by Antony Trew
‘Wonder what all that’s in aid of?’ he said.
‘It’s a kind of funeral. They go to the ship. You will see.’
The procession halted when it reached the ferry and its members stood in a semi-circle behind the priest.
Manuela pointed. ‘You see. Now they will wait for the coffin from the ship. It must be an Ibizencan coming home to be buried. It is not unusual if they die on the mainland. They are superstitious.’
Black munched away at the ensaimada, stopping now and then to wash it down with coffee.
The train of thought which the funeral cortège had started was interrupted by a yellow Land-Rover which drew up in front of the café. The driver wore a blue and white striped sailor’s vest, blue bell-bottoms and a beret with a red pom-pom. His arms were tattooed. Next to him sat a tall thin man with white hair and dark glasses. Even from the fifty feet which separated them, Black could see the scarred face and taut unsmiling features. The driver came into the café and bought a packet of cigarettes. He went out, said something to the tall man, then climbed into the Land-Rover and they drove off.
Black looked at Manuela. ‘Know who that is?’
‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘Van Biljon.’
‘Don’t often see him around.’
She nodded. ‘A strange man. They say he feels rejected socially because of his face. I think he is very unhappy.’
‘Burns from an air crash when he was young,’ said Black.
‘It must be terrible to have your face destroyed.’ She shuddered. ‘Poor man.’
‘Poor! He’s stinking rich. At least he can be miserable in comfort.’
‘Do you think that is a compensation?’
‘Of course. He lives in a marvellous house in the hills near San José. He’s reputed to have a fabulous collection of pictures. And that boat Nordwind, the fastest, most comfortable thing in harbour. That’s his life. Collecting pictures, fishing when he wants to. What more could a man want?’
Manuela shook her head slowly. ‘Do you think that is all a man wants out of life? He lives alone. No wife. No children. Not even friends.’
‘Not quite alone.’ Black poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘They say he has a Spanish housekeeper, her husband, and two sailors living at Altomonte. And some Alsatians. That’s hardly alone.’
‘What sort of company is that for a cultured man?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the Englishman. ‘I’ve never been invited.’
‘Who has? They say he never allows visitors, except an occasional government official.’
Black exhaled loudly through his nose. ‘I would love to see those pictures.’
She smiled sympathetically. ‘What are they?’
‘No one absolutely knows. They say mostly Impressionists and post-Impressionists. Collecting them is said to have been his life’s work.’
She opened her bag, took out a compact and fussed with her hair, looking critically in the small mirror. When she’d finished she drew her lips in tightly and put away the compact. She looked up and saw that he was watching her in a strange way, so she turned her head towards the harbour. His stare embarrassed her. She felt he was looking at her without seeing her. An empty strained look as if he were searching inside her mind rather than outside it.
Something caught her eye. ‘See,’ she said. ‘There is the coffin.’
He looked over to the ferry steamer. A derrick had swung over the ship’s side and a coffin was being lowered. On the quay waiting hands steadied it, the rope sling was removed, and the priest began his benedictions.
A few minutes later the coffin was hoisted on to the shoulders of the pallbearers. The mourners and acolytes re-formed behind the priest and the procession left the quay and made off down the road.
Manuela looked at him. ‘Do you believe in an after life?’
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I do not.’
‘I do,’ she said with an assurance he envied.
He shook his head. ‘Isn’t it—a monumental conceit? To believe that.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You see I believe that people are reincarnated in their children.’
‘That’s another kettle of fish,’ Black said. He was thinking what a strange person she was, how different from what he’d imagined and heard. Was she a junkie? Perhaps. She was fragile. Misty eyes with heavy rings under them. At dinner in the ship she’d eaten little and only played with her champagne: discreet sips, an upset glass, and at the end a full one untouched. After dinner she’d drunk nothing but coffee.
In front of the café a car hooted stridently. It was the powder-blue Buick, with Kyriakou and Tino Costa in the front seat. The Greek waved.
