Quintin Jardine - On Honeymoon With Death

Gabrielle was silent for a few seconds, then whispered something, so quietly that I couldn’t make it out, but I knew that it was ‘Yes,’ in one language or another.

‘Then that’s what will happen,’ I told her.

‘Susie,’ I said. ‘Take Gabrielle upstairs and put her in a hot bath. Then she should sleep for an hour or two. While you’re doing that, I’ll make a phone call.’

She nodded and squeezed my arm. ‘You still have a soft side left, then,’ she whispered, as she slid off her seat.

‘Don’t you go getting maternal on me,’ I answered her, more than half seriously.

‘What’s your surname?’ I asked the girl.

‘Palacios. Yo soy Gabrielle Serafina Palacios.’

Left alone, I scratched my chin and thought carefully. Logically, there was only one guy I could call, but I was hesitant. There was a Catalan Society magazine lying on the bar, beside the telephone. I looked up ‘Useful Numbers’ and found the British Consulate in Barcelona. The telephonist told me that the only person on duty that day was the Commercial Counsellor, Ms Willis.

‘Anyone will do,’ I said. I introduced myself, and was wounded; the name meant nothing to her. I explained the situation, exactly as it had happened. ‘Phone the police,’ she advised at once. ‘She’s a foreign national, obviously an illegal; she’s not your problem.’

‘She turned up cold and hungry on my doorstep, expecting a job in my brothel!’ I replied. ‘Of course she’s my problem.’

‘What have you done with her for now?’

‘My girlfriend’s …’ I paused. I had used the word without a second thought. Well, it was true for a day or two. ‘. . giving her a bath.’

‘That’s a relief,’ Ms Willis exclaimed. ‘You’re not alone with her; you have a female there. Otherwise she could have accused you of anything. Please, Mr Blackstone, call the Guardia at once.’

‘I don’t know anyone there; I do have a friend in the Mossos though.’

‘Technically this has nothing to do with them, but if it’ll make you feel happier, call him. Meantime, I’ll get in touch with my opposite number in the Filipino Consulate. Give me all the details again.’

I repeated the girl’s name, gave her my phone number, and Fortunato’s, then caught him by telephone at home, just as he was about to leave for his office in Girona. He was on my doorstep within half an hour. By that time Susie had bedded Gabrielle down in one of the spare rooms. When I introduced her to the policeman she gave him one of the most unashamedly appraising looks I have ever seen, but thankfully said nothing beyond a polite, ‘Hello’, then went off, unasked, to make more coffee.

I told him all of Gabrielle’s story, beginning with her father’s sale of her in Manila to her arrival at the address to which she had been sent.

‘The Bluebird Club,’ Fortunato murmured, when I had finished. ‘I know it all right; it is just outside Figueras, on the road to Girona. By name, it belonged to a farmer and the licence was his, too, but we knew that there were other people behind it. They had papers for all the women there, so they were allowed to do business.

‘I guess now that Capulet was the other man.’

‘Is there a third Hassani brother?’

The policeman nodded. ‘As I recall there is. His name is Nayim, and he has a small prison record in Spain for dealing in stolen property. If you asked me to guess, he bought the girls in Manila. . You say the first one who turned up here could have been Filipina too?’

‘Yes, for sure. She was a bit older than Gabrielle, but not much.’

‘That’s the game then. He buys them young and fresh, finds them a cargo ship where they can work their passage, with some money to the skipper as well to ensure that the crew don’t fuck them useless before they get to Spain. Once they’re here, the skipper walks them off the vessel and sends them up to L’Escala, to Capulet.’

‘So why are they still coming?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Nayim can’t know that Capulet has vanished. But sooner or later he will run out of money; then there will be no more girls.’

‘Where did Sayeed fit in?’

‘My guess would be that he delivered them to the Bluebird, once Capulet had given them the okay. The Frenchman wouldn’t have been seen dead near a place like that, even if he did own it.’

‘Speaking of being seen dead …’

‘No,’ said Fortunato, firmly. ‘There’s no sign of him.’

‘How about the story I told you yesterday, about Susie’s investment?’

‘Hah!’ He laughed. ‘You know, Oz. I am not sure if I want to be a friend of yours; they are all very unlucky. However that one has taken wings; there is no longer a need for Susie to make a formal statement. I arrested Toldo, the lawyer, yesterday afternoon; for a while he tried to claim that he also had been a victim of Chandler and Hickok, but there were letters in his office which prove that he knew all about the plan.

‘Once I took his statement, I phoned the Fraud people in London to tell them about it. Not long afterwards, they called me back. The British police are now looking for Senor Chandler, or Fowler, for the murder of his partner, Senor Wild Bill Hickok. So, among others, are the Guardia Civil.

‘They can place him on the Costa del Sol a month ago, but there have been no sightings since then.’

‘Is Susie in danger?’ I asked.

‘Why should she be? The story of the murder, although not of the fraud, is all over the newspapers in England, and television has shown a photograph of Fowler. He’s nowhere in Europe by now, I’ll bet you. But neither is the money, unfortunately.’

‘I heard that last part,’ came a voice from behind us. ‘How much is this man Toldo worth?’

‘Not enough to make it worth taking him to court,’ the policeman told her. ‘You will have to trace it all the way through from Barcelona to wherever it is now.’

Susie winced. ‘That could be difficult. Once money goes black, it tends to move around a lot, and fast. Could we have any comeback against the Spanish bank?’

‘Not unless they broke their own rules in making the transfer, and did it on one signature instead of two. I don’t think that is likely, senora.’

‘In that case. I’ll just have to hope that the Fraud Squad is up to the job.’ She gave us each a mug from the tray which she had brought from the kitchen.

‘Now,’ she said, fixing Fortunato with a stare, ‘what are we going to do about that poor wee girl upstairs?’

‘She’s a good girl, you say?’ he asked; a question for a question.

‘She seems to be. She’s lost, and scared, and thousands of miles from home, but she seems like a decent kid.’

‘Then I’ll look after her myself. I know she’s a Guardia Civil responsibility, but if I give her to them, they will put her in a detention centre. These things can move slowly; she could be there for months, among all sorts of bad people.

‘I will take her under my protection and arrange her return to Manila directly with the consulate.’

‘Where will she stay?’

He gave Susie a shrug which said, Where else?

‘She will stay with me tonight at least, if Veronique agrees. I will go home now and discuss it with her. I’ll be back for the girl in two or three hours.’

Susie let Gabrielle keep the sweater. She hugged it to herself, and looked at her gratefully, as Ramon picked up her pathetic wee case. He had brought his wife with him to collect the girl, a sensible move, so that she wouldn’t be frightened.

I walked them out to their car, a roomy family saloon; Alejandro was in the back, asleep and strapped into his safety seat. The girl’s face lit up as she saw him. Without her make-up, her skin was a very light brown; she could have passed for his older sister.