I followed him home - or not home, as it turned out. I knew roughly where he lived, but only the general area. So when he turned off, he took the road I expected. There’s never much traffic up into those hills, despite the fact that there’s a large urbanisation on top. Thus I was able to hang back a little, knowing that I could keep him in my sights so I wouldn’t lose him. But soon I had to get closer. There’s a maze of turnings once you get higher up and when an automatic gate has already been opened from a remote control in the car, a driver can turn in and be out of sight before you have got near.
But I should have noticed the number of turns the thuggee was making. It didn’t make sense. I was sure I’d gone along a particular stretch twice already, but it was only confirmed we were going round in circles when I realised I was making a third trip past the same garish pink villa with a Russian name in Cyrillic painted along the boundary wall. I’d followed him into the cul-de-sac at the end of the road before I twigged that I had driven into a trap. As I entered, there was the Porsche, parked right in front of me, slap in the middle of the road. This was no more Johnny Squibb’s house than Paradise had been. I was about to engage reverse when an ancient, British-registered Mondeo moved forward from its park on the junction to block the exit. I was one small fish in a fine-mesh net, a net whose cast was designed to catch me.
I left the motor running. Johnny got out of the Porsche and approached, smiling, brimful of confidence. Behind, I could see in my mirror that his two gorilla friends had emerged from the Ford and were strolling towards my still popping exhaust. This evening they were in civvies, dressed in shorts, t-shirts and sandals. At least they couldn’t kick me to death. When he arrived, much to my surprise, Johnny appeared to be my best friend. He was all smiles and handshakes as he calmly reached across for the key to kill the Raptor’s engine. The two heavies stayed out of things, but they were there right behind me, breathing down my neck, their threat his insurance.
“How’s our Donkey today?” said Johnny in his squeak after he had tickled his voice-box into action with his free hand. He offered another handshake. I accepted a second time. His grip was just stronger than it needed to be. He didn’t let go. There we were, two large and aging English machos in the evening sun, half way up a Spanish sierra holding hands. And there were the two heavies to the rear watching, waiting, readied.
“I’m OK,” I replied, bashfully. For some reason, I smiled. Basically, I was terrified. Perhaps I recalled the last time I met Johnny and his mates as a group. That day, on the service road outside Paradise, they saved my life when two normally competing herds of sheep had decided to cooperate in order to pulverise me, or at least worry me to death. On this occasion, I had the distinct impression that the attention was less bent on protection. This was confirmed when Johnny spoke again, his warble less noticeable as he forced out the words.
“What the nasicorn barognosis are you doing following me?” he asked while still offering a broad, accommodating smile, along with slightly more pressure through the hand.
I thought quickly, or so I thought. “Sorry, Johnny. I should have phoned you. I saw you back in Altea and decided to ask you in person. I’ve been trying to contact Mick. He’s not been down to The Castle for a while and Suzie has a few things she needs to sort out. He doesn’t seem to be answering his phone.”
“Mick is sick,” said Johnny, “but he answered his phone when I rang him an hour ago. If you have any questions, use the phone. It’s proved a useful invention. You can communicate with people without having to follow them home. It’s tried and tested, so use it. Is that clear?”
I nodded.
“Or write it down and pass it on through Phil or Karen. All right?”
I nodded.
“Now the abapical exit is that way!”
He pointed over my shoulder to indicate I should reverse. His signal to his two friends had already sent them obediently back towards their car. As I restarted the Raptor’s engine, they were already making way for my exit. With the quad bike in full voice, I can’t claim to have actually heard his words, but I’d wager that, “And keep your wimble nose out of my panurgic business,” would not be far from the truth. The message, if not the intonation, was quite clear. I had not found out where he lived, so in most ways my mission had failed. But I had certainly established that there was something to hide. Twelve inches, no less.
I did as requested, which was descend the hill and drive home. I concluded correctly that there would be a phone call later that evening asking me to pick up Suzie on the Raptor, because the Porsche was needed elsewhere. I silently apologised to the neighbours in advance for the noise as I acknowledged the request with exaggerated deference.
It was just two days later that I made another ascent of that same hill, only to miss out on knowledge a second time. I was going nowhere special, just looking around. At least that’s the story I had rehearsed. If truth were told, I was nosing around looking for a black Porsche Cayenne or indeed Johnny’s own Lexus LX 450 parked in a drive. I looked around, but I found no Porsche on view, nor any other likely candidate. I did, however, find George and Elizabeth Jones. I parked momentarily at a junction, pausing to consult a newly-acquired map of the urbanisation and to consider my options. Imagine my surprise when two heads popped up simultaneously above a garden wall to my right. They’d been on their knees weeding and could see me through the decorative bricks. I couldn’t see them because they were close up to the wall, hidden in deep shade cast by closely-planted palm trees.
“Well this is a surprise, Don. Do come in.”
I could hardly refuse. It was politely spoken, but nevertheless a command.
