Cocaine Nights - Ballard James Graham - Страница 47

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Behind me a car door opened and a motor faded. I looked up from my Financial Times to find that a familiar BMW had pulled into the car park. Paula Hamilton sat at the wheel, peering up at the bright new awnings that flared from the windows of the sports club. She had changed at the home of one of her patients at the Residencia, and wore a yellow beach robe over her black swimsuit.

She left the car and climbed the steps towards the swimming pool. Ignoring me, she walked to the deep end, left her robe and bag on the diving board and began to fasten her hair, arms raised as she showed off the hips and breasts that I had embraced so eagerly. I had repeatedly rung her flat near the Clinic, but since visiting Frank in Zarzuella jail she kept away from me. I wanted to see her again, and do my best to ease away the strain of contempt she felt for herself, like the prickly humour that shielded her fear of showing her real emotions. But the video-cassette of Anne Hollinger's rape separated us like the memory of a crime.

She swam ten lengths, her streamlined body and clean strokes scarcely disturbing the surface of the pool. Waist-deep in the shallow end, she wiped the foam from her eyes and accepted the towel that I took from the pile beside the bar. Holding my hands, she sprang from the pool and stood dripping beside me, water sparkling at her feet. Happy to see her, I draped another towel around her shoulders.

'Paula – you're our first new member. I hope you want to join the club?'

'No. Just testing the water. It looks pure enough.'

'It's brand-new. You've christened it with your own lips. Now it knows its name.'

'I'll think about that.' She nodded approvingly at the sun-loungers and tables. 'It must be the cleanest pool on the Costa del Sol. Better than all that dissolved muck we usually swim through, under the misguided idea that it's water -detergent, sun-oil, anti-perspirant, aftershave, vaginal jelly, pee and God only knows what else. You look healthier for it, Charles.'

'I am. I swim every day, knock a few balls around with the groundsmen. I've even tried the gym machines.'

'And now you're working for Elizabeth Shand? That's really bizarre. Does she pay you well?'

'It's an honorary post. Hennessy covers my expenses. Bobby Crawford thought I might write a book about it all.'

' "Is there Death after Life? The Resurrection of the Residencia Costasol." How is our tennis pro?'

'I haven't seen him for days. The Ponche flashes by now and then. All mysterious errand stuff – speedboats, remote beaches, drug drops. I'm too square for him.'

Paula stopped to stare at me as we walked towards the diving board. 'You're getting involved. Be careful, he'll damage you if he wants to.'

'Paula, you're too hard on him. I know about the films and the dealing and the car thefts. He tried to strangle me, for reasons he probably doesn't understand. But it's all in a good cause, or so he thinks – he wants to bring people back to life. In many ways he's very naive.'

'There's nothing naive about Betty Shand.'

'Or David Hennessy. But I'm still trying to find what happened at the Hollingers'. That's why I'm playing Frank's role. Now, tell me how he is.'

'Pale, very tired. He's resigned to everything. I think the trial's already over for him. He accepts that you don't want to see him.'

'Not true. Paula, I do want to see him. But I'm not ready yet. I'll visit him when I have something to tell him. Is there any chance of him changing his plea?'

'Of course not. He thinks he's guilty.'

I drove a fist into my palm. 'That's why I can't see him! I won't collude with whatever lies he's hiding behind.'

'You're colluding with everything else here.' Paula watched me, frowning to herself as she slipped into her robe, uncertain whether the bronzed and muscular man beside her was an impostor masquerading as the soft-skinned journalist who had embraced her on Frank's bed. 'You're involved with Elizabeth Shand, Hennessy and Bobby Crawford. It's almost a conspiracy, based on this club.'

'Paula… this isn't Estrella de Mar. It's the Residencia Costasol. Nothing happens here. Nothing ever will.'

'Now you're being naive.' Shaking her head at my foolishness, she strolled with me to her car. She tossed her bag into the passenger seat and then pressed her cheek to mine, her hands on my chest, as if reminding herself that we had once been lovers. 'Charles, dear, a great deal is happening here, far more than you realize. Open your eyes Almost on cue, a Spanish police car circled the central plaza. It stopped beside the marina, and one of the uniformed officers shouted to the boatyard where Andersson worked each morning on Crawford's speedboats. Often I walked down to the quay, but the morose Swede avoided me, unwilling to talk about the Hollinger fire and still nursing his memories of Bibi Jansen. During his rest periods he retreated to the Halcyon, which was berthed near the boatyard, and sat in the cabin, ignoring my feet on the deck above.

Hennessy was waiting in the entrance to the sports club, smiling affably under his reassuring moustache. A Hawaiian shirt covered his ample paunch, and he seemed the epitome of the shady businessman with whom the Spanish police would feel most at ease. He ushered them into his office, where a bottle of Fundador and a tray of tapas were ready to speed their investigation.

They left twenty minutes later, faces flushed and confident. Hennessy waved when they drove off, beaming the benign smile of a department-store Father Christmas. No doubt he had reassured them that he would personally see to the security of the Residencia Costasol and so free them to pursue their proper tasks of manhandling hitch-hikers, plotting against their superiors and collecting backhanders from the Fuengirola bar-owners.

'They don't seem too worried,' I commented to Hennessy. 'I thought they left us alone.'

'Spot of bother on the outer perimeter road – some sort of break-in last night. One or two people have had VCRs stolen. They will leave their patio doors open.'

'Burglaries? Isn't that unusual? I thought the Residencia Costasol was a crime-free zone.'

'I wish it were. Sadly, we're living in today's world. I've heard reports of car thefts, though heaven knows how the thieves get through the security barrier. These things happen in waves, you know. Estrella de Mar was as quiet as this when I first arrived.'

'Car thefts and burglaries?' For some reason I felt a stir of interest. The air around me had become crisper. 'What do we do, David? Start a neighbourhood watch scheme? Recruit some volunteer patrols?'

Hennessy turned his mild but steely eyes on to me, unsure whether I was being ironic. 'Do we need to go that far? Still, you may have a point.'

'Think about it, David. It might help to rouse people from this dreadful torpor.'

'Do we want them roused? They could become a nuisance, develop all sorts of odd enthusiasms. I'll mention it to Elizabeth.' He pointed to the stretch limousine moving through the gates of the sports club, its burnished carapace outshining the sun. 'How sleek she looks today, positively purring. I dare say she's bought up the last of the leases. Curious how a few robberies can be a boost to business. People get nervous, you know, and start shifting their cash around…'

So crime was coming to the Residencia Costasol. After its brief years of peace, the unending slumbers of the sun-coast were about to be disturbed. I counted the silent balconies overlooking the plaza, waiting for the first signs of morning life. It was ten o'clock, but scarcely a resident had stirred, though the first glimmers of a breakfast-television programme had begun to play across the ceilings. The Costasol complex was about to wake itself from the deep sea-bed of sleep and break the surface of a new and more bracing world. I felt surprisingly elated. If Bobby Crawford was the young district officer, then David Hennessy and Elizabeth Shand were the agents of the trading company who dogged his heels, ready to rouse the docile natives with their guns and trinkets, beads and brummagem.

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