Chapter 39
The same sun that currently shines on Vern’s face shines also on a Málaga rooftop.
Mike and Sue – ‘not our real names, no offence, my loves’ – are only too happy to help. They remember Connor Brooks very well.
‘Baldy, we called him,’ says Sue. ‘You shouldn’t, I know, but he was ever so bald, wasn’t he, Phil?’
‘Mike,’ Mike reminds her.
‘Wasn’t he, Mike?’ says Sue without missing a beat. She is rolling a joint with a dexterity that seems to impress even Rosie.
‘Like someone shaved an egg,’ says Mike.
They are on the roof terrace of Mike and Sue’s townhouse, a five-minute walk from the Bridge and Whist Club. There is sangria on the table and Fleetwood Mac on the stereo. The Mediterranean Sea sparkles in the distance. Steve still doesn’t love being abroad, but he can sort of see the appeal.
‘They say he killed himself?’ says Rosie.
Mike and Sue laugh.
‘Course he did,’ says Mike. ‘Course the bugger did.’
‘Unless someone’s killed him since,’ says Sue, ‘he’s as alive as you and me.’
‘He left his passport though,’ says Amy. ‘He never touched his bank accounts again?’
‘He had plenty of passports, old Baldy,’ says Sue. ‘And plenty of money.’
‘Sold vitamins,’ says Mike. ‘Lots of money in vitamins.’
It’s what they suspected, but nice to hear it with such certainty.
‘What was your line of work?’ Rosie asks the happy couple.
‘Shipping,’ says Mike. ‘Mainly to Morocco and back.’
‘And you, Sue?’ asks Steve.
‘Arson,’ says Sue.
‘Nice that you were in different fields,’ says Rosie.
Mike nods. ‘Always something to talk about. Why the interest in Baldy Brooks? Old news, no?’
‘We’re looking for a man called Jakob Eriksson,’ says Steve. ‘He’s in the same line of work as Connor Brooks.’
‘Uh huh,’ says Mike.
‘And he appeared when Brooks disappeared,’ says Amy.
‘We gotcha,’ says Sue.
‘And he’s as bald as a shaved egg,’ says Rosie.
Mike and Sue laugh again. What a joyful team they make, these two.
On their roof under the Málaga sun, that pitcher of sangria a rich, ruby red on the table.
Steve feels that familiar prick of jealousy at their happiness.
That they’d made it through together, the drug runner and the arsonist. Holding hands, listening to Fleetwood Mac, talking to strangers about the good old days and their bad old ways. What Steve wouldn’t give.
But they knew Connor Brooks, and they were happy to talk.
Sue lights her spliff. ‘So you’re saying Baldy Brooks and Eriksson are the same man?’
‘Is that possible?’ Steve asks. ‘Would you reckon?’
‘I’d say so,’ says Mike. ‘If he’s supposed to have drowned himself, the body would’ve washed up, I guarantee you that. I once had to ditch eighty kilos of something over the side of my boat, doesn’t matter what or why, but the whole lot was ashore by noon the next day.’
‘Washed up by an old nunnery about fifteen miles up the coast,’ says Sue. ‘Private property. Mike couldn’t get to it. Police couldn’t get to it.’
‘Never saw it again,’ says Mike. ‘But next time I saw the Mother Superior she was driving a Lexus.’
‘I offered to burn the place down,’ says Sue. ‘But the Spanish are a very religious people.’
‘I said to her,’ says Mike, ‘Trudy, we don’t burn down nunneries.’
‘Sue,’ says Sue.
‘I said to her, Sue, we don’t burn down nunneries,’ says Mike.
‘So Brooks just disappeared,’ says Rosie, taking the offered spliff from Sue. ‘New passport, new identity, different country?’
‘That’s what we all reckoned,’ says Sue. ‘Best thing to do if you think they’re coming after you. Clean start. Eventually they give up looking unless you’ve killed someone.’
‘But he’d have needed help?’ says Amy.
Steve has been thinking this too.
‘Course,’ says Sue. ‘Got to get out of the country, got to have all your business accounts set up, find a new place.’
‘Bit of plastic surgery?’ says Rosie.
‘Wouldn’t do any harm,’ says Mike. ‘Bust your nose and fix your teeth.’
‘Though Baldy’d just need a wig,’ laughs Sue.
Steve thinks that’s actually not a bad point.
If Connor Brooks was becoming a new person, hiding all traces of his old identity, why is he still bald?
There will be an explanation for that somewhere.
Change enough about yourself to fool the authorities, but keep enough the same that your rivals know you’re still in business?
‘Do you know who would have helped him?’ asks Amy. ‘Back in 2001?’
Mike shrugs. ‘When you’ve got a lot of money, you’ve got a lot of friends, eh?’
‘Anyone in particular though?’ asks Steve. ‘Anyone who might still be around?’
Unlikely. But worth asking. You never knew when a useful connection might crop up.
‘In Málaga, no,’ says Sue. ‘Cashpoint Trev used to knock about with him, but he’s dead.’
‘Tunisian Derek went to Dubai,’ says Mike. ‘And then died.’
‘Friends from home?’ Steve asks. ‘He must have still had contacts in London?’
‘Not my world,’ says Mike. ‘Sorry, old son, we’ve been out of Britain too long.’
‘What was the name of the one who came here that time?’ says Sue.
‘Narrow it down, woman,’ says Mike.
‘Baldy was helping him sell steroids at the gyms?’ says Sue. ‘Nice fella. Lovely, velvety voice.’
‘Yeah, he’d have helped,’ says Mike. ‘Well put together he was.’
‘You don’t remember his name?’ asks Amy.
‘Now you’re asking,’ says Mike. ‘What was he? Vic?’
‘It wasn’t Vic,’ says Sue. ‘It’s not far off though. Viv?’
‘Vern!’ says Mike.
‘That’s it,’ says Sue, grabbing Mike’s cheek. ‘Still got all his marbles, this one.’
‘Vern Blackwood,’ says Mike. ‘That was the fella’s name. Now, can I get anyone a top-up?’