Two

Sian’s idea was that Reg Fitz-Norton, a retired diplomat who adored my mother, Eleanor, would listen to Prudence’s story, dip into his vast experience and come up with words of wisdom that would solve all her problems. I thought it unlikely, but it was at least worth a try.

As it happened Prudence was tired, edgy and in no mood for going over her story yet again, which made it a non-starter anyway. So we compromised.

The young woman from Liverpool left the laptop in our care and made her way to the lifts, followed by the barman’s dark, lustful eyes. Sian and I stopped at reception. There, I made it clear to the wide-eyed receptionist that if anyone came to the hotel asking for Prudence Wise’s room number, she should refuse to give it to them. If they insisted, became awkward or threatening, she should pick up the phone, call Prudence first to warn her, then phone the police.

That done – which was about as much as we could do – we left the hotel by the side door opening into Library Street just as the band started up again. It was, I thought, like the exit of the toreadors, but the insistent beat had us walking as if we had two left feet. As the music faded behind us we strolled the short distance to the taxi rank, and there jumped into a cab that would take us the mile or so up the hill to Reg’s house.

We’d zipped up Eliot’s Way where it skirted the car parks and Alameda Gardens and were passing the Rock Hotel when a car came up fast behind us. It nosed in dangerously close. Headlights on full beam lit up the inside of the taxi. Our driver swore softly and reached up to adjust his mirror. For the next fifty yards I could see his eyes darting from that to the off-side wing mirror. Then he exploded.

‘Come on, you dipstick,’ he growled, ‘what are you playing at?’

‘Just a couple of drunken youths winding you up,’ Sian said, twisting so she could look back. ‘Ignore them, they’ll go away.’

‘I think you are wrong,’ the driver said. ‘This does not happen, here, in Gibraltar.’

Even as he spoke there was a roar from the following car’s engine and it pulled out to overtake on a tight bend where, in normal daytime traffic, overtaking would have been suicidal. It hurtled past. There was a tinny scratching sound as the vehicles briefly touched. The cab driver swore again. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. I leant across Sian. The overtaking car was a rusty old Datsun. The man in the driving seat was grinning across at us. He wore a wide-brimmed bush hat. His teeth were startlingly white in a tanned face.

‘Not drunk, not young,’ I said.

‘But they have gone away,’ Sian said as it raced ahead with a series of mocking toots on the horn, ‘so that makes me half right.’

The driver grunted his disagreement.

‘I think maybe not even that,’ he said.

He was proved right. The taxi had rounded a bend and was coasting down a slight slope that took it onto the flat. As the driver pulled to a halt, I saw the Datsun’s brake lights glow fifty yards ahead of us. Then, with a squeal of tyres, it did a careless three-point turn that must have added to the dents in the rear bumper, drove a short way towards us and pulled in tight up against a stone wall. The headlights were switched off.

Pale exhaust smoke drifting towards the clear night skies told me that the engine, clearly souped-up, way too powerful for such a shabby body, was still running.

‘They’re watching us,’ Sian said quietly, turning away from the driver.

‘Looks like it,’ I said. ‘But why?’

‘A cheap crook’s after a young woman’s blood. She’s just spent the best part of an hour pouring her heart out to us.’

‘So now the shock troops are after our blood?’

‘Perhaps they think we now know something they don’t. And they’re wondering what we’re going to do with it.’

The driver was getting impatient, tapping his fingers on the wheel. I shrugged.

‘Well, if that’s what they’re wondering,’ I said, ‘let’s show them,’ and I got out of the taxi.

 

There’s really just that one reasonably level section of Europa Road, and the expensive houses in the prime position along its western edge cling to slopes that fall precipitously to yet more houses along South Barrack Road. Several of those residences along Europa Road have a small parking area – and for small, read tiny. Room for two small cars, with a squeeze.

Reg had recently downsized, and was now driving a new Nissan Micra. Sian was staring at it while I paid the driver, and when the taxi drove off she turned to me, wide-eyed.

‘What on earth,’ she said, ‘is Reg doing?’

‘Fishing.’

‘Yes, I can see that, two rods like long whips on his roof rack – but I mean, what does he know about fishing? Does he go out on a boat, or—’

‘He fishes off the rocks at Europa Point. Late evening, usually, watches the sun go down, communes with nature. It’s his way of chilling.’

‘Well, glory be,’ Sian said softly, and turned towards the house.

From the tiny parking area the houses are reached by a gate through rustic stone walls, and by stone steps leading steeply down. Like most, Reg’s living areas are on the upper floor, bedrooms and bathroom on the lower.

