I grinned at Shirley’s amiable brother. ‘Anything but bloody cards,’ I whispered.
‘Excellent. Let’s grab some food from the buffet, and I’ll show you the table. Clive had it shipped over from England.’
The snooker room was in the basement level of the house, off the vast garage. In the corner there was a small fridge, from which Adrian produced two Sol beers. He uncapped them, handing one to me. ‘No limes to suck with them, I’m afraid, though I always think that’s a bit of a pose.’ I agreed. Beer was beer, whether it was Mexican, Spanish or made in Fountainbridge.
Adrian’s snooker seemed to be on a par with mine. After half an hour, there were still four reds left on the table, one for each empty Sol bottle on top of the fridge. ‘I never could take this game seriously,’ he confessed at last. ‘Clive used to regard me as cannon fodder, and Shirley used to say that she could wipe the floor with the pair of us.
‘Golf’s my game, really,’he added, suddenly slamming the twelfth red into the right middle pocket. The white spun back behind the blue, on its spot. He rolled it away very gently, then edged a red along the cushion into the top left pocket, finishing on the black. It went down, followed by the last two reds, two pinks and all the colours.
I looked him in the eye as the last black thudded against the back of the pocket. ‘Are you as big a bandit at golf?’
Adrian smiled, his beard spreading out in a funny kind of way. ‘Not a bandit, Oz. I just don’t like to show all I’ve got. Bit like someone else around here,’ he added, almost absent-mindedly. ‘The thing was,’ he went on quickly, ‘I could hardly have screwed poor old Clive into his own table, could I. It wouldn’t have been courteous. Old man, you’re a better player than he was. When we were down here I used to miss in a way that would set balls up for him to pot. You should always keep a bit back, whatever you do in life. Just a little extra in the tank, for when you really need it.’
I wondered about the ethics of that approach. ‘Where do you play your golf?’ I asked him.
‘When I’m here, at Torremirona, mostly, although I’ve played all of the courses in the province at one time or another. Back home I play at the Belfry, off six.’ Having seen his snooker, I wondered how genuine his golf handicap might be. ‘How about you?’ he went on. ‘Do you play?’
I’m always modest about my golf, with good reason. ‘I’m from Fife,’ I said, ‘so it’s compulsory. I’m a member of Elie, like my dad, but I haven’t been there very often of late. I’ve never played over here.’
‘Mmm,’ Adrian mused. ‘Next time I’m over we’ll have a game. It’ll need to wait till then, I’m afraid, for my dance card’s full for the rest of this week, and I’m going home on Saturday.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘John, my nephew’s coming out on Monday to see his mum, and to have a board meeting with her. They’re directors of the company. I’m not; just a poor wage slave, I’m afraid, but John and I can’t both be away at the same time. Or so he says.’
He glanced up at the clock on the flock-papered wall. ‘I suppose we should really put in an appearance upstairs. Fulfilling one’s social obligations and all that.’
As Adrian re-racked the crystallite balls, I wiped the cues and replaced them in their clips on the wall. ‘Do I get the impression that you and your nephew don’t get on?’
He smiled. ‘Let’s just say that things run more smoothly when one of us isn’t around. John runs the business now, although Shirl’s the major shareholder. I keep a quiet eye on her interests, but mostly I let him get on with it. As long as he doesn’t make any mistakes, I’m happy to stay in the background. Anyway, he doesn’t pay me enough for me to do any more than I do at present. No bonuses, no profit share, no options. Just salary, pension and company car.
‘Come on, let’s rejoin the wrinklies … only don’t tell my sister that’s how I describe her circle of companions.’ He led the way up the narrow, tiled staircase, back to the party. Shirley was in the kitchen, opening more Cava.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘About time you two were back. Adrian, put the coffee on, love. Oz, could you do something for me? I owe those bloody card-sharp Millers three thousand pesetas, and I’ve left my purse up in my bedroom. Take a run up and get it for me, will you. It’s the door facing you at the top of the stairs. You’ll find it on the dressing table, I think.’
‘Sure.’
As I crossed the hall, I glanced through the open garden door. It was dark but Prim and Davidoff were still outside, side by side on one of the big loungers. She was smiling and leaning slightly against him. I laughed to myself at his persistence as I trotted up the wide stairway.
When I found the light switch, I saw that Shirley’s bedroom was on the same grand scale as the rest of the house. It had its own terrace, with patio doors, and a huge bed, covered in pink satin. The dressing table was against the far wall. Her cosmetics were arrayed neatly to one side on a silver tray. On the other side was a photograph, in an ebony frame, of Shirley, a few years younger and a few years lighter and a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man.
The purse lay in the centre of the table. I crossed the room, picked it up and turned back towards the door. It was only then that I saw the picture.
It was hung above the bed. Even in the artificial light, its colours exploded out at me. Along the Firth of Forth on the east coast of Scotland, it’s pretty well compulsory for aspiring artists to paint the Bass Rock. In Catalunya, it’s the same with Cadaques, the fishing village with which Picasso, Miro and Dali all had links.
There must be a million pictures of the place, with its bay, its square-towered white church and its encircling mountains behind. But none like this. It was big, a metre deep at least, and maybe one and a half wide. In the foreground the sea shone cobalt blue. The white church tower gleamed almost silver. On the slopes behind the town, the sun glinted on the green foliage.
I gazed at it, and as I did, the intensity of its colours reminded me of another picture; one which I had seen in Milton Bridge, in Scotland.
I leaned across Shirley’s bed, looking for a signature. It took me a while to find it, for it was modest, and self-effacing. But eventually I spotted it, near the bottom left corner. It was small, but it was clear. I read the name aloud. ‘Ronald Starr.’
I was shaking with excitement as I switched off the light and closed the door behind me. I was still trembling slightly when I found Shirley, back in the sitting room, refilling Cava glasses.
I handed her the purse. ‘That’s some picture you’ve got up there,’ I said, quietly. ‘Had it long?’
She beamed. ‘Isn’t it just! My lovely son gave it to me. He fancies himself as a bit of a collector. He came in with it one day when he was out here at Easter, and gave it to me, as an early birthday present.’
‘Do you know where he found it?’ I asked, all innocence. ‘That’s a gallery I wouldn’t mind visiting.’
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t from a gallery. John said that he bought it off Trevor Eames. He never told me how much he paid for it. Bet it was a right few hundred, though.’
I smiled, involuntarily, and nodded. ‘I’ll bet. Had you ever heard of the artist before?’
Shirley laughed, heartily. ‘I couldn’t tell you even now who painted it, and it’s been hanging above my bed for six months. A picture’s a picture as far as I’m concerned, love. You can ask John when he gets here on Monday. Or you can ask Trevor … if you can ever find the bugger!’
39
‘Her son bought it for her?’ Primavera gasped.
‘That’s what she told me. And he said that he bought it from Trevor Eames.’
We were outside in Shirley’s garden, the two of us, with Davidoff. When I appeared, he had seemed put out, for an instant, but it passed and he welcomed me as if I was a brother in arms.
‘He said that, but is it true?’