The best suggestion we had managed during our brainstorming session had been 'public house'. Nigel narrowed the field somewhat with "Poste House', while Sparky's contribution could be ignored, as it was unlikely that multi-million-pound art deals would be transacted in public toilets. I'd been thinking in terms of a public house of unknown name, but did I now know that name? Four hours after leaving the mountaintop I parked on a huge area of tarmac at the end of the isthmus that links the Rock with the mainland. An R.A.F Nimrod was standing at the other side of the road. As I was locking up, an eight-year-old mafioso sidled up to me and said something that included the words 'money' and 'car'.
I said: "Go to hell, Miguel," and climbed back in. I drove towards the customs post with the intention of impressing the incumbent with my warrant card and asking him if I could leave the Jag outside his window, but he waved me straight past. I decided that it would save a walk and pressed on. I soon regretted it: the place was chock-a-block with tourists and looking for a parking place was like trying to find charity in Hull. Then I saw him. He was big, bonny and smiling: a wonderful British bobby, big hat and all. I pulled up alongside and flashed my card. I was deferential, though; he was the boss as far as I was concerned.
"I'm only on holiday," I told him, 'but I'd be grateful if you could help me with a parking place for a couple of hours."
"No problem, sir. Leave it in the visitor's spot at the station.
That's what they usually do."
"Fantastic. Where's the station?"
He started to point, then decided it was complicated and maybe he'd better come with me. The complication was one right turn, but he enjoyed the ride, and he let them know inside who I was. I deliberately didn't ask him if Pillars of Hercules meant anything. I preferred to explore; that way you discovered incidental things that otherwise you wouldn't have come across. There'd be plenty of time for asking if I became stuck.
I round it long before reaching the "What am I doing here?" point. I wandered up and down a couple of streets the couple of streets and there it was. Tucked between a shop selling Hong Kong tablecloths and one with windows filled with expensive pottery figures was the only pub in the colony that didn't sound as if it belonged in the Cotswolds.
Inside, though, it was pure Heart of England, from the glass riding boots in the inglenook fireplace, to the busts of William Shakespeare on the beer engines. It was moderately busy. The waiter on this side of the bar looked Spanish, but the man behind, presumably the landlord, was all Anglo-Saxon. He was big, with bare, pink arms that resembled pigs' carcasses. Round his neck was a gold chain that you could have used to drown a St. Bernard, and on one wrist he wore a bracelet that had been carved straight out of the ingot with a blunt chisel.
"Good afternoon, sir. What would you like?"
Pleasant enough manner, though his voice was surprisingly light. He had blond hair and eyebrows that were paler than his skin. I ordered a half of lager and passed the minimum of pleasantries with him. The other clientele gave the appearance of being holiday-makers: young couple, three lads, a few older couples. Nobody with a violin case, drinking screwdrivers. I ordered a ham sandwich. York ham, of course.
When he brought it to me I said: "I was supposed to meet a friend here on Tuesday, but I don't know if he meant last Tuesday or next Tuesday.
You didn't notice a big, fat fellow hanging around, did you?"
He placed my change on the table. There was no visible reaction. "No, there wasn't anybody in like that." I asked for another lager, and when he came back with it he said: "This friend of yours, does he have a name?"
"Yes." I rocked back in my chair so that I could stare him in the face, and said: "He's called Cakebread, Aubrey Cakebread."
He held my gaze and replied: "Sorry, never heard of him."
But just off to my left the glasses rattled on the waiter's tray.
I finished my drink at a leisurely speed and made my way back to the police station. I hadn't caught a fish but I'd certainly stirred up the mud. Maybe the murk would attract a big one. I thanked the desk sergeant for his help and drove into the narrow gateway from the station yard. I stopped there, and looked both ways to see if the road was clear. It's a policy I've adopted over the years. It wasn't, and I had to wait for several seconds.
A man in a doorway opposite was having great difficulty lighting a cigarette. His body language was yelling: "I know this looks suspicious, but I can't think of anything better to do." It wasn't possible to be certain, but he looked like the waiter from the Pillars.
I pulled on to the road and immediately stopped. In the mirror I saw him leave the doorway and hurry off. On the back of his T-shirt was a picture of a Greek bodybuilder carrying a club over his shoulder. What a prat. I chuckled at the ease of it all.
If I hurried I could make it to Puerto Banus with an hour or two of daylight left, so I did. It hadn't changed much, just put on its evening gown and dinner jacket. I had to admit it: the place had style. The loudest noise you could hear was that of wealth rubbing up to opulence. None of the boats had moved. I was reaching the point where I could name most before I saw them. I ordered a glass of house tin to in a pavement cafe and let darkness fall around me. There were worse places to be.
