Mary Dear - Redux Page 12

  A happy Tina and Elliott filed out of the Albert Hall to find a taxi to take them to L’Incontro. They arrived at the restaurant and were greeted by Gianfranco who fussed over Elliott while never once taking his eyes off Tina. How Italian, thought Elliott, but then again, how understandable.

  When they were seated downstairs and had placed their order the conversation turned to the usual small talk accompanied by flirtatious glances from both parties.

  Tina had known Elliott around three years. She had met him when her brother Toby had brought him to a dinner party at their London house in the Boltons. Toby had met Elliott at a party given by a mutual friend in Chelsea and they had instantly hit it off. When Toby introduced Tina to Elliott she had been attracted. He was a bit of a rough diamond, not the usual type she mixed with; but after chatting with him for a while, she discovered that he was well educated and they had many shared interests. A sort of friendship blossomed that never went beyond that. Tina thought he was too close to her own age and she was famous for her habit of falling for older men.

  She sat across the table from Elliot in her short-sleeved designer dress with her beautifully tanned arms folded in front of her. She now brought them up, put her elbows on the table and formed a steeple with her hands displaying beautifully manicured red French nails without a single piece of jewellery on her long, delicate fingers and just a diamond line-bracelet on her left wrist that matched the Tiffany pear drop around her neck. She was keen to hear all about her roguish friend’s recent adventures and asked Elliott to tell her all about his trip to wherever it was he’d been. Elliott, who had never been able to resist a beautiful woman, had to fight hard to keep his mind clear and on the matter at hand.

  ‘Have you ever heard of Cocos Island?’ He leaned forward and held her eyes.

  ‘I cannot say I have,’ her eyes widened in mock anticipation.

  ‘Well, it’s near Costa Rica.’ He could see this might not be easy but he wasn’t giving up.

  ‘Sounds awfully exotic,’ which meant far away from her usual haunts of the South of France or Portofino for the summer and skiing at Klosters in winter.

  ‘It is,’ he said and before the arrival of the antipasti, proceeded to give Tina an edited version of what he was up to, leaving all mention of the Gold Train out of it. Ostensibly, he was on an expedition in search of the Lima Booty and the missing Virgin. He then told her that he was going to Costa Rica and came right out and asked her if she would like to accompany him.

  Tina was taken slightly aback but recovered and asked. ‘As what, precisely darling?’ amused at the unexpectedness of the offer.

  ‘As my research assistant and travelling companion, of course.’

  Tina looked at him with half closed eyes while he just stared confidently back.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘A month or two at the most.’

  Tina thought about it for a moment, ‘Why not? I’m due a vacation and it will be such fun.’ With that the matter was settled. Elliott hadn’t expected it to be so easy but he was not complaining. He returned to The Sloane Club after dropping Tina off at her flat, promising to call and to give her plenty of warning of the forthcoming trip.

  Back in his room at The Sloane Club he went over his game plan in his mind. There were two good reasons that he needed Tina. One was to provide a perfect cover of innocence. After all, what’s more natural than two young people enjoying a romantic sojourn in such an idyllic location as Cocos Island, he thought as he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. Tina’s undoubted beauty would also be a useful asset when he needed men to take their eye of the ball, so to speak. Latin men, after all, are just as easily seduced by the sight of a beautiful woman as their European counterparts.

  The second reason was more pragmatic and had to do with the prospect of finding immense riches. Tina was the only woman Elliott knew who was guaranteed not to want any treasure he might find, however great. Hell, the Devalois fortune is simply too great. Put another way, whatever he managed to find would be chicken feed when you put it up against the 2.5 billion that her family fortune had been estimated at in ‘The Times’s’ Rich List.

  Chapter Eight

  Costa Rica, 2007

  Joe walked into the lobby of his hotel and headed for the lift. The concierge saw him and ran after him arriving as the doors were opening.

  ‘Señor Martin, a message for you,’ he said handing him a note, ‘it’s urgent.’

  He thanked the concierge who walked away heading to his desk. Unfolding the note Joe realized his heart was racing. The message was from McBride. It just said please call me and gave a number. He went up to his room to call the number that turned out to be the Ambassador’s private residence.

  ‘May I speak with His Excellency please?’ he said as soon as the phone was answered.

  ‘He’s not in sir,’ replied an English voice, ‘may I know who’s speaking?’

  ‘My name’s Martin, I received a message asking me to contact him and saying it was urgent.’

  ‘Mr Martin, the Ambassador said you might call. He has news for you and asked if you could meet him for lunch tomorrow at his club. Said you would know where it is and that he’ll meet you there at noon.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ He was hoping the news was not bad.

  ‘Just that; lunch at his club at noon. I’m sorry but he didn’t mention anything else.’

  Joe thanked him and hung up. Damn, he’d have to wait till tomorrow. A bit strange but couldn’t be bad news. He wouldn’t leave an urgent message and then go off without saying any more. More likely good news and the Ambassador wanted to give it to him in person. That had to be it.

  Next morning Joe tried contacting the Embassy but McBride was out; at least his secretary confirmed his lunch appointment at the Club Union. Joe decided that he’d just have to wait it out. Not long to go anyway so he went off in search of breakfast.

