Medusa

‘In addition to showing the flag in the Balearics and one or two of the Italian islands, he thought it possible Malta would be included in his orders. He asked if I had any messages.’

‘Did he say when he was leaving Gib?’

‘No. His letter was written the day after he went on board. There was no mention of his having received orders, only that he looked forward to seeing us again when Medusa visited Mahon.’

‘Wade may know his movements.’ I stood there, sipping my martini, staring out of the window and thinking about the future. Malta was over six hundred miles away and even if we averaged ten knots, which was just possible with a favourable wind, it would take us the better part of three days.

We didn’t say much after that, our thoughts locked in on ourselves, and as the shadows lengthened and six o’clock approached, I asked her to leave me so that I could talk to Wade on my own. I remember I shut the door behind her and in doing so it seemed as though I was shutting myself out from the past.

Wade was late. Only a few minutes, but expecting him to come through prompt at 18.00, waiting, it seemed an age. The sound of the phone when it came was startlingly loud, his voice even more upper-class English, more clipped than when he had phoned me in the early hours. ‘Wade here. Did you locate him?’

‘Yes.’ And I told him where Evans was and how he had been having a meal in the Taberna Felipe on the Ciudadela waterfront at the time of the shooting. ‘He couldn’t have done it,’ I said.

‘Of course not.’ And he added, ‘Yesterday the Spanish police asked Interpol to locate an Italian from Naples who was booked out of Menorca on two consecutive flights, the first to Mallorca, the second to Barcelona. The name on his passport, which was forged of course, was given as Alfredo Geronimo. In fact, they now discover he is Spanish and his real name is Antonio Barriago. I believe you know him.’

‘I’ve met him,’ I said cautiously. ‘Three years ago.’

‘You fired together in the finals for the Oporto Cup. Had you met him before that?’

‘Once,’ I said. ‘When I was shooting in Spain.’

‘He wasn’t one of the men with you when Ahmed Bey was killed?’

‘No.’

‘Or on the Italian boat?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘The police in Mahon seem to think the connection is a lot closer than just competition shooting. They’ve asked both Interpol and the Yard people over here for all the information they have on you, a dossier in fact. You and Barriago.’

‘And Evans?’ I asked. ‘What about Evans?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He’s involved,’ I said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Why? You say he was at Ciudadela.’ His voice was sharper now. ‘What makes you think he’s involved?’

But I was already regretting my attempt to involve Evans so directly. ‘I just feel it,’ I answered rather lamely, wondering how my words would be interpreted when they searched the villa and found the gun. ‘Lloyd Jones,’ I said. ‘Where does he fit in? He came out here with a picture of Evans in his pocket.’ I was remembering what Carp had told me, that odd incident on the East Coast of England. ‘He said he was on leave, a holiday before taking up his new appointment. But his sole object seemed to be to find Evans. Why?’ There was no answer. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ And then he said, ‘They were at HMS Ganges together, almost the last batch of youngsters to go through before the school was closed.’

‘I know that. But they are related in some way.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘My wife.’ And I added, ‘Is it true? Are they related?’

I thought he wasn’t going to answer that, but then he said, ‘They both have the same father. No reason you shouldn’t know that.’

‘But why send him to me?’ I asked. ‘He said it was at your suggestion he was contacting me.’

‘Not my suggestion. Philip Turner’s. He put us on to you.’ And he added, with something near to a smile in his voice, ‘When we checked your background, it was obvious you were just the man we were looking for. Malta, Menorca, Gibraltar, you know them all — all the Western Med, that is.’

He was covering himself. Phones are funny things, very revealing. You pick up nuances of expression, the hint of hidden meanings. I had the sudden sense of a void opening up, certain he had let something slip, that he hadn’t meant to be so specific. ‘I’ll be in Malta a week from now,’ I said.

‘Malta. Why?’ And when I told him I had a charter fixed for the catamaran, he said, ‘I know that, but you can send somebody else. There are things I want to know and you’re the man who can tell me. The new mayor, for instance. Who is it going to be? Who are they going to elect?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Well, find out for me, will you?’ And when I told him I wouldn’t have time, that I needed to get away tomorrow night, he said, ‘What’s the hurry? Has something happened I don’t know about?’ I told him then how the police had searched the office and my home, then rummaged the boat. ‘Are you under house arrest?’

‘No, but they took my passport.’

‘Under surveillance?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But they suspect you?’