‘That’s not what Mum says,’ my younger nephew shot back. ‘She says you were as bad as me when you were my age.’

  That’s loyalty for you, I thought.

  ‘Listen sunshine,’ I told him. ‘Every dodgy thing I ever did, I learned from her. You can tell her that too.

  ‘Come on. It’s time we were heading back to L’Escala.’

  There’s a handy car park less than two minutes from the Dali Museum, an ugly concrete thing, but it’s hidden out of the way. I loaded them back into my Russian off-roader, and pulled out into the narrow, twisty streets which led towards the outskirts of town. The Lada was beginning to pall on me. It handled okay, but its stiff suspension was pretty tough on the back. I had to drive fairly slowly, for I didn’t want Colin bounced around by too many potholes, so we were ten minutes late when we made it back to L’Escala, and turned up into the woodland road which led back to Villa Bernabeu. Darkness was falling fast.

  We had gone fifty yards along, very slowly, for the tarmac is badly buckled in places by big tree roots, when I heard a crack. ‘What was that?’ I asked.

  Jonathan, sitting beside me, looked over his shoulder . . . for all the rough ride, Colin was out like a light in his seatbelt, dreaming of Mae West for all I knew. ‘I think the side window’s broken,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Damn it,’ I swore, as we approached the villa. ‘Must have kicked up a stone. The road’s bloody awful here.’

  I turned into the driveway and closed the automatic gate behind me with a remote. Colin was wakened when I stepped out of the car; I could see the woozy look on his face as he stretched in his seat. I could see it clearly through a round hole in the passenger window; that, and something else too.

  In the opposite window, there was an almost identical hole; round, with spidery cracks radiating outward from it.

  ‘There’s one here too,’ Jonny called out, unnecessarily.

  My heart was thumping as I unfastened Colin’s seatbelt. Call me a panic-merchant if you like, but by now, I think I know a bullethole when I see one.

  ‘What happened to the car?’ Prim’s voice came from the terrace, behind me, as I lifted the wee chap out.

  ‘A stone chip, I guess.’ I forced a laugh. ‘It almost looks as if someone took a shot at us,’ I told her, meaning her and the kids to take it as a joke, but I made the mistake of looking into her eyes as I did so.

  I had to tell her the whole story after that, everything Fortunato had told me; that it was Sayeed, not the Frenchman in the pool, and that the bullet which had killed him had come from a gun similar to his.

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispered, looking out of our bedroom window as I finished, down at the moonlight reflected in the pool. ‘So what happened tonight? What happened to the car? You really think that someone took a shot at it?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, truthfully. ‘I think that, maybe, someone took a shot at me. I reckon someone’s seen the car driving around and thought that Capulet was back in town. The windows are smoked glass remember, from any sort of distance it would be difficult to tell who was at the wheel. It could be that our friend didn’t just leave a body behind. It could be that he left an enemy as well.’

  I suppose I should have been shaking in my boots as I finished my story: yet I wasn’t. Neither, from the look of her, was my wife . . . although she wasn’t actually wearing boots, but soft leather moccasins. The fact is, since she and I met we’ve been in stickier situations than that; one thing we’ve learned from them is that there’s nothing scary about the past. Once it’s happened, it isn’t dangerous any more.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asked. ‘Tell Ramon?’

  ‘Probably. I’ll call him later. Before that, I’m going to see John Gash. He wants the Lada; he can have the Lada. The sooner that thing’s in bits, the happier I’ll be.’

  17

  I didn’t keep any secrets from John. No, I told him what I thought had happened, and I said that if he still wanted the bloody car he could have it, on condition that once it was in his mother’s garage, it did not go out again, other than in a large crate. I told him he could stuff the Fiat Punto, though; I settled for two and a half grand cash.

  I also settled for a nice new Chrysler Voyager, a great big seven-seater with windows so dark that, in emergencies, the local priest could have used it as a confessional. It also had a black paint job. When I brought it back from the dealer in Girona three days after Christmas, my dad took one look at it and asked me, ‘What’s that? A fucking hearse? Why didn’t you have “Funeral Director” painted along the side?’

