[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan

by Christopher Lowery

  She was also shocked again that she had known so little of the history of Portugal’s brief, but bloody flirtation with communism. Even Leticia, who knew a little of the history, was amazed. She explained parts of the story to her mother, who responded in voluble Portuguese.

  Leticia translated for her. “My mother says this part of Portugal history is full of shame. Nobody wants to remember. She says the Portuguese government made a.. What is decreto?”

  “Decree?”

  “Yes, they made a decree to say this period was not legal. Afterwards they gave back all businesses and properties to the owners. But all fortunes were lost, all companies were bankrupt. It’s a very bad history for Portugal. Not so bad as Angola, but very bad.”

  “And Charlie was part of that history. Ellen too. But she never mentioned a word of any of it when we were together.”

  “And he never told me any of it either. In five years he never said anything to me about Portugal. I’ll keep the story for Emilio to read when he grows up and learns English.”

  Leticia took up the last page of the history and re-read the note from Charlie. “I think Charlie wants us to finish his work,” she said. “What do you think we should do now?”

  Jenny wasn’t happy about this turn of events. Clearly, Charlie expected them to finish what he had started but again it meant more complications in her life that she didn’t need or want. More unknown things to fear. Vague worries about motives for Ron’s and Charlie’s accidents were tugging at her subconscious, but she pushed them away.

  “Don’t you think we should just let sleeping dogs lie?” she replied.

  “Charlie gave me that key to keep for a reason, Jenny. We can’t just ignore his wishes, can we?”

  Reluctantly, Jenny replied, “I suppose you’re right. We’ll have to go to the Banco de Iberia in Marbella to see what’s in box number 328.”

  Leticia checked her watch. “We could go now. The banks are open until half past two.”

  “Very well. In any case, we’ll have to meet the person who looks after our account. I’ll ask José Luis to arrange a meeting for us.”

  The older lawyer was busy, but Francisco answered. “I’ll give Patrice a call now, he’s a good friend of mine. I’m sure he’ll receive you. I’ll call you right back.”

  Encarni was back at the house with Emilio. He was playing in the pool. The police had removed their plastic tape that morning, leaving Juan to spend two happy hours pushing around the vacuum cleaner and checking the water purity. It was as pristine as ever.

  By the time they were ready to go, Francisco called back. “Patrice can meet you right away. Ask for Patrice de Moncrieff, he’s a client manager for Andalucia. He’s actually French but he’s been down here in Marbella for the last year. Patrice is a great guy, you’ll like him.

  “By the way,” he continued, “I spoke to the Chief Inspector and we can hold the funeral on Monday morning. The church secretary proposed eleven thirty, if that’s alright with you?”

  Jenny agreed and thanked him. She was happy to let the lawyers take care of the arrangements. She was still thinking about Charlie’s note. What was in that safety deposit box? There was something else she didn’t know and she didn’t like not knowing.

  On the way to the bank they stopped off at Leticia’s parents’ home. The fifth floor apartment was surprisingly large. Soft light flooded into the living room from the south facing windows which looked out towards Marbella harbour. Emilio’s bedroom was furnished with colourfully painted furniture and a crotcheted quilt covered the bed. Family photographs and a few childish drawings stood on a dresser. Some of his clothes lay on the bedspread, tiny sizes. Looking at them, Jenny felt a momentary pang of sadness.

  Standing on a chair, Leticia reached up to retrieve the key from the top hem of the curtain where she had hidden it several months before. “Here it is. Time to go and look in that box.”

  They drove down to the car park behind the Parque de Alameda and walked along to the bank. By now it was almost two, and shops and offices were starting to close, the streets busy with people going off to enjoy their lunch and their afternoon siesta.

  Patrice de Moncrieff strode across the banking hall to introduce himself. After greeting Jenny, he shook hands with Leticia and said, “You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met before. At Mr. Bishop’s house last year. You were kind enough to look after us when we were sitting talking on the terrace.”

  “Si Si. Seguro. It was after Charlie was sick. How are you, Patrice?”

