‘Shirl,’ I began, ‘that car I flogged to your lad: I think I may have left a pair of sunglasses in it. Can I have a look?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, handing me a remote control device which had been lying on her hall table. ‘That’ll open the garage.’

  I pressed the button and the door raised. It was starting to get dark, but there was still enough light for me to see that John had given the car a real going over. The seats had been taken out and were upside down on the floor. The roof lining had been cut out completely, and all the door panels stripped off. HM Customs could not have done it more thoroughly: this was not how a car was broken into spares for export.

  I closed the door quickly and gave Shirley her zapper, plus a ‘No luck’ story. Then I hurried back to Casa Nou Camp.

  Whatever they were after, he and his girlfriend, was a big mystery, but there was also a ‘why’ to be considered. I could have asked Shirley a couple of questions, but she was too smart not to ask me a couple in return. So instead, I called someone I’d met the last time we were in L’Escala.

  One reason why I remembered her . . . far from the only one, she’s a very memorable lady indeed . . . was that she’s the Clerk to one of the City livery companies, the one which covers makers of fine furniture.

  I didn’t know the name of Shirley’s family firm, but I’d a fair idea that it wasn’t called Gash Furniture. She did know it though, as soon as I mentioned John’s name.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I know them.’

  ‘A profitable business is what I hear,’ I ventured.

  ‘Believe that if you will,’ said my friend, a remark which told me nothing, but everything. I thanked her, looked forward to seeing her in L’Escala, and said so long.

  Still, I kept Fortunato on the back burner, instead, I phoned his wife. She wasn’t exactly delighted to hear from me. ‘This isn’t going to become a habit, is it?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Vero,’ I promised her, ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without you. But I need to see you now, here at the house.’

  ‘Are Ramon’s people still there?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And is . . .?’

  ‘That’s an even dafter question. They took him away last night.’

  ‘I meant your wife, you idiot.’

  I felt like one; that notion had never occurred to me. ‘No. She’s been and gone; off to see her sister and mother in the US. What about Ramon?’

  ‘He’s at work,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t kicked him out yet, if that’s what you mean. I’m biding my time. Look, is this important?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll take the baby to my mother and come over.’

  She made it in twenty minutes; I had coffee ready and waiting for her, in the sitting room. She surprised me by kissing me as soon as I closed the door.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want this to be a habit.’ I murmured.

  ‘I don’t. I’m just indulging myself, that’s all. I still feel very strange.’ She walked over to the big couch and sat down.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Why do you think? The thought that yesterday, while we . . . That Rey was lying beneath us all that time.’

  ‘Hey! I’ve been living with the bastard for a month, and he’s brought me nothing but grief.’

  She shuddered, then smiled. ‘Poor you. You want me to feel sorry?’

  ‘A little consolation wouldn’t go amiss right now,’ I admitted.

  ‘We’ll see about that when you tell me why you had to see me . . . Or was that the reason? It didn’t sound that way.’

  ‘No. How much has Ramon told you about what happened last night, and about what we found out?’

  ‘Nothing, other than that you had found Rey Capulet’s body, for real this time.’

  ‘Okay.’ I filled her in on the story from the beginning, then brought her right up to date. ‘I know who killed him.’

  ‘Who?’ she gasped.

  ‘John Gash; Shirley’s son. You met him at our New Year party. Remember the girl with him? Virginie?’ She nodded. ‘I’m betting she’s really Lucille, Rey’s sister.’

  Vero gave a wee cry. ‘Ahh, yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s it. I remember her, and I remember thinking that she reminded me of someone I’d seen. Rey had her photograph, here and in Paris. But she was different in that; she wore spectacles and her hair was much darker.’

  ‘Good. I win the money, then. So, the score is that those two killed Rey and walled his body up downstairs. They also killed Sayeed, and left him as a sort of time-bomb in the pool, either to be identified as Capulet or as the reason for his disappearance.

