A Coffin For Two ob-2

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Lethargic in three months! And you’ve got a bloke. I’ve been here three years, and all I’ve got for company is him across there. When he deigns to pay me a visit, that is.’ She wiped her chin and jerked a thumb in the direction of the summerhouse, all in the same movement. ‘So have you cut your ties with Scotland?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prim.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said I, in the same moment.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Shirley, looking at us, from one to the other and back again.

  ‘What I mean,’ said Prim, ‘is that we agreed when we left we didn’t want to live there any more. What Oz means is that we’ve realised that, apart from family ties, if we want to make this business work we must have a home base. That’s about right, isn’t it, darling?’

  I couldn’t do anything but nod. It was the truth, chronologically, and I could live with it, even if it didn’t take account of subsequent developments. But for a moment, it did bring a picture of Jan back into my mind, and a pang to my stomach as my internal hamster did another lap of its treadmill.

  ‘Shirley,’ said Prim, judging that the moment was right, ‘we might need the odd bit of research assistance with our commissions. We were wondering if you’d be interested in helping us. I mean the sort of research you can do by telephone, not knocking on doors at midnight,’ she added, hurriedly.

  Shirley looked at her in surprise, then beamed. ‘You mean it?’ she said. ‘Too bloody right I’d be interested. When Clive was alive, I used to be involved in the business. But our John doesn’t like having me around in the office. He says it undermines his authority. So my business year now consists of three board meetings … that’s me and him … and a personal appearance at the staff Christmas party. I do a mean Shirley Bassey, mind.’

  Without warning, she sprang to her feet, and for a moment, I thought that we were in for ‘Goldfinger’. Instead, she put her hands on her well-rounded hips and looked across the garden, towards the summerhouse.

  ‘Hey,’ she called out. ‘At bleedin’ last. The great man puts in an appearance. Get yer arse around here, Davidoff, and be sociable.’

  Both Prim and I followed her gaze, across to the summerhouse. One of the big wooden doors stood ajar. Moving at a leisurely pace, a figure emerged into the daylight. My first impression was one of total darkness, as if someone had cut a hole in the day. He wore a black silk T-shirt, black slacks with a razor crease, black shoes and black socks. His skin, that which we could see, was deeply tanned, and his hair though it was cropped into the side of his head, and into a sharp ‘V’ on top, had the same silky sheen as his shirt. Setting it all off, he wore a flamboyant black patch, silk once again, over his right eye. The other gleamed and flashed darkly.

  He ambled round the pool, with determined disinterest, his mouth set in something akin to a scowl … until, in the shade behind the palm trees, he caught sight of Prim.

  In a flash, he was transformed. The scowl became a grin of delight, the malevolent eye lit up like a small sun, and he straightened. His stroll turned into a brisk, almost military walk, as he bustled forward, ignoring Shirley and me.

  ‘Primavera, my dear one,’ he said. ‘This great fool of a woman tells me that she had guests. I guess it is some of the unspeakable Belgians that she has here all the time. She does not tell me it is you, my brightness.’

  He seized her hands in his and kissed them, pressing them to his mouth. Prim gazed, smiling, up at him. It was the first time I had ever seen her overwhelmed.

  ‘Oi!’ If there had been coconuts in the palm trees, Shirley’s bellow would have shaken them loose.

  ‘Stand up straight, you ’orrible little mongrel, and leave the lady alone.’

  He did as he was told, although his shining gaze stayed fixed on Primavera.

  ‘This is Oz,’ said Shirley, heavily. ‘Oz Blackstone … and listen carefully to this bit … Primavera’s partner and lover. Oz, this, for what it’s worth, is Davidoff. Don’t ask me what his other name is.’

  At last he turned his eye towards me. I could almost feel it as it ran me up and down. ‘Listen to her,’ he said. ‘Who needs more than one name, my friend? I am Davidoff, you are Oz, and she, the lovely Primavera. These names are enough for us.’ He turned to our hostess. ‘And this, of course, is Shirley. Sure there are a million fucking Shirleys in the world, but I bet you don’t find another like this lady.’

