‘Aye well,’ said my pal, ‘that’s the thing. He’s on the black-list. He owes his credit card companies a few hundred and the interest’s mounting by the month. According to his file, Starr is a lecturer at Cardiff College of Art. He’s single, aged thirty-four. He was a tenant at the address you gave me. It’s a college house, apparently. But for over a year now, the credit card company’s had mail returned from there, stamped “gone away”.
‘There have been no transactions on his cards for about a year now … no attempt to use them, I mean, because they’ve both been pulled. But Oz, the daft thing is, he’s in credit at the bank, and he has a building society account with thousands in it. Both those accounts are frozen, pending court actions against him in Wales by the Visa and Mastercard operators. They both got judgements last month, and they’re on the point of enforcing them.’
‘Did Starr defend the actions?’
‘No. The bailiffs for the pursuers couldn’t serve the writs, so they had to place a public notice in the local press advising of the hearings. No one turned up on the day, though.’
‘What about the art college? Do they know anything about him?’
‘The database doesn’t say anything about that, Oz.’
‘Does it list a next of kin?’
‘No.’ Eddie paused. ‘Look, what’s all this about, China? ’Cos if you’re certain that this guy’s Hovis, and it looks as if you could be, you should report it.’
‘Ahh,’ I said. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that. I’ve just had information that he is, but I’m not in a position to prove it. What you’ve told me is very useful, though. It clarifies one or two things.’
‘So what more d’you need to prove it?’
‘A body would help, Eddie. See you. Thanks.’
As I hung up, Primavera appeared at my shoulder, slipping on her dressing gown, and with mine slung over her shoulder. For the first time, I noticed the gathering cool of the autumn evening.
‘What did he have?’ she asked.
‘From what he told me, Starr seems to have vanished last year. That makes it all the more certain that our pile of bones is him. Eddie did have something new to add, though. The man was an art teacher, in Cardiff.’
‘That’s interesting. So how will we follow that up?’
I tied the cord of my robe. ‘I guess by calling the Cardiff College of Art. Maybe the people there will be able to tell us more about the probably late Mr Starr.’
‘Excellent,’ said Prim. ‘That gives you something to do tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have an earlier engagement, remember. Dining at Gary’s, in search of Trevor.’
I gave her a pretty good grimace. ‘After what we’ve learned so far, I’m not sure I want to find him. Still, there is one plus point.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We can put dinner on expenses.’
25
I never have found out what Gary’s surname is. I don’t know of anyone else in L‘Escala who knows it either; simply because no one I’ve met has ever asked him. That’s the sort of place L’Escala is.
Although it’s only a few kilometres away its attitudes, compared with those in St Marti, are light years apart. In the village where Prim and I made our home, the rare outsiders who manage to buy property and choose to become permanent residents find themselves subject to direct, and not very discreet enquiries, until their backgrounds and much of their intimate business is known.
In L’Escala, though, a poncho-wearing stranger could ride into town on a sway-backed burro, stay for a year, kill all the local bad guys and ride out again, without anyone knowing as much as his name, unless he had chosen to give it.
All we knew of Gary was that he was a nice bloke who ran a restaurant. We had learned second-hand from Shirley that he had arrived in town a couple of years before, had liked the place and had decided to stay and open a business.
He was waiting for us in his pocket-sized dining room, at the top of an alley behind the church, his hand outstretched in greeting, and a smile of welcome on his face, when we arrived just before 9 p.m. ‘Hello there. Dead on time as usual. It really helps, your being able to come now. I’ve got Maggie and five friends booked in for nine-thirty, so I’ll have you well under way by then.’
We were used to the ways of Gary’s, a one-man operation where everything is bought fresh and cooked fresh, and where evenings are planned with military efficiency, and run that way until the last course is served to the last table, and everyone can get pleasantly pissed.
Prim had made our menu choices by telephone when she booked, and so, even allowing for his timetable, we were able to relax over a beer with our host before we ate.
We talked about this and that; our new business venture, Gary’s opening schedule for the winter months, and the success of the tourist season which was just winding down … something many Catalan business owners do not care to discuss in public, just in case the tax hombre may be listening at the next table. But we didn’t rush to ask any questions. We had agreed that in the circumstances — since our discovery about Starr had changed the nature of the game — that tracing Trevor was a subject to be handled with care. Also, Gary had told Prim earlier of his booking for six, and we had decided to sit tight, on the off chance that our man would be one of the number.
Our salmon steaks were on the table when the sextet arrived. We looked up as they entered, one by one; Maggie, whom we knew, a German couple named Manfred and Lucy, whom we had met there before, and the three Millers, parents and son. Maggie gave us her usual generous ‘Hello’, Manfred and Lucy came along to our table to shake hands, but the Millers settled into their places at table, with the briefest of smiles.
Prim kicked me under the table, and, her hand out of sight under her napkin, pointed across in their general direction. I took the hint, rose from my place, and walked over to Steve. I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘About last night,’ I said, trying not to choke. ‘I’m sorry if we got off to a bad start. I didn’t mean all that crap (lie). I had a few beers too many on top of a heavy day (truth).’
He reached round and offered a handshake. ‘That’s okay, Ozzie, old chap,’ he said, loudly and magnanimously … there’s nothing worse than an arsehole like him being magnanimous to you. ‘No harm done.’
When I sat down again at our table, I could see the effort with which Prim was suppressing her grin. She knows how much I hate being called ‘Ozzie’.
The ice was broken, though, and our two tables soon became an informal arrangement of eight, with the inevitable increase in wine consumption to which that leads. I had given up hope of us getting any more out of the evening than a good meal and a good bevvy, when all of a sudden, we had an ally.
‘Hey, Gary,’ called Maggie, in her sharp, northern accent. She runs a service company for villa owners, and her success is built on being able to arrange absolutely anything. ‘That chap Trevor Eames. ’Ave you seen him lately? Only Steve ‘ere wants to fix up some sailing lessons when he comes back at easter; and Trevor does that, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the restauranteur. ‘You won’t find him just now, though. I know for a fact he’s away crewing, on a big sailing boat out of Ampuriabrava.’
‘When will he be back?’
Gary sucked in his breath. ‘I’m not sure. You never can be certain with these casual trips. But from what he was saying, I wouldn’t look for him to be around before next week.’
‘Oh dash,’ said Maggie. ‘Steve goes home on Friday.’
I saw my chance and stepped into it. ‘Tell you what, Steve,’ I said. ‘Prim and I have been talking about learning to sail. Why don’t we look him up when he gets back, and make an arrangement for you while we’re about it?’
‘Would you, Ozzie old chap?That’d be great. I’m due back on April two next year, for a fortnight.’