"Your friend enjoyed himself," she said.
"Yes, I hope he did," I replied, adding: "I'm having quite a pleasant evening myself."
I watched him reverse out of his parking place, then the long bonnet swung round and the Jaguar slid up the hill out of sight. There was a junction in about fifty yards where he would have to stop. As he pulled away a scooter engine burst into noisy life in the shadows just beyond him. Two youths were on it, and they followed George up the hill. The waiter arrived with my coffee. He put it down near me, but on the ladies' table; he was a professional.
"Would anyone…" I began.
There were two loud cracks, from what sounded like a heavy-calibre pistol. I sat, frozen, for half a second that felt like an eternity, then I was up and running.
I jumped on to the low wall that separated us from the first restaurant, stepped in the middle of someone's table, scattering food and crockery, and cleared the wall at the other side. I was in the street. George's car was at the junction, the scooter alongside it.
The scooter rider had messed up his getaway; he'd dropped the clutch too quickly and nearly stalled the engine. It was pop-popping and throwing up a cloud of blue smoke. I could catch him. I could catch the bastard and screw his fucking head off. Ten yards. The engine burst into full song. Four yards; he was screaming the engine, determined not to make the same mistake again. My outstretched fingers clutched for the collar of the passenger's jacket.
I grabbed a bunch of leather just below the collar, but I couldn't hold on to it. As they pulled away my fingernails raked down his back.
There was a luggage carrier behind the seat. My hand curled around the metal and I was dragged off my feet. The rear wheel was spinning inches in front of my face and the exhaust pipe bellowing in my ears and eyes. Twenty yards along the road I let go and rolled over in the gutter.
George's car had run back a short way and come to rest against a lighting column. As I limped towards it a horrified couple embraced each other for comfort. George was slumped over sideways; most of his brains were on the passenger seat. I removed the wallet from my jacket pocket and put the coat over his head, to protect him from salacious eyes. Then I sat on the edge of his seat, one foot on the pavement and my arm around him, and waited for the police to arrive.
Chapter Eleven
Capitano Diaz was immaculate in brown suit and cream shirt, in spite of being called out in the middle of the night. We'd had language difficulties in the local station, so I'd suggested that he be sent for. He arrived within the hour, and now it looked as if he had taken over the investigation. I found his courtesy disturbing. If our roles had been reversed I hope I would have treated him similarly, but I doubted it. We were sitting in a bare interview room. My trousers were around my ankles and the police doctor was cleaning up my knees.
He'd already trimmed the fingernails I'd nearly ripped off, carefully dropping the clippings into a specimen bag. I now sported two muslin finger-pokes on my right hand and my knees were stinging like hell.
Diaz was asking the questions.
"You are saying, Inspector Priest, that Mr. Palfreeman had a red Jagwar very similar to you own, and that the gunman mistook him for you? Am I correct?"
"Yes, Captain, I'm sure of it. The day before yesterday, before I was arrested by your men, I'd been to Gibraltar. I visited a pub a bar called the Pillars of Hercules, which I believe to be one of Cakebread's haunts. I let them know I was looking for him, and I was followed back to my car. Unfortunately I'd parked in the police station."
"In retrospect, Inspector, that would appear to have been foolish of you."
"Do you think I need reminding, Captain Diaz?" I snapped.
"Quite. I apologise. Even though you only met Mr. Palfreeman two days ago you are obviously upset by his death. Please accept my sympathies."
The doctor stood up and gabbled something to Diaz. Diaz translated:
"You are to keep the dressings on for as long as possible, then you should be okay without one. Why did you not tell me about Gibraltar when we met yesterday?"
I pulled up my trousers and shouted a thank you after the doctor as he left, then went on: "It wasn't relevant at that time. However, I've written a rough report and it's all in there. It's in my hotel room."
"Good. Yesterday we made some enquiries into your Mr. Cakebread's movements. I'm afraid you missed him; he left Spain last Thursday." He flicked through the pages of his notebook, then said: "Here it is. He flies an aeroplane called a Piper Commanche, and according to his flight plan, he intended landing at… Teesside, after refuelling at Nantes, in France. He had one passenger, a man called Bradshaw. You know him?"
I shrugged, saying: "Never heard of him. Teesside's interesting though. It's in the north of England, about a hundred miles further on than he need have flown."
"Very strange. When you go home, maybe you should ask yourself why it is necessary for him to fly so much further. Do you not think so, Inspector?"
"Good point," I admitted. "We'll look into it." I knew he usually kept his plane at Blackpool airport.
Diaz stood up: "Come, Inspector, I will take you back to your hotel, then you can give me those reports. Can you walk okay?"
It was an effort. Both knees had scraped along the tarmac for several yards, and the doctor's ministrations, while no doubt of long-term benefit, had only aggravated the immediate pain. My fingers were singing a duet to each other, too. On the way to his car Diaz asked if this would change my leaving plans. I'd not given them any thought since the shooting.
After a while I said: "I'll rest up for the remainder of today, then, if you've no objections, I'll leave first thing tomorrow morning."
"None at all, but I'd appreciate it if you stayed near your hotel today, in case we need anything else. You realise, of course, that you may have to come back to give evidence."
"If you catch them," I said.
"We'll catch them," he replied, as he opened the door for me. "Of that, Inspector, you can be quite sure."
I sat down, easing the material of my pants off my knees. When he was in beside me I said: "Capitano Diaz, you are of a higher rank than me, and although we are in different forces I respect that. However, I'd like to point out that I am a plain-clothes officer. If you call me Inspector all the time it destroys the point of it. My name is Priest, most people call me Charlie." I wasn't sure what his reaction would be, but he'd been getting up my bodily orifices with his formality.
He turned to face me and held out a perfectly manicured hand: "And my name is Rafael. Pleased to meet you, Charlie. I think you are my kind of police officer."
We were driving along the coast road. Off to our right the sun was half out of the sea. It looked like a red tombstone, come to mark the first day for seventy-odd years of a world without George Palfreeman. I twisted in my seat and watched it slowly rise and detach itself from its reflection.
"You're lucky to live in such a beautiful place," I said.
"Yes, I know. But there are beautiful places in the south of England, too. My wife and I have spent several happy holidays in Cornwall and Devon. You live in the north, I believe. Is it very industrialised there?"