As Easy as Murder (25 page)

‘Tongues are wagging already, you know.’

‘Any that wag within my hearing will be torn out, and you can feed that to the chattering class. Now, are you going to be all right?’

She nodded, square-shouldered normality once again. ‘Yeah. No harm done, eh. Nobody died.’

Considering what I’d seen earlier that afternoon, she could have chosen a better phrase. I shuddered, slightly, but she didn’t notice.

‘You’re not really going to try and find him are you?’ she continued.

‘Yes, I am. To satisfy my own curiosity, if nothing else. You probably did shag the poor man out of town, but you know me, Bloodhound Blackstone; when I get a scent in my nostrils, I have to follow.’

‘I know,’ she conceded. ‘Even if it gets you into terrible bloody bother as it has done often enough. Did you find anything out at the airport?’

‘Yup. He did hire a car, and we know now that he used it to come here and pick up his stuff. There’s every chance that as we speak he’s back at Girona, or some other airport, about to board a flight, or he’s driving north, from whence he came. As soon as I know for sure, I’ll be happy.’

‘And what will you do then?’

I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but the answer wasn’t hard to find. ‘If I can, I’ll speak to him, or if not, I’ll get a message to him suggesting that he owes you a better apology than what’s in that bloody note.’

‘Fair enough.’ She stood up, straight-backed, clear-eyed and smiling. ‘Go on then, woman; off home and doll yourself up for your date with Oz’s dishy nephew, and don’t be having him for dessert.’

J
onny was home by the time we got there, and he was fretting, poor boy.

‘Please, Auntie P,’ he exclaimed, as soon as we’d climbed the stairs from the garage, ‘please don’t do that to me again. I’ve been worried sick. I thought you’d been in a smash or something. Your friend Ben just dropped the dog off. When he said he didn’t know where you were, I’d decided to call the police.’ He held up a book, my English-Spanish dictionary. ‘I wasn’t sure of the words for “traffic accident”. Then you walked in.’

I was hit by an immediate guilt wave; the biggest day of the lad’s life, and I’d put a damper on it. ‘Sorry, Jonny,’ I pleaded. ‘Something came up and I had to deal with it.’

‘Mr Cowling’s run away from Shirley,’ Tom volunteered.

‘No he hasn’t,’ I contradicted him. ‘He’s . . .’ Then I stopped, for he was right.

My nephew’s frown melted into a grin. ‘Not up to the job, eh?’ he chuckled.

‘Nothing like that,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons.’
And I’m going to find out what they are
, I added, mentally.

‘Then good luck to him,’ Jonny said, dismissively. ‘Where do you want to eat?’

I told him. ‘Can Roura, in the square. Tom’s going to watch Barcelona in Esculapi; we’ll be next door.’ I checked my watch; it showed seven fifty-five. ‘You go across there and book a table on the terrace, and I’ll begin the ever more laborious business of getting ready.’

I ran up the stairs to my room, heading for the shower, but with a call to make before I got there. I kept in touch with Mark Kravitz, as you did with an old friend, but we hadn’t spoken for a few months. When Patterson had dropped his name into conversation a few days before, he’d been making a point of saying that their orbits had never cut across each other. I’d been a little dubious about that at the time, since there are damn few people in the intelligence community that Mark didn’t know about, but it hadn’t occurred to me to check it out.

I don’t make Skype video calls very often, but I used it with Mark, because I liked to see for myself how he was doing. He’d been an MS sufferer for at least three years, but the disease was still in the primary stage, with lapses and then periods of remission. He put himself forward as a guinea pig for new treatments as they were developed, and they seemed to be giving him extended periods of stability, but if he was in a wheelchair when I called him on camera, I knew he was having a relapse. When he came on screen I was pleased to see that he looked okay, a little greyer, but no worse than he has done for the last couple of years.

‘Hey, girl,’ he greeted me, with a smile. ‘How’s your life?’

‘Interesting. How’s yours?’

‘Better than it’s been for a while. I’m on a new drug combination and it’s working. I’m more mobile than I’ve been in three years.’

‘That’s great,’ I said.

