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It took him five minutes to retrieve the car from the foliage. It wasn’t bad-looking at all, and not obviously a taxi, but of course it was a ’57 Chevy and therefore recognisable - even here, where a lot of the cars seemed to be vintage. He drove slowly back to the hotel and found a space in the car-park. He guessed there would be people waiting for him somewhere inside, but he preferred not to think about that right now. One step at a time and anticipate the next half-hour, no more.
The hotel was cuboid modernist – as high and long as it was deep, and only six floors high – whose balconies all had wavy wrought-iron railings, but which was otherwise pure concrete. In its defence, it looked clean. It was surrounded by freshly cut lawns with sprinklers and tall, well-spaced palm trees. A broad pavement surrounded it, converging on the entrance path. Mordred took his suitcase into a carpeted reception area with a long white counter manned by two women in what looked like red airline hostess uniforms.
“Detective Inspector Jonas Eagleton,” he said in a voice cynical enough to suggest he didn’t care who knew it wasn’t true. He presented his papers.
The receptionist looked at them for a moment, then got on the phone and turned her back to him in a single gesture. All he heard her say was his name. She didn’t speak at all after that.
When she turned back to him, she was all smiles. Or rather, all teeth. There was nothing really friendly in her manner. But then, that was one of the privileges of her job.
“Pedro will be along in a moment,” she said. “He’ll take your bag and show you to your room.”
Mordred sat down. Time passed. Pedro arrived after ten minutes, a short middle-aged black man in a bell-boy uniform. “Please follow me, sir,” he said.
“Where have you been?” Mordred asked.
“Sorry, I was delayed.”
“What were you doing?”
“I, er ... can’t say. One of the guests had an accident. Not the fault of the hotel, but we at the Sunshine Suite love to make your stay as enjoyable as possible. Nothing’s too much or too little. Anything you want, we’ll get it. Your satisfaction is our credit.”
Mordred nodded. “Okay, then.”
The receptionist gave Pedro a key and a room number. As per the manual, the first thing Mordred had to do was ask for a change of room. Save doing a sweep for listening devices.
They ascended four floors in the lift. Pedro wheeled the suitcase along a long corridor and opened the door onto a big carpeted room with a double bed, lots of space and a landscape window overlooking the sea.
“I don’t like it,” Mordred said. “I want to change.”
Pedro did a double-take. “What? The room?”
“That’s right. It’s unsuitable. I want another.”
“I’m just the concierge, sir. I can’t authorise such things.”
“Well, get me the manager then.”
Pedro’s eyes swept about like they were trying to escape. “I’m not sure - ”
“Remember: anything you want, we’ll get it.”
“I fully accept that, sir, but - ”
“Your satisfaction is our credit. You said.”
“I think we may be full up.”
“I checked the vacancies while the receptionist was on the phone. You’re not.”
It clearly didn’t take much to get in Pedro’s bad books. “I’ll have to get the manager then, sir,” he said in a ‘die, punk, die’ voice. “Just wait here.”
Mordred took his suitcase inside and sat down on the bed. He had the feeling of a camera focussed on him, so he remained motionless.
Twenty minutes later – they’d obviously decided to wage a campaign of attrition, but only in so far as it didn’t affect his satisfaction being their credit – Pedro returned alongside a stout man of about fifty with a bald head, a beige suit, and a built-up shoe. “I’m David, your manager,” he said. He held an unexplained sealed envelope. Mordred could already tell from his body-language that he wanted to hand it over, but didn’t quite know how. Maybe an anonymous death-threat, left at reception? “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’d like another room.”
“What’s wrong with this one, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t like the view. I get seasick.”
The manager laughed. “Anything you want then, sir. Anything at all! Have you any preferences?”
“I’d like a room on the top floor on the opposite side.”
“We’ve four available. Would you like to choose one?”
“Thank you, yes.”
He’d seen this sort of thing before. You immediately demanded a change of room; they were murderously annoyed, because they’d spent so long planting devices, but it was obvious you were suspicious, and the best way of allaying that was to appear super-cooperative. The last thing they wanted was for you to leave the premises. It usually took them about twenty minutes to overcome their frustration, hence the long wait. They’d smile and apologise and occasionally, bow – he’d actually had that once. Then they’d look for another way to get you.
Or maybe he was just paranoid.
The manager gave Pedro a master-key and instructed him to take the detective inspector to the top floor and show him everything available. Then he shook hands with Mordred. “Anything you want, we’ll get it,” he said. “Your satisfaction is our credit.”
“Where’s the nearest supermarket?” Mordred asked.
“Just round the corner. You’ll find a map of the local area in every magazine rack. Failing that, I’ll call you a taxi and have the driver show you.”
“Great.”
“I’ve, er ... got a letter for you. At least, I assume that’s what it is.”
“Already? I’ve only just arrived. Who knows I’m here?”
The manager looked frightened. “It was handed in by a man at reception, a few moments ago. He didn’t stay, or give his name.”
“Did you recognise him? This is a small island.”
“I’ve ... seen him. Maybe best read the letter, sir. I was told to give you an oral message in person, but only after you’ve read the ... whatever it is.”
“Don’t move.”
He tore it open. It was an invitation on a single piece of gilt-edged card. ‘Fenella Decristofo-Salvaterra requests the company of Mr John Mordred for dinner this evening at eight.’
“So what’s your part of the message?” he asked the manager.
“‘A car will arrive at 7.30 to pick you up’ and, er, ‘you may now use your phone’.”
Okay, so things were looking up. He’d planned to eat out of the supermarket – who knew if the hotel would drug his food? – but this put a different spin on things. There was no RSVP included: she obviously took it for granted that he would comply. But then, that was why he was here.
