Quintin Jardine - On Honeymoon With Death

In spite of myself, I felt a bit of a shiver run down my back. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘Find Capulet, if I can.’ The policeman reached into his jacket, and took out a card, one of those that Pizza Pazza leaves lying on all of its tables for punters to take away and give to their friends.

‘But first, there is something you could do for me.’

I looked at him and saw that he seemed to be blushing. ‘If only to explain why we’ve been in here so long …’ He held out the card. ‘Could you give me your autograph?’ He gave me a cringing smile. ‘It’s for my wife, you understand.’

Christmas Eve isn’t quite the same in Catalunya as in Scotland; Spanish kids are given their presents on 6 January, the last day of the festive season, rather than on 25 December. There was no point in trying that on with my nephews, though, and especially with wee Colin. He had a focused look about him, and an air of suppressed excitement that seemed to be shooting off sparks.

Prim and I had put up the tree at the foot of the big stairway, and had decorated the rest of the house in traditional style, well before the team had arrived from Scotland, so there was nothing to be done in that department.

The ladies were working themselves into a controlled frenzy too, as they began the day-long preparations for a meal that would take two hours at most to demolish. As for my dad, he had bought Volume One of Chester Himes’ Harlem Cycle at Edinburgh Airport and had settled himself in the gentle winter sunshine in one of our big deck chairs, not to be disturbed.

Since there was nothing for me to do, I decided to play the favourite uncle and take the boys off to see the Greco-Roman ruins of Empuries. The entrance to the great rambling site was less than a quarter of a mile from our front door, so I resisted the urge to take them for a hurl in the Lada, and instead we set out to walk there.

We hadn’t got out of our street when an English voice called out to me. ‘Hello there!’ It came from inside Shirley’s garden; I looked over the gate and saw her son. I had met John Gash before, in unhappy circumstances, and I had been unimpressed by a couple of things he had done, under the influence of his late and not very lamented uncle. But according to Shirl, he had got his act together and was doing a pretty fair job of running their family business, alongside his own ventures like the Russian spares job.

I was taken by surprise by his shout, since I had begun to think once more about Fortunato’s bombshell the night before. Naturally, I hadn’t mentioned it when we got back to the table; I still didn’t want the family to know anything about the episode, and I didn’t think that the new development would make Prim’s evening either. Somehow, I had been more comfortable with the concept of Capulet being the bag of bones in the piscina . I mean, it was almost as if I knew him and, given his supposed line of work, his demise could have been classed almost as an industrial injury.

Call me illogical if you will, but the thought that it wasn’t him. . that it was a total stranger, if you like. . made me feel a shade uncomfortable. For one thing, it meant that Capulet was probably still alive. For another, it raised the possibility that he had put the bloke there himself, before he disappeared. But would he really put the place up for sale with an accessory like that? I mean selling with furniture and fittings is one thing, but. .

That was as far as I had got when Shirley’s son and heir hailed me over her garden gate. ‘It’s Oz Blackstone, isn’t it?’ he boomed, cheerily as he strolled down the path to the high garden gate. The slope of the land wasn’t quite as severe as ours, so he didn’t see the lads until he had almost reached it. ‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you had company.’

‘Yes, these are my nephews, Jonathan and Colin. Jonny’s the one who’s partly turned into a human being; the other one’s still just a wee boy.’ Both of them shot me glares.

‘You’ve put on a bit of weight, haven’t you?’ Mr Gash commented.

I might have been offended by such a personal remark, had it not been true. I’ll never be Lennox Lewis, but since I started working out regularly with my wrestler chums, and built up a daily exercise regime, I’ve put on eight or nine kilos and turned some gathering fat into muscle in the process.

I shrugged my beefed-up shoulders. ‘I suppose I have,’ I agreed. ‘How’s it going with you, John?’ I asked him, then answered my own question. ‘Pretty well, I hear; according to what your mother says.’

‘It’s okay,’ he agreed. ‘The business is on a pretty solid footing. I’m more into importing than my father was. I’ve moved the manufacturing side up to the top end of the sector. There’ll always be a market for traditional English high-quality furniture, and not just at home either. So I buy the cheaper stuff from abroad, taking advantage of the strong pound, and I sell the expensive stuff at home, and abroad to people who are so rich they don’t give a damn about currency rates.’

Gash junior smiled thinly. ‘I couldn’t interest you in an over-stuffed Chesterfield, could I? Upholstered in the softest leather you’ll find anywhere in the world.’

I sucked in a deep breath through my teeth. ‘Nah. I’m a Fifer, John. I earn in dollars, but I’ll buy in euros. Makes much more sense.’

‘Ah,’ he said, with a hearty public school chuckle. ‘No more buying British; that’s what you’re saying? I thought I saw a spanking new Mercedes going into your drive this morning.’

‘Where can you buy a British car these days?’ I asked him.

‘What about a Jag?’

‘Don’t be daft, that’s American.’

‘Okay, a Lotus, then.’

‘Malaysian.’

‘Gotcha! Morgan.’

‘Not if you want one NOW. We’ll settle for the Merc, thanks and for the Z3 in Britain.’

I glanced up at him; I’d forgotten that he was a lanky lad, slightly taller than me. ‘Shirley said you were going into the car business yourself, in a way.’

He gave that forced laugh again. ‘You mean my Lada sideline. Just a bit of fun, you understand. Makes a pound or two though. It’s a crazy concept isn’t it? A car that’s worth nothing in running order, but a small fortune once you take it to bits.’

I had to agree with him. ‘I don’t understand it, myself. I’ve got one. I inherited it with the house, and I’ve been running around in it. Maybe I’m a Russian at heart, but I like it.’

‘They’re not all dogs,’ John conceded. ‘The four-by-four is quite a decent motor.’

‘Yes, that’s what the previous owner left behind.’

‘Ah yes, the late Mr Capulet. Mother told me about the nasty surprise that was waiting for you in your swimming pool. She was a little upset, I think, although she did her best not to show it. As far as I gather, the chap was paying court to her.’

I paused, wondering whether to reveal Fortunato’s surprise. Finally, I decided that Shirley had as good a right to know as I did. ‘She can cheer up, then,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t him.’

As John Gash’s eyes widened, I felt a tug at my hand. ‘Sorry,’ I told him. ‘Got to get these lads on the move. Tell Shirley I’ll explain later.’

‘Later’, turned out to be as soon as we got back from the ruins. She must have been watching for me from her window, for I had hardly turned into the street before she was out in the drive, as her son had been earlier.

I saw her coming and told the boys to go on ahead of me. They had enjoyed the ruins as much as I had known they would. Ever since his lucky escape after a fall in St Andrews Castle a few months before, Colin had been much easier to control; less liable to go crashing off to explore on his own, more likely to go along quietly, listening to what he was told.