'Mrs Shand will see you now.' Sonny Gardner was waiting for me by the pool. He beckoned me towards the lunch table. 'Helmut and Wolfgang – two friends from Hamburg.'
'I'm surprised they aren't wearing dog-collars.' I scanned Gardner 's watchful, babyish face. 'Sonny, we haven't seen you at the Club Nautico for a while.'
'Mrs Shand decided I should work here.' When a bird began to flutter in the rose pergola he raised his mobile phone to his lips. 'More security after the Hollinger fire 'Good idea.' I looked back at the handsome villa with its magnificent skyline views over Estrella de Mar and the Shand empire. 'We wouldn't want this place to burn down.'
'Mr Prentice, do join us…' Elizabeth Shand called to me across the pool. She wiped her hands on a towel and tapped the young Germans on the buttocks, dismissing them from her presence. They passed me as I circled the pool, but avoided my eyes, immersed in their own bodies and the play of muscle and oil. They sprinted across the lawn and stepped through a garden door into the courtyard of a two-storey annexe to the villa.
'Mr Prentice – Charles, come and sit next to me. We met at that dreadful funeral. In a way I feel I've known you as long as I've known Frank. I'm delighted to see you, though sadly I've nothing very useful to add to what you've already learned.' She crooked a finger at Gardner. 'Sonny, a tray of drinks…'
She gazed at me guilelessly when I sat beside her, running through an inventory that began with my thinning hair, moved to the fading bruises on my neck and ended with the dusty heels of my brogues.
'Mrs Shand, it's kind of you to see me. I'm worried that Frank's friends in Estrella de Mar have more or less closed the door on him. For three weeks now I've been looking for something that might help him. To be honest, I've got absolutely nowhere.'
'Perhaps there isn't anywhere to go?' Mrs Shand bared her over-large teeth in what passed for a concerned smile. 'Estrella de Mar may be a heavenly little place, but it's a very small heaven. There aren't that many hidden corners, more's the pity.'
'Of course. I assume you don't believe Frank set fire to the Hollinger house?'
'I don't know what to believe. It's all so horrific. No, he can't have done. Frank was much too gentle, too sceptical about everything. Whoever set fire to the house was a fanatic I waited as Gardner set out the drinks and then resumed his patrol of the garden. On a balcony of the annexe the young Germans were examining their thighs in the sun. They had flown in from Hamburg two days earlier and had already been involved in a brawl at the Club Nautico disco. Now Mrs Shand had confined them to quarters, where she could literally keep her hands on them. Raising the brim of her hat, she watched them with the proprietary gaze of a madam supervising the leisure moments of her charges.
'Mrs Shand, if Frank didn't kill the Hollingers, who did? Can you think of someone with a strong enough grudge against them?'
'No one. I can't honestly think of anyone who'd want to harm them.'
'They weren't popular, though. People I've talked to complain that they were a little stand-offish.'
'That's absurd.' Mrs Shand grimaced at the silliness of this. 'He was a film producer, for heaven's sake. She was an actress. They loved Cannes and Los Angeles and all those widescreen hustlers. If they kept aloof it was because they saw Estrella de Mar becoming a little too 'Bourgeois?'
'Exactly. It's all so earnest and middle-class now. The Hollingers came here when the only other Brits were a few remittance men and a couple of burnt-out baronets. They were the ancien regime, they remembered Estrella de Mar before the cordon bleu classes and the 'Harold Pinter revivals?'
'Too true, I'm afraid. I don't think the Hollingers ever really got the hang of Harold Pinter. For them the arts meant the California of black-tie subscription concerts, fine art foundations and Getty money.'
'What about business rivals? Hollinger owned a lot of land around Estrella de Mar. He must have been a brake on development here.'
'No. He was resigned to what was going on. They did keep to themselves. He was happy with his coin collection and she worried about her face-lifts coming apart.'
'Someone told me they were trying to sell their stake in the Club Nautico.'
'Frank and I were about to buy them out. Remember, the club had changed. Frank brought in a younger and livelier crowd who danced to a different tune.'
