by Sam Sparks
officialdom. I walked the boardwalks looking for the vessel; half thinking I would bump into Nigel coming the other way. I didn’t, but I did find the yacht, all was dark inside, no sign of life.
I had no plan, other than verbal confrontation. That night in a bar I got much too drunk.
If things didn’t work out for me personally, then I’d call the UK Police and Koenig’s. But first to track him down. What I couldn’t understand was why pull such a brutal swindle on me? Had I put too much store in the significance of our old county golf days? Clearly I had and been made to feel stupid into the bargain.
I went back to the harbour, still nobody on board Northern Lights.
Next day, after a couple of abortive tries in the marina, I took a drive and found a golf course.
It looked pretty quiet on the drive up to the clubhouse. I passed the practice ground.
One golfer was leaving; one had set out to collect the balls he’d just hit.
I parked up and went into the clubhouse, bought a drink and stood on the balcony looking across the course.
It was the beret that got my attention.
It was him! On the practice area I'd passed on the way in. My heart rate shot up. I drove back and all but screeched to a halt.
In the heat of the moment, I wanted to hurt him. He was two hundred yards out and ambling back. I went to the only bag of clubs on the ground; Nigel's presumably and pulled out his driver. I raided his bag for balls and gathered a few that were laying around.
I tugged my baseball cap low, donned my sunglasses. The sun was right behind me. Perfect. Nigel was about one hundred and fifty yards away flicking the last of his practice balls up into a shag bag. He stopped and performed a trick shot he used to do flicking the ball up and catching it in the nape of his neck.
Before I confronted him face-to-face I was going to give him a scare.
I took a few quick practice swings, teed up six balls in a line and only just off the ground. I wanted to keep them low and doctored my stance to further ensure a torpedo trajectory. In my heyday I was known not so much for how far I could hit the ball, but for my accuracy. He looked up when he heard the crack of the club strike the ball. I don’t think he saw the first one; the second one got his attention as it missed him by a few feet.
He shouted at me, in a “what do you think you are playing at” fashion as one naturally would if someone was hitting golf balls straight at you.
The fifth one felled him. To say I was pleased with myself was an understatement. Nigel was rolling around on the ground holding his knee. Since golf balls just off the clubface are travelling at a hundred and fifty miles an hour I could have killed him. I was with him in seconds; on the way I’d snapped his club in half. On arrival I delivered a sharp grip end blow across his hand and knee.
‘Why Nigel?’ I bellowed.
He didn’t respond.
I hit him again. He tried to scramble away.
‘How much is left? Tell me there’s something left.’
‘Please stop.’ He whimpered.
‘Not until you tell me where my diamonds are!’
As I hit him again he moved, the blow caught his head. I’d knocked him out. He lay on the ground unconscious.
I panicked. I checked his breathing, regular. I put him in the recovery position and rang for an ambulance. I reflected on how stupid I had been; now I could be looking at a criminal conviction. Half an hour later I could hear sirens in the distance. Nigel was showing signs of coming round.
I disappeared onto the golf course, made my way back to the car park and watched the Ambulance crew attend to Nigel. Now what? He could give the Police my name and it wouldn’t take long to pick me up. I tried to weigh up the situation. He would know he’s wanted by the UK Police and may refuse hospital as it could flag his name up.
He’d be interviewed by the Spanish Police about his injuries. My guess was, to keep a low profile he would keep quiet. I needed to get the message across that if I didn’t get recompense, I would for sure let the British authorities know his whereabouts. Now it kind of all made sense that he was on the boat. Whose boat I wondered?
It was now a stalemate. I went to the hospital the next day and bumped into Tilo in the waiting room. I came straight to the point.
‘Where are my diamonds?’ I hissed at him.
Incredibly, at least to me anyway, he denied any involvement or wrongdoing. He stonewalled. An ultimatum was the only thing left. Holding my phone aloft I said: ‘Get my money or the diamonds back, by this time tomorrow or I will tell the UK authorities and Koenigs’ where you are hiding. Tomorrow at the yacht.’
Tomorrow came and went. As had the yacht, which surprised me as I’d rung the hospital to see if Nigel was still there and it was confirmed he was on a ward. I ran across to the Harbourmaster. Catching my breath:
‘I want to know where Northern Lights went.’
