Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

Nimbly, he slid over the gear lever into the passenger seat. As we left the autopista and neared the town, he grew animated. I suspected that he might even have been excited, but not about to let anyone know it.

It might have been forty years since his last visit, but Davidoff could still recall the way into the centre of town. I had bought a street map the day before and found our destination, but it was almost redundant as the old man directed me, right, left, then right again.

We parked in a public underground garage, emerging into the town’s main square at around eleven twenty, with plenty of time in hand for our date with Senora Compostella. The day was overcast, but it was still warm enough to sit in comfort at a pavement cafe. Davidoff nodded his approval when I asked for a cortado — expresso with a little milk — ordering the same, but with a shot of brandy added.

As we passed the time, I briefed him on the subject of the interview and on the questions I had to put to our witness. The case centred around goods manufactured in Spain and supplied in Scotland, by a Scottish customer. The specification was in dispute, and Senora Compostella’s evidence was crucial to our client’s defence against the argument. If she gave us a strong enough response, there was a good chance that the action would never reach court.

She was ready and waiting for us when we crossed the square at midday and made our way up to the lawyers’ office. I smiled as I walked into the room, not just to put the lady at her ease, but because all of a sudden it felt good to be back at work. This was my job, after all, wherever I did it. As I sat down opposite Senora Compostella, I realised that I had been away for long enough.

I could tell right away that she was going to be a good one. There was something in the cast of her jaw and the steadiness of her gaze as she looked back at us, unfazed even by my bizarre translator, that told me she would not prevaricate. I was right. Every one of her answers was on the button, making it clear that the pursuer’s version of the circumstance was insupportable. Davidoff performed the translator’s duties impeccably, making certain that the witness understood each question before accepting and translating her response.

The interview took forty minutes. When it was over, the lawyer’s secretary retired for half an hour, before reappearing with a Spanish transcript. Davidoff checked it against my English notes and nodded. ‘It’s okay. This is what she said.’

Senora Compostella signed on the dotted line, we all shook hands and at one twenty-five Davidoff and I were back in the square, each of us puffed up with the pleasure of a job well done.

‘This job of yours, Senor Oz,’ said my temporary colleague, grinning at me, with his eye flashing wickedly. ‘It’s a nice way to live, yes. Meeting people all the time, persuading them to tell you the truth.’

I nodded. ‘Not so long ago, I’d decided that it was a bore. But you’re right. There are worse ways to earn your bread.’

‘Speaking of bread,’ he said. ‘Follow me. My old body is crying out.’ He led me out of the square, walking so briskly that I had to stretch my legs to keep up with him. We turned into a side street, then an alley off it, which opened eventually into a small square. Davidoff’s eye lit up with pleasure as he looked into its furthest corner. ‘Ah! It is still there. Wonderful.’

I followed him across to the narrow doorway above which a simple sign, ‘Al Forn’, swung slightly in a swirling breeze. We stepped inside, into what seemed to me to be just another smoke-stained old bar, with a counter down one side, and booths lined down the other. We were the only customers. As we slid into one of the fixed tables, Davidoff nodded to a middle-aged man, who stood at the end of the bar. He wore a red shirt and black trousers, with a yellow sash around his waist.

The waiter nodded, curious but professionally polite. Davidoff spoke to him in Catalan. I could tell from his inflection that it was a question, and also that it had had an effect, as the waiter’s mouth dropped open in surprise. They conversed for a couple of minutes before, following a last guttural burst from my friend, the man nodded and headed off towards the kitchen.

‘I just asked him if he is Mario,’ said Davidoff, ‘and then I tell him that last time I was here he was six years old and playing on the floor where he is standing now. This place has been in the same family for ninety years. Almost since …’ He stopped, and shook his head. ‘No more, though. Mario says that his son is in Barca, studying to be a lawyer.’ He spat on the floor. ‘Too many fucking lawyers today. Not enough tradition.’

Mario reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a tray on which was piled tomato bread, melon and cured mountain ham. As he placed them before us, a very old woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. Unnoticed by Davidoff, she stared at him, almost in disbelief, with her hand at her mouth. Then with a shake of her head, she turned and was gone.

I wondered about her, but the first slice of melon soon distracted me. ‘Davidoff?’ I asked between mouthfuls. ‘When you were here last, forty years ago, what were you?What were you doing?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing much,’ he said. ‘I came to this place to speak Catalan. When Franco was around, it was against the law for us to use our own language. But still we did. Here and in places like it, where everyone was known and where the police could not come unnoticed. We would come here and we would speak, sing, recite poetry and debate, all in Catalan. Here we kept the torch alight.’

The eye misted over. ‘That’s history though. Noble, but still only history. Let’s you and I talk about today. Oz, I have a confession to make to you.’ It seemed to burst out from him. ‘You have a rival. I am captivated by Primavera. I am insanely jealous of you, and maybe I would kill you if it made it possible for me to take your place.’

No adjective exists to describe my reaction. ‘Astonished’ certainly wouldn’t do it justice. I stared at him, and realised that he was deadly serious. ‘Well,’ I said, when I could, for there was something about his matter of fact declaration that had unnerved me for a second. ’Maybe I should kill you first.’

He smiled. ‘Maybe you should, my boy. But don’t worry. I like you too much to do you harm. Primavera would not approve, anyway.’

I gave my best ‘Who cares?’ shrug. ‘You never know. She’d be worth twice as much with me gone. Tell you what, I’m not afraid of competition. If you think you’ve got a chance, you have my permission to pay court to her. Best man wins and all that stuff.’

‘Hah,’ he laughed. ‘Maybe with two bulls such as us competing for her it is Primavera who will be the winner. I accept your gracious gesture. Let us see.’

As we finished our ham, I glanced around. ‘Did Dali come here?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Davidoff. ‘He came here. He put his sign on the place. A moment.’ Beckoning me to follow, he slid out of the booth and stepped over to the end of the bar nearest the door. At its corner a square wooden pillar rose to the ceiling. It was as old as the building and glazed with the latest of many coats of varnish. The dark little man swung the door open, to see better, and began to peer at the far side of the column, feeling with his fingers. At last he nodded. ‘Here. Look.’

I leaned in alongside him and looked at the space between his thumb and first finger as he pressed them against the wood. At first I couldn’t see it, until I moved my head and found the right angle of light. There it was. The distinctive thistle-like ‘D’, the ‘a’, the ‘1’ and the final sweeping ‘i’ with its accent mark, carved carefully into the column, varnished a dozen times since it was cut, perhaps, but still marking the place where he had been.