A Coffin For Two (Oz Blackstone Mystery)

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Mind you, it’s not usually bodies. Mostly it’s cars. A couple of years ago, we found a Porsche which had ben stolen in Paris a week before. It was dumped inland, around twenty kilometres from where anyone who stole a Porsche in Paris would want to go. When he saw it, one of my guys recognised it as a car he had seen on the beach in Ampuriabrava. The local cops, they had moved it on. It’s the same with this guy.’

  Prim shook her head in sympathy. ‘How are you getting on with the Trevor Eames investigation?’

  ‘About as well as we will get on with this one. The truth is Eames was a smuggler. Last week he was away crewing a boat which was moving drugs from Corsica to the Balearics. He mixed with some very bad people; any one of them could have been mad with him.’

  He paused. ‘Maybe you’re lucky you didn’t walk in on them when they caught up with him. Sleep on that thought. Now good night, and I hope that the next time I see you, there are no bodies around. There had better not be!’

  47

  I wakened that morning with what the psychologists would call a feeling of closure. We had gone as far as we could with Gavin Scott’s commission. We had found the real Ronnie Starr, linked him to the picture, and established ... for we both believed Reis Sonas ... that he had not painted it. What we couldn’t tell our client for sure was whether the picture was a fake or not.

  Since that was why he had hired us in the first place, all we had to report were our suspicions and our failure.

  So the only thing on the agenda for the first part of the day was a call to Gavin Scott, to tell him that we had found Ronnie Starr, that Trevor was dead and that his pal Foy, who had after all, set him up to buy the Toreador of the Apocalypse, was on our list of candidates for the post of killer, and might wind up on the list of the Guardia as well.

  And with that thought, it came to me suddenly, half way through my morning run in fact, that I was knee-deep in ordure.

  All of a sudden the next sequence of events fell into place. If Prim and I had been able to identify Ronnie Starr, trace him back to La Pera and Reis Sonas, then so, beyond doubt, would the very capable Captain Fortunato. From that he would make the connection to Trevor Eames, and from that he would discover that we had beaten him to it, asking questions about Ronnie Starr, and about a certain picture.

  Fortunato might have come across as a nice guy, but not as a softy. I had no doubt what he would do after that. There are certain circumstances in which I would be prepared to go to jail to protect a client; but they don’t extend to include a situation where said client has broken the law, still less to one in which Prim might end up in the next cell.

  As soon as I was back in St Marti, rather than cooling out in front of the church as usual, I pounded up the stairs to the apartment. Prim looked at me from the balcony with a degree of disapproval as I sweated my way out to join her.

  ‘Jan called,’ she said. ‘She’s doing our invoices today. She wants a note of hours and expenses for Gavin Scott.’

  ‘Does she indeed. How did she sound?’

  ‘All right, as far as I could tell. Mind you, she didn’t say much. I asked her how Noosh is doing, she just mumbled, “Fine,” and hung up.’

  ‘Okay. Look I’ll call her back later. Meantime there’s something I have to talk to you about. We’ve been so stupid I can hardly believe it. All this playing boy and girl detective could land us in jail. We have to go to see Fortunato, and tell him everything.’

  ‘Why? What’s brought this on all of a sudden?’

  ‘My idiocy in telling the guy at the farmhouse to call him, rather than the local plods. I’ve engineered it so that he’s investigating the murder of Trevor Eames, and he’s trying to identify Ronnie Starr. He’ll do that within a couple of days, just like we found him, by tracing the watch. Then he’ll follow the same trail we did. As soon as he speaks to Reis, we’re in the shit.’

  Primavera’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Oh,’ she said, theatrically. ‘I rather think we are. What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’ve just told you; we’re going to the Guardia Civil.’

  ‘But what about Scott? Don’t we have some sort of an obligation to him?’

  She had a point. If the problems over VAT and import duties hadn’t occurred to me when Scott offered us the task, then they should have. Even if they had, I couldn’t put my hand on my heart and say that I’d have turned down the job because of them.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘Fortunato can’t make progress until tomorrow, until the shops open in the UK. We’ll call Scott first, tell him the score and give him twenty-four hours to sort himself out with the Customs and Excise. If he pays them some duty, he should be in the clear.’