‘Better hurry,’ said Black dryly.
She gathered up her things and went out, calling over her shoulder, ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ But she didn’t look back, and he felt as if a thread had broken.
For some time he sat thinking about her and what they had discussed. He hadn’t learnt anything. His thoughts went back to the scarred face in the Land-Rover and he recalled the local gossip about Wilhelm van Biljon: born and bred in South America where his family had gone with other refugees from the Transvaal after the Boer War; a much respected figure on the island where he had lived for many years; rich, with investments in South America and South Africa; a recluse, known for his generosity to Ibizencan causes, particularly those associated with children for whom he did much.
Looking out from the window of his room in the late afternoon of that day, Black saw a white staysail schooner coming in to Ibiza Bay, When she was opposite Talamanca her sails were lowered and she moved slowly up the harbour, a wisp of diesel smoke trailing astern. She passed behind the customs shed and when she emerged again she was nosing in towards the quay where the inter-island schooners lay. Black took the binoculars from the corner table. When she turned to come alongside he was able to read her name and port of registration. She was the Snowgoose of Piraeus.
Chapter Five
Shafts of sunlight slanted across the big office, fine particles of dust curling and turning in them like bacteria on a microscope slide.
Outside the windows, the noise of traffic along the Avenida Ignacio Wallis rose and fell and in the room the smell of exhaust gases mingled with the mustiness of dusty files and cigar smoke.
A sallow man with sharp features and iron grey hair sat behind the desk, a splash of medal ribbons relieving the severity of his dark uniform.
He contemplated the end of a cigar, turning it slowly, checking the circle of burning ash, the hard lines of his face so immobile that it seemed made of wax. The three men opposite were silent, waiting for the Comisario de Policia to speak. Two of them knew him well enough to know that he was not in a good mood.
‘This morning,’ he said, ‘the Jefe sent for me. He was not pleased.’ The Comisario’s deepset eyes moved from one face to the other and then back to the cigar. ‘He tells me that Palma and Madrid are impatient. The reputation of the island may suffer.’
He pointed to a number of clippings on his desk. ‘These are articles from the foreign press which Madrid has sent him. They are about Ibiza and each tells the same story. That there is trafficking in drugs here. That it flourishes. You will say they exaggerate grossly. They do. Journalists are sensation mongers and this sort of thing,’ he flicked at the clippings contemptuously, ‘is news. They blow it up.’
He drew on the cigar. ‘But we know, gentlemen, that there is some truth behind this news. There is some drug trafficking. Unless it is stopped there will be more press reports. The island will get a bad name. You know what that means?’
There were murmurs of assent but he went on, determined to answer his rhetorical question. ‘It means that the tourist industry will suffer. And it is vital to our economy. It means also that we shall attract here the sort of riff-raff we do not want.’ He paused. ‘We have enough of them already.’
He stood up and moved to the window, looking down on the street. ‘
The Jefe wants results and,’ his voice rose. ‘I want results, gentlemen. And I want them quickly.’
With slow deliberation he went back to the desk and lowered himself into the swivel chair. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘your report.’
He looked towards the thin man with dark glasses and a christ-beard who was sorting through a file.
‘We are making progress, señor Comisario,’ he said. ‘I came from Barcelona this morning. Torreta is in charge of investigations at that end. We had lengthy discussions, compared our results so far, and came to certain conclusions——’
‘Such as?’ interrupted the Comisario.
‘The main source of supply is Beirut. The drugs are reaching Barcelona by sea. From there they come here by sea.’
‘Are you sure of all this?’
‘Fairly certain. We are watching a man who came over on the steamer from Barcelona last night. He travelled tourist, but he was in touch with Kyriakou and Costa during the journey. Ahmed ben Hassan is his name. He is from Beirut. The U.S. Narcotics Bureau list him as a known dealer. Also it is easier for us to check on aircraft than ships, and we have checked the aircraft thoroughly. They are not being used.’
