‘What I meant,’ he went on relentlessly, looking at Alex once again, ‘was, has he done something else? You haven’t caught him, or you wouldn’t be asking me to look at a drawing.’
The inspector shook his head, in confirmation. ‘No, we haven’t. But when we do find him, we have to be absolutely certain that we’ve got the right man. You understand?’
‘Yes, Alex,’ he replied. Of course he did: he understood that he was being spun a line, and Alex, being a family friend, probably realised that. But he knew also that if he told him the whole story, my wrath would fall upon him, and he didn’t fancy that.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ he said. He was prepared to leave it at that, but my son wasn’t, not quite.
‘It’s nothing. Will I have to be a witness if you do catch him?’
‘I can’t see that being necessary.’ More carefully chosen words. He sniffed. ‘Are you cooking fish, Primavera?’
I nodded. ‘And tomatoes, chopped garlic, and some lightly sautéed potatoes.’
He smiled at my guys. ‘Lucky you. It’ll be a while before I get to eat. Come on, Magda,’ he said, ‘let’s go. We’ve got what we came for.’ He patted Tom on the shoulder. ‘Thank you again, my friend.’
He almost headed for the door, but his cop’s reflexes kicked in and stopped him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, offering his hand to Jonny. ‘We haven’t been introduced. Are you visiting Primavera?’ he asked, as they shook.
I hoped that he wasn’t wondering ‘Toy boy?’ then realised that the Magda person almost certainly was. ‘Tom’s cousin,’ I said, briskly, ‘my nephew; Jonathan Sinclair. He’s going to be living with us for a while, as he gets his new career off the ground. You’ve met their grandfather, Oz’s dad.’
‘Of course,’ he exclaimed. ‘It all fits now. I remember Mac mentioning you. You’re a golfer, aren’t you, which explains why. .’ he almost continued, ‘. . why Primavera was so pissed off when I hauled her off the golf course,’ but stopped himself just in time to leave that can of worms unopened. ‘Alex Guinart. Primavera’s my daughter’s godmother; that makes us family, of a sort. Nice to meet you; see you around.’
He timed his exit perfectly, just as the oven alarm sounded. The monkfish was pretty damn good, I have to say. (I don’t really have to, but I will.) I wish that I’d been in a better mood to enjoy it, though; as it was, my mind was running ahead, to my date later in the evening. Jonny offered to clean up after we were done, but I told him that his time would be better spent studying his yardage charts and getting his head right for day one of the Catalan Masters. So I packed the dishwasher, while Tom got on with his task. We have a ritual every time we eat baked monkfish. Afterwards, he boils the heads and bones in a big stock pot; it makes the basis of a great fish soup. Stinks the kitchen out, but it’s worth it.
By the time I’d showered, using my most expensive body wash to ensure that I’d rid myself of the last vestiges of fishy smell, one of my pet hates, and prettied myself up, I was running slightly late, but only by Scottish standards. Fifteen minutes’ slippage in L’Escala is still classed as being on time.
Shirley and Patterson were still on their dessert when I arrived. The restaurateur offered me a menu, but I declined. . for a couple of minutes, then succumbed to a bowl of pistachio ice cream. The place was busy; the evening had turned cool, as it does quite often at the end of May, and so the diners had opted for inside tables rather than the terrace. Ours was in a corner by the window. It was the closest thing to a private booth that La Clota has. . but when I surveyed the other customers I spotted an English lady, who knows both Shirley and me, and who is so relentlessly inquisitive that she makes Tomás de Torquemada seem like a chat show host.
‘Let’s move on for coffee,’ I suggested. Patterson looked puzzled, but Shirl had done her own looking around and got the message. They paid the bill and we left. We didn’t go far, only a few hundred metres, to a night bar called Octopuss; it tends not to get busy until later on and isn’t a haunt of the British ex-pat chattering classes. It does have a corner table, and we took it, even though the place had just opened and we were its only customers.
‘Well?’ Shirley said, with an expansive beam, once a coffee and a large goblet of Bailey’s had been placed in front of her. ‘Out with it, Primavera. What was all that fuss about this afternoon? Someone told me after I’d spoken to you that they saw an ambulance driving away, and that the woods have all been closed off by cops, lots of them. But that’s all I’ve heard.’
I ignored her and looked directly at Patterson. ‘A body was found there this morning. A man. He was killed there, then stripped of all his clothing and possessions. But it wasn’t a robbery, that wasn’t what it was about. Whoever did it blew most of his face off too. You can guess why, can’t you?’ I asked. I hoped that I wasn’t going to bring anyone’s wrath down on the head of John Dale, but I had another friend to protect, and she was closer.
‘Yes,’ he replied, quietly. ‘To prevent identification, or to hinder it as much as possible.’
Shirley looked at us from one to the other. ‘Why’re you asking him?’ she murmured.
‘Because he’s got a passing interest in the stiff, a personal interest, even.’ I switched my gaze back to him. ‘It was the guy who tried to steal your wallet the other night.’
Patterson saw the complete picture, at once. ‘And the police wanted you there to help them confirm that?’ I nodded. ‘Which means that you reported the incident after all?’
‘Yes. I live here, mate; I have friends in the police. I couldn’t let a thief run around here with a free hand. I’m sorry, that’s not how I work. I gave them Tom’s detailed description and Stan’s mobile image. . the same one I saw you copying on to your phone. They called me because the person who took a shotgun to his face left a couple of pieces intact. It was him; no question. They still don’t know who he is, though. How about you? Have you managed to identify him?’
My friend laughed. ‘How could he?’ she gasped.
‘Because he used to be a spook, Shirl. Is Patterson Cowling the name you were born with?’ I challenged.
He sighed, then smiled. ‘It’s the name on my birth certificate, Primavera, I promise you.’ He turned to Shirley. ‘I’m afraid I’ve given you a slightly edited version of my past, dear. But it is my past,’ he added, ‘I promise you that. I am completely retired. I’ve moved on to a new life, even if I’ll never be able to talk about the old one.’ He looked back at me. ‘I was warned that you’ve been asking about me, but they assured me that you’d be discreet.’
‘As I have been,’ I told him. ‘So bloody discreet that I’ve even kept the cops from picking you up.’
He winced. ‘For which I thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. So? How did your trawl go? Do you know who the dead guy is?’
He shook his head. ‘No, which means that he’s probably nobody, other than what he seemed at the time, a rather inept pickpocket, Eastern European, maybe, rather than British, as Tom thought.’
‘In that case,’ I asked, ‘why’s he in a fucking morgue in Girona, with the shreds of his face that they picked off the trees in a box alongside him?’
‘Probably for reasons completely unconnected with me,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know why the hell whoever killed him didn’t simply burn the body.’
‘Because they’d have burned the woods down with him,’ I pointed out. ‘The ground’s covered in pine needles. They can spread fire as fast as you can run away from it, faster with a wind blowing. If they’d tried to cremate the poor bastard, the flames would have spread right up to Shirley’s door.’
His partner was looking at him in the way that characters do at the end of a Poirot on television, as they look at the perpetrator of the crime of the week once he’s been unmasked by the preening little Belgian. I guess they’d be having a conversation once she got him home, but I had a feeling they’d survive. Shirley’s a very understanding lady, and she’s been my friend for long enough to be able to take the unexpected in her stride.