On Honeymoon With Death

5

I wish I could describe the expression on Ramon Fortunato’s face when he saw who owned Villa Bernabeu. Yes, I really do, but, glib bastard though I am, it’s beyond me.

Our living room was well lit, by four big wall fittings, one on either side of each fireplace. When the captain stepped in from the night outside and saw us, his jaw dropped, he turned several different colours in succession, and it was well over a minute before he could speak.

‘Fucking hell!’ he shouted at last. The regional commander of the Mossos d’Esquadra, the Catalan police force, has a remarkable command of the English language; for a guy from Albons, that is.

I hadn’t seen Fortunato for a while; our acquaintance went back to my last extended stay in Spain when Prim and I had become involved in a business which had led to us a stumbling over a number of people in succession, each of them, coincidentally, somewhat deceased. As muerto as cordero as they say in Spanish. To his great credit he had accepted from the off that we weren’t the sort of people who were likely to have been responsible for any of them.

Prim had got to know him socially rather than professionally, after I had left St Marti and gone back to Scotland to marry Jan. During that time, she eventually told me, she had carnal relations with a Spanish man. . and why not, as she put it. I had never been entirely sure, despite her denial, and despite the existence of a wife, that it wasn’t Fortunato that she’d shagged.

If that was the case, the memory of it didn’t exactly overwhelm him right then. ‘You are magnets for corpses!’ he exclaimed, running his fingers through his thick black hair as I poured him a medicinal glass of Le Panto. Prim and I don’t usually attack the brandy early in the evening. . or late, for that matter. . but we agreed that the circumstances justified the exception.

Looking back, in that moment, I realised that he was right. . about Prim at least. In all my time with Jan, we never discovered a single body!

‘Just a minute, Ramon,’ my wife exclaimed. ‘You can’t say that. We came upon him, not the other way around.’

She walked over to him; he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Looking at the two of them, in a fleeting second, my suspicions were reinforced. There was something in the way he allowed his hands to rest on her hips that convinced me they’d been there before. Not that I got steamed up; at the time she had been well entitled.

I walked across, shook his hand and gave him the brandy. He hadn’t changed much; medium height, solidly built, black-haired, olive-skinned. He was clean-shaven but looked like the sort of bloke who should be wearing a moustache.

‘Don’t go on to us,’ I warned him. ‘Talk to the estate agent. What sort of an impression will it give property investors if word gets around that in L’Escala there’s a free stiff in every swimming pool?’

‘Who sold you the place?’ he asked, as he sat down on the couch.

‘A bloke called Sergi, from an agency called SolVacances.’

Fortunato chuckled. ‘That figures. He’s a good guy, but not of this world. A bit like the man in the pool, but not in the same way.

‘When did you buy it?’

‘Last week. We moved in today. We’re on our honeymoon. ’ I didn’t have to volunteer that, but something made me. ‘We sold the apartment a while back, but were talked into having another property here.’

He looked at Prim. ‘I never thought I’d see you back here,’ he said quietly.

‘How else would you find your corpses?’ she shot back with a grin. ‘How’s Veronique?’

‘Very well. We had a little boy six months ago; his name is Alejandro.’

There was a silence; somehow I didn’t feel part of it.

‘So who’s our pal out there?’ I asked, to break it as much as anything else. I glanced out of the window, just in time to see two uniformed Mossos officers carrying a plastic coffin up the steps of the pool.

The captain looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. ‘How the hell should I know? He’s not exactly recognisable. He’s been out there for a long time, but this house has been empty for a long time too.’ His face twisted into a bitter grin. ‘That shows you how quiet it is up here; apart from the lady Shirley, no one lives in this street all the year round. Even at that though, the smell must have been bad for a while.’

‘When you remember how the L’Escala drains get sometimes, ’ I muttered, ‘who’d wonder about it?

‘Come on,’ I persisted. ‘Is it the Frenchman? The guy who owned this place?’

‘It could be him; but like I say, it could be anybody. It could be a tramp who crawled under the cover for shelter in the winter, then took a heart attack or something. Christ, I can’t even be certain that it’s a man.’

‘Forget the tramp idea,’ I told him. ‘That cover was lashed down tight; no one could have crawled under it, or at least no adult. Wasn’t there anything on the body to give you a clue? He was clothed, after all.’

‘Hah!’ Fortunato laughed, explosively. ‘I tell you what Oz; I haven’t heard the morgue wagon leave, so why don’t you go out and take a look through his pockets? Go on, I give you permission.’

I thought I caught a challenge in his tone; it needled me so much that I actually moved towards the door. Then I thought better of it.

‘No?’ the policeman chuckled. ‘Well not me, either. Let’s leave it to the man who does the autopsy. He’s paid more than I am; he can look through the pockets, and pick through the bones.’ He held up his goblet; somehow he had managed to empty it. ‘Meanwhile, I am still suffering from the shock of exposure to that thing, and to the cold night air.’

