Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

I nodded my head on the pillow. ‘Agreed.’

‘Good,’ she said, running her hand down my belly and leaning over me again. ‘But for now, since we’re here …’

Eventually, I shaved, showered and dressed, then, leaving Jan stretched out in the bath, I went out to fetch our breakfast. My old pal Ali, the open-all-hours grocer at the top of the close, looked up in surprise when I walked into his shop. In fact his eyebrows shot up so far that I thought he would dislodge his turban.

Until I left for Spain, Ali and I had been team-mates in a five-a-side football club which played at Meadowbank every Tuesday night. The lads and I had a theory that Ali’s turban was stitched into his scalp, since he never took it off, not even in the showers.

‘Oz, pal. Hullawarerr, how yis been?’ he bellowed as I walked in. Ali was born and raised in Scotland. His complexion and head-dress may be sub-continental Asian, but his accent is pure Rab C.

‘Hullawrerr to youse, China,’ I responded. ‘I’s been fine.’

‘So ah see,’ he said, taking a closer look. ‘Yis’re fuckin’ darker-skinned than me noo. How long are yis here for?’

I checked my watch. It was just leaving 10:30 a.m. ‘About five and a half hours.’

‘Is yer lass back wi yis?’

‘No. Prim’s in Spain. We’re living there now.’

‘Aye, ah ken. Yis sent me a postcard, mind.’

The wheels were turning under that turban. ‘So have yis been stayin’ in the loft?’

I decided to cut the interrogation short. ‘That’s right, sunshine. With Jan, my old school chum. She’s living there now. Tall girl, dark hair; shops in here according to the label on her washing up liquid. Now we’d like breakfast. So it’ll be four of your freshest rolls and half a pound of your spiciest Lorne sausage, please, my good man. Oh yes, and a Daily Record.’

Ali glanced at his watch, as he selected four rolls from that morning’s batch. ‘Breakfast!’ he said. ‘At half past ten! You’ll be in the Daily fuckin’ Record yirself, the wey you’re goin’ on, pal.’

Jan was in the kitchen when I got back, in her dressing gown, with her hair wrapped in a towel.

‘Go on,’ I said, kissing her shiny nose. ‘Get yourself sorted. I’ll make breakfast. Incidentally, shouldn’t you be working today?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t have any meetings, so I’m okay. You know what the self-employed life is like. I’ll do a double shift tomorrow. So I’m yours for the day, or at least till you catch your plane.’

‘Good,’ I said, ‘for there’s something I’d like to do in town, while I’ve got the chance. So you get your legs and stuff upstairs and get dressed. I’ll be about ten minutes with the rolls and coffee.’

It was a mild morning, so we ate in canvas chairs out on the pocket-sized wooden balcony. As the last of the coffee went down, Jan grabbed my Daily Record and handed me three envelopes, already opened. They were all addressed to Blackstone Spanish Investigations.

They were all follow-ups from the other enquiries which Jan had fielded on the previous Friday. One was from a firm of Glasgow solicitors, looking to have a statement taken in Tarragona from a potential witness in a civil court action. The others had come from manufacturing companies looking for information on the sales potential for their products in Spain.

‘Interesting,’ I said, as Jan studied her horoscope. It always amazes me how intelligent people can fall for that crap. ‘I can do the interview, no problem. Prim can tackle the other two. They’ll be desk research mainly. Hal, at the consulate, will be able to give us some of the information, and probably the contacts who’ll give us the rest.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Jan, ‘but just remember that Gavin Scott comes first.’

‘Sure.’ I took her hand and looked out across the roofs of the Old Town, towards the crests of Holyrood Palace. ‘All this, the last few days,’ I said. ‘It’s doing my head in, you know. A week ago, Prim told me I was well down the road to vegetation. She was right. She came up with the business idea. She, more than anyone, put me on that plane.

‘Look at me now, seven days later. Sat on another terrace, with another woman. And you know, don’t you, that part of me wants to stay here?’

Jan gave my fingers a squeeze. ‘Sure, darlin’,’ she said, in her lazy drawl. ‘But all of you’s got to want it or it’s no good. Okay, so you and I took each other by surprise last night. But we’ve slept together often enough before.’

She caught my smile. ‘Okay, maybe not often enough.’ She laughed, then was serious again. ‘Still, it shouldn’t have casual consequences for either of us. Make no mistake, I know what I want, bottom line, and I know why. But I’m not going to tell you what this is. Not now, anyway.

‘Whatever direction you decide you want your life to take, you can’t be ambivalent about it.You’ve got to be certain, and you’ve got to be certain for the right reason.

‘I haven’t a bloody clue what your reason will turn out to be, but I’m sure that you’ll find it. Even then, there’ll be no guarantee you’ll get what you want, but I know that you won’t unless you’re completely committed to it.’

Jan reached out and touched my cheek, holding my gaze. ‘Remember those birds we used to watch from the beach when we were kids, the gulls and the ducks, floating on the sea just behind the crest of the tide, getting closer to land, but never quite allowing the waves to bring them in to shore? Well, my darling, no more drifting on the tide. It’s make your mind up time.’

I smiled at her, but I wasn’t laughing. ‘Two days ago, I thought I had; but maybe I was just treading water. The Mediterranean’s different, remember. No tides.’

She stood up and stepped inside, drawing me with her. ‘Now, what’s the thing you want to do uptown, because time’s getting on?’

I folded the chairs and carried them inside as Jan closed the French doors. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I want to go to a jeweller’s.’

I told her no more than that, all the way up from the loft, through Waverley Station and out into Princes Street. I could tell that I had her interest, but typically, she refused to ask me anything about my purpose.

Finally we reached Laing‘s, in Frederick Street. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you now. This is a bit of detective work of my own.’ I led her inside and asked for Gregor, the manager. ‘He’s one of my Tuesday football pals,‘I explained to Jan as he came bounding down the stairs at the rear of the shop.

His eyes lit up as he saw us, and I could tell that he was anticipating a diamond sale. I put him right at once, as he greeted us. ‘I’m after nuggets of information,’ I said, ‘not gold.’

‘Christ, Oz,’ he groaned, ‘that’s corny. But tell me about it anyway.’

He motioned Jan and I to chairs at one of their fitting tables, and sat down with us. ‘Remember that watch I bought last year for my dad?’ I asked him.

‘Sure. Giorgio of Beverley Hills. A good line for us.’

‘Glad to hear it. They’ve all got serial numbers, yes?’ Gregor nodded. ‘And they’re guaranteed, obviously,’ I went on. ‘So, are the serial numbers registered with the guarantee, or are they just for show? In other words, can you identify the purchaser just by looking at the back of the watch?’

‘Yes, assuming that all the paperwork’s been done. Why? Has your dad been getting unwanted mail from Giorgio?’

‘No, nothing like that. The thing is, I found a watch just like it in Spain, and I’d like to return it if I can. A guy out there told me that those watches were made for the UK market only.’