A Coffin For Two

12

There was nothing about the missing skeleton on Radio L’Escala next morning either, or in the daily newspapers.

We left for Barcelona at 8:30 a.m., foundAvinguda Diagonal without any great difficulty, parked and made it comfortably to the British Consulate in time for our appointment. It was another pleasant morning, with the temperature only in the low seventies, but it was hot indoors, and the air conditioning in the fourteenth floor suite was welcome. We were amazed to see that only the private offices had this benefit, and imagined the discomfort of the poor punters queuing in the real heat of July and August, watching the staff, cool behind their thick glass screen, while they sweltered in the reception area.

We were received by the commercial counsellor, a decent chap called Hal something. We explained our backgrounds and our idea. He gave us the thumbs up straight away.

‘Good proposition,’ he said. ‘Most people looking for business information come to us, and we don’t have the manpower to deal with them all promptly. I’ll be happy to refer people to you. I don’t think that your fees will frighten many off. As for the legal and personal stuff, I don’t know of anyone who does that, so you should be on a winner there too.

‘If I were you, once you’re up and running, I’d think about reversing the process, and offering a British market information service to Spanish customers.’

Hal echoed Jan’s advice that we should seek resident status straight away. ‘From what you’ve said, you can show a level of income, so you’ll have no problem.’

He gave us a series of names and addresses and was able to make a couple of appointments for us. We spent much of the rest of the day in government offices, filling in forms and signing papers, and by mid-afternoon we had gone most of the way to becoming Spanish residents.

‘You know,’ said Prim, as we strolled down the Ramblas, celebrating our imminent new status, ‘it must be two years since I was in a city as big as this. Let’s do the tourist thing with the rest of the daylight.’

So we visited the Sagrada Familia, then the Olympic Stadium. We meant to take in Nou Camp, the vast home of Barca football club, but there was a league game on that evening. The man on the gate laughed at me when I asked if there were any tickets.

It was just after midnight when we rolled into the apartment, knackered and very well fed, having dined on the way home at Mas Pou, one of our favourite restaurants. As soon as I switched on the light, I saw a sheet of fax paper lying curled on the phone. I picked it up and read its very short message.

Oz/Prim

Phone me, soon as you get in. You’re in business.

Jan