Medusa (13 page)

There was something quite primitive in the way some of them looked at us, as though we had the Evil Eye. And the
Guardia
in particular reacted in a similar manner, their manner of questioning increasingly hostile. It was almost as though they had convinced themselves that one of us, one of the
extranjeros
, must know who had done it and be connected with it in some way. You could see it from their point of view. This was an island. To kill like that, in cold blood, it had to be somebody from outside – a terrorist, some representative of a foreign organisation, not one of their own people. It was a gut reaction. They were looking for a scapegoat, but the fact remained that all of us who were being questioned, all except the children and a mother who had gone looking for her little boy, we were all of us gathered there in full view, so that in the end they had to let us go.

Soo and I didn't talk much on the drive back. It was late afternoon, the air full of the clean smell of pines and everywhere the fields massed with colour, the predominantly golden carpet of flowers patched with the startling white of wild narcissi, the sun blazing out of a blue sky. What a lovely day for a killing! What the hell was wrong with Man that he couldn't enjoy the beauty of the world around him? Politics. Always politics. I felt almost physically sick. There was so much here in Menorca that I loved – the sea, the sun, the peace. And now it was shattered. Martinez had been much more than just the Alcalde of Mahon. He had been a power throughout the island.

That evening several of us met in a restaurant near the square in Villa Carlos. But though we talked late into
the night we achieved nothing except a fragile sense of solidarity. There were men there who had been in the island many years, but though they tried to kid themselves they were now Menorquins, they knew in their heart of hearts they were still foreigners. We were all of us
extranjeros
.

I was not in a happy frame of mind when I finally returned home. Soo, thank God, was already in bed and asleep. I undressed in the dark, a breeze blowing the curtains. Lying there, eyes closed, my mind went over and over the events of the day, the talk at that crowded restaurant table. Too much brandy, too much coffee. And then the phone rang.

I thought it might be America. Sometimes Americans forget the time difference. I rolled over, reaching blindly for the receiver, but Soo was before me. ‘Yes?' She switched on the light. And then, after a moment: ‘For you.' She passed it across to me and turned over, away from the light, as a man's voice spoke in my ear: ‘Wade here. We've just got the news. You were there, I gather.'

I came awake then, wondering who the hell he was. ‘Who is it? Who's speaking?'

‘Wade,' he repeated. ‘Commander Wade.'

I remembered then. ‘Where are you speaking from?'

‘London,' he said. ‘Where did you think?' He had a quiet, crisp, well-educated voice. ‘Did you see him?'

‘Who?'

‘The man who shot Martinez, of course. Did you recognise him?'

‘I didn't see him. How should I? Nobody saw him, not to recognise him.' And I asked him, ‘What's it got to do with you, anyway?'

But he ignored that. ‘We have a picture here. It's just come in. It shows you seated right beside the Mayor. You must have seen what happened.'

‘Of course I did. But the shot came from the villa behind and I was looking at Jorge Martinez, we all were, watching
him as he pitched forward down the steps on to the terrace below. The police have full information, they took statements –'

‘Yes, yes, we've got a telex copy of your statement here.'

‘Then why the hell are you phoning me? It's after one in the morning.'

‘I'm well aware of the time.' His tone was slightly weary and I guessed he had been at some Navy office most of the evening.

‘What are you, Intelligence?' I asked. But all he said was, ‘This is an open line, so let's keep to the point. I'm phoning you because Lloyd Jones reported you'd been very helpful in locating a
friend
of his.' His emphasis on the word friend made it clear he didn't want the man's name mentioned. ‘I understand you have now exchanged an unfinished villa and an old fishing boat for his catamaran. Where is he, do you know?' And when I said I had no idea, that he was away fishing somewhere, he asked when I had last seen him.

‘Almost two weeks ago.' And I added, ‘What business is it of yours? Anyway, you have my statement. You've just said so.'

‘Yes, but there's nothing in it about your dealings with this friend of Lloyd Jones. We need to know where he is now, and where he was at the time the Mayor was shot … Hullo, hullo! Are you still there?' His voice had sharpened.

