I recalled the extraordinarily handsome perlagoniums in the garden’s patio outside and resolved to pinch a few cuttings while no one was about. I supplied myself with several sheets of kitchen roll soaked in water and a pair of kitchen scissors, and stepped out into the already hot sunlight. I took my time selecting them, for I felt it would be impractical to take more than eight.
I had just snipped the fourth when I heard noises from the kitchen, much the same sort of noises as I had made a half hour earlier. What to do? Some people can be surprisedly shirty when they catch you taking cuttings, especially if they are of hybrids they have themselves created, as well might have been the case in this instance. I decided to hide in an alcove where there was a stone sink and a coiled hose, and wait until whoever was in the kitchen had gone. I gathered up my impedimenta, and did just that, turned to face outwards and found I was looking across the patio at the man who had to be the gardener himself. He was tall but old, with short white hair and a big white moustache, and a big white beard, both stained yellow. He was dressed in an orange mono splashed with mud and perhaps cement, wore heavy-duty gardening boots.
“¡Hola!” I offered. “¡Buenas días!”
He said nothing, which is unusual for a Spaniard when offered the time of day, but unbuttoned his breast pocket, took out a pack of Ducados, shook one out and lit it. The smell recalled painfully just why I had been caught so obviously in flagrante delicto. Then as he expelled the first puff, sandalled feet tick-tocked out of the kitchen and there was Lola, in a short and transparent nightie as well as gold sandals, carrying a tray with a bowl of coffee and a large chocolatina.
She didn’t see me, but put the tray down on a large upturned flower-pot, perched on to her toes and gave the gardener a big kiss.
“¡Hola, Papa, croissants, no quedan. No sé por qué...!”
So. The gardener was Lola’s father — not an unlikely arrangement. I put down my stolen cuttings and sidled away muttering apologies in mixed Spanish and English which they ignored.
At midday then we were all out in the bay on the Hicks’s second major craft, an elegant reproduction of a Victorian steam yacht, but with modern engines, radar and so on, and just over the spot where his more conventionally modern cruiser had been blown up. Presently Holmes and Juan appeared from below, clad in wet suits. On the deck they hoisted oxygen cylinders on to their backs, fixed masks, all that scene — one has seen it a thousand times on TV — and finally to the manner born toppled backwards over the taffrail.
When I say ‘all’ I mean all — not only María Pilar and her children, the concubines including the strange and at the moment clearly agitated Carmen, and their older children, but also Stride, and the Colonel of the Civil Guards — again in full fig, black hat, black moustache, Sam Browne and the rest. Twenty minutes or so went by during which we all watched the rise and plop of bubbles through the oily water. After a time a brown scum crept by on which floated panty-pads and used contraceptives. I was amused that the efforts of the ayuntamiento de Las Palomas to cast a cordon sanitaire round their unspoilt haven were visited by the sea — the flotsam of the Costa del Sol, recently named Costa del Mierda, could not be so easily kept at bay. During all this Holmes apparently kept up a laconic conversation with the Colonel by phone.
Suddenly a big break of bubbles through the heaving scum heralded a shout of triumph. The Colonel stood up and explained, in Spanish of course but the gist was clear: “She’s got it.”
An underling in round, peaked cap strode across to the small funnel that rose in front of the staterooms, and yanked on a small lever. A shiny copper or brass horn near the top of the funnel emitted two short blasts and a long one that echoed across the bay. Our attention was drawn to the villa the evil trio had rented and its purlieus. It was nearer the water and nearer our boat than I had expected. What one saw was a platoon of Guardias, in full combat gear, snaking up over the terraces towards the house. A PA system boomed incomprehensibly, presumably calling upon the occupants to surrender. It was answered by the crackle of small arms, and tiny puffs of blue smoke drifted across the frontage. The Guardias replied and most of the villa’s windows, shutters and all, disintegrated in the firestorm. Five seconds and a white flag was waved. Clough and Allison appeared on the terrace, their hands on their heads.
At this moment Carmen uttered a cry expressing horror and despair and jumped from the taffrail. Undeterred by my effort the previous day, I again launched myself at her, but she was too quick for me and I fell on my boobs and face on the spot where she had been standing. She was last seen doing a powerful crawl through the filth of the bay and out to sea. No one, apart from me, seemed bothered to stop her.
A familiar voice behind me: “Well, you could have got us up a bit smarter than that. We’ve missed all the fun.” And Holmes, followed by Juan, both holding black plastic bags, squelched and smacked past me towards the companionway. I looked at the frog-footprints they left, arrow-shaped but pointing back to the rail they had climbed over, and all fell into place.
Lunch on board was, I have to say, magnificent though served as a finger buffet — a system that I normally find unsatisfactory: besides various hams and chicken and so on that I can’t take there were giant prawns, calamares romana, Canary potatoes in hot cumin sauce, Russian salad, six other salads, and a huge cold sea bass. There was French champagne and the best in Spanish brandy. Oh yes, I almost forgot, there was cream Catalan, Pyjama ice-cream, water melon, peaches, loquats, and so on. And unlimited coffee.
When it was over we were all called into the main stateroom. A table had been set across one end beneath a second portrait of Hicks, this time one of him steering the boat we were on. Behind the table sat Holmes, Stride and the Colonel of the Civil Guards. The rest of us sat if we could, or stood in a crowd at the back. The Colonel opened the proceedings and Juan, whose English could be as good as his father’s, whispered what he said in my ear.
The gist was simple. Condolences to the bereaved family delivered somewhat perfunctorily. Then congratulations to Holmes for so speedily sorting out and proving by whom and how the dreadful deed had been done. Three criminals with an unjustified grudge against Hicks had mined his boat and detonated their explosives by a remote control device, blowing him to bite-size pieces. They had been assisted by Carmen, a close friend of Hicks, but who had also developed a grudge against him. She had been caught on the other side of the headland and confessed all. Meanwhile Holmes had recovered evidence of how the mine was detonated from the sea-bed and the device used to transmit the signal would shortly be discovered in the villa. The Guardias under his command had attempted a peaceful arrest of the three murderers but they had resisted. One of them, Brian McClintock, had been shot dead.
Applause.
Stride took the floor. He was, he said, very grateful indeed to his colleague of the Spanish Guardia Civil, so long a force for law and order respected all over Europe and the world, for this magnificent achievement. Speaking on behalf of the English equivalents, his senior officers in Scotland Yard and in the Special Branch, he would like to say how pleased he was that these three nasties had been wrapped up for good, especially McClintock who was known to have had a hand in the assassination of Lord Mountbatten, even though he had been in prison at the time. No doubt the lefties back home would bleat as they usually did, as they had after the Gibraltar affair, at summary justice executed against known terrorists, but he was confident that Spain’s handling of the whole business would be unequivocally endorsed by HMG.