A Coffin For Two (Oz Blackstone Mystery)

by Quintin Jardine

Davidoff had never been to our apartment, so I promised that I would be waiting for him at the church at eight o’clock that evening.

  I had never seen his car, but when it came chugging round the bend I didn’t have to look to see who was inside. It was an ancient Seat 500, rear-engined, and revving away like a sewing machine in distress. Once its paint had been silver, but time and the Tramuntana, the cold north wind which drives the sand like rain, had turned it into a shade beyond conventional description.

  It was a Noddy car with a roof on, one of those machines which you either love or want to deliver straight to the nearest crusher. I loved it, and so did Davidoff. He beamed with pride as he eased it from its flat out crawl to a dead stop, and as he climbed out and locked the door, I noticed that he had left it in gear. A wise precaution, I thought.

  If the ancient had been spruced up for our morning outing, for the evening he was resplendent. He wore a black silk shirt, with a black cravat tied high at the neck, black leather trousers and black patent shoes which shone with a light of their own. His skin shone like oiled olive wood and his close-cut hair was slicked with dressing. To top it all off his eye patch was satin with sparkles set in it.

  As he stepped up to me, hand outstretched, I caught a whiff of Bay Rum.

  ‘Well met again, my young friend,’ he said. ‘May you rue the day when you permitted me to be the suitor of Primavera.’

  I laughed. ‘Strut your stuff, old man,’ I said, probably a little more brashly than I had really intended. ‘The lady is waiting for us upstairs.’

  Davidoff had brought with him a bottle of really good Cava, straight from the fridge. Not one of your Freixenets, which are all right in themselves, but a Mas Caro, vintage brut, which was better than most champagnes.

  We did it justice on our terrace as a large sea bass steamed gently in a kettle on the stove, as the guacamole salad chilled in the fridge and as the candles in their sconces gradually took more and more effect in the darkening evening.

  ‘You are very private here,’ said Davidoff, oozing his snakelike charm at Prim and treating me to a show of tolerant disdain. It came to me that maybe I liked him so much because he reminded me of my old iguana flatmate.The only difference was that Wallace never tried to seduce any of my girlfriends.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ she replied, showing a leg through the split in her yellow skirt. ‘It’s very good for the tan.’

  ‘You must be careful of your skin, my dear,’ he cautioned. ‘It is the most sensitive organ of your body ... save one, of course ... and you must treat it with respect. Use the finest creams and moisturisers, or the sun will age it before its time. I see on the beach the old ladies who were foolish in their youth. Now their skin hangs on them like ill-fitting sacks. Cara mia, I would shoot you now before I would see you become like them.’

  We ate on the terrace, too, but in consideration of Davidoff’s age, I lit one of our butane gas heaters and set it near him in the open doorway. He frowned at me as I positioned it, as if he thought I was reminding Prim of his years ... which of course I was ... but he didn’t ask me to take it away.

  My guacamole salad hit the spot, and Prim’s sea bass was done to perfection. Our guest attacked them with an enjoyment that would have gladdened any cook’s heart, and polished off his poached fresh figs in marsala by wiping the dish clean with his last piece of bread.

  During the meal I tried to lure him back to the subject of Dali, but he refused the bait. Instead he spoke seriously of the Franco years, of the oppression of Catalunya, and of the brutality of the Civil War.

  ‘I lost many friends,’ he said sadly. ‘I lost the sight of my eye too. A piece of shrapnel.’

  I looked at him in surprise, at his first admission of his years. Wounded in a war sixty years earlier.

  ‘You fought against Franco?’

  ‘Yes. In vain as it turned out.’ He looked at Prim with a flashing, gleaming smile. ‘I was only a boy, you understand. But it was for my freedom as a man.’

  ‘And did you stay here, afterwards?’ She was staring at him, captivated as far as I could see.

  ‘No. I could not bear it. My friends and I went to America. We worked there for most of the forties. That was when I learned most of my English, and picked up this goddamn strange accent.