It hadn’t gone anywhere, just moved mooring. He pointed across towards the far side of the harbour wall, where, through binoculars I saw Tilo first, then Nigel. I made towards them. Expecting a swift departure from both of them, I was surprised to see them stand their ground. And they were smiling, off to the side; I saw what I took to be two heavies. No wonder they were smiling. I kept walking, the nearer I got the broader the smiles, no move from the heavies.
At ten yards away, Nigel produced an envelope and held it out ahead of him.
As I reached to take it off him. He yanked it away and gave it to Tilo.
‘The deal is, you know where we are, at least for now. I know the Revenue would be interested to know you had a nice little windfall. So you have my word, if I have yours. If, and I’m sure you do, get my drift?’
‘That’s it? I responded.
‘Simple arrangement, suits both parties.’
Tilo gave me the envelope; it had a lot of euros inside. The heavies moved towards me. They turned to go. I wanted to say something; I don’t know what, something profound, like you’d get in a movie. No words came. That was the end of it. Well other than Nigel saying:
‘You always were a straight hitter James. Bloody hurt as well.’
I would leave Puerto Banus with one hundred and fifty five thousand euros. Flying to Amsterdam was out of the question, as the money would surely cause comment. The trick now was to keep it safe. I figured the best and only way to do that was to keep the hire car and drive to Amsterdam and finish what I started. I checked with the car rental company, no issues on dropping back to another albeit far flung destination. Feeling a little nervous at the prospect I steeled myself for the long drive up through Spain and France, into Holland. I checked the route. Twenty-four hours non-stop.
I headed for Barcelona.
Given the security situation with my repatriated booty and the distance I had to travel, it was going to be an uneasy overnight stop. I initially elected to sleep in the car outside, but somewhere that looked a safe area. Then changed my mind and found a small hotel in central Barcelona. With a good breakfast inside me I set off and sought to make it as far as Lyon. Two days more it took me, a break down en- route made me twitchy as it was a bit on the remote side. I finally pulled up at the rental car office at the railway station in Amsterdam. Part of the cash was strapped to my waist and the rest spread between my luggage and my inside jacket pocket. Not ideal but the best I could do given my situation. I found some accommodation, had a relaxing shower and got some sleep.
When I arrived at Michaela’s flat, no light shone out as before. I pressed the buzzer, eventually the door was opened not by Michaela, but a disgruntled resident of one of the other flats who asked me to stop, let’s say in a somewhat forthright manner. She wasn’t there. My attempts to find out where she had gone where met with blank stares. I gave up. Now what? I sat and mused on how I would find her. I went in search of Anna and found her in a different branch of De Groots. She recognised me instantly.
‘Michaela’s gone, do you know where?’ I asked. ‘I saw her a few days ago on a can
al boat.’
‘You look worried?’
‘I am. The boat belongs to Zig.’
‘It’s not good to be in the same space as him; he’s really changed for the worst, violent as well. I think she might be back on drugs.’
I asked her to show me where she’d seen Michaela after she finished work. Anna was keen to help and even suggested we have a meal as well. I went back to the same hotel as on my previous visit. The manager recognised me and extended a warm welcome. I met Anna outside and we walked to where she’d seen Michaela. At a distance of a couple of hundred yards we could see the narrow boat. A man was on deck. Anna pulled on my arm, hard.
‘That’s him. Zig.’
We moved across to the other side of the canal to get a better view. He was tubby and if he scraped five foot four, I would have been surprised.
‘What’s going on do you reckon?’ I asked.
‘Only one way to find out.’
She marched around the corner, I pulled her back. I pointed out that some thought before making a move would be more prudent. We took up a position on a bridge and waited. I went to a nearby pop-up place and brought some drinks and crepes. We sat using the railings as a kind of camouflage and waited.
Nothing happened, we vaguely hoped Zig would leave the boat but no such luck. I could see Anna’s patience had run out.
‘Police?’ I ventured. ‘No. You don’t understand. Come on.’
We went to a Café. Anna’s opinion was that the Police would not intervene; Michaela was