On the other hand, it was addressed to John Mordred, not DI Eagleton, so not everything was according to the play script.
But then that’s why he’d decided to become a spy rather than go to RADA, spend three years in repertory and join the Royal Shakespeare Company. He didn’t like play scripts.
He wondered if she knew he was a vegetarian.
Lunch was a nut cutlet with new potatoes and green beans. Afterwards, he went out for a walk. He noticed the Chevy had gone from the car park.
The town was a short bus ride away, and consisted entirely of a beachfront of shops and food and drink outlets each separated by several hundred yards of scrubland with defunct fishing boats or skeletons of cars. Outside a café, two men played a card game that, as far as Mordred knew was only popular in Thailand. One of them announced an intention to Ziggedy, added ‘north’, and then folded with a look of manic exasperation. The bars were mostly empty. The supermarkets – there were two, half a mile apart – stocked mainly household cleaning products, frozen foods and locally-made spirits at colossal prices.
He thought he’d better take a present round this evening: bunch of flowers, box of chocolates or bottle of wine. But there weren’t any of those in either shop. In the second – ‘Big Shop Experience’ - he decided to ask some advice. The woman at the till was about his age, thin, with long curly hair and wearing an apron. She sat on a revolving chair reading a copy of Veintitantos, oblivious to the possibility anyone might be shoplifting.
“I want to buy a present for a young lady,” he said in Spanish. “Could you recommend anything?”
She looked up. “What sort of a young lady?”
“Quite a rich one.”
“What about jewellery? We haven’t any here, but I know someone who makes it.”
“It may be a bit early in the relationship for that. I’ve never met her before.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No. More like a business associate.”
She furrowed her brow. “I don’t think we’ve really got anything suitable. It’s mainly hardware and cleaning supplies for the locals and drink for the tourists.”
“Is there any particular drink you think would appeal?”
“No, most of it’s get-wasted stuff.”
“I see.”
“How about a shrub?” she said. “Or a parrot? There’s a shop a bit further on called ‘Exciting Trees and Exotic Birds’.”
“I can’t really give her a parrot. It’s too much of a responsibility.”
“It’s not like that. You buy the bird, then you and your associate let it go together. It’s quite nice, but I suppose if she’s a businesswoman, she might see that as a bit like jewellery. You know, too overfriendly. It’s not a bad gig for the parrot, though. The owner’s trained them all to come back to him. Shit, don’t tell anyone I said that. He treats them well, honestly. Lots of nuts.”
“A shrub might work, if it’s small.”
“I know what you might get!” she said, making him jump. “Something from the gift shop! I completely forgot about the gift shop!”
The gift shop was a small church-like building made out of granite. It sold paraphernalia relating to Saint Martha. She was the patron saint of servants and cooks, so there were two recipe books and three devotional manuals on the theme of service. You could buy Saint Martha medallions and pendants and plastic figurines. Then there were pictures of Saint Martha appearing in visions to the earliest colonists, including one of the miracle in which, by calling on the saint’s name, Anselmo de Poveda de la Sierra (1501-1566) had diverted a river of molten lava and saved the island’s earliest settlement. Not really the kinds of things to present to the hostess of a dinner date, any of them.
Maybe he should ask the manager of the Sunshine Suite: David, that’s right. He would probably know. The correct question would be, do you think you could procure me a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates or a bunch of flowers for this evening. Be specific, don’t leave it open, otherwise you might end up arriving at the Decristoforos’ with a homing-parrot and The Collected Encyclicals of John Paul II.
The car arrived at 7.30 sharp. Mordred wore his evening suit, which he’d packed at the last minute for just such an occasion, and David had found a bunch of roses at short notice – God knows how.
He was picked up by the Chevy and by the driver he’d headbutted and thrown from the car. His face was badly bruised and he had a black eye. “Sorry for what I did,” was his opening remark. “The name’s Rory, by the way.”
“I didn’t realise it wasn’t a real gun,” Mordred said.
“You weren’t meant to.”
The exchanged handshakes. “Apology accepted,” Mordred said. “Are you okay to drive with that eye? It looks pretty bad. I could take the wheel if you like.”
The driver laughed. “Leave me some pride.”
Mordred got into the front seat so they could converse. “What was the idea?”
“Ms DS. She found out you were a spy and she didn’t like it. She likes people to be who they say they are. Can’t blame her for that.”
“Fair enough. Just because I’m a spy, though, it doesn’t mean I’m coming to spy on her or anyone on this island. It’s just, people open up a little bit more if they think you’re local. If you tell them you’ve come from the other side of the world, they’re suspicious.”
“Hey, save that for her. Where did you get the flowers from?”
“The hotel manager got them for me,” Mordred replied.
“David?”
“I believe that’s his name.”
The driver hooted. “And where do you think David got them?”
“I’ve no idea. I looked in both supermarkets - ”
“Ms D’s greenhouse, that’s where.”
“Bloody hell. Do you think she knows?”
“Should think so. She might be surprised to see them again. My guess is, you asked David for some flowers, David’s been given instructions to keep you happy.”
“Anything you want,” Mordred said, “we’ll get it.”
“Your satisfaction is our credit. David daren’t tell you no. So he rings Fenella’s place. They get the message: you like flowers. They don’t ask why; they just cut you some. And now you’re going to return them to point of origin.”
“Do you think she’ll recognise them?”
“She’s the only person on this island who grows them.”
Mordred let out a long breath. “Okay, I’m in trouble. I need you to do something now.”
“Your satisfaction is my credit.”
“I believe there’s a shop in town called ‘Exciting Trees and Exotic Birds’. I need to call in.”
“We’ve got time. If you’re quick.”