  ‘Give him forty-eight hours,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, okay. There’s no problem until our man the captain actually traces Starr’s movements in Spain, and it could be a few days before he does that.’

  We called Scott all day, without success. I rang his home, his office and his mobile, but none of them answered. I even called Jan and asked her to drive out to see him.

  ‘What’s the sudden panic, Oz?’ she asked. ‘Are you in trouble?’ She sounded concerned. I felt a pang of pleasure.

  ‘Potentially. Look, love, I’ll tell you all about it when we come over for the wedding. For now, please, if you can, do us this favour.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, with a faint chuckle. ‘It’ll cost you, mind.’

  ‘Name your price. How are you doing, by the way?’

  She was terse once more. ‘Fine, thank you.’ The line went dead.

  She called back ninety minutes later. ‘The house is locked up, Oz,’ she said. ‘Tight as a fish’s ring. I met one of the neighbours, though. The Scotts are away for a long weekend at some bloody horse show down in England. The daughter’s competing, apparently. Either Gavin’s forgotten his mobile or he has to switch it off around the horses.’

  ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’ I cursed. ‘He would pick this weekend. But thanks, love. At least we know now.’

  ‘My pleasure. Incidentally, when I spoke to Prim this morning, I gathered that you haven’t told her about Noosh and me.’

  ‘True,’ I said, with a glance at Prim, who was sitting on the other side of the terrace.

  ‘Well, you bloody should have. I was taken aback this morning when she asked about her. The longer you delay, Oz, the stranger she’ll think it is.’

  ‘I’ll attend to it. See you, and thanks again.’

  ‘Attend to what?’ Primavera asked, casually.

  ‘That list of time and costs for the Scott invoice.’

  I tried the mobile number once more, just before it was time to leave for dinner with Davidoff, but it still came up with a smug, irritating voice telling me that it might respond if I tried later. ‘I’ve been trying all effing day,’ I growled back, leaving our client to his fate, until next morning at least.

  48

  Shirley was waiting for us at the foot of the stairway up to her front door as I parked the Frontera in her driveway, dead on time for dinner with Davidoff.

  ‘We’ll go straight round,’ she said, leading us along the path to the rear of the house. ‘Himself is a stickler for punctuality. He’s been all hustle and bustle today, getting ready for tonight. He swam for bloody miles this afternoon, then he disappeared off to the fruit market and the fish shop. He’s been cooking ever since he got back.

  ‘Davidoff does his paella for me once a year. When Clive was alive he used to do it for us both, and he’s kept the tradition going. There’s never a set day, but he never forgets. Until now he’s only ever done it for me. You two are the first guests he’s ever invited.’

  ‘We’re honoured,’ I said. ‘But how are you getting on? It’s a day or two since we’ve seen you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Shirley. ‘Apart from that bloody brother of mine.’

  ‘Adrian?’ Prim was surprised. ‘I thought you and he got on so well.’

  ‘We do. That’s why I’m piss
ed off. He left yesterday without saying goodbye. I was down at Maggie’s till around nine, and I know I was a bit late, but he might have waited. His flight wasn’t due out until two a.m. All I got was a bloody note saying that he had to have a quick drink with a chum at the golf club, thanks for everything and goodbye.’

  ‘Did you call him today to tell him off?’

  ‘Wouldn’t waste the call, Prim. Let him stew in it for a couple of days. I’ll wait until I know he’s really busy in the office, then I’ll phone him.’

  As she finished, we reached the summerhouse, and right on cue, Davidoff stepped out. As always he was dressed from head to foot in black, but this time it was satin; a shirt with long loose sleeves buttoned at the wrist, tight trousers, and of course, a matching eye patch. His skin was oiled, and his cropped dark hair was sleek. The garden lights were on against the gathering darkness. They shone on his clothes, making them seem to shimmer as he gave a courtly bow towards the ladies.

  We had brought the best bottle of Cava that I could find in the bodega. It had been chilling all day, and was encased in an insulating sleeve. The dark eye shone as I handed it over. ‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said. ‘I will open it first. It will make an acceptable aperitif.’ I didn’t quite know how to take that, until I saw the Krug chilling in an ice bucket, inside the guest bungalow’s open-plan kitchen.

