I did in some more beer, chasing but not killing my thirst. A refill appeared automatically, with our coffee. I was working at it, and I had almost reached the mellow stage, when the shout came from the doorway of Meson del Conde. ‘Primavera, my love!’
We both looked up together, but something made me look at Prim, rather than at the shouter. Even under the tan, I could see her flush. He came towards us between the tables, a medium sized chap, wearing a professional smile and a silk shirt with a gold Benson and Hedges pack in the breast pocket. Behind him a different couple, well old enough to have been his parents, stood by the entrance to the restaurant. I recognised them as part of the ex-pat wallpaper.
He leaned over Prim and kissed her, on the cheek, but for a little longer than politeness dictated. ‘Lovely to see you again,’ I heard him whisper. I had taken an instant dislike to him, and that just made it worse.
Primavera leaned back in her chair, back from him, and looked up at me. ‘Steve,’ she said. ‘This is Oz Blackstone, my boyfriend. He just got back from Scotland tonight. Oz, this is Steve Miller.’
I like to think that I’m a friendly guy, but on the odd occasion when someone does get up my nose, I just can’t help clearing it. I stood up, slowly. Miller held out his hand. I shook it, squeezing more powerfully than was necessary.
‘You know, Steve,’ a voice in my head said, ‘there’s nothing more annoying, even to a placid bloke like me, than some smarmy bastard coming up and slobbering all over your girlfriend, just as if you weren’t there. Now piss off before I take a pop at you.’
‘Hello, Steve,’ I said, instead. I nodded towards the two bodgers in the doorway. ‘Is that your band?’
He looked at me, bewildered.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re no rock n’ roller, eh?’
He looked down at Prim. ‘I think I’d better go.’
‘No comment,’ I said.
Prim scowled at me. ‘Steve,’ she said. ‘I …’
‘No really, I think I should. I don’t want to cause trouble.’
‘Wise man,’ I said. He gave me what was meant to be a hostile look, then turned and made his way back towards his parents.
Prim waved goodnight as the three Millers disappeared around the corner. Then she turned to me. ‘What the hell was that about?’ She shot it at me, as soon as they were out of sight.
‘Good question,’ I said. ‘Who did he think I was? The invisible fucking man?’
She held up her hands. ‘Okay, enough. You’ve had a hard day, and you’re a bit pissed. Let’s call a truce and go home.’
I bent down and kissed her on the cheek, just where Miller had kissed her, but for a significant moment longer. Then I kissed her full on the lips. ‘Truce it is,’ I said. ‘One more beer, and it’s a deal about going home as well.’
She sighed and smiled. ‘All right. But only one.’ She made signs to the waiter, ordering another for herself in the process.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘there was a fax coming through just as I left. I didn’t have time to look at it, though.’
‘Fair enough,’ I replied as the beers arrived, then promptly forgot about it as I made a conscious effort to bring my mind back to Spain, to Prim, and to what I had thought was my real world, until the day before.
I could see that she was still upset. I reached out a hand and ruffled her hair. ‘Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry.’ I wasn‘t, of course. I had enjoyed seeing off Mr Miller. ‘I’m sure he’s a very nice bloke. He just caught me on the raw, that’s all.’
Pouting, as only she can, she looked at me, sideways. ‘Boys,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I don’t know.’
It was almost 1 a.m. when we climbed the stairs to the apartment. I didn’t think I was all that pissed, but somehow I managed to get Gavin Scott’s tube tangled between my legs just as we got to the front door. I sprawled forward and lay on the steps, grinning up at Prim. She shook her head, took my bag from me, stepped over me and unlocked the door.
‘I can see this is going to be my lucky night!’ she said as I stumbled in behind her, laughing, slapping her lightly across the bum with the tube.
‘D’you want to see what’s in it now?’ I asked.
‘Tomorrow. I’m off to bed.’
‘Okay. Me too.’ I followed her into the bedroom and began to undress, throwing my clothes on to the chair. I was stood there in my jockeys when the garlic from the sardines began to make its presence felt. I swallowed a couple of Breath Asure pills, then wandered through to the kitchen in search of the Normogastryls. I found them in the cupboard, and dissolved a couple as a pre-emptive strike against nocturnal heartburn.
