But the Spaniard seemed to be doing pretty well without his help anyway. Because as she walked away, the stewardess glanced back over her shoulder at the Spaniard and flashed him a coy smile, eyeing every inch of his bespoke powder-blue suit. He waited for her to turn, before fixing his glare back on the yuppie.
‘I make an explanation to her that we are the very best of friends and you are agreeable to swap seating with me and sit at the back of the plane. Next to the toilet. Because you feel sick.’
‘But I’m n—’
The yuppie was obviously a slow learner. The Spaniard flat-palmed his case hard against his chest again.
‘Did you hear what he just –’ the yuppie asked Grew.
‘No, pal. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do what you’re told.’ Grew turned back to his Jackie Collins paperback.
‘You go now,’ the Spaniard hissed at the yuppie, leaning down and eyeballing him right up close. ‘Or . . .’ He held up his forefinger. ‘. . . I take this digit and make insertion in your anus. Very hard. So you understand it comes out of your ear.’
He was actually pointing at the yuppie’s nose when he said this, which threw into some doubt whether his heavily accented English had indeed conveyed the message that he wanted. But the yuppie’s resistance was gone, and he promptly scrabbled up quickly from his seat and scarpered to the back of the plane with his case clutched in his hands.
‘Why don’t you persons just listen?’ said the Spaniard, after he’d stowed his bag and sat down. He pulled a pack of Gummi Bears out of his pocket and tipped some out on the fold-down table in front of him.
‘You persons?’ Frankie said.
‘I think he means us Brits.’
Jesús was ignoring them. He was separating the little bears out into different colours.
‘Oh,’ said Frankie.
‘And I reckon it was South Africa, actually,’ Grew said, grinning across at the Spaniard.
‘Qué?’
‘You might be OK at languages,’ Grew explained, ‘but your geography’s all over the shop. That piss stain on his chinos didn’t look like Australia at all.’
*
Frankie nodded off some time after Grew’s fourth double G&T, in the middle of a story he’d been telling him about some legendary eighties weekend of his that had started off with the David Bowie Glass Spider tour and ended up with him and an old boyfriend of his who’d since died of AIDS nicking a speedboat from Brighton Marina and caning it over to Calais. Or was it Le Havre? Waking up, Frankie couldn’t be sure, and no point asking Grew as he’d passed out and was slumped snoring on Frankie’s shoulder with his straw trilby pulled down over his eyes.
The Spaniard, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. Literally. He was still staring at the back of the headrest in front like there was a TV playing there that only he could see, the nut. Frankie wasn’t happy, not happy at all, about having this bastard along for the ride. Sure, he might be good muscle – Frankie had seen enough of his moves down the boxing gym to know that – but he was a liability too. Hardly exactly professional, was it, throwing his weight around like he’d just done with that posh bloke before takeoff.
Not that Frankie had been given any much more of a clue as to what he was meant to be doing over on Ibiza anyhow. All he was sure of was he had to find this Duke character, and the girl, then get the girl back home. Yeah, sure, Riley had spelt out the basics of the mission pretty clear. But there’d still been no word on how exactly all that was meant to be achieved.
Frankie had tried quizzing Grew on it back at Gatwick Airport. But no dice. He’d just said all would be revealed in good time. It was easy for him to relax, mind. Enforcing his boss’s demands, this was his bread and butter. But Frankie wasn’t a crim and didn’t want to get sucked in on that. Even though he knew he had no choice.
He’d thought about just saying no, as Grange Hill used to put it. Of trying to wriggle out of going. Of even telling Riley he was sick. But even though he wasn’t a part of this world, he still knew it well enough from the Old Man. You paid your dues, your favours, because if you didn’t, you were an outlaw – disconnected. Fair game. And not just you, but yours – Jack, the Old Man, the club. It was all fair game. If Frankie reneged on a deal, Riley would bring his whole world crashing down just like that.