'I hear it every night when I'm trying to sleep. It's certainly a lively tune, especially when played by Bobby Crawford.'
'Bobby?' Mrs Shand smiled to herself in an almost girlish way. 'Sweet boy, he's done so much for Estrella de Mar. How did we get on without him?'
'I like him. But isn't he a little… unpredictable?'
'That's just what Estrella de Mar needs. Before he arrived the Club Nautico was dead on its feet.'
'How did he get on with the Hollingers? I don't suppose they cared for the drug-dealers at the club.'
Mrs Shand stared at the sky, as if expecting it to retreat from her gaze. 'Are there any?'
'You haven't seen them? I'm surprised. They're sitting around the pool like Hollywood agents.'
Mrs Shand sighed deeply, and I realized that she had been holding her breath. 'You'll find drugs anywhere these days, especially along the coast. Something new and strange happens when the sea meets the land.' She pointed to the distant pueblos. 'People are so bored, and drugs stop them going mad. Sometimes Bobby is a little too tolerant, but he wants to wean people off all these tranquillizers that people like Sanger prescribe. Now those are the really dangerous drugs. Before Bobby Crawford arrived the whole town was Valiumed out of its mind.'
'I imagine business generally was rather slack?'
'Flat on its back. People didn't need anything except another bottle of pills. But they've picked up now. Charles, I'm sorry about the Hollingers. I'd known them for thirty years.'
'You were an actress?'
'Do I look like it?' Mrs Shand sat forward and patted my hand. 'I'm flattered. I was an accountant. Very young and very ruthless. I wound up Hollinger's film business – a bottomless resource sink, all those people on the payroll, buying rights and never shooting a single frame. After that he asked me to join his property company. When the building boom ended in the 1970s it was starting out here. I had a look at Estrella de Mar and thought it seemed promising.'
'So Hollinger was very close to you?'
'As close as a man ever gets to me.' She spoke matter-of-factly. 'But not in the way you mean.'
'You hadn't fallen out with him?'
'What on earth are you trying to say?' Mrs Shand took off her hat, as if clearing the decks before a fight, and stared unblinkingly at me. 'Good God, I didn't set fire to the house. Are you suggesting that?'
'Of course not. I know you didn't.' I tried to pacify her, changing tack before she could summon Sonny Gardner to her aid. 'What about Dr Sanger? I keep thinking of that scene at the funeral. Everyone there clearly disliked him, almost as if he was responsible.'
'For Bibi's pregnancy, not the fire. Sanger is the sort of psychiatrist who sleeps with his patients and thinks he's doing them a therapeutic favour. He specializes in drugged-out little things who are searching for a friendly shoulder.'
'He may not have started the fire, but could he have paid someone to do it for him? The Hollingers had effectively taken Bibi from him.'
'I don't think so. But who knows? I'm sorry, Charles, I haven't been much help.' She stood up and slipped on her beach robe. 'I'll walk you back to the house. I know you're worried about Frank. You probably feel responsible.'
'Not exactly responsible. When we were young it was my job to feel guilty for both of us. The habit has stuck – it's not easy to throw off.'
'Then you've come to the right place.' As we passed the pool she gestured at the crowds lying on the beaches below. 'We don't take anything too seriously in Estrella de Mar. Not even…'
'Crime? There's a lot of it around, and I don't mean the Hollinger murders. Muggings, burglary, rapes, for a start.'
'Rape? Awful, I know.
But it does keep the girls on their toes.' Mrs Shand lowered her glasses to peer at my neck. 'David Hennessy told me about the attack in Frank's apartment. How vile. It looks like a choker of rubies. Was anything stolen?'
'I don't think theft was the motive – I wasn't really hurt. It was a psychological assault, of a curious kind.'
'That sounds rather new and fashionable. One has to remember how much crime there is along this coast. Retired East End gangsters who can't get rid of the itch.'
'But they're not here. That's the odd thing about Estrella de Mar. The crime here seems to be committed by amateurs.'
'They're the worst of all – they leave such a mess to be cleared up. You can only trust the professionals to do a decent job.'
