Ros - Bomb

Caroline couldn't help noticing him at dinner.  She felt that he was someone she knew or had  seen on the television.  He had a certain prescence, not exactly good looking but distinguished.  He was tall and held himself errect.  His dark hair was thick and flecked with grey  However it was his behaviour which set him apart from the other guests.  He spoke to everyone, engaged the staff in earnest conversation which, from his manner  she observed was polite and solicitous without being too familiar. The maitre d' had welcomed him effusively, kissing him warmly on both cheeks.  He was obviously a regular visitor.  Caroline, in her halting Spanish enquired of the waiter whom he might be.  He replied in an awed whisper that he was Snr Garcia.

Now, from the vantage point of her bedroom window, she could see a cloud of dust, obscuring the mountain view,  a mass of twisted metal,  shards of material  scattered across the courtyard, papers dancing in the breeze and an ever lengthening trickle of bood gained momentum as it slithered downwards.  She had closed her window to exclude the smell of burning;  burning rubber,  wires. leather and what else she did not dare to name. She shuddered.

How could this be possible in this remote spot, an oasis of peace and beauty? Who would want to kill this man? Because there was no doubt in her mind that this was murder. Her mind examined  all the possible scenarios.  Snr Garcia had apparently been alone at the hotel but perhaps he had an assignation planned?.  Maybe a jealous wife or lover was responsible?  She quickly dismissed such a notion.  Aggrieved partners had access to simpler methods rather that resorting to the complexities of planting bombs under cars in remote Pyrennean hotels.  Was the murderer still here?  She felt an unpleasant jolt in her stomach.  Had he, or perhaps it was a she, also been present at last night's dinner.  In her mind she made a tour of the restaurant.  A young couple had sat at the next table.  They had had only eyes for each other.  A family, clearly celebrating some anniversary or event had occupied the table opposite.  They had been very lively and had rather too  much to drink, she felt, to be capable of carrying out an activity which required such precison.  It could have been a member of staff or any one of a multitude of visitors who made the risky and onerous journey up the precipitous track to the hotel.  She admitted to herself that she suspected no-one - and everyone.  She longed to get away but the exit was blocked.  There was no escape. She tried to telephone her husband but he didn't pick up.  She considered herself a match for  most situations but this event had rattled to her.  She had recently given up smoking but  the desire for a cigarette was overwhelming.

As she watched the dust settled and the sky returned to the brillliant blue expected from holidays, a stark contrast with the grim scene before her.  It was busy in the courtyard below now.  Several police cars and an ambulance were parked .She noticed the hotel owner, undoubtedly dismayed that such an even should occur on his premises, waving his arms about.  She looked  more closely, he was actually pointing at the rock face in the garden. All  eyes turned.  She was able to make out from the paint daubings a sign of a hammer entwined by a snake.

Later the remaining guests gathered in the bar. The atmosphere was tense, only broken by the occasional nervous laugh.  As Carolline clutched a calming gin and tonic, she learnt that the sign defacing the rock symbolised the organisation ETA. In reverent tones and with tears in his eyes, the bar man reported that  Snr Garcia was a judge who had been repsonsible for the jailing of many of their members over the years. And the perpetrator? A young man on a motorbike delivering the delicious pastries they had enjoyed at breakfast time.