‘Miles doesn’t take a high profile in any of his sideline businesses,’ I explained. ‘They have to succeed through the quality of the product, not because of his name.’
‘What is his name?’ Patterson asked. ‘His other one, that is.’
‘Grayson.’
His thick eyebrows rose. ‘Miles Grayson? That Miles Grayson? The movie director?’
‘That’s him. He’s married to my kid sister.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ He paused, making a mental connection. ‘And your second name’s Blackstone. Does that mean that Oz Blackstone, the actor, was—’
I cut him off. ‘Yes. I was married to him for a while. He was Tom’s dad.’ Indeed he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that Shirley had told him nothing about my past. I felt my son stand just a little taller beside me, and sensed the squaring of his shoulders. We don’t discuss his father very often, and his name means nothing to his school and village contemporaries, but he is intensely proud of him. The only Oz that he ever knew was loving, generous and caring, and it’s my firm intention that he will never hear of the other one.
Patterson had the good sense to realise that I was going to say no more about the subject, and the good taste not to follow it up. I headed him off anyway, by spotting an empty table outside Esculapi, and securing it with a wave to Salvador, the front of house man. (There’s no point being the unofficial mayor of anywhere unless you make it work for you from time to time.)
There was a football match on telly that night, so I let Tom order a takeaway; I could see the house from the table, so I had no worries about letting him go home on his own. To be honest, I was quite pleased; it gave me more freedom to interrogate Mr Patterson Cowling, and for that matter Mrs Shirley Gash.
I started on her as soon as the wine arrived. ‘So, woman, explain yourself,’ I challenged.
‘How did this new liaison come about?’
‘It was Tom’s doing,’ she replied.
‘Tom!’ I repeated. ‘You turn up with a new bloke and you’re blaming my ten year old?’
‘Ten going on eighteen, Primavera.’
‘Maybe so, but still . . . More,’ I told her. ‘I need more.’
‘Well, one day last autumn, when the two of you came up to the house and you were in the pool . . .’ She broke off. ‘She likes my pool, Patterson. Puts it to good use every chance she gets.’ I’m too brown to go pink or I might have; we both knew what she meant, and with whom I’d gone swimming. A warning shot across my bows, I wondered, lest I spill too many beans? ‘ . . . I got him to show me how to use Google. You know I’m crap on the internet. I got him to search for dating sites.’
I’m rarely surprised by anything these days, but I gasped. ‘You what . . .’
‘Single people sites, mature singles, you know,’ she continued, nowhere even close to being abashed. ‘We found one that I thought looked respectable and he showed me how to find the form. He didn’t fill it in for me, Primavera, honest: I did that myself.’
‘Bloody hell! Why didn’t you just ask him to get you a plastic chair and a parasol and pick you out a nice spot at the roadside with the other working girls?’
She beamed. ‘Because I wanted quality, not quantity. I sent it off, then I forgot all about it, for a couple of months, until I had a reply from this one here. Not directly, through the agency; they sent me his entry and a message form if I wanted to get in touch with him. I decided that I did, and he replied, and I replied to him and then we exchanged email addresses. Oh, and photos: I had to ask Tom how to work my scanner. I hadn’t a clue about that either. After a while we spoke on the phone . . . it was all very gradual, you understand. About three months ago we decided to meet. I flew over to London and we had dinner. A month after that Patterson flew to Barcelona and we did it again . . . just dinner, mind,’ she added quickly. ‘Finally we decided to go on holiday together.’
I looked her in the eye. ‘Separate rooms?’
‘Not by that stage. Come on, love,’ she chuckled. ‘At my age? How much quality shaggin’ time have I got left? But we split the bill,’ she added, ‘fifty-fifty.’
‘I did offer to pick up the whole tab,’ Patterson volunteered, quietly.
She nodded. ‘True, but if I’d let him do that,’ she explained, ‘I might have wound up feeling like one of those roadside girls.’
‘To some people that might be not a lot different from putting your name on a website.’
