‘And were you?’
‘Not really. All I did was confirm what they suspected already.’ I didn’t want to get into it, so I told him a lie that wasn’t, not really, or the truth, but not quite. ‘Alex Guinart, my cop friend, quite often asks me about things that concern the British community in St Martí and L’Escala. Everything’s urgent to him, hence the summons.’
That seemed to satisfy his curiosity. We finished our drinks, Uche paid for them, then we went our separate ways, he back to the rented house and Lena’s family, Jonny and I to St Martí.
We travelled in silence. . if you don’t count Norah Jones, and many people wouldn’t. . till we reached the bridge that leads into Torroella, across the River Ter. ‘That was a load of crap, wasn’t it?’ Jonny said, just loudly enough to get my attention.
‘What?’
‘The way you fobbed Uche off.’ He laughed softly. ‘You have a way of telling people to mind their own business without them realising they’ve been told.’
‘If I do, maybe it’ll work on you.’
I must have spoken more sharply than I’d intended; I sensed rather than saw him frown beside me. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, sounding just like Tom does when he’s pushed his luck too far. And making me realise that I couldn’t treat the two of them in the same way.
‘No,’ I blurted out. ‘I’m sorry, Jonny, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You’re absolutely right, I did fob him off, but I shouldn’t do the same with you. I’d be pissed off if you weren’t open with me, so. . They wanted me to look at a dead man.’
‘Jesus!’ he hissed. ‘Why? Was he clutching a piece of paper with your name scrawled on it?’
‘Written in his blood? No. They thought I might have seen him before. And they were right. So have you.’ I told him who I’d seen, lying dead and desecrated in the suburban forest.
‘Wow!’ He whistled. ‘What do you think; that he tried it on again but picked on the wrong bloke?’
An interesting assumption, I thought, and probably the basis of the continuing police investigation, once Alex rid himself of the irrelevant connection with Patterson. ‘That’s quite possible,’ I agreed. ‘Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with us, at least it won’t be once my friend shows Tom a sketch to confirm the identity as close to one hundred per cent as they can get. But what am I talking about?’ I contradicted myself out loud. ‘That won’t, will it? They haven’t the faintest idea who the guy is, and whatever Alex says, they’ve got a very slim chance of finding out, unless someone comes forward to report a missing person.’
‘Ouch. Was it a mess?’ he asked. His question was serious, not ghoulish. It sounded sympathetic, in a strangely literal way, but I don’t imagine it’s an experience we could have shared.
‘That’s why they’re having to show Tom a sketch of the scar on his chin,’ I replied. ‘I couldn’t look at the guy and say positively that it was him.’
‘You shouldn’t have had to,’ he growled. ‘Couldn’t they have shown you a sketch too?’
‘Don’t worry about me, Jonny,’ I assured him. ‘I won’t wake up screaming. I’ve seen worse.’
‘Where, for Pete’s sake?’
There were a couple of answers to that. I chose the safe one. ‘I was a nurse, remember. I’ve been in operating theatres. I did anatomy as part of my training. And I worked for a while as a volunteer in an African war zone. But we won’t go into any of that. All you need to understand is that Alex Guinart wouldn’t have put me in a situation he didn’t know I could handle.’
‘A murder mystery, eh,’ he said, as the CD changer moved Norah on and replaced her with the Drive-by Truckers; just at the right time, I reckoned, as a change of mood was called for. ‘Right on our own doorstep. Or am I getting ahead of myself?’ he added. ‘Could it have been suicide?’
I chuckled, grimly. ‘If it was, it was very definitely the assisted kind.’
The other band from Athens, Georgia, cranked up the volume at that point and so conversation was out for the rest of the journey, or rather until my car’s Bluetooth cut it out automatically as it picked up a call. ‘Yes,’ I said, the simple command to accept it.
‘Okay then.’ Shirley Gash’s voice, never subdued at any time, boomed out from the speakers. ‘What the hell’s up? There have been cops going up and down our road all day, and now one of my neighbours tells me she saw you heading in the same direction. What’s the story? I’ve asked a couple of the Mossos people, but they won’t say a word.’
‘Neither can I right now,’ I told her. ‘I’m driving and I’ve got a couple of roundabouts to negotiate.’ I had been thinking, though. I might have talked Alex out of talking to Patterson Cowling, but that hadn’t killed my own curiosity. I rather fancied a chat with the man myself. But it would be difficult to separate him from Shirley, in which case. . tough on him.
‘If I call you back in fifteen minutes on your landline, will you be in?’ she persisted.
‘Yes, but I’ll be busy.’
‘Meet us for supper?’
‘No, I’ve got hungry lads to feed, but I could probably meet you somewhere later, for a coffee.’ I glanced at Jonny, and managed to ask, just by raising an eyebrow, ‘Will you stay in with Tom?’ He nodded.
‘That’ll have to do, then,’ Shirley conceded. ‘We’re going to eat at La Clota.’
‘Fine, I’ll join you about nine-thirty; but don’t get involved with anyone else, or my lips will stay sealed.’
‘We’ll ask for a private booth,’ she said. I laughed: they don’t have any.
I called in at a fish shop on the way home, and bought three monkfish, fairly small, as that species goes, but still well big enough for each of us. Jonny had never seen one before, not in its entire state. They’re ferocious-looking bastards, all mouth and teeth, but they’re fantastic when they’re baked in the oven. The lady offered to take the heads off, but I declined. There are two thumb-sized pieces just behind the eyes; the best part of the fish, my son and I agree.
I’d just closed the oven door on them when Alex Guinart arrived, with a sketch, and with the Magda woman, still silent, looking as if she might have had other plans for the evening. I hadn’t told Tom that he was coming. It wasn’t only that I didn’t want him asking me why, and dragging me into telling him about my trip to the woods, but also because I wanted him to have a clear mind when it came to look at the thing, his instant reactions always being the most reliable.
I’d have struggled to get his attention anyway; as soon as he arrived home, and had taken Charlie for his early evening run, he engaged Jonny in a detailed debrief of his round over Pals. Pros can remember every detail of every shot they play, and so it went on for some time. Indeed the last putt had only just fallen when the door buzzer sounded, a few seconds after the church bells had rung seven for the first time. Don’t be confused when you come to St Martí; they always ring the hour again, at two minutes past, in case you missed it before, or lost count.
Alex told Tom what he wanted, not quite following the party line that we’d agreed, but safely enough. ‘Remember the man you saw,’ he said, ‘the man who tried to rob Mr Cowling? The photo we have doesn’t really show the scar on his chin. Take a look at this drawing and tell me, if you can: did it look like this?’ He handed over the sketch; my son studied it for a few seconds and nodded.
‘That’s it,’ he confirmed. ‘Like a scimitar. Has he done something bad?’
‘Stealing is bad, Tom,’ Magda announced, stolidly. I winced. Only the second time she’d opened her mouth in my presence all day, and she had to go and say something stupid. Nobody likes being patronised: there’s an age at which kids recognise it and my lad had reached it at least a year before.
‘I know that,’ he replied, politely, then beat her at her own game. ‘It’s one of the Ten Commandments.’ He might not believe in God, but he can cite him as evidence when necessary. ‘But he didn’t actually steal anything from Mr Cowling. I stopped him and he ran away.’ He paused. ‘Of course,’ he added, as if he’d had a revelation, ‘there’s a Commandment against trying to steal too, the one about coveting.’ Magda shifted from one foot to the other; they hadn’t covered that in her training course.