On Honeymoon With Death

9

My casual suggestion took wings. As the overtime painters finished their scaffolding, we talked and made a couple of phone calls.

My sister Ellen jumped at the chance to spend Christmas in our new house. Jonathan and Colin weren’t old enough to vote, but there was no doubt about what they’d want. More than that, we decided that we had room for my dad and Mary, my stepmother, too. . without creating parental rivalries, since Prim’s folks were heading for Los Angeles to end the year with the pregnant Dawn and her megastar husband, Miles.

The master plan was completed when Mary insisted on cooking the turkey. Nobody does it better.

We had no intention of doing any more cooking ourselves than we had to, so in the evening we headed into L’Escala, for dinner in La Dolce Vita, at a table in an upstairs window with a view across the Golfo de Rosas. The pizza was world-class. . I could live on pizza. . but the place was busy and there was a queue for tables, so we didn’t hang about long after dessert.

It was just after ten when we stepped out into the crisp, December night. We didn’t feel like going home; instead, we went for a wander.

We had walked past Bar JoJo many times, but had rarely gone in. We probably wouldn’t have that night either, only we saw Shirley sitting there, at a table.

I really don’t know how to describe JoJo’s. It serves as a local for many of the L’Escala ex-pats, but it isn’t exclusively their club. It caters for young. . some very young. . and old. . some very old. . alike, and it is open at least six nights a week through the year, even on black Mondays in the dead of winter when there are no other lights showing in the old town. I’m not even going to try to describe JoJo herself. . Dammit, yes I am. Imagine, if you will, that Rita Hayworth had been English and had lived a year or two longer than she did.

Shirley wasn’t alone when we stepped inside; there were half a dozen other customers, plus Jo herself, and a set of dominoes lay scattered on each of the two tables. Clearly, there had been a hot time in the old town that night.

The proprietrix pushed herself up from her chair. ‘Nice to see you again,’ she said. ‘What can I get you?’

The wrong answer to that question can lead to the land of very sore heads, but we settled for two beers. As we took them, and as Jo entered them into the notebook where she keeps everyone’s tab, Shirley called across from her table. ‘Hello you two. Your ears burning? I was just talking about you; so was everyone else, in fact. You’re the talk of the town.’

The man on her right nodded, then took a quick slurp from a drink that looked as if it might have been lemonade, but wasn’t. ‘Aye, that’s right,’ he barked, in an accent from somewhere north of Birmingham. . I’ve never been very good at telling Yorkshiremen from Lancastrians. I can’t even remember which colour of rose is which. ‘It’s been right quiet here for a while. Still, it’s nice to ’ave you back, for all that.’

‘Nice to be back,’ I said. I like Frank Barnett; he’s a fixture in L’Escala, to the extent that when he dies there’s talk of stuffing him. As a matter of fact, some people can’t wait, or so it seems; I’ve heard them tell him to get stuffed on several occasions. He and his wife Geraldine left wherever it was around ten years ago for a brief stay in Spain, and have hardly been back since. He’s a plain-spoken man, is our Frank; I didn’t really appreciate the meaning of the adjective ‘bluff ’ until I met him at a Catalan Society do.

‘So,’ he demanded, ‘is it ’im, then? The French bloke who was chatting up Shirl; is it ’im?’

‘Well if it is, it isn’t, Frank. . If you see what I mean. What we found in our new pool was a pile of bones and other stuff I don’t even like to think about.’

He gave a deep macabre chuckle. ‘Maggots, like?’

‘Fucking crocodiles, mate.’ He likes a story embellished.

‘So the police don’t have a clue then?’

‘Nary a one. They think it’s Capulet, but they can’t prove it.’

‘Not even in this day and age? Wi’ all this genetic fingerprinting and stuff?’

‘If you can find one of his toe-nail clippings under your bed, they’d identify him in as long as it takes to test it. But otherwise …’

He grunted. ‘Under your bed, more like. I ’ardly knew the bloke.’ He flashed me a wicked smile. ‘Can’t speak for the Missis, though. She likes a bit of French.’

‘Gerroff,’ Geraldine muttered, cuffing him lightly on the back of the head.

‘They’ve looked under our bed already,’ Prim told him. ‘No joy. If you’re ever looking for really good cleaners, we can recommend a firm.’

‘Did you know him though, Frank?’ I asked.

‘Oh aye. Not very well, like I said, but I knew the bloke. He were in here once or twice.’

I must have looked surprised, for he continued. ‘Yes, he were. Not a regular customer, like, but he came in once or twice.’

‘Sure, with me,’ Shirley interjected.

‘Aye, but other times as well. Jo’ll tell you, won’t you, Jo?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ came a voice from behind the bar.

‘You know that Moroccan bloke?’ Frank asked.

‘Which one among the several million?’

‘Dark-haired guy.’

I searched my memory, but couldn’t for the life of me remember when I’ve ever seen a blond Moroccan. ‘Keep going,’ I said.

‘Thin bloke; tall for a Moroccan. He’s got a fishing boat. Sayeed,’ he bellowed at last. ‘That’s ’is name. The Frenchman were in here with him a few times. They made an odd couple, him well-dressed, smelling of aftershave and dripping in gold, and this other fella, well-enough dressed, but dead scruffy and looking like ’e didn’t own a razor.’

‘What were they talking about?’ I asked him.

‘I don’t know, but it were private whatever it was. I said “Hello” to them one night. . just like that. . and the Moroccan looked at me as if he thought I’d been listening in. After that they clammed right up. So I just left them to get on wi’ it. I were only trying to be friendly, that’s all. Bugger the pair of ’em, that’s what I said to myself.’

‘How about Sayeed? Is he still around?’

‘I suppose so,’ Frank muttered, scratching his forehead above his light-framed glasses. ‘I suppose he must be. Can’t remember when I saw ’im last, though. Can you, Shirl?’

‘The Moroccan? I wouldn’t have a bloody clue,’ she answered.

‘How about you, Gerrie?’ he asked his wife. ‘Sayeed the fisherman. When did you see him last?’

She looked at him, only mildly interested. ‘I don’t know,’ she complained. ‘He’s not the sort of bloke you’d miss, is he?’

Prim laughed. ‘You’re all missing him, by the sound of things; you’ve mislaid him completely.’

Defeated, Frank turned to the Oracle. ‘Jo. When was Sayeed in here last?’

She pondered the question. ‘Must be a year and more back,’ she announced at last. ‘Before he went to prison.’

‘Christ,’ I muttered, aloud. ‘The story goes on. What did he get the nick for, Jo?’

She looked at me as if I was simple. ‘Smuggling,’ she answered. ‘What else around here?’

‘Ahh,’ shouted Frank in triumph. ‘That’s it, I’d forgotten ’e got put away.’

‘So what was he smuggling?’ asked Prim. ‘Drugs? Booze?’

‘Nah, love,’ said Jo, ‘none of that; not Sayeed. He was caught with what most of these people smuggle.’

‘Which is?’ she asked, as intrigued as I was.

‘Other bleedin’ Moroccans; what else?’