Frankie had called in on the Old Man yesterday. He’d told him he was flying here today – a last-minute bargain getaway, he’d said, the same as he’d told Slim and Xandra. Just to help him unwind after the last few days. No point telling him the real reason. He’d have just spat his teeth. He hated the thought of Jack being involved in his world, and Frankie the same. Frankie didn’t tell him anything about his other plan either, about hot-footing it over to Mallorca and trying to find that street shown on the postcard. Because the Old Man would have just thought he was crazy for that too. They’d not even mentioned his mum, not after how near they’d come to falling out over her big time last week. And he’d given the same last-minute-getaway bullshit to Jack when he’d popped round to say goodbye too.
Frankie’s ears popped as they started their descent. Looking out of the window as the plane banked round, he saw they were passing a higgledy-piggledy town, all ochre and white in the blazing hot sunshine below, stretching along a coastline of white, sandy bays.
Ibiza Old Town, if he wasn’t much mistaken, from this map here in the in-flight brochure – a place chocka with bars, restaurants, boutiques and clubs. Not to mention muchos, muchos pills and thrills and bellyaches and spannered Brits on tour. There were plenty of them on the plane who’d already had more than their fair share of in-flight beers. Bar the lack of music, it felt like a pub.
He felt a little tingle in his gut then, just at the thought of it all. But not of anticipation, not like every other Herbert on board . . . well, apart from Jesús here. It was a tingle of dread, because he’d have to be bloody careful and keep his shit together. Frankie was here for one reason only – not for fun, but to pay off a debt.
The more he kept his shit together, the sooner this spoiled little rich kid – aka the sweet little girl he’d known as a child – was found, the sooner he could go looking for the other woman missing in his life. Just eighty miles northeast across that glittering blue sea on Mallorca.
Half an hour by plane, but potentially a whole world away.
19
Scorchio.
Was there any other word to describe it? Frankie couldn’t think of one. And not just the temperature. The fashions. The people. The music. Everything about this place was hot, hot, hot.
They’d ditched their bags in the Mandalay. A boutique hotel up in the top half of Ibiza Old Town, or Vila d’Eivissa, as the locals called it. Not that many of them he’d met had spoken much Spanish to him at all.
The whole island was geared up way too fast for things like stumbled conversations – Frankie looked pale as milk, marking him out as a tourist on sight.
Everyone had instead addressed him in flawless English. Even the cabby who’d driven them from the airport and the waiter who served him an iced water, along with two glistening, perspiring pints of San Miguel for Jesús and Grew.
They’d wandered into town about half an hour ago now from the hotel. Both Grew and Jesús already seemed to know their way round pretty well. Had clearly been here plenty before.
They were sitting outside a bar called the Twisted Lemon on the packed Paseo, as the sun slowly started to sink over the twinkling blue sea. A steady flow of holidaymakers and clubbers trickled past, young, beautiful, hip and rich. This was the posh bit of the island and the bistros, bars and boutiques stretching off either side of them were already packed. The smell of sizzling gambas and steaks hung in the air, offset by the familiar tinge of weed. On this pleasure island, not even the local cops, sauntering past in their neatly ironed little uniforms, seemed to give a shit.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Grew, sparking up a smoke and taking a long, cool sip of his beer. ‘Now this is the life,
is it not?’
Hard to disagree. It wasn’t like Frankie had had a choice in coming here, but Christ he’d had worse views in his life.
‘And far from the madding crowd of vomiting Brits who’ll shortly be clogging up the clubs and bars of Sant Antoni, eh, Jesús?’
‘True.’ Jesús still hadn’t spoken a word to Frankie since he’d sat down beside him on the plane.
‘So what time’s he get here, then? This Balearic Bob?’ Frankie asked. Bob. Their man on the ground. Soon to be their guide.
‘Dunno. Jesús?’
‘Soon.’
A man of few words. Frankie reckoned he’d been watching too many spaghetti westerns. Fancied himself as a bit of a Clint Eastwood, strong, silent type. Fat chance. He looked more like he was auditioning for the Eurovision Song Contest. All brand-spanking-new stripy white shorts and billowing white shirt, with box-fresh pastel-blue espadrilles.