‘Yes, I'm still here.'

‘You didn't answer.'

‘Why should I?' I was fully awake now and wondering what his real purpose was. ‘I've no intention of acting for your organisation.'

‘What organisation?'

‘Intelligence,' I said. ‘I want no part of it and I'm going to hang up now.'

‘No. Don't do that. Not for the moment.' He said it as though he were giving an order on his own quarterdeck.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘Goodbye.'

‘Ahmed Bey. Remember? And the Mattarella brothers.'

‘What do you mean?' The receiver was back at my ear, a quite involuntary movement.

‘Kenitra,' he said. ‘On the coast of Morocco.' And he added, ‘You see, I've had a few enquiries made about you. I don't think I need say any more. Now answer my questions please.' There was a coldness in his voice that hadn't been there before, a certainty that I would do what he asked. ‘Have you seen our friend since you handed the
Santa Maria
over to him ten days ago?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Have you asked the police where he is?'

‘Why should I? A man out fishing …'

‘You think he's fishing?' He didn't wait for an answer. ‘So you don't know where he is now or where he's been?'

‘No.'

‘Well, kindly find out.'

‘I'm busy,' I said. ‘I have clients …'

‘Just find out for me. Understand? I'll ring you tomorrow night.'

I opened my mouth to tell him I wouldn't be in, that there was no point, but instead I heard myself say, ‘When?'

‘Eighteen hundred hours.'

I started to say I would be out then, but the line went suddenly dead.

I lay back, my eyes closed. Ahmed Bey! Jesus! that was more than ten years back. The Jedida-Marseilles run.

‘What did he want?' Soo was propped up on one elbow, her large, dark eyes staring at me. ‘Who was he?'

‘A client, talking about boats.'

‘At this time of night?'

‘Go to sleep,' I said. I needed to think.

‘He said his name was Commander something or other. Was it about Gareth?'

God almighty! She was still thinking of Lloyd Jones. ‘No, of course not.' But I could see she didn't believe me.

‘Why did he ring then? It's almost half past one. Was it
about this man who persuaded you to part with the villa? You shouldn't have done it, Mike. A lovely villa like that, the
Santa Maria
too, and all you've got for it is that bloody catamaran. What did he say? What did he want?' She was leaning forward, fingers gripped urgently on my arm. ‘Is it to do with – what happened today?'

‘Yesterday,' I said. Already it was yesterday and Wade in London, the man who had told Lloyd Jones to contact me … No, ordered more likely. Ordered him to check with me in the hope of discovering Evans's whereabouts … Wade was concerned enough about what had happened here in Menorca to ring me in the middle of the night.

‘Patrick. That's what Gareth called him.' She let go of my arm, slumping back on the pillow. ‘What's he been up to now?'

‘Now?' My mind shifted from my talk with Wade to Lloyd Jones sitting across from me at that table on the Fornells waterfront. Had he told her more than he had told me? ‘What do you know about Patrick Evans?' She shook her head quickly, her eyes sliding away from me. ‘What did he tell you?' I was leaning over, shaking her, but all she did was stare at me blankly. ‘Nothing – only that he'd saved his life.'

‘I know that. Anything else?'

She hesitated, and then she said, ‘They're related.'

‘In what way?'

‘Just related, that's all. He was explaining why he was so anxious to find the man. A message, I think it was the man's mother. She had asked Gareth to take a message.'

She didn't know what the message was. She thought it might be something to do with a cottage they owned in a place called Gwenogle. ‘I remember the name because it sounded so odd, and yet the way Gareth said it …' She was smiling to herself. ‘I think maybe he was born in that little Welsh hill village.'

‘Who – Gareth or Patrick Evans?'

‘Patrick. They're both of them Welsh, of course.' She reached out and switched off the bedside light. I closed my eyes and in the silent darkness I saw Ahmed Bey's face as I had seen it that last time, the bullets slamming his thickset body backwards into the wake of the Italian boat ranging alongside. That was the last trip. They dumped us in an inflatable, no food, no water, the west coast of Africa more than twenty miles away and all desert when we reached it. We were lucky to get out of it alive.