  He spread his arms out in a great, expansive gesture. ‘We four, we are all unique. You meet us you never forget us. Not like the unspeakable Dutch! They are all the fucking same, in their caravans with the bicycles fixed on the back, crawling along the roads like fucking tortoises.

  ‘And Oz, my new friend, you are special above all men. You have a prize beyond jewels. You take to your bed this lovely woman, for whom even my body lusts without shame, even if it is also without hope. Spend wisely the days of your youth, my boy, for they are numbered, and they are running out.’

  He was hypnotic, the man, his hands gesticulating, waving, swooping as he spoke. I looked at him, trying to guess his age, but he was even harder to place than Shirley. Davidoff seemed to have been fashioned out of leather. His dark olive skin seemed smooth as velvet, and it had a suppleness which made me suspect that it had been oiled. His hair, on closer inspection, looked almost certainly to be dyed, but there was no trace of shadow or stubble on his chin to confirm this.

  The only thing about him which seemed to hint at significant age was the white of his eye. In fact, white was no longer an appropriate term. It seemed to have darkened as if to match the rest of him, to a shade of yellow which was almost approaching amber.

  Abruptly, he turned back to Primavera, and bowed. ‘Come my dear,’ he said. ‘Let me take you for a walk around Shirley’s garden, and let me show you where she permits me to live when I am here.’

  He held out a hand for Prim as she stood up. It was only when she stood beside him that I was able to gauge his height. He seemed to be elastic, for as she came to his side he seemed to stretch by a couple of inches, standing erect at around five feet nine. I shook my head in amusement as they moved off towards the pool and sat down once more, beside Shirley.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ I asked.

  ‘Clive found him,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘or he found Clive. I was never sure which. He told me that they met in a bar, in-country somewhere, one day when he was out on his own for a drive. They got talking and they just hit it off. They bonded, I suppose you’d say. Clive invited him to stay in the summerhouse whenever he felt like it. In return, and without ever being asked, he started to do odd jobs around the place. All sorts of things. Cleaning the pool, painting, some gardening.’

  She pointed above our heads. ‘See those palms? As they grow, every so often the lowest leaves go yellow and have to be cut off close to the trunk, with a saw. It’s a hell of a job, but the old fellow manages it, no bother. He just shins up the things like a monkey and gets to work.

  ‘After Clive was killed, when I came back and told him, he was distraught. He sat in front of the summerhouse sobbing his little heart out, for about half a day. Then he got up and started to gather up his things. I said to him, “What the hell are you doing?” and he said, “I will go. You will not want me here now.” I just told him. “Don’t give me any of that macho crap. You’re my friend too. That hasn’t changed.” So things went on as before.’

  ‘How long has he lived with you now?’

  She smiled. ‘We’ve known him for six or seven years now, but he doesn’t live with me. He comes and goes as he pleases, unannounced. He might stay here for a month, or two, then he buggers off and it’ll be weeks before he’s back.’

  ‘What nationality is he?’

  Shirley looked at me, quickly. ‘Oh, he’s Catalan, make no mistake. You’re meant to assume that; he gets very huffy if anyone asks him that question. And whatever you do, don’t call him Spanish.’ She pointed to the summerhouse. A small pole rose from the right-hand gable and from it, a
small red and yellow striped Catalan flag fluttered. ‘That’s his personal standard,’ said Shirley. ‘When he arrives, he parks his little Noddy car up at the back gate, and runs that up the pole. Most times that’s how I know he’s taken up residence.’

  She laughed. ‘The old bugger. He’s like a mobile gnome sometimes. He’s all over Prim just now, but he’ll go for days without saying a word. He’s never up before midday, and never in bed before midnight. He wanders around but never gets in my way. I like to sunbathe in the buff, and he just lets me get on with it, pottering around, pruning the plants.’

  I looked at her in surprise. ‘Don’t you …’

  She shrugged. ‘You sound just like my son John, the way you said that. Davidoff always says that at his age he’s only a man in his head. According to him his balls don’t work any more … like those of the unspeakable French, he says. Davidoff doesn’t like any nationality, other than Catalans and British.’

