Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

Primavera’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Oh,’ she said, theatrically. ‘I rather think we are. What are we going to do?’

‘I’ve just told you; we’re going to the Guardia Civil.’

‘But what about Scott? Don’t we have some sort of an obligation to him?’

She had a point. If the problems over VAT and import duties hadn’t occurred to me when Scott offered us the task, then they should have. Even if they had, I couldn’t put my hand on my heart and say that I’d have turned down the job because of them.

‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘Fortunato can’t make progress until tomorrow, until the shops open in the UK. We’ll call Scott first, tell him the score and give him twenty-four hours to sort himself out with the Customs and Excise. If he pays them some duty, he should be in the clear.’

‘Give him forty-eight hours,’ she said.

‘Yes, okay. There’s no problem until our man the captain actually traces Starr’s movements in Spain, and it could be a few days before he does that.’

We called Scott all day, without success. I rang his home, his office and his mobile, but none of them answered. I even called Jan and asked her to drive out to see him.

‘What’s the sudden panic, Oz?’ she asked. ‘Are you in trouble?’ She sounded concerned. I felt a pang of pleasure.

‘Potentially. Look, love, I’ll tell you all about it when we come over for the wedding. For now, please, if you can, do us this favour.’

‘Okay,’ she said, with a faint chuckle. ‘It’ll cost you, mind.’

‘Name your price. How are you doing, by the way?’

She was terse once more. ‘Fine, thank you.’ The line went dead.

She called back ninety minutes later. ‘The house is locked up, Oz,’ she said. ‘Tight as a fish’s ring. I met one of the neighbours, though. The Scotts are away for a long weekend at some bloody horse show down in England. The daughter’s competing, apparently. Either Gavin’s forgotten his mobile or he has to switch it off around the horses.’

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’ I cursed. ‘He would pick this weekend. But thanks, love. At least we know now.’

‘My pleasure. Incidentally, when I spoke to Prim this morning, I gathered that you haven’t told her about Noosh and me.’

‘True,’ I said, with a glance at Prim, who was sitting on the other side of the terrace.

‘Well, you bloody should have. I was taken aback this morning when she asked about her. The longer you delay, Oz, the stranger she’ll think it is.’

‘I’ll attend to it. See you, and thanks again.’

‘Attend to what?’ Primavera asked, casually.

‘That list of time and costs for the Scott invoice.’

I tried the mobile number once more, just before it was time to leave for dinner with Davidoff, but it still came up with a smug, irritating voice telling me that it might respond if I tried later. ‘I’ve been trying all effing day,’ I growled back, leaving our client to his fate, until next morning at least.

Shirley was waiting for us at the foot of the stairway up to her front door as I parked the Frontera in her driveway, dead on time for dinner with Davidoff.

‘We’ll go straight round,’ she said, leading us along the path to the rear of the house. ‘Himself is a stickler for punctuality. He’s been all hustle and bustle today, getting ready for tonight. He swam for bloody miles this afternoon, then he disappeared off to the fruit market and the fish shop. He’s been cooking ever since he got back.

‘Davidoff does his paella for me once a year. When Clive was alive he used to do it for us both, and he’s kept the tradition going. There’s never a set day, but he never forgets. Until now he’s only ever done it for me. You two are the first guests he’s ever invited.’

‘We’re honoured,’ I said. ‘But how are you getting on? It’s a day or two since we’ve seen you.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Shirley. ‘Apart from that bloody brother of mine.’

‘Adrian?’ Prim was surprised. ‘I thought you and he got on so well.’

‘We do. That’s why I’m pissed off. He left yesterday without saying goodbye. I was down at Maggie’s till around nine, and I know I was a bit late, but he might have waited. His flight wasn’t due out until two a.m. All I got was a bloody note saying that he had to have a quick drink with a chum at the golf club, thanks for everything and goodbye.’

‘Did you call him today to tell him off?’

‘Wouldn’t waste the call, Prim. Let him stew in it for a couple of days. I’ll wait until I know he’s really busy in the office, then I’ll phone him.’

As she finished, we reached the summerhouse, and right on cue, Davidoff stepped out. As always he was dressed from head to foot in black, but this time it was satin; a shirt with long loose sleeves buttoned at the wrist, tight trousers, and of course, a matching eye patch. His skin was oiled, and his cropped dark hair was sleek. The garden lights were on against the gathering darkness. They shone on his clothes, making them seem to shimmer as he gave a courtly bow towards the ladies.

We had brought the best bottle of Cava that I could find in the bodega. It had been chilling all day, and was encased in an insulating sleeve. The dark eye shone as I handed it over. ‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said. ‘I will open it first. It will make an acceptable aperitif.’ I didn’t quite know how to take that, until I saw the Krug chilling in an ice bucket, inside the guest bungalow’s open-plan kitchen.

I felt that I should do something to help, but Davidoff shooed me away, to switch off the floodlights, then to join the girls, seated now at a white table beside the pool. I had barely joined them before he was fluttering around us, holding a tray with the Cava in four flutes, finely made, with gold leaf round their long stems.

‘My dear friend Clive gave these to me, in the year before he died,’ he said to Primavera, leaning towards her as he sat down. ‘I have always kept them here. This is the first time since he died, is it not, Shirley, that all four have been filled together. That’s good, because this is a special night. Look,’ he said, pointing up to the darkening sky, ‘I have even arranged the moonlight.’

I grinned. ‘Never,’ I thought, ‘have I heard bullshit of such a high order.’ But I kept the thought to myself, for our host was clearly firing on all cylinders and it would have been churlish to interrupt his flow.

I felt slightly huffed when he rushed us through the very fine Cava. ‘Come, come.’ He stood up. ‘To the table. Davidoff’s paella does not suffer being kept waiting.’

A bowl of toasted bread was on the table, with halved beef tomatoes ready to rub into it, with olive oil and garlic and a dish of anchovies. ‘The L’Escala starter,‘ the chef announced, ’is one of the world’s simplest. It is also one of the best.’

He’s right. Tomato-soaked toast, rubbed with garlic, with oil and anchovies doesn’t sound like much: till you try it.

If Davidoff had a fault that night, it seemed to be a tendency to rush his guests, but we accepted it as being in the interests of arriving at the paella at exactly the right moment. There are regional variations of Spain’s national dish; along the Costa Brava, as I had come to know, they favour seafood. But I never in my life tasted one like Davidoff served up that night, with the Krug.

How he persuaded the fish to remain in such substantial chunks, and yet be so moist, I’ll never know. How he coaxed every mussel and clam to open its shell is quite beyond me. How he managed to keep the rice at such a consistency, while the cooking of every other ingredient should have militated against it, I have no idea.