  Of course, none of the family knew the real reason why I had sent the Lada along the road. Not even Jonny’s fertile mind had worked out the significance of the two simultaneous holes in the side windows. All I told them was that I had been self-indulgent for long enough and that if John Gash could make a buck out of the damn thing then good luck to him.

  ‘You’re not self-indulgent, you tell me,’ my dad grunted, as he looked at the Voyager and the Mercedes parked side by side in the big garage. ‘What do you call those then?’

  ‘Tax deductible, Dad,’ I answered. ‘That’s what I call them.’ The best investment any upwardly mobile young man can make . . . at least after he suddenly and unexpectedly finds himself seriously rich . . . is in a top-class tax adviser.

  I suppose I should have called Fortunato right away to tell him about the Lada business, but I didn’t. When I called at his office in Girona next day, after I had ordered the Voyager, they told me that he was on leave for the rest of the week. I don’t know why, but I didn’t feel like asking Prim for his telephone number.

  Anyway, after a couple of days, I had persuaded myself that my imagination was working overtime and that the ‘gunshot’ which had drilled the Lada’s windows was far more likely to have been a local vandal with a very strong catapult and a bag of ball-bearings.

  So, instead of triggering yet another police investigation . . . or having Fortunato simply laugh at me . . . I concentrated on preparing for the Hogmanay party which Prim and I had decided to hold. As the only Scots couple in L’Escala, we felt more or less obliged to fly the Saltire.

  We had invited a number of friends from the British community in the town, plus a few other people we had got to know during our previous stay. I didn’t expect Prim to have put the Fortunatos on the list, but when I saw their names there, I said nothing about it. I was surprised when they brought Alejandro, but I don’t suppose I should have been; as I said, Spanish parents are much more relaxed about their infants than we Brits are about ours.

  We overruled Mary when she tried to insist that she would do the catering. Instead, we hired local people, a middle-aged couple who ran a restaurant in the summer months and worked privately . . . and for cash . . . during the rest of the year. (It has occurred to me often that much of the personal taxation system in Spain operates on an optional basis.)

  They set up a buffet for forty from ten p.m. onwards, plenty of seafood, cured ham, casseroles, and salads. We also asked them to provide the wines; a smart choice since they came up with a couple of really good regional vintages that were new to us.

  One of the advantages about seeing in the New Year in Spain, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter, is that you can do it twice. As is the case with many other things British, our time is out of step with the continent.

  When the witching hour came, we tuned in TV3, the Catalan channel, and watched the celebrations in the Plaça de Catalunya in Barcelona, complete with the countdown to 1 January. We drank our toasts, wished everyone a Happy New Year, kissed a lot . . . then tuned in to BBC1 via the digital satellite and an hour later did it all again.

  At some point between the two midnights, I found myself face to face with Veronique . . . if she was a Brit I’d have called her Veronique Fortunato but, in Spain, wives retain their own surnames. Alejandro had fallen asleep and had been parked with Colin in the boys’ bedroom, Jonny having been given a late pass until one a.m. local time.

  ‘So what’s your other name?’ I asked her, idly, in Spanish . . . It’s not the best opening line, but it was all I could come up with at the time. ‘Sanchez,’ she replied, in English. ‘My Catalan name is Veronique Sanchez i Leclerc; formally we call ourselves after both our parents.’

  I nodded; I knew that from my first time there. ‘So the names over your front door are Ramon Fortunato and Veronique Sanchez?’

  She smiled. When she did, her brown eyes seemed to take on a deep amber glow. ‘Almost. Vero Sanchez is what everyone calls me.’

  ‘Where does the Leclerc come from?’

  ‘From Niort. My mother is French.’

  ‘Ah, like the previous owner of this place. Did you know him?’ As I said it, it occurred to me that I was doing something most Jocks hate. It happens all too often, though. You’re in London or Paris or L’Escala or wherever and you’re introduced to some English prat who says, ‘Oh, you’re Scottish are you? Do you know so-and-so? He’s Scottish.’ Dickhead, Blackstone.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said at once. ‘That was silly. France is a big place, and this town’s full of French people, even at this time of year.’

