A Coffin For Two

25

I never have found out what Gary’s surname is. I don’t know of anyone else in L‘Escala who knows it either; simply because no one I’ve met has ever asked him. That’s the sort of place L’Escala is.

Although it’s only a few kilometres away its attitudes, compared with those in St Marti, are light years apart. In the village where Prim and I made our home, the rare outsiders who manage to buy property and choose to become permanent residents find themselves subject to direct, and not very discreet enquiries, until their backgrounds and much of their intimate business is known.

In L’Escala, though, a poncho-wearing stranger could ride into town on a sway-backed burro, stay for a year, kill all the local bad guys and ride out again, without anyone knowing as much as his name, unless he had chosen to give it.

All we knew of Gary was that he was a nice bloke who ran a restaurant. We had learned second-hand from Shirley that he had arrived in town a couple of years before, had liked the place and had decided to stay and open a business.

He was waiting for us in his pocket-sized dining room, at the top of an alley behind the church, his hand outstretched in greeting, and a smile of welcome on his face, when we arrived just before 9 p.m. ‘Hello there. Dead on time as usual. It really helps, your being able to come now. I’ve got Maggie and five friends booked in for nine-thirty, so I’ll have you well under way by then.’

We were used to the ways of Gary’s, a one-man operation where everything is bought fresh and cooked fresh, and where evenings are planned with military efficiency, and run that way until the last course is served to the last table, and everyone can get pleasantly pissed.

Prim had made our menu choices by telephone when she booked, and so, even allowing for his timetable, we were able to relax over a beer with our host before we ate.

We talked about this and that; our new business venture, Gary’s opening schedule for the winter months, and the success of the tourist season which was just winding down … something many Catalan business owners do not care to discuss in public, just in case the tax hombre may be listening at the next table. But we didn’t rush to ask any questions. We had agreed that in the circumstances — since our discovery about Starr had changed the nature of the game — that tracing Trevor was a subject to be handled with care. Also, Gary had told Prim earlier of his booking for six, and we had decided to sit tight, on the off chance that our man would be one of the number.

Our salmon steaks were on the table when the sextet arrived. We looked up as they entered, one by one; Maggie, whom we knew, a German couple named Manfred and Lucy, whom we had met there before, and the three Millers, parents and son. Maggie gave us her usual generous ‘Hello’, Manfred and Lucy came along to our table to shake hands, but the Millers settled into their places at table, with the briefest of smiles.

Prim kicked me under the table, and, her hand out of sight under her napkin, pointed across in their general direction. I took the hint, rose from my place, and walked over to Steve. I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘About last night,’ I said, trying not to choke. ‘I’m sorry if we got off to a bad start. I didn’t mean all that crap (lie). I had a few beers too many on top of a heavy day (truth).’

He reached round and offered a handshake. ‘That’s okay, Ozzie, old chap,’ he said, loudly and magnanimously … there’s nothing worse than an arsehole like him being magnanimous to you. ‘No harm done.’

When I sat down again at our table, I could see the effort with which Prim was suppressing her grin. She knows how much I hate being called ‘Ozzie’.

The ice was broken, though, and our two tables soon became an informal arrangement of eight, with the inevitable increase in wine consumption to which that leads. I had given up hope of us getting any more out of the evening than a good meal and a good bevvy, when all of a sudden, we had an ally.

‘Hey, Gary,’ called Maggie, in her sharp, northern accent. She runs a service company for villa owners, and her success is built on being able to arrange absolutely anything. ‘That chap Trevor Eames. ’Ave you seen him lately? Only Steve ‘ere wants to fix up some sailing lessons when he comes back at easter; and Trevor does that, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the restauranteur. ‘You won’t find him just now, though. I know for a fact he’s away crewing, on a big sailing boat out of Ampuriabrava.’

‘When will he be back?’

Gary sucked in his breath. ‘I’m not sure. You never can be certain with these casual trips. But from what he was saying, I wouldn’t look for him to be around before next week.’

‘Oh dash,’ said Maggie. ‘Steve goes home on Friday.’

I saw my chance and stepped into it. ‘Tell you what, Steve,’ I said. ‘Prim and I have been talking about learning to sail. Why don’t we look him up when he gets back, and make an arrangement for you while we’re about it?’

‘Would you, Ozzie old chap?That’d be great. I’m due back on April two next year, for a fortnight.’

‘Zero problemo, Stevie son. D’you know where this Trevor lives, Gary? He is the bloke we’ve seen in here, isn’t he? Wee chap, bald head, skin like a walnut.’

Our host looked up from the bar, where he was sorting out the bills, and nodded. ‘That’s the man; that’s Trevor. Never at a loss for a word. But I’m sorry, Oz, I don’t know where he lives, only that it’s somewhere in L’Escala. He has a boat in the marina, though, with a little day cabin, and with a couple of dinghies which he uses for teaching strapped to the roof. You’ll usually find him around there, when he’s in town. It’s called La Sirena something. La Sirena Two, I think. I’ve got no idea where his mooring is, though.’

‘Thanks, Gary. We’ll start looking for him next week.’

‘Okay. If he comes in, I’ll mention it. Do you want me to send him along to see you in St Marti?’

That was pushing it. ‘No, that’s okay. There’s no guarantee we’d be in. We’ll find him ourselves, don’t you worry.’