‘Zero problemo, Stevie son. D’you know where this Trevor lives, Gary? He is the bloke we’ve seen in here, isn’t he? Wee chap, bald head, skin like a walnut.’
Our host looked up from the bar, where he was sorting out the bills, and nodded. ‘That’s the man; that’s Trevor. Never at a loss for a word. But I’m sorry, Oz, I don’t know where he lives, only that it’s somewhere in L’Escala. He has a boat in the marina, though, with a little day cabin, and with a couple of dinghies which he uses for teaching strapped to the roof. You’ll usually find him around there, when he’s in town. It’s called La Sirena something. La Sirena Two, I think. I’ve got no idea where his mooring is, though.’
‘Thanks, Gary. We’ll start looking for him next week.’
‘Okay. If he comes in, I’ll mention it. Do you want me to send him along to see you in St Marti?’
That was pushing it. ‘No, that’s okay. There’s no guarantee we’d be in. We’ll find him ourselves, don’t you worry.’
26
We managed to escape from our extended dinner table without doing ourselves too much damage, and so my morning run was a much less harrowing experience than that of the day before. I even completed a few feeble push-ups in front of the church before heading back up to the apartment.
When I came in, carrying my trainers this time, having judged them safe to be allowed indoors, Prim was showered and dressed and looking pleased with herself. She didn’t even wait to be asked. ‘I’ve been on to international directory enquiries. The number of Cardiff Art College is on the pad beside the phone.
‘And we’ve had a fax confirming theTarragona commission. They want a report by the beginning of next week, if possible. The client has arranged for you to do the interview on Friday.’
Thinking again about my trainers, I tossed them out on to the terrace. ‘No problem. Have they given us details about the subject?’
‘Yes. She’s Spanish.’
‘Christ, that’s a small detail they haven’t mentioned before. Still, we are called Blackstone Spanish Investigations, so they’re entitled to make the assumption.’
Prim nodded. ‘That’s right. So we just hire an interpreter and put translation costs on the bill.’
‘Sure, but where will we find an interpreter for Frid …’ I caught her eye, and her smile, and read her mind.
‘Davidoff.’ We said the name in unison.
‘D’you think he would?’
‘We can only ask,’ said Primavera. ‘But if I ask him, I think he might.’
We ate breakfast on the terrace as usual, then tossed a coin to decide who would wash the dishes and who would call Cardiff College of Art. I won.
The man on the switchboard told me that the principal’s name was Mrs Adams, and put me through to her office. Her secretary turned out to be a more formidable obstacle to clear. ‘I’m sorry, but the principal is a very busy person. “Confidential matter” is not good enough.’
‘Okay. I’m a private investigator. I’m making enquiries on behalf of a client about a member of your staff. Mr Ronald Starr.’
‘Hold on, please.’ Her tone didn’t change but I could tell that I had cleared the hurdle. She was back on the line in less than ten seconds. ‘I’m putting you through.’
‘Mr Blackstone?’ Mrs Adams had the rich deep voice of a Welsh rugby commentator. I wondered about MrAdams. ‘You say you’re making enquiries about Ronnie Starr?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mmm. Do something for me when you find him, will you. Tell him to get back here and empty out his bloody locker!’
For a second I thought she was about to hang up. Maybe she had been, but I stopped her. ‘Hold on, Mrs Adams,’ I said quickly. ‘If I’m right you might as well clear out his locker yourself.’
I held my breath, waiting still for the hum of a broken line. ‘You think Ronnie’s dead?’ she asked, at last.
Perhaps I had gone too far. ‘It has to be a possibility. When did you hear from him last?’
‘I haven’t heard from the man since the day he left us, in June last year. I did expect him back in October, to start a new contract. But he didn’t appear. No letter, no call, nothing. I was keeping his job open, and his college flat unlet. He let me down. Left me with a roll of students and no one to teach them. I even had to get paint on my hands again.’
‘Mrs Adams,’ I ventured, ‘can you tell me a few things about Ronald Starr? What was his speciality?’
‘He was a painting tutor. Good all-rounder, but his main interest was surrealism.’
‘Was he a good painter?’
‘Exceptional,’ she barked. ‘I’ve no idea why he was teaching, really. He could have supported himself by painting professionally. In fact he should have. He was that good.’
‘His own work, it was surrealist too, yes?’
‘That’s right. The chap had a tremendous range. His colour choice was fantastic, the way he blended them together. He could make a canvas sing.’
I began to tremble. All of a sudden, the jigsaw seemed to have fewer, much bigger, pieces. I pushed it a bit further. ‘When he left, last year, d’you know where he was going?’
‘Yes,’ she said, heavily. ‘He told me he was bound for the north of Spain. To paint, and to research the Catalan surrealists. The king of them all, of course, was Dali. Ronnie Starr worshipped him. He seemed to know his whole portfolio, off by heart. He could mimic some of it as well.’ Her booming chuckle startled me. ‘He could do a great soft watch, could our Ronnie!’
27
When I called Gavin Scott on his mobile, he was in the middle of a meeting. When he called me back fifteen minutes later, I could hear other voices in the background.
‘Sorry, Oz,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a major business pitch this afternoon. You rang in the middle of the dress rehearsal. You got something to report already?’
‘Yes, Gavin. It’s nothing concrete, but let’s just say that a pretty strong possibility has opened up. You might not like it, though.’
I heard him take a deep breath. ‘Try me, anyway.’
‘Okay. Let’s start with the man named Trevor that you described to us. Does the surname Eames mean anything to you?’
There was a few seconds’ silence, then, ‘Yes! That was it. Trevor Eames. That’s how he introduced himself the first time that we met.’
‘Okay, that’s a good start. We’ve found him. At least we know where he is. He’s out on the Med for the next week or so, helping sail some rich German’s schooner. As soon as he’s back we’ll see what he can tell us.’
‘That’s great,’ said Scott. ‘Quick work. Now what’s the bad news?’
It was my turn to take a deep breath. ‘There’s bad, and there’s worse. It looks as if your Dali isn’t a Dali after all, but a brilliant fake by a very gifted painter.’
‘Who?’
‘Ronald Starr,’ I said. ‘He was a lecturer at an art college in Wales, and a real student of Dali.’
‘What! The guy who was the host at the dinner?’ Scott’s voice was raised. In the background, the hum of his colleagues’ conversation suddenly fell silent.
‘This is where it gets worse, Gavin. Ronnie Starr disappeared from his job, and from everything else, over a year ago. We don’t know who your mysterious auctioneer was, but we’re pretty certain that he wasn’t the real Starr.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘Because we have very solid reason to believe that Ronnie Starr is dead.’
Via satellite, I heard Gavin Scott gasp. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘You lot,’ he called to his staff. ‘Leave me alone for a bit, please.’
Down the line I heard the sound of shuffling, mumbling, and finally, a closing door. ‘Okay, be more specific. Are we talking heart attack? Accident?’
‘No, I don’t think so. We’re talking violence. We’re talking about Ronnie Starr being talked into painting your undiscovered Dali masterpiece, then being murdered, before the picture was sold to you at that bizarre auction.’
‘Jesus!’ There was another long pause. ‘What should we do now? Should you go to the Spanish police?’