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‘Near the mill at La Grande.’
She emptied her glass and paced restlessly across to the fire. ‘The dirty bastards. They should drive them off the island, every last one of them.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re frightened?’ I said.
She was almost angry when she turned on me. ‘What if I am? They’ve done some funny things. Broken into people’s homes. This is a lovely place …’
‘With Carlo here?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve got to be joking. He’s the original six-at-one-blow man. I thought that was why you kept him around.’
She changed completely, her face illuminated by that dazzling smile, the famous Lillie St Claire smile, as she moved across to Carlo.
‘That’s right. Of course it is. You wouldn’t let them hurt me, would you, Carlo?’
Carlo took the hand she held out to him and kissed it gently. From the look on his face I’d say he’d have torn the arms and legs off anyone who even tried.
She patted his cheek. ‘Bless you, Carlo. Let’s have a movie, shall we? What about The Door to Hell.’
He moved away as silently as usual. She poured another drink and flung herself into the chair next to me. This was a ritual I’d been through many times before. There was a small projection room at the rear of the salon and Carlo handled things at that end, using the smooth white wall next to the fireplace as a screen.
As the lights dimmed I said, ‘What about the girl?’
‘I left her in the bath. She shouldn’t be long. Did she tell you how she came to be mixed up with those creeps?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘I did. She said she’d arranged to meet a friend at the windmill at La Grande at nine o’clock. She went out there by taxi only he never showed. Then those pigs jumped her.’ She shook her head, ‘The whole thing stinks to high heaven if you ask me.’
‘Her affair, not ours.’
She carried on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘And her hair.’
‘What about her hair?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not natural. Reminds me of something and I can’t think what. A picture I was in once.’
‘Why don’t you shut up?’ I said. ‘… and let’s enjoy this one which, for a change, I don’t think I’ve actually seen before.’
I think she’d have given me the hard word at that except for the fact that at that moment, her face filled the screen and as usual, she was swept up in the greatest love affair since Antony and Cleopatra. That of Lillie St Claire for Lillie St Claire.
‘1938,’ she said. ‘I’d been in Hollywood two years. My first Oscar nomination.’
She was standing at the top of a great flight of marble stairs in some sort of negligee or other, being menaced by the swords of half-a-dozen Roundheads, who all looked villainous enough to play Capone-style gangsters, and probably did the following week. At the appropriate moment an athletic-looking character in breeches and a white shirt dropped into the picture, a sword between his teeth and proceeded to knock all sorts of hell out of the Roundheads.
‘Jack Desforge,’ she breathed. ‘The best there ever was.’
‘Better than Lillie St Claire?’ I demanded.
‘Damn you, lover, you know what I mean. Dietrich, Joan Crawford. Oh, they were great. Wonderful, wonderful people. They don’t breed them like that any more.’
‘Only you were the greatest.’
‘Look at my last film.’
‘I didn’t know anybody had done.’
I ducked to avoid the glass she threw at me for the film was very much a sore point, an Italian production of the worst kind; a programmer which had sunk, as they say, without trace.
Behind us there was a slight polite cough and Claire Bouvier moved down to join us. She wore a pair of slacks and a polo-necked sweater which combined with the short hair to give her a strangely boyish look.
She looked up in some bewilderment at the sword play on the wall then turned to Lillie and said hesitantly, ‘You have been most kind, Miss St Claire. I will see these things are returned to you tomorrow.’
‘That’s all right, darling. You can give them to the deserving poor when you’ve finished with them.’ Lillie told her.
She didn’t offer to put her up for the night which was much as I had expected for she was never one for competition in that quarter.
I said to Claire Bouvier, ‘All right. Let’s get moving.’
She glanced first at Lillie, then at me, strangely diffident, then went up the steps and out into the hall. Lillie said, ‘Do you fancy her?’
‘I hadn’t thought much about it.’
‘You’d be making a mistake. There’s something funny about that kid.’
