Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘In theory that would be good news. It would mean that we have a UK address for him, where we can at least start looking.

‘But just let’s stick with the possibility that the guy in the coffin was the real Ronald Starr. The skeleton is missing, remember. What if the police have it? What if, even as we speak, they are hard at work trying to identify it by dental records?’

‘How would they know where to start?’ Prim asked, almost in protest.

‘They can look at dental techniques and materials used, and take a fair guess about where the work was done. Then there was the belt, and the scraps of clothes. Maker’s labels would tell them his likely nationality. Once they have that … plain sailing. I have a dentist pal. He gets asked for patient records far more often than you’d think.’

I looked at my partner for a few seconds, letting my arguments take hold. ‘Suppose we turn up with Ronald Starr’s shiny watch at or around the same time as the Spanish police identify his skeleton? Don’t you think that they, and the British police as well, would give us some funny looks?’

‘True,’ said Primavera.

‘Thank you. Now here’s the really scary one. Let’s say we have the authentic Ronald Starr in that stone box, since last year. Yes?’ She nodded. ‘Right. Then, three months ago, at Gavin Scott’s dinner, the host introduces himself as Ronald Starr. Let’s discount completely the possibility that there might be two Ronald Starrs with two “R”s along this small stretch of the Costa Brava.

‘What we’re left with is the certainty that Ronald Starr MarkTwo knew he didn’t have a rival for the name. My guess is that the man we’re trying to trace isn’t just a con-man, or an art-thief. He’s a murderer.’ I gulped as I said it. So did Prim.

‘Where does that put Trevor?’ she asked.

‘God alone knows. It could put him at the graveside, holding a shovel. Although he needn’t necessarily know about any of that. But let’s not kid ourselves that you and I can pick out a murderer simply by looking him in the eye. Bitter experience tells us that’s not the case. No, the one certain thing is that when we approach Trevor, we’ll have to do it very carefully.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Prim. She stood up, and began to wander around the terrace that had become our office. My eyes followed her. She really was devastating: beautiful, dynamic, bursting with energy. A few days before I had asked her to marry me. What sane man wouldn’t have?

At last she turned towards me again, her back to the sea. ‘Oz, is there any way we can find out more about Ronald Starr? We really need to know all we can about him. Dead or alive, this whole affair seems to fit around him.’

‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘The problem is how we can do that, without arousing suspicion, or drawing attention to ourselves.’ I thought about it, until a small idea switched itself on, like a dim light bulb, in the back of my brain. ‘There is one possibility. Back home, I used to do some work for a credit control company. Those guys get everywhere. They have databases like you wouldn’t believe. Another of my football pals works there, and he owes me a couple. I could ask him if his outfit has a file on Mr Starr.’

‘Good,’ said Prim, resuming command. ‘You do that. Meantime, let’s draft those responses to our other clients. We don’t have all day. We’re due at Shirley’s at two-thirty.’

I called my pal Eddie just before lunchtime by his clock; by ours it was thirty-five minutes before we were expected to arrive for afternoon drinks with Shirley Gash.

Eddie is a creature of habit. He works in a big glass office in Edinburgh’s new financial district, each day in his working life taking hundreds of dispassionate decisions, any one of which, he knows, may result in some poor wee woman he has never met and never will meet being refused extended credit to buy a new washing machine, something which is probably essential if her six kids are to have clean clothes every day, or a new cooker, essential if their meals are to be cooked properly.

Eddie hates his job, but he does it anyway, because it’s a job, and because within his decision-making limits he is allowed to exercise a tiny element of his own judgement, which might sway the balance occasionally in the poor wee woman’s favour.

Like many guys in his position, Eddie has a safety valve. Every working day, he and four pals take a taxi along the Western Approach Road, past the brewery, to the Diggers, where each of them has two pints of McEwan’s eighty shilling ale, and a pie, for lunch. Actually, the Diggers isn’t called the Diggers, not officially. The name above the door is Athletic Arms, but it’s straight across the road from the Dalry Cemetery, thus …

I could picture Eddie, slipping on his jacket with an eye on the clock, cursing as the phone rang.

‘Two-one-four-three.’ He growled his extension number at me.

‘Eddie, hello. It’s Oz.’

‘Blackstone! Where the eff are you? I spoke to Gregor last night. He said you’d been in buying gold jewellery for this absolutely gorgeous big brunette, but he thought you were heading back to Spain.’

‘I was. I did. That’s where I am now.’

‘With the gorgeous big brunette, you lucky bastard?’

I coughed. ‘Aye, the weather’s lovely. A few clouds in the sky, temperature in the low seventies. Just about par for the course.’

‘I see,’ said Eddie. ‘Not with the gorgeous big brunette. So what can I do for you, you horny bastard, if it’s not a lift to the football you’re after?’

I glanced across the terrace. Prim was sat at the table, checking the faxes which she was about to send to our three potential clients. She gave me a quick grin.

‘That magic database of yours,’ I said to Eddie. ‘You’re forever boasting that it’s the best in the business.’

‘That’s right. All human life is here, my man. Even you. In fact I looked you up for fun this morning, after Gregor said he’d seen you. You seem to be doing very well.’

‘Pleased to hear it. Listen, I’ve got a name. Mr Ronald Starr — two Rs — 126 Glannefran Hill, Mold, Clwyd, Wales. I need info about him, if he’s in your computer.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘For fuck’s sake, Oz. Have you never heard of the Date Protection Act?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well …’

‘I don’t think it’s a problem.’

‘Hah! It’s a problem, all right. A major league problem. A go to jail problem.’

‘Not if the subject’s dead, surely.’

Eddie hesitated again. ‘I’m not sure about that, even. But this guy Starr, are you sure he’s dead?’

‘Either that or he’s got helluva thin over the last few months. Skeletal, even. Look, Eddie, I don’t want financial info. Only some background stuff: married or single, occupation, employer and when was the last time that any trace of him showed up in the system.’

A great exhalation of breath came down the phone line like a roar. ‘Christ, I don’t know, Oz.’

I sighed, as loudly as I could. ‘I hate to do this, Eddie, but d’you remember that time …’

‘… when my mother had that problem, and you had a word with someone. Aye, okay. Enough said. Look, you don’t want this just now, do you? Only the lads are waiting for me.’

‘No, of course not. But if you can give me a call from home tonight.’ I gave him my phone number.

‘Okay,’ said Eddie. ‘Around six o’clock, our time.’

‘Great. I’ll be here. Be clear, man, this squares us.’

There was a growl. ‘Too fuckin’ right it does, pal. Too fuckin’ right!’