He answered the door with a tall glass of gin and tonic tinkling in one hand. I looked at his eyes. It wasn’t his first. Reg noticed the look, and winked. While the cat’s away, he seemed to be saying, and I thumped him on the shoulder as the old diplomat stood to one side, grinning.

His grey hair was tied back in the usual ponytail, and he had on the blue tracksuit he’d been wearing when, not too long ago, he’d used a flying rugby tackle to knock me backwards down the steps of my mother’s bungalow high up the Rock’s slopes. He’d thought I was one of Ronnie Skaill’s thugs. Typical ex-public school, he was as hard as nails and had come close to shattering my larynx with a sinewy forearm.

The living room’s gold-shaded table lamps cast a warm light over thick Persian rugs, pale spruce parquet flooring, chairs and a huge settee upholstered in soft ivory leather. Reg’s Bose stereo system was playing softly in the background: we’d travelled a mile or so and moved from the Eliott hotel’s modern jazz to the tinkling flamenco guitars of old Spain, and were enveloped in the wild scent from small baskets of pot-pourri that Eleanor scattered about Reg’s house to foster the illusion of fresh flowers.

Reg shut the door and followed us in, plonked his glass down on the coffee table then went to stare silently out of the wide picture windows that took up three sides of a sort of suspended sun room – with skylight – and afforded panoramic views over the town and bay.

Sian raised her eyebrows inquiringly at me, then crossed to the drinks cabinet and reached for the Bombay Sapphire. I put Pru’s laptop on the settee and joined Reg at the window.

‘Thoughtful, Reg. Or are you still concerned?’

He grunted. ‘Life’s too short to waste time worrying.’

In the circumstances, I thought that was an odd, insensitive remark. Were we both thinking on the same lines? I was talking about Eleanor, but now he had me wondering. Reg Fitz-Norton is diplomatic but foolhardy, and has been known to tread on toes.

‘What are you looking at? Or looking for?’

‘Mm? Oh … .’ He gestured vaguely at the twinkling lights, the reflections in the distant water.

‘You can’t see the hospital from here.’

‘General direction,’ Reg said, and pointed. ‘She’s somewhere over there.’

‘But not for much longer.’

He nodded absently, his mind – I assumed – in that distant hospital ward. ‘You know, Eleanor’s a remarkable woman for her age. Mind’s wonderfully alert, she’s rock-steady on her feet.’

‘She also,’ I said, ‘enjoys the occasional gin and tonic.’

‘Even a young pup like you knows the old saying— ‘

‘I’m in my fifties, Reg.’

‘When the sun’s over the yardarm. That’s when the day’s first drink is taken. It was ten in the morning when Eleanor was pushed; she’d not long eaten breakfast. Anyway, under the influence or sober she was pushed by a woman, or so she tells me – though her memory of the incident is understandably hazy.’

He took a deep breath, managed a grin, looked straight at me. ‘Your face is looking better, old boy. Bruises fading to yellow, swelling around the hooter almost gone— ‘

‘Eleanor, Reg.’

‘She’s fine. Home tomorrow. Here, not in her bungalow, so I can look after her while she reads magazines with her cast stuck up in the air and pops Ferrero Rocher chocs into her mouth at frequent intervals.’

‘With her little finger daintily cocked,’ Sian called, busy pouring, ‘while poor old Reg rushes madly about vacuuming and polishing and seeing to her every whim.’

‘What a life, eh,’ Reg said, grinning.

‘So you’re not as miserable as you look?’

‘If he is, we’ll soon cheer him up,’ Sian said, coming over to hand me a crystal glass containing smoky Aran single malt with ice and Reg a fresh gin and tonic. She flicked the diplomat’s dangling ponytail, put a hand on his shoulder so she could get close to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You love unravelling knotty problems, don’t you, Reg? Dabbling in a bit of insider trading? Even poking about on the murky fringes of the underworld if there’s profit in it – but preferably down at one of those sun-soaked marinas? Bit of an art expert as well, if I remember rightly.’

‘I have my moments.’

‘Well, have one now,’ I said, ‘because a young lady called Pru needs help.’

‘Or something,’ Sian said, glancing at me. ‘She didn’t exactly tell us what, did she?’

‘Do go on,’ Reg said. ‘Who’s this Pru when she’s at home, and what’s she been up to?’

‘You ever heard of Bernie Rickman?’

‘Of course I’ve heard of him, and so have you. That rakish black boat that nearly belonged to your dear departed brother is moored across the concrete from Rickman’s huge yacht.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re right,’ I said, amazed. ‘Now you mention it I remember seeing the name, marvelled at its size, imagined it sneering at Tim’s little canoe.’