  She made nothing of it, other than to give me a look, which I took as pity for my lack of social graces. ‘That’s true,’ she answered, ‘but also British, as I can see tonight, and Germans, and Dutch. There are people of many nationalities living here now. We are even beginning to see some who, ten years ago, would not have been allowed to leave their own country, even if they had the money.’

  ‘Poles, East Germans? I suppose so.’

  ‘Yes, but Russians as well. There are quite a few already up and down the Costa and every year brings more. This is something which worries Ramon; he says that anyone from Russia who can afford to buy a house here is probably a criminal.

  ‘He is concerned about what may flow from that. He says that they can kill each other in Russia if they wish, but not here in Spain.’

  ‘Come on, Vero. Not everyone in Russia’s a crook.’

  ‘No. The poor people are honest. But I was in Girona Airport one day and I saw tourists there who were going home to Riga, in Latvia. They were all under forty, the women were all beautiful and they all wore very expensive clothes. It was a big plane, too. I think my husband is right to be worried.’

  At that moment, John Gash’s voice carried across to me. I thought of his sideline business. Maybe Shirley should worry too, I thought to myself.

  ‘You and Ramon seem very happy, for all that,’ I ventured.

  She looked up at me, a shrewd look in those dark eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose we are,’ she answered quietly. ‘You know, I guess, that it was not always so.’

  The door to the past was open. A simple, ‘No’, would probably have slammed it shut again; would have been sensible, too. But . . . say no more.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m happy that it’s worked out for you.’

  ‘And I for you. I know all about you, of course. Ramon told me about you and about why you went back to Scotland, when you lived here before. Then, a few weeks ago, I saw a magazine article about you, and your new career. It said what happened to your first wife. That must have been terrible.’

  I nodded. How many times have I done that now? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to talk about it with strangers.

  Vero filled the silence. ‘Still, I am happy for you now, that you and Prim are back together.’

  ‘I’ll bet you are.’ Mouth first; brain second. God, I gasped inwardly, What if she doesn’t know!

  But she did. She looked at me, and then, for all her dark complexion, she blushed. ‘Ah, I am sorry. I didn’t mean that at all.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry; that was a stupid thing for me to say.’

  She shot me a quick, awkward, grin. ‘It is true, though. Your wife is a very attractive lady, and my husband is a typical Spanish man. I am very pleased to see her married.’

  ‘That doesn’t always guarantee anything.’ No, I will never have a future in the diplomatic service; I’d forgotten the reason she and Fortunato were apart when he’d been shacked up with Prim.

  She went an even deeper shade of red. ‘Shall I cut my tongue out?’ I asked her.

  That quick, guilty smile showed again. ‘We do seem to know everything about each other, don’t we?’ she murmured. ‘And about our past lives.

  ‘I’ll tell you the truth, shall I? Ramon can do what he likes now, and it won’t break my heart. I have my son. That’s why I took him back.’ She sipped her wine. I don’t know if she realised that she was smiling.

  ‘When I heard from an indiscreet friend in the clinic about Prim being pregnant . . .’ It was her turn for consternation as she realised that maybe I didn’t know.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I assured her.

  ‘I’m sorry that I mentioned it.’

  ‘It really is okay. I didn’t think anyone else knew, though.’

  ‘Remember where you are; L’Escala.’

  ‘True. Does Ramon . . .?’ I began. At the time I wasn’t sure why I asked her that.

  ‘No. I’m sure he doesn’t.’ I breathed a little easier. ‘When I heard about it, though, I was jealous of her for the first time. I admit it. That wasn’t the only reason why I took Ramon back, but it was the main one. I agreed to patch things up and try again, then as soon as I could I had his child. Now? We’re happy enough, as you said.

  ‘Our separate affairs are well behind us now; there’s no old temptation in my way.’ She glanced across at Primavera who was standing near the television with my dad, arms linked. ‘Nor, I am happy to see is there in his.’