"Suki! Stop doing that. Be a good boy. Oh, Kimmy! You're all in a tangle. Come to Mummy."
Northern vowels were breaching the peace. I turned towards their source. A peroxide blonde in a leopard-spot blouse and leather miniskirt had two dogs on leads. One of them was having a pee against a lamppost and the other had the lead wrapped round its legs. She untangled it and picked it up.
"Hurry up, Suki," she said impatiently.
Personally, I'd have toe-ended the little bugger into the bay. When it had finished she waddled off, lucky Kimmy pressed to her bosom and Suki trotting alongside. She was wearing stiletto heels, and her skirt was so tight that her legs couldn't move in parallel they had to oscillate around each other with each mincing step. If you'd placed a dry stick between her thighs the friction would have ignited it.
It was the dogs, though, that I was mainly interested in. They were a bit like Yorkshire terriers, but hairier and more softly coloured. I didn't know what a shih-tzu looked like, but I'd have gambled Gilbert Wood's pension that I was looking at a pair. I left a three hundred per cent tip because I had nothing smaller and followed her.
The only description I had of Cakebread's wife was that she was an ex-beauty queen. The ex part was accurate, but I wasn't happy about the rest of it, unless you only had to enter to qualify. I followed her along the quay until we were down among the wanna bees the ones that it would only take me eight lifetimes to earn the equivalent of.
She turned on to a jetty and then picked up the other dog to carry it up a short gangplank. Ignoring the sign showing a lady's shoe with a line drawn through it she crossed the deck towards the cabin and let herself in. I watched from the shore. The boat was called Pelican; there was no need to look — I could remember it. Only because of its associations with Francis Drake, though: my powers of theoretical deduction had been a complete waste of time.
I sat on a bench on the dockside until nearly midnight, watching the lighted windows on the boat, sometimes turning to watch the beautiful women and their partners strolling by, resplendent in their evening finery. Lady Breadcake would either go to bed, in which case I'd go home, or she was right now changing into something stunning before hitting the town, in which case I would follow her. Plenty of people were promenading up and down, enjoying the warm night air. A couple of times I walked on to the jetty and strolled along it, hanging about as I passed the Pelican, but there was no sound to be heard.
I'm never sure if you can actually see a light go out. One moment it's there, a hundredth of a second later it's not. The windows at the front of the boat went dark, then those in the middle, sorry, amidships, and then the ones at the stern. It was as if she were working her way towards the door, before coming ashore. Some people were passing in front of me. I stood up and walked a few paces forward to lean on the railing.
Someone rattled off something in Spanish in my ear and a hand gripped my arm.
A pockmarked man was speaking to me, but it was the ugly black automatic he was poking into my side that demanded most of my attention.
He had the advantage of a gun, I had the advantage of unpredictability.
Of the two, I'd have preferred the weapon, but you can only make the best of what God gives you. I swept his gun hand to one side and thumped him, hard, in the solar plexus. The air in his body burst out in a rasping gasp, bringing most of his stomach contents with it, and he went down like a tower of dominoes. His pal was more professional: he must have cracked me on the side of the head with his pistol. I saw a display that would have pleased Standard Fireworks and the next thing I remember is being on the ground, surrounded by legs and shiny shoes.
It was impossible to tell if they were friendly or foe-ly.
I rolled on to my side. I was immediately grabbed by strong hands and my arms were forced behind my back and manacled.
They were definitely foe-ly. They dragged me to my feet and pushed me towards a car. I swayed about and kept my head down, trying to act a lot worse than I felt. The one I'd hit was sitting on the pavement, his back against a post. His face was the colour of a toad's belly, and the front of his shirt looked like a salad bar. We tore off with a squeal of tyres, and I did my best to take notice of where we were heading. I needn't have bothered: we arrived in about three minutes.
They pulled me out of the back seat and bundled me towards the door of an imposing building. Several cars were neatly parked on either side of the entrance. They were black and white, and had POLICIA stencilled on the sides. These were the good guys.
Nobody read my rights to me. They just confiscated everything from my pockets, removed the laces from my trainers, took off the 'cuffs and threw me in a cell.
A sickly youth with a stupid grin was already in it. He put two fingers to his lips and said: "Cigarrillo?"
"Yes, thank you," I told him, in fluent Spanish.
There were two benches, for sleeping or sitting on, and a small sink in the corner with a single tap. It smelt as if someone had been pissing in it. I swilled round the basin with cold water, then washed my face.
There was no mirror or towel, so I dried myself on the front of my T-shirt. The wound on the side of my head had bled a little, but it had stopped now. After a few minutes the guard's keys rattled in the lock.
