A Coffin For Two ob-2

by Quintin Jardine

It was my turn to take a deep breath. ‘There’s bad, and there’s worse. It looks as if your Dali isn’t a Dali after all, but a brilliant fake by a very gifted painter.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ronald Starr,’ I said. ‘He was a lecturer at an art college in Wales, and a real student of Dali.’

  ‘What! The guy who was the host at the dinner?’ Scott’s voice was raised. In the background, the hum of his colleagues’ conversation suddenly fell silent.

  ‘This is where it gets worse, Gavin. Ronnie Starr disappeared from his job, and from everything else, over a year ago. We don’t know who your mysterious auctioneer was, but we’re pretty certain that he wasn’t the real Starr.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’

  ‘Because we have very solid reason to believe that Ronnie Starr is dead.’

  Via satellite, I heard Gavin Scott gasp. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘You lot,’ he called to his staff. ‘Leave me alone for a bit, please.’

  Down the line I heard the sound of shuffling, mumbling, and finally, a closing door. ‘Okay, be more specific. Are we talking heart attack? Accident?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. We’re talking violence. We’re talking about Ronnie Starr being talked into painting your undiscovered Dali masterpiece, then being murdered, before the picture was sold to you at that bizarre auction.’

  ‘Jesus!’ There was another long pause. ‘What should we do now? Should you go to the Spanish police?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘If I had any sense, I probably would. So it’s just as well I haven’t, because your door would be the first they would knock on.’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Well, for starters, because I doubt if the way you bought a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of picture, then transported it out of Spain, is entirely legal.’

  Scott spluttered. ‘Come on, Oz. I acted in good faith.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. I bet you didn’t get aVAT receipt though. Spanish IVA taxes on your buy would be around eight and a half million pesetas. Alternatively, the Customs and Excise could do you for evading duty. It’s a case of take your pick, although maybe they could both do you.

  ‘If that’s not enough, think on this. I’m not in a position to prove that Starr was murdered. But the evidence could turn up any day now, if it hasn’t already. Then the police have a scenario where you tell them that you paid over a quarter of a million for a painting by a murdered man, at a phoney auction. All they have is your word and your friend Foy’s for that.’

  ‘And Trevor Eames …’

  ‘… who may be implicated in the murder. He’s going to back you up, is he? Sorry, without the phoney Ronald Starr, what they’ll see is you being offered the picture by the real one, knocking him on the head, and using it as a scam to steal four hundred thousand US from your own company. As for Foy, he’s your pal. How likely are they to believe him?’

  ‘Oh shit!’ The sound of heavy breathing bounced off the satellite. ‘What am I going to do, Oz?’

  ‘Burn the fucking picture and forget you ever heard of me?’ I offered, helpfully, but knew that was a non-starter as soon as I said it.

  ‘Then I really would have embezzled a quarter of a million from my own company. Besides, Oz, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I hear what you’re saying about this guy Starr having painted this picture; but suppose, just suppose that you’re wrong. Suppose this is what it was said to be at the auction, an authentic Dali, but privately owned and therefore unknown. What if I burned it, then found out that it was the real thing, and that it could be authenticated?’

  ‘And if it turned out that it had been stolen?’

  The reply came without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Then I’d return it to the owner, assuming he claimed it … provided that its existence is acknowledged to the world. Oz,’ said Scott, ‘I want you to carry on, if you’re prepared to. The brief is still the same. Find out the truth about this picture, one way or another. Will you do it, or is it too dangerous for you and your partner? If the Toreador can be authenticated, I’ll pay you a bonus.’

  I glanced across at Prim. I knew what she would say. ‘Okay, we’ll carry on, but without a variation in terms. Forget the bonus. I do need two things, though. I know you weren’t keen on me approaching your friend Foy. The way things are going, I think I have to talk to him now.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation, but finally Scott said, ‘Okay. As I told you, David felt terribly guilty about involving me in the auction. I wanted to spare him involvement, but if you think it’s necessary, carry on. What’s the other thing?’

