I followed him down into the cellar. I was right behind him when he saw the body, and I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him as he jumped back, involuntarily.

  ‘Mother of Christ!’ he gasped, in Spanish.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute. Reynard Capulet, I’d say; beyond a shadow of a doubt this time.’ I pointed to the left wrist, and the heavy gold, diamond-set watch which hung loosely round it. ‘That’s a pimp’s Rolex if ever I saw one.’

  Fortunato had recovered his composure, enough to let him lean over the body. ‘We should be able to trace its ownership, certainly; with a bit of luck we’ll still be able to lift some prints too. It’s very dry down here.’

  He turned. ‘Come on, let’s get upstairs before we contaminate the scene any further.’

  I led the way this time; we went round the stairway and into the kitchen, from where the policeman phoned his office to call out detectives and technicians, while I took a couple of beers from the fridge.

  He looked me in the eye, as he took his first slug. ‘Sayeed in the pool, now Capulet in the cellar. What do you think, Oz? You’re a sharp guy. Any ideas?’

  ‘Bloody obvious, isn’t it? The Moroccan was killed and planted in the pool to make it look as if Capulet had shot him after a quarrel, then run off. At first I thought that the Frenchman might have killed him to fake his own death . . . until I found that thing downstairs.’

  Fortunato nodded. ‘I agree with that. I guess we’d better contact Interpol, and round up his known associates.’

  ‘I guess you’d better,’ I agreed, ‘only that can’t be the whole story.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Clearly, the sister has to have been in on it; Lucille, the one who’s gone missing. With her brother dead, she took the decision to sell all his property, the three places in Paris, Florida and here, that were owned technically by the company she controlled.

  ‘Maybe one of his Mafia pals was involved in it, but she had to be too.’

  He scratched his chin. He must have shaved very quickly, for blood began to run from a fresh nick just above his jaw, on the left side.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he conceded. ‘I don’t imagine Interpol have been looking for her . . . not too hard at any rate. They’d better start now.’

  ‘So should you,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she’s gone far away.’

  His look wasn’t just a question. It was a whole cross-examination in itself.

  I answered it by telling him all the stuff he didn’t know about Susie’s visit, about her dangerous fall down the stairs in the middle of the night, and about my certainty that her drink had been drugged earlier in the evening, by the same guy who had sent her flying, to try and incriminate me and get me out of the house.

  I told him about the envelope which Prim had received, the one which had put me in deep shit and him back in her bed, and I told him about the missing mug. Finally, I told him about the trap I had laid for the intruder, the one which hadn’t been sprung.

  ‘He may have found what he was after, or he may have felt that he’d pushed his luck far enough: I don’t know. I do know that whatever it was, or is, must be extremely valuable, for he and Lucille have had all that time since Capulet was killed to find it, and they’re still looking. More than that, they’re taking big risks to do it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fortunato agreed. ‘But why? If this is something in the house, and Lucille is involved, why did she sell it to you in the first place? Why not refuse your offer and keep looking?’

  ‘I don’t have an answer to that one,’ I told him. ‘But I know a man who does. Why don’t we go and find him, once your people get here, and once you’ve contacted Interpol and asked them to find a photograph of Lucille Capulet and fax it to you.’

  34

  He wasn’t hard to find. He wasn’t in his office, but his secretary sent us to a bar at the far end of Riells beach; he was there, sitting at the bar, drinking café solo and talking to the attractive owner.

  ‘Hello Sergi,’ I hailed him in Castellano as we walked in. ‘Just the man I want to see. How about buying my friend and me a beer out of your commission on the sale of Casa Nou Camp?’

  ‘Que?’ he blurted out, then laughed. ‘Ah, you mean Villa Bernabeu.’

  ‘Not any more. I’m a Barça fan.’

  ‘Whatever. Sure I will buy you a beer, and your pal.’

