Cocaine Nights

Irritated by the delay, I was tempted to drive around the van. Behind me a handsome Spanish woman sat at the wheel of an open-topped Mercedes, remaking her lipstick over a strong mouth designed for any activity other than eating. Intrigued by her lazy sexual confidence, I smiled as she fingered her mascara and lightly brushed the undersides of her eyelashes like an indolent lover. Who was she – a nightclub cashier, a property tycoon’s mistress, or a local prostitute returning to La Linea with a fresh stock of condoms and sex aids?

She noticed me watching her in my rear-view mirror and snapped down her sun vizor, waking both of us from this dream of herself. She swung the steering wheel and pulled out to pass me, baring her strong teeth as she slipped below a no-entry sign.

I started my engine and was about to follow her, but the soldier fumbling among the plastic dolls turned to bellow at me.

‘Acceso prohibido …!’

He leaned against my windshield, a greasy hand smearing the glass, and saluted the young woman, who was turning into the police car park beside the checkpoint. He glared down at me, nodding to himself and clearly convinced that he had caught a lecherous tourist in the act of visually molesting the wife of his commanding officer. He moodily flicked through the pages of my passport, unimpressed by the gallery of customs stamps and visas from the remotest corners of the globe. Each frontier crossing was a unique transaction that defused the magic of any other.

I waited for him to order me from the car and carry out an aggressive body-search, before settling down to dismande the entire Renault until it lay beside the road like a manufacturer’s display kit. But he had lost interest in me, his spare eye noticing a coach filled with migrant Moroccan workers who had taken the ferry from Tangier. Abandoning his search of the van and its cargo of dolls, he advanced upon the stoical Arabs with all the menace and dignity of Rodrigo Diaz out-staring the MOOR at the Battle of Valencia.

I followed the van as it sped towards La Linea, rear doors swinging and the dolls dancing together with their feet in the air. Even the briefest confrontation with police at a border crossing had the same disorienting effect on me. I imagined Frank in the interrogation cells in Marbella at that very moment, faced with the same accusing eyes and the same assumption of guilt. I was a virtually innocent traveller, carrying no contraband other than a daydream of smuggling my brother across the Spanish frontier, yet I felt as uneasy as a prisoner breaking his parole, and I knew how Frank would have responded to the trumped-up charges that had led to his arrest at the Club Nautico in Estrella de Mar. I was certain of his innocence and guessed that he had been framed on the orders of some corrupt police chief who had tried to extort a bribe.

I left the eastern outskirts of La Linea and set off along the coast road towards Sotogrande, impatient to see Frank and reassure him that all would be well. The call from David Hennessy, the retired Lloyd’s underwriter who was now the treasurer of the Club Nautico, had reached me in my Barbican flat the previous evening. Hennessy had been disturbingly vague, as if rambling to himself after too much sun and sangria, the last person to inspire confidence.

‘It does look rather bad … Frank told me not to worry you, but I felt I had to call.’

‘Thank God you did. Is he actually under arrest? Have you told the British Consul in Marbella?’

‘Malaga, yes. The Consul’s closely involved. It’s an important case, I’m surprised you didn’t read about it.’

‘I’ve been abroad. I haven’t seen an English paper for weeks. In Lhasa there’s not much demand for news about the Costa del Sol.’

‘I dare say. The Fleet Street reporters were all over the club. We had to close the bar, you know.’

‘Never mind the bar!’ I tried to get a grip on the conversation. ‘Is Frank all right? Where are they holding him?’

‘He’s fine. On the whole he’s taking it well. He’s very quiet, though that’s understandable. He has a lot to think over.’

‘But what are the charges? Mr Hennessy …?’

‘Charges?’ There was a pause as ice-cubes rattled. ‘There seem to be a number. The Spanish prosecutor is drawing up the articles of accusation. We’ll have to wait for them to be translated. I’m afraid the police aren’t being very helpful.’

‘Do you expect them to be? It sounds like a frame-up.’

‘It’s not as simple as that … one has to see it in context. I think you should come down here as soon as you can.’

Hennessy had been professionally vague, presumably to protect the Club Nautico, one of the more exclusive sports complexes on the Costa del Sol, which no doubt depended for its security on regular cash disbursements to the local constabulary. I could well imagine Frank, in his quizzical way, forgetting to slip the padded manila envelope into the right hands, curious to see what might result, or omitting to offer his best suite to a visiting commandant of police.

Parking fines, building-code infringements, an illegally-sited swimming pool, perhaps the innocent purchase from a dodgy dealer of a stolen Range Rover – any of these could have led to his arrest. I sped along the open road towards Sotogrande, as a sluggish sea lapped at the chocolate sand of the deserted beaches. The coastal strip was a nondescript plain of market gardens, tractor depots and villa projects. I passed a half-completed Aquapark, its excavated lakes like lunar craters, and a disused nightclub on an artificial hill, the domed roof resembling a small observatory.

The mountains had withdrawn from the sea, keeping their distance a mile inland. Near Sotogrande the golf courses began to multiply like the symptoms of a hypertrophied grassland cancer. White-walled Andalucian pueblos presided over the greens and fairways, fortified villages guarding their pastures, but in fact these miniature townships were purpose-built villa complexes financed by Swiss and German property speculators, the winter homes not of local shepherds but of Düsseldorf ad-men and Zürich television executives.