  I felt that I should do something to help, but Davidoff shooed me away, to switch off the floodlights, then to join the girls, seated now at a white table beside the pool. I had barely joined them before he was fluttering around us, holding a tray with the Cava in four flutes, finely made, with gold leaf round their long stems.

  ‘My dear friend Clive gave these to me, in the year before he died,’ he said to Primavera, leaning towards her as he sat down. ‘I have always kept them here. This is the first time since he died, is it not, Shirley, that all four have been filled together. That’s good, because this is a special night. Look,’ he said, pointing up to the darkening sky, ‘I have even arranged the moonlight.’

  I grinned. ‘Never,’ I thought, ‘have I heard bullshit of such a high order.’ But I kept the thought to myself, for our host was clearly firing on all cylinders and it would have been churlish to interrupt his flow.

  I felt slightly huffed when he rushed us through the very fine Cava. ‘Come, come.’ He stood up. ‘To the table. Davidoff’s paella does not suffer being kept waiting.’

  A bowl of toasted bread was on the table, with halved beef tomatoes ready to rub into it, with olive oil and garlic and a dish of anchovies. ‘The L’Escala starter,‘ the chef announced, ’is one of the world’s simplest. It is also one of the best.’

  He’s right. Tomato-soaked toast, rubbed with garlic, with oil and anchovies doesn’t sound like much: till you try it.

  If Davidoff had a fault that night, it seemed to be a tendency to rush his guests, but we accepted it as being in the interests of arriving at the paella at exactly the right moment. There are regional variations of Spain’s national dish; along the Costa Brava, as I had come to know, they favour seafood. But I never in my life tasted one like Davidoff served up that night, with the Krug.

  How he persuaded the fish to remain in such substantial chunks, and yet be so moist, I’ll never know. How he coaxed every mussel and clam to open its shell is quite beyond me. How he managed to keep the rice at such a consistency, while the cooking of every other ingredient should have militated against it, I have no idea.

  He shared one secret with us, but only one. He bent towards Prim once again, and picked up a tiny crustacean. ‘You must have these, my darling,’ he said. ‘You don’t find them in the fish shops but on the quayside. The fishermen who catch the prawns throw these away. I gather them and cook them in my paella, for the extra flavour. Look.’ He put the crab between his teeth and bit it, hard enough to crush the shell, then he sucked. ‘Like that. Don’t eat them. Just crack them for the juices and the taste.’

  He had made enough for six at least. We finished it, disregarding even the Krug until we had whacked our way through the lot.

  Davidoff grinned, as he looked at us, one by one. Then, lightning fast, he slapped his stomach. ‘That’s it,’ he shouted. ‘The best I can do.’ He jumped to his feet and fetched a fruit bowl. ‘This is to finish. God makes a better dessert than I do, but when it comes to paella, I can whip his ass.’ He paused. ‘As for coffee, well, we’ll just have another bottle of Krug.’

  I watched him as he leaned back in the moonlight, savouring his champagne and making small talk with Prim and Shirley. There was a grace about him, an economy of everything, as though his whole metabolism had been set up with an eye to longevity. When night came he seemed to be at the height of his powers, fascinating, charming and somehow provocative, and on that night in particular, I thought him the most amazing man that I had ever met. Nothing has happened since to change that view.

  Shirley had gone to the bathroom, walking with a degree of concentration, when the phone rang in the villa.

  Davidoff gestured to me. ‘You better answer it. It could be Adrian, full of contrition, or better still, the awful John calling to say that he is not coming after all.’

  I nodded and ran round the edge of the pool towards the house. The kitchen was dark, but I found the light switch in a second. The phone was on one of the work surfaces, and it was still ringing insistently. I strode across and picked it up.

  ‘Hola, este residencia Senora Gash,’ I said, in the best Spanish I could manage.

