Medusa

‘All right then. Suppose he is on board when Señor Evans is the owner of it.’ He nodded at the engineer’s protruding feet. ‘That is why we are searching your boat. It has been in your possession since more than two weeks before the Alcalde is killed and we have been advised where is the most safe place for him to have hidden it.’

‘Who advised you?’ I asked him.

But he had turned away, watching the engineer again as he began to wriggle backwards. ‘Now I think we know whether you are involved or not. ‘Bueno?’ he asked.

The engineer grunted something unintelligible, and when he finally emerged, switching off his torch and standing there, wiping his hands and face on a bit of cotton waste, Menendez repeated his question, his voice sharp and urgent — ‘Bueno y bueno, qué has encontrado?’

‘Nada.’ The engineer pulled up the steps, slamming the engine compartment shut. It was clear he had had enough of clambering round in the confined space of the yacht’s engines.

Menendez turned to the inspector, checking the details of their earlier search. Then he gave a little shrug. ‘Eh bueno, it seems this boat is now clean.’ He was staring at me, a hard look in his eyes as he emphasised the word now.

‘Barriago,’ I said. ‘Why do you think he killed Jorge Martinez?’

‘You do not know?’ Still that hard stare as he waited for an answer. ‘A man answering his description, but with a different name, took an Aviaco flight out of here for Mallorca less than two hours after the shooting. At Palma he changed planes and flew on to Tunisia. The police in Tunis are endeavouring to trace him for us.’

I told him I didn’t see what this had to do with me, but all he said was, ‘He is a crack shot — ’ He used the words tirador experto — ‘and you knew him. That is all. Nothing more.’ He reached for an ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Eh bueno,’ he said again and got to his feet, the others following him. ‘When you wish to make a statement …’ Those sharp little eyes were fixed on mine. ‘A full statement, then you come to my office. Okay?’ He was suddenly smiling again.

‘You really think I had something to do with Martinez’s death?’

He shrugged. ‘That is between you and your conscience. When you are ready to talk …’ He said this over his shoulder as he went up the steps to the cockpit, his two officers behind him. ‘The truth, that is all I am interested in.’ He was standing like a cut-out against the blueness of the sky, his hair very black in the sunlight.

‘I wonder you don’t ask for my passport?’ It was a silly thing to say, but he could have arrested me if he had been sure enough to charge me with anything.

He turned as he reached the quay. ‘I already have your passport,’ he said. ‘It was the main reason I sent my officers to search your premises. In fact, your wife was kind enough to give it to them.’ He raised his hand, a little gesture of farewell. ‘Adiós.’ His driver was holding the car door open and he stepped in and was driven off. The other two lingered for a moment, staring at the boat as though trying to remember everything about her. Then they, too, drove away and I was left alone with Carp, his craggy features more puckered than usual. He didn’t speak Spanish, but he understood enough to know I was in trouble. ‘Come the next few days reck’n you’ll find out who your real friends are,’ he said, his Suffolk accent broader than ever. That was all and he turned away. That spi rope’s rove, but Luis an’ I gotter coil down the port anchor warp. Be for’ard if you want me.’ And then, as he crossed the coachroof, heading for the port bow, he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ll be ready whenever you say — just in case you’re coming too.’

I went back into the saloon then, standing there alone and trying to think things out. Antonio Barriago. That was three years back, the thousand-yard range and the two of us lying side by side shooting it out, a crowd gathered behind us, the smell of gun oil and cordite hanging on the still air and the targets shimmering in the haze. And afterwards, in one of the messes — I couldn’t remember which — the two of us professing our friendship and promising to meet again. We never had, and the next I heard of him he was a mercenary captured by SWAPO on the Zaire border.

That was all I knew about him. He might well be Basque and a member of Eta, but why risk a terrorist attack so far from the political centre of Spain? In any case, a mercenary was hardly likely to be a committed political activist.