She slid her arms about my neck and gave the full treatment, following this with a completely unprintable suggestion breathed into my right ear.
‘Impossible,’ I said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We could always try. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour to get down to Ibiza town and back again.’
She kissed me hard, that mouth of hers opening wide again and beyond, I saw Carlo waiting respectfully, his face showing no expression worth noting, yet there was something in the eyes I think. I could almost feel the knife going in between my shoulder blades.
I patted her face, ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘We’ll see,’ and I moved out fast.
She didn’t have much to say for herself on the way down to town. As we passed the mill where it had all begun I said, ‘What in the hell were you doing up here on your own anyway?’
‘I had an appointment to keep. With a friend.’
‘Who didn’t show?’ I was surprised at my sudden surge of anger. ‘He should have his backside kicked, whoever he is.’
She turned and looked at me sharply, but made no comment. I kept my eyes on the road. After a while she said, ‘Tell me about yourself. What do you do?’
‘I’m a charter pilot. I keep a floatplane down at Tijola.’
‘And Miss St Claire - you have known her long?’
‘Long enough.’
We were coming into the outskirts of Ibiza now and I took the direct route in along the Avenida de Espana. There were still plenty of bars open for the night, for Spain at least, was still young, but when I switched off the motor outside the small, waterfront hotel on the Avenida Andenes, it suddenly seemed very quiet.
She got out and moved to the entrance and I followed her. ‘I don’t suppose you’d feel like a drink?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired. You understand?’
‘Of course.’
She held out her hand and I took it, suddenly reluctant to let her go.
‘What can I say?’ she said. ‘I owe you so much.’
‘You could satisfy my curiosity’
She thought about it for a long moment then nodded. ‘Yes, I owe you that at least. You know the Iglesia de Jesus?’
‘One of the most beautiful churches in the island.’
‘Can you meet me there in the morning?’
‘I think so.’
‘Would ten o’clock be too early?’
‘I’ll be there on the dot.’
She took my hand again briefly. ‘Thank you, dear friend,’ she said, reached up and brushed my cheek with the lightest of kisses, then slipped inside.
Which very definitely drove every other thought from my mind, including Lillie. There was something elusive about her. Something indefinable that couldn’t be pinned down. Frankly, it was as irritating as an itch one couldn’t get at to scratch and irritating in another way also. I had a feeling that I was becoming involved in something in spite of myself and any kind of an entanglement where a woman was concerned, was something I preferred to keep well clear of.
I paused on the edge of the kerb to light a cigarette before crossing to the jeep and an old Ford truck came round the corner on two wheels, mounted the pavement and rushed me like a fighting bull in full charge.
I made it into the nearest doorway with very little to spare, was aware of Redshirt leaning out the cab window laughing like a crazy man and then the truck swerved round the corner into the next street and was away.
I didn’t attempt to follow. There’d be another time and I’d had enough action for one night. What I needed now was a long, tall glass of something or other and a cool hand on my fevered brow - which brought me straight back to Lillie.
When I got back to the villa I didn’t bother with the front gate, preferring a less public route out of deference to Lillie’s good name although I sometimes think she simply liked the idea of someone having to climb over the wall to get to her. As usual, she’d turned the electronic warning system off to facilitate matters.
As I came up out of the garden to the terrace outside her bedroom Lillie called out sharply and it wasn’t exactly a cry for help.
The French windows stood open to the night, curtains billowing like white sails and there was a light on inside. Carlo, as far as I could judge, seemed to be performing manfully enough. Certainly a slight, polite cough from the terrace would hardly have helped, so I did the obvious thing and got the hell out of there.
When I got back to Tijola, I stopped at the beach bar and had a large glass of the local brandy, a brew calculated to take the skin off your lips if you were injudicious enough to allow it to touch them. There was a light in the cottage window which didn’t surprise me for at that time Turk was in the habit of turning up most nights.