  ‘You know him, do you? If not, let me introduce you to Captain Fortunato, of the Mossos in Girona.’

  Sergi’s lantern jaw seemed to tense, but his expression stayed amiable as he shook the policeman’s hand.

  ‘You were just passing by?’ he asked, as the young man behind the bar poured two beers.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I admitted. ‘We were looking for you.’

  ‘Ah,’ the estate agent said slowly. ‘This is about the unfortunate business with the body in the swimming pool. I told the other policemen that I had no idea it was there, and they believed me.’

  ‘So do we.’

  ‘Ah, then maybe you want to talk about a discount on the price. I am sorry, but ...’

  ‘No,’ Ramon interjected. ‘Señor Blackstone does not need the money. I want to ask you something, actually: some new questions.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘During the time when the villa was for sale, did you have other offers?’

  Sergi nodded. ‘Yes, several. I had four, in fact. One was even for the full price.’

  ‘What did you do when each offer was received?’

  ‘I called the lawyer in Geneva who acts for the company which owned the villa. They said that they would consult Señora Capulet, but each time, they came back and said that she didn’t want to accept.’

  ‘So why did she accept our offer?’ Fortunato shot me a glance; he was annoyed at my joining in the questioning, but I didn’t give one. This was my line of enquiry we were following.

  Sergi hesitated; I guess he was considering whether it was safe to tell the truth to the Mossos. Eventually he decided that it would have been risky not to.

  ‘The fact is,’ he admitted, ‘that she didn’t. I did.’ The policeman’s eyebrows rose, threateningly, but he went on, quickly.

  ‘I was annoyed with her. I am not in business for fun; I had been doing my best to sell her house, and four times before I could have done so. So when you offered, I said to myself, “Man, enough is enough”, and so I used the power of attorney which the company had given me at the beginning to complete the transaction.’

  He glanced at Fortunato. ‘It was all quite legal, you understand. Ethical? In the circumstances I’d do it again. Silly woman; her brother Rey would not have messed me about like that if he hadn’t gone away.’

  ‘Sergi,’ I asked, ‘when the house was put up for sale, were all the valuables taken away?’

  ‘Sure. Lucille sent a man to take them to her.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He called himself Martin Guerre. His French accent was odd, so I guessed he was Swiss.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  ‘I think I may have seen him about L’Escala once or twice, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘How about Lucille Capulet? Have you seen her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met her in my life.’

  The captain would have left it at that, but I tried him with one more. ‘When the valuables were cleared away, what happened to the wine in the cellar?’

  Sergi is not a guy who would recognise a trick question, even after he’d tripped over it. ‘What wine?’ he asked. ‘What cellar?’ As if to confirm his innocence, he gave me the biggest shrug I have ever seen. Even Fortunato was convinced by that.

  We drank our beers, I bought two more, and a Campari and soda for our friend, and then we went back to the villa to see what progress the technicians were making.

  35

  As it happened they were only just starting, but while they were away something of greater interest to me had finished, for the time being at least . . . my marriage.

  After Fortunato had driven me back to Casa Nou Camp, instructed his men to report any significant finds to him at once, and headed home to God Knew What from Vero, I went wearily upstairs, stripped off my clothes and stepped straight into the shower.

  I had finished towelling myself off, when I saw the note, in an envelope bearing the Husa Princesa crest, on the dressing table. Before I even picked it up, I went to Prim’s wardrobe and threw it open. Most of her clothes were gone.

  I almost crumpled the letter and threw it away unread, but, once I had finished dressing, a mix of guilt and curiosity made me tear it open. It was more or less what I had expected.

  Oz

  We really have made a hash of it, haven’t we? You more so than me, from where I stand, but you’d expect me to say that wouldn’t you.

  I’m sorry that I kept so many things from you; things like Fergal going off and dumping me, how it really was here after you did the same thing, and what really happened between me and Ramon. I don’t know how you guessed that he was with me in Barcelona, unless you called Veronique looking for him, and she told you that he was away. I should reproach you for not thinking better of me, only you were right. I am no better than you. You took your revenge with Susie, and I took mine with him.