  ‘I want you to get details for me of the bank where your draft was cashed, and the account through which it was processed.’

  ‘Okay,’ said our client. ‘I’ll get you that as soon as I can. Look after yourself.’

  ‘No worries,’ I assured him. ‘I hope your people get the business today. You may need it to pay our fee. This could be a long job.’

  28

  While I spent the rest of the morning drawing up work plans for our two commercial commissions, Prim took the car and drove up to Shirley‘s, on Millionaire’s Row, above L’Escala.

  She returned two hours later, flushed with a cocktail of flattery and success. ‘For you, my lovely Primavera, and for my friend Oz,’ she mimicked in a Hispanic-American accent, ‘it will be an honour and a pleasure. No, more than that, it will be an adventure.’

  She laughed. ‘Tarragona! Davidoff has not been to Tarragona for forty years. When I come into middle age, I decide that Barcelona was as far south as I wished to venture. Now that I am old, even Girona seems like too much trouble. But to Tarragona, and with Senor Oz. Yes, that will be an adventure.’

  She finished her monologue and looked at me. ‘One interpreter hired and ready for action. He is even, and wait for this, going to get himself out of bed before midday for the occasion. You can pick him up at nine o’clock. Shirley says that it’s an easy two-hour drive to Tarragona down the autopista. Your appointment with Senora Compostella is at midday, so you’ll have plenty of time.

  ‘I guarantee you one thing. You’ll have plenty of chat on the way down. Shirley said to me she hasn’t seen Davidoff come out of his shell like this since her husband died.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I said. ‘Maybe I can quiz him about Dali on the trip.’

  I thought back to Prim’s mimicry. ‘Have you worked out yet how old he might be?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I still can’t get close to it. There’s a tremendous vitality about him, and with that jet-black hair and the sleek skin, you could almost see him being in his sixties. But it’s that eye of his. He fixes you with it, and you feel that you could be staring into the mists of time.’

  ‘Time,’ I said. ‘Yes, time. As in lunchtime. Fancy a salad down in the square? I really need to talk to Miguel.’

  Prim nodded her agreement. We locked up the apartment and strolled round to the heart of our hamlet. The archaeologists were still having their effect on business, and the tables outside the restaurants were busier than we had been assured was normal for the time of year. Nevertheless, our usual table near the door was available, and Miguel showed us to it, handing us menus automatically, although we knew his carta by heart.

  I motioned him to join us as we attacked our chicken, rice, and side-salads. ‘Still many peoples,’ he said, as he sat down.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but none of them police, which would have been the case for sure if we hadn’t moved our chum.’ The smile left his face in an instant.

  ‘Miguel, I think we know who the body was.’

  ‘How?’ he whispered, incredulous. I took the watch from my pocket and showed it to him discreetly, in the palm of my hand. He gulped in fright. ‘You … How …’

  ‘I put it in my pocket at one point, and forgot to replace it. We traced him from its serial number. Now we need to find him again. Have you had any word from your wife’s nephew’s wife in the local
police?’

  His face fell, a guilty look spreading across it. ‘No, Oz. Not yet. To tell you the true, I have done nothing about it. I decide that the best thing was to forget about it.’

  I shook my head. ‘Maybe it was, but not any more. The guy was murdered, Miguel. He doesn’t deserve to be tossed in a ditch and forgotten. Your tourist trade is safe. Now we owe it to him to try to ensure that he has a decent burial, and that whoever killed him is made to answer for it.’

  He sighed. ‘Okay, Oz, okay. I will see what I can do. I will speak to Santi and ask him to try to find out from Ramona if the local police know about the body. And don’ worry Oz. I will be …’

  ‘… discreet, Miguel. Yes, that’s still a good idea.’

  29

  ‘Four weeks on Saturday.’

  No ‘hello’. No ‘how are you?’ No such pleasantries. The phone rang, I picked it up and that was all the voice at the other end had to say.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Who else?’ came the cheerful growl.

  ‘Aye, right, but what was that you said?’