Good, I thought, let's be getting out of here. He opened the door and threw me a blanket. There was an air of finality about his action. I rolled it into a pillow and stretched out on the vacant bunk. The youth was laid under his blanket. Trying to perform two functions with a single blanket was a form of torture. I resolved to write to Amnesty International, if I ever escaped from this dump. I looked across at my cell-mate. He wasn't very big; if it became cold during the night I'd just have to steal his.
Morning came, although there were long periods when I doubted if it ever would. Like I'm told they do in hospitals, they woke me up just after I'd dropped off to sleep. A full English would have gone down well, but they didn't even offer coffee. The guard just told me to "Come', grabbed me under the armpit and marched me upstairs. I didn't argue, I was in no position to, but I was amazed how compliant one night in jail had made me.
Capitano R. Diaz sat behind a big polished desk that could have graced a modest boardroom. He wore a blue suit with a dazzling white shirt.
The silver stripes in his tie were echoed in his cufflinks. The desk was clear, apart from the large brown envelope that had contained my meagre possessions, which were now coming under his scrutiny, and a nameplate that told me who he was. One of his lieutenants was also in the room. He studied the contents of my wallet for several minutes, the last few being devoted to my warrant card. Then he sat with his hands together as if in prayer, his fingertips touching his lips.
Finally he said: "Sit down, Inspector Priest," gesturing to a chair and passing my laces across the table. "Would you be good enough to tell me what you were doing last night in Puerto Banus?" His English was about as good as mine, but his accent was sexier.
"Thank you." It seemed impolite to put my foot on his desk while I replaced my laces, so I wrapped them around my fingers. "I'm on holiday, Captain. Whilst I was here I heard that a known criminal one I've had dealings with was in the area, so I thought I'd watch out for him. I believe he may be staying on the boat called the Pelican.9 "And his name?"
"Cakebread."
He turned to give an enquiring glance to the lieutenant, but he shook his head.
"Cakebread, did you say? Is that a common name in England?"
"No, sir, it's very unusual."
He thought for a few seconds, then asked: "This Cakebread; what did you intend to do if you saw him?"
I'd wondered about that myself. My brain did what passes for racing to think of a plausible course of action. The results impressed me. "We think he may be involved in drug smuggling. I had information that he was due back in England on Thursday, but I didn't know whether it was last Thursday or next. If he's still here, it must be next."
"When you say: "We think he may be involved in drug smuggling," who do you mean?"
"Just myself, sir. My evidence is only hearsay, and I really am here on holiday. I'm acting completely without authority and apologise for the problems I've caused you." I shrugged my shoulders and risked a smile. "It's the only way I know to enjoy myself."
He didn't return my smile, but he said: "Yes, Inspector Priest, I know what you mean."
I wondered if I'd be able to make myself a coffee if I killed them both, but decided against it I was in enough trouble. I said: "There is one other thing, Captain Diaz."
He raised an eyebrow that invited me to enlighten him.
"Cakebread had a colleague called Truscott. Truscott supposedly died in a fire, but the body was unrecognisable. I think he may be alive, possibly living in Spain. I'd hoped I might see him."
He stood up and walked over to the window. He looked out for a few seconds, then resumed his seat. "Inspector Priest," he began, 'it is a sad fact that there are many international gangsters living on the Costa del Sol. But not everyone who is wealthy is a thief. Well, not according to the law." He gave a wry smile. "We have many influential people visiting Puerto, very influential indeed. We are constantly alert for would-be terrorists and kidnappers. You were seen behaving suspiciously. That is why you were arrested. I apologise if my men were rough with you, but I am sure you understand that you were not in order. I am told you were quite rough with one of them." He gave another hint of a smile.
"Yes, sir. Sorry about that. Is he all right?"
"He's not at work this morning. He was too close to you; I'm sure he will learn his lesson. When are you leaving Spain?"
I had a choice? I'd expected to be run out of town on a pole. "In four days, if that's all right."
"That's all right. Please leave word of where you are staying, and I would be grateful to receive a report and information on Mr…"
"Cakebread," I offered.
"Yes, Mr. Cakebread. You are free to go, Inspector, but I would appreciate it if you spent the rest of your holiday sightseeing. The Alhambra is very beautiful."
"Thank you, I'll take your advice, and you'll have the reports as soon as possible. One small problem: I don't know where I am."
"Don't worry, Ramon will take you back to your car." He turned to the lieutenant and gave him some instructions, adding: "Goodbye, Inspector."
The surly Ramon dropped me off on the quay. He made no attempt to communicate in the car, so I busied myself rethreading my trainers. The Jag was where I'd left it. I fished my watch out of the envelope; there was time to make it back to the hotel, have a shower and catch the end of breakfast. I'd had a lucky escape. I left Puerto Banus without casting a glance in the direction of the Pelican.
