A Coffin For Two ob-2

by Quintin Jardine

  I felt my skin flush, and it must have showed, even in the car, because her look became quizzical. ‘You still haven’t come to terms with that, have you?’ she said, with a note of surprise in her voice. ‘Your ex taking up with another woman. I don’t suppose there can be a bigger blow to the male ego than that.’

  She parked the car outside our apartment. She didn’t know it, of course, but she had given me the perfect feed, the perfect opportunity to tell her of the sea-change in Jan’s life and of the confusion into which mine had been thrown as a result. I suppose if I was as honest a bloke as I’ve always liked to think myself, I would have taken it. But right then, Flora Blackstone wasn’t looking over Prim’s shoulder, telling me to do the right thing.

  For all that, I should have told her as soon as I got off the plane, back there in Barcelona airport. But I didn’t, as I couldn’t then, because I wasn’t ready.

  You might think that it’s every young man’s dream, to be in love with two really gorgeous women. Wrong. Actually it’s a nightmare, because all the time you know that sooner or later, you’ll have to choose. Worse, one of them — God forbid, both — might choose for you. Whatever happens, down the road someone gets hurt. Chances are everyone gets hurt. Chances are, when the smoke clears, you wind up sleeping in a mostly empty bed, back in the life of carry-out kebabs, frozen pizzas, and too many bevvies with the lads.

  I knew all this, but I still … or was it because of it … I climbed our winding stair and kept my trap shut. You see, I still didn’t know the answer, the reason that Jan had talked about. It was in there, but I just couldn’t find it. To my great relief at that moment, though, Prim must have thought that she’d gone too far, since she chose to resume our discussion of the functionality of Davidoff’s nuts.

  ‘Anyway,’ she insisted. ‘He would tell Shirley that, to make her feel completely comfortable around him. Think on this, too; even if it is true, there might just be a few women who would welcome the challenge of reviving them.’

  With that remark, I decided that a tactical sulk was called for. The strategy seemed to have worked, for no sooner was the door closed than Prim wound her arms around my neck, pulled me to her and kissed her.

  ‘Just in case you were getting the wrong idea,’ she murmured, unbuttoning my shirt, ‘I’m not thinking about trading you in for an older model.’ She unzipped my cotton trousers. I couldn’t help it; I flipped the waistband button of her Bermudas.

  ‘Mmm,’ she whispered, with the beginning of the wicked smile that I knew so well. ‘Now that’s no challenge … no challenge at all.’

  She rose to it, nevertheless.

  Afterwards, as we lay outside in the evening sun, I thought back to Prim’s theorising on the drive home. ‘Hey, what you were saying earlier,’ I teased her. ‘Since you’re so hot on ageism, how come you left me alone with Shirley, after the welcome she gave me?’

  She laughed. ‘One, because Shirley’s still too much in love with her husband to look at any other man, two, because underneath that outrageous front, she’s very much a lady, and three, because I trust …’

  She stopped as the telephone rang, and as I jumped up to answer it.

  ‘Oz, s’at you?’

  ‘S’me, Eddie. Any luck?’

  ‘Luck’s got luck all to do with it. I told you our database is the best in the business. Your man Starr’s on it … in a way.’

  ‘Eh? What d’you mean in a way? He’s either on it or he isn’t.’

  ‘Aye well,’ said my pal, ‘that’s the thing. He’s on the black-list. He owes his credit card companies a few hundred and the interest’s mounting by the month. According to his file, Starr is a lecturer at Cardiff College of Art. He’s single, aged thirty-four. He was a tenant at the address you gave me. It’s a college house, apparently. But for over a year now, the credit card company’s had mail returned from there, stamped “gone away”.

  ‘There have been no transactions on his cards for about a year now … no attempt to use them, I mean, because they’ve both been pulled. But Oz, the daft thing is, he’s in credit at the bank, and he has a building society account with thousands in it. Both those accounts are frozen, pending court actions against him in Wales by the Visa and Mastercard operators. They both got judgements last month, and they’re on the point of enforcing them.’