  ‘Is this a bad line or something? I said, “Four weeks on Saturday.” This Saturday coming that is. Eleven-thirty, St Andrews Registry Office, lunch at the Peat Inn thereafter for the principals and families.’

  I was aware that my mouth had fallen open. ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad. I liked it better when you were predictable. Whatever happened to, “Round about Christmas”?’

  ‘Change of plan.’

  ‘Christ, Auntie Mary isn’t … Is she?’

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ It was half growl, half laugh. ‘The fact is, your sister’s got a permanent teaching job in that private girls’ school, what’s its name, in St Andrews. She got the word on Monday afternoon. It’s only fifteen minutes’ drive away, so, with Jonathan settled in at the primary here, and wee Colin at nursery, it seems daft for her to be looking for a flat, when she can stay on where she is. D’you agree with that?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘That’s good. It’s all cut and dried anyway, but I thought I’d go through the motions of consulting you. The upshot of it all is that the way is clear for Mary and me to tie the knot, and for me to move into her house on a permanent basis. So.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘Four weeks on Saturday.’

  ‘That’s a deal. We’ll be there, don’t worry. I take it that Auntie Mary’s told Jan.’

  ‘Of course,’ said my dad. ‘It all came together when she was here on Monday evening. Breaking her news to us.’ He hesitated again, then, dropping his voice as if he was afraid he was within someone’s earshot, he asked, ‘Are you alone there?’

  I nodded, as if he could see me. ‘Yeah. Prim’s gone shopping.’

  ‘Right. That was quite a surprise, Jan’s visit. Is there anything going on that Mary and I should know about?’

  I tried to sound as incredulous as I could. ‘Eh? What do mean, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Don’t come the funny man with me, son. Jan, having dropped you off at the airport, comes home especially to tell us that she’s been split up from Ms Turkel for the last couple of months, and that she’s living at your place. We know that you stayed there on Sunday night; then Jan turns up wearing a new piece of gold, and looking like two million dollars. What d’you expect Mary and I to make of that?’

  I tried a touch of bluster. ‘Aw come on, Dad, how long have Jan and I known each other?’

  ‘Aw come on, nothing. You’re not playing games with the lass, are you? Or with Primavera for that matter?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ I said. I had never been able to bullshit Mac the Dentist. ‘No games. It’s just that I thought that everyone had settled down to live happily ever after, me included. Now the whole board game’s up in the air.’

  ‘Well, just you get it back on the table, son, and you remember this. People are not chess pieces.’

  ‘I know that. I’m a people myself, remember. Last Sunday was a total surprise to me too. I had no hint that Jan was on her own again. And I’ll grant you it’s set me on my heels. Until then I was as happy as Larry, not a cloud in the sky. Why, last week I asked Prim to marry me, again. She said, “Fine, No rush. Let’s wait a while.” Now …’

  ‘Aye,’ said my dad. ‘What about now?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t that I don’t love Prim any more, that’s for sure. And I’ve never thought of her as just another live-in. It’s just that getting together with Jan last weekend … it wasn’t like before. We’re both older, and wiser for a start.’

  ‘You’re both grown up at last, you mean.’

  ‘I suppose so. All that time she was with Noosh, I thought, “Fair enough, as long as she’s happy.” Anyway, she wasn’t completely gone, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know,’ he rumbled. ‘She told us that too.’

  ‘Aye, okay. You could say that we were just using each other all that time. I don’t know. What I do know is that we were always there for each other, up to a point, without ever asking ourselves any serious questions. When we were kids, Jan and I never discussed “us”, quote unquote, you know. We just were. We didn’t need to keep telling each other, “I love you.” We knew it anyway.

  ‘I still love Jan and she loves me, but she’s got her life sorted out now. It could be that I won’t fit into it. And like I said earlier, I still love Prim and we’ve got out lives sorted …’

  ‘Except…’ said my dad.

  ‘Last week, if you’d asked me I’d have said I knew exactly what I wanted. I’ve got to work that out afresh, and make a commitment to it, without any guarantees that I’ll get it.’