‘For now; they’re warning me that in six months or so the disease may have worked out a way round it and I’ll be back in my chair. But I’ll deal with that when it happens. What about you? Are you calling with the good news that your ex-priest’s coming back from Ireland to sweep you off your feet?’

‘No, the good news is that he isn’t. I’d gone off him anyway, and Tom’s made it clear that he isn’t desperate for a new dad.’

‘But he does accept that the original isn’t coming back, yes?’

‘Oh yes. He’s reconciled to it. But we do have a new man about the house.’

‘Ah,’ he laughed. ‘I thought you were even twinklier than usual.’

That was news to me. ‘Not in that way,’ I told him, firmly, then explained about Jonny’s arrival.

I’d bounced some serious stuff off Mark, in the course of our acquaintance, but I’d never seen him surprised before. ‘You’re kidding!’ he exclaimed. ‘I watched him win a golf tournament this afternoon; I’d no idea he was Oz’s nephew.’

‘Then you must have switched off before the presentation; he gave him a namecheck at the end of it. But he’s just one of the things that have happened to me in the last week.’

He winced; at first I thought it was a spasm of pain, but I was wrong. ‘Oh dear,’ he lamented. ‘I knew your life had been too quiet of late. What the hell’s up?’

‘Lots of stuff; my friend Alex, the Mossos d’Esquadra detective,
is in charge of a very nasty double murder investigation, and I’ve been helping him, sort of. I was able to identify his victims, but that’s as far as I expect to be involved. No, it’s not my crisis this time; it’s my friend Shirley who’s been upset. She’s been led up the garden path by someone I thought was a gentleman, and I’m not about to let him get away with it.’

‘Then God help him,’ Mark said, cheerfully. ‘Who is he?’

‘Does the name Patterson Cowling mean anything to you?’

‘Should it? Is he the wrong-doer, the love rat?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Then I’m sorry; can’t help. Never heard of him. But what made you think I would have?’

I told him about my call to John Dale, and about his emphatic ‘Do not disturb!’ warning.

‘In which case,’ he said, slowly, ‘don’t you think you should take it to heart?’

‘The hell I will! Shirley’s hurt. The guy got up and left her, without a word, right in the middle of the golf tournament. He went back to her place, packed his gear, and walked out, leaving her nothing but a pathetic little note. I’m not going to let him get away with that; I’m going to find him and make him apologise properly.’

‘Are you sure you’re only annoyed for your friend?’ A shrewd question, by someone who knew me well.

‘Maybe not,’ I conceded. ‘I liked the man, Mark. I feel like he’s made a fool of me as well.’

He frowned, and scratched his chin. I noticed that his hand trembled a little. ‘Be that as it may, Primavera. This man seems to
be a retired spook, and you’ve been warned off by his masters. How are you planning to find him? I tell you now, I will be of limited help; security service records ain’t covered by Freedom of Information.’

‘He has two daughters,’ I said. ‘One’s called Ivy; she’s married with a couple of kids and I don’t know what her new name is. But the other’s an army surgeon, Major Cowling, first name Fleur. She shouldn’t be at all hard to find, so I was wondering . . .’

‘No, she shouldn’t be,’ he agreed. ‘I have contacts in the Ministry of Defence who can tell me whether she’s UK-based or in Afghanistan. But suppose I do find her for you? What are you going to do after that?’

‘I’ll get in touch with her and tell her I’m looking for her dad, and why. She should know what a shit he’s been.’

Mark smiled into his webcam. ‘If this was anyone but you, I wouldn’t touch it with a very long bargepole, but what the hell? From the sound of things Mr Cowling deserves what’s coming to him. Give me a day or so.’