  Her eyes caught mine again. ‘But what about you? Are you jealous of Ramon?’

  ‘He’s here tonight as my guest,’ I pointed out. ‘So no, I’m not.’ As if to emphasise it, I gave her the party line. ‘When it happened it was none of my business, and it still isn’t.’

  I hadn’t been aware of moving, but now I realised that we had drifted into the further corner of the big room, away from any possible eavesdroppers. I realised also that talking to Vero Sanchez i Leclerc gave me a distinctly odd feeling. There was a degree of intimacy between us, the nature of which I’d never experienced before. We were in a room full of people, among them our spouses . . . shouldn’t that plural be ‘spice’? . . . and yet I felt furtive, as we stood there, quietly baring our souls to each other. To my surprise, I felt guilty too. I wondered about that, until a constriction within my jockey shorts told me exactly why.

  Thank you, Alejandro, I almost said out loud as the baby’s cry came from upstairs. There’s nothing better than a howling baby for dismissing Mr Stiffy, especially if his mother caused him to creep up on you in the first place.

  Ramon broke off from a group of Brits, leaving Frank Barnett in mid-joke. ‘We should go home now,’ his wife said as he approached.

  ‘Yes,’ Ramon agreed. Just at that moment, there was a commotion around the television. The gathering parted and I could see the floodlit shape of Edinburgh Castle. It was ‘Happy New Year’ time again.

  18

  However happy we all think we are on high days and holidays, there’s no door that we can step through to leave reality on the other side. (Well, actually, there is, but they don’t sell return tickets.) We were reminded of that eight and a half hours into the new year when the phone rang by the side of our bed.

  ‘If that’s my sister . . .’ I heard Prim muttering drowsily as I floated back up to the surface. ‘Bitch. We agreed that I would call her tonight.’

  She picked up the phone, and answered with a slightly threatening ‘Yes?’

  About three seconds later her face changed. Her free hand went to her mouth in an instinctive gesture, and she frowned more deeply than I’d ever seen. She didn’t say much, just four more ‘yes’s, each one quieter than the one before. Finally she nodded, and murmured, ‘I’ll call you back when I’ve done that.’

  I stared at her, waiting, as she replaced the receiver. ‘That was Miles,’ she told me; her voice was steady, but I could tell she was having to work at keeping it that way. ‘Mum’s in hospital, in Los Angeles. She perforated a stomach ulcer last night. They’ve operated and that’s no longer critical but, during surgery, they spotted some other lesions. They removed them and sent them for biopsy; the hospital’s path lab is closed because of the holiday, so it’ll be a couple of days before they can run tests.

  ‘But it could be malignant. Oz, Mum could have cancer.’ I was sitting up by this time; I took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. I’ve seen Prim in a couple of crises, and in each one she was unbelievably strong. But this was different; this was her mother she was talking about. I drew her to me, feeling warm wet tears on my shoulder, feeling the tremors of her quiet sobbing. I knew what she was thinking. I’ve been there myself with my own mother, and there was no happy ending then, for sure.

  It didn’t last long, only a minute or so, then she was back in control. She looked up at me, embarrassed as she dried her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘What did the surgeon say?’ I asked her.

  ‘According to Miles, he said there was a chance that the growths will turn out to be benign, but he wasn’t hopeful. That’s exactly what I’d expect from an American surgeon. Say or do nothing that you might be sued over later.’

  I blew out a big sigh as I thought about what had happened. ‘Elanore Phillips, of all people,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe it. She’s always seemed unsinkable to me.’

  Prim chuckled, throatily. ‘Like a galleon in full sail, flying battle flags. That’s how I’ve always seen her, at her best.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had an ulcer,’ I said.

  ‘Neither did she. But it doesn’t come as any surprise to me; she isn’t exactly a nouvelle cuisine chef.’

  ‘So how’s SuperDave?’

  ‘Dad’s okay. He’s with her at the hospital. She’s still in intensive care, but that’s normal, post-op.’