  He was silent, but I sensed something. It was a long time since my dad had been worried about me, and it didn’t make me feel good. ‘Can I take it that you haven’t told Prim everything about last weekend?’

  ‘You can take it.’

  ‘Then isn’t it time you set out the whole board game for her?’ he said.

  There was undeniable truth in that, yet … ‘I should. But we’re involved in a bit of business that’s taking up most of our attention. Plus … ahh, bloody hell, I just don’t know what to do!’

  ‘There’s nothing new about that, son,’ said wise old Mac. ‘But at least now you care. Listen,’ he continued, ‘I think you have to put a time-frame on this. You’re coming back for our wedding in four weeks. You’ll have to sort yourself out by then. If Jan’s the one for you, Prim deserves to be told. If what you have is what you really want, then you have to make that clear to Jan. I’m speaking as a potential step-father here, you understand, as well as your old man.’

  A great wedge of truth hit me. ‘I feel I should know the answer now, Dad,’ I said, spontaneously. ‘It’s in there somewhere … and the reason for it. Like Jan said, what I want is one thing. But I have to work out why I want it, too … and that’s the bugger.’

  30

  Davidoff was on parade as promised when I arrived at Shirley’s at nine o’clock. He was dressed immaculately in uncreased black, scrubbed and oiled like a well greased wheel nut as he appeared through the garden gate at the side of the impressive villa.

  Shirley stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs, chuckling and shaking her head as he strode solemnly down the slope towards me.

  I greeted him with a ‘Bon dia’, and a bow, holding open the passenger door of the Frontera. He returned both, then stepped up into the car, and slid into the back seat. I watched him, astonished, as he folded himself along its width, like a concertina.

  Holding up his head to peer awkwardly from his single eye, he announced, ‘I promised our lovely Primavera that Davidoff would be ready to leave at nine. I did not say that he would be properly awake. Davidoff needs his beauty sleep. You may rouse me as we get close to Tarragona.’

  Just for a moment, when he referred to Primavera as ‘our’ my mind flashed back to her lecture on ageism, but I let it pass, waving goodbye to Shirley as the great black gate closed automatically behind me.

  The radio was
on as always as we headed down the hill, until a theatrical cough from the back seat made me switch it off. By the time we reached the autopista ticket station, fifteen minutes later, the only sound in the car was a gentle snoring.

  Shirley had been right about the drive to Tarragona. Bypassing Barca to the east, the road was straight and fast. Scenically, it was also very boring. Fortunately, after cruising at my customary fifteen Ks above the speed limit for just over an hour and a half, the Tarragona signs began to appear, and I was able to waken the wee man in the back with a clear conscience.

  Nimbly, he slid over the gear lever into the passenger seat. As we left the autopista and neared the town, he grew animated. I suspected that he might even have been excited, but not about to let anyone know it.

  It might have been forty years since his last visit, but Davidoff could still recall the way into the centre of town. I had bought a street map the day before and found our destination, but it was almost redundant as the old man directed me, right, left, then right again.

  We parked in a public underground garage, emerging into the town’s main square at around eleven twenty, with plenty of time in hand for our date with Senora Compostella. The day was overcast, but it was still warm enough to sit in comfort at a pavement cafe. Davidoff nodded his approval when I asked for a cortado — expresso with a little milk — ordering the same, but with a shot of brandy added.

  As we passed the time, I briefed him on the subject of the interview and on the questions I had to put to our witness. The case centred around goods manufactured in Spain and supplied in Scotland, by a Scottish customer. The specification was in dispute, and Senora Compostella’s evidence was crucial to our client’s defence against the argument. If she gave us a strong enough response, there was a good chance that the action would never reach court.

  She was ready and waiting for us when we crossed the square at midday and made our way up to the lawyers’ office. I smiled as I walked into the room, not just to put the lady at her ease, but because all of a sudden it felt good to be back at work. This was my job, after all, wherever I did it. As I sat down opposite Senora Compostella, I realised that I had been away for long enough.