  At five to twelve Joe entered the Club Union to find McBride waiting, a smile on his face.

  He greeted Joe warmly saying that, unfortunately, he did not have much time but that what he had to tell him was sure to please him. As time was short, he suggested they go straight in to lunch. He would not be drawn and Joe decided to humour him. It was obviously good news and a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

  McBride and Joe entered the grand dining room of the Club Union to be greeted by the maître d’ who showed the Ambassador and his guest to his usual table by the window. The place was quite crowded; a healthy buzz coming from the other tables reminded Joe he was in a Latin country and not a stuffy Gentleman’s club in London.

  They sat down and when they were alone McBride turned to Joe. He looked happy, clearly he was enjoying himself; he’d solved the puzzle and was flushed with success.

  ‘I have some excellent news for you,’ he said, positively beaming.

  ‘I rather gathered,’ Joe smiled too, relieved that at last he was going to hear the news he’d been promised.

  At that moment the waiter appeared with the menus, the Ambassador asked to be given a few minutes, the waiter retreated and McBride turned to Joe, ‘I do hope you are hungry, they have a very good chef here; the food’s awfully good,’ he mused, with a mischievous look in his eyes.

  ‘I am rather,’ Joe said holding the menu and wondering how much longer the Ambassador intended to keep him waiting to hear the news. He need not have worried.

  ‘I have spoken to Capitan Juarez,’ said McBride, ‘and he tells me that his people in Puntarenas have managed to locate someone who knows your nephew.’

  Joe received the news with a delighted look on his face. ‘That’s wonderful! Who is he? Did your contact find out more?’ He was looking at the Ambassador with evident interest.

  ‘Yes, it seems that he is the owner of a local scuba diving club called Ticomar.’ Again he paused, enjoying the effect that his news was having on his guest. ‘Capitan Juarez informs me that your nephew turned up for some scuba diving trip
s that the school organizes and got involved with an American film crew who are making a documentary about the hammerhead shark. How about that?’

  Joe was mighty glad to hear it.

  ‘Is Tim still at the school?’ He asked rather hopefully.

  The Ambassador hated to disappoint him. ‘Well, no, not actually. He talked the Americans into letting him tag-along, unpaid, for a chance to see the filming and be around in case they needed extra help with the diving scenes. Seems he got on rather well with the director, chap called Hewitt, who even joked there might be a small part in the documentary and a chance to make some pocket money so he went off with them to Cocos Island and that was all they knew.’

  Joe felt a sudden impulse to forget lunch and head off in search of Tim but knew that would be rude instead he asked, ‘I would like to visit the school personally. Is it far?’

  He was thinking that very soon he could put an end to the search and start enjoying the holiday he’d promised himself.

  ‘No it’s not too far, really. Puntarenas is a favourite weekend seaside resort for the Costa Ricans. I’ll be happy to give you directions.’

  It had turned out to be a most productive lunch and Joe couldn’t wait to get going, so when it was over,—and after coffee—he excused himself, thanked the Ambassador once more for his help and hospitality and promised to phone him to tell him how he got on.

  He left the Club Union at two and crossed the road to the large central post office where he sent an email to Mary just to keep her up to speed on what was happening, telling her that he would be in touch as soon as he had some more news, which, he added, he hoped would be quite soon. He headed back to the hotel and straight up to his friendly concierge.

  ‘Buenos días señor how may I help you?’ The concierge offered his most welcoming smile.

  ‘I need to get to Puntarenas,’ he said, leaning forward on the counter an air of urgency on his face.

  The concierge, not knowing Joe’s reason for visiting Costa Rica, suggested he might like to join the ‘Tico Train’ tour from San José’s Estación del Pacífico to Puntarenas Central. Joe’s air of urgency was wasted on him.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. Could I go by car, would that not be quicker?’ He tried stating the obvious hoping to get a better response.

  ‘Yes of course sir, Avis, in Paseo Colon is the nearest car rental.’

  ‘Could you get them for me? I’m going up to my room. Please give me ten minutes and put the call through,’ he headed in the direction of the lift.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang, ‘Señor Martin I have your call on the line I am putting you through.’

  ‘Avis, buenos días,’ a woman answered.

  ‘Good afternoon, I need to hire a car straight away. Can you help?’

  The Avis representative switched to an American English. ‘I think so sir, please let me check.’. After consulting her computer she replied, ‘I have a Toyota Landcruiser that’s ready if that’s okay?’ to which Joe replied that it would be perfect. ‘At what time will you need it sir?’

  ‘In an hour, say around three thirty.’ He gave her his Visa details after establishing that he could extend the rental return date if necessary.

  The visitor’s guide in his room said Puntarenas is a small fishing village on the western coast of Costa Rica. According to the GPS, it was 98km and about one and a half hours from San José; he’d soon have a chance to check it out himself. He arrived at the offices of Avis, and after sorting out the paperwork, collected the keys and the documents and was taken to the metallic grey Toyota that had been brought round and was parked outside their building. He got in, and with the rep’s help, programmed the GPS and waited a few minutes for it to acquire the satellites and calculate the route. A few moments later a woman’s voice with an American accent spoke to him and gave him his first instructions. Joe glanced at the screen and was reassured to see it brightly lit and displaying his position and the route he was to follow in red. The road was as rough as he’d expected but serviceable and he drove the 107 kilometres to Puntarenas arriving at around six in the evening.