  ‘Eventually, Franco felt secure enough to let the exiles come back, although he still kept Catalunya under his boot. We were the only Spanish with the cojones to stand up to him.’ He smiled at Prim, almost coyly. ‘I hope your Spanish is not so good, Senora.’

  She grinned, and I could have sworn she was flirting with him. ‘Good enough, Senor. But Franco’s balls must have been bigger than yours, because he died an old man, in his bed.’

  Davidoff acknowledged her point with a nod. ‘Maybe so. But remember, he had the military, and the garrotte. They were strong deterrents.’

  He must have sensed that he had taken his courtship as far as he could for the night, for without warning he turned to me. ‘Oz, my young friend. Earlier, you said you had something to show me.’

  ‘Yes, but first, let’s clear the table.’

  When Prim and I had removed the last of the dishes, I switched on the twin spots which lit up the terrace at night, and picked up Gavin Scott’s tube which lay in the corner to my right. I took out the colour photocopy, unrolled it, and spread it on the table in front of Davidoff.

  ‘What d’you think of this?’ I asked.

  The old boy gasped. A great hissing gasp. His mouth dropped open. Until that moment, I hadn’t thought it possible that anything could take him by surprise.

  He put his hands on the picture, and I saw that they were shaking slightly. ‘Where did you get this?’ he whispered.

  ‘The original belongs to a client of ours, in Scotland. It was sold to him at a private auction in Peretellada in June of this year, and offered as an unknown work by Dali. Look, in the corner. It’s signed, but undated. Blackstone Spanish Investigations has been hired to authenticate it, if we can.’

  ‘Who was the owner of this original before your client?’ Davidoff asked, beginning to recover from his surprise.

  ‘We don’t know. Our client was visiting a pal of his, a bloke called David Foy, an ex-pat who lives down in Bagur. They were invited to the auction by a guy they met at Pals golf club, another Englishman, Trevor Eames, who lives around here. The auction was run by a man calling himself Ronald Starr, who said he was an agent for the owner.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Davidoff, intense, captivated.

  ‘The only thing is, we believe that the real Ronnie Starr was dead by then, murdered, and buried in a grave not far from here. The real Starr was a talented artist, and an expert on Dali. Our theory is that he forged the picture, showed it to someone, and that that person killed him and stole it, knowing that there’s always some fool out there ready to part with his money. Our client paid four hundred thousand US for it.’

  ‘Jesus!’ The word shot from Davidoff’s narrowed lips as if it had escaped. His face was tense and his eye was blazing.

  ‘We’ve heard a story,’ I began, ‘that before he died Dali signed some blank canvasses, backwashes and the like.’

  ‘No!’ The little man sat bolt upright. ‘I know the people who looked after Dali before he died. He didn’t sign no blank anythings. Towards the end he couldn’t even wipe his own ass, let alone autograph canvases. The man buried in Figueras didn’t sign anything from the day that Gala died. That I can tell you.’

  I leaned over the picture again. ‘Could it be older than that? Could it possibly be genuine?’

  Davidoff’s face creased into a smile. ‘No, boy. This is a recent work. And the man buried in Figueras had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because the vision is not the same. This is not his vision. He would not have seen something like this; it is too, too ... sympathetic. That’s the best that I can explain to you.’

  ‘But it could have been Ronnie Starr who painted it?�
��

  He shrugged. ‘Or another artist.There are others, you know. Why don’t you ask around?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s what we plan to do.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you go on with it.’

  He rose to his feet and drew Prim with him, to kiss her on both cheeks, his lips just brushing the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Now I got to go.You have given me a day I won’t forget in a hurry, Senor Oz, but it is over. It is late and I must go. Before the sun comes up and catches me unawares!’

  32

  Davidoff left at a quarter to midnight. We heard his little car mewling its way into the night, down the track below our balcony. It was hardly out of earshot before we locked up and headed after him.

  In the summer, you can tell the difference between the visitors and the locals in L’Escala. They pass each other in the streets; the former group heading home, the latter heading for the night-spots.

  Apart from the diners, nothing much happens in La Lluna before midnight. It’s only then that the boys and girls come out to play in the bar, and on the pool and speed-disc tables. Prim and I had found the place during the summer. On the doorstep of our thirties, we were older than the average punters, but still young enough not to stand out as oddities.