  ‘Did Starr defend the actions?’

  ‘No. The bailiffs for the pursuers couldn’t serve the writs, so they had to place a public notice in the local press advising of the hearings. No one turned up on the day, though.’

  ‘What about the art college? Do they know anything about him?’

  ‘The database doesn’t say anything about that, Oz.’

  ‘Does it list a next of kin?’

  ‘No.’ Eddie paused. ‘Look, what’s all this about, China? ’Cos if you’re certain that this guy’s Hovis, and it looks as if you could be, you should report it.’

  ‘Ahh,’ I said. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that. I’ve just had information that he is, but I’m not in a position to prove it. What you’ve told me is very useful, though. It clarifies one or two things.’

  ‘So what more d’you need to prove it?’

  ‘A body would help, Eddie. See you. Thanks.’

  As I hung up, Primavera appeared at my shoulder, slipping on her dressing gown, and with mine slung over her shoulder. For the first time, I noticed the gathering cool of the autumn evening.

  ‘What did he have?’ she asked.

  ‘From what he told me, Starr seems to have vanished last year. That makes it all the more certain that our pile of bones is him. Eddie did have something new to add, though. The man was an art teacher, in Cardiff.’

  ‘That’s interesting. So how will we follow that up?’

  I tied the cord of my robe. ‘I guess by calling the Cardiff College of Art. Maybe the people there will be able to tell us more about the probably late Mr Starr.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Prim. ‘That gives you something to do tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have an earlier engagement, remember. Dining at Gary’s, in search of Trevor.’

  I gave her a pretty good grimace. ‘After what we’ve learned so far, I’m not sure I want to find him. Still, there is one plus point.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We can put dinner on expenses.’

  25

  I never have found out what Gary’s surname is. I don’t know of anyone else in L‘Escala who knows it either; simply because no one I’ve met has ever asked him. That’s the sort of place L’Escala is.

  Although it’s only a few kilometres away its attitudes, compared with those in St Marti, are light years apart. In the village where Prim and I made our home, the rare outsiders who manage to buy property and choose to become permanent residents find themselves subject to direct, and not very discreet enquiries, until their backgrounds and much of their intimate business is known.

  In L’Escala, though, a poncho-wearing stranger could ride into town on a sway-backed burro, stay for a year, kill all the local bad guys and ride out again, without anyone knowing as much as his name, unless he had chosen to give it.

  All we knew of Gary was that he was a nice bloke who ran a restaurant. We had learned second-hand from Shirley that he had arrived in town a couple of years before, had liked the place and had decided to stay and open a business.

  He was waiting for us in his pocket-sized dining room, at the top of an alley behind the church, his hand outstretched in greeting, and a smile of welcome on his face, when we arrived just before 9 p.m. ‘Hello there. Dead on time as usual. It really helps, your being able to come now. I’ve got Maggie and five friends booked in for nine-thirty, so I’ll have you well under way by then.’

  We were used to the ways of Gary’s, a one-man operation where everything is bought fresh and cooked fresh, and where evenings are planned with military efficiency, and run that way until the last course is served to the last table, and everyone can get pleasantly pissed.


  Prim had made our menu choices by telephone when she booked, and so, even allowing for his timetable, we were able to relax over a beer with our host before we ate.

  We talked about this and that; our new business venture, Gary’s opening schedule for the winter months, and the success of the tourist season which was just winding down … something many Catalan business owners do not care to discuss in public, just in case the tax hombre may be listening at the next table. But we didn’t rush to ask any questions. We had agreed that in the circumstances — since our discovery about Starr had changed the nature of the game — that tracing Trevor was a subject to be handled with care. Also, Gary had told Prim earlier of his booking for six, and we had decided to sit tight, on the off chance that our man would be one of the number.

  Our salmon steaks were on the table when the sextet arrived. We looked up as they entered, one by one; Maggie, whom we knew, a German couple named Manfred and Lucy, whom we had met there before, and the three Millers, parents and son. Maggie gave us her usual generous ‘Hello’, Manfred and Lucy came along to our table to shake hands, but the Millers settled into their places at table, with the briefest of smiles.

