‘If the airport wasn’t big’ the goblin continued, ‘how do you think it would handle the five to six million visitors who come here each and every year?’
It wasn’t like this in 1954, when Mr Gough left his beloved job as head porter at St Luke’s College and came to Majorca to ‘die’ I reminded myself. Back then, the airport only had one runway, and it wasn’t until the summer of that year that the authorities decided it was actually worth the bother of asphalting it.
Back then, tourists were not the norm but a curiosity – individual free spirits breaking away from the pack, and looking for something different. Now, the individualists have moved on, and huge waves of conformists continually sweep across the island in the summer months, in search of pints of Watney’s Red Barrel beer and proper English pork pies.
As we circled the airport prior to landing, I was already asking myself if this whole trip was anything but a huge mistake.
There were perhaps a dozen reasons why it might be.
Wasn’t there, for example, a very good chance that when Mr Gough had done all that was necessary to establish his own demise, he would have got away from the island as quickly as he possibly could?
Yes, that was possible, I conceded, after thinking the matter over for a few minutes – but wasn’t likely.
This was a man, remember, who had never left England before he came to Majorca. It must have taken considerable courage for him – at his age – to make the trip in the first place, and so was it at all likely that he and his wife would have found the extra courage to move a second time? Besides, from what I’ve learned of him, he struck me as the careful kind of man who would not just cover his tracks well, but would also stay around to make sure they remained covered.
I know, I know, I was arguing this way simply because I was desperate and I needed things to be this way.
Or, to put it even more succinctly – if I hadn’t got this, I really hadn’t got anything at all.
We landed – bumpily – and were shepherded into a bus, then driven to the customs and immigration post. Two Guardia Civil officers – olive green uniforms, black three-cornered hats, heavy sub-machine guns and thick, yardbrush-style moustaches – glared disapprovingly at me through their blue sunglasses, but then they glared disapprovingly at everybody, and they clearly didn’t consider it worthwhile to subject me to any kind of interrogation.
Once in the main hall, I wandered over to the car rentals and hired myself a car. I chose a Seat 127, because even though the college was paying for it – and could undoubtedly afford better – I just couldn’t persuade myself to be extravagant.
Jennie Redhead – your value-for-money PI!
Outside the terminal, the air was pleasantly mild, and, for a moment, it felt almost as if I was on holiday.
But you’re not, are you? snapped the pixie and goblin partnership simultaneously. You’re here to catch a triple murderer.
How over-dramatic that sounded – and yet, if I was right about Mr Gough, it was no more than a statement of the facts.
I located my hire car in the parking lot, climbed inside and turned my key in the ignition. The engine replied like an old man who had been wearing a wet vest for far too long, but eventually it did catch enough to ensure locomotion, and I pulled away from the parking area.
I was heading for Palma, the capital of the island, which was only eight kilometres down the road.
And what did I intend to do once I was there?
I intended to check in at the modest hotel that my Oxford travel agents had booked for me.
And did I have a plan beyond that? my goblin wondered.
Yes, as a matter of fact, I replied (perhaps a little snootily), I did have a plan.
Was it a good plan?
I did have a plan, I repeated, much more defensively. Hadn’t I just said that?
This plan of mine was based on a reluctant acceptance of the fact that there are so many foreigners on the island it would take an army of investigators to find Mr Gough, and thus, to have any hope of success, I would have to approach the problem from a different angle. And the angle I had chosen was not to look for him at all, but only to ask questions which would make it seem as if I was looking for him.
Can you see where I’m going with this?
What would happen next, I argued to myself, was that word would get back to him, and because he would start to see me as an irritant (or even more likely, a danger), then he would find me.
And, whilst I’ll admit there might be some degree of danger in this for me, too, I am a young woman trained in the martial arts, whilst he is now a very old man who probably finds it a strain to carry a paper bag full of groceries.
So I should be all right.
Shouldn’t I?
That was then, when the search was just beginning, back when I felt vigorous and fresh. Now, four days later, I am standing on the sea front in Palma de Majorca, looking across at the marina and thinking about the fact that my spine is aching, my knees are on fire, and a furious squash match is being played out inside my head (probably by my goblin and my pixie).
I have spent these last four days blitzing the island, beginning with the earliest established tourist areas (that is, the ones that may have existed when Mr Gough first arrived here), and then gradually widening my search to include the more out-of-the-way places. And everywhere I’ve stopped, I have tried to create a spark, which will hopefully light a fire, which – if the age of miracles has finally come to pass – will smoke Mr Gough out of hiding. The problem is, it’s impossible to say whether or not I’ve made any progress – though I have a sinking feeling in my gut which tells me I haven’t.
The average conversation ran something like this:
Me: (showing the barman of some beach-side establishment the only photograph I have of Mr Gough) This picture was taken nearly thirty years ago, so the man in it will be much older now, but do you think you recognise him?
Barman: Is he some kind of policeman?
Me: No.
Barman: Then why is he wearing that peaked cap?