Behind us Helmut and Wolfgang had returned to the pool. They dived from the twin boards and raced each other to the shallow end. Mrs Shand beamed at them approvingly.
'Handsome boys,' I commented. 'Friends of yours?'
'Gastarbeiters. They're staying in the annexe until I find work for them.'
'Waiters, swimming coaches…?'
'Let's say they have all sorts of uses.'
We left the terrace and stepped through the French doors into a long, low-ceilinged lounge. Film industry memorabilia covered the walls and mantelpiece, framed photographs of award ceremonies and command performances. On a white baby grand was a portrait of the Hollingers standing by their pool during a barbecue. Between them was a good-looking and confident young woman in a long-sleeved shirt, eyes challenging the photographer to catch her restless spirit. I had last seen her on the television screen in Frank's apartment, smiling bravely at another camera lens.
'Something of a character…' I pointed to the group portrait. 'Is that the Hollingers' daughter?'
'Their niece, Anne.' Mrs Shand smiled sadly to herself and touched the frame. 'She died with them in the fire. Such a beauty. She might have made it as a film actress.'
'Perhaps she did.' The chauffeur waited by the open front door, a burly Maghrebian in his forties who was clearly another bodyguard and seemed to resent me even looking at the Mercedes limousine. 'Mrs Shand, you might know – is there a film club in Estrella de Mar?'
'There are several. They're all very intellectual. I rather doubt if they'd find you up to scratch.'
'I don't suppose they would. But I'm thinking of a club that actually makes films. Did Hollinger shoot any footage here?'
'Not for years. He hated home movies. There are people who make films. In fact, I think Paula Hamilton is something of a camera buff.'
'Weddings and so on?'
'Possibly. You'd have to ask her. By the way, I think she's much more suited to you than to Frank.'
'Why? I hardly know her.'
'What can I say?' Mrs Shand pressed her ice-cold cheek to mine. 'Frank was awfully sweet, but I suspect that Paula needs someone with a taste for the… deviant?'
She smiled at me, well aware that she herself was charming, likeable and totally corrupt.
12 A Game of Tease and Chase
Deviance in Estrella de mar was a commodity under jealous guard. Watched by the wary and suspicious chauffeur, who was logging my licence number into his electronic notebook, I freewheeled down the drive past the Mercedes. With its tinted windows, the bodywork seemed both paranoid and aggressive, like medieval German armour, and the nearby villas shared this nervous stance. Razor-glass topped almost every wall, and security cameras maintained their endless vigil over garages and front doors, as if an army of housebreakers roamed the streets after nightfall.
I returned to the Club Nautico, trying to decide on my next move. Elizabeth Shand, just conceivably, had a motive for killing the Hollingers, if only to get her hands on a piece of prime real estate, but she would have chosen a less crude weapon than arson. Besides, she clearly liked the old couple, and the five murders would certainly have been bad for business, frightening away potential property investors.
At the same time she had given me a glimpse into another Estrella de Mar, a world of imported bed-boys and other genial pleasures, and had identified Anne Hollinger for me. Sitting by the television set, I rewound the cassette of the porno-film, then played through the violent scenes again, trying to identify the other participants. How had this maverick and high-spirited young woman found herself in such a crudely exploitative movie? I froze her brave smile to camera as she sat in the tattered wedding dress, and imagined her playing the tape as she injected herself in the bathroom, trying to blot out all memory of the pale-skinned young man who had been determined to humiliate her.
The frightened eyes wept their black ink, and the lipstick skewed across her mouth like a gasp. I reeled back to the moment when the second bridesmaid entered the bedroom and the mirror-door reflected the balcony of the apartment and the sloping streets below.
Again I froze the frame and tried to sharpen the blurred image. A church spire was visible between the balcony rails, its weather-vane silhouetted against a white satellite dish on the roof of a building somewhere near the marina. Aligned together, they virtually pinpointed the apartment's location on the heights above Estrella de Mar.