  Prim kicked me under the table, and, her hand out of sight under her napkin, pointed across in their general direction. I took the hint, rose from my place, and walked over to Steve. I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘About last night,’ I said, trying not to choke. ‘I’m sorry if we got off to a bad start. I didn’t mean all that crap (lie). I had a few beers too many on top of a heavy day (truth).’

  He reached round and offered a handshake. ‘That’s okay, Ozzie, old chap,’ he said, loudly and magnanimously … there’s nothing worse than an arsehole like him being magnanimous to you. ‘No harm done.’

  When I sat down again at our table, I could see the effort with which Prim was suppressing her grin. She knows how much I hate being called ‘Ozzie’.

  The ice was broken, though, and our two tables soon became an informal arrangement of eight, with the inevitable increase in wine consumption to which that leads. I had given up hope of us getting any more out of the evening than a good meal and a good bevvy, when all of a sudden, we had an ally.

  ‘Hey, Gary,’ called Maggie, in her sharp, northern accent. She runs a service company for villa owners, and her success is built on being able to arrange absolutely anything. ‘That chap Trevor Eames. ’Ave you seen him lately? Only Steve ‘ere wants to fix up some sailing lessons when he comes back at easter; and Trevor does that, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the restauranteur. ‘You won’t find him just now, though. I know for a fact he’s away crewing, on a big sailing boat out of Ampuriabrava.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  Gary sucked in his breath. ‘I’m not sure. You never can be certain with these casual trips. But from what he was saying, I wouldn’t look for him to be around before next week.’

  ‘Oh dash,’ said Maggie. ‘Steve goes home on Friday.’

  I saw my chance and stepped into it. ‘Tell you what, Steve,’ I said. ‘Prim and I have been talking about learning to sail. Why don’t we look him up when he gets back, and make an arrangement for you while we’re about it?’

  ‘Would you, Ozzie old chap?That’d be great. I’m due back on April two next year, for a fortnight.’

  ‘Zero problemo, Stevie son. D’you know where this Trevor lives, Gary? He is the bloke we’ve seen in here, isn’t he? Wee chap, bald head, skin like a walnut.’

  Our host looked up from the bar, where he was sorting out the bills, and nodded. ‘That’s the man; that’s Trevor. Never at a loss for a word. But I’m sorry, Oz, I don’t know where he lives, only that it’s somewhere in L’Escala. He has a boat in the marina, though, with a little day cabin, and with a couple of dinghies which he uses for teaching strapped to the roof. You’ll usually find him around there, when he’s in town. It’s called La Sirena something. La Sirena Two, I think. I’ve got no idea where his mooring is, though.’

  ‘Thanks, Gary. We’ll start looking for him next week.’

  ‘Okay. If he comes in, I’ll mention it. Do you want me to send him along to see you in St Marti?’

  That was pushing it. ‘No, that’s okay. There’s no guarantee we’d be in. We’ll find him ourselves, don’t you worry.’

  26

  We managed to escape from our extended dinner table without doing ourselves too much damage, and so my morning run was a much less harrowing experience than that of the day before. I even completed a few feeble push-ups in front of the church before heading back up to the apartment.

  When I came in, carrying my trainers this time, having judged them safe to be allowed indoors, Prim was showered and dressed and looking pleased with herself. She didn’t even wait to be asked. ‘I’ve been on to international directory enquiries. The number of Cardiff Art College is on the pad beside the phone.

  ‘And we’ve had a fax confirming theTarragona commission. They want a report by the beginning of next week, if possible. The client has arranged for you to do the interview on Friday.’

  Thinking again about my trainers, I tossed them out on to the terrace. ‘No problem. Have they given us details about the subject?’

  ‘Yes. She’s Spanish.’

  ‘Christ, that’s a small detail they haven’t mentioned before. Still, we are called Blackstone Spanish Investigations, so they’re entitled to make the assumption.’

  Prim nodded. ‘That’s right. So we just hire an interpreter and put translation costs on the bill.’