Me: He’s a porter.
Barman: You mean like, on a railway station?
Me: No, at a university college.
Barman: A university college?
Me: (with growing impatience) Do you think it’s possible you might have seen him, or not?
Barman: (taking some glasses out of his neat little dishwasher and stacking them on one of the shelves behind him) To be perfectly honest with you, Señorita, I could not tell you yes, and I could not tell you no. You must understand that I see a lot of people.
But what was really going on during this exchange?
As he was speaking, was the barman perhaps thinking to himself, Mr Gough has always warned me that this day would come. I’d better let him know about it as soon as I can.
Or maybe he’d been thinking, I don’t know why this mad red-haired bint is bothering me with the picture of an old bloke. I wish she’d just piss off and leave me alone.
Back in the present, I turn away from the sea, and towards the bars which line the promenade – and that’s when I see him.
He is around twenty-five or twenty-six, I would guess, and the fact that he is wearing a suit identifies him immediately as a Spaniard (the foreigners are all wearing shorts – the Brits revealing their pasty white thighs to the world, the Germans displaying their carefully and scientifically bronzed ones). Additionally – if such an addition were necessary to confirm his nationality – he is carrying a smart leather briefcase which fastens with old-fashioned brass buckles.
He is standing as still as I am, and watching me with an intensity which (I think) goes beyond a casual ogle. When he sees me looking at him, he quickly turns away.
I walk across to one of the cafés and sit down. He does, too. I sit there for perhaps a minute, then, when I see a waiter approaching, I stand up and move on to the next café.
And guess what!
I order a gin and tonic, and wh
ile I sip at it, I watch him trying to avoid watching me.
What’s his game, I wonder.
He’s too smartly dressed to be a pickpocket or a mugger, and I have too much respect for myself to think I’d ever look desperate enough to attract the attention of a gigolo. So maybe the simplest explanation is the right one – he’s never been to bed with a redhead before, and he’s wondering what it would be like.
Well, there’s only one way to find out, I think, as I realise that all the aches and pains I was experiencing earlier have magically melted away.
I stand up and walk across to his table. When I sit down opposite him, he looks so startled that, for a minute, I think he’s going to run away. Then he calms down, smiles, and says, ‘Good evening, Señorita.’
‘Why are you following me?’ I ask.
He’s thinking of denying it – I can see that in his eyes – then he changes his mind.
‘I … I like to talk to British people, so that I can practice my English on them,’ he says.
‘How do you know I’m English?’ I ask. ‘With my red hair, most Spaniards think I’m a German.’
‘But sometimes they do not like me approaching them,’ he continues, as if I’ve never spoken, ‘which is why I study them first – to see what kind of people they are.’
What an absolute load of bollocks!
‘My hotel’s just around the corner,’ I say. ‘Would you like to come up to my room?’
‘For what reason?’ he asks.
‘For what reason do you think?’ I reply.
He nods. ‘Yes, I would like that very much.’
We don’t even touch until we’re in my modest hotel room, and then – in the great tradition of casual affairs – we throw ourselves into a passionate embrace.
Do you know something – he’s not half bad.
When we finally both come up for air, he says, ‘My name is Juan, and I am training to be a law …’
I place my index finger against his lips and say, ‘Shh.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he tells me.
‘You want sex, I want sex,’ I tell him. ‘That’s it. I know your name is Juan, since you’ve just told me, but I don’t actually have to know it, because if I need to call out any name during what’s about to happen – and I really hope I do – that name will probably be Jesus Christ, with an exclamation mark added for good measure.’
‘I am not sure I understand,’ he says.
‘This is a one-night stand,’ I tell him. ‘I hope you can accept that, because if you can’t, we stop right now.’
‘It’s fine with me,’ he says.
So now we have an understanding.
Let the games begin!
When I wake up, I immediately look at my watch, and see it has just turned a quarter past seven.
Juan is lying next to me. He is resting on his right elbow, and gently stroking my hair with his left hand.
‘Please don’t do that,’ I say.
‘Do what?’
‘Stroke my hair.’
‘Don’t you like it?’
No, I don’t – and the reason I don’t like it is because it blurs the boundary between sex and intimacy, and intimacy doesn’t interest me.
‘I’m just not in the mood,’ I say.
He shrugs, and swings his legs off the bed and stands up.
Though I know it’s a mistake, I find myself admiring him. And there is much to admire. He has the broad shoulders and thick arms of a strong swimmer, a flat stomach and powerful thighs. What lies between the two (the stomach and the thighs) is also more than satisfactory.
He notices I’m looking at him, and can’t prevent a little smirk from flashing across his face.
‘I am busy for most of the day, but I am free in the evening, and I will take you round the tapas bars,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘No thanks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say.’
‘If you are occupied this evening, then perhaps we can leave it until the following …’
‘This is it, Juan,’ I say, and since he doesn’t seem to be getting it, I try a little amplification. ‘It’s the end,’ I tell him. ‘It’s finished. It’s all over. We’ve reached the end of the road, and it’s time to go our separate ways.’ I pause, and scour my basic Spanish vocabulary. ‘It’s more a case of adiós than it is hasta la vista.’
