‘Ian Templeton, you mean?’
Mackenzie shrugged. ‘Anyone. It’s hypothetical.’
‘The tower,’ Reilly said.
‘Where’s that?’
‘It looks like a lighthouse, but it’s not. At the entrance to the breakwater. A blue and white building. That’s where you’ll find the port authority.’
‘And they can tell me who owns what berth?’
‘They can, but they won’t. That’s privileged information. Unless you have some kind of official authorization. But, as you say, not a uniform in sight. And no warrant either, I’d guess.’ He smiled smugly.
‘Thank you for your help,’ Mackenzie said.
*
The sea was almost painfully blue as Mackenzie walked squinting into the sun towards the far end of the marina. A constant stream of white-sailed yachts came and went. They littered the water beyond the breakwater like scraps of paper blowing in the breeze. A speedboat cut noisy arcs out in the bay, washing white circles in sparkling azure. Pantaláns, or quays, branched off at right angles, yachts and motor boats and dinghies berthed along either side, bobbing almost imperceptibly on the gentlest of swells, the air filled with the sound of steel cables chapping on metal masts.
Access to the pantaláns was barred by locked gates, surveillance cameras mounted on each. Berths were expensive, security was high.
Mackenzie saw a young girl in a bikini taking buckets and mops and cartons of cleaning materials from the boot of a car parked opposite Pantalán 4. She was lithe and muscular with deeply bronzed skin and hair bleached blond by the sun. She smiled at Mackenzie as he passed. He nodded. ‘Hola,’ he said. He imagined that if he spent his days cleaning boats in full sunshine, he too would end up the colour of teak. And maybe the sun would find some blond in even his dark hair.
He noticed that the deeper into the marina he walked, the larger the boats. Only smaller ones were berthed close to the port itself.
The port authority sat right at the end of the access road, where the breakwater offered protection to the inner harbour. A collection of blue-and-white-painted buildings from which the tower itself rose above the breakwater, designed by some fanciful architect to look like an old lighthouse. Mackenzie climbed steps to an office at the foot of the tower. A middle-aged woman looked up from her desk, peering at him from behind a computer monitor. A large TV screen mounted on the wall behind her segued through a carousel of images from security cameras around the port.
‘Buenas dias, señor. Can I help you?’
Susan had always told him that when he faked a smile it was like the grimace of a chimp behind bars in a zoo. He trusted he was doing a better job of it today. ‘I hope you can,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine, Ian Templeton, told me that the berth next to his was for sale. Or rent. He wasn’t sure which. I wondered if you could clarify that for me, and tell me how much it would cost.’ His jaw ached from his chimpanzee smile.
She gave him a curious look. ‘What’s the number of his berth?’
‘I have no idea.’
She sighed. ‘Templeton, you said?’
‘Yes. Ian.’
She tapped her keyboard and manoeuvred her mouse around the desk, peering myopically at the screen in front of her. ‘Yes, here we are. Pantalán 4, berth 405. Which side of it did he say was for sale?’
‘He didn’t’
She glared at him. ‘He didn’t tell you very much, did he?’
He tried to factor apology into his smile. ‘Sorry.’
She frowned at her screen. ‘Well, neither of them are for sale or rent. Are you sure it wasn’t one opposite?’
He shrugged unconvincingly, certain that she could see right through him. ‘Eh . . . maybe.’
She shook her head again. ‘There’s nothing available on Pantalán 4 at all. I can give you something on 3.’
‘Oh.’ He hadn’t been expecting that. ‘No, no . . . it’s alright.’
‘Well what kind of boat do you have?’
He hesitated. ‘A . . . A big one.’ Which was what this excruciatingly lie was turning into.
She frowned. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really. Just, you know . . . big.’ His smile, he was sure, would have turned milk sour by now. ‘But it’s okay. I’ll talk to him again. Thank you very much for your help.’ And he hurried out before she could ask him anything else, force-feeding the lie to grow from big, like his fictitious boat, to unbelievable.
As if in punishment for lying, the sun seemed to strike him a blow as he stepped again into its relentless heat. He breathed a long sigh of relief. Deception was not his forte. Still, he had established one thing. Cleland kept a boat here, registered to Templeton, at berth number 405 on Pantalán 4.
A motor launch had pulled in to Pantalán 5 to refuel from the Repsol pumps, and he glanced down the quays that stretched away towards the port, gates all locked. No way to take a look at Cleland’s boat without going through official channels. He began to walk back along the access road towards the port and took out his phone, resigned to reporting his discovery to the Jefe. He stopped at Pantalán 4 and saw that the nearside berth was number 401. Counting along, he saw Cleland’s boat berthed at 405. It was a sleek white motor yacht with a long nose like a shark, an impressive superstructure rising towards the stern of the vessel. The sweep of its smoked-glass windows wrapped around the front of the cabin and either side, hiding its interior from the casual observer. Clip and zip canvas covers sealed off the rear entrance. He saw a maker’s name printed high up beneath an external cockpit. Princess 52.
He looked at his phone and saw that he had a 4G signal, so initiated a Google search for the make and model. A second-hand boat for sale came up on his screen almost instantly. This was an expensive beast, 15.95
