Quintin Jardine - On Honeymoon With Death

‘On the other hand, it could just be well away from the road. The story about tripping over some relics during excavation is certainly plausible enough. You’re walking on layer upon layer of history in this part of the world, and they’re keen on preserving it.’

‘Maybe I should have invested in a museum instead,’ Susie snorted.

‘That would probably have been a better bet; less risky, that’s for sure.’

She reached across and thumped me lightly on the shoulder ‘Go on, you; cheer me up.’

‘That’s what I’m here for. Tell me, have you met these guys, Chandler and Hickok?’

She frowned at me, so hard that I almost felt it. ‘Of course I have. I’m not so stupid that I’d entrust that sort of money to someone I’ve never met.

‘They gave a presentation of the project to the three investors before we signed up. Brian Murphy arranged it; he was there, together with various architects, brokers and financial advisers, and the guys themselves.’

‘What were they like?’

‘Impressive. Both about forty, one of them, Hickok, had quite a strong Manchester accent; the other one was smoother, bit of the public school about him. The presentation was very professional; they ran through their CVs, then the architect ran through the project, explained how it would be phased and how it would be sold. It made sense to me as a builder. They needed a lot of money up front, they said, because the Spanish insist on developers building the golf course first, then the housing which will have paid for it ultimately.’

‘Did they tell you how you were going to get your money out?’

‘The plan was that when the course was built and the first housing was sold, they’d float the company on the Spanish Stock Exchange, with a market value of not less than fifteen million sterling. The backers would double their investment and the executive directors would split the other three million in shares, plus they’d continue to manage the business.’

‘What’s Murphy’s take?’

‘Ten per cent of the investors’ profit: six hundred thousand.’

‘What is he investing?’

‘Nothing that I know of.’

‘Good deal for Mr Murphy.’

There was nothing but silence from the passenger seat.

We drove on down the road in the whisper-quiet sports car, and soon hit the peaje north of Barcelona. As we drove on, having paid with a card at one of the auto-booths, Susie pointed to a huge walled building off to the left of the road. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘That’s a rest home for retired property developers.’ She gave me a blank look. ‘They call it Barcelona Prison.’

Most cities these days are nightmares for motorists, and normally Barcelona is well up among them. However it was still the holiday season, and so the traffic was well short of gridlock. One thing that the city does have in its favour is plenty of off-street parking, much of it below ground. I knew of a well-guarded subterranean multi-level garage on the edge of Placa de Catalunya, and headed straight for it.

The sun had disappeared behind heavy clouds when we stepped out of the car park, and the temperature had fallen by several degrees. I had brought a heavy leather jacket, but Susie was cold, so we made a beeline for El Cort Ingles, where she bought a nice designer overcoat. While she was doing that, I asked a floor manager if he knew where we could find the Banco Provincial. He gave me precise directions. Without them, we’d probably never have found it before it closed, for it wasn’t actually on the square itself, but in a small passageway which led off it.

Susie walked up to the door and pushed it. ‘Damn!’ she swore. ‘They’re shut.’

I shoved again and heard a buzz as a cashier inside released the lock. ‘Security conscious,’ I told her. ‘Not unusual though.’

We stepped inside and I looked around. It looked like a pretty typical Spanish bank, not the kind you’d expect to be handling a significant corporate account. None of the staff wore uniforms; the women were smartly dressed in the same style as Susie, if less expensively, while most of the men wore slacks and sweaters. The counter was open, without security glass. I walked up to the first available teller and asked, in Spanish, if we could see the manager.

The girl, for she was no more, looked doubtful and replied in Catalan; I’m not much good at that but I worked out that she had said that he wasn’t available without an appointment. ‘ No, en Castellano ,’ I told her, trying to look business-like. ‘ El jefe, por favor .’

She gave in and left her position; I watched her as she approached, a shade nervously, a man at the back of the staff area. He gave her a black look, but came towards us, unsmiling. ‘ Si senor, yo soy el jefe aqui. Que pasa? ’

I nodded towards Susie. ‘ Por mi amiga, hablar Ingles? ’

‘A little,’ he said. ‘You wish to open an account with us?’

‘No, thank you. But we do wish to enquire about an account here.’

As I’ve mentioned, no one shrugs better than a Catalan. They use the gesture so often and so well that it is almost a language of its own. The manager’s was a classic; it said, Piss off .

He emphasised it. ‘Sir, if it is not your account then I cannot tell you anything about it. It is not your business.’

‘Listen,’ Susie snapped at him. ‘It’s got a big chunk of my money in it, so that makes it my business.’

I put a hand on her shoulder to quiet her down. I could read the guy; there was a chance that he’d talk to me, but he’d never back down to a woman in front of his staff. ‘Let me explain, senor,’ I said. ‘My friend is a substantial investor in a company which, we are told, maintains its account at this branch. She has become nervous about her money. . it is a lot, as she says. . and so wants to make sure that the account actually exists.’

I won’t say that he softened, but at least he stopped to think about what I had told him. I watched him rub his chin for about thirty seconds until finally he shrugged again. This one said, I’ll go along with this guy for a while .

‘Come into my office.’ He pointed to a door to the left of the counter, then turned and walked away. A few seconds later the door opened and we were shown into a dull, sparsely furnished private room, and offered seats on the punter side of his desk. A nameplate faced us; Josep Lluis Peyra i Nunes.

‘Okay,’ Sr Peyra said briskly, ‘What is the name of this company?’

‘Castelgolf SA,’ Susie told him, then spelled it out for him.

Like everyone under the sun these days, me included, he had a computer on his desk. He clicked its mouse a couple of times, then played with the keyboard. As he was doing this, I watched his face, not his hands. I thought I saw a slight twitch of his right eyebrow.

Finally he swung his chair round, to look at Susie, not at me. ‘No, senora,’ he pronounced. ‘That company does not have an account here.’

She went noticeably pale. ‘How about the directors? Could it have been in their names; Chandler and Hickok?’

‘Senora, I cannot look through all my customer files …’

‘Wait a minute,’ I said, fairly heavily, forcing him to turn his attention back to me. ‘Did that company ever have an account here?’

When he broke eye contact, he gave me my answer. He confirmed it with the tiniest shrug. This one said, Okay, you got me .

‘Yes, it did. But it is closed now.’

‘How much was in it, who were the signatories and when was the money moved out?’

He tried to look at me as if I had asked him something preposterous. ‘Senor, I cannot tell you any of those things,’ he laughed.