As Easy as Murder (30 page)

‘At this moment,’ he told me, when it was over and we were lunching in the boardroom, ‘I sell pretty much one hundred per cent of my annual production as soon as it is confirmed. Most goes to our major wholesaler in Emporda, but I hold some back for direct sales to the public and to supply local specialists like your friend Ben Simmers. Often, though, I sell whole vintages years
ahead of their maturity date, to hotel groups across Spain. However, I believe that our quality is such that we can double our sales and our profits by tapping into new foreign markets, through Mr Grayson’s connection with the business.’

‘That’ll mean doubling your production, won’t it? Is there spare capacity in this site?’

‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but I have plans. They will involve more investment, and the purchase or leasing of more land so that we can increase our capability. I have mentioned this to Mr Grayson, and he has told me to put it before you.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Not now,’ he replied, ‘not today. I would like to put formal proposals to you and to Mr Bravo.’ He was another guy I had still to meet; he was at sub-board level in the bank that represented Miles in Spain. ‘What I would like to do, Mrs Blackstone, is to have meetings with you every fortnight, either here, or I will come to you in St Martí.’

‘Here will be fine,’ I declared, ‘unless I can’t make it across for any reason; if my son were to need me, for example.’

‘Very good. In that case I will make my presentation to you and to Mr Bravo in two weeks’ time.’

I thought over what he had told me on the drive back to St Martí. Blazquez had, it seemed to me, something of the entrepreneur in him, but he didn’t strike me as being a gambler. His insistence on having the finance guy sit in on our meeting struck me as prudent. He had plenty to gain by increasing profit, but as much to lose by under-performing. Bravo’s role would be that of a risk assessor, as well as a banker.

I was still pumped up by the meeting when I put the car away and climbed up and into the house. It was three thirty and the place was empty; that didn’t surprise me, since Jonny had warned me that he and Uche were likely to spend all day at Pals, on the range and in the small gym that the club’s owners had just installed.

I fed and watered Charlie, priority number one, then took a bottle of water from the fridge and strolled out on to the front terrace, my mind still full of product ranges, output volumes, margins and so on. I wasn’t thinking of anything else as I glanced down into the square, and so it took me a while to realise that someone, a lean, grey-haired man, was waving at me from a table in front of Esculapi.

I did a triple take. On first glance I thought,
vaguely familiar
, on second,
no, it can’t be
, and on the third time of asking myself,
Jesus Christ, it is!

‘Mark,’ I shouted. ‘Wait there!’ I left the water bottle on the table, ran downstairs and out through the front gate. Charlie decided that he was coming too and I didn’t have time to argue, so the pair of us crossed the square to where he was sitting.

He smiled and glanced at the bouncing Labrador as I took a seat. ‘Faithful hound, huh?’

I looked for the elbow crutches that he’d used the last time we’d been together, but I saw only a stick. Knowing him, I reckoned it probably had a sword in it ‘That’s him, but what the . . . Mark, what are you doing here? How did you get here?’

‘Eurostar to Paris, then TGV to Perpignan, and finally by hire car down here. My consultant in London isn’t keen on me flying.
The remission is stable for now, but we don’t know enough about the new drug regime to be certain of its reaction to air travel.’

‘There are worse ways to travel than French trains,’ I said. ‘But what about my first question? Why are you here?’

His MS has affected his facial expressions; the muscles seem to work more slowly than those of a well person. He became sombre, in stages, as if he was taking off one mask and putting on another.

‘It’s necessary,’ he replied. ‘I was asked to come. Those people you asked me to find, the soldier surgeon and her sister, the daughters of your mate’s missing boyfriend. I traced them, no problem, but when I did I rang alarm bells like you would not believe. You are into something, Primavera, that nobody wanted stirred up. Now it has been, I’ve been engaged, retained, to get all the bees back into the hive.’

‘What do you mean, retained? And why you?’

