‘No, it’s empty. Do you want to stop there?’
‘Please. And I’ve got someone with me, my cousin, Frank McGowan.’
‘What? The one you told me about, the Japanese sailor’s spawn, the one who was in the nick?’
‘Yes. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Hell, no. I’d love to meet him. I’ll do you one of my champagne risottos. . bread and butter pudding too, if you fancy.’
‘Stop it! I’m getting fat just thinking about it.’ A little extra and unexpected sunshine had come into my day: that’s her special-friends supper, and it’s memorable. ‘Shirley,’ I continued, ‘it’s pick-your-brains time. Am I getting this right, when I recall you mentioning to me a place for gays that’s opened up somewhere near us, in an old country house?’
‘Masia Josanto, it’s called,’ she replied. ‘It’s on the other side of Gualta. Turn off the main road just past the golf course and go through the village. Got me?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s run by a couple of blokes, and that’s where the name comes from. Lovely boys. José’s from Mexico City and Antonio’s from Málaga. Gay-friendly, they prefer to call themselves. That means they don’t turn straight people away, but they don’t pitch for their business either. I’ve eaten there. Damn good. The place is beautiful, very old: José’s wealthy and he spent a lot of his fortune doing it up. They showed me round. It’s all suites and such, very comfortable.’
‘They would take a man-woman couple, though? Mother and son?’
She laughed. ‘You thinking about taking your Frank there?’
‘Less of it.’ I chuckled. ‘He’s not that much younger. No, I was thinking of his mum.’
‘No problem there. Here,’ her tone changed, became suddenly mischievous, ‘how many beds will I make up in the summer-house?’
‘Shirley!’
‘Do I take that as one, or two?’
‘Two,’ I said, maybe a little too defensively.
‘Whatever you say, but it’s a long time since you’ve had your bones jumped, and I won’t be telling anyone.’
‘Two,’ I repeated.
She laughed again. ‘See you later. What time?’
‘Some time after six. So long for now.’
I turned to Frank. He was staring at his phone. He held it out to me. ‘Take a look,’ he whispered. I did, and saw a frozen image of Auntie Ade, sitting in a chair, in a well-furnished room. ‘Press the green button.’
I did, and she began to move; it was a video clip, taken by a mobile. ‘Son,’ she said, in an unwavering voice, ‘I imagine you know what this is all about. This man seems to be serious, so. .’ her eyes blazed ‘. . don’t do what he wants. Save yourselves and let them kill me if they’ve got the balls to do it.’ A muffled sound came from off-screen. She glared at the holder of the phone. ‘Fuck you!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll say what I …’ And there the clip ended.
I found myself smiling. ‘She’s a tough old bird, isn’t she just? I hope he tied her up good and tight before he went to sleep, otherwise he’d be likely to wake up with a pair of nail scissors in his throat.’
‘It’s ironic, Prim,’ Frank moaned. ‘She’s saying the same as Justin: accept the inevitable.’ His eyes misted over.
‘Which we won’t,’ I promised him. ‘We’ve got a possible lead to her, and a definite bolt-hole for ourselves.’ I told him about my call to Shirley. He looked less excited than I’d hoped. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s a long shot, but worth a try.’
‘And it’s all we’ve got.’ He sighed.
‘Hey,’ I laughed, although his mood worried me, ‘I thought you said the tiger was back.’
He squared his shoulders and seemed to perk up. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry; I’m still disappointed by Justin, that’s all. How do we get there?’
‘I’ll show you.’ I led the way downstairs and back to the metro, stopping on the way to draw cash with my Caixa de Girona card. Frank didn’t protest that I was being reckless: he knew it would have been a waste of time. We took the underground to Gràcia, then caught the first train for the airport. I headed straight for the multistorey car park and paid the charges in the ticket machine. There was nobody lying in wait for us; not that I expected company, not there. It took me a little while to find the Jeep in the chock-a-block level two. . I really should note down the row number every time. . but I did, eventually. It was intact. Frank wanted to check underneath for a bomb, but I pointed out that it would have been impossible to fix anything without leaving tell-tale marks in the dust that, I am ashamed to say, usually cakes the vehicle.
I fired it up and we headed out, into the daylight and into the stock-car-like traffic, air-con going full blast, and Del Amitri. . a great, but underrated, Scottish band. . full blast too, on the Boston Acoustics sound system. It felt great to be back behind the wheel, so great that I started to sing along. To my huge surprise Frank joined in; he liked the band too. I’ve got a decent voice, and he turned out to be not half bad either; I reckon we must have sounded pretty good, singing harmony with Justin Currie on ‘Don’t Come Home Too Soon’, which is, incidentally, in my humble, if biased, opinion, the best World Cup anthem ever written.
We were still winding down the chorus when I took the Ronda Litoral through Barcelona. . As we passed Hotel Arts I wondered if Mayfield’s meetings were still going on.
By the time we hit the other side of the city, we were on to Graham Parker, more good road music, but not sing-along stuff. Soon we were past the Grand Prix racing circuit and picking up our autopista ticket. As I pulled it from the machine, it occurred to me that I had fulfilled my promise to Auntie Ade. I had gone to Sevilla and brought back her son. Now I had to find her for him.
Twenty-five
I didn’t put the hammer down, but the A7 is a three-lane highway up to the Palamós exit, and so we made decent time, even though it was busy. It was ten past two as we reached the next turn-off. ‘We’ll jump off here,’ I told Frank.
‘Are we there?’ he asked.
‘No, but we need to discuss what we do next, and there’s a good restaurant half a kilometre away.’
La Roca Petita is all that: it’s near the airport, but unknown to the travelling punters. Most of its clients are business people from Girona. We didn’t need or want much, just a selection. . escalivada, anchovies, Jabugo ham and toasted bread, some Vichy Catalan to wash it down. . and they were happy to provide it, with no sales pitch for the full menu.
As we ate, Frank was fidgety, all the way through. I could understand why: indeed, I was as anxious as him to be getting Auntie Ade out of her captors’ hands. But I knew that we couldn’t just go charging into Masia Josanto like a SWAT team. If Willie was holding her there, and we spooked him, there was no telling what he might do. Our approach required just a little subtlety, and it was best made at a time when, on a hot Spanish day in July, even elderly ladies and their kidnappers were likely to be having a siesta. I persuaded my cousin of the sense in this, but that didn’t stop him squirming around in his chair as if his arse was hoaching with red ants.
‘What about the money?’ I asked, to distract him as much as anything else.
‘What money?’ He looked at me blankly.
‘The investors’ money, you idiot. A little over seventy-seven million euros at the last count.’
He blinked. ‘Where did you get that figure?’
‘I told you. I did some research before I set off in search of you.’
‘What, all on your own, from St Martí?’
‘No, I had help, from one of those people I told you about, Oz’s people. So what about the money? Will it still be accessible in the Luxembourg bank, or will it have been transferred by now?’
‘If it hasn’t been,’ he told me soberly, ‘I suspect that’ll happen very soon. And that will make it all the more important that they get us out of the way, so they can disappear, free and clear.’