  La Lluna, set back from the road just off Riells beach, is four establishments in one: restaurant, bar, games arcade and art gallery. All around the place, the walls are hung with the work of Girona artists. Paco and Dani, the proprietors, know their stuff, and more than a few of their customers go there with an eye on the pictures as well as the menu. We were among them, and had come to know that Friday night was when the painters came to drop off their work.

  Paco was having a break in the doorway as we crunched our way across the gravel. He acknowledged us with a wave as we wedged ourselves on to two stools at the bar and ordered our drinks, then wandered over to say hello.

  We shook hands. ‘You are well, yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, last time we looked.’ I pointed to a very tasty still-life on the far wall. ‘I fancy that. Cuanto es?’

  Paco dug into the pocket of his apron and produced a card with prices scribbled on it. ‘That one? It says here sixty thousand pesetas. But maybe you could have it for less. Manuel, the artist, he is here. Would you like to speak to him?’

  I looked at Prim. She nodded, and Paco disappeared, into the dining room off the bar, returning after a couple of minutes with a stocky man of around forty with long, wild hair, round, bear-like shoulders and intense bright eyes. ‘This is Manuel,’ he said, ‘the artist. From Girona. I leave you to talk.’ He vanished once more, this time through to the games room, where the noise was mounting as a speed-disc game reached its decisive moments.

  ‘You like the still-life?’ Manuel asked, in good clear English.

  ‘Very much. What’s the medium?’

  ‘Oil. On linoleum.’

  My eyebrows rose. ‘Lino?’

  ‘Si. Linoleum is oil-based itself, so it should be good for painting. I do it as an experiment. Most of my work is experimental.’

  He looked from me to Prim and back again. ‘Fifty thousand,’ he said.

  ‘Visa?’ asked Prim.

  ‘Si, just tell Paco.’

  ‘Deal,’ she said.

  ‘You choose well,’ said Manuel. ‘Just don’t tell anyone what you pay for it. My work is on show in the galleries in Girona. They would ask for a hundred thousand for that picture.’

  ‘And it would still be a bargain,’ I thought ... but I kept the thought to myself. Our new friend was a talented man. His brush work was strong and his colours vivid. Look at the still-life for long enough and you’d swear that it was three-dimensional, and that the glass, the bowl, and the orange were suspended in mid-air.

  I decided that it was time to move on to the real business. ‘Where did you study, Manuel?’

  ‘In Figueras.’

  ‘Oh. At the same college as Dali?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Dali studied in Madrid ... until they kicked him out.’

  ‘Why?’

  Manuel laughed. ‘They say that he would not sit his examinations. The story is that Dali declared that none of the examiners were fit to judge him. But others say that his work was shit in those days, and he did not want to be exposed.’

  ‘Is he one of your influences?’

  Manuel shook his head. ‘No. You would ruin yourself as an artist if you tried to copy Dali’s style. No one has ever seen the world like he did. As far as I can, I try to be myself, with no influences. If I lean towards anyone, it is Miro ... another great Catalan artist.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who can copy Dali’s style?’

  ‘I know a few fools who try. None of them can get near it.’

  ‘Someone told me,’ said Prim, all innocence, ‘that Dali’s supposed to have signed some blank sheets before he died.’

  ‘A legend, Senora. If he signed them, they would be useless, for anyone painting on them would be seen through in an instant. There are people who can copy Miro, who can copy Van Gogh, who can copy Picasso. If it was worth it you could even copy Manuel. But no one can copy Dali.’

  I took a chance. ‘Have you ever heard of a man named Ronald Starr?’

  I glanced at him as he considered the question. ‘No, Senor, never.’ He looked genuinely blank.

  ‘Mmm.’ I glanced through to the dining room. There were empty tables in the corner. ‘Do you have a minute to look at something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  While Manuel and Prim moved into the next room, I ran out to the car park, returning with Gavin Scott’s tube, and a flashlight. ‘What do you think of this?’ I asked, spreading the copy on the table and shining the wide beam across it.

