Only one thing scared Sparky, and it couldn’t be hidden from: whenever he sat in an examination room he developed paralysis of the mind. He was OK talking to the top brass, and performed well in court, but stick an exam paper in front of him and he froze. We’d worked on it with him, and I’d spoken to various people about him, but in the last few years we’d accepted that DC David Sparkington was as high as he’d ever be. Police-wise, it didn’t matter much – we could use him to the best of his considerable abilities without any problem. It was just unfortunate that he lost out on the pay. There was no reason for Sparky to contain his sense of humour, though, so we all benefited from that.
Then there was Gloria. Yep, I wouldn’t have minded having Gloria with me, either. Distance changed my perspective on the brief meeting we’d had. I’d laughed at her enthusiasm for Cakebread’s shabby world, and derided her eagerness to fall for his advances. The truth was that she was a young girl making the best of what she had. She’d found herself a job that she loved – a rare thing at the best of times – and I’d probably lost it for her. One day I’d like to make it up to her, but could I trust my motives? Probably not, I gladly admitted.
Most of all, I wished Annabelle was with me. I’d only met her twice, but readily confessed that I was smitten. It had taken her to make me realise that I’d drifted into an existence of compromise and second best. But not any more – from now on I was Going for Gold. She’d affected me on a more mundane level, too. I’d started polishing my shoes and wearing better shirts, just in case I bumped into her again. I’d even bought some decent aftershave; it must be love.
The cold, clammy mist suddenly began to glow yellow, as if each individual molecule was its own light source. Then, a few moments later, we burst out of it into the sun-drenched landscape of northern Spain. The sky was brilliant blue and the land all the shades of ochre. The lorry in front pulled over on to the shoulder of the road to let me through, and I gunned the Jag past him, waving a gracias. We were on our way again, and my hangover had nearly gone.
Outside Barcelona the road south became the Autopista Seven, for which I was thankful, but we were still about seven hundred miles from Marbella. I wanted to make it today, so there was no time for sightseeing. Do they have speed limits in Spain? No idea. I practised my Gallic shrug, in case I was pulled over. With a little effort I could bring my shoulders above my ears.
It was a long, hard day, but we did it. I grabbed packets and cans of whatever was available at the filling stations and dined on the move. The sun traversed the sky and the last couple of hours were driven in the dark. The Jag’s headlights fell into the bimbo category – sexy to look at, but staggeringly dim. Just through Torremolinos a road sign read ‘Marbella 45km’. Say thirty miles. That was near enough for me – I was at the end of my endurance. I pulled off the main road and found my way down towards the seafront, where the tourist hotels were. It was nearly midnight and I was well and truly japanned.
The first one I entered was called the Cala d’Or. It had a lounge with a piano and a small dance floor. The clientele still around were all over twenty-one, but it looked as if most customers had already gone to bed. I leant on the bar and had ordered a lager before I remembered my early-morning vow. The pianist was tinkling ‘I Get Along Without You Very Well …’ It felt in harmony with my mood, so I decided that this would do.
When I’d finished my drink and was feeling slightly less ragged round the edges, I made my way to the front desk. The receptionist was talking to somebody, but while I was waiting a girl came by wearing the characteristic blouse and skirt of one of the major British tour companies. I intercepted her.
‘Excuse me, are you with Wilsons?’ I asked. She was a big girl. I bet she was pushing at the leading edge of the company’s unwritten rule about the preferred size of their representatives. Expanding the envelope, I believe it’s called. The badge on her blouse said Stephanie Jones. I notice things like that: I’m a cop. The suntanned face split into a wide smile that didn’t look too rehearsed.
‘Yes, Stephanie Jones. What can I do for you?’
It was midnight, she’d been dealing with lost passports and punters with dicky pacemakers all day, and she was still smiling and touting for business. This lady had stamina.
‘You’re right, you are.’ I pointed at the badge. ‘Charlie Priest. I’ve just driven down and I’m looking for somewhere to stay. Can you recommend this place?’
‘Nah! It’s dreadful. How long are you staying?’
‘Mmm, about a week.’