  ‘Sure, but where will we find an interpreter for Frid …’ I caught her eye, and her smile, and read her mind.

  ‘Davidoff.’ We said the name in unison.

  ‘D’you think he would?’

  ‘We can only ask,’ said Primavera. ‘But if I ask him, I think he might.’

  We ate breakfast on the terrace as usual, then tossed a coin to decide who would wash the dishes and who would call Cardiff College of Art. I won.

  The man on the switchboard told me that the principal’s name was Mrs Adams, and put me through to her office. Her secretary turned out to be a more formidable obstacle to clear. ‘I’m sorry, but the principal is a very busy person. “Confidential matter” is not good enough.’

  ‘Okay. I’m a private investigator. I’m making enquiries on behalf of a client about a member of your staff. Mr Ronald Starr.’

  ‘Hold on, please.’ Her tone didn’t change but I could tell that I had cleared the hurdle. She was back on the line in less than ten seconds. ‘I’m putting you through.’

  ‘Mr Blackstone?’ Mrs Adams had the rich deep voice of a Welsh rugby commentator. I wondered about MrAdams. ‘You say you’re making enquiries about Ronnie Starr?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mmm. Do something for me when you find him, will you. Tell him to get back here and empty out his bloody locker!’

  For a second I thought she was about to hang up. Maybe she had been, but I stopped her. ‘Hold on, Mrs Adams,’ I said quickly. ‘If I’m right you might as well clear out his locker yourself.’

  I held my breath, waiting still for the hum of a broken line. ‘You think Ronnie’s dead?’ she asked, at last.

  Perhaps I had gone too far. ‘It has to be a possibility. When did you hear from him last?’

  ‘I haven’t heard from the man since the day he left us, in June last year. I did expect him back in October, to start a new contract. But he didn’t appear. No letter, no call, nothing. I was keeping his job open, and his college flat unlet. He let me down. Left me with a roll of students and no one to teach them. I even had to get paint on my hands again.’

  ‘Mrs Adams,’ I ventured, ‘can you tell me a few things about Ronald Starr? What was his speciality?’

  ‘He was a painting tutor. Good all-rounder, but his main interest was surrealism.’

  ‘Was he a good painter?’

  ‘Exceptional,’ she barked. ‘I’ve no idea why he was teachi
ng, really. He could have supported himself by painting professionally. In fact he should have. He was that good.’

  ‘His own work, it was surrealist too, yes?’

  ‘That’s right. The chap had a tremendous range. His colour choice was fantastic, the way he blended them together. He could make a canvas sing.’

  I began to tremble. All of a sudden, the jigsaw seemed to have fewer, much bigger, pieces. I pushed it a bit further. ‘When he left, last year, d’you know where he was going?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, heavily. ‘He told me he was bound for the north of Spain. To paint, and to research the Catalan surrealists. The king of them all, of course, was Dali. Ronnie Starr worshipped him. He seemed to know his whole portfolio, off by heart. He could mimic some of it as well.’ Her booming chuckle startled me. ‘He could do a great soft watch, could our Ronnie!’

  27

  When I called Gavin Scott on his mobile, he was in the middle of a meeting. When he called me back fifteen minutes later, I could hear other voices in the background.

  ‘Sorry, Oz,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a major business pitch this afternoon. You rang in the middle of the dress rehearsal. You got something to report already?’

  ‘Yes, Gavin. It’s nothing concrete, but let’s just say that a pretty strong possibility has opened up. You might not like it, though.’

  I heard him take a deep breath. ‘Try me, anyway.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s start with the man named Trevor that you described to us. Does the surname Eames mean anything to you?’

  There was a few seconds’ silence, then, ‘Yes! That was it. Trevor Eames. That’s how he introduced himself the first time that we met.’

  ‘Okay, that’s a good start. We’ve found him. At least we know where he is. He’s out on the Med for the next week or so, helping sail some rich German’s schooner. As soon as he’s back we’ll see what he can tell us.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Scott. ‘Quick work. Now what’s the bad news?’