers, "out on our ear. If Britain hadn't taken us in I don't know what would have happened. So we lost everything there and had to start again here. I don't care if I never see Kampala again. Edinburgh's my home. I'm more Scottish than you. I've been here since I was seven. And I stayed put. Not off to Spain whenever I felt like it. Anyway, Edinburgh's been good to us and the business is doing well. Now, how about that? Enough?"

David took the pile of three boxes, one on top of the other tied up with string, over to the counter and put down his twenty pounds.

Suddenly a thought struck him.

"Ali, does this mean that you're moving into catering for outside events, not just the shop?"

"Indeed it does. Ayeesha's been planning this for years but it was tricky when the kids were young. Now Rasheed's twenty-six and Karim's nineteen. They're not interested in the business but at least they're out of our hair. Mahala graduates this summer in hospitality and business so we're hoping she'll get involved. She's a good girl."

"And the boys. Haven't seen much of them for a bit."

"Well, Karim works with his cousin in a carpet business in Glasgow. Rasheed's in IT out at South Queensferry. But to be honest we don't see much of them. There's been a new preacher at the mosque filling their heads with crazy ideas. They think we've sold out to the Great Satan because I pay my taxes, vote in elections, and have Christian friends – like you, for example. I tell them it was Britain that gave us a home when nobody else wanted us but they don't listen. We are not a radical family. We go to the mosque and observe Ramadan. I even did the hajj once. But we're British. I support England in the cricket and Scotland in the rugby. But that's not how many of the younger ones see it now. You know. I don't need to tell you. Ah well. Young people. What can you do?"

"Indeed. I sympathize, Ali, but I've no bright ideas. You know Rocío always wanted kids but it didn't happen so I'm no expert. Now everything's going to be changing though. You never know. I might be coming to you for advice."

Ali closed the chiller cabinet and looked up at David expectantly. "So, the outside catering. What did you have in mind?"

"Oh yes – sorry, I got sidetracked. Well, you know there's a certain wedding coming up in a few months' time?"

"Yes, I heard. Congratulations, of course." He reached out to shake David's hand.

"So, Hacienda are doing the main catering, but I wondered if you might be interested in the cake? If you do that sort of thing. I suppose it's not really very Asian."

"You'd be surprised. There's a fashion now for huge wedding cakes even for Muslim couples. I think Ayeesha would like the challenge. I'll ask her."

David glanced at his watch and gulped. Informal is ok – half an hour late would be far too Spanish.

"Look, I've got to get going," he said. "Why don't you and Ayeesha come up for dinner some time? I promise not to try a curry. We can talk the whole thing over."

Rushing down the Grange and arriving late – as his mother used to put it, "down to a greasy spot" – didn't seem such a good idea now, so instead he turned right and took the direct route across the Links. Careful not to bump the cakes now.

Edinburgh was relaxed and sunny and he was happy. It struck him it would be hard to imagine things being more different now than eighteen months ago when he'd first arrived back from Spain. Then it had been winter, with a bitter, biting wind off the Forth driving up over the city until everyone was shivering and bad tempered. Perhaps that's where Edinburgh got its chilly reputation from. It seemed like the winds came direct from Siberia without so much as a coal shed in the way and blew deep into the Scottish psyche. "Come in, come in – you'll have had your tea" was the traditional cold comfort greeting. Not as true in reality as the stereotype but it's hard to change a bad rap. But now it was practically summer. Young families, grandparents and grandkids, and groups of students in the latest Bethany Trust charity shop specials were out on the Links putting, tossing a frisbee, walking dogs, jogging, taking photographs, or just sitting on benches soaking up the mid-morning sun.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Sins of the Fathers"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Les Cowan.
Excerpted by permission of Lion Hudson Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments,
Prologue MORÓN DE LA FRONTERA – LATE SUMMER,
Chapter 1 CAFÉ CÓRDOBA – THE FOLLOWING SPRING,
Chapter 2 NEWINGTON,
Chapter 3 TRIANA,
Chapter 4 LA PARROQUIA DE SANTA ANA,
Chapter 5 HACIENDA,
Chapter 6 WEST NICOLSON STREET,
Chapter 7 SEVILLA,
Chapter 8 MADRID: A-2,
Chapter 9 BRUNTSFIELD,
Chapter 10 STOCKBRIDGE,
Chapter 11 ST LEONARD'S,
Chapter 12 CRAMOND,
Chapter 13 TWO CITIES,
Chapter 14 CÓRDOBA,
Chapter 15 HANOVER STREET,
Chapter 16 SOMEPLACE IN SCOTLAND,
Chapter 17 ROYAL MILE,
Chapter 18 PRINCES STREET,
Chapter 19 EDINBURGH,

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

".strongly recommended to all crime thriller fans. very easy to get into and follow." Bookread2day

"Another cracker from Cowan. pacey and relentless. The author has found a rich seam of crime fiction." Scots Magazine review of Sins of the Fathers

".strongly recommended to all crime thriller fans. very easy to get into and follow." Bookread2day

Editorial Reviews

Father Ramón feels no guilt for his crimes. He craves revenge. Hidalgo is in danger...

Disgraced former priest Ramón is finally released from prison. But instead of feeling guilt and remorse he is bent on revenge against those who testified against him. Most are easy to find but there is one last piece missing in his puzzle: Andrea has moved to Edinburgh. As Andrea slowly realises her past has terrifyingly become her present, David Hidalgo finds himself once again in the middle of a problem he wasn't looking for. Can he halt Ramón's revenge or will there be further casualties?

"Exciting and thoughtful… and also gentle probing of how faith and conscience work in the face of obsession. Runcie’s Grantchester has a rival in Edinburgh with a hero unlike our friend Rebus." Press and Journal Saturday magazine

"Another cracker from Cowan… pacey and relentless… The author has found a rich seam of crime fiction." Scots Magazine review of Sins of the Fathers

"…strongly recommended to all crime thriller fans… very easy to get into and follow." Bookread2day

From the Publisher