Jaguar there, Monsieur le Chef-Patron was ecstatic, and insisted on my putting it round the back, away from the road. I felt welcome.
The evening blowout started with trout in a buttery sauce, followed by steak and whitebait, with olives. An unusual combination to me, but it went down well. This was followed by a portion of cooked celery and then a salad. There was no menu; as I cleared one platter the next appeared. We finished off with a cherry flan that would have impressed my mother.
I wiped my chin on the big napkin. Madame was insistent with the cheese board but I could only manage a couple of mousetrap-sized portions. As with the food, there was no choice of wine. And rightly so: they were the experts, and I submitted to their knowledge. My glass was filled with liquid that looked black until you held it to the brightest light. Then it glowed deep ruby, like St. Anne's robe in the Leonardo painting. It was one of those wines that ambushes you.
The first big mouthful left a slight prickly sensation on the tongue, and I decided that it was not really to my palate. By the end of the glass I was reconsidering this hurried appraisal, and by the third glass I was thinking that tomorrow was another day and could look after itself.
Monsieur asked me if I had enjoyed my meal. At least, I think that's what he said. I gave it Yorkshire's highest accolade: 'Not bad,' I told him, grinning like a euphonium, as he refilled my glass.
Next morning I felt as if I was coming round from unsuccesful brain surgery. Two aspirin for this hangover seemed as effectual as throwing ping-pong balls at a runaway train. Maybe the mountain air would do the trick.
'Never again,' I swore, not for the first time.
Normally, I like mountains. Human beings are supposed to have some primordial instinct that draws them, eternally, back to the sea. Not me, I go for the high ground. Today, though, the Pyrenees were just a barrier to my progress. The big engine ignored the gradients, but the mile after mile of hairpin bends took its toll on the driver.
Perspiration was running down my arms when we were in the sunlight, then we would swing round a bend that seemed to go on for ever and plunge into shadow. The temperature would drop until the next hairpin brought us bursting out into the brightness again. I felt sick. A road signposted 'Andorra' passed by on the right. It would have been an interesting diversion, but I'd save that for the next time. I'd made myself a promise that one day I would return to Foix, but then it would be my destination and not just a stopover. The first view down into Spain was not what I expected. The entire countryside below was covered by cloud, like a vast goose-down quilt stretching into infinity. Here and there pinnacles of vapour towered upwards from the undulating mass, as if trying to break free from it, and caught the morning sun.
I pulled off the road and got out. It was one of those sights that makes you wish that everyone you had ever loved was there to share it with you. I had mixed feelings, though soon I would drop down into it and it would slow my progress. I settled back into the driving seat and looked at the mileage on the speedo. I was eleven hundred miles from home, but it felt like ten thousand.
It wasn't too bad. By concentrating hard, and with some fairly heavy braking now and then, I managed to keep up a good speed. After a while I caught a lorry. He was cracking on, and overtaking him would have been suicidal, so I just locked on to his taillights and settled down to follow him. It was a lot more relaxing.
I took stock of what I was doing there. It was difficult to come up with a good answer. Suddenly, looking for Cakebread's boat seemed a feeble reason for tear-arsing across Europe. There was the information in the note that Gloria had given me, but it didn't amount to much.
We'd tried brainstorming possible meanings for PH and PM with the troops, but our combined grey matter had hardly raised a summer breeze.
I wished one of them was with me now. Tony Willis would be upped to inspector before too long, and I'd lose him from my team. He was young and ambitious, but he'd worked hard and deserved to move on. I'd let him run the show often enough, and known it was in good hands. The only thing that might hold him back was a sense of humour that he had difficulty containing.
Sparky was different. He was about as old as me but was still ranked as a constable. In spite of this he was one of the best officers I had ever known. He knew the theory, whether it be an obscure point of law or a piece of practical psychology, and he knew what on-the-street policing was all about. More than once he'd put his hand on my shoulder and told me: 'Let it go, boss, there's a better way of doing this.' And there usually was.
Only one thing scared Sparky, and it couldn't be hidden from: whenever he sat in an examination room he developed paralysis of the mind. He was okay talking to the top brass, and performed well in court, but stick an exam paper in front of him and he froze. We'd worked on it with him, and I'd spoken to various people about him, but in the last few years we'd accepted that DC David Sparkington was as high as he'd ever be. Police-wise, it didn't matter much we could use him to the best of his considerable abilities without any problem. It was just unfortunate that he lost out on the pay. There was no reason for Sparky to contain his sense of humour, though, so we all benefited from that.
Then there was Gloria. Yep, I wouldn't have minded having Gloria with me, either. Distance changed my perspective on the brief meeting we'd had. I'd laughed at her enthusiasm for Cakebread's shabby world, and derided her eagerness to fall for his advances. The truth was that she was a young girl making the best of what she had. She'd found herself a job that she loved a rare thing at the best of times and I'd probably lost it for her. One day I'd like to make it up to her, but could I trust my motives? Probably not, I gladly admitted.
Most of all, I wished Annabelle was with me. I'd only met her twice, but readily confessed that I was smitten. It had taken her to make me realise that I'd drifted into an existence of compromise and second best. But not any more from now on I was Going for Gold. She'd affected me on a more mundane level, too. I'd started polishing my shoes and wearing better shirts, just in case I bumped into her again.
I'd even bought some decent aftershave; it must be love.
The cold, clammy mist suddenly began to glow yellow, as if each individual molecule was its own light source. Then, a few moments later, we burst out of it into the sun-drenched landscape of northern Spain. The sky was brilliant blue and the land all the shades of ochre. The lorry in front pulled over on to the shoulder of the road to let me through, and I gunned the Jag past him, waving a gracias. We were on our way again, and my hangover had nearly gone.
Outside Barcelona the road south became the Autopista Seven, for which I was thankful, but we were still about seven hundred miles from Marbella. I wanted to make it today, so there was no time for sightseeing. Do they have speed limits in Spain? No idea. I practised my Gallic shrug, in case I was pulled over. With a little effort I could bring my shoulders above my ears.
It was a long, hard day, but we did it. I grabbed packets and cans of whatever was available at the filling stations and dined on the move.
The sun traversed the sky and the last couple of hours were driven in the dark. The Jag's headlights fell into the bimbo category sexy to look at, but staggeringly dim. Just through Torremolinos a road sign read 'Marbella 45km'. Say thirty miles. That was near enough for me — I was at the end of my endurance. I pulled off the main road and found my way down towards the se afront where the tourist hotels were.
It was nearly midnight and I was well and truly japanned.
The first one I entered was called the Cala d'Or. It had a lounge with a piano and a small dance floor. The clientele still around were all over twenty-one, but it looked as if most customers had already gone to bed. I leaned on the bar and had ordered a lager before I remembered my early-morning vow. The pianist was tinkling 'I Get Along Without You Very Well…' It felt in harmony with my mood, so I decided that this would do.
When I'd finished my drink and was feeling slightly less ragged round the edges, I made my way to the front desk. The receptionist was talking to somebody, but while I was waiting a girl came by wearing the characteristic blouse and skirt of one of the major British tour companies. I intercepted her.
'Excuse me, are you with Wilsons?' I asked. She was a big girl. I bet she was pushing at the leading edge of the company's unwritten rule about the preferred size of their representatives. Expanding the envelope, I believe it's called. The badge on her blouse said Stephanie Jones. I notice things like that: I'm a cop. The suntanned face split into a wide smile that didn't look too rehearsed.
'Yes, Stephanie Jones. What can I do for you?'
It was midnight, she'd been dealing with lost passports and punters with dicky pacemakers all day, and she was still smiling and touting for business. This lady had stamina.