I sat back and stared at the spire, for the first time unaware of the tennis machine as it fired its balls across the practice court. I realized now that it was this view across the town that I had been intended to see, and not the rape of Anne Hollinger. The police forensic team would have discovered the cassette within moments of searching the fire-gutted bedroom.
Someone had planted the cassette in the video-recorder, after learning that Paula and I were to visit the Hollinger house, confident that Cabrera would be too busy with his autopsy report to re-check the original findings. I remembered the Hollingers' chauffeur, endlessly buffing the old Bentley. Had this melancholy Andalucian become Anne's confidant and even, perhaps, her lover? His threatening stare, far from trying to make me Frank's guilty proxy, might have been an attempt to alert me to some undiscovered evidence.
At eight that evening Paula and I were meeting for dinner at the Restaurant du Cap, but I set off for the harbour an hour early, eager to search for the satellite dish. Pornographic filmmakers often rented expensive apartments for the day, rather than construct stage sets that could provide evidence for the police. The exact location of the rape scene would take me no nearer to the Hollinger murders, but the loose corners of too many carpets had begun to curl under my feet. The more I nailed down, the less likely was I to trip as I moved from one darkened room to the next.
While I walked down to the harbour, past the antique shops and art galleries, I scanned the rooftops of the town. The weather-vane of the Anglican church rose above the Plaza Iglesias, without doubt the one I had glimpsed in the film. I stood on the steps of the church, a white geometrical structure that was a modest replay of Corbusier's Ronchamp Chapel, more space-age cinema than house of God. The notice-board announced forthcoming performances of Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, meetings of a help-the-elderly charity, and a guided tour of a Phoenician burial site on the southern tip of the peninsula, organized by a local archaeological society.
The weather-vane pointed towards Fuengirola but there was no sign of the satellite dish. Lit by the setting sun, the western skyline of Estrella de Mar ran from the Club Nautico to the ruin of the Hollinger house. A dozen apartment blocks looked down from the high corniche, a cliff-face of mysteries. On the roof of the yacht club a white satellite dish cupped the sky, but its bowl was at least twice the diameter of the modest dish in the video.
The tapas bars and seafood restaurants along the harbour were packed with residents relaxing after their day's work at the sculpture table and potter's wheel. Far from being dismayed by the Hollinger tragedy, they seemed more animated than ever, talking noisily across their copies of the New York Review of Books and the arts supplements of Le Monde and Liberation.
Intimidated by this cultural power-dressing, I stepped into the boatyard beside the marina, comforted by the presence of stripped-down e
ngines and oily sumps. The yachts and motor-cruisers sat in their trestles, revealing their elegant hulls, a geometry graced by speed. Dominating all the other craft in the yard was a fibre-glass powerboat almost forty feet long, three immense outboards at its stern like the genitalia of a giant aquatic machine.
His engine-tuning over for the day, Gunnar Andersson stood beside the craft and washed his arms in a bucket of detergent. He nodded to me, but his narrow, bearded face was as closed and self-immersed as a Gothic saint's. He ignored the evening crowds and followed a flight of martins setting off for the coast of Africa. The flesh of his cheeks and scalp was stretched across the sharp points of his skull, as if constrained by some intense internal pressure. Watching him grimace at the noisy bars, I felt that he controlled his emotions from one second to the next, fearing that if he showed the slightest anger the skin would split and reveal the shrieking bones.
I walked past him, and admired the speedboat and its sculptured prow.
'It's almost too powerful to be beautiful,' I commented. 'Does anyone need to go this fast?'
He dried his hands before replying. 'Well, it's a working ship. It has to earn its keep. The Spanish patrol boats at Ceuta and Melilla can really shift.'
'So it crosses to North Africa?' He was about to move away, but I reached out and shook his hand, forcing him to face me. 'Mr Andersson? I saw you at the service in the Protestant cemetery. I'm sorry about Bibi Jansen.'
'Thank you for coming.' He looked me up and down, and then washed his hands again in the bucket. 'Did you know Bibi?'
'I wish I had. From what everyone says, she must have been great fun.'
'When she was given a chance.' He threw the towel into his work-bag. 'If you didn't know her, why were you there?'
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