How the hell did Wade know about that? We'd never been caught by the authorities. Was there some sort of a file on me at Naval Intelligence? And then I began thinking about Patrick Evans. There had to be some connection – first Lloyd Jones searching for him with out-of-date pictures, then the man himself, and now Wade.

It was in the very middle of the night, still half awake, my mind drowsily running over the possibilities, my imagination working overtime, that I suddenly had an ugly thought. If Wade knew what I'd been up to as a kid, there might be others, Evans, for instance. In which case …

The feeling was so strong, so frightening, I nearly got up there and then in the middle of the night. I didn't sleep after that, waiting for the dawn, certain now that Evans would have retained a key to the catamaran.

At first light I slid out of bed and dressed in the office across the stairhead. I was just searching my pockets for the car keys when Soo emerged, a pale shadow in her cream nightdress, her face still flushed with sleep. She didn't ask me what I was up to or where I was going. She simply said, ‘I'll make you some coffee.'

I could have hugged her then, all the love we'd felt for each other surging back in that moment. She knew. That intuitive sense between those who have shared several years of their lives, the sense that at times is pure telepathy, had communicated my fears to her. She knew where I was going, and why. The terrible thought that was in my mind was in hers.

She brought me my coffee, then stood by the window to drink her own. She didn't say anything. There was no need. The sun shining through the thin nightie limned the dark outline of her body, her face, her breasts, the long legs, all in silhouette. She looked infinitely desirable.

I drank the coffee quickly, urgent to be gone, to set my mind at rest, alternatively to … But the alternative didn't bear thinking about. If a search of the boat confirmed my fear, what would I do about it – where would I take it? Out to sea? Come back with it here and take the dinghy?

I put down the cup and walked over to her. I didn't put my arms round her, and she just lifted her face to me, our kiss without passion, gentle and understanding. After all, we had both been there, we had both heard the crack of the gun, no silencer, had seen the poor devil's face explode in a red mash as he had fallen. ‘I may be some time,' I said, and she nodded, still not saying anything, but I knew she would be here, waiting for me when I returned.

The sun was just rising as I drove round the end of Cala Figuera and on to the Levante, the harbour water still as glass, not a breath of wind, and as yet hardly anyone about. At the harbour end I turned right, then right again on to the approach road to the naval barracks. The naval quay is a large open space used occasionally as a parade ground. Yachts are allowed to be lifted out and laid up there, and there was still quite a line of them not yet in the water. The cat was lying stern-on just next to an old wooden yawl, the paint of her starb'd hull a-glint with the sun's reflected light as the wash of a harbour tug brought ripples slapping against the concrete walls. Beyond her, the city shone red and warm against a blue sky.

The tug hooted as I jumped on board. Aft, by the wheel with its swivel chair, I stood for a moment looking the vessel over, trying to sense whether anybody had been on board during the night. No footmarks and the lock on the saloon door had not been tampered with. But that didn't mean anything. He had given me two ignition keys, but only one for the saloon door. Some fool had dropped the other overboard, he had said.

I must have stood there for several minutes, thinking it over, trying to put myself in his shoes. But then the trouble was I was jumping to too many conclusions, and in the end I said to hell with it, opened the boat up and went below into that big saloon with its repeat bank of instruments, large chart area and semi-circular banquette behind the table on the port side. There were some overalls bundled up on the ledge below the low sweep of windows. They hadn't been there last time I had been on board, nor
the long-peaked cap. That would be Carp's, probably the overalls, too. There was a cardboard box full of paint tins and brushes, and the steps to the left that normally led down into the port hull had been folded back so that he could get at the engine. A steel tool box stood open on the floor nearby.

I had brought a couple of torches with me, for this was a bilge-and-hidden-cranny search. A rummage, in fact, and however long it took, I had to be sure the ship was clean.