  ‘But they didn’t just do it for the value of his three properties. They were after something else, something which they couldn’t find, after they killed him. They’ve looked for months, and they kept on looking even after Sergi sold me the house . . . which he wasn’t supposed to do.

  ‘You were here, Vero, with Capulet, in this house. Do you have any ideas about what, or where, this thing might be?’

  She stood up. ‘Take me to bed,’ she demanded.

  ‘Vero, I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I. Take me to bed and then I’ll tell you what I think.’

  She made it up the staircase under her own power this time. I was quite pleased about that. She’s a bigger girl than either Susie or Prim.

  I did my absolute best for Scotland, as they say, and she did hers for Catalunya. After a while we lost track of time, but eventually, when all the heavy breathing, sweating, shoving and shouting was over, I noticed that we’d been at it for a good forty minutes. I found myself wondering when Ramon usually got home for his tea.

  ‘Okay,’ I said to her, summoning up a threatening tone that I’d been practising for my next movie role. ‘You gonna spill the beans now, or do I have to do all that again?’

  She laughed out loud and pulled herself up until she was sitting with her back against the shiny frame of the big brass bed. Then she reached up and over her shoulder with her right hand, grabbed the big knob which topped the post, and twisted it, clockwise, as hard as she could.

  It began to unscrew, slowly and stiffly.

  I watched her, fascinated, then jumped over her and out of bed, taking over from her. The big brass dome was screwed into the post, not just slid in there, but the normal thread pattern was reversed. Even if they had thought to look there, John and Lucille would have tried to unscrew it in the normal way, anticlockwise, and the thing wouldn’t have budged.

  It took a while, but eventually the heavy knob came loose and I lifted it out. There was a chain attached to it, and on the end a cylindrical metal container, like the kind they used to have in some big department stores in the days before credit cards when all the cash transactions were completed and change given in a central counting house, connected by tubes to all the sales points. I’ve never seen that system, but my dad described it to me in detail, one day in Edinburgh. That’s what I thought of when I saw Reynard Capulet’s secret treasure.

  The lid of the box unscrewed too, but in the normal way. I opened it and shook out on to the bed, eight long keys on a ring, and a single sheet of paper.

  ‘They’re for safe-deposit boxes,’ said Veronique quietly. ‘Rey turned all his real wealth into bonds and diamonds and kept it in locations all over Europe. Each box has two keys. Rey had one, his sister held the other. But only Rey knew where they all are, and that piece of paper there is the only record of the addresses of the banks where they are kept and the names in which the boxes are held.

  ‘I know this because I walked in on him once, while he was putting a new key into the box and adding its details to the paper. I thought he would be angry at first, but he just said, “Now you know where the Capulet riches are hidden. Of course, if you tell anyone, I will have to kill you, and them.” He smiled when he said it, but I knew that he meant it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I whistled. ‘This is dangerous stuff.’

  Vero’s right hand flew to her breast. ‘What if they are still watching this house?’

  I looked at her. ‘I wish. I want to meet young Mr Gash again; I’ve got some real pain in store for him. But if they are, they’ll know we’ve found Rey’s body, and that they’ll be rumbled.’

  I picked up the bedside telephone. ‘It’s time I called in your old man again. Better get your kit on and beat it home, unless you want to be here when he arrives.’

  ‘Maybe I do. And why not? He’s never going to believe that you found this hiding place all on your own, in a day, when other people have been looking for it for a year.’

  ‘Okay, but meet me halfway on this. Get dressed and be downstairs before he gets here.’

  37

  In deference to Veronique . . . not that she was too bothered . . . I changed the sheets and aired the bedroom for a good ten minutes after I called her husband.

  He didn’t say anything when I let him in and he saw her there. He didn’t have to; his eyes did it for him. For an instant I thought we were going to have to do the macho thing right enough, but his wife crushed him with a few words.