George waddled his ample way towards the gate and then pressed a button. An electric motor clunked into action and the wide metal gate rattled slowly open. George gestured me into the drive. I complied. To the left, near where the two of them had been busy in the garden, there was a terrace covered by an overhanging balcony. Elizabeth disappeared in that direction and it was towards the cane furniture set out on the terrace to resemble a plate from a style magazine that George suggested we go. As we approached, Elizabeth reappeared from inside and placed folding flowered cushions onto the chairs. The house, incidentally, was to my surprise not as spectacularly ostentatious as most others nearby. It was probably only worth a million or so.
“So what brings Don Cottee up here?” asked Elizabeth.
“I was just riding around. There’s been so much talk about wind farms in this area that I’ve made it my business to check out all possible locations. I was on my way up to the top of...” I nodded towards the mountain summits we could not quite see through the shrubbery.
It was George who interrupted. “Well there’s nothing to worry about around here. Our friend Pedro will have nothing to do with wind farms. There’ll never be any on his patch.”
I wanted to relate what Pedro had said to me those months ago, to suggest that his standpoint might prove negotiable. But I realised that the likes of George were probably in regular contact with the town council and its mayor. He was an insider, despite the fact that he advertised an aloofness, a disinterested air that suggested he never dirtied his hands with such things. When a beer appeared before me after Elizabeth reappeared from her foray into the ground floor interior, I decided to go with the flow. I hadn’t asked for anything. George poured two glasses of red wine from a half-full and re-corked bottle that was already on the table. For a moment both he and his wife sipped as they appeared jointly to consider the status of a nearby flowerbed through squint and frown. I soon realised that they were actually savouring the wine, tasting it, apparently trying to chew it semi-professionally.
“Gets better with a bit of air, doesn’t it, darling?”
“The bloom certainly improves,” said Elizabeth, stretching her lips across her teeth, which had been recently reconstructed.
George put
down his glass with a clink and then leaned his bulk back in the chair with a great wheeze and grunt to which the chair replied with a tired, creaking groan. He had carefully invited me in and had insisted that I feel at home. It was all so obviously tactical.
“Yes, Johnny told me you’d been up here a few days ago. You shouldn’t make a habit of it, you know. In theory, all of this area is private land. The roads aren’t public. Sometimes, the security guards stop the traffic and insist on taking all of your details before they let you out. If that happened, it might be a while before they would be satisfied you haven’t been up to something you shouldn’t. And remember that you don’t actually own the Raptor. It could get complicated. Things can take time...”
I received the impression that my presence was not as welcome as the welcome suggested. There was suspicion, a smouldering threat under the kindling of his words. Now I realise that usually a bucket of petrol does not extinguish a fire, but there are times when you just have to throw one.
“Where is Olga?” I asked.
George gave me a sidelong glance. He offered an expression that communicated at least a dozen silent expletives, fidgety impatience and suppressed, but incandescent anger entwined, plus a mixture of threat and dismissal. As he sipped more wine, however, it was clear that his mind was wordlessly repeating my question. He tasted with obvious care, spending a few seconds pumping his cheeks in and out and slurping, this time like a full professional. He then swallowed and gave a deep sigh, closing his eyes. I half expected him to wax lyrical about raspberries, strawberries, a hint of camembert above lime leaves and a memory of cinnamon. But all he did was turn to face me, wide-eyed, and deliver matter of fact officious nonsense designed to close all discussion.
“Olga’s been transferred to new duties,” he said, and that was that.
The question, “And are these duties carried out in horizontal posture with the aid of electricity?” came to the fore, but I resisted the urge to speak. They clearly did not trust Pedro, so they had parked Olga permanently by his side. He was capable of undermining their project. Perhaps he was now part of another grouping, one with more money and influence than the Squibb-Jones initiative. Olga had been placed on the inside to pick up the pillow talk. I dread to think what duties she was having to perform to keep that heap of slime happy. I recklessly decided to push the issue. In for a penny... “So she is still around? Mick seemed to think she had gone for good.”
George simply ignored the comment. “Bring your beer,” he said, “I’ll show you round the garden.” And with that he clambered up from his chair, almost having to turn right round so he could push himself up backwards from its arms, the hardly superhuman effort drawing a great groan from as low as the stomach. He did precisely what he promised. We took a tour of the garden and, by the time we had completed the circle back to the Raptor, my can was empty. I handed it back to him, mounted the quad and put the key in the ignition. I was about to ask for the gate to be opened when he spoke again. “Susan has done a great job at The Castle, Don, but you must realise that nothing lasts for ever.” Thus I was primed.
The Raptor’s engine struck up first pull, drowning his last syllable and also, thank goodness, my reply, which was fruity. I was surprised he merely let me go. In retrospect, I wonder what else he might have done. Clearly, Suzie and I were being a problem. There was no other explanation of why he should be so nice to me.