Along most of the Mediterranean’s resort coasts the mountains came down to the sea, as at the Côte d’Azur or the Ligurian Riviera near Genoa, and the tourist towns nestled in sheltered bays. But the Costa del Sol lacked even the rudiments of scenic or architectural charm. Sotogrande, I discovered, was a town without either centre or suburbs, and seemed to be little more than a dispersal ground for golf courses and swimming pools. Three miles to its east I passed an elegant apartment building standing on a scrubby bend of the coastal road, the mock-Roman columns and white porticos apparently imported from Las Vegas after a hotel clearance sale, reversing the export to Florida and California in the 1920s of dismantled Spanish monasteries and Sardinian abbeys.

The Estepona road skirted a private airstrip beside an imposing villa with gilded finials like a castellated fairy battlement. Their shadows curved around a white onion-bulb roof, an invasion of a new Arab architecture that owed nothing to the Maghreb across the Strait of Gibraltar. The brassy glimmer belonged to the desert kingdoms of the Persian Gulf, reflected through the garish mirrors of Hollywood design studios, and I thought of the oil company atrium in Dubai that I had walked through a month earlier, pursuing my courtship of an attractive French geologist I was profiling for L’Express.

‘The architecture of brothels?’ she commented when I told her of my longstanding plans for a book during our rooftop lunch. ‘It’s a good idea. Rather close to your heart, I should think.’ She pointed to the retina-stunning panorama around us. ‘It’s all here for you, Charles. Filling-stations disguised as cathedrals …’

Could Frank, with his scruples and finicky honesty, have chosen to break the law on the Costa del Sol, a zone as depthless as a property developer’s brochure? I approached the outskirts of Marbella, past King Saud’s larger-than-life replica of the White House and the Aladdin’s cave apartments of Puerto Banus. Unreality thrived on every side, a magnet to the unwary. But Frank was too fastidious, too amused by his own weaknesses, to commit himself to any serious misdemeanour. I remembered his compulsive stealing after we returned to England, slipping corkscrews and cans of anchovies into his pockets as we trailed after our aunt through the Brighton supermarkets. Our grieving father, taking up his professorial chair at Sussex University, was too distracted to think of Frank, and the petty thefts forced me to adopt him as my little son, the sole person concerned enough to care for this numbed nine-year-old, even if only to scold him.

Luckily, Frank soon outgrew this childhood tic. At school he became a wristy and effective tennis player, and sidestepped the academic career his father wanted for him, taking a course in hotel management. After three years as assistant manager of a renovated art deco hotel in South Miami Beach he returned to Europe to run the Club Nautico at Estrella de Mar, a peninsular resort twenty miles to the east of Marbella. Whenever we met in London I liked to tease him about his exile to this curious world of Arab princes, retired gangsters and Eurotrash.

‘Frank, of all the places to pick you choose the Costa del Sol!’ I would exclaim. ‘Estrella de Mar? I can’t even imagine it …’

Amiably, Frank always replied: ‘Exactly, Charles. It doesn’t really exist. That’s why I like the coast. I’ve been looking for it all my life. Estrella de Mar isn’t anywhere.’

But now nowhere had at last caught up with him.

When I reached the Los Monteros Hotel, a ten-minute drive down the coast from Marbella, there was a message waiting for me. Señor Danvila, Frank’s lawyer, had called from the magistrates’ court with news of ‘unexpected developments’, and asked me to join him as soon as possible. The over-polite manners of the hotel manager and the averted eyes of the concierge and porters suggested that whatever these developments might be, they were fully expected. Even the players returning from the tennis courts and the couples in towelling robes on their way to the swimming pools paused to let me pass, as if sensing that I had come to share my brother’s fate.

When I returned to the lobby after a shower and change of clothes the concierge had already called a taxi.

‘Mr Prentice, it will be simpler than taking your own car. Parking is difficult in Marbella. You have enough problems to consider.’

‘You’ve heard about the case?’ I asked. ‘Did you speak to my brother’s lawyer?’

‘Of course not, sir. There were some accounts in the local press … a few television reports.’

He seemed anxious to steer me to the waiting taxi. I scanned the headlines in the display of newspapers beside the desk.

‘What exactly happened? No one seems to know.’

‘It’s not certain, Mr Prentice.’ The concierge straightened his magazines, trying to hide from me any edition that might reveal the full story of Frank’s involvement. ‘It’s best that you take your taxi. All will be clear to you in Marbella …’

Señor Danvila was waiting for me in the entrance hall of the magistrates’ court. A tall, slightly stooped man in his late fifties, he carried two briefcases which he shuffled from hand to hand, and resembled a distracted schoolmaster who had lost control of his class. He greeted me with evident relief, holding on to my arm as if to reassure himself that I too was now part of the confused world into which Frank had drawn him. I liked his concerned manner, but his real attention seemed elsewhere, and already I wondered why David Hennessy had hired him.

‘Mr Prentice, I’m most grateful that you came. Unfortunately, events are now more … ambiguous. If I can explain –’

‘Where is Frank? I’d like to see him. I want you to arrange bail – I can provide whatever guarantees the court requires. Señor Danvila …?’

With an effort the lawyer uncoupled his eyes from some feature of my face that seemed to distract him, an echo perhaps of one of Frank’s more cryptic expressions. Seeing a group of Spanish photographers on the steps of the court, he beckoned me towards an alcove. ‘Your brother is here, until they return him to Zarzuella jail in Malaga this evening. The police investigation is proceeding. I am afraid that in the circumstances bail is out of the question.’

‘What circumstances? I want to see Frank now. Surely the Spanish magistrates release people on bail?’

‘Not in a case such as this.’ Señor Danvila hummed to himself, switching his briefcases in an unending attempt to decide which was the heavier. ‘You will see your brother in an hour, perhaps less. I have spoken to Inspector Cabrera. Afterwards he will want to question you about certain details possibly known to you, but there is nothing