Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

‘And America.’

‘Mmm. But assuming it is UK, if I give you the serial number could you come up with a name and address?’

He scratched his chin. ‘If we sold it, I can tell you straight away. But it’s probably odds against that. What’s the number?’

‘930100.’

He stood up. ‘Give me a minute.’ He trotted back up the stairs to what I assumed was his office, reappearing a few minutes later. ‘No, it isn’t one of ours,’ he said. ‘But the first letter of the serial number tells me that it is a UK watch, and the second that it was sold in the West of England.

‘I can’t make any promises, Oz, because the manufacturers have no obligation to give me information about other people’s customers. We’re significant buyers, though. I shouldn’t imagine I’ll have any bother. Will you be at Meadowbank tomorrow night?’ he asked. ‘I should have news by then.’

‘Sorry. I’m going back to Spain this afternoon. But you can fax me, one way or another.’ I scribbled my St Marti number on a scratchpad which lay on the table.

‘Sure, I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity you can’t stay longer. Our Tuesday night game’s got too serious since you left. Anything else I can do for you, while you’re here?’

I nodded, and pointed towards a display case beside our table. ‘Since you ask. See that gold necklet?You can wrap that up for me.’ Gregor’s eyes lit up again.

Buying jewellery in Laing’s is always a pleasant experience. Very few shops these days have the knack of making the customer feel special, but theirs is one that does. I replaced my card in my wallet and slipped my purchase into the pocket of my jacket, as Gregor showed us out into Frederick Street. ‘I’ll give you information any time you like if that’s what comes of it,’ he said, waving us farewell.

We walked casually back the way we had come, pausing to window-gaze in the specialist Waverley Shopping Centre. It was dead on 2 p.m. by the time we arrived back at the loft. ‘Better head for the airport,’ said Jan, in a matter-of-fact way, as we stood, looking out of the window once more.

‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘Listen, I can get a taxi.’

She threw me one of her most dismissive looks.

‘Okay,’ I grinned, ‘but I had to offer.’ I picked up my bag, and Gavin Scott’s print, in its tube, and we headed for the door.

Half-an-hour later, Jan pulled up at the airport. We looked at each other. It had all been said. Well, almost. ‘Whatever,’ said Jan. ‘I love you.’ We kissed.

‘Whatever,’ I said. I took the long box from my pocket, ripped the paper from it, took out the necklet and fastened it around her throat. She looked at me in surprise, but didn’t say a word. The gold seemed to shine even brighter.

She smiled and touched my cheek. ‘Think of it this way. At worst we’ll be step-brother and step-sister … or maybe at best.’

My flight landed in Barcelona ten minutes early, and so it was just after nine-thirty when I stepped through the blue channel and out into the concourse. The arrangement had been that I would catch the last train to Girona and take a taxi home.

But there she was, copper tan, sun-gold blonde, bright-brown-eyed. My Primavera.

All the way home I had thought of my weird weekend. My reunions, my serious conversation with my sister, and the ShaneWarne googly that Jan’s rediscovered emancipation had thrown into my comfortable, complacent life.

I was certain that I loved Prim. I was certain that I loved Jan. I was certain that sometime very soon I was going to have to make a painful choice. That was where my certainty ended.

Somewhere in there, there was something profound, something meaningful, something which gave me the answer. The big overwhelming reason leading me to the decision which I knew I had to make, a situation which I had not as much as contemplated only twenty-four hours before.

My eyes were closed for most of both return flights, apart from the occasions when I was shaken by the flight crews so that I could decline their offers of drink, token food and duty-free that I could buy cheaper in the shops in Spain. But was I asleep? Oh no. All the way back to what I had called home when I left it, my mind was racing, full of thoughts of Jan, our night together, and of the many nights in our past.

I had no idea what I was going to say to Prim, or even how I would feel when I saw her. For that matter I had no idea how I would look to her. Would the truth be written in my eyes, or betrayed by the way I spoke to her?

I still had no answers to any of it as I stepped out through the International Arrivals doorway, to find her there, in the front of the crowd. I was surprised, and in there was a tiny flash of frustration, for some little devil inside me had worked out that if she hadn’t been there I would have had an opportunity to throw a moody, to begin an undermining process, a distancing of myself from Prim and her love.

But when I saw her my smile broke out, in spite of itself. I heard myself say, ‘Hello love, I wondered if you’d be here, in spite of what we agreed.’ And my arms, burdens and all, spread out to enfold her and to return her hug.

She kissed me and whispered, ‘Welcome back. I’ve been cold these last two nights without you.’

‘Hah,’ I heard myself say. ‘Think yourself lucky. You might have been in Anstruther.’ My first tiny half-lie.

She took my arm, just like Jan had done, as I slung my bag over my shoulder. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, intrigued, pointing at the long tube, which I was carrying sloped like a rifle against my neck, as we emerged into the warm, humid, evening air and crossed the road to the car park.

‘I’ll show you when we get home. It’s too awkward to open it now, but it has to do with our commission.’

Because I had declined the aircraft booze, I was able to drive us back up the autopista to L’Escala. We sat in silence for the first part of the journey, for the ronda north through Barca is a bit of a bugger to find, and you can get seriously lost if you take the wrong option.

But eventually, we were through the city and safely on our way. ‘So how is everyone?’ asked Prim, as the Frontera’s lights cut a swathe through a bank of mist.

‘Everyone’s fine. Dad and Mary are as happy as I’ve ever seen them. My nephews are exhausting. Wallace is being spoiled rotten. Oh yes, and my sister’s got a bit on the side.’

‘What!’ Prim sat bolt upright and turned towards me in her seat, until she was caught by her seat belt. There was a huge grin on her face, as if she found the notion preposterous.

I couldn’t help but feel slightly offended, on Ellie’s behalf. ‘You heard me,’ I said. ‘What’s so funny about that?You haven’t seen my sister in going on three months. She’s quite a piece of work now, I can tell you.’

‘I’m sure she is. It’s just that I didn’t expect …’ She trailed off, and out of the corner of my eye I could see her smile. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, though. After all, you Blackstones are fast workers.’

Suddenly I was back in the loft. ‘That’s what you think,’ I muttered, almost, but not quite, to myself. I couldn’t hold it in. I was thinking of the passing of most of a lifetime, and of the confusion that had run through it.

She looked at me, puzzled, as I stared at the road ahead. ‘Oh, don’t be huffy. If Ellie’s got a new light in her life, that’s great. God knows, my own sister’s had a few torches in her time.’

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘We’re talking about the Hampden floodlights there, right enough.’

‘Oz!’ Now it was Prim’s turn to flare up. ‘Look, what’s got into you?’

There it was. My opening. My chance to spill the beans, to confess all about the night before … and maybe throw Prim’s life, and mine, down the crapper.