  The artist leaned across the table, studying the copy, for almost five minutes. At last he straightened up, flexing his great bear shoulders. He smiled. ‘What do I think? I think that I would like to see the original.’

  ‘Do you think it could be a Dali?’

  He shook his head, but with a hint of reluctance. ‘No. I see the signature, but I don’t think so. I almost wish it was.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, probing his wistfulness.

  ‘Because whoever painted this is very dangerous, muy peligroso, with a brush in his hand. This person could forge anything.’

  33

  Manuel’s still-life hung, in its heavy black frame, on the wall facing our bed when we woke next morning, just after ten.

  ‘Well,’ said Prim, propped up on her elbows and gazing at it. ‘That was an expensive night out. Two hundred and fifty quid.’

  ‘Worth every peseta, all things considered. We got a free assessment of Scott’s picture thrown in.’

  She nodded, acknowledging. ‘I suppose so. Should we call him and tell him he’s bought a fake?’

  ‘No, not yet. I think we owe it to him to find out a bit more. I think someone owes it to Ronnie Starr, too.’

  ‘So what’s next on the agenda?’

  ‘I thought we’d go down to Begur to see David Foy, while we’re waiting for Trevor Eames to get back from his voyage. He’s the only other person - apart from Eames - who’s seen the phoney Starr.’

  ‘Okay. What do we do? Call him first and make an appointment?’

  I pondered that one. ‘No, let’s not. Scott gave me his address. Let’s pay him a surprise visit.’

  ‘Maybe we could take Davidoff.’

  ‘I think not. We don’t want to terrify the man.’ I rolled over on to my front and tweaked her right nipple. ‘Did you enjoy yourself last night, then? Being courted and all?’

  She smiled down at me. ‘Is that what he was doing? I’m flattered.’

  ‘As if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Well...’ she said, almost defensively. ‘Davidoff’s wonderful. I don’t care what age he is ...’

  ‘Seventy-five at least, from what he said about the Civil War.’

  ‘... I’ve never met anyone like hi
m. It’d be great to think that you’ll be like him when you’re old. But you won’t. You’ll have two point four children and a quota of grandchildren. You’ll be straightforward and funny, like your dad, but you won’t be dark and mysterious.’

  I felt offended. ‘No, and I won’t be chasing after young women either.’

  ‘That could be a pity. You know what they say about old fiddles!’

  I couldn’t resist it, I reached for her. ‘Sure, but you can play a young one more often!’

  34

  We picked up a street map of Begur in the tourist information office, and found Starr’s house without difficulty in the little inland town.

  On the way down I had taken a detour, back to Pubol, so that Primavera could see Gala’s castle, and her grave. ‘So sad,’ she had said. ‘That she’s left here all on her own. There’s something, something ... not right about it.’

  The gift shop was open as usual. Because Davidoff wasn’t there to stop me, and maybe to spite the wee bugger, I bought the Dali book after all.

  The Foy villa stood on its own at the top of a little hill. There was a Jag in the garage, and a Citroen Saxo in the driveway when we parked the Frontera in the street at three-thirty. The sky had been leaden all the way down, and as we arrived the first raindrops of the storm began to fall. We jumped out of the car and ran up to the front door.

  The man who opened the door was around fifty, but looked very fit for it. He stood about six feet two, with a trim waist and a heavy chest. Frizzy, silver-grey hair rose from his high forehead. Not a man, I sensed at once, you’d be wise to cross.

  ‘Si?’ he said, staring at us in surprise.

  ‘Mr Foy? My name’s Blackstone, and this is Ms Phillips. We’re working for Gavin Scott.’

  His eyebrows narrowed. Very, very slightly, but they narrowed. ‘Gav? What does he want? Have you come all the way from Edinburgh?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. We live here too, just a bit up the coast. We’re private investigators.’

  He smiled. ‘Private eyes, eh. Well, you’d better come in.’ He held the big, white door wide for us and ushered us into the house, through to a living-room with a terrace which overlooked the distant Mediterranean.