‘By whom? Her Majesty’s Government, and others, including Interpol. Why me? Because it’s what I do. I call myself a security consultant, as you know. That has a multitude of meanings and connotations, but among them . . . I’m a freelance. My background is military intelligence and the security service. I haven’t been in the field for years, since way before the MS thing developed, but in this case, I’ve been asked to come out here, first to put you right about a few things, then to go on from there, as far as I need to. All of them revolve around your friend’s absconded partner.’

‘Patterson Cowling?’

He looked around, checking that there was nobody else in earshot: early summer Tuesdays are quiet in St Martí, so there wasn’t. ‘That’s the guy,’ he murmured.

‘The retired spook.’

‘That’s your assumption,’ he said, ‘but you’re wrong; about this man at any rate. Patterson Cowling was a specialist in pro-Palestinian groups in the Middle East. He was MI6, but he was an analyst, never had a foreign posting, and worked anonymously at Vauxhall Cross, the HQ building in London. He did indeed have two daughters, Major Fleur Cowling and Ivy Cowling, now Mrs Victor Benson. I called my Ministry of Defence contact yesterday and asked where Fleur was based. Reasonably enough she wanted to know why I wanted to find her so I told her that something had come up involving her father. An hour later, no more, I had a home visit from two guys, a detective chief superintendent and a DI. We had a bit of ritual dancing, but they’d been briefed on my status, and on your earlier approach to your mate Dale, so all they wanted to do was tie the two of us together. Once they understood the background, they were able to open up to me.’

My mouth felt dry, possibly because it was hanging open slightly. I mouthed the words, ‘
Agua con gas
’ . . . fizzy water, in English . . . to the tall waiter standing in the doorway. He understood and nodded.

‘Open up about what?’ I demanded. ‘If Patterson isn’t, or wasn’t, a spook, then what the hell is he and why is everyone so excited about him?’

‘For a start,’ he began, pausing as Antonio placed a bottle and a glass on our table, then beneath it a bowl of water for Charlie, ‘he isn’t even Patterson. The real Mr Cowling died from viral meningitis over a year ago. The man you met went, until recently, by the name of Robert Palmer.’

‘Then I have to let Alex know that,’ I declared.

‘Who’s Alex?’

‘He’s a friend of mine. He’s a cop and he’s looking for Patterson, Robert, or whoever the hell he is today.’

‘You can’t tell him,’ Mark said firmly. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’

‘But I must; he’s involved in a double murder investigation, and he is the guy in the firing line if it isn’t cleared up.’

‘Then maybe I can help him, but not directly. This has to stay with us, Primavera, for the moment.’

I took a drink. ‘Tell me why,’ I said quietly.

‘The two guys who came to see me; they’re attached to the Central Witness Bureau. It’s a unit that supports and co-ordinates the work of witness protection units up and down the country. Robert Palmer is one of their clients.’

It took me some time to absorb that new twist in the tale. When I’d analysed the information in my head, I asked, ‘What’s his story? Can you even tell me, since you want to keep it from the Spanish police?’

‘I can tell you, but, at this stage, you alone. I’ve been hired by the Bureau to come out here, investigate and do what’s necessary to maintain Palmer’s cover, but I’ve been given very limited discretion to recruit local help as I need it. That’s you, Primavera. You did sign the Official Secrets Act when you took that consulate job, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fine; it binds you for life.’ The advice was unnecessary. I’d already been reminded of that fact, fairly recently. ‘In the beginning,’ he continued, ‘Robert Palmer was a business executive.
He was sales and distribution manager for a large pharmaceutical firm, until he was well into his forties. Then he had an idea; he turned entrepreneur. He started his own drug company, UK registered, but with its factory in Bulgaria, thanks to very generous start-up grants in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet bloc, and he developed markets all around the world. At first his products weren’t very sexy: aspirin, ibuprofen, antacid tablets and liquids, free market stuff, all nice earners enough to get him established and known. However, after a couple of years he moved on to what had been his real intention; he stepped across certain lines. He began to copy other products, the kind that were covered by international patents, and sold them out of Bulgaria, through a second company he’d set up there, into areas of the world where regulation and copyright enforcement is lax or non-existent.’ He paused. ‘With me so far?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, he’s a crook.’