‘Sneering is what Rickman does to those lesser mortals he despises – and that’s just about everybody. Does it because he’s convinced he’s the cat’s whiskers, when actually he’s the lowest of the low. Sea Wind and his whole flamboyant lifestyle are financed by illegal activities too numerous to mention. If I say soft drugs, you’ll get a small part of a much bigger picture.’

While talking we’d moved down the three steps from the cool, starlit sun room. Sian curled up on the settee with the laptop. I sank into one of the huge chairs and watched Reg as he placed the drink Sian had given him on the coffee table alongside the one he’d abandoned. He now had two drinks, and he looked at me with a wry grin. Not his usual self, perhaps, but sharp as a knife and, as always, proving to be an excellent source of all kinds of information.

‘If Rickman’s that crooked,’ I said, ‘why isn’t he behind bars?’

‘Never been caught red-handed. His kind rarely are. Gibraltar’s got water on three sides, a guarded border on the other, so all of Rickman’s skulduggery is forced to involve boats of one kind or another. Needless to say, Sea Wind is not one of them.’

‘The late Ronnie Skaill used to stay in the background while using Tim and his canoe,’ Sian said. ‘I imagine Rickman does the same.’

‘Yes, and in much the same way,’ Reg said. ‘The men doing his dirty work are, on the surface – no pun intended – beyond reproach. Their vessels are a big step down from Sea Wind but still white, gleaming and very expensive. More importantly, they are also very fast.’

I glanced at Sian. She guessed at once what I was thinking, and lifted her shoulders, spread her hands.

‘That would certainly seem to limit Rickman’s choice,’ I said carefully. ‘I mean, how many crooked owners of luxury yachts are out there cruising the Med?’

‘There’s one I can name straight away,’ Reg said, coming in on cue, ‘and that’s cuddly Charlie Wise. His boat, the Alcheringa, is classy and swift, and Wise came here as a retired businessman with impeccable credentials. Rickman would consider that an asset, something he could use. Crucially, the grapevine was hinting years ago that Wise was fast running out of cash, and if Rickman showed him an easy way out of his troubles… .’

‘Yes, but isn’t the boat Wise owns a Sunseeker 66? Worth a bloody fortune. If he’s short of cash surely he could sell that rather than turn to a life of crime.’

‘Except that what I just said was a trifle misleading. Charlie doesn’t actually own the boat; he had one that was much smaller but apparently there’s some sort of arrangement in place. Whether that’s straightforward leasing, or the use of the Sunseeker for certain services rendered… .’

Reg shrugged his shoulders. He picked up the old drink, drained it and leaned back in his chair holding the one in which fresh ice tinkled in time with his pulse.

‘So who’s the boat’s real owner?’ Sian said.

Reg grinned.

‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Not Bernie Rickman?’

‘Who else? But that’s just another snippet of useless information. Interesting, yes, but I’ve been merrily digressing and you still haven’t answered my question.’

‘Pru,’ I said slowly, ‘is Prudence Wise.’

‘Oh dear,’ Reg said.

‘Yes, Charlie Wise is her father, as you’ve no doubt twigged, and what she’s been doing is taking risky photographs on board Rickman’s Sea Wind.’

‘Which brings us to why we’re here,’ Sian said. ‘We’ve been ribbing you something cruel, Reg, but you know damn well we look on you as a respected father figure, a seasoned campaigner on the international financial and art markets, so let’s put that to the test. Pru took pictures of a man aboard Rickman’s yacht. Since then she’s been threatened. We thought you might recognize him, so we brought along her computer.’

The laptop clicked. Sian swung it open, pressed a couple of buttons and patted the seat next to her. Reg looked at me, winked. He went and sat as close to Sian as he could, placed an arm around her shoulders, squeezed.

‘By the way, I failed to mention that you’re also an incorrigible womanizer unwilling to admit he’s over the hill and well down the slippery slope,’ Sian said, and pointed at the screen. ‘That’s him, on Rickman’s boat, sitting in the shade. What d’you think?’

‘I think it’s amazing you’ve come all this way.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, if you click on the BBC News website, you’ll see why.’

Sian did as instructed, waited a few moments – then her eyes widened.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said, and cast a startled look in my direction. ‘That bloke Pru photographed is someone called Karl Creeny. This is an old picture they’ve dug up, looks like a mug shot, but it’s him all right. He’s a Liverpool hoodlum, Jack, and he’s wanted in connection with a recent robbery. Two million quid’s worth of precious gems was stolen from a well-known diamond merchant in Liverpool city centre.’

 

‘You know,’ Reg said, ‘you two really must be very, very careful.’

‘Us?’ I looked at Sian in mock amazement. ‘Really, Reg, I think you’re the one who should be watching his back.’