‘Sure,’ she snorted, ‘to the same people who read the small ads for hookers and their services in the Barcelona papers.’
‘Hey, I’m not judging you,’ I insisted. ‘Obviously it’s worked out for you both. It strikes me as just a bit risky, though.’
‘True,’ Patterson conceded: then he smiled, ‘but I’ve survived.’
‘So far,’ Shirley laughed.
I studied them. They seemed truly relaxed in each other’s company, no question of that, and I still hadn’t detected the faintest whiff of bullshit from him, not that he’d had much to say up to then. I waited until our meals had been served before I switched my interrogation to him.
‘So, Mr Cowling,’ I began, ‘what’s your tale?’
The smile left his face. ‘Widowed, like Shirley,’ he replied. ‘I suppose that makes three of us.’
‘No,’ I corrected him, ‘I’m not the official widow. She lives in Monaco with their two kids. I’m the divorcee, the second Mrs Blackstone.’
‘The second?’
‘Yes, but that’s a long story. Summarised, he dumped me to marry number one, she died young, and I picked up the pieces for a while.’
‘Then why do I get the impression that you feel like a widow?’
He was a sharp one, was Patterson. He’d hit on something that I’d never really articulated for myself, and he was right. Oz and I might have been divorced, but we were never really apart. I suppose we were a little like Jack Nicholson and Kathleen Turner in that movie where they played a married couple, both hit people, each with a contract on the other. Mutually self-destructive, but never out of love.
I felt my throat constrict, and took an easy escape route. ‘Perhaps it’s because I still see him across the breakfast table every morning,’ I told him, ‘when I look at our son.’
I was forced to admire the way that he had turned my attempted interrogation back on myself, but he wasn’t going to get away with it. ‘How many Mrs Cowlings have there been?’ I continued.
‘Just the one. Jennifer. She died seventeen years ago; brain tumour, very sad. She was only thirty-seven.’
‘I’m sorry. Do you have any kids?’
‘Two daughters, both flown the coop; I have two grandchildren now.’
‘You’ll fit into L’Escala very well in that case. The place is overflowing with Brit grandparents.’ I glanced towards the church where the unofficial crèche was still as lively as before. ‘And Catalans, for that matter,’ I added. ‘Was there much of an age difference between you?’
The grin returned. ‘I’m going to take that as a compliment. The very fact that you’re asking means you imagine I could still be in my fifties. Jen was eleven years younger than me. I’ve just turned sixty-five.’
‘And retired?’
‘Yup. That was one of the reasons for my foray into the partnership site. I’ve always been pretty busy since . . . since it happened, initially as a working single parent, more recently as, just a worker, I suppose. I had no time for a personal life and no inclination to pursue one, to be honest.’
‘What shook you loose?’
‘My younger daughter, Ivy. She’s quite a lot like you, frank and forthright. She sat me down about a year ago and told me that with two kids to raise, her life plan did not include time as a carer for her father in his dotage, so I should get out and find myself some appropriate companionship. Then she showed me how to do it, pretty much like young Tom did for Shirley.’
‘And your older daughter? What did she think?’
‘
Fleur has always delegated paternal management, as she puts it, to Ivy. The fact is, she doesn’t have much choice. She’s in the army. Major Cowling, in fact.’
I sensed, or perhaps I only imagined, a sudden tension in him. ‘Active?’ I inquired.
He winced ‘Very. She’s a surgeon, in the field. Bloody awful job. I told her not to join, but she was adamant. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t know how any of them do it, her people or the boys they patch up.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, she’s a heroine.’ Then I tried to put myself in his shoes. ‘That said, if Tom ever announces that he wants to join the armed forces, here or in Britain, I’ll . . .’
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What will you do?’
‘Lock him in his room, possibly. But more likely I’ll go all weepy Mum and beg him not to risk breaking my heart.’
‘Is it likely that he will?’