‘This is probably what you’re looking for,’ she suggested. ‘It’s fairly quiet without being dead. The food’s good.’ Then, with a mischievous smile, she went on: ‘At the Cala d’Or we cater for the more discerning holidaymaker.’
‘Say it. You mean older, don’t you?’
She laughed. ‘It’s nice here, you’ll like it. Do you want me to book you in with us?’
‘Will that save me money?’ I asked.
Apparently it would. She attracted the receptionist’s attention and the formalities were dealt with. I was glad to have met her; she might be a useful ally if any language difficulties came along. She was also looking more svelte with every moment. When we’d finished she turned to me and asked: ‘Is that your swish sports car I saw outside?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I answered proudly. Maybe she was an enthusiast …
‘Then I’d move it if I were you. You’re in the chef’s place and he’s got a hell of a Latin temper.’
CHAPTER NINE
I took two aspirin and slid my aching body between the cool, crisp sheets. I’d done well; I told myself, but tomorrow we would start work properly. I wondered, briefly, if I still had a job at Heckley, then drifted into a deep sleep, interrupted only by a dream where I was dancing with a big, suntanned lady whose arms embraced me, and Hoagy Carmichael was playing the piano, very slowly.
Bright and early next morning found me still fast asleep. Eventually I awoke and just made it for the last ten minutes of breakfast. I went out blinking into the sunlight and took stock of my physical condition. I rotated one shoulder several times, then the other. Next I moved my head to the limits of its range, first side to side, then forwards and backwards. My fingers were still working and I was able to stand on my tip-toes. It looked as if I was alive, so I’d best get on with it.
I was at a place called Benalmadena. In one direction, within walking distance, lay Torremolinos, and to the other side, but further away, was Marbella. I didn’t have to look far for boats to inspect: there was a marina right outside the hotel, and several others within sight. It made sense to eliminate the ones between here and Torremolinos first, and then go down to Marbella and work my way back.
How would I know which was Cakebread’s boat? Well, I might see him on it. Then maybe the letters PH on the note were shorthand for its name. Another possibility was that he’d use the ABC theme or maybe his wife’s name. Lastly was the western influence; he seemed to have a penchant for things cowboy. Bonanza, Maverick, or maybe even Rednecked Asshole were all contenders. There was plenty to go on, I was feeling confident, and it was a pleasant way of spending a couple of days.
It’s difficult to be patient and vigilant at the same time. I read off the boat names but had to compare each with the checklist of possibilities, not just let them float through my mind. Hoping that a name will trigger something in the subconscious is not a reliable way of doing things. Fortunately relief was close at hand. All the way into Torremolinos, fronting on to the beach, is a succession of cafes, collectively known as the Carahuela. They all have imaginative names and prosaic menus, offering typical local dishes such as beefburgers and pizzas. After each small marina had been inspected I would relax with a coffee or a glass of Seven-Up. From now on I was a Seven-Up man.
Paella is one of my favourite meals. As I walked by the restaurants I studied the plates of the diners, and examined the menus, to see who did the biggest, saffroniest, prawniest paella. It was a disappointment:
every place cooked it, but for two persons only. Yorkshire thriftiness wouldn’t allow me to order a double portion just for myself. Ah well, to everything there is a purpose: I’d have to invite someone to share it with me. Wonder what night Stephanie is free?
I drew a blank on the first leg, but I was just practising. I’d learnt to walk past the ‘Privado’ signs on many of the jetties and walk up and down the duck-boards as if I owned them. It was hotter than I had expected, so I made my way back to the hotel and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Driving to Marbella and then marina-hopping back to Benalmadena was the way I’d decided to manage the next leg, but I was delayed. The first thing I saw when I reached the car was that some Iberian imbecile had scraped a wing.
‘It’s only metal,’ I told myself, without conviction, as I charged into the hotel foyer. The desk clerk was very apologetic and came out to look at the damage. He shook his head sadly as he surveyed it.