Frankie was almost tempted to ask him for a tune. But there wouldn’t have been much point. For one thing, Jesús didn’t have a sense of humour. And for another, all the bars along the strip here already had the music side of things well covered. Competing bass lines. Bongo bongo. Exactly the kind of shit Jack and his mates had been playing in that club. Total rubbish, in other words.
‘Aw-wight, geezers,’ a rich Essex accent boomed out. Belonged to a big, fat, bearded fellah who’d give Jabba the Hut a run for his money in the lardarse stakes. He was all billowing cotton, chest hair, gold chains and waistcoat. Like a hideous Cockney version of Demis Roussos. ‘Yo, Migsy,’ he shouted out at the waiter who was lurking in the shadows beyond the door. ‘The usual, mate. Five of your namesakes. An’ a bottle of tequila.’ He nodded at Grew and Jesús in turn. ‘He’s called Miguel and that’s what they’ve got on tap here. It’s like he was destined to serve us what we want. Gentlemen, nice to see you both again. And to meet you too,’ he told Frankie.
‘Balearic Bob, I presume?’
‘Frankie James.’ He had bloodshot, sixty-something eyes, but not a wrinkle on his fat sunburnt face. ‘Tommy wasn’t wrong. Quite the young detective, aren’t you, I see.’
He was looking at Frankie, all teeth, but was he actually smiling? It was hard to tell, his skin was stretched so tight from all the work he’d had done. He shot out a pudgy little hand for Frankie to shake. A strong grip, mind. Took Frankie a little by surprise. Even made him wince. Something Balearic Bob clocked and looked pleased about too. Just letting Frankie know he still had a bit of muscle left under all that flab. Not quite the pussy Frankie had taken him for at all.
‘So that new hotel to your liking, lads?’ he asked, pulling up a chair and scratching at a couple of scars just under his chin.
‘Yeah,’ said Grew. ‘Very nice.’
‘You’re booked in for a week, but I can’t see it taking us that long, to be honest, to track this little girl and that prick down.’
That prick. The way he said it was full of venom. The nod that followed from Grew had Frankie feeling that it was him, every bit as much as her, that Riley wanted to get his hands on. Good news, mind. That Bob here was feeling optimistic about how long this would all take. Grew lit a fag off the one he was already smoking.
‘Don’t that kind of depend on how hard she’s hiding?’ he said. ‘And how much she don’t want to come home.’
‘I understood that’s where he came in,’ said Bob, looking from Grew to Frankie. ‘You’re friends with her and her brother, isn’t that right?’
‘Was. A long time ago. The last time I remember speaking to her properly, I was helping her build a sandcastle on her seventh birthday,’ Frankie said. ‘And as for him . . .’
‘What?’
‘It don’t matter.’ The last time Frankie had seen Freddie Landy, Jack had reminded him only yesterday when they’d said goodbye, had been round at Jack’s old flat just before Christmas. Frankie remembered the two of them drinking vodka and chatting about the old days. But Jack said Tanya had been there too. Later on. And this bloke of hers, this Duke, whose nuts Riley wanted to cut off, was off his head on coke. They were only calling round to pick up Freddie, who was carrying their ketamine stash which they’d needed to bring them down. The only problem was that Frankie had been passed out in Jack’s bedroom by then and didn’t even remember them being there at all.
‘Yeah, well, let’s find the naughty little cow first and worry about how we get her home later. On which preliminary investigations are already under way. Oh, and before I forget, here’s your goody bags,’ Bob said. He dug into his leather shoulder bag and pulled out three padded envelopes, one for each of them.
Grew opened his up and took out a phone, along with a photo. Of Tanya, Frankie saw. The same one he’d been shown in St James’s. Grew peered inside the envelope and nodded, the trace of a smile round his lips.
‘Very decent of you, Bob. Very decent indeed.’
He slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. Frankie followed suit. He dreaded to think what was in there and would check it out when he got back to his room.
‘Cheers,’ he told Bob.
The waiter brought over the beers and the bottle and some shot glasses and started filling them up.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Frankie, covering his with one hand and nudging the lager away with his other. No mean feat, either – it looked like a bloody advert for good times.
‘Different rules over here, mate,’ Bob cackled, knocking his back. ‘It’s never too early in the day.’