I found him sprawled across the table, out to the wide. The eye balls were retracted, but his pulse was steady enough. Heroin and Spanish Brandy. I wondered how much longer his system was going to be able to take it as I carried him across to the bed.
I covered him with a blanket, turned to go back to the table and saw a piece of paper pinned to the door with the breadknife. We put the bird to bed for you. Mind your own business in future or next time it’s you.
God knows why I bothered, but I was running when I went out of the door. Not that it mattered because when I reached the slipway, the Otter simply wasn’t there.
Definitely not my night.
3 The Jesus Reredos (#u1dbf373b-c49f-563b-ad8e-e248ee91b40e)
I was up at first light and drove into Ibiza where I helped myself to a couple of aqualungs and various other essential items of diving gear from the Mary Grant.
When I got back to Tijola, Turk was still out cold. I tried slapping him awake which did no good at all and when I attempted to get him on his feet he collapsed instantly, boneless as a jellyfish. It was like handling a corpse and I got him back on the bed and left him to it.
So, I was on my own again - the story of my life, or so it seemed. One thing was certain. Whatever had to be done I would have to do alone so I pulled on one of the yellow neoprene wetsuits I’d brought from the Mary Grant, buckled on an aqualung and went to it.
I tried the obvious at first and simply waded into the water from the slipway. The seabed shelved very rapidly at that point so that it was four or five fathoms deep close inshore.
The water was like black glass, giving the illusion of being quite clear and yet visibility was poor, mainly because the sun wasn’t yet out.
I went out, as I have said, in a direct line from the slip-way for perhaps fifty yards, keeping close to the bottom and didn’t see a thing. So I tried another approach and moved back towards the shore, tacking twenty yards to either side of my central line in a slow, painful zig-zag.
Which all took time - too much time. I hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even swallowed a cup of coffee which was a mistake for, in spite of the wetsuit, it was cold.
I was getting old, that was the trouble. Too old for this kind of nonsense. The cold ate into me like acid and I was gripped by a mood of savage despair. Everything I had in the world was tied up in the Otter. Without it I was nothing. On the beach once and for all and no way back.
I surfaced close to the slipway and found Turk sitting cross-legged on the beach, a blanket around his shoulders. There was a bottle of that cheap local brandy wedged in the sand between his feet and he nursed a tin cup in both hands.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked.
‘The only way to live.’
He swallowed some more of that terrible brandy and nodded slightly, a curiously vacant look in his eyes. It was as if he was not really there, in spirit at least.
He said, ‘Okay, General, what’s it all about?’
So I told him. The mill at La Grande, Claire Bouvier, Redshirt and his friends - the whole bit and as I talked, the sun edged its way over the point, flooding the creek with light.
When I was finished he shook his head and sighed heavily. ‘You never did learn to mind your own business did you? Little friend of all the world.’
‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘Now let’s have your professional opinion.’
‘Simple. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. The way the currents run in this cove you should have tried the mid-channel.’
My heart, as they say, sank. ‘But it’s fifteen or sixteen fathoms in places out there.’
‘I know, General. I know.’ He smiled wearily. ‘Which is why you’re going to need papa. Give me five minutes to get into my gear. We’ll use the inflatable with the outboard and make sure there’s at least twenty fathoms of line on the anchor. We’re going to need it out there.’
I said, ‘Are you sure you feel up to this?’
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he replied without even an attempt at a smile.
He turned and walked away with a curious kind of dignity, the blanket trailing from his shoulders like a cloak and yet there was something utterly and terrifyingly wrong. Earlier when I had attempted to waken him he had seemed like a corpse. Now the corpse walked. It was simple as that.
I was crouched in the dinghy in mid-channel taking a breather just before nine o’clock when Turk surfaced and gave me the sign. I adjusted my mouthpiece, went over the side and followed him down through around ten fathoms of smoke-grey water.
The Otter was crouched in a patch of seagrass like some strange marine monster. From a distance everything seemed perfectly normal and then, when I was close enough, I saw the holes ripped in the floats and hull.
