On Honeymoon With Death ob-5 Read online

  ‘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?’

  10

  When we woke next morning, we didn’t give Sayeed another thought. Instead, we finally got round to climbing down into our pool and giving it a good scrubbing out. . especially the area around the drain. . then began the slow process of filling it. The painters were off that day, so we had the place to ourselves for once.

  Once the bottom was completely covered, shallow end to deep, we added a load of chlorine, as advised by another English bloke we had met in JoJo’s, after we had moved on from Frank’s table.

  ‘Looks okay, doesn’t it?’ I said to Prim as we stood by the steps, watching the sun sparkling on the surface.

  ‘Mmm.’ She nodded. ‘I wonder how long it’ll be before I can look into it without imagining I can see something on the bottom.’

  ‘I wonder how long it’ll be before it’s warm enough to dive in to check.’

  ‘The end of May, without a heating system; or so that man said last night.’

  ‘Let’s get one, then,’ I proposed. ‘Like they say in Glasgow, toffs is careless.’

  Prim was pondering this when my mobile, which was clipped to my belt, played its wee tune. I let it sound for a second or two. . I like Peer Gynt. . then answered. It was my dad.

  ‘What are you up to then, son?’ asked Mac the Dentist.

  ‘Nothing much,’ I told him. ‘We’ve cleared the last corpse out of the swimming pool, so we’ve just been filling it up.’

  ‘Christ, coming from you I’d almost believe that was true.’ I hadn’t shared our secret with him. ‘Weather okay? It’s bloody awful here.’

  ‘Aye, fine, Dad. Just the usual, you know. Shirtsleeve order, if you’re in the sunshine and out of the wind.’

  ‘Lucky wee bastard!’ he snorted. ‘It had better stay that way. I’ve got the flight tickets booked. We leave the Saturday before Christmas, once the schools have broken up, flying to Barcelona from Edinburgh through Amsterdam. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Damn silly question, if you’ve booked. But of course it is. Did you put them on my Visa like I told you?’

  ‘Yes, I did. You could have made a mistake, son, giving me that number. But I put the hire car on mine, don’t worry.’

  ‘You’re a daft old bugger then; we were going to pick that up too. Listen, I’ll fax you directions from the airport nearer the time.’

  I paused. ‘So what else is new?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what is. I’ve had three different journalists on the blower trying to find you. They want to interview you before the premiere of your movie …’

  ‘Miles and Dawn’s movie, Dad.’

  ‘Whatever. They all wanted to talk to you in advance, anyway. Wanted to know where you were. I did as you said, and put them on to the distributor’s PR people in London.’

  ‘I gathered that; I had a message from them yesterday on my mobile. I’m either going to see them when we come back for the Glasgow premiere next month, or the film people will fly them out here to meet me.’

  My dad laughed. ‘Do I sound incredulous?’ he asked. ‘Because I fucking well am. I cannot believe this is my son we’re talking about. The same guy who used to be an ambition-free zone. So what do you do after the premiere?’

  ‘I go to school.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s right. Miles was happy enough with the way I handled the first movie, but that was because the part was built around me. Before we start shooting the next one, he wants me to have some coaching, so he’s hired a drama tutor to work with me one on one.’

  ‘Wise man. He faxed me a couple of reviews from movie critics in the States. You get a mention in both of them; they actually sort of hint that you’re no’ bad. . for a beginner.’

  ‘If I was bad, Dad, I wouldn’t have been there. Miles does no favours on his projects. He must have thought I was up to it.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I enjoy it; and yes, I do feel comfortable. You’re going to tell me I’ve been play-acting all my life, I suppose.’

  ‘That I am. Your mother would say the same if she was here, God bless her.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I can hear her saying just that, all the time. See you soon, Dad. . Oh yes, and remember to bring your golf clubs.’

  ‘Will do.’

  I had almost hit the cancel button when he spoke again.

  ‘Nearly forgot,’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone else called looking for you: Susie Gantry. She said she wanted to send you a card, so I gave her your new address.’

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘Okay. The spark seemed to have gone out of the lassie, as you’d expect, losing her man in the way she did; but she’s a tough wee thing. . She will survive, as the song says. She hasn’t been in touch with you?’

  ‘No.’›

  ‘Ach well, I expect she will. Give my love to Prim.’

  He really did ring off this time. I passed on his greetings to my wife as I walked up to the other end of the pool to rejoin her, with lunch in mind. We were almost indoors when we heard the gate creaking open. I thought it must be Shirley, looking to borrow a cup of sugar or some such, but I was wrong.

  As I looked towards the direction of the sound, a small, slender, brown-skinned girl stepped into the driveway. She carried what was either a small suitcase or a large vanity case, and was dressed in a heavy old-fashioned coat, the sort I’d have expected to see on someone twenty years older, but not on her. It flapped half open as I moved towards her and, underneath, I caught a glimpse of a flimsy cotton dress.