  “I’m fine and it’s a pleasure to see you again, although I’m very sorry about the dreadful circumstances” The man gave her a sympathetic smile. She appreciated this small sign of friendliness, nervous in her new role as an important client of the bank. Jenny watched her reaction with interest.

  “My office is up on the first floor. We can use the stairs, no need to take the elevator.” His English was perfect, but with a noticeable French accent. Jenny suspected that he put it on a little. He speaks English a bit too well to need that accent.

  Once installed in the large corner room, Jenny appraised the man sitting opposite them. Patrice was dressed in a dapper, light-blue suit made of a linen material, slightly creased. A darker blue handkerchief poked out of the breast pocket. His blue striped shirt also had a slightly wrinkled look. A button-down collar and a wide, light blue tie finished off the sartorial display. His dark hair was swept back with gel, leaving a wave falling down over his brow. It must have cost him a lot of money to look sloppy. French couture, in Marbella, she thought. Spanish bankers must be well paid.

  Patrice said, “I must tell you how much I liked and admired your father-in-law, Jenny. We had a good rapport. He was a clever man. A very good nose for business and investing.”

  Neither of the women wanted to dwell on Charlie’s demise, so Leticia asked, “Francisco told us that you only came here a year ago. Did you come from France?”

  “Not at all. I was originally hired by the BIP in South America, in Sãu Paulo, actually. Then they transferred me to Geneva and because of my Spanish I was transferred again to Madrid when they bought the Banco de Iberia a few years ago.”

  “The BIP? Is that a very big bank?” Jenny had never heard of them.

  “The Banque International de Paris. It’s one of the biggest international banks. We have branches all over the world.”

  “And they sent you from Madrid to Marbella! You must miss the life in the capital.”

  “On the contrary! I asked to be transferred down to Andalucia. I don’t like big cities. I love the outdoor life in Southern Spain. It suits me perfectly. And I have clients in other countries, especially in South America, so I spend quite a lot of time travelling.”

  The lawyers had obviously advised him of the terms of the will, since he discussed Charlie’s accounts and produced various documents for their signature. Title could only be transferred when the estate was settled but he confirmed everything José Luis had told them.

  When Jenny saw him glance at his wrist watch, she asked about the safety deposit box.

  “If you have the key, you can open it now,” he replied. “We don’t need any documentation for that.”

  Leticia showed it to him. “It’s box number 328.”

  “Fine. Let me call Señora Lopez, she’s in charge of the safety deposit vault. We close at two thirty, so I’ll just make sure she stays.” He spoke quickly in Spanish then put the phone down. “She’ll meet us down at the vaults on the lower ground floor. Follow me.”

  At the door to the vaults he introduced them to a young woman, shook hands with them both and gave Leticia his card, assuring them that he was at their disposition whenever needed.

  As he turned to go, he added, “Would you mind if I came to the funeral to pay my respects?”

  At their acceptance, he thanked them and loped athletically back up the stairs.

  Sra. Lopez was a tall, willowy blonde. She was dressed like a would-be model and glanced ad
miringly at Leticia’s classic features and careless grace as she signed the visitor’s register. She opened up the massive door that led the way into the vault. It was decorated with a mural of soft Andalucian landscapes painted in muted tones, which ran around the walls above the banks of safety deposit boxes. In the centre of the marble floor was a multi-coloured motif in polished tile, with a long, old fashioned table standing over it and eight leather-backed armchairs around.

  Their box was in the corner of the room, a small-sized door in the middle row of boxes. Sra. Lopez inserted the bank’s key and Leticia did the same with hers. The lock release clicked and the door opened, revealing the metal box.

  “Do you know the procedure?”

  Leticia nodded, “Si. Gracias, Señora.”

  The woman left them and Leticia placed the box on the table. She opened the lid.

  Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing inside but a brown A4 envelope containing a single sheet of paper. She held it up so that they could read it together. It was written in Charlie’s hand and dated February 20th, 2008.

  Dear Jenny, Leticia.

  Your next stop is Klein Fellay SA, Geneva. Safety Deposit

  Box 36.

  Good luck and much love,

  Charlie.

