David E Balaam - Columbus Day

"No . . . I put the phone down. What did he mean? Was it anything to do with your work or the police enquiry?"

George drew a breath. Why now, he thought to himself. And why go after my children?

He tried to put Alex’s mind at rest. "Don’t worry Alex - it’s a crank. Report it if he calls again, and just to be safe, tell Chris and Bonnie to be aware of any strange callers. On second thoughts I will call them myself tomorrow. Now, what was that about visiting your old man?" he said, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible.

"Ah yes . . . we . . . that is Chris, B and me wondered if you are ready for visitors."

"Of course, anytime. When?" George was excited at the thought of his kids visiting.

"How about for your birthday." Alex said "and to remember mum. It will be three years," she said with more than a hint of sadness in her voice.

George smiled reassuringly back at the screen and touched her face. "That is a lovely thought," he said quietly. Each year they had gathered to remember their mum, and George had encouraged them to continue the tradition, wherever they may be. Not so much in a solemn way, but to celebrate her and who she was. To cook her favourite food, play her music, and generally talk about her.

Alex found it very hard the first year, and the others felt awkward talking about their mum. The second-year seemed better, with Christopher bringing some of Aimee’s favourite films, and Bonnie reading a poem. Alex, however, was overcome again with emotion and could not bring herself to say anything. They had all sat huddled together on the sofa and watched Moulin Rouge, one of Aimee’s favourites. Everyone cried, and no one said a word.

"We had a conference call last night. Well, Chris and I did. B was on the line for two minutes to say yes and left us to make the arrangements. Nothing new there then."

"I wish you two would get on better. You’re not kids anymore."

"I know dad. It takes two to Tango and all that. I give her every opportunity to."

"OK, OK." George raised his hands in surrender, "Just be sure you leave your differences in England. I don’t want my Karma spoilt."

"Karma, dad – what’s going on out there? Sounds interesting."

"Nothing – I mean it’s so relaxing here. You’ll love it. So will Bonnie."

"OK, I’ll call when we have made the arrangements. We may need picking up from the airport. Have you got a car yet?"

"Not yet . . . but I know a man who has."

. . .

George reflected on Alex’s mystery caller. Who was causing trouble out there? George pondered on this for some time and concluded there could only be one troublemaker – Oliver Barnes.

He didn’t contact Chris or Bonnie as he had promised Alex, as he was sure there would be no need.

. . .

Peter Barnes had reluctantly accepted the inevitable that the money was gone, and at the January board meeting reported that the case had been closed, and the money was ‘written off’ - lost, conveniently, in the wake of the Icelandic bank fiasco.

Oliver Barnes was, however, not satisfied with the outcome. He was furious with the decision.

"How can you sit there and calmly agree to write-off five million pounds. You should be out there hanging him upside down until he confesses."

His father sat behind his antique polished mahogany desk, transfixed at his son’s outburst.

"Oliver," he said as calmly as possible. He was aware of his high blood pressure, and the warning the doctor had given him on his last check-up. ‘Take it easy Peter unless you want early retirement.’

". . . firstly do not talk to me like that. I am not just your father but also Chairman of the bank, and expect more respect from you."

Oliver went to respond but was cut short. Barnes senior raised his hand. "I am not finished. Secondly, the board has decided to close the matter. We have assessed the damage, and we will take the loss.

After the insurance settlement is taken in to account the figures will look better than many of our competitors who have taken similar losses through the World's financial fiasco for the past couple of years." He paused to shake his head as if in memory of a lost friend. He looked up suddenly. "Thank God we were not truly compromised in that as well. That may have been a loss too far. Most banks will survive, albeit in a new structure, and with new mandates, but some will go to the wall and God help them, all because of the greed within our own financial institutions."

Oliver Barnes listened with a mix of bewilderment and incredulity and realised then it was time for a change at the top.

. . .

George walked into town the next day to retrieve his push-bike and decided to see if he could find Martin the Mechanic, Vincente had recommended.

He thought of looking in at El Tango to see if Vincente could give him an address, but decided to cycle around and see if he could find it himself and discover more of where he lived at the same time.

Calabaza is not a large town but George realised he had not ventured further than the Calle de Casteno, a long road leading west from the Calle de Algarrobo, where El Tango is situated. Along Calle de Casteno he had found several shops including a convenience store he used for provisions. He now cycled further along this road to see where it took him. Some locals nodded to him or waved as he passed, and George felt a tinge of pleasure that these people would greet a stranger so openly. At the end of Calle de Casteno he came to a T-Junction.

Cycling around is all very well but it could be counterproductive, and tiring, so George decided to approach one of the friendly faces that had acknowledged him as he passed by a couple of minutes earlier.

"Hola," he called over to an elderly lady crossing the road in front of him. "I am looking for Martin the mechanic . . ."

The woman stared at him, smiled, and continued on her way.

George turned right into Calle de Cerezo, where to his delight he discovered several more shops. There was a butcher, an art shop selling local paintings, gifts and pottery, a wine shop, delicatessens and an electrical shop. He decided to ask directions in the gift shop hoping they would understand some English. Unfortunately, they did not speak English, but George somehow made them understand with mimes and gestures he was looking for the local garage.

As it turned out he was only a few hundred yards away in the other direction. Martin’s garage was in Calle de Aliso, a small road with just a handful of old terrace houses and what looked like a disused shop next door to the garage. Above the garage was a double-storey flat where Martin lived.

A man in his late-thirties was working on an old Honda. "Hola," George said, and to his surprise, the man replied in English. "Hello, can I help you. You must be the Englishman who brought El Pino."

"Does everyone know of my arrival?" George inquired.

"Well, most people will. The previous owners were well known here. There is even a street called Calle de Pino the other side of town," he said with some pride.

"Your English is good,” George said, holding out his hand