  He was cruising along the seafront and stopped when he spotted some young men sitting outside a local bar with their diving gear by their side. He asked them if they knew of a school called Ticomar? They said sure, adding that they’d just come from there. They indicated the road to follow and gave him the name of the owner, a man called Victor Figuera.

  Joe got back in the car and headed off to find the school. It was in a small cove and little more than a shack. A sign nailed to a coconut tree displayed the company logo of a hammerhead shark and diver swimming alongside; the school’s name, ‘Ticomar’, was at the top of the sign and, underneath, ‘Escuela de scuba, Puntarenas’, with the inevitable website address and telephone number. Joe parked the car and didn’t have to go far to find the owner.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A tanned youth was putting away some scuba gear in a small shed.

  ‘I’m looking for Victor Figuera,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve found him. You a diver?’ Figuera straightened up, he was hoping he might have another customer on his hands and thinking the extra cash would come in handy.

  Victor was around twenty-five, looked fit with a muscular agile body which was tanned a deep mahogany; the colour that comes from the outdoor life lived in the tropics.

  ‘I’ve done some in the past; name’s Joe Martin, my nephew Tim...I heard he’d been with you,’ he searched Figuera’s face for recognition of the name.

  Victor didn’t have to think as the local police had been round asking questions the day before.

  ‘Yeah, Tim, sure, nice guy...good diver too, but you’ve missed him by about three weeks or so.’

  ‘Right, I need to find him. Bit of family business back in England couldn’t wait till he got back home. Know where I can find him?’ he hoped the answer would confirm what the Ambassador had told him.

  ‘Sure thing, he’s gone to Cocos Island with a film crew, left on board their own boat, the Sea Tigress, a very nice 115 foot dive cruiser with all the comforts of home. You know the gringos, nothing but the best.’ He grinned at his private joke.

  ‘How can I get to the Island?’ Joe asked, not knowing how far away it might be.

  ‘Well, this time of year not many boats go over there,’ Victor said ‘but things are a bit slow around here just now,’ he looked around the empty school, ‘I could take you there if you like...?’ he let the offer hang in the air.

  ‘How much?’ Joe asked hoping that it would not be too expensive.

  ‘Six hundred dollars,’ he said, ‘and I’ll bring both of you back if that’s what you want.’

  Victor looked at Joe while he considered the offer; then thought he’d help make his mind up.

  ‘Normal tours run at around three thousand dollars for six days, but you just want to go there, collect your nephew and come back, right? That’s why I’m giving you my bargain price. What you say?’

  He could afford the price and in any case he didn’t have time to scour the coast for a better deal.

  ‘When can we leave?’

  ‘Well it’s getting late now, we can make an early start tomorrow, say six, and we should be in Cocos Island the day after tomorrow at around midday.’

  Joe agreed and gave Victor three hundred dollars cash, the balance on their return. ‘Know anywhere around here I can spend the night?’

  Victor pocketed the cash and gave him the name and address of a reasonable hotel in the town. Victor watched him drive off in search of his lodgings. The following morning Joe arrived just before six and, after locking the Toyota, went in search of Victor lugging his old Mulberry suitcase.

  Joe found Victor talking to two men, one who he introduced as his partner, Emilio Santos; the other was a client who had turned up after he’d left. He wanted to hire him to go diving in Cocos Island. As he was going there already he agreed to take him on and hoped Joe didn’t mind.

 
Victor introduced the new passenger, a large man with a hard face. He had two tattoos. The word Noko on the fingers of his right hand and one of a colourful snake coiled around his forearm.

  ‘William Briggs,’ he said, shaking Joe’s hand, ‘people call me Billy,’ the big man was carrying a load of scuba equipment slung over his shoulder.

  There was nothing much Joe could say and one more passenger wasn’t going to make any difference anyway. He saw that Victor seemed a bit embarrassed and was avoiding looking at him.

  ‘Emilio will be joining us to take turns at the helm,’ he said, picking up Joe’s suitcase and walking towards his boat, the Pacific Dawn.

  ‘Nice boat’ Joe said, casting an appreciative glance at it and trying to make Victor feel better.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said with undisguised pride, ‘she’s a beauty all right.’ He was leading the way to the end of the jetty, where the boat was moored with Joe and Billy following and Emilio trailing behind.

  Victor bored Emilio with details of the hull’s redesign, an improvement supposed to meet the needs of the sport boat market. He’d gone on about its raised gunnels, better safety and comfort. In short he’d convinced himself and his partner that the Radon Signature 26 was the ideal all-purpose boat for the school. Finally they’d taken the plunge, paid a hefty deposit and got a marine mortgage from Dreamboats Inc, in Miami. They were in hawk up to their eyes but, ever the optimist, Victor thought that with one or two good seasons or maybe a bit more, they’d clear the debt and after that it was profit all the way, after expenses of course.