‘How sad. What a lovely car,’ he sighed. I began to feel sorry for spoiling his day; a more considered inspection showed it to be only a little scratch. Eventually he composed himself and said: ‘Come with me. I show you where you put car.’ He took me back through the foyer, down a short corridor and through a couple of doors that weren’t meant for the public. We were out the back, in a yard where the service vans did their deliveries and where the rubbish bins were kept. One or two hotel vehicles were parked here. ‘Tonight you put car there,’ he said, pointing. ‘Will be safe from mad German drivers.’
The road into Marbella was busy. There are long stretches of dual carriageway, and on one of them I caught a brief movement over at the other side. It was another red E-type, but a convertible, travelling in the opposite direction. An arm was held up in a wave, but before I could take in any more the lorry in front braked hard and demanded my attention. It was loaded with fifty thousand live chickens, packed into minute wicker cages. I know where hell is – it’s somewhere in the middle of a lorry-load like that.
The boats were in a different league to those I’d looked at in the morning. My eyes ached with the glare off white hulls and gleaming mahogany decks, with stainless steel and brass and probably even gold-plated fittings. Flags hung indolently and here and there a rope dared to tap gently against a mast. I learnt to say ‘No stiletto heels’ in five languages. I didn’t see any silly cowboy names, though.
It was amazing how many of the British boats were flying the Union flag. You’d think that anyone who owned a few hundred grand’s worth of yacht would be interested enough to find out that he was supposed to show the Red Duster. Some were even carrying small Union Jacks on the mast, instead of the Spanish flag, which should be displayed as a courtesy gesture to the host port. I wondered, briefly, how such morons made their money; then I remembered Cakebread and knew the answer. Unfortunately I didn’t find a boat that looked as if it might belong to him.
Harbour by harbour I made my way back towards Benalmadena. I’d walk up and down the jetties, reading the names on the hulls. Some were clever, others were ordinary and a few made you think about the character of the owner. What sort of person would retire to the Costa del Sol to live on a boat named Evasion, Palimoney or Lucky Flicker? Then I’d retrace my steps back to the Jag and drive on to the next floating exhibition of wealth. If I’m ever rich I think I’ll just Sellotape my bank statement in the rear window of the car. It’ll save a lot of effort.
It was nearly dinner time when I arrived at the hotel. I put the Jag round the back, where it was out of the way. I was a lot happier with it there. The sun had sunk below the rim of the hills that lie inland, and they were etched, hard-edged, against the evening sky. I’d had a fruitless day, but I wasn’t despondent. Maybe the task I’d set myself was hopeless, but I’d been on plenty of wild-goose chases before. Not this far from home though. At least nobody knew I was here, and there was no drain on the Force budget to be accounted for. And let’s be honest, I was enjoying myself. I showered and changed into something more suitable and went to the dining room.
Those hills were inviting. If nothing turned up tomorrow I’d seriously think about abandoning the project and have a couple of days lost in the mountains. It was a long time since I’d walked a decent ridge. I sat down at an empty table, pushed all thoughts of crooks and boats out of my mind, and set about working my way through the menu, towards the inevitable creme caramel.
The food was better than I’d be having at home, when you took into consideration the service. In other words, no cooking or washing-up. Afterwards I ordered a pot of tea in the lounge and slouched in an armchair, assessing my fellow guests.
‘Hello, how are you enjoying your stay?’
I turned and pushed myself more upright. It was Stephanie. ‘Fine,’ I answered, unsuccesfully trying not to look too pleased to see her. ‘Dinner was good and I’ve caught the sun. What more could I ask for?’
‘Good. I hear your car was bumped. Is it bad?’
‘No, just a scratch. They’ve let me put it round the back, so it should be OK now.’
She apologised again, and was about to leave when I said: ‘Can you recommend anywhere that does a decent paella? I’ve developed a craving while I’ve been here. Hope there’s nothing wrong with me.’
She thought for a while. ‘Anywhere on the Carahuela, I would have thought. I’m not all that keen on seafood myself, but I’ll ask around.’
Ah well, make that paella for one, Manuel. ‘Thanks. Maybe you can help me with one more thing.’ She’d turned to go, but stopped and faced me again. I went on: ‘I’m looking for a friend with a boat. A wealthy friend. Any suggestions where I might start looking?’
‘If I knew I’d be looking there myself. Is this friend stinking rich?’