It was early the next morning, much earlier than usual, again at the bottom of Montesinos, that I registered a familiar Land Rover going past. This time, however, I was within the anonymity of a rented car. I suddenly realised that this same car had preceded the appearance of Phil and Karen in the Porsche those days before. At the time I had not registered it as significant and had paid it only scant attention. And again, a few minutes later, there was the Porsche on its way down. I followed, now knowing that for some reason, Phil and Karen drove to Mick’s house, where the Porsche was normally garaged, in their own car. Presumably, at some hour of the night, they returned to swap cars again and make their own way home.
They drove into town and parked in a white space, thus free for the whole day, just two streets up the hill from The Castle. There were three of them again, Phil and Karen plus Maureen, despite the fact that this was not one of her cleaning days. She went her own way, so I had to choose. I decided to follow the others and, as expected, they went straight to The Castle, where they let themselves in with their own keys, it being too early for any of the club’s employees to have arrived. I went home and had a normal day blogging in Rosie. I knew when they would leave. And that would be about an hour after Phil had been to La Manca to ferry Suzie to work. My timing was perfect. As I’d thought, the Cayenne was still in the same space as early that morning, since, when I’d had my rides in their car, I’d noticed that they always kept a couple of plastic beer crates in the back. These were used, no doubt, to ‘reserve’ the white space while they made the ten minute return trip to our site. Typical, I thought.
It was around four-thirty when they came back to the car. They got in and drove away. For them, hopefully, this was going to be just a normal working day. Hopefully, it was time to go home. But if my theory was correct, they first had to go back to Montesinos to pick up the Land Rover. I followed, well adrift and, sure enough, they went straight back to Montesinos and up the hill.
Now I knew for sure they didn’t live there. So when, just minutes later, the same green, British-registered Land Rover Discovery descended, I decided my hunches were right and followed again, despite the fact that tinted windows still denied specific recognition.
They drove almost the most direct route to an urbanisation near a large supermarket on the outskirts of Benidorm. I say almost direct because they overshot. I would not go as far as admitting that I had unravelled a crumpled note I had retrieved from The Castle’s bins the previous day and thus knew the address. Of course I would never admit that! Anyway they overshot. For a moment my heart rate increased because I thought they’d rumbled me. It was when they turned into the cul-de-sac that memories of Johnny’s tactics returned. But this time I was further back, still unseen in my changed wheels. I was able to pause at the end of the road which had a slight bend, so it offered a little cover. And not being in the raptor, I boasted no aural advertisement of my presence.
They were only a couple of minutes before they were away again. All that happened when they pulled into their dead end was that Phil got out of the driver’s side of the Land Rover, walked around the white Transit parked at the end and checked the integrity of its doors. I concluded that this was a strange thing to do unless it represents an expression of ownership... Then he got back behind the wheel of the Discovery, did a three-point turn and took the main road back the way they had come.
They crossed two roundabouts going uphill and then turned to the left into a small urbanisation of older houses. It’s a well-known area hereabouts. Originally a German enclave, it’s now populated by well-heeled, middle-class residents of pan-European origin. They are attracted by the supermarket that stocks wurst for the Germans, creamed herring for the Norwegians, blinis for the Russians, swedes for the Swedes, chocolate for the Belgians, cheeses for the French plus, for the Dutch, Indonesian fast food and, for the British, Mrs Patak’s Balti paste and heaps of frozen boxes as food for the microwave. Tradition will always pull them in.
The Land Rover parked in the road outside a house no more than two hundred metres from the shop. Phil and Karen got out, let themselves into the compound through a garden gate that needed a key and then disappeared into the first floor apartment. A half an hour later they reappeared in changed garb, got back in the car and drove away. They were not dressed for walking or even a quick visit to the pub. They were clearly on their way to the evening shift in Paradise. There was no need to follow. After all, now there was more of interest here.
After a ten minute stroll to the shop and
back, I went to the house where the Land Rover had parked and rang the bell. It was an analogue device, where the sound produced by a mechanical striker propagated through air as longitudinal waves into the ears of people who were probably being blasted at eighty decibels by Strictly Come Dancing, re-transmitted illegally by the cowboys who have erected a giant dish on a nearby hill. Luckily, someone heard. It was nearing seven-thirty by then, about the time that Paradise would be opening its doors, well before the first punters would show up. As I checked my watch, I could imagine the green Land Rover pulling into a suitably anonymous space along the strip in front of Paradise, attracting no attention in the way that it had done for some weeks since Mick was displaced and Olga reassigned.
I waited at the gate, but no-one showed. I rang again, exploiting the characteristic of analogue devices predicting that if you hit them harder they respond stronger. In short, I gave it some wellie.
I was just about to turn away when I heard a door shut at the other side of the house. A few seconds later, a woman appeared at the end of the wall that ran next to the terrazzo-tiled path from the gate. She stopped at the corner, a good fifteen metres from where I stood and eyed me up and down, no doubt to see if I wore a hat labelled ‘murderer’. It was still summer, for someone’s sake, so still perfectly light and I remained in full view of the neighbours. What did she think I could do, breathe fire? “Yes?” she asked from her distance. She was Scottish, probably Glaswegian.
“I was wondering if Phil and Karen were around?”
“Who’s asking?”
A Search for Donald Cottee Page 47