Frankie kept his hand right where it was. ‘Every day’s too early for me.’
‘Oh, I see. One of the fallen – an abstainer.’ His piggy little eyes narrowed even more, so much so you could hardly even see they were there. ‘Well, fine, suit yourself, and good luck with that. It’ll be interesting to see how long you last on this island.’
For the first time, Frankie saw Jesús smile. ‘Maybe you and I, Bob, we’ll have ourselves a little bet?’ He raised his glass first to Bob, and then Frankie – staring him well hard in the eyes as he did – then knocked his shot back.
Frankie thought about saying something. Less to Bob, more Jesús. Letting him know he was no pushover. Shoving the bastard right back. But then he remembered Rope-a-Dope. That poor bastard flat on his back. If him and Jesús ever did come to blows, he reckoned it would end up every bit as messy as that. And might mess up everything they were doing here. So maybe, just for now, he should show a little restraint.
‘All right, all right, we can do without any handbags at dawn,’ Grew said, picking up on the spark, ‘or dusk, for that matter. Suffice to say, you two aren’t exactly going to be best mates, but can we at least just leave the argy-bargy out of it. Some of us’ – he raised his glass to Bob – ‘are attempting to have a civilized night out.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Bob, and both of them necked theirs down. ‘Welcome to Ibiza, heaven on earth. Now, anything you lads want while you’re here. Apart from bloody alcohol,’ he said to Frankie. ‘Pills, powders, pussy . . . whatever, just let me know and I’ll switch the tap on.’
‘You got anything for mozzies?’ Frankie said, smudging one across the back of his hand.
‘What?’ Bob grinned. ‘Like a gun?’
There was something about his little eyes when he said it. Like maybe he was packing. Frankie bloody hoped not. It was one thing coming out here at the behest of a gangster to find a missing girl. But that was as dark as he wanted it to get.
‘So where exactly are we up to regarding preliminary investigations?’ Grew said.
‘I put the word out Wednesday as soon as you said you were coming. I’ve put out some copies of that photo of her you faxed over.’
‘Who with?’
‘A few of them who owe me . . .’ He waved at a couple of cops walking past, different uniforms to the last time. ‘. . . and, of course, our very good friend, who’s keeping an eye on the clubs . . .’ He was looking at Jesús when he said this, but didn’t go into any more detail than that.
‘. . . or the posh clubs anyway, the kinds of establishment where a posh piece of arse like her will probably be hanging out.’
‘I’d be careful what you’re calling her,’ Grew said, suddenly no longer smiling. ‘Don’t forget this is Gaz Landy’s little girl we’re talking about, which is why it’s so fucking important we get her back.’
‘And get her back we will.’ Bob gave him a reassuring squeeze on the arm, before sloshing more tequila into their glasses. ‘But for now let’s all just loosen up our sphincters and have a nice evening of it. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve booked us a table at Rikitik’s Beach Bar to watch the footie tomorrow.’
Even Frankie smiled at the idea of England versus Spain out here – he couldn’t think of a better place to watch the match, even back at the club. But he’d better call Slim and Xandra to check that everything was going well back home. Shouldn’t be any trouble, mind, with Spartak booked in for the door again.
‘I don’t know why you smile,’ Jesús said. ‘Tomorrow you will only lose.’
‘More like our lads are going to wipe the floor with yours,’ Frankie said, switching up his smile to a grin.
Right on cue, a fanfare of trumpets started up from somewhere further down the strip. Punters in the bars all around started getting to their feet. Cheering and whooping and whistling broke out as the trumpets rolled through a progression of jazz riffs that would have done New Orleans Mardi Gras proud.
Frankie got up and craned his neck to see. The head of the procession making its way down the strip came into view. A tall woman, wearing a Venetian mask and a Red Indian headdress, led a group of burlesque performers, bedecked in heels and nipple tassels, each handing out flyers to the public gawping at either side.
‘Oh yes, lads. Get in,’ yelled Bob, grinning. ‘Here they come. Just look at the totty tottering. Enough to give the Pope wood. By God, I love this place.’
Double Kiss Page 12