Quintin Jardine - As Easy as Murder

Tom and I knew most of the people there so we spent a happy couple of hours schmoozing the crowd, me sipping, him sniffing. Shirley and her new beau were in evidence again, getting full value for their tickets.

Before we’d left for the beach I’d done one thing. My time in the ambassadorial thing had given me a few contacts in the Foreign Office. I called the best of them, a man named John Dale, on his mobile, and ran the name Patterson Cowling past him. His response had been immediate. ‘Never heard of him. One of ours, you say?’

‘I don’t, he does. He told me he spent most of his career in your set-up. Fairly senior at the end, but I couldn’t wheedle any more out of him.’

‘Is he giving you cause for concern?’

‘No, but if my eventful life has taught me anything it’s never to take anyone at face value. My friend’s involved with him, so if there’s anything she should know. .’

‘I’ll check, soon as I can, and get back to you.’

Fortunately I was some distance away from the man under discussion when the opening bars of ‘Born to Run’ sounded in my pocket. I took out my mobile, apologised to Alex Guinart and his wife, to whom I’d been chatting, and took a few steps away from the throng.

‘Primavera?’

‘Of course, John.’ I was surprised. Although I knew him well enough to have called him on a Sunday, I hadn’t expected a result for a couple of days, at best.

‘Can’t be too careful. Are you alone? There’s a lot of background noise.’

‘I can’t be overheard and anyway, most of the people making it don’t speak English.’

‘That’s good, because this conversation will never have happened.’

My eyebrows rose, my forehead ridged. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Definitely. I asked a couple of quick questions about your new friend. Wow! I’m not so high up the ladder that I can’t still get my arse kicked, and it didn’t take long for it to happen. I’ve been instructed to tell you to stop asking questions about Mr Cowling, and to take him at face value, as a retired civil servant.’

I reached a very quick conclusion. ‘Oh hell,’ I moaned, ‘you’re not saying he’s a fucking spook, are you? I don’t like those people.’ That was very true; about three years before I’d had real trouble with an MI5 woman, in something that a renegade cousin of mine dragged me into. I’d sorted it out, and her, but I hadn’t forgotten her. If she had anything to do with Mr C. .

‘Primavera,’ John cut in, ‘I’m not saying anything, and neither are you. Understood? If this man gets the faintest notion that you know about his background, there could be hell to pay, for me, personally.’

‘But he seems like such a nice guy.’ Yes , I thought, as the banality escaped, and Eva Braun loved Hitler .

‘I’m sure he is. They’re not all licensed to kill, you know; most of them are linguists, or IT experts, or graduates who had no clear career plan when they left university.’

‘Fine, but what about Patterson?’

‘I don’t know about him!’ He was beginning to sound exasperated. ‘The person who gave me my orders isn’t one to be cross-examined.’

‘Okay,’ I said, to mollify him. ‘Thanks for that. Who were we talking about again? I’ve forgotten his name already.’

‘Good. And not a hint to him, remember.’

‘Promise.’

‘You’ll be held to it, be sure.’ He paused. ‘Hey, about your resignation: are you firm on that? The people in the Barcelona consulate are going to miss you.’

‘I’ll miss them too, but not enough to change my mind. Nothing’s going to do that; my boy needs me more than my country.’

‘I can understand that. Be happy, and keep in touch.’

I pocketed my mobile and turned back to face the throng. Alex and Gloria had moved along, with Marte, my god-daughter, tagging along in Tom’s care. She’s getting disturbingly close to school age, another constant reminder of the passing years. I was about to rejoin them, when Shirley’s bellow stopped me short. ‘Hoi, Primavera, you haven’t forgotten tomorrow, have you?’

I stared as she and Patterson approached, focusing on her alone and trying not to look at him at all, in case something in my expression betrayed me. Spooks must be experts at reading people, I reasoned wildly. ‘What about tomorrow?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘Golf,’ she exclaimed. ‘Girona. Christ, you have too.’

She was right. I had; stuff had intervened.

‘Leave the girl alone, Shirley,’ Patterson laughed. ‘Not everyone’s as keen as you to watch guys whacking balls around a field.’

‘It’s the guys we’re going to watch,’ she retorted. ‘Isn’t that right, girl?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. What time are you picking us up?’

‘Eh?’ was all I could gasp.

‘Come on, you don’t want Patterson to have to drive, do you? Not on his first trip here. Let him see the countryside.’

‘I’m all for that,’ I replied, ‘but can’t he see the sights with you behind the wheel?’

‘Sure, but who’s going to point them out? Besides, I’m a terrible driver.’

The only thing that makes Shirley’s driving terrible is her insistence on approaching Formula One speeds on public highways, but that was reason enough for me to agree. I had spent a few journeys in her passenger seat with my eyes shut tight. ‘Okay,’ I conceded. ‘Nine o’clock, your place. But we’ll have coffee and croissants before we set off.’

‘Done deal.’ She frowned briefly. ‘Oh, by the way, Ben was looking for you earlier.’

‘Did he say why? Does he have a problem?’

‘Maybe he wants you to look after the baby.’

Benedict Simmers, our village wine merchant, had settled down; he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl from Barcelona called Tunè, and in June of the previous year they had produced a small angel, name of Lily. She had pushed all my ‘broody’ buttons, and I’d become a regular volunteer babysitter. I looked around trying to spot him among the crowd, and eventually I did, paused in mid-bustle, talking to his mother and sister. He saw me at the same time, and waved me across. ‘No problem,’ I told him, as he approached. ‘Do you want to leave her with us, or have us come to you?’

His eyes said ‘puzzled’ until he worked it out. ‘Oh no, no,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘It’s not about that. Someone’s been looking for you, that’s all. He phoned my shop asking for your phone number. Jordi’s in there just now, looking after things, and naturally he wouldn’t give it, not just like that, to a stranger. So he told the guy to leave his number and you’d call him back, if you felt so inclined, that is.’

He fished in his pocket, produced a scrap of paper, and handed it over. It took me a few seconds to decipher Jordi’s scrawl, but eventually I made out the name ‘Wigwe’, and a phone number that could have been an American mobile, to judge by the format.

‘Wigwe?’ I muttered, wracking my brains. ‘I don’t know anyone called Wigwe. I’m absolutely certain of that. Never have done.’

Ben grinned. ‘Remember it was Jordi who took the message. The name’s as likely to be Smith or Jones.’

True, but I focused on Wigwe in the meantime. Forename or surname? Whichever, where the hell could a handle like that have originated? It couldn’t be an intermediary from Gerard, could it, I wondered as I scratched around for a clue? From the postmark, his letter had taken ten days to reach me. Could he have been hoping that I wouldn’t accept it, that I’d want him enough to fight for him? If so, he’d bet on the wrong horse. But still. .

‘Only one way to find out,’ I declared, digging out my phone once more, and walking away to give myself some more clear space. As I did I saw Tom looking at me; I waved to him and smiled, to let him know that everything was all right.