They had been the last tablets in the tube. As I swallowed the alkaline remedy, I stepped on the pedal bin, to discard it. The kitchen light was directly overhead or I might not have noticed. The liner had been changed recently, and the bin was almost empty … save for several discarded cigarette ends, and a scattering of ash. I picked one out, and looked at it. Benson and Hedges.
I don’t know the guy who stormed through to the bedroom, brandishing the offending butt. Whoever he was, he wasn’t good old lovable, can’t be riled, takes everything in his stride Oz Blackstone. This was a steamed-up, hypocritical, petulant clown, who didn’t stop to think whether he was genuinely jealous or simply latching on to an excuse.
Prim was almost asleep when the shout came from the doorway. ‘What the fuck is this?’
She rubbed her eyes. ‘Eh?’
‘Who do we know that smokes Bensons?’
‘Oh shit.’ She sounded weary, but she pulled herself up in bed. The guy in the doorway didn’t have the wit to realise how desirable she looked, just at that moment.
‘Now listen carefully,’ she said, ‘because I’m not going to repeat this. Yesterday afternoon, a few of us who had been at the party on Saturday met up for lunch in the square. There was Shirley Gash, a lady called Tina, Steve Miller and his parents. Just as we were finishing our meals, it looked as if it might rain, so I invited them all up here for coffee. Steve and Tina both smoke. I expect that if you root about some more in the bin you’ll find some Marlboro stubs as well.
‘Is that clear,’ she shouted, suddenly. ‘Or do you want to count your bloody condoms?’
The alien in the doorway vanished, leaving me stood in his place, brandishing a fag-end and feeling very, very stupid. I dropped the stub into the waste-basket in the corner, stepped across to the bed and opened the drawer of the cabinet on my side.
I reached in and took out the Fetherlites, which had lain there since Prim had decided that she had been on the pill for long enough. I opened the pack and looked inside. ‘Funny,’ I said, in a normal Oz voice, if a bit fuzzy around the edges, ‘There’s six here. I thought I only had five.’
She reached inside my jockeys and grabbed me firmly by the balls. ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘but if you don’t stop all of this nonsense, they will be nothing but reminders of a distant past. Now say, “Sorry, Primavera.”’
I didn’t hesitate. ‘Sorry, Primavera.’
‘Apology accepted,’ she said, without slackening her grip. ‘Now come here.’
She had my undivided attention. There was nothing else I could do.
20
There was a pink thing on the floor beside the bed, shapeless, like a discarded nylon pop sock. I was lying face down, my head hanging off the mattress, so that when my eyes swam slowly back into focus, it was the first thing I saw.
In those waking moments, I felt disorientated, and unsure of where I was. It was a lonely feeling. When you’re thirty years old, and have no experience of loneliness, that can be scary.
At last I could see properly. The pink thing was a used Fetherlite, lying on the tiled floor, shrivelled and knotted beside its foil wrapper. My eyes swivelled round like a chameleon‘s, and spotted five left in the packet which lay open on the cabinet. ‘Whose idea was that?’ I mused, until I remembered that it had been mine.
‘What time is it?’ I
croaked. My mouth was full of ashes, and a wee man with a couple of hammers was playing a xylophone tune inside my head. There was no answer to my question. I reached behind me and beyond. Prim’s side of the bed was empty and the quilt was turned back.
I swung myself out of bed with an effort and looked at the clock radio. Eight forty-five, it told me: not too bad. The bathroom door was closed, and from inside I could hear the sound of the shower. With instinct driving me to find something resembling a disciplined routine, I pulled on my running shorts, stepped into my trainers, and ventured out into the morning, jogging at first, then upping my pace until it could almost have been described as running.
The first mile was murder, but once I had paused to urinate like a true Continental in the bushes by the track-side, things gradually became easier. Three or four miles later, I felt like someone I recognised, even though I was sat on the ground in front of the church, my chest heaving and my body pouring out sweat that probably tasted a lot like draught Estrella Dorada. The wee man with the hammers had gone, and my mouth was moist again.