  There was a long silence at the other end of the phone line. I waited for it to go dead, but instead, after a while, I heard a low rumbling sigh. ‘Tell me, Mr Blackstone,’ said Captain Fortunato, evenly, ‘that I am having a bad dream, and that I have not just heard you trying to speak Spanish with an appalling Scottish accent. Tell me, please, that isn’t you.’

  I knew at once that the evening had taken a very unpleasant turn. ‘I have a terrible feeling,’ I muttered into the phone, ‘that I should be saying much the same to you. But the trouble is, I don’t think either of us is dreaming.’

  ‘In that case, Senor, this is what I want you to do. I want you to wait at the villa of Senora Gash, until one of my cars gets there. Then I want you and she to get in, and let it bring you here to join me. Don’t ask any questions of me, but between now and your getting to where I am, you should be thinking very carefully of what it is you were going to tell me two days ago, but which slipped your mind.’

  ‘I’ll wait for your car,’ I croaked, and replaced the phone. I leaned against the surface, heart pounding, legs shaking, and looked out of the window, at Shirley, leading Prim and Davidoff towards the group of sofa loungers beneath the moonlit palms, he with his arm wound round my partner’s waist, laughing softly in her ear.

  I don’t know why, but just then, my eye was caught by a photograph, one of a number pinned to the window-frame. I stared at it, and as I did, I saw Ronnie Starr’s murderer: more than that, I knew instinctively in my gut, who, in turn, had killed him.

  49

  From the moment the car pulled away, Shirley asked the same question, over and over again.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she snapped at the driver, in Spanish, until she realised that his silence meant that he had been ordered not to speak to us at all.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked me, in my turn.

  I told her, as I had in the villa, ‘We’re going to meet the regional commander of the Guardia Civil. But I don’t know why, and I don’t know where.’

  I was pretty certain that I had told her one lie. As the car reached Verges, and turned left towards La Bisbal, I had a feeling that it might be two. When it turned right on to the road for Flaca, La Pera and Pubol, that suspicion hardened.

  The driver raced recklessly along the twisting road to La Pera, then swung right. I expected him to stop in the Pubol car park, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove right up to the entrance to Gala’s castle, and screeched to a halt, giving a blast
on the horn as he did so.

  A green-uniformed officer at the top of the steps which led to the house beckoned to us as we stepped out. The approach was lit, but the building was still in darkness. ‘Round there,’ he said, in Spanish as we reached him, pointing not into the house, but to the garden.

  We turned the corner, and saw a blaze of light coming from the garage doorway. Another uniformed policeman stood outside, waving to us to approach.

  ‘What the ’ell’s going on?’ said Shirley. It was the first time she had spoken in fifteen minutes and she was ready to explode. We stepped inside the garage.

  The Cadillac was still there, as it had been on my earlier visits to the castle, only this time the great lid of its cavernous trunk was raised. Captain Fortunato stood beside it. He smiled at me and called out something in Catalan. I stared blankly back at him.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said three in a row can be bad luck, Senor. Come here.’

  I moved towards him. Shirley followed me, but the detective held up his hand. ‘Not you, Senora,’ he said.

  She glared back and kept walking. ‘Don’t try to stop me,’ she spat. ‘It could be embarrassing. Now what the bloody hell ...’

  Fortunato shook his head and stepped back, allowing Shirley and me to look into the boot of the Cadillac. I knew it would be him. The man in the photo in the kitchen, the man who had staged the auction, the man who had killed Ronnie Starr to lay his hand on a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of Dalí.

  I was expecting him. Shirley wasn’t. She looked into the boot and she screamed. Then she turned and went for the Captain, snarling and spitting. She was as tall as he was, and powerful. She flailed at him with both arms, heaving big, sledging blows at him, until he was able to grab her hands and use his man’s strength to restrain her.

  I was barely interested in their struggle. I couldn’t drag my attention away from the body in the car. I recognised him by the colour of his eyes and the line of his nose rather than anything else, just as I had in Shirley’s kitchen. Even dead, with three bullet holes in the front of his polo shirt, one right in the centre of the golf club crest, he managed to look ordinary. Fortyish, dark hair greying, medium build, medium everything. The odd thing was that the last time I had seen him, and on every other occasion that we had met, Adrian Ford had been wearing a beard.