It occurred to me that she probably thought that I was quite well heeled. ‘By Marbella standards, no; but by my standards, he stinks.’
‘Try Puerto Banus. That’s where they all hang out,’ she said.
‘All who?’ I asked. Her reply had puzzled me.
She blushed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘All … the rich people,’ she answered, as she turned and left.
I was intrigued. People often ask me if I’m a policeman. If I went to a nudist colony, before long someone would say: ‘Oh, hello, you must be the policeman.’ Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But Stephanie was different: she thought I was a crook. When she said ‘All the rich people’, what she was thinking was ‘All the criminals’. It’s an easy mistake to make. Tomorrow I’d have a long, hard look at Puerto Banus.
* * *
Puerto Banus is to money what the Vatican is to incense. It lies just outside Marbella, on the far side, beyond where yesterday’s search had started. This was the big league. It was mid-morning when I arrived and parked the car between a Ferrari and a Cadillac, but there were elegant women walking about in cocktail dresses, accompanied by men in three-piece suits. Swarthy men, who kept their coats buttoned in the heat of the day. There was a definite pecking order for the boats. The biggest, with gold-plated names emblazoned across the front that would have looked reasonable above a cinema, were parked in the middle, immediately adjacent to the centre of the town. As you moved outwards they diminished in size, until, at the outermost berths, you had the half-a-million-quid wannabees. Egalitarian to a fault, I decided to start at one end and work my way through to the other.
In the afternoon I started at the other end and worked my way back to the beginning. All my instincts told me I was close, but my eyes couldn’t find the evidence. I had a glass of wine and some tapas and resumed the search. This time I just followed my hunches, picking out the boats that I guessed might be the right size. Hunches are unscientific and usually unreliable; today was no exception.
‘That’s it, Mr Breadcake,’ I said out loud. ‘If you want me tomorrow you’ll just have to come climbing mountains.’ I found the car and drove much too fast back towards the hotel.
There is a supermercado in Benalmadena, so I decided to stock up with a few t
hings that I might need the next day. As I swung into the car park I saw another red E-type, a convertible, obviously the one whose driver had waved to me the day before. I parked alongside it, but the owner was nowhere to be seen. I formed a picture of her in my mind and rehearsed a couple of opening gambits. In the supermarket I studied the weird concoctions available to tempt the different nationalities, and chose a jar with a German label that contained what looked like pickled testicles. They’d go down well in the office. I stayed with the basics for myself. I was low on T-shirts, so I grabbed a couple of those, too.
When I arrived back at the car a tall, elderly man was leaning on the boot of the other Jag. He beamed when he saw me. ‘How do you do,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering who the old car belonged to.’
He had ‘ex-pat’ written all over him. He was wearing a checked shirt, with cravat, that would have looked more at home at Goodwood in winter, and had a respectable handlebar moustache. The freckles on his face had expanded with overexposure to the sun, and had started to join up with each other, so that he looked like a jigsaw puzzle of the Gobi Desert, before you’d put the pieces together.
‘It’s one of the fast ones,’ I told him, adding, as I indicated towards his: ‘Not one of those whippersnappers.’ It was a fact that as the E-type evolved the engine was made bigger and bigger, but the car became slower and slower. They also ruined its looks – his later version lacked the wicked symmetry of the original.
He held out his arm for a handshake and said: ‘George Palfreeman, with two e’s in the middle.’ He gestured towards the pavement tables and added: ‘Fancy a snifter?’
‘Charlie Priest,’ I told him, ‘as in Roman Catholic. Why not?’
I put the groceries in the boot and followed him to the cafe next door. We ordered a large whisky and soda for him and a pot of tea for me. An hour later he knew that I came from Yorkshire, but I had learnt his entire life story. It’s a trick of the trade. The moustache looked RAF-ish, but in fact he was a Navy man, with two years commanding a motor torpedo boat to his credit, during World War Two. Settling down hadn’t come easily afterwards, and he’d moved round the Empire before establishing himself in Spain. His wife had died a couple of years ago, and now he was another lonely old man, eager to cling to a new audience. He’d had an interesting life, though, so I didn’t mind listening to his tales.
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