  “That’s the bank the Angolan Clan used, Charlie as well. That must be what José Luis meant, bank accounts in Geneva.” Jenny shook the envelope upside down. A single key fell out. It was a silver-coloured, double-sided key with no indications on it at all. She put the note and the key back into the envelope. It was too large for her handbag, so she tucked it under her arm. She double checked that the box was empty and replaced it. “I think we’re done here. Let’s get Señora Lopez to lock up and she can go for lunch.”

  In his office, Patrice had switched his computer system onto the CCTV network. He found the channel for the camera at the entrance to the vault just in time for the large flat screen to show the three women going in and then Señora Lopez coming out. He kept an eye on the screen while he worked. After a few minutes, the Spanish employee went back into the vault then they all came out together and walked up the stairs towards the exit. Jenny was carrying a large brown envelope.

  He rewound the recording until he had a a clear shot of the women, then froze the frame and printed it out. Hm. Two very beautiful women, he reflected, looking at the image. Picking up the telephone, he speed-dialed a number and talked for a few moments. Then he locked his office and left the bank, the printed photo in his pocket.

  On the way back to the car park, Jenny thought about this last message. “Did Charlie ever mention the bank or his business in Geneva?” She asked. “Anything you can remember?”

  “He never talked about those things.” Leticia racked her memory. “But there was something. I went into his office, it was a few weeks ago. He was on the phone. He said something like, Don’t worry about it. If you find anything, call me back, or I’ll see you in Geneva. He told me that it wasn’t important but he had to go to the bank in Geneva at the end of the month. He went every April. For the Angolan Clan meeting, I suppose.”

  “Maybe he’s left instructions for us in this safety deposit box and we’re supposed to go and sort it out.” Jenny’s tried to control her apprehension. More unknown events to discover.

  Leticia nodded absently, thoughts of Charlie flooding once more through her mind. She concentrated on driving them back to York House.

  Jenny was now thinking about the funeral on Monday. She snapped her fingers. “You know what? We should let Charlie’s partners know about his accident. I’m sure they’ll want to come to the funeral. Then we can meet them and find out what’s going on.”

  “But how? Did you find some phone numbers in the computer?”

  “No, but I think I know how to contact them.”

  At the house, Jenny opened up Charlie’s email files in Outlook. She found unfiled messages from Laurent and Nick, from the days before his accident, confirming that they would be in Geneva for the Angolan Clan meeting on April 25th. Nick’s message was sent from Miami. Laurent’s was from his BlackBerry. He was still in Verbier, skiing. He was going home, then to Paris and then to Geneva for the meeting. She found Raffael’s email address in the address book.

  “Right, I’ve got them all. Shall we send an email to invite them to come and meet us and pay their respects?”

  “I think you should send it alone. It’s better to not make it too complicated, telling them about me and Emilio.”

  She wrote a message advising them that, sadly, Charlie had died in an accident and his funeral service would be held in the church at San Pedro de Alcantara, near Marbella, next Monday. If they could attend, she would be pleased to meet them. She signed it, Jenny, Charlie’s daughter-in-law.

  Encarni grilled some fresh sea bass on the barbecue and they had an al fresco lunch on the terrace. Leticia opened a bottle of rosé, cold and fruity, trying to cast off her gloomy mood. Jenny thought that she could get used to this kind of life, although she missed Cooper.

  Fuente wandered over at the end of their meal before they cleared away. He went straight to Jenny, rubbing himself against her legs, his jet black coat glistening in the sunlight.

  “He must have smelled the barbecue. Clever cat, aren’t you Fuente?” She gave him some fish pieces. The cat ate his snack then padded off again.

  Later that evening, after Leticia and her family had gone and the house was quiet, Jenny sat in the kitchen, going over the day’s happenings and jotting down items in her notebook. She re-read her notes, then looked at the calendar on the wall. Today was Thursday, April 17th and the Angolan Clan were due to have their annual meeting next Friday, the 25th.