I left my steaming trainers, socks and shorts on the stairs, outside the front door, and stepped back into the apartment. The doors to the terrace were wide open, and Prim was outside, leaning over the patio table, looking undeniably tasty in her cream cotton Bermudas.
I crept up behind her and put my hands on her hips. She jumped and sniffed, without turning around. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she warned. ‘At least, not till you’ve showered.’
I stepped back from her, aware suddenly that a small puddle was forming on the tiles around me.
‘Do you feel better now?’ she asked, her back still to me.
‘A thousand times. It’s the only real hangover cure.’ I paused, and leaned over to scratch the back of her right thigh. ‘I’m sorry about last night, love.’
‘Why?’ she said, turning at last. ‘You were magnificent.’ She smiled. ‘Oh, you meant about earlier on. That’s okay. You redeemed yourself.’
I looked over her shoulder, at the table. Upon it, Gavin Scott’s print lay unrolled, weighted down by four mugs.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘It’s fantastic.’
‘You should see the original. Let me shower and dress and I’ll tell you the whole story.’
I disappeared into the apartment. I washed my face thoroughly in hot water, then lathered my stubble. Looking in the mirror, I remembered my last shave, and where I had had it. I closed my eyes and let a picture of Jan form in my mind. She smiled at me, sadly, shook her head, then faded away.
Fifteen minutes later I stepped back on to the terrace, smooth-chinned, showered and dressed, my eyes still a touch bloodshot, but otherwise presentable. Our standard breakfast of tomatoes, bread and cheese, and hot coffee, lay on the table. Scott’s print of the apocalyptic toreador was spread on the floor.
As we ate I told Primavera the story of our client’s bizarre gamble, and of our commission to try to ensure that it paid off.
‘Are we up to this, Oz?’ she asked, when I had finished.
‘Course we are. Listen, woman, you were the one who proposed this business venture. Don’t go wobbly on me now.’
She pursed her lips. ‘No. You’re right. After that last thing we pulled off, Phillips and Blackstone are up for anything.’ She thought for a minute or two. ‘Right,’ she said at last. ‘Here’s what we do. The first priority is to find this man Trevor. We’ve met him once, in Gary’s; so we begin by going back there. At the same time, we should take this print up to the Dali Museum in Figueras and let the curator there have a look at it.’
I held up a hand. ‘No way!’ Stopping Prim in full flow is not easy. You certainly don’t say, ‘Excuse me.’
She glared at me, but I stuck to my guns. ‘We can’t do that, for Christ’s sake. How do you think the curator might react if we show up on his doorstep with a print of an alleged Dali that doesn’t appear in any catalogue of his work, and isn’t mentioned in any biography of the man?
‘At the very least, he’d throw us out. At worst, he’d think we were forgers and would call the Guardia Civil. You and I have applications in the pipeline for resident status. I doubt if they’d be confirmed if we were banged up in Figueras nick!’
She looked at me, her ‘man or a mouse’ glare. ‘Nonsense. We’ve got our letter of engagement from Mr Scott. We can show him that.’
‘Sorry, but that’s cobblers. Who’s Scott to him?What would that letter mean?’ I eyeballed her across the table. ‘Anyway, there’s another scenario. What if Scott’s picture is the real thing? A genuine, uncatalogued, unknown Dali? I’ve seen the original, and it’s some piece of work. You might think that the print looks great, but believe me it’s two-dimensional in comparison.
‘He said it himself. If it’s genuine, it’ll be worth millions. So, if it’s genuine, how come it shows up in Ronald Starr’s very discreet, very private auction in Peretellada? And how come our client picks it up for a trifling two hundred and sixty thousand? I’ll tell you why. Because stolen works of art will sell for about one tenth of their true value on the black market.
‘I doubt if it’s occurred to our client, or he wouldn’t have given me this print to wave around the countryside, but if Gavin has bought himself a genuine Dali, then it’s a pound to a pinch of pig-shit that it’s stolen goods.’