We said our farewells, and I headed for my long-overdue appointment with the shower, and with my slinkiest black dress, some very expensive cosmetics, and the kind of jewellery I keep in the safe. Half an hour later, I judged myself not half bad, and went downstairs to meet my date. His eyebrows rose, and I realised with not a little satisfaction that he shared my opinion. I have to say that Jonny looked pretty sharp too, in Lacoste jeans, a muscle-tight white vest and a soft black leather jerkin. He was freshly shaved, and he looked as if somehow he’d managed to fit in a visit to the haircut shop at some point during the week. He looked different,
fulfilled, as if his afternoon triumph was sitting easily on him and had moved him on to a new level of maturity. He might have been only twenty-two years old, but he was a dish. Yup, I reckoned, if the chattering classes were out and about . . . and in St Martí, it only takes one . . . the rumour mill would have some new material to grind. About time too, I thought wickedly; a couple of years had gone by since the main topic of British conversation was Primavera Blackstone shagging the priest . . . not that she ever did, I declare emphatically.

‘Where’s Tom?’ I asked.

‘One of his pals came to fetch him,’ Jonny told me. ‘The teams were lining up, he said.’

‘Damn, I meant to give him some money. Never mind, we’ll look in there on the way.’

‘No need, Auntie P. Board boys get paid; he’s flush.’

‘Who pays them?’

‘The tournament director.’

‘Nice to know they’re not being exploited . . . even though Tom would probably have paid himself to do the job. Now, one other thing. How about you stop calling me Auntie P . . . just for tonight if that’s what you want? I do not get dolled up in my Dolce and Gabbana number and my Jimmy Choo shoes to be made to feel middle-aged.’

He smiled, his perfect teeth befitting the grandson of a dentist. ‘If it makes you happy, Primavera. God, that sounds funny.’ He stopped, raising an eyebrow. ‘But no way do you look middle-aged.’

I took his arm as we walked through the square, taking our time over the fifty metres from my front door to the restaurant, if only
because the pathway isn’t paved there, and I had to be cautious in the designer shoes. Even in that short way, I discovered that my nephew was famous; word of his profession had spread through the village since he’d moved in with me, and news of his victory had travelled even faster. St Martí has never boasted a resident celebrity; that night, as people called out congratulations to him, mostly in English but one or two in Castellano, it seemed to have found one.

The interior terrace was empty when we arrived; nine o’clock is seen there as an early booking, but there was a reserved sign on a table for four. I chose the one furthest away from it. ‘Champagne?’ Jonny asked.

‘On this special occasion,’ I told him, ‘I reckon you’re entitled.’ I wasn’t certain that any would be available in cava country, but it was, Lanson Black Label, which was fair enough by me. ‘I’m surprised you don’t fizz it around the place like a racing driver,’ I said, as the waiter opened it.

‘I’m my mother’s son,’ he laughed. ‘Every time she sees that done on telly she goes on about the waste.’

‘Are you going home to see her?’ I asked. ‘I know she’s gutted that she couldn’t be here.’

‘She couldn’t be here for that very reason,’ he pointed out, with a smile. ‘They say that hysterectomy isn’t as severe surgically as it used to be, but it’s still pretty radical. I saw her after she had the op, before Brush got me a sponsor’s invitation to Girona. Depending on how my schedule works out now, I might wait till she’s fit to travel and then take her for a convalescent trip somewhere. Maybe she could come with me to a tournament.’

‘That would be nice,’ I agreed. ‘How many tournaments will you get into for the rest of the year?’

‘All of them; automatically, as a tour winner. I need to decide which ones I’m actually going to play. Brush and I need to talk that through, and we will tomorrow.’

I looked him in the eye, over my glass. ‘You know, I still think the set-up’s weird, having a manager you’ve never met, but I’ll say this for the guy: he’s done a brilliant job for you simply by getting you this chance to prove yourself. At the same time, though,’ I added, ‘you’ve done the job for him, by taking it. What you’ve achieved this weekend, it’s just beginning to sink in. To win your first event; it’s fantastic.’

I reached out and squeezed his hand. He held on to mine for a while, gently. I felt a tingle, in my fingertips. ‘It is, isn’t it,’ he whispered. ‘Fuck! When I think of that last shot I played . . . I’ll bet you thought I was crazy, Primavera. But did you know that I was actually trying to hole it?’

‘My darling boy,’ I replied, ‘I was too busy trying not to pee my pants to be aware of much of the detail of the moment. But now you mention it, no, you didn’t seem to show any doubt at all.’