Good question; I had to take a few moments to consider it. ‘At this moment, I’d say no,’ I decided, aloud. ‘He goes to martial arts classes, but as a discipline, not to encourage aggression, or even to work it off. His teacher’s very strong on pacifism and he’s being brought up by me to believe in the sanctity of life. Somehow I don’t see him with an assault rifle in his hand, or launching a missile.’
‘There’s always bomb disposal,’ Shirley chipped in.
‘Fuck!’ I barked at her. ‘Don’t even think that. I’ve seen The Hurt Locker, thank you very much. I take it you weren’t in the army, Patterson.’
He laughed. ‘Me? No, boring old civil servant, me. I spent most of my career in a suit in Whitehall.’
‘Mmm. A mandarin, no less. I’ve met a couple of them.’
‘Nothing so exotic.’
‘Senior, though.’
‘Eventually.’
‘Were you one of those who earn more than the Prime Minister?’ All of a sudden he seemed a little fidgety. ‘You were,’ I exclaimed, ‘weren’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But most of us would argue that the Prime Minister isn’t paid nearly enough. It’s reasonable to suggest that the people who run the country are worth more than footballers . . .’
‘Or silly birds with artificially big tits who’re famous for being famous,’ Shirley added. ‘Every time I log on to AOL and see the shit on the “Welcome” page, it makes me want to throw my computer out the bloody window, and my breakfast after it.’ She paused. ‘You’re right, love,’ she added. ‘MPs shouldn’t have to fiddle their expenses.’
‘My dear,’ he said, quietly. ‘As long as there are expenses, people will always fiddle them . . . apart from civil servants, of course.’
‘What was your department, Patterson?’ I asked.
‘I moved around. But I spent most of my career in the Foreign Office. It was balls-aching boring stuff, most of it. You’ll appreciate that, given the job you’ve been doing.’
I shook my head. ‘Actually I enjoyed mine, while it lasted. The expenses were crap, though,’ I added.
‘So why give up?’
I leaned back in my chair and took a long, leisurely look around the square, with its cafe restaurants, full of happy people, then sideways towards the crowds under the tents of Arrels Del Vi, and finally at the ancient church, and at our house.
‘I understand,’ he murmured.
‘It’s very quiet in the winter, mind,’ I pointed out. ‘But Miles’s wine business should keep me occupied. That and writing.’
Shirley stared at me. ‘Writing?’ she repeated. ‘When did you become a writer?’
‘As soon as I handed in my resignation from my job,’ I told her. ‘That’s one of the things I plan to do.’
‘What the f . . . are you going to write about?’ Then her mouth fell open. ‘Here, you’re not going to do a biography of Oz, are you?’
I whistled. ‘No danger. And I will block anyone who tries. No, I’ll possibly write about . . . about this place, and about the things that have happened since we settled here. Dunno yet. I’ve still got to work it all out in my head.’
‘How about children’s books, with Tom the boy detective?’ Patterson suggested.
‘Mmm. His grandmother did that; she was quite successful too. But that might give him too high a profile, and I don’t think I want to draw attention to him. Maybe I’ll write a cookbook instead. Anybody with a shilling for the gas meter seems to be doing one of those these days.’
Actually, although a village portrait was on my agenda, I knew very well what I was going to write about. I was planning to undertake a biography of my father, one of life’s great eccentrics, a quiet, creative Scotsman who’s managed to keep much of the twentieth century at bay, and all of the twenty-first. I even had a title: The Man Who Makes Monsters. (He creates wonderful, hand-carved, chess sets, populated by creatures weirder than any you’ll see in a video game.)
We moved past the cross-examination stage, and on to general chat, although I was left with the nagging feeling that I was losing my touch, and that Patterson had got more out of me than I had from him. However I was impressed that he hadn’t asked me anything about Miles and Dawn, even after he’d learned of the relationship, and very little about Oz. I have an automatic antipathy to people who meet me and quiz me about them, but he didn’t fall into that trap. Okay, they were famous, but he seemed to be interested in me for what I was, not for my link to them.