She looked at me. ‘So should we take it to the police?’
‘Fine, let’s do that. Let’s tell the Guardia the whole story. Then a few things might happen. They might simply laugh at us, and that would be all right. Or, they could confirm that the thing is a fake and start a hue and cry looking for the forger who’s putting the Dali industry at risk. Last but not least, they could authenticate it and issue an international warrant for our client’s arrest on a charge of handling a stolen masterpiece.’
Prim surrendered, with an ill grace. ‘Okay, Mr Clever. So what should we do?’
I paused, savouring my victory. ‘We should find Mr Ronald Starr, and ask him the questions that Gavin Scott left unasked when he bought the picture, because he wanted the thing so much that he just switched his brain off. If he was an agent at the auction, who was the principal? And how did he or she come to own it? While we’re looking for Starr, we should ask a few general questions about Dali, and about anyone who might be up to imitating him.’
‘Ask questions of whom?’ she asked, grammatically.
‘Of other artists, of course. And I think I know where to find some.’ I reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘You were right about one thing, though, my dear one. It starts with Trevor. Tonight, we’re dining out.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but the rest of the day we spend getting this business of ours into shape. You said that you had other correspondence.’
I nodded, and retrieved my document case from its pocket in my flight-bag, in the bedroom, where Prim had dropped it the night before. I showed her our three enquiries, and talked them through with her.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you should do the one in Tarragona. I’m not so sure about taking on both the others though.’
‘Why not?’
She frowned. ‘They both want quick responses. We don’t want to spread ourselves too thin.’
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘These are both Edinburgh companies. If we give them a prompt effective service, they might tell their pals about us. If we give them the bum’s rush, or crap service, they’re sure to tell their pals about that. If we find ourselves short of hours in the day, then we hire casual help.’
‘Yes, but what about admin, and invoicing, and so on?’
‘No problem. I’ve persuaded Jan to come in with us, to handle finance. She’ll do all our billing in Scotland, routed through Jersey, and she’ll handle first responses to enquiries, like she did with these and with Gavin Scott. That’s okay with you, isn’t it?’
There was a silence for a while, which worried me for an instant, until I realised she thought I’d take her approval as read. ‘Yes, of co
urse,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve got no problem with that.’ She paused. ‘Shirley Gash might help us. Not that she needs the money, but she did say that she’s desperate for things to do with her time.’ She stood up from the table. ‘I’ll get the computer, and we can draft our responses to these people.’
I watched her as she strolled back into the living-room and picked up the lap-top. All at once my eye fell on a piece of paper on the floor. ‘Hey,’ I called to her. ‘We forgot about that fax from last night. Bring that too.’
She nodded and bent to pick it up. ‘It’s from someone called Gregor, at Laing’s,’ she said, glancing at the heading. She read on down the page. By the time she re-emerged on to the terrace, her mouth was hanging open in a silent gasp, and her eyes were wide with surprise. She handed me the fax without a word.
I read it aloud.
Hi Oz,
I had an immediate response from the manufacturers to your enquiry. Giorgio of Beverley Hills gentleman’s wristwatch, serial number 930100, was sold on February 22, last year, by Jackson’s of Bristol.
The registered owner is Mr Ronald Starr, of 126 Glannefran Hill, Mold, Clwyd, Wales. He should be pleased to hear from you.
21
I leaned on the terrace wall, freshened-up coffee in hand, gazing out across the sun-washed mountains. ‘Christ, Ms Phillips,’ I said, over my shoulder, ‘but we’re some investigators, are we not. Imagine, finding Ronald Starr as quickly as this.’
Behind me, Prim laughed ironically. ‘Sure, it’d be great, if he wasn’t dead. And also, if we hadn’t lost him again. Or had you forgotten that?’
‘You must be joking. Misplacing a skeleton is not something that slips your mind after a few days.’
I turned and sat down beside her again at the table. ‘You realise, don’t you, love, that Gregor’s fax makes this a completely different situation. For openers, it means we’re looking for someone else.’
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