‘Mmm. Not really, not at that stage. But . . . this new activity brought him to the attention of someone he hadn’t anticipated; someone who very definitely was a crook. He was made an offer which he decided he couldn’t refuse. He expanded his facility in Bulgaria and began producing recreational drugs, some legal in certain markets, but others outlawed everywhere, of which ecstasy was the most common. Once he was set on that road, he couldn’t get off.’

‘But he was a willing partner?’

‘He had a few million reasons to be willing,’ Mark said. ‘The new activity was also successful. The products were high quality. Palmer was never involved in distribution; his associate handled
that side of it and his network must have been good, because nothing illegal or even dubious was ever traced back to Bulgaria.’

He smiled. ‘Now we get to the really interesting part. About three years ago, his new partner encouraged, or coerced, if you believe him, to move on from there. He told him that he’d found a remarkable young chemist who had developed a new way of synthesising human growth hormone that made its use absolutely undetectable by anti-doping agencies, and therefore, you can imagine, of enormous commercial value. Palmer started production immediately. The stuff was a huge success; he couldn’t make enough of it.’

‘Where did it go?’

‘Interpol guessed that it was sold globally, but even now, they don’t know for sure.’

‘But is the stuff illegal?’ A reasonable question, I reckoned. ‘It might be outlawed in sports, but is it against the law?’

‘Its manufacture isn’t; there are recognised HGH brand names. However Palmer’s product isn’t licensed anywhere in the world, and if it was its sale would be controlled, for sure. Off-prescription sale of HGH gets you five years in federal prison and a quarter-million dollar fine in the US. Carry it undeclared internationally in your luggage, and you’ll wind up in the slammer in many countries. Whatever, the stuff that Palmer’s factory produced was a black market drug, and because of its unique property, it would never have been licensed.’

‘But he got away with it for a while?’

‘Yes,’ Mark conceded, ‘because he was based in Bulgaria, and because it was all under the radar. He was only detected, and the
product was only discovered, because one of his Bulgarian managers swiped some of the HGH, took it across the border and sold it to the coach of a Greek football team, who, as luck had it, was under police surveillance as a suspected doper. Honest to God, the stuff was so good and so effective, that nobody even knew it existed until then.’ He paused. ‘The smuggler thief talked his head off, and the thing became an Interpol investigation, Greece and Bulgaria both being members. The trail led straight to Robert Palmer. He was arrested in Hove, where he lived . . . alone, by the way: he didn’t have a wife, let alone two daughters.’

‘What about the genius chemist?’

Mark smiled. ‘Ah, he got out from under. The Bulgarian factory was raided, and the production of the stuff was shut down, but he was long gone. There had been a tip, a leak from the Interpol office in Sofia. The only people they found were production staff who thought they were making multivitamin pills and phials, not ecstasy and HGH. In fact the chemist was never there. The production process was set up on the basis of written instructions to the local staff. Nobody ever saw him; they still don’t know who he is.’

‘And Palmer?’

‘When he saw that he was in deep trouble, he started to bargain. He claimed not to know anything about the distribution network, but he was able to tell Interpol that the business had gone transatlantic by that time and that the growth product was being sold in volume into the USA, across several sports, from college level up. You can imagine how excited that made the American Drug Enforcement Agency.’

I nodded; having lived there for a while, I surely could.

‘They weighed into the investigation, heavily. However, Palmer was able to persuade them that he was just the producer . . . he wasn’t doing anything against Bulgarian law, but small details like that don’t deter the DEA . . . and that the big prize was his partner, whose interests, he said, stretched into Central and South America, and included major money laundering for drug cartels, plus other stuff. Palmer said that this man had a network of distributors and informants across the western world. He said that he himself hadn’t been worried about being nailed in Bulgaria because several government officials, police officers, and a key Interpol agent had been on the guy’s payroll. This was borne out, of course, by the leak before the raid.’