A Coffin For Two

26

We managed to escape from our extended dinner table without doing ourselves too much damage, and so my morning run was a much less harrowing experience than that of the day before. I even completed a few feeble push-ups in front of the church before heading back up to the apartment.

When I came in, carrying my trainers this time, having judged them safe to be allowed indoors, Prim was showered and dressed and looking pleased with herself. She didn’t even wait to be asked. ‘I’ve been on to international directory enquiries. The number of Cardiff Art College is on the pad beside the phone.

‘And we’ve had a fax confirming theTarragona commission. They want a report by the beginning of next week, if possible. The client has arranged for you to do the interview on Friday.’

Thinking again about my trainers, I tossed them out on to the terrace. ‘No problem. Have they given us details about the subject?’

‘Yes. She’s Spanish.’

‘Christ, that’s a small detail they haven’t mentioned before. Still, we are called Blackstone Spanish Investigations, so they’re entitled to make the assumption.’

Prim nodded. ‘That’s right. So we just hire an interpreter and put translation costs on the bill.’

‘Sure, but where will we find an interpreter for Frid …’ I caught her eye, and her smile, and read her mind.

‘Davidoff.’ We said the name in unison.

‘D’you think he would?’

‘We can only ask,’ said Primavera. ‘But if I ask him, I think he might.’

We ate breakfast on the terrace as usual, then tossed a coin to decide who would wash the dishes and who would call Cardiff College of Art. I won.

The man on the switchboard told me that the principal’s name was Mrs Adams, and put me through to her office. Her secretary turned out to be a more formidable obstacle to clear. ‘I’m sorry, but the principal is a very busy person. “Confidential matter” is not good enough.’

‘Okay. I’m a private investigator. I’m making enquiries on behalf of a client about a member of your staff. Mr Ronald Starr.’

‘Hold on, please.’ Her tone didn’t change but I could tell that I had cleared the hurdle. She was back on the line in less than ten seconds. ‘I’m putting you through.’

‘Mr Blackstone?’ Mrs Adams had the rich deep voice of a Welsh rugby commentator. I wondered about MrAdams. ‘You say you’re making enquiries about Ronnie Starr?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Mmm. Do something for me when you find him, will you. Tell him to get back here and empty out his bloody locker!’

For a second I thought she was about to hang up. Maybe she had been, but I stopped her. ‘Hold on, Mrs Adams,’ I said quickly. ‘If I’m right you might as well clear out his locker yourself.’

I held my breath, waiting still for the hum of a broken line. ‘You think Ronnie’s dead?’ she asked, at last.

Perhaps I had gone too far. ‘It has to be a possibility. When did you hear from him last?’

‘I haven’t heard from the man since the day he left us, in June last year. I did expect him back in October, to start a new contract. But he didn’t appear. No letter, no call, nothing. I was keeping his job open, and his college flat unlet. He let me down. Left me with a roll of students and no one to teach them. I even had to get paint on my hands again.’

‘Mrs Adams,’ I ventured, ‘can you tell me a few things about Ronald Starr? What was his speciality?’

‘He was a painting tutor. Good all-rounder, but his main interest was surrealism.’

‘Was he a good painter?’

‘Exceptional,’ she barked. ‘I’ve no idea why he was teaching, really. He could have supported himself by painting professionally. In fact he should have. He was that good.’

‘His own work, it was surrealist too, yes?’

‘That’s right. The chap had a tremendous range. His colour choice was fantastic, the way he blended them together. He could make a canvas sing.’

I began to tremble. All of a sudden, the jigsaw seemed to have fewer, much bigger, pieces. I pushed it a bit further. ‘When he left, last year, d’you know where he was going?’

‘Yes,’ she said, heavily. ‘He told me he was bound for the north of Spain. To paint, and to research the Catalan surrealists. The king of them all, of course, was Dali. Ronnie Starr worshipped him. He seemed to know his whole portfolio, off by heart. He could mimic some of it as well.’ Her booming chuckle startled me. ‘He could do a great soft watch, could our Ronnie!’