  From your tone when you called earlier, I suspect that if I stayed and said that we should call it evens and try to start again, you’d agree. I can’t do that, though, and I think you’ll understand why.

  The thing is, I don’t know you any more; I know you’d say the same to me, if you were honest. If I did come back, we’d be strangers to a large extent. We might say the right things and do the right things, but it would be for the sake of it and there would be raw resentment burning just under the surface in both of us. Sooner or later one of us would explode, and that really would be the end of it.

  I’m not going back to Ramon, that I can promise you, even after Veronique kicks him out, as I expect she will after you tell her what’s happened. You’re too vengeful not to. I’ve seen too much of his weakness, just as I’ve seen too much of your ruthlessness. It wasn’t just me who kept things secret, you know. You were worse in a way; you kept your secrets from yourself.

  What I am doing is going back to Los Angeles, back to Mum, and back to help Dawn after she has the baby. I’ll say nothing to them about what’s happened, I promise you. I won’t screw things up between you and Miles. No, you go back to Glasgow for the premiere, and for your acting coaching. Maybe you’ll go back to Susie, I don’t know. Nothing I can do about that. If you don’t, when you come out to Los Angeles to start rehearsals and filming, maybe we can see each other again and see what the prospects are for a salvage operation.

  I don’t know what’s going on under the stairs. The police wouldn’t tell me, and I don’t think I want to know, anyway. I’ve put the Merc in the garage and taken a taxi to Perpignan. I’ll fly to Paris from there, then on.

  Love

  Prim

  PS I really would like to know how you found out about Fergal. That’s the one thing that nearly made me stay.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But not nearly enough.’

  I tried to call her, on her mobile, until I heard it ring, and I realised that she’d left it by the side of the bed. I thought about racing after her in the Voyager, thought about it seriously, until I knew for sure that I didn’t want to. She was right; if there was any chance for us, we had to put time and distance between us and all that shit. We had to do that even to find out whether either of us wanted there to be a chance.

  I had to call someone; my sister drew the short straw. I told her that Prim and I had split up and why. I had expected Ellie to give me the bollocking of all time, just as if I was a lad again, but she didn’t.

  ‘You poor loves,’ she said. ‘I could tell at Christmas that there was something wrong between you. I blame that place, Oz.’

  ‘What? The house?’

  ‘No, the whole bloody town. You had nothing but trouble when you were there before, so whatever made you go back?’

  ‘There are dark forces which guide our destiny,’ I told her grimly. Until that moment it would have been one of my poorer jests, but that was the point at which I became convinced that it was entirely true.

  ‘Maybe so, but if they come around my house I’ll give them a good leathering. Do you want to come and stay with me for a bit?’

  Never once in my life, not even when she was slapping me around as a kid, had my sister ever made me cry . . . until then. I felt my eyes moisten and a tear ran down my cheek. More than anything else, it came from the knowledge that there was still someone alive, as well as my dad, who really loved me.

  ‘Thanks Ellie,’ I said wiping it and that flash of self-pity away, ‘but I’ve got some stuff to finish up here. I’ll come and see you when I get back to Glasgow. I’ll tell you what: you can chum me to the premiere. You up for that?’

  ‘Haud me back!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re on, boyo.’

  I left her laughing, then went out to eat. The techs were still at work when I got back, and when I went to bed. They were still at work next morning, when I got up, although I have no idea what they were doing by then . . . having a wine tasting, maybe.

  They had only just gone at three thirty, when the phone rang. I picked it up, half hoping that it would be Prim. But it wasn’t. It was the Other Woman.

  ‘Oz,’ Susie burst out, as I answered.

  ‘Just saying my name gets you that excited, does it?’

