On Honeymoon With Death

22

Susie’s secretary must live close to the office, because we had only just left the ironmonger on the Passeig Maritim in L’Escala when she called back on my mobile. I answered it as I climbed in behind the driver’s seat of the Voyager, then handed it across.

‘Yes, thanks, Clara. Hold on till I get a pen. Right. Spell it again. Yes, I’ve got that. And the bank? Spell that too. Got it. The weather, it’s nice and sunny here, and quite warm for the time of year. Is it? Oh, too bad. Yes, see you soon; week after next.’

Susie handed me back the phone. ‘She says it’s pissing down in Glasgow right now.’

‘I wish you were there. Don’t you?’

She scowled at me. ‘You mean rather than here making your life a misery?’

‘Aye, put it that way if you like. But I really meant that you’d be safe in Glasgow.’

‘Sure you did. Anyway, the answer’s no. I told you, I’m a selfish, devious wee bitch.’

‘Manipulative.’

‘What?’

‘You’re a selfish, manipulative wee bitch, remember?’

‘Maybe so, but I prefer devious. And it’s still no. Apart from the falling down stairs bit, I like being here taking shameless advantage of you.’

‘Susan, chuck it, please.’

‘Making you uncomfortable, am I? Am I making you feel guilty because you don’t feel guilty enough?’

I looked away from her; I’m uncomfortable when someone can see right to the heart of me.

‘Come on. What have you got there?’

She looked at the diary in which she had scribbled her notes. ‘The company is called Castelgolf SA. The Banco Provincial is in Placa Catalunya in Barcelona.’

I started the car. ‘Where are we going now?’ she asked, glancing at the bag with the bolts and the new power drill, which lay on the back seat. ‘Are you going to do your boy-joiner act?’

‘Not yet. We’re going home, yes, but I’m going to make a phone call, and then we’re going to Barcelona. It’s barely gone ten; we’ll be there by one o’clock, easy.’

If I had thought to programme Ramon Fortunato’s direct number into my mobile, we needn’t have gone home at all. Since I hadn’t, I had to look it up on the card that he’d given me, the one which I’d left lying in the kitchen. Happily, he was in his office. He even answered the phone himself.

‘Hola Oz,’ he said, cheerily. ‘Good party the other night. Thanks again. What is it? I don’t have anything new on Capulet, if that’s what you were wondering.’

I had debated with myself whether to tell him about Susie’s non-accident, but had decided to keep it to myself for a while, mainly because I wasn’t sure I could trust him not to tell Prim about it. If anyone was going to do that, it had to be me.

‘No, it’s not that,’ I answered. ‘I need a favour. A friend of mine from Scotland has put a fair chunk of money into a leisure development here, and she’s concerned about lack of progress. I wonder if you could check whether your people know anything about the company involved, or the people behind it.’

He sighed, heavily and wearily.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s not the first time I am asked a question like this, Oz. I’ve been asked it in French, in German, in Italian, and yes, in English too. Gimme some names.’

I looked at Susie’s note. ‘The company is called Castelgolf SA. The two guys who own it are Jeffrey Chandler and William Hickok; there might be someone called Brian Murphy involved as well.’

Fortunato chortled at the other end of the line. ‘Those are good ones, amigo. Like in the movies. Jeff Chandler and Wild Bill Hickok, yes? A couple of cowboys.’

Jesus! I almost said it out loud, but caught myself in time; I didn’t want to alert Susie right then.

‘In cases like this, if they are not straight, the names are never genuine. If those are real, I will bring out my old Guardia Civil hat and eat it. Where is this development supposed to be?’

‘Ullastret.’

‘You’re joking with me again, yes? There’s nothing near Ullastret. Leave this with me; I’ll get back to you.’

I sat there, on my kitchen bar stool, pondering. Eventually, I picked up the phone again and called a London number. ‘This is Mark Kravitz,’ the answerphone told me. ‘Leave a message.’

‘Mark,’ I told it, ‘this is Oz Blackstone. Can you call me back on …’

‘Oz,’ said Kravitz, bursting in on me, ‘it’s you. Sorry about the machine; I screen all my calls. What’s up, mate?’

I kept my voice low; Susie was hovering around in the living room, waiting for me to finish. ‘I’ve got a problem,’ I told him. ‘No details, but someone’s trying to harm a friend of mine. I have a couple of aliases I need checked. All my Special Branch contacts are used up; I wondered if you had access.

‘I’ll pay you, of course. Usual rate, whatever that is, no matter how much time you have to spend on it.’

‘Fair enough. Shouldn’t take too long, hopefully. What are the names?’

I told him; Mark obviously isn’t as big a film buff as Fortunato, because he didn’t react. ‘It’s a property scam,’ I added, ‘out here in Spain.’ I gave him my home and mobile numbers.

‘I’ll get back to you. I might have to grease someone. That okay?’

‘If it’s not actually illegal, sure.’

‘Fine. I’ll be in touch.’

As I was finishing the call, Susie appeared in the doorway. She had changed into a beautifully tailored, very expensive business suit; suddenly she looked very high-powered indeed. ‘You about ready?’ she asked, impatiently.

‘Yeah. Let’s take the Mercedes, eh. You look as if you’re dressed for it.’