  Now, just one week before what might be their last reunion they had been informed of Charlie’s death, by his daughter-in-law. How would they react to it? They might not even have known who she was. Even if they did, they may have been informed about Ron, but they probably wouldn’t know that she was the next in line to become a partner. And they almost certainly don’t know about Leticia and Emilio.

  Her head started to ache with all of the possible permutations in this confusing situation. Then she wrote down Geneva and underlined it twice. She got undressed for bed, determined, supressing her inner fears. Whatever was waiting for them, she couldn’t put it off for ever. Her mind was made up. She was ready for the next move.

  It was eight days until the meeting of the Angolan Clan.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Thursday, April 17th, 2008

  Divonne, French-Swiss Border

  It was ten o’clock when Gloria got back to her flat. Her mother had finally fallen asleep and she’d sneaked quietly out, exhausted from the strain of trying to hold a one-sided conversation for hours on end. She went to the nursing home each evening when she was working, taking something especially tasty for their supper together. It had been two years since the effects of the stroke meant that she had no longer been able to look after her at home. Gloria was a small woman and she didn’t have the strength to help her now that she couldn’t walk at all. Tonight her mother had been much worse, hardly recognising her and becoming confused and upset at the visit. It broke Gloria’s heart to see the deterioration in her.

  When she wasn’t working, visiting the home or taking her mother out, she spent most of her time shopping, or in the kitchen preparing meals for her. The freezer was full of meals for two, waiting to be defrosted and cooked. Her mother’s favourites. She had bought a specially equipped van so that on her days off, if the weather was fine, she could take her for a drive along the lake or up into the mountains, just to get her away from the home. She would push the wheelchair down the ramp and they could picnic and chat by the lake or in one of the many rest areas by the autoroute, surrounded by trees and greenery. Just like the garden they’d had many years ago. It was true that her mother couldn’t really have a conversation any more but Gloria was sure that she heard and understood everything she said.

&n
bsp; Gloria had no children, no husband, her mother was all she had. But it hadn’t always been like that. She’d been married at the age of twenty-two, when she lived in Paris. Her husband was the concierge at the Villa Patrick, a small hotel on the left bank. Their life together had been punctuated by violence. When Grégoire wasn’t working nights at the hotel, he was getting drunk and beating her up in their two-roomed apartment in the cinquième Arrondissement. She was so desperate to please him that she put up with it for four years, until she discovered that most of his night shifts were spent, not at the concierge’s desk but in the bedrooms of a succession of women whom he apparently didn’t need to hit.

  On the night she found out from one of the maids at the hotel, he screamed at her, “If you didn’t look like a bloody horse and didn’t screw like an old maid, I wouldn’t need to play around. You deserve everything you get.” He hit her once more, bursting her lip, before packing his bag and leaving the apartment for good.

  Gloria couldn’t get over those last remarks. She had always been ashamed of her looks and her body and Grégoire had never made her feel pretty or sexy, or anything but a prostitute and a punch bag. Retreating into her shell, she went to live with her mother in Divonne, across the French border from Geneva. She applied for a Swiss work permit, in her maiden name of Smouha, and got a job with IDD, a diamond trading company in Geneva. She was near her mother, her job was interesting and her hours were flexible. She was happy. She didn’t need a husband, or any man in her life.

  Once or twice she was invited out by men, but she was terrified of showing her body, or disappointing them in bed, so it never lasted long. Then, eighteen months ago, in November of 2006, a miracle happened. She met a man and fell in love, really in love, and was wonderfully happy for six whole months. Gloria discovered, for the first time in her life, what sex was all about.

  It was a Friday morning and she was shopping in Geneva for a birthday gift for her mother. The stroke had happened just two months previously and the seventy-eight year old was left crippled and almost without speech. Gloria was devoting herself to getting her mother well again but so far there was little progress. She took her bags into a café on the Place de la Fusterie and sat at the bar with a cup of coffee and a croissant. A man of about thirty stumbled over her bags and some items fell out onto the floor. Stooping down to retrieve them, their heads bumped together. Instead of being embarrassed he laughed uproariously, until she had to join in. He ordered a coffee and sat on the stool next to her and they talked.