His face was a study of pure bewilderment. His eye widened, his eyebrow rose, furrowing his brow, and his jaw dropped, slightly. ‘I?’ he said. ‘I knew him? Whatever makes you think that?’
‘Yesterday,’ I said, ‘we met his girlfriend, by accident, really. She owns the bodega in La Pera. She told us she was with him in Pubol once, and you said hello to him.’
‘I did?’ he said, archly. ‘When was this?’
‘Summer of last year. If it refreshes your memory he was tall, fair-haired, in his thirties and British.’
The astonishment left his face and was replaced by a sorrowful look. ‘That was Ronnie Starr, was it? What a sad coincidence. Yes, I met the young man in the bar at Pubol a couple of times. He bought me a drink, I bought him a drink and that was it. He was a pleasant fellow, but I never did learn his name. He said he was a painter, and that turned me off. I had hoped he would be more interesting than that; a doctor, say, or a lawyer. Over in Pubol, everyone you meet thinks he is a painter.’
He paused. ‘So they were his poor sad bones that you and Senor Minana dragged across L’Escala. My God, and I knew him; that makes it even worse.
I nodded. ‘There’s more. Starr left his mark on La Pera, and no mistake. The girl who saw you with him had his baby a few months ago. A fine wee boy called Felipe; fair-haired, from what we could see of him in his cot.’
‘Tsshhh!’ sighed Davidoff, shaking his head. ‘Appalling. Poor woman; poor child. To be left so.’
Prim took him by the arm. If she had been doubtful of him the day before, there was no sign of it now. ‘Don’t worry too much about them,’ she said. ‘The mother seems a very resourceful woman, and the baby stands to inherit Ronnie Starr’s estate.’
‘Ah, my darling,’ he said, mournfully. ‘All the estate in the world cannot make up for the lack of a father. But enough.’ It was as if he had willed himself to brighten up. ‘This affair will not spoil our evening on Sunday.’
He looked around at me. ‘You found Starr’s woman and child. Have you yet found Trevor Eames?’
‘No, with one thing and another, we haven’t had a chance to look for him lately. We were going to do that this evening, then go to Ventallo tomorrow night to see what we could find out there. You said to us that you knew where Eames lives. Can you show us?’
He shook his head. ‘Someone told me once that he has an apartment in one of the old blocks up in Riells de D’Alt, but I don’t know where. You could find out from the town hall.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘That might draw attention to us, and we don’t want that. We’ll try the boat again.’
Davidoff patted my hand. ‘Yes. That is probably the most sensible thing to do.’ He stood up. ‘Until Sunday then.’ Prim walked to the door with him, taking his arm again. In the doorway he kissed her goodbye. She was barefoot, and so he stood a few inches taller than she was. As I watched them, I thought of Reis Sonas. ‘Ancient, yet not old,’ she had said.
Yes, I understood exactly what she meant.
44
We stopped in for coffee in the Trattoria that evening, and booked a table for dinner, although it was quiet and at that time in the season a reservation was probably unnecessary.
On the off-chance I asked our host, who knows everyone in L‘Escala, if he had seen Trevor Eames lately, but he said that he hadn’t. ’I hear he was crewing a German boat,‘ he volunteered. ’That Trevor, he is always crewing,’ e added, backing the whispered innuendo with a heavy wink, out of Prim’s sight.
Leaving the Frontera parked across the road we went for a leisurely walk round the marina, in the direction of La Sirena Two’s mooring. From a distance, it looked just as we had seen it on our last visit, locked up secure for the winter. When we reached it, that impression was confirmed. The dinghies were still strapped to the side, the classic wheel was lashed and immobilised, the cabin curtains were drawn.
‘Bugger’s not home yet,’ I growled, frustrated. ‘It’s just like it was last time we looked.’
‘Yes,’ said Prim, ‘except …’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Look at the wheel. Last time we were here, I’m sure that it wasn’t tied like that.’ She pointed to the cabin. ‘And there, that curtain’s open just a fraction. If he isn’t here now, he’s been back.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s go on board and give the door a knock.’
‘Careful,’ Prim advised.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not as daft as all that. If he’s in, I’ll try to get him out on the deck, so that we can be seen from the quay when we’re talking to him.’
‘Do we mention Ronnie Starr?’ she asked. ‘I mean the fact that he’s dead.’
‘Hell, no! We don’t know that, remember. No, we tell the truth more or less. We’re working for Gavin Scott, looking for more info on the Toreador. We want to trace the Ronald Starr who staged the auction.’
‘Do we mention the Cadaques picture?’
‘No. Let’s just try to win the guy’s confidence.’
She looked doubtfuclass="underline" not scared, you understand, just doubtful. ‘Oz, are you sure about this?’
‘No. That’s why I want to talk to him out in the open. Mind you, the chances are he’s buggered off again, back to sea. Come on.’
I led the way, jumping on to the deck of the yacht, Prim landing lightly behind me. I leaned across and knocked on the cabin roof. ‘Mr Eames,’ I called. ‘Can we have a word?’
There was no reply, not any sound after the crack of my knuckles on the plastic roof panel. I walked on and stepped down into the well in front of the tied wheel.
The cabin door was ajar: very slightly, hardly enough to notice, but ajar nonetheless. I rapped on it, calling again. ‘Mr Eames.’The door swung open, into the darkness below decks.
The gulls were crying, the water was lapping against the sides of La Sirena Two, and boats all around were creaking at their moorings, but all of those sounds seemed to be drowned out by the silence of the cabin. It seemed to rush out to meet me, that silence; and the smell, one that I’d encountered before.
Primavera stood at my shoulder. ‘Wait here,’ I said. For once she obeyed me without an argument.
A short, four-step stair, almost steep enough to be called a ladder, led down below decks. It was panelled on either side and at the foot there was a second door, without lock or handle, swinging gently with the movement of the boat. I jumped down the steps and crashed into the cabin, into the heart of the silence.
For a second as the door lay open there was light, then it swung shut on its hinges and the darkness returned. But in that second I had seen the chair, and the shape of someone in it.
I fumbled my way along the walls till I found a curtain, and ripped it open. The evening outside was grey, and the cabin was still gloomy, yet I could see at once that Trevor Eames was dead. From the way his arms hung by his sides; from the way his left leg stretched out before him, with the right twisted under the chair; from the way his head lolled back, eyes staring at the ceiling, jaw hanging slack; from the dark blood which soaked the front of his blue-and-white hooped T-shirt, the crotch of his jeans, and the Ship’s Wilton floor-covering: from all these things I could tell that he was dead.
I’m not sure how long I spent staring at him with my heart thumping — it always does that when I find a body — before the cabin door opened, framing Prim’s silhouette. ‘Don’t come in!’ I said, quickly.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. But she stayed in the doorway.
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
I stepped up to the body. The light was better with the door open. ‘I’d say he was stabbed. There looks to be a single puncture wound in his shirt, and there don’t seem to be any signs of a struggle. He looks to have been quite powerfully built, so whoever did this couldn’t have given him a chance.’
‘And who could have done it?’ she asked.
‘It has to be a very short list,’ I answered. ‘Right at the top has to be the guy who killed Ronnie Starr: but we’re further away than ever from tracking him down.’