Now he understands – and looks hurt.
‘Didn’t we have a good time last night?’ he asks plaintively.
‘We had an excellent time last night,’ I assure him, and because I know men like to hear that kind of thing, I add, ‘You were absolutely amazing.’
‘Then I do not see why we must stop.’
I sigh. ‘It’s just that I don’t want a boyfriend,’ I tell him.
‘Is it because I’m a foreigner?’ he demands. ‘Is that what it is? Do you look down on me?’
‘I think you’d better get dressed and leave,’ I say.
‘Oh, I will do that,’ he tells to me. ‘Don’ you worry ’bout that.’
He dresses at speed, as if now he knows he’s going, he can hardly wait to be gone.
He stops in the doorway, and reaches into his leather briefcase.
‘This is for you,’ he says, holding out an envelope.
‘Juan, I really don’t want it, whatever it is,’ I say.
‘It is not from me,’ he tells me. ‘I was paid to give it to you. That is why I was following you – because I was waiting for the right opportunity.’
‘What do you mean – the right opportunity?’
‘I was told only to present the letter to you when I was certain no other person could see me doing it.’ He pauses. ‘You surely do not think I was following you because I found you attractive, do you?’
‘No, of course not.’
He drops the envelope on the floor.
‘Puta!’ he says.
And then he is gone.
I wait until I can hear his footsteps on the stairs, then I cross the room and pick up the envelope. There is nothing written on the envelope itself, but there is a sheet of paper inside it. I pull the sheet out and note – automatically – that the handwriting on it is both clear and old-fashioned.
The note reads:
Sóller Cemetery, noon tomorrow. Tell no one and come alone. If you’re late, I won’t be there.
There is no signature.
There doesn’t need to be.
And tomorrow is now today, so if I’m to reach the other end of the island by noon, I’m really going to have to shift some.
FOURTEEN
15 October 1974
The guidebook informs me that Sóller is a town of fourteen thousand people, located in a large bowl-shaped valley in the north-west corner of Majorca. The book goes on to claim that the houses on the Gran Vía (which were built in the French Art Nouveau style by returning emigrants who had made their fortunes abroad) and the Church of Sant Bartomeu are both well worth a visit, and while I have no time for such matters today, even a cursory glance as I pass through the town is enough to convince me that they are.
The guidebook’s other claim is that the cemetery, located just above the railway station, is of especial historic interest, and in this, too, it seems to have stuck on the right side of exaggeration.
It is certainly not like any cemetery I’ve ever seen before. For a start, it is on several levels, connected by terraced pathways. Secondly, it looks less like a graveyard than a garden or park, to which gravestones, tombs and small chapels have been added. There are mimosa trees, palm trees and rose bushes, as well as countless plants in pots at the foot of the graves. And beyond the walls, forming a perfect backdrop, are the wooded hills and low mountains.
I follow the path to the part of the cemetery reserved for non-Catholics. Here, on the stones, I can see English names and Dutch names and French names. And there is one name in particular, on a plain white stone now partially over-run with moss, which is e
xtremely interesting.
Edwin Gough
1880–1954
He gave his life to service,
and died without regrets.
‘At least half of that is true now, and the rest very soon will be,’ says a voice from just behind my left shoulder.
I turn around. The speaker is very tall, very thin and – though he carries a walking stick with him – very erect. His nose is aquiline, his mouth broad, and his eyes – though watery with age – still show signs of both a considerable intelligence and considerable determination. After living on this sunny island for over twenty years, his skin is like cracked leather.
And, by God, he can move quietly when he wants to!
I know who he is, and he knows I know, so there is no point in either of us going through the farce of pretending.
‘I came alone, as you asked me to,’ I say.
‘I know,’ he replies.
There is just a hint of complacency in his voice which annoys me, and it is this annoyance which makes me say, ‘Of course, I might have a back-up team of half dozen people back in the town.’
He shakes his head. ‘You have no back-up team. If you had, this meeting wouldn’t be taking place.’ He pauses for a second, which may be because he’s old, but I’m also certain is just for effect. ‘You’ve been asking questions about me all over the island, young lady,’ he continues.
I don’t know if this comment is specifically designed to make me feel uneasy, but it has that effect anyway, because he’s not just saying I’ve been asking questions about him in his local bar, or the village where he lives, he’s saying he’s aware that I’ve been doing it ‘all over the island’ – which is another way of telling me that his reach extends a long, long way.
‘Yes, I have been making inquiries,’ I agree.
‘Making inquiries,’ he repeats. ‘That’s an interesting way to express it. Are you with the police?’
‘No, not now.’
‘Not now,’ he muses. ‘Well then, if you’re not a copper, who the devil are you?’
‘My name’s Jennie Redhead, and I’m a private investigator – working for the college,’ I tell him.
Dry Bones Page 14