I hung the "Do not disturb' notice on the door handle and crashed out on the bed. Around lunchtime I had a walk round a few shops and bought an exercise book so that I could map out a report for Captain Diaz. I had coffee and a pastry and went back to the room to do the report.
Then I dossed on the bed again until it was time to start getting ready for my appointment with George and the paella. I was ready for it.
Seven thirty sharp I walked on to the end of the Carahuela. George was already there, standing alongside his car. He looked pleased to see me.
"Charlie! How are you? Glad you could make it. I was a little early, so I had a look round for your car. Couldn't see it anywhere. Thought perhaps you'd gone off again for the day and not got back."
"Hello, George," I said. "I'm fine, thanks. They let me put it round the back of the hotel, away from sticky fingers and lager louts. Where do you fancy eating?"
"Anywhere, I think most of these places are the same. How about this one?"
We'd walked past the first restaurant and were standing outside the next one. It had already attracted several evening diners, and a waiter was going round lighting the lanterns on the tables. It looked tempting and businesslike. He saw us hovering and came over.
"A table for two, gentlemen?" he asked in English.
I wondered if it was my Marks and Spencer, or George's Country Life look that gave us away. We sat down so that George had the view out to sea, while I could watch the four women at the next table. A perfect arrangement. No messing about with the menu: it was a carafe of the local red and the house speciality paella. I also ordered some water in deference to my recent brain operation.
Being with an attractive woman would have made it perfect. Sharing the evening with Annabelle Wilberforce would have been riches beyond my dreams. But in any company, quaffing soft red wine as the sun sinks behind you, eating passable food and sharing anecdotes makes a reasonable approximation of what heaven must be like. George was good company. Eventually, tongue loosened by the grape, I confessed that I was a policeman off duty, of course and we swapped service stories well into the night. We discovered that men in uniform have similar ways of relieving the tension or boredom of their chosen professions. Ways that were always funny, and usually vulgar.
Our laughter was echoed by the women at the next table. They were having a good time, too. I kept exchanging glances with the dark-haired one in the red dress. Every time George rocked his head back to give one of his guffaws, I gave her a smile. She smiled back.
I had a feeling that I'd seen her in the Cala d'Or, but it could have been desire triumphing over reality.
George said he was okay to drive. He'd only had coffee over the last couple of hours, so he was probably right. He gave me his card and I promised to ring him before I went home. I meant it, too. We stood up and shook hands. It was an extended, jovial goodbye. George said something to the ladies at the table behind him, then noticed that we had a drop of wine left. He shared it amongst them with a flourish. As he walked to his car I caught the waiter's eye and gestured for another coffee. I sat down in the seat George had left, near the lady in red, and half facing her.
"Your friend enjoyed himself," she said.
"Yes, I hope he did," I replied, adding: "I'm having quite a pleasant evening myself."
I watched him reverse out of his parking place, then the long bonnet swung round and the Jaguar slid up the hill out of sight. There was a junction in about fifty yards where he would have to stop. As he pulled away a scooter engine burst into noisy life in the shadows just beyond him. Two youths were on it, and they followed George up the hill. The waiter arrived with my coffee. He put it down near me, but on the ladies' table; he was a professional.
"Would anyone…" I began.
There were two loud cracks, from what sounded like a heavy-calibre pistol. I sat, frozen, for half a second that felt like an eternity, then I was up and running.
I jumped on to the low wall that separated us from the first restaurant, stepped in the middle of someone's table, scattering food and crockery, and cleared the wall at the other side. I was in the street. George's car was at the junction, the scooter alongside it.
The scooter rider had messed up his getaway; he'd dropped the clutch too quickly and nearly stalled the engine. It was pop-popping and throwing up a cloud of blue smoke. I could catch him. I could catch the bastard and screw his fucking head off. Ten yards. The engine burst into full song. Four yards; he was screaming the engine, determined not to make the same mistake again. My outstretched fingers clutched for the collar of the passenger's jacket.
I grabbed a bunch of leather just below the collar, but I couldn't hold on to it. As they pulled away my fingernails raked down his back.
There was a luggage carrier behind the seat. My hand curled around the metal and I was dragged off my feet. The rear wheel was spinning inches in front of my face and the exhaust pipe bellowing in my ears and eyes. Twenty yards along the road I let go and rolled over in the gutter.
George's car had run back a short way and come to rest against a lighting column. As I limped towards it a horrified couple embraced each other for comfort. George was slumped over sideways; most of his brains were on the passenger seat. I removed the wallet from my jacket pocket and put the coat over his head, to protect him from salacious eyes. Then I sat on the edge of his seat, one foot on the pavement and my arm around him, and waited for the police to arrive.