He wasn’t wrong about the weather; when the sun goes down on the Costa Brava in the winter months it can turn bloody freezing, bloody quickly, however bright the day may have been. I poured him another Le Panto.

‘Going back to the Frenchman,’ I said, as I settled myself into an armchair. ‘I got the impression back there that you knew who I was talking about. Right?’

He sipped his brandy, then gave me a funny smile. ‘Name, Reynard Capulet. Height, one metre seventy-nine; fair hair, small scars on right cheek and on chin. Date of birth, June eight, nineteen fifty-seven. At least that’s what it said on the Interpol file which I saw, and that’s what it said on the passport he used around here. Monsieur Capulet crossed frontiers under several different names, and one or two different hair colours, too, I suspect.

‘Technically, he didn’t own this place. . but you’ll probably know that by now, from your transaction with the notario. It belonged to a company which he and his sister set up in Switzerland.’

‘His sister?’ Prim murmured. ‘Sergi never mentioned her.’

‘There was no reason why he should; I’d be surprised if he ever met her. Her birth name is Lucille Capulet, and as far as I know that’s the only one she uses. She didn’t come here, though. She lives in Geneva, and she runs the company through a lawyer.’

‘I take it from the fact that Interpol have a file on him,’ I said, ‘and from your tone, that Mr Capulet is bent.’

‘Bent?’ For once Fortunato’s English let him down.

‘Crooked. Not straight. A criminal.’

‘All three. Capulet is, or maybe was, a friend of the friends. He has contacts with organised crime in France, Italy, Spain and the United States. He has homes in Paris and Florida.’

‘What was his business?’

‘He was a merchant, you might say. He was registered, quite legitimately, in Monaco as an antique dealer. He bought and sold internationally; often he would act for individuals on an agency basis. They’d give him lists of what they wanted, and he would find the items and acquire them. He did very well.

‘But there was a suspicion that he had another, more lucrative business. He may have been involved in the movement of goods from one country to another, usually, but not always, on an informal basis.’

‘He’s a drug smuggler?’

‘Smuggler yes. . or so the police believe. . but drugs no, apparently. According to the Interpol file he did not deal in narcotics. He was suspected of smuggling cigarettes, alcohol and people; those three illicit commodities.’

‘People?’ Prim exclaimed.

Fortunato gave her a smile and a shrug. ‘Sure. There’s money to be made by moving people from one country to another; Moroccans into Spain, Chinese and Asians into Britain. . Christ, Chinese everywhere. . Africans anywhere in mainland Europe, and into the States.’

‘But if you know all this, why wasn’t he in jail?’

‘No, we suspect all this. Nobody has ever been able to prove any of it. But maybe he is in jail, dear Primavera.’ He seemed to caress her name with his tongue. ‘Maybe he is in prison in another continent, under another of his names.’ Outside, a diesel engine barked into life. ‘Or maybe he’s in a plastic box on his way to the morgue in Figueras.

‘To answer your question, criminals like our French friend do their business on the basis of bribery. People are paid to be absent from their posts at certain times, or not to search particular consignments, or to develop sudden deafness should they hear voices coming from within a container as it is being unloaded from a truck or a ship. It’s very difficult to catch them.

‘Whatever the truth, he hasn’t been seen anywhere for over a year, by the people whose business it is to watch him. On my way here, I checked with Interpol; in Lyon …’

I interrupted. ‘I thought it was based in Paris.’

‘That’s what everyone thinks. No, it’s in Lyon; Quai Charles de Gaulle. Christ, it even has a website. I used the telephone though; I called them when my men gave me this location, and asked about M. Capulet. They told me that he had dropped out of sight.’

‘At around the same time the house was put on the market?’

‘A few months before that.’

‘Mmm. If that is him in the van, he might have had a problem when it came to giving the sale instruction to the lawyer.’

Fortunato frowned.

‘So?’

‘So if it is him, and he didn’t authorise the sale, who did? His sister?’

‘A good question. One of many Interpol may be asking. . if it turns out that way.’

‘How about his antiques business?’ Prim asked.

‘As far as I know it’s still trading; but it was run by a manager for much of the time. Capulet needed it, you see, to make his wealth look legitimate.’

He finished his brandy. ‘I must go,’ he announced abruptly, rising easily from the couch.

As we walked him to the door, he looked down at Prim. ‘It is good to see you again, my dear,’ he said quietly, giving her forearm a gentle squeeze. ‘I am happy to see that you seem to be happy.’

‘You too,’ she murmured.

He seemed to remember that I was there. ‘I hope that we don’t have to disturb you much more, Senor Oz. If your latest specimen turns out not to be Capulet, we won’t. But if it is. . well, that may be another matter.’

He shook my hand, kissed Prim briefly on the cheek once more, and stepped out into the night.