  ‘Can I help you? I asked as I walked towards her, forgetting myself and speaking to her in English. She looked at me blankly, until I repeated the question in Spanish.

  ‘I was told to come here,’ she answered. The coat opened wider as she spoke, letting me see just how flimsy the dress was. It seemed to cling to her body, making it pretty clear that it was all she was wearing, other than a pair of shoes with platform soles and laces which wound their way up her legs to tie in front of her shins.

  I sensed a wind-up in the offing; set up by Frank Barnett maybe, or by the pool man. ‘Pardon?’ I said.

  ‘I was told to come here,’ she repeated. I dragged my gaze back up to her face. She was very pretty, and certainly not Spanish, although I could only guess at her nationality.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I went on, still sceptical. ‘And who told you?’

  She frowned, her eyelashes flickering nervously. ‘I was told. Sorry. There is a mistake.’

  And then she was gone, as quickly as she had arrived, and as noisily, as the gate creaked closed behind her.

  I walked back up the drive and into the house. Prim was in the kitchen, making coffee. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

  ‘If I had to guess, I’
d say it was a call-girl; only she called at the wrong address.’

  She raised an eyebrow as she looked at me. ‘She’d better have,’ she murmured.

  11

  For the next couple of weeks, we concentrated on settling in to our new home, and on getting things ready for the family coming at Christmas. The painters turned the place from a dirty white colour into a sunny terra-cotta shade, the new aluminium security shutters were fitted, and a wrought-iron gate replaced the pile of rust at the foot of the driveway.

  We were even able to rejoin the world, when we had a computer system installed in a small room on the ground floor, which we had turned into an office.

  One of my first e-mail messages was from Miles Grayson, our movie director brother-in-law. He told me that in spite of my performance. . his very words. . Snatch was now officially a hit in the States, having taken over one hundred million dollars at the box office in its first month on release. Since I was on one per cent of the gross, that meant that I could no longer prevent Prim from going up to Figueras and buying the blue Mercedes SLK that she coveted. You know it; the one with yellow leather upholstery and the steel roof that retracts into the boot on sunny days.

  Miles also sent me over the Internet a file titled ‘Project 38’. I knew what it was before I opened it; the script for the new movie which we would be shooting in February. I printed it out on the morning it arrived and settled down to read it in one of our poolside chairs. The further along I got, the more nervous I grew.

  My part in Snatch had been limited, tailored to fit an unschooled beginner like me. Originally I had been hired simply as a narrator, because my voice sounded right and it wasn’t unknown to the public, thanks to my wrestling gigs and advertising voice-overs, but as the project had developed, and Miles had become used to me, a few on-camera scenes had been added. There was nothing complicated, nothing I couldn’t handle with proper direction from Miles, and although my eventual impact on the movie turned out to be quite significant, in my heart I hadn’t really felt like an actor, not even when I saw the rushes.

  This was different; I knew from my first read-through of the script, a fifties drama set in the Chicago area, that this time Miles planned to stretch me. I reckoned that he was taking a big gamble, and I was grateful for the coaching sessions which he had booked for me in the New Year.

  I was halfway through my second read-through when I heard a car pull up in the street outside. The new gate swung open silently and Ramon Fortunato stepped into the drive. ‘Bon dia,’ he called out. . ‘Good day,’ in Catalan. He looked up at the house. ‘Very impressive,’ he said, dropping into English. ‘It’s amazing what bright colour can do to a place. There’s a town on the Costa Brava where the mayor has banned all the builders from painting new houses white.’

  He whistled as he saw Primavera’s new car in the driveway. ‘Very impressive also. More than I can afford on my poor policeman’s salary.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ I told him, watching him climb the stair to the terrace. ‘You don’t fancy being talked about, that’s all.’

  ‘I wish,’ he muttered.

  ‘So,’ I asked, ‘to what do we owe the honour, and all that?’

  The captain shook his dark head. ‘Nothing; nothing at all. I was just passing.’

  I stared at him, unable to keep the smile from my face. ‘What? You were just passing by, on a dead-end road, in the back of beyond?’

  ‘I was visiting the ruins,’ he claimed, but I didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘Crap. You either want to tell us something, casually, or you want to find something out. You’re a detective; I never yet met one of them who did something for no reason at all.’

  Ramon surrendered. ‘Okay, okay; I admit it. I am curious.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I am wondering whether you have been doing your own detecting, into the mystery of the man in your pool.’ He glanced into the water. ‘It looks good now that you’ve filled it.’

  I held up Miles Grayson’s script. ‘Believe it or not, Capitano,’ I said, ‘I do have other priorities than doing your fucking job for you. I take it from that, that the crime on our premises is still not at the top of your list of things to do.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Not exactly. I caught the man who killed the child, though. He’s in jail in Barcelona; having a very bad time, I hope. But since then there has been a jewel robbery in Figueras, and a large German-owned sailing boat has been set on fire in Ampuriabrava. They rank ahead of Senor Capulet also.’

