Quintin Jardine - Deadly Business

He shrugged. ‘So go ahead and sue. I’ll defend, and the case will go to trial, with ensuing publicity that will be truly global. Is that what you really want, Primavera?’

‘Fuck you, boy,’ I barked.

‘Come on,’ he persisted. ‘Is that what you really want, your name dragged through the courts, for everyone to read, including your son, your precious boy?’

‘And what if I don’t?’ I asked, tentatively. ‘How can I avoid that?’

He leaned across the table. ‘You could buy the manuscript yourself. Then all your problems would disappear.’

We’d finally got to where I’d known from the start that we were heading. ‘Mmm,’ I murmured. ‘And how much is it going to cost me?’

‘Two million,’ Culshaw answered. ‘Sterling. I know that the time you spent with Oz has left you a wealthy woman, even if you’re not in Susie’s class. You can come up with that; if you’re short, I’m sure your wealthy brother-in-law would chip in. That’s why I thought you might like to show him the manuscript. Otherwise …’

He left the alternative hanging in the air, but he didn’t have to spell it out: otherwise, we’d go to trial in a libel suit and Oz’s real life story, and mine, would be laid out before a jury. Undoubtedly, investigators would be employed to go digging, and there were things that I did not want them to uncover, not least the real story behind that shotgun. If I went to court, that would happen. If I didn’t, the book would publish, I’d be smeared for certain, and my privacy in the nice wee world that I’d built for Tom and me would be shattered for good.

‘Why are you putting the bite on me?’ I asked him. ‘As you say, Susie’s a lot wealthier than I am, in her own right.’

‘Susie’s a peripheral figure in this story.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I have other plans for her.’

‘Such as marriage?’ I guessed.

‘We’ve discussed it.’

‘You publish, she’ll blow you out.’

‘I publish I make a fortune, so I’d get over that.’

I nodded. ‘You’ve got all bases loaded, eh Duncan?’

‘And a pitcher on the mound with a very weak arm.’

‘So it would seem,’ I agreed. ‘But let’s forget the baseball analogies. What you’re really doing is extorting two million pounds from me.’

He laughed, the insolent bastard. ‘No, I’m selling you global rights to a work of fiction. Once you’ve bought it it’ll be up to you whether you exploit it or not.’

‘I’d still call it extortion.’

He held up his hands, palms outwards, as if in surrender. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I concede, it’s extortion. You pay, and you keep your reputation and Oz’s unblemished. So, are you going to come up with the two million or not?’

‘I don’t think I’ll have to.’ I picked up my phone, put it to my ear, and said, in Catalan, ‘Have you got all of that?’

‘Yes,’ a voice replied. ‘It’s all recorded.’

For the first time since I’d joined him, a frown of uncertainty furrowed Duncan Culshaw’s forehead. As he peered at me, he didn’t see two men come out of the café through the door behind him and walk towards us. In fact he didn’t notice them at all until they took the two vacant seats at our table.

‘What the …’ he began.

‘People I asked to join us,’ I explained. ‘This is Alex,’ I nodded sideways, towards the man on my left, then forward towards the other, ‘and this is Marc.’

‘Oh. Really? You’ve brought heavies along? Come on, Primavera, this is a public place, and unless I read it wrong when I arrived here, that’s the police station right behind us.’

Alex nodded. ‘Yes it is,’ he conceded in accented but assured English, ‘but it’s only the town police, and they look in the other direction when they see us.’

Culshaw looked around him, as if he was counting the number of potential witnesses to what might happen next.

‘Senora Blackstone didn’t introduce us properly,’ Alex continued. ‘I am Intendant Guinart and this is Sergeant Sierra. We are officers in the criminal investigation division of the Mossos d’Esquadra, the Catalan police force. You have just described what you have just tried to do as extortion. We agree with you, and for that we are arresting you.’ As he spoke, Marc Sierra took Culshaw by the arm, stood, and drew him with him.

‘Senora,’ Alex said, formally, as he rose, ‘you will also need to come with us to make the denuncio …’ he looked at their prisoner, as he had become, and added, in explanation, ‘… the official complaint.’

I nodded. ‘If you say so, Intendant.’

They took him away in the Mossos car that was parked round the corner on Carrer Enric Serra (I’ve no idea who Enric was but he must have been important to have a street named after him, especially the one that runs in front of the church) and I followed in mine.

Traffic flow in L’Escala is quirky and so I arrived at the nick before they did, and was climbing out of my jeep when Marc Sierra pulled in and parked two bays along.

Culshaw was as white as a sheet when Alex helped him out of the car; he had to, because they’d handcuffed him. He glared at me; I looked back at him, my eyes trying to say, ‘You try to do me over in my own town, idiot, and this is what happens.’

I followed as he was led into the building, past the reception counter and through a door behind it. The duty officer made a move as if to stop me, but Alex stopped her instead, with a glance and a brief shake of his head.

We went upstairs, and into a room that was the polar opposite of those drab dirty interview boxes beloved of TV drama, the kind where you can almost smell the sweat. Yes, it had a table with two seats on either side, and a recorder, but it was bright and air-conditioned with a big window looking over the medical centre on the next plot and on to the Mediterranean beyond.

I stood to the side as they sat Duncan on a chair facing the door, then removed the cuffs. He seemed to relax a little in the surroundings, until Sergeant Sierra dropped the venetian blind and shut out the sun and the view, making us completely private.

‘Empty your pockets, please,’ Alex requested.

‘I want a lawyer,’ his guest exclaimed. ‘I want to phone the British Consulate.’

‘I’m sure you do, and in time we may allow that, but first, please put what’s in your pockets on the table.’

‘If you insist.’ He reached into his jacket and produced, from various pockets, a set of Oakley sunglasses, a mobile phone, a wallet, a few coins, a car key with a Hertz fob on the ring, and a British passport.

Alex picked it up, and opened it, turning to the identification page. ‘Señor Duncan William Culshaw,’ he read. ‘Age, let me work it out, thirty-four, born in Kil … Kilmack … I don’t know how to say that.’ He glanced at me. ‘Where is it, Primavera?’

I completed the place name, with correct pronunciation. ‘Kilmacolm; it’s in Scotland.’

‘Mmm. More Scottish, eh. Let’s see where else you’ve been.’ He flicked through the passport, checking the pages. ‘Singapore,’ he read, ‘USA, Ecuador.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve been to Ecuador? That’s unusual. Why did you go there?’

‘I had an airline magazine assignment. All those trips were for airline magazine articles.’

‘So it’s a coincidence that Ecuador is where Senor Oz Blackstone died?’

Culshaw nodded. ‘That’s right; a complete coincidence.’

Alex tossed the passport on the table and picked up the wallet. ‘Money,’ he murmured, ‘Mastercard, American Express, Priority Pass, driving licence …’ he stopped, squeezed a finger into a compartment behind the card slots, and drew something out, something I couldn’t see.