Reg looked stunned. ‘Go on, tell me why.’

‘You operate on the fringes of a murky world and must run the most awful risks. Haven’t you ever badly miscalculated and brought the wrath of underworld villains down on your head? Gone desperately running for cover?’

‘The short answer is that perhaps I have, but I’m still here and in no danger, whereas at the moment you two are exposed and vulnerable.’

‘This is Gibraltar, Reg,’ Sian said, ‘sun-soaked outpost of the British Empire, tax haven—’

‘Yes, all right, safe as houses and I know you’re the bee’s knees, the dream team and all that rot, but sooner or later you’re going to come to grief. Everybody tends to snigger at those ex-pat crooks living in their white villas on the sunny Spanish Costas but, you know, they’re all pretty unsavoury characters. That’s how they make their dough. No scruples, and bloody vicious to boot.’

‘But we’ve done nothing to upset them, Reg.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘Well… .’

‘Rickman’s after that young woman’s blood. He’s desperate to get his hands on those pictures she’s taken. That tells me he’s bound to be having her watched.’

‘Ouch,’ Sian said, grimacing. ‘So the watchers watching her will know we’ve got her laptop and they’ll now be watching us.’

‘Which explains the rusty Datsun,’ I said.

Reg raised questioning eyebrows.

‘It sped past, headlights full on, the driver grinning like someone bloodthirsty looking forward to a killing. When we stopped here it pulled in ahead of us, turned around. It’s probably still there … waiting.’

‘There you are then,’ Reg said bluntly. ‘So, forgetting for the moment that your lives are in danger, what about it, old boy? Do you believe her story?’

We’d already told Reg about our eventful evening, starting with Prudence Wise approaching me at the bar in the Eliott hotel, and finishing as the lift doors slid to behind her and Sian and I walked out into the night with her laptop. Reg’s sharp blue eyes had got brighter and brighter as the hint of intrigue began lifting him out of the minor doldrums, and he’d listened attentively to everything I said.

And now he’d come up with a good question – the same one, in fact, that I’d asked myself a little earlier in the Eliott. We’d listened patiently to Pru Wise, smiled and nodded acceptance and understanding – but were we foolish to take her word for what was going on?

‘Well, the one thing we can’t dispute,’ I said, ‘is that she’s got photographs of Karl Creeny. So she was on Rickman’s yacht, she spent a couple of hours in the sun for which she got paid three thousand quid, and there’s no reason to doubt that the commission was arranged for her by Charlie.’

‘Yes, but if I’m right,’ Reg said, ‘then Charlie Wise is a bit of a shady character. Let’s assume Pru did take those pictures, and since then she’s been threatened. If the negotiations for the photographic session were done for her by her father, it would be interesting to know who first brought up the idea of a photo shoot.’

‘You mean did Rickman approach Charlie Wise, or was it the other way round?’

‘Exactly. And if it was Charlie’s idea, then we have to ask why he wanted his daughter clicking away on board Rickman’s yacht.’

‘If he had somehow heard in advance that Karl Creeny was, at some point, likely to be on board,’ Sian said slowly, ‘then an innocent young woman taking pics in the sun would be an excellent way of getting confirmation. She wouldn’t need to know her dad’s motives for getting her the job. She’d just merrily take a series of photographs. In the course of doing that, her dad hoped she’d provide him with proof that Creeny was there. Which she did.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Reg said, ‘but that brings me back to the point about believing the young woman. If Charlie did want photographs of Creeny, then surely hoping his daughter would get them by accident was a bit hit and miss? So, did she accidentally take those shots of Creeny lurking in the background, or was she working with her dad from the outset, and know exactly what she was after?’

‘And whether she was or she wasn’t,’ Sian said, ‘we already know why the photographs were taken, don’t we? Karl Creeny was involved in a Liverpool jewel robbery, was almost certainly Mr Big, the mastermind. So there can be only one reason for his sudden appearance here in Gibraltar.’

‘Because, one way or another,’ I said, ‘this is where the diamonds are going to turn up.’

‘And they,’ Reg said, ‘are what Charlie Wise is after.’

‘All very logical, very straightforward,’ I said. ‘But if Charlie Wise is after those stolen gems, what the hell are he and Adele doing umpteen miles away in Tangier?’

Reg downed his drink, rattled the ice and looked thoughtful.

‘According to those news reports, Karl Creeny is known to have left the UK before the police could block all exits. He used his own passport, boarded a plane at Manchester, and he’s now reckoned to be somewhere in Morocco.’

‘Except that he’s not,’ Sian said, ‘but Charlie Wise is. So, same question: if Charlie really is after those diamonds,’ she said, ‘then what the hell is going on?’