‘Sure. They know when I don’t want to be disturbed and they arrange it so that I won’t be. You’re part of it now; their protective parasol shields you too. They know the job you have back in Scotland, and that you and I value our privacy while we’re here. Look at the table John kept for us, at the back of the terrace, so that nobody walks past us on their way in or out. You’re facing the entrance: a lot of people have glanced our way in the time we’ve been here, but nobody’s come across. Tell me if I’m wrong.’
‘No, you’re spot on.’
‘There’s an army of Brits here now, and a lot of Scots among them. If we were closer to the door, our evening wouldn’t have been our own. John and his folks understand that, and they make sure it doesn’t happen.’
As Bob spoke a figure appeared at his shoulder. He glanced up and smiled. ‘This is the patriarch,’ he said ‘Don Carles, John’s dad. How’re you doing, my friend? Pull a chair over and have a glass of fizzy water.’
‘I’m okay,’ the restaurateur replied, accepting both invitations. ‘Everything ticking over. I am so pleased to meet your lovely lady, and to see you both so happy. And your daughter? How is she? A big-shot lawyer in Edinburgh now, they tell me.’
‘Not quite big-shot, not yet at any rate, but she’s doing well.’
‘No boyfriend just now? That’s what she tell me last time she was here.’
‘She goes out with the guy next door sometimes. He’s one of mine, a cop, which sort of guarantees good behaviour. He’s a decent lad, but more a minder than a boyfriend, I’d say.’
‘And the kids? The little ones?’
‘With their mother in America. That’s good too: I couldn’t spend all the summer holiday with them, but she can.’
‘I pleased it work out for you.’ He looked at Aileen. ‘It’s funny, we both have kids called Alex, but mine is a son.’ Carles Pallares paused, and a small frown wrinkled his permatanned features. ‘Hey, Bob,’ he murmured. ‘What’s this story I hear, about the dead girl?’
‘It’s a true story, mate. I found her.’
‘So I hear, at the bar inside, from Gary and Dilwyn. She die of the sun?’
‘Is that what they’re saying?’
‘Sí.’
‘Then let them till they find out different. She was shot. She’s from Bellcaire; her name was Nada Sebastian.’
The frown deepened. ‘Sister Nadine? Oh, my God. She had an exposicio in the town hall in March. Every picture she sell, she give one third of the money to the church in L’Escala. She’s been here too, you know.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, friend, but she won’t be here again.’
‘Carles!’ The call came from a tall blonde woman in the doorway.
‘Kathleen wants me,’ said her husband. ‘She call, I go. I’ll tell her later about Nadine. She’ll be upset. See you later.’
‘I see what you mean, about being part of the family,’ Aileen murmured, as he left.
‘We’re all like that,’ Bob told her, ‘all the long-term visitors. It’s not just me. La familia La Clota is big, and multi-national. Maybe I should stop sitting with my back to the rest of them, now we’re finished eating. Bunk over and I’ll come round.’
He was sliding his seat alongside hers, when his Spanish mobile sounded. ‘Bugger,’ he murmured, as he picked it up from the table and flipped it open.
‘Comisario Skinner?’ a female voice asked.
‘Yes, Intendant. What can I do for you?’
‘Something has happened that you should know about. I just heard from my colleagues in the Guardia Civil. The young man Colledge bought a ticket on the Transavia flight from Girona to Rotterdam this afternoon.’
‘They intercepted him? Excellent.’
Cortes drew a deep breath. ‘No,’ she said. ‘By the time they got round to alerting the airlines, it had departed. Worse than that, it had landed in Holland. He’s been there for hours.’
‘You’ve checked that he actually caught it?’
‘Yes. His name was confirmed on the passenger list. I apologise, Comisario, this is not good. I will have someone’s cojones for this.’
‘One for yourself and one for me,’ Skinner growled. ‘Thanks for alerting me. I’ll advise my people in Scotland.’
‘Balls-up?’ Aileen asked, as he closed the phone.
‘Ripped off, if Cortes is as good as her word. Inter-agency co-operation’s been less than perfect. The kid’s been in Spain all right, but now he’s left the country. I’ll have to call Neil.’
She watched him as he punched in McIlhenney’s home number, then listened as the call was connected, and as he briefed the superintendent on the news from Cortes.
‘Where can he go from Rotterdam?’ he said to the phone. ‘Anywhere he bloody likes: Holland’s a major European travel hub. I’m not going to tell you what to do, because you know.’ Pause. ‘No, you advise the father. I’ve had it for now. We’ve got a holiday to finish. I don’t expect to hear from anybody until Sunday, earliest, by which time we’ll be back home. Cheers, Neil; best of luck.’
‘Do you think that’ll hold?’ Aileen asked, as he finished. Her smile drove the scowl from his face.
‘Bloody well better,’ he chuckled, ‘but I don’t hold out any real hope.’
‘Do you want to change the flight?’ she asked. ‘Go back tomorrow instead?’
He shook his head. ‘No, my love. I have very firm plans for tomorrow. None of them involves travel, and all of them involve you.’
Fifty-five
‘Thank Christ for a pause button,’ Mario McGuire exclaimed, as the phone rang for the second time in ten minutes, ‘or this DVD would be a total waste of time.’
‘Stop moaning.’ Paula Viareggio laughed. ‘You must know Pirates of the Caribbean off by heart now. I’m beginning to think of you as an outsize Johnny Depp.’
‘Sorry, I can’t do the accent.’ He glanced at the caller number on the handset. ‘Hello, Mags,’ he said. ‘Are you and McIlhenney conspiring to ruin my evening?’
‘I’m sorry, Mario.’ She sighed. ‘I forgot the time.’
Her crestfallen tone made him feel instant guilt. ‘It’s okay. I didn’t mean it, honest. What can I do for you?’
‘Probably nothing. I wanted to share something with you, that’s all.’
‘Then share away. I’m listening.’
’I think I’ve found a route to Drazen Boras.’
‘You’ve what? Explain!’
‘Have you ever heard of Margaritaville?’
‘Jimmy Buffett’s greatest hit. He’s a country singer. Wrote a couple of books as well.’
‘He’s more than that, and so’s Margaritaville. It’s been turned into a franchise, a chain of bar restaurants in hip places, like Jamaica, Las Vegas, Florida and so on. Remember the jacket Boras wore when he came to Edinburgh, the day you saw him down in Leith?’
‘Margaritaville,’ said McGuire. ‘You’re right.’
‘That was the Jamaican one,’ she told him. ‘He’s also been to the Las Vegas version; there’s a Fishheads press release all about his trip, and a photo to prove it. His pal Ifan Richards was there as well, according to a shirt he was wearing in a shot taken a few months ago in Cape Town. He’s also been to the Margaritaville in Key West.’
‘They seem to be big fans of Mr Buffett.’
‘Very much so. Ifan Richards was in Columbia, South Carolina, on Wednesday last week, and guess where he bought the shirt he was wearing in the pic that his PR firm circulated last Friday? Margaritaville, Myrtle Beach: South Carolina.’
‘That’s bloody good, Mags,’ Mario conceded. ‘But we can’t stake out every one of these places indefinitely in the hope that Boras drops in for a beer, and nobody else will do it for us.’
‘We don’t have to,’ Maggie retorted. ‘On Monday, the document recording the sale, or transfer, of his share-holding in Fishheads was lodged with the company’s registrar in London, in accordance with company law. It was dated the previous Tuesday, the day before his mate showed up in Columbia wearing the Myrtle Beach shirt. . and Dražen’s signature was on it.’
‘It could have been couriered to him from anywhere.’