  ‘Could do, boy, you never know. Don’t repeat this to anyone who might know me, but I’ve been missing you.

  ‘Prim back yet?’

  ‘And gone.’ I filled her in on what had happened . . . with the notable exception of my horizontal encounter with Veronique Sanchez.

  ‘Que sera, sera,’ she said.

  ‘When did you join the Tartan Army?’

  ‘I helped to found it. Now shut up and listen. I’ve just had a visit from your old man. I think he came along to see that I was all right . . . bless his wee heart, or did you put him up to it?’

  ‘No,’ I told her, truthfully. ‘It was his idea.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Anyhow . . . he brought along some holiday snaps to show me. They were of your place, so I thought I’d better act as if I’d never seen it before.

  ‘Then he showed me one that was taken at your New Year party.’ She paused: she was winding up for something big, I could tell.

  ‘He was in one of them, Oz. The guy in JoJo’s that night, the one you reckon spiked my drink. I recognised him.’

  I gasped, struck dumb for a moment. ‘Who was it, then?’

  ‘If I knew that I’d have told you in L’Escala, idiot.’

  ‘I suppose so. I’ll just have to wait until my old man can send me it.’

  ‘No. I guessed you’d want to see it, so I asked him to leave it with me. I’ll post it to you tonight.’

  I thought about this for a bit. ‘Better than that,’ I said. ‘Have you got a scanner in the office?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘I’m with you. I’ll turn it into a file and send it to you by e-mail. Gimme half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll hold my breath,’ I told her. ‘Susie, if I did, right now I’d tell you I love you.’

  ‘Aye, but don’t, until you do.’

  I heard the phone go down. I didn’t quite hold my breath, but I didn’t wait for half an hour. I logged on after fifteen minutes and, sure enough, Joanna Lumley told me that I had post.

  Susie had named the file, ‘Villain’. It took just under a minute to download.

  I felt my fingers tremble as I opened it and watched it scroll down the screen. I adjusted the magnification to one hundred and fifty per cent; any more and I’d have lost clarity.

  There were quite a few people in my dad’s wide-angled snapshot. Prim and me for two, kissing, Mary, Ellie, Jonny and Frank Barnett. I didn’t have any trouble working out who Susie had meant, though. She had printed a great big ‘X’ right above the smiling face of John Gash.

  36

  I sat for an hour after I’d printed out the picture, staring at it, caressing a couple of beers until they’d evaporated, and thinking. I knew I should call Fortunato right away and tell him what I’d found out, but I wanted to get a handle on the complete picture before that.

  Almost from the moment I discovered that Gash was the guy trying to get Prim and me out of the way, I developed what I used to call Quasimodo Syndrome. I had a very large hunch.

  We were agreed, the captain and I, that Lucille Capulet had to be involved in her brother’s murder. Someone had to be instructing the company lawyer and it could only be her. We were agreed too that there was a man involved in it, because of what had happened to Susie.

  Therefore, there was only one conclusion as far as I was concerned. The lovely Virginie, the new girlfriend John had sprung on Shirley, was Lucille Capulet. How they had met didn’t interest me; maybe John had been alarmed by the Frenchman’s courting of his mother, and had sought out his sister to see what she might be able to do about it. Maybe, but it didn’t matter.

  Lucille had never been to L’Escala as far as anyone knew; not even Sergi, her estate agent, had ever seen her. She was Virginie, simple as that; I knew it and I didn’t need any faxed photos from Lyon to confirm it.

  So what were she and John after so badly? Towards the end of my contemplation, something came back to me, something that had struck me as slightly off at the time. After all his determination to get his hands on Capulet’s old Lada, even to the extent, I was now sure, of taking a shot at me to scare me into selling it, he had buggered off and left the thing in his mother’s garage.

  I left my beer and the photo on the kitchen work-surface and walked along to Shirley’s house. She was in, and met me with a great big smile, which made me feel all the worse about what I was going to do to her life.