The telephone on the Comisario’s desk rang. He picked it up. ‘What is it?’
In the room they could hear the distant blur of the caller’s voice.
‘No. No,’ said the Comisario. ‘Not now. I am busy.’ He put the phone down and waved a hand at the thin man. ‘Go on.’
‘We believe that this traffic is organised here. Our difficulty is to collect hard evidence. Of the method of importing, of storing and distribution.’ He inclined his head towards the two uniformed men. ‘Capitan Sura and Teniente Lorenzo have identified two pushers. They are being watched and we hope they will provide leads.’
The Comisario looked up suddenly. ‘Do they deal directly with Kyriakou?’
‘No, señor Comisario. Not directly.’
‘Indirectly then?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re certain that Kyriakou is at the centre?’
‘Almost certain. I prefer at this moment not to be specific. But there are good indications. For example,’ he hesitated. ‘Banking accounts. They tell a story …’
The thin man seemed anxious to change the subject. He rustled the papers in his file. ‘There has been,’ he said, ‘a new development. It concerns Kyriakou. On Friday he visited van Biljon at Altomonte.’
There was a murmur of surprise, and the Comisario abandoned for a moment his official mask of impassivity. ‘Van Biljon! You suspect him?’
‘Not yet,’ the thin man said. ‘The visit by Kyriakou stands only as a fact. Something we have observed. It is too early to draw conclusions. But it is an unusual fact. Señor van Biljon does not have visitors at Altomonte. Except occasionally,’ he hesitated, ‘government officials.’
The Comisario’s smile was arid. ‘Like me. I have been to Altomonte. I trust I am not on your list of suspects.’
The thin man’s manner was deprecatory. ‘Indeed, not, señor.’
‘What are you doing about this. The possible relationship between Kyriakou and van Biljon?’
‘Nothing at the moment. But inquiries will be made.’
The older man leant back in his chair and watched a ring of grey smoke climb towards the ceiling. ‘You are circumspect in what you say.’
The thin man propped his elbows on the desk, his hands together as if he were about to pray. ‘It is necessary to be discreet, señor. Our work is hampered by leakages.’
The Comisario watched him speculatively. The thin man was on loan from Madrid. ‘What leakages?’
‘I would prefer not to go into details.’ He looked out of the window.
The moment of embarrassment was broken by the Comisario’s sigh. ‘I see. Very well. How long will it be before you have the hard evidence you spoke of?’
The thin man took off his glasses and wiped them. His eyes could be seen to be small and red rimmed. ‘Soon, I hope. We have the problem that people who could give us information will not come forward because they are afraid.’
The Comisario picked up a brass paperweight and balanced it on the back of his left hand. ‘But nevertheless you say soon.’
‘Yes. There has been an important breakthrough.’
‘Perhaps you will tell us about it?’ The Comisario watched him through a screen of smoke.
The Capitan shrugged his shoulders and fidgeted with his beard. ‘Later, if you please, señor.’
The grey-headed man turned to the two uniformed officers. They were members of his own staff. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thank you. That will be all for the present.’
There was a scraping of chairs as they got up to go. ‘Not you, Capitan.’ He held up his hand, his eyes on the thin man. ‘There is another matter I would like to discuss with you.’
When the others had left the room the Comisario turned to him. ‘Well, Capitan. Can you tell me now?’
The Capitan placed his fingertips together gently, as if they were fragile, looking towards the door through which the others had gone. ‘I am certain Sura and Lorenzo are reliable. It is, however, a condition of the co-operation we receive from the U.S. Narcotics Bureau that I do not divulge information concerning their agents’ identity or activities.’
He paused and cleared his throat. ‘But I can say for your confidential information, señor, that the agent here has had much difficulty in penetrating the organisation, in becoming accepted. But progress is being made. It is for this reason we hope soon to have hard evidence.’
