‘Come on,’ I insisted. ‘No bullshit. How did he do it? Or is all this for show? Has Jonny just bought the gear?’
‘Work it out,’ Uche whispered. ‘It’s not just what he can do, it’s who he is.’ He left me gazing after him as he stepped towards his pro. ‘Take a little off a three metal,’ he called out, ‘rather than a five. You want to hit it low. We’re sheltered down here; you don’t know for sure what the wind’s doing above those trees. Watch for the bunker front right, otherwise it’s a clear approach.’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Jonny replied. ‘I may need that shot a lot this week.’
As he took the club he was handed, and surveyed the distant flag, I lined up a few things myself, in my head. The fact that he was Oz Blackstone’s nephew was, it seemed, still a highly sellable attribute. And why shouldn’t it be? I realised. I, of all people, ought to have known that.
Oz might have been dead, but his career was still alive. He’d had three posthumous movie releases, all hits, including the one he’d been working on when he’d done that last fatal stunt. That, of course, had lent it added marketability, even if the last few scenes had been shot in shadow with a body double and his lines voiced over by an impersonator. Then there were DVDs; some of his films, most notably the cricket blockbuster Red Leather, had done huge business in that format, and sales showed no signs of slowing. On top of that the download market was just beginning to take off, and was being exploited very well by his near genius agent, Roscoe Brown. Yes, my late ex was still very big business, and consequently, anything to do with him just had to smell of money.
I knew all this, because I see the figures, twice a year. I didn’t believe for a second that Oz foresaw his own early death, but he’d have been crazy not to have made a will, and he was more calculatingly sane than anyone I’ve ever known. Apart from individual bequests to his nephews, and a tithe that went to a small charitable foundation administered by Roscoe, his estate had been divided equally between his three children, Tom, and his two by Susie, Janet and ‘wee Jonathan’. That split applied equally to all future income; ten per cent to the foundation, thirty per cent each to the three kids. The money was all tied up in trusts, a complicated structure put together by some very expensive accountants, and the will specified that the trustees should be ‘the children’s legal guardians’. I don’t believe that he envisaged me being one of those when he signed off on it, but that’s the way it had panned out: another reason why Susie and I should stay on good terms, whatever the rest of the Blackstone family thought of her.
For all that Tom and I go on about careers, the fact is that my son will never have to do a day’s work in his life, unless he chooses. He doesn’t know that, though; nor does anyone else outside our tight little family group. The last thing I want is for him to grow up complacent, or worse, under the constant eye of a bodyguard.
Jonny hit his three, with a little off. I couldn’t see exactly where it finished, but the boys seemed satisfied. Their eyes were twenty years younger than mine, after all. We walked forward to my ball, I hit another fairway metal. . Mac still calls them woods, for some reason. . into the middle of the green, not too far from the pin. We took two putts each; birdie four for Jonny, bogey six for me, a result, since I was getting a shot at the par three holes, two at the par fours and three at the par fives. Eight holes played and I was only three down, not at all bad, since my ‘opponent’ was four under par at the time.
I must explain that I don’t regard life as a competition. I’ve always hated being idle, and if I see something to be done I’ll do it: for example, the tourist information service that I set up in my early days in St Martí. However, I’ve never felt the need to be better, only to be as good as I can. I was that way when I was nursing, to the extent that some people thought I was pushy. In truth the person I was really pushing was myself, but if I saw someone with a laissez-faire attitude to standards, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. As a mother, I don’t care how Tom compares with the rest of his school class, only that he does his best. (Mind you, she added smugly, that’s pretty damn good.)
All that changes when I step on to a golf course.
There I become the most competitive bitch you will ever see. Even Shirley says that my talons come out as soon as someone puts a score card in my hand, or as soon as a match-play opponent tees off. Not even my son is exempt from this. I don’t swear or chuck clubs when he’s around, but when we play for real, other than for fun, as we do more and more, the older he gets, I Do Not Let Him Win! (More often than not, he does anyway; if my evil side didn’t dematerialise as soon as the last putt drops, or misses, as is often the case, he’d have gone to bed without any supper many a night.)
Buoyed by my win on the eighth, I headed for the next tee with undiminished determination and new hope. Three down, sure, but ten holes left and a generous shot concession coming my way, I wasn’t out of it: par three at the next, win it with my shot and maybe Jonny would start to get rattled.
I was still thinking that way as we walked forward to red tees. . okay, I was playing a shorter course than him, but he’s a pro. . despite him having knocked an eight iron to within a couple of metres of the target, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. (Any attempt to ban the things from courses in Spain will be doomed to failure.)
I dug it out, in case it was Tom: most of my calls and messages are from him. But it wasn’t.
‘Primavera.’ Alex Guinart was using his ‘all business’ voice, one I’d heard very rarely. ‘Where are you?’
I told him, in my own ‘all business’ voice. He isn’t much of a golfer, but he and I play occasionally, so he knew what he was interrupting. I assumed that he’d ask me to call him back once I was finished, but I was wrong. ‘I need you,’ he said.
‘Darling,’ I replied archly, loudly enough for the guys’ eyebrows to rise, ‘many men have said that, but damn few have set me running.’
He wasn’t in a joking mood. ‘I’m not kidding. This is urgent.’
I felt a quick pulse of panic raced through me. ‘Is something wrong with Tom?’
‘No. Not at all. It’s nothing like that, but I would appreciate your help.’
I sighed, out of frustration. ‘I’m on the verge of something big here, chum; but for you. . ahh, where are you?’
‘I’m in L’Escala, almost. Do you know a street called Vall d’Aran?’
‘Near Shirley’s house? Yes.’
‘That’s the one. I want you to go there, right to the end to where the woods begin. One of our people will meet you there and bring you to me.’
‘We’re on the ninth, Alex. It’ll take me the best part of an hour.’
‘I appreciate that. As soon as you can, please.’
I was gutted; the hot blood of competition was still flowing through my veins. But when the cops, even the friendly ones, invite you seriously to help with their enquiries, it’s best not to decline. When I told them I had to go, the boys assumed that their day was done too, but I told them to carry on. ‘If I’m not back by the time you finish,’ I said, ‘wait for me in the clubhouse. Mine’s a spritzer.’
‘What’s all this about?’ Jonny asked.
‘I have no idea,’ I confessed. I hadn’t bothered to ask. I knew that for my friend to call me in the way he did, it had to be as urgent as he’d said, but there was no point in fretting on the way there. I’d deal with it when I came face to face with whatever it was.
It took me a little less than that hour, thanks to a helpful course ranger, who gave me and my clubs a lift back to the car park in his buggy. I called Alex before I set out, with a new estimate of my arrival time. Sure enough, when I made my way up Carrer Bassegoda and along Vall d’Aran, I saw a Mossos vehicle at the road end, with a uniformed woman officer, a local that I recognised, leaning against it.