As Easy as Murder (36 page)

‘Let me give you some free advice,’ I added. ‘Get yourself on the first plane to Singapore, look for a hotel overlooking the marina, and check the guest list. Get there before Friday and you’ll find a
large lady waving at sailors from her bathtub. Tell her I sent you and that she should let you in.’

He blinked. ‘Anything you say, Primavera,’ he murmured, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was hearing or doing, but reckoned that the smart thing would be not to argue.

‘And me?’ Uche followed up, solemnly.

‘How do they address an emir in Nigeria?’ Mark asked him.

‘Sir, would be the usual form,’ he replied.

‘In that case, sir, you’ve just inherited. If I were you I’d get to Girona Airport, hire new air crew . . . you two desperados were right not to kill the Kiwis; that would have ruined everything . . . and fly back to Lagos as soon as you can get a take-off slot. You have two brothers to look after, from what I gather, and a lot of cleaning up to do within your family business.’

‘But what about . . . the human growth hormone that I made for my father? My sadly late father?’ he added, without a trace of grief in his voice

‘What about it? All you did was invent a synthesising process for a naturally occurring substance. That might be hugely profitable for certain people, but I think you’ll find that it isn’t illegal in itself. As I see it, the only law you’ve broken is a small one involving kidnapping, but the Mossos d’Esquadra won’t be following that up. Get out of town, mate.’

Uche looked at me. ‘But Jonny . . .’ he began.

I tried not to smile, but didn’t get close. ‘I have some bad news,’ I advised him. ‘Jonny said to tell you: you’re fired.’

I
never saw Mark Kravitz again. When I called the Nieves Mar later that day, I was told that he’d checked out. I didn’t call him, because I decided that for a while, silence between us would be best. Things you regret; too many people to whom I never said, ‘Safe journey onward. Your touch upon my life was fair and good.’

Three months ago I had a phone call from a stranger who introduced himself as Detective Chief Superintendent Graham Metcalfe. He told me that my friend had finally run out of treatment options and that his MS had moved on to a new, aggressive and irreversible phase, and he explained that Mark, being Mark, had decided not to hang around for the inevitable but instead had taken an overdose of carefully stockpiled sleeping pills, washed down with a nice claret, from a very good year. At once, I remembered what he’d said to Patterson Cowling, in the abandoned house, about it being easy to talk about killing, even killing yourself, but . . .

Patterson Cowling? Yes, that’s who he is again, as far as the entire population is concerned, indeed as far as the whole world is
concerned, apart from a few spooks and two women who will never meet him, although the General Register Office says that he’s their father. He took my advice, he made it to Singapore on time, and joined Shirley in her first-class suite. I’m sure she gave him hell for putting her through same, but the man she got back was the one she’d known, and they are now in the process of living happily for as long as ‘ever after’ lasts.

Uche Wigwe? The new young Emir of Kanaan? He did the right thing, for him and for his family. He sold all his father’s legitimate assets and shared them with his brothers. He realised that there are more things in life than the endless pursuit of cheerleaders, and now he’s back at MIT, doing that PhD. I’ve no idea of the subject, but as my nephew says, it won’t be bloody golf, that’s for sure.

Lars Martinsson? He pleaded guilty to two murders, motive for both simple robbery, and was sentenced to twenty years, half of what it could have been, for cooperating with the Spanish police and prosecutor. No charges were ever brought against Lena Mankell. I know, Mark’s friends at Interpol will know, and I’m sure Uche must know as well, that she was an important link in Kalu’s distribution network for his son’s super-HGH, maybe the key link throughout the US. But since the existence of the stuff has never been public knowledge, it would have been counterproductive for her to be accused of anything. However, she did quit as a swing coach, and she has since returned to Sweden with her kids. I’m told that she now has a job as a club pro. That’ll be handy for her when Lars is transferred to his home country in a couple of years, to serve out his sentence.

Alex Guinart? He brought my jeep back that evening, and swapped it for Lars Martinsson’s car, which I’d used to get myself back home from the hills above Darnius. He was still shaken up by Mark’s execution of Kalu Wigwe, but he had become wise enough in the ways of the darker world not to mention it. It’s a secret he and I share, and it’s made our friendship even stronger. He’s become a star, as Mark promised he would. His promotion to intendant was confirmed (Hector Gomez didn’t return to work; he took early retirement instead) and he’s seen as a blue-eyed boy in Barcelona.

Jonathan Sinclair? He hasn’t won on the European Tour since his debut, but he hasn’t missed a cut either, so he’s made money every time he’s played, the first objective of any professional. He and his new caddie, Logan Miller, have a good relationship, and his game hasn’t suffered from the loss of Lena Mankell, thanks to her replacement as his swing coach, Clive Tate, who took over a couple of her old clients, and who has a wise silver head on his shoulders.

Jonny still lives with me, but that will change very soon. He’s found himself a very nice girlfriend, the daughter of a hotel owner in Figueras, and next month he will move into a house that he’s bought on the edge of the golf course at Pals. She isn’t moving in with him, not yet, but his domestic independence will make their life, shall we say, easier. His Grandpa Mac is very pleased too. I don’t know what gives with him and Mary, but we’ve seen a lot of him this summer and nothing of her.

Tom Blackstone? The rock on which my life is built? That analogy doesn’t work any more, because rocks don’t grow. He and
I stand at the door of great change. I chanced to see him naked one morning last month . . . neither of us is an exhibitionist, but we’re not prudishly shy either . . . and couldn’t help but notice that things were slightly different. Since then, I’ve been reading up on puberty in boys.

And James Brush Donnelly? The mysterious, enigmatic Brush, acknowledged by Jonny’s contemporaries as one of the best managers on tour; what of him? He remains a stranger, although that may change when Jonny returns to Arizona this month to play in his first PGA Tour event. Even now, I know nothing about him, beyond what Clive Tate told me, although we did speak once. Jonny had left his mobile upstairs while he went down to the garage to fetch something from his car. It rang, I picked it up. The voice on the other end had been through so many cells and satellites that it sounded almost artificial, but certainly American. I told him that Jonny was elsewhere, and couldn’t help adding that it was rather late where we were. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he drawled. ‘I keep forgetting that you guys have daylight saving.’

And that has started me wondering . . .