  ‘What age is he?’

  Shirley sat silent for a moment or two. ‘Gawd knows,’ she said, eventually, shrugging. ‘Look at him.’ Together we gazed across the pool, as he ushered Prim into the summerhouse, behind the wooden doors. ‘I’ve asked him, but all he’ll say is, “Older than you, cherub.” I’ve tried to guess, but I can’t get near it. If you see him normally you’d probably say he was going on seventy, but there are moments … like when he’s quiet, when he needs a shave, when that bloody depressing Tramuntana wind’s been blowing for three or four days, when the sun isn’t shining … when you can detect a great sadness in him. When that comes over him, you could believe that he’s a lot older than that.’

  I stared at the door, which had closed behind them. ‘And when he’s not here, where does he go? Where does he live?’

  She shrugged again. ‘Gawd knows, again. I never ask, he never says. I look at him sometimes and I remember this cat that Clive and I used to have in England. He was ours from a kitten. He had an electric cat flap, and a magnetic key that fixed on his collar. We fed him and looked after his vet shots and everything, and he came and went as he pleased. Quite often, when he came in he’d be stinkin’ of fish or cat food. We knew that he had another home, that someone else was feeding him and enjoying his company, as well as us, but we never found out who it was.

  ‘Sometimes I think that Davidoff’s like him, that there’s another Clive and Shirley somewhere, none of us knowing about the other.’ She grinned. ‘But so what. He’s a one-off and I love him, and when he’s around, I never feel like buggering off back to Britain.’

  We sat in silence for a while, staring at the closed doors. ‘He must know a lot of stuff,’ I ventured eventually. ‘About Catalunya.’

  ‘Christ, yes. But he doesn’t talk to just anyone. You’re all right, though. He likes you.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because he didn’t ignore you. That’s what he does with most people, first time he meets them.’

  As she spoke, the wooden door creaked open again, and Prim emerged, smiling, with Davidoff at her heels.

  They rejoined us arm in arm. Prim sat down again, and Davidoff beckoned to me. ‘Come on, my boy,’ he said. There was something about him that made me think of Zorba the Greek, and Anthony Quinn’s great line to Alan Bates, ‘Let me teach you to dance.’ Then I realised what it was. His English, good as it was, was overlaid by a slight but distinct American accent, as if he had extended his vocabulary and polished his grammar by watching movies. I stood up and followed him, a Theodorakis tune playing in my head.

  We strolled along the side of the pool. ‘Like I told you, young Mister Oz,’ he muttered, ‘you are a lucky man to have a woman like that. She makes my blood boil like it has not for many years. You must take nothing for granted, if you are to hold on to her.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ I said, ‘you’re pretty lucky yourself, to have someone like Shirley for a friend.’

  ‘That I know. But then so is she, to have someone like Davidoff to look after her, and to help her get over Clive.’ He sighed. ‘Not that she will ever do that. Her son, John, he is no help to her. When he visits Shirley, I go away. Adrian, he is all right. He’s a nice guy, but John, no. He is such a prick. He thinks he knows everything, that one. He pushes Shirley away from the business even although it is hers, and he makes her feel useless.’

  I glanced at him. ‘We’ve asked her if she’d like to help with some work we’ve got.’

  ‘Ah, that’s good. You could tell, then, how lonely she can be. That’s kind of you.’

  ‘Not entirely. We really do need help. All of a sudden we’ve got quite a bit of work on our hands.’ I stopped at the deep end of the pool, not far from a Bouganvilla which exploded from the garden wall.

  ‘Davidoff,’ I began. ‘You must know all there is to know about Catalunya.’

  He laughed. ‘The only man who thinks he knows everything about Catalunya is the President of our Government … and he is wrong. But Davidoff knows more than anyone else. How can I educate you?’

  ‘What can you tell me about Dali?’ I asked him, feeling unaccountably nervous all of a sudden.

  He turned to fix his eye on me. ‘You ask about Catalunya, and you ask about Dali. That is interesting. Dali was probably the least typical Catalan there has ever been. The average Catalan man, he keeps himself hidden from outsiders, he is reserved among strangers, he is tight with money, he is not flamboyant in any way. As a race, Catalan men seem to feel an inferiority.