  ‘I have often wondered how good a policeman you really are,’ she said to him, speaking in Spanish rather than Catalan, to make certain that I understood too. ‘Now I know. Señor Blackstone . . .’ Nice touch, I thought, to sweep away any thought of familiarity between us. ‘. . . is a civilian, and yet he had an idea all on his own, one which the entire Mossos d’Esquadra overlooked.’

  Fortunato looked at me, as if he was glad of an excuse to escape his wife’s withering gaze. ‘What does she mean?’

  I tossed him Capulet’s key-ring. ‘That’s what they’ve been after. His set of keys to his treasure house; his sister has the others, but she doesn’t know where the boxes are.

  ‘I was told that your wife and the Frenchman had a relationship once, so it occurred to me that she could have an idea about where they might be hidden. She did.’

  He nodded. ‘Very good, my dear. Very good, Oz. But I don’t suppose she could tell you who “They” are . . . or “Him”, at least.’

  ‘She didn’t have to.’ I picked up my dad’s Hogmanay snapshot and handed it to him.

  He stared at it, pop-eyed, taking in the face below the ‘X’. ‘The son of Señora Gash? What makes you say that?’

  ‘My father showed that picture to Susie Gantry. She identified him as the man in JoJo’s; the guy who spiked her drink. I sold him Capulet’s old car; to be broken into parts, I thought, and shipped to Russia. He tore it apart looking for those keys, and the paper that goes with them, pointing the way to all his safe-deposit hoard.’

  I paused. ‘Have you had that photo from Interpol yet?’ I asked him.

  ‘Of Lucille Capulet? Yes.’

  ‘Right. So take a look at John’s girlfriend and picture her with glasses and darker hair.’

  His pop-eyes went narrow. ‘Puta,’ he whispered.

  ‘Shirley thinks they went home last week, only they didn’t. They hung around, trying everything they could to clear me out of this house.’ I laughed. ‘They should just have killed me . . . No fucking way you’d have caught them, if you’d even tried.’

  He ignored the crack. ‘Are you saying they are still here?’

  ‘I don’t know, chum. They may have cut and run after I found Capulet’s body; but they may be hanging around for one last shot at the goodies, after I go back to Scotland.’

  ‘But where could they hide? L’Escala in the winter is a small place, in terms of people at least.’

  ‘Exactly. There are thousands of empty properties here; they could have broken into any one of them, and be using it as a hide-out.’

  The captain shook his head. ‘That could be risky. They would need to know for sure that the owner didn’t employ a caretaker.’

  He had a point there. And then a light flashed on and off, off and on, in my head, directing me to the obvious hiding place for John Gash. ‘Shirley’s old house,’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s the betting that it’s empty right now? She sold it to an Aussie; it’s their summer and they’re playing a test match at the moment.’

  ‘I know where it is,’ he said. ‘But it has an alarm system. Again, too risky.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, mate. There’s a summerhouse there, with everything they’d need in a hide-out. And last time I saw it, it wasn’t alarmed.’

  ‘It’s worth a look. I’ll go up there now. Thank you, Oz. Vero, you can go home now.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ I told him. ‘I’m coming too.’

  ‘You can’t,’ he exclaimed, as he picked up Capulet’s list, folded it and put it in his pocket. ‘This is a police matter. I’ll go alone; if I have to break into the property and there’s no one there, I don’t want any of my men to see.’

  I looked at him even harder than his wife had. ‘It is also a personal matter, Ramon. This lad could have killed my wee pal Susie. He probably took a shot at my car when I had my nephews in it. I want at least one good pop at him before you cart him off to the nick.

  ‘On top of that, he’s killed a couple of people so far. No way will I let you go up there on your own.’

  He gave in more easily than I’d expected. I guessed that my last point had hit the mark.

  I realised that Veronique was staring at us, from one to the other. ‘You have your gun, Ramon?’ she asked. He flicked aside his jacket to show her a revolver in a hip holster. It looked like a Colt 38. I’d used one as a prop in my first movie. I hoped that Ramon’s wasn’t loaded with blanks.

  ‘Be careful, still,’ she said; but she was looking at me when she spoke.