One thing I did learn was that he had revived Shirley’s interest in golf. He asked me for a rundown on the courses in the region and I was able to help him. Tom and I are members at Platja de Pals, the oldest course on the Costa Brava. He’s been hitting balls since he was five; he shows promise, not only in my eyes but in those of his Grandpa Mac, who’s no slouch himself. The game’s big in the Blackstone family, as it happens. Oz was a low handicapper, and of course there’s … but I’ll get to him, in due course.
‘I’ll take you both along next week,’ I offered. ‘We can’t start too early, because I’ve got to get Tom off to school, but it isn’t desperately hot during the day just now.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Patterson, ‘but I’ve got plans for next week. There’s a European Tour event, the Catalan Masters, at the PGA course at Girona, wherever that is, and Shirley and I are planning to go along. The pros will be practising from Monday, I’m assuming. We were going to take a look at them before it gets too busy. Fancy joining us?’
I doubted if it would ever get too busy, since golf is still very much a minority sport in Spain, but it sounded like a nice day out. ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Who knows, I might pick up some tips.’
‘Or even a nice young golfer,’ Shirley suggested, with that gleam in her eye.
‘At my age, love,’ I pointed out, ‘if I was on the prowl for talent, I’d be eyeing up the senior tour. I’ll be older than most of next week’s field.’
‘Nobody’s going to believe that without seeing the date on your passport.’ Shirley is damn good for a girl’s morale; it’s one of the things I’ve always liked about her.
Once we had finished eating, I left them to carry on exploring the fair and went back home, to rejoin my son. The game was approaching a climax, but he seemed to have only one eye on it. I took a couple of Fanta drinks from the fridge, handed one to him and sprawled on the sofa. He jumped up from his usual place on the floor beside Charlie, and came to join me, pressing against me, his head on my shoulder.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I thought you might have been sad about Gerard.’
I ruffled his hair. ‘I stopped being sad about Gerard a long time ago; that’s if I ever was. If he’d wanted to be with us as part of our family, he wouldn’t have taken two years to consider it. He could have stayed but he didn’t.’
‘So we forget him?’
‘No, let’s not do that,’ I decreed, firmly. ‘It was nice to have known him for a while. You’ll find that, love. People come into your life, and then t
hey go out again.’
‘Like Dad?’
‘Not in that way. I didn’t mean by dying. Nobody stays in one place for ever; our circumstances change, and we move on, from place to place.’
He frowned. On screen someone scored, but he barely seemed to notice. ‘I don’t ever want to leave St Martí,’ he murmured.
‘You say that now, but you will. One day you’ll go to university. Even if it’s no further away than Girona, it’ll take you out of here and into a bigger circle. One day you’ll have a career.’
‘Maybe I’ll start a restaurant here, like Cisco.’
‘I don’t think Cisco and the rest would be very pleased to have you as competition. And anyway, I don’t see an opening in St Martí, ever. No spare premises.’
He considered that for a while. ‘Then maybe I’ll make wine; I could go and work for Uncle Miles. That’s not very far away; I could work there and live here.’
‘And put someone else out of a job? It’s not a very big bodega, Tom, and most of the people there will still be around when you’re old enough to be starting a career. Anyway, the last I heard you wanted to be a cop, like Alex Guinart.’
‘Yes,’ he conceded, tentatively.
‘Then you could wind up anywhere in Catalunya, somewhere you couldn’t commute from.’
He frowned up at me. ‘You’re not going to move on yourself, Mum, are you?’
He touched my heart yet again. ‘No, my darling,’ I promised him. ‘I have done plenty of that in my life, but finally I’ve arrived where I want to be.’
‘You lived here before, didn’t you? With Dad?’
That wasn’t something we’d ever discussed. I’d told him, years before, when I’d brought him to live in St Martí, but he hadn’t pressed me about it; until now.
‘Yes,’ I replied, then waited for the follow-up that I knew would come.
‘And yet you moved away then,’ he pointed out, a little anxiously.
‘I was younger then, and sillier. I wasn’t ready to settle here, and neither was your dad. There were things he had to get out of his system.’
As Easy as Murder Page 2