  ‘Dali was the opposite of all these things. He is the most famous Catalan there has ever been, more famous even than Carreras. It’s good you are interested in him.’

  He paused. ‘What did they say about him in his obituaries? Salvador Felipe Jacinto Dali i Domenech, born on the eleventh of May, 1904, at number 2 °Carrer Monturiol, Figueras. Died in his apartment in the Dali Museum on the twenty-third of January 1989. A genius, self-proclaimed, yet also by acclamation. The greatest surrealist artist of all time. He was larger than life, he was a showman, he was a great egomaniac, he was an internationalist, and he was generous to a fault. Everything that normally the Catalan is not.’

  I stared at him. ‘You knew him?’

  He smiled. ‘I could tell you everything there is to know about Dali. But it is better that I show you. Yes, Oz. Someday soon I will show you.’

  He walked me back to join Shirley and Prim. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘it is time for Davidoff to rest. The little vampire must go back to his box to prepare for the night.’ He blew a kiss to Primavera, turned on his heel and walked, straight-backed, off to the summerhouse.

  24

  ‘You know, Oz, you men will never cease to amaze and amuse me.’

  Prim was at the wheel of the Frontera, driving along the beach-front of Riells as we wound our way home from our afternoon with Shirley Gash and Davidoff. She shot a sidelong, smiling glance at me.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘It’s your attitudes.This male thing you have about perceived rivals. You’re like bloody lions, all of you. I thought you might have been different, my Oz, but you’re not.’

  I growled, deep in my throat, grinning at her.

  ‘No, seriously,’ she said. ‘You men, you sit there, at the head of your pride — Christ, you even call me your lioness, on occasion — looking ever so sure of yourselves, but all the time really insecure: because every time another young lion comes along, you react instinctively to him as a threat, someone who has to be seen off. Look at the show you put on with Steve Miller last night. That was a classic example of it.’

  That riled me. ‘Come on, that guy is a balloon.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ she countered. ‘He’s a smarmy, conceited prat who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. But did you consider for a minute that I might have been capable of working that out for myself, and of seeing him off? No you didn’t. Your involuntary male reflex came into play. “Cor’, there’s another young lion after my lioness. Better see him off sharpish.” Straight away your che
st was puffed out, your eyes were burning, and your whole posture was aggressive.’

  ‘And you women, you resent that, do you?’

  ‘On one hand, yes; because it implies that you men see us as possessions. On the other hand, no; because it’s good for our egos, and because secretly most women are taken by the thought of men fighting over them, even if it is only handbags at ten paces. But that’s not my point.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘That it’s an ageist thing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Think about it. You ran Steve Miller, a guy your own age, right out of town because he showed an interest in me. Yet this afternoon, Davidoff kissed my hands in the most seductive way imaginable, and you laughed. Then he walked me round the garden and into his boudoir, and you sat there chatting to Shirley.

  ‘Why? Because he’s an old lion, as old as Methuselah, and so you didn’t perceive him as a threat. You felt vulnerable with Steve and complacent with Davidoff, and you were dead wrong, twice.’

  I laughed, although something told me I shouldn’t. ‘You fancy Davidoff, do you?’

  ‘Don’t make a joke of it,’ she snapped. ‘Steve Miller repels me, Davidoff is fascinating. He’s charming, wise, considerate, and flattering. Guys like Steve shape themselves to suit the circumstances and to gain their own ends. Davidoff is constant, unshakable and ageless, and he’s got the gift of making a woman feel wanted for herself, not just for her …’ She paused, searching for her words.

  ‘What he tells a woman, by his whole behaviour towards her, is that if she permits him to please her in any way, she is bestowing a great honour upon him. That’s a hell of a lot more romantic than the slobbering kisses of a dozen Steve Millers, I can tell you.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I mused. ‘Shirley says the old fella’s balls don’t work any more.’

  She withered me with her glance. ‘There’s more to it than balls, my man. Jan and Noosh would be the first to tell you that.’