  She left as we did, driving off in her Ford Ka, and we climbed into the policeman’s Seat Cordoba.

  Shirley’s old house was on the other side of town, in a place called Puig Sec by the locals, and Millionaires’ Row by the ex-pats. It took us ten minutes to get there. I knew the layout better than Fortunato; he would have parked at the main entrance, but I directed him round to a street at the back. The night was clear and moonlit; I looked at the silhouette of the villa and realised that the Aussie had knocked it around a bit. A structure not unlike the lookout tower of a prison had been added to the upper floor.

  I tried the back gate; it was unlocked. We slipped inside, relieved that the hinges didn’t squeak. A silver Ford Cougar sat on a paved area inside; I recognised it. It had British plates, and the last time I’d seen it, it had been parked in Shirley’s drive.

  I nodded to Fortunato and led him down the sloping path, towards the garden. All the windows of the summerhouse look out on to the villa’s big swimming pool, so I knew there was no chance of us being seen; not at that point, anyway.

  The summerhouse was actually meant by the architect to be a glorified barbecue, but somewhere along the way a couple of bedrooms were added and it was turned into a guest bungalow. But the main living area was open to the elements, enclosed by two big wooden doors. As we drew close, I could see that at least one of them was open. A little light spilled out, although it was almost overwhelmed by the moonlight reflected by the pool.

  I held up a hand. The captain took the signal and stopped beside me. We stood stock-still and listened. We couldn’t make out the words, but we heard voices, one male, one female; the fragments of conversation which did drift out to us were in English.

  Fortunato drew his gun and pointed; I followed him as he stepped round the door.

  John Gash and Lucille Capulet were sitting on plastic seats on either side of a black butane gas heater. They gasped in harmony as they saw us, then John jumped to his feet. He was close enough so I hit him, a lot harder than I had hit Steve Miller, bang on the temple, right on the spot you should aim for if you really want to lay someone as broad as they’re long.

  He dropped like a stone, spark out for at least as long as it would have taken a referee to count to ten, even in a wrestling ring. Liam would have been proud of that one, I thought.

  Lucille didn’t say a word; she just gave us a cold killer stare, and I knew right then who had shot Sayeed and put a cleaver through her brother’s head.

  John started to come round, but his eyes were still glazed as the policeman waved him to his feet with the Colt. He struggled upright on shaky legs.

  ‘Go on,’ Fortunato barked, pointing to an open door which led to one of the bedrooms. ‘In there.’

  They did as they were ordered, the two of us following, Ramon closing the door behind us all. The room had a double bed and a small dressing table . . . on which lay eight long keys.

  ‘You know what those are, Oz, don’t you?’ he said.

  I smiled, and nodded. And then he shot them, both of them; Lucille first, John second. No messing, right in the head. Bang! Bang! One shot each, no more needed. I’d been wrong. He did have the cojones to pull the trigger, after all.

  The sound in that small room almost deafened me, but the nearest neighbours were a long way off. I looked down at the two of them, stunned. Lucille was still, with her right eye gone. John had a hole in the middle of his forehead; he twitched for a second or two, then stopped.

  ‘What the f—’ I gasped at last. ‘That was a bit peremptory, wasn’t it? I thought you guys didn’t do that any more.’

  ‘They don’t,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I do . . .’ He picked up Lucille’s eight keys and put them in his pocket with their twins. ‘. . . when the stakes are high enough.’ Then he pointed the gun at me. I thought that I was about to keep my date with Jan, right then, but he nodded towards the door.

  ‘Go on,’ he grunted. ‘Back the way we came.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re going to have an accident. You’re going to fall off a cliff, into the sea. No one’s going to report you missing for a few days; by that time the fish may have finished with you.’

  ‘And what about them?’ Pointless question, since the answer was so obvious.

  ‘Killed resisting arrest. I have another gun that I’ll plant on them, unless they have one already. After they give me my medal, I’ll empty Capulet’s boxes, one by one.’