The Comisario stared at the thin man as if he were trying to read his mind. Then he drew on his cigar. ‘Thank you. I hope you will not be disappointed.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me? I have to report to the Jefe.’
‘Yes,’ said the thin man. ‘We are watching a woman, Manuela Valez, and a man, Charles Black. She is a Puerto Rican artist and has been much in Kyriakou’s company lately. The other is an Englishman. An art critic of sorts. His movements have … well, how shall I say … made us feel we should know more about him.’
‘Do these two know each other?’
The thin man stroked his beard. ‘They have either just met—last night on the ferry steamer to be exact—or they are good actors. It is not yet possible to say.’
It was a fine day, the air still cold, the sun shining from a clear sky. It is a pity, he thought, that the drains smell so foul. And it is probably unnecessary. Somewhere they are blocked and it should not be impossible to clear them. The Spaniards are a fine people, a proud, intensely human race, but why do they accept foul smelling drains and rancid butter and bacon with such unnecessary stoicism. He turned into Calle Abel Matutes and went into the Spar where he bought sardines, butter, eggs, cheese and spaghetti and put them in the basket which hung from his shoulder.
The olives and tunny he would get at the market, the wine at Anselmo’s, the bread at the pasteleria, but first he would see Haupt. He joined the queue by the cashier. His turn came. She checked his purchases, tapping the amounts on to the cash register, gave him the slip and he paid. Outside he turned right and then left and went down the pavement past the travel agency where he turned into a narrow lane. Halfway along it he stopped before a door which had on it a board inscribed ‘Haupt & Diene, Architects.’ He went up the stairs to a small general office where he spoke in Spanish to a thin red-eyed girl who took his name and asked him to wait.
A few minutes later she came back and beckoned him to follow. At the end of a short passage she knocked, opened a door and said, ‘Señor Charles Black,’ before ushering him in and closing the door behind him.
A pallid man of middle age with tired friendly eyes left the drawing board where he’d been working, came across and held out his hand.
‘Buenos dias, señor,’ he said, and Black realised that the man’s Spanish was poor.
‘Mr. Haupt?’ he inquired in English.
‘Yes
. Can I help you?’ Haupt spoke with a Dutch accent.
‘I hope so. It is a professional matter.’
Haupt looked at him uncertainly, then smiled and pointed to the desk. ‘Please.’ He pulled out a chair. Black sat down and Haupt took the chair on the other side of the desk.
‘Are you a visitor, Mr. Black?’
‘I’ve been here nearly two months.’
‘On holiday?’
‘No. I write.’
‘Oh. Very interesting. There are many writers here.’
‘So I believe.’
Haupt searched a drawer and found a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He held it out to Black. ‘Smoke?’
‘No, thanks. I don’t.’
Haupt laughed. ‘Me, neither.’ He put the packet back into the drawer.
‘I’ve had a letter from an old friend—a close friend,’ Black corrected himself. ‘He is in England. Likes Ibiza. Wants to retire here. He has asked me to make inquiries about a house.’
Haupt showed interest. ‘I see. What sort of house? I mean, big or small?’ With his hands he illustrated the alternatives of size.
‘Big. He’s a rich man.’
‘He wishes to build,’ Haupt suggested.
‘In a way. He’s keen on buying a finca and converting. A large one. He’ll want a lot put into it. Several bathrooms, central heating, guest suites, big reception rooms. That sort of thing.’
Haupt frowned. ‘Has he seen an estate agent? Is it a particular finca he has in mind?’
‘No. He wants to be outside Ibiza, but within ten kilometres of the town. He’s left it to me to find out what’s available and what conversion costs are likely to be. He’s coming here in June. Wants me to do the spade work before he arrives.’
‘And you wish me to …?’ Haupt paused.
‘Give me an idea of what conversion might cost.’
Haupt held out his hands in a gesture of futility. ‘Impossible! I must know the finca and what has to be done. It could be anything. Half a million pesetas. A million. Two million, anything.’
