Bright and early next morning found me still fast asleep. Eventually I awoke and just made it for the last ten minutes of breakfast. I went out blinking into the sunlight and took stock of my physical condition.
I rotated one shoulder several times, then the other. Next I moved my head to the limits of its range, first side to side, then forwards and backwards. My fingers were still working and I was able to stand on my tiptoes. It looked as if I was alive, so I'd best get on with it.
I was at a place called Benalmadena. In one direction, within walking distance, lay Torremolinos, and to the other side, but further away, was Marbella. I didn't have to look far for boats to inspect: there was a marina right outside the hotel, and several others within sight.
It made sense to eliminate the ones between here and Torremolinos first, and then go down to Marbella and work my way back.
How would I know which was Cakebread's boat? Well, I might see him on it. Then maybe the letters PH on the note were shorthand for its name.
Another possibility was that he'd use the ABC theme or maybe his wife's name. Lastly was the western influence; he seemed to have a penchant for things cowboy. Bonanza, Maverick, or maybe even Rednecked Asshole were all contenders. There was plenty to go on, I was feeling confident, and it was a pleasant way of spending a couple of days.
It's difficult to be patient and vigilant at the same time. I read off the boat names but had to compare each with the checklist of possibilities, not just let them float through my mind. Hoping that a name will trigger something in the subconscious is not a reliable way of doing things. Fortunately relief was close at hand. All the way into Torremolinos, fronting on to the beach, is a succession of cafes, collectively known as the Carahuela. They all have imaginative names and prosaic menus, offering typical local dishes such as beefburgers and pizzas. After each small marina had been inspected I would relax with a coffee or a glass of Seven-Up. From now on I was a Seven-Up man.
Paella is one of my favourite meals. As I walked by the restaurants I studied the plates of the diners, and examined the menus, to see who did the biggest, saffroniest, prawniest paella. It was a disappointment: every place cooked it, but for two persons only.
Yorkshire thriftiness wouldn't allow me to order a double portion just for myself. Ah well, to everything there is a purpose: I'd have to invite someone to share it with me. Wonder what night Stephanie is free?
I drew a blank on the first leg, but I was just practising. I'd learned to walk past the "Privado' signs on many of the jetties and walk up and down the duckboards as if I owned them. It was hotter than I had expected, so I made my way back to the hotel and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Driving to Marbella and then marina-hopping back to Benalmadena was the way I'd decided to manage the next leg, but I was delayed. The first thing I saw when I reached the car was that some Iberian imbecile had scraped a wing.
"It's only metal," I told myself, without conviction, as I charged into the hotel foyer. The desk clerk was very apologetic and came out to look at the damage. He shook his head sadly as he surveyed it.
"How sad. What a lovely car," he sighed. I began to feel sorry for spoiling his day; a more considered inspection showed it to be only a little scratch. Eventually he composed himself and said: "Come with me. I show you where you put car." He took me back through the foyer, down a short corridor and through a couple of doors that weren't meant for the public. We were out the back, in a yard where the service vans did their deliveries and where the rubbish bins were kept. One or two hotel vehicles were parked here. "Tonight you put car there," he said, pointing. "Will be safe from mad German drivers."
The road into Marbella was busy. There are long stretches of dual carriage way and on one of them I caught a brief movement over at the other side. It was another red E-type, but a convertible, travelling in the opposite direction. An arm was held up in a wave, but before I could take in any more the lorry in front braked hard and demanded my attention. It was loaded with fifty thousand live chickens, packed into minute wicker cages. I know where hell is it's somewhere in the middle of a lorry-load like that.
The boats were in a different league to those I'd looked at in the morning. My eyes ached with the glare off white hulls and gleaming mahogany decks, with stainless steel and brass and probably even gold-plated fittings. Flags hung indolently and here and there a rope dared to tap gently against a mast. I learned to say "No stiletto heels' in five languages. I didn't see any silly cowboy names, though.
It was amazing how many of the British boats were flying the Union flag. You'd think that anyone who owned a few hundred grand's worth of yacht would be interested enough to find out that he was supposed to show the Red Duster. Some were even carrying small Union Jacks on the mast, instead of the Spanish flag, which should be displayed as a courtesy gesture to the host port. I wondered, briefly, how such morons made their money; then I remembered Cakebread and knew the answer. Unfortunately I didn't find a boat that looked as if it might belong to him.
Harbour by harbour I made my way back towards Benalmadena. I'd walk up and down the jetties, reading the names on the hulls. Some were clever, others were ordinary and a few made you think about the character of the owner. What sort of person would retire to the Costa del Sol to live on a boat named Evasion, Palimoney or Lucky Flicker!
Then I'd retrace my steps back to the Jag and drive on to the next floating exhibition of wealth. If I'm ever rich I think I'll just Sellotape my bank statement in the rear window of the car. It'll save a lot of effort.
It was nearly dinner time when I arrived at the hotel. I put the Jag round the back, where it was out of the way. I was a lot happier with it there. The sun had sunk below the rim of the hills that lie inland, and they were etched, hard-edged, against the evening sky. I'd had a fruitless day, but I wasn't despondent. Maybe the task I'd set myself was hopeless, but I'd been on plenty of wild-goose chases before. Not this far from home though. At least nobody knew I was here, and there was no drain on the Force budget to be accounted for. And let's be honest, I was enjoying myself. I showered and changed into something more suitable and went to the dining room.
Those hills were inviting. If nothing turned up tomorrow I'd seriously think about abandoning the project and have a couple of days lost in the mountains. It was a long time since I'd walked a decent ridge. I sat down at an empty table, pushed all thoughts of crooks and boats out of my mind, and set about working my way through the menu, towards the inevitable creme caramel.
The food was better than I'd be having at home, when you took into consideration the service. In other words, no cooking or washing-up.
Afterwards I ordered a pot of tea in the lounge and slouched in an armchair, assessing my fellow guests.
"Hello, how are you enjoying your stay?"
I turned and pushed myself more upright. It was Stephanie. "Fine," I answered, unsuccesfully trying not to look too pleased to see her.
"Dinner was good and I've caught the sun. What more could I ask for?"
"Good. I hear your car was bumped. Is it bad?"
"No, just a scratch. They've let me put it round the back, so it should be okay now."
She apologised again, and was about to leave when I said: "Can you recommend anywhere that does a decent paella? I've developed a craving while I've been here. Hope there's nothing wrong with me."
She thought for a while. "Anywhere on the Carahuela, I would have thought. I'm not all that keen on seafood myself, but I'll ask around."
Ah well, make that paella for one, Manuel. "Thanks. Maybe you can help me with one more thing." She'd turned to go, but stopped and faced me again. I went on: "I'm looking for a friend with a boat. A wealthy friend. Any suggestions where I might start looking?"