  ‘Well don’t look to me for help, mate; not even in fun. Prim would kill me.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he murmured. ‘Prim is an unceasingly curious lady. For her life is one big question, or so it seemed to me.’

  I didn’t answer him. In fact I made a point of not answering him; I just let his words hang in the air for a while, as if they might remind him not to dig up Prim’s past, not with me at any rate.

  ‘We did find out one thing,’ I told him, once I reckoned that he had got the message. ‘Purely by chance, of course. We heard that he had a pal around here. He used to go into Bar JoJo in L’Escala, with a tall, thin, scruffy Moroccan fisherman called Sayeed. . until he went to the slammer for running illegal immigrants into the country.’

  ‘Is that so?’ the policeman murmured. ‘Did they go there often?’

  ‘A few times, according to what we were told. Ask Jo if you want chapter and verse about it.’

  Fortunato turned and ambled towards the staircase to the driveway. ‘I might just do that,’ he said. ‘I think your body has just moved a couple of places up my priority list.’

  12

  My old man has spent most of his fifty-something years in Fife, so you might think that landing in a foreign country, then driving over a hundred kilometres to a backwater street in a strange town would be a major exercise for him. Not so.

  You can see Edinburgh from some of the higher parts of the East Neuk, it’s that close to the mainstream; yet there are villages tucked away in there, in their home county, that many Fifers have never heard of. My dad knows the lot, the whole place, like the back of his hand. As a Round Table member, and later, as a Rotarian, his speciality was the Treasure Hunt, point to point car chases with clues which lead competitors to the most obscure spots, following a trail which leads back to the starting point. This is invariably a pub with a large car park within walking distance, essentially, of the competitors’ homes.

  When Mac the Dentist put together a Treasure Hunt, they used to say that the farmers were favourites to win, because many of the points en route could only be reached in a Land Rover, but I know for a fact that he always did his research in his old Jaguar. You see he’s a rare creature, a dentist who’ll do house calls, on old or sick people whose only needs are running repairs to their dentures. I remember him telling me, once upon a time, about visiting a very old lady in a cottage near a hamlet called Carnbee. He discovered, in the course of conversation, that in all of the century for which she had lived, she had never been further from home than St Andrews.

  Of course he offered to take her to Edinburgh, so that she could cross the Forth Bridge, at least, before she died, but she just looked at him and asked, ‘And fit have they got there, son, that wid be ony guid tae me?’

  Given that history, I never had any worries about him finding our new house. I simply faxed him a street map of L’Escala, with a big ‘X’ marking the spot and put the coffee on the hob at five o’clock on the Saturday afternoon before Christmas. Ten minutes later, a hired people-mover turned into our driveway, through the open gate.

  At first, my nephews were unimpressed. ‘Where’s the beach?’ asked Colin, the younger one, before he had even jumped out of the car. They had been to our old place, in St Marti, where they could run down a hill into the sea.

  ‘Up there,’ I told him, pointing to the terrace and the pool. ‘We have our own. If you don’t like it, you’ll just have to get used to walking half a mile.�
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  Jonathan’s the cool one. When he was a couple of years younger he was a toe-rag of a kid, but since his mum and dad split up he’s taken his role as the senior man in the household very seriously. ‘Nice house,’ he said, just turned eleven and trying to sound sixteen. . he didn’t make a bad job of it either.

  ‘Yes it is,’ I agreed. ‘Nice telly too. We’ve got BBC1; if you move yourself, you’ll catch the football results in about half an hour.’ He barely twitched, but I could tell from his eyes that I’d scored.

  ‘Honest to God,’ said my sister Ellie. ‘You always were a self-indulgent bugger, even when you couldn’t really afford it. There’ll be no holding you now.’

  We had a general hugging session in the driveway, Prim, Ellie, Mary, my stepmother, and me. While my dad started to lug bags from the car. I took one from him, and turned to pass it to Jonny, but he and his brother were gone, straight in front of the telly, for sure.

  ‘Boys!’ their mother bellowed but, like me at their ages, they were masters of selective deafness.

  It was good to have the family there. For the first time since we’d moved in, Prim and I were able to show the place off. Looking back, I think that was the moment at which Villa Bernabeu began to feel like a home.

  We were so domesticated that Prim took the girls straight to the supermarket on the edge of town, to finish off the shopping for the Christmas dinner. Dad and I gave the boys Cokes and a bag of pretzels as they squatted on the floor watching the early Premiership match reports, then sat down ourselves with a couple of beers.

  ‘So you’ve landed on your feet again, son,’ he chuckled. ‘Did you get this for a song too?’

  ‘If we did it was grand bloody opera. This is how the other half live, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘So what’s wrong, then?’ he asked, quietly.

  I looked at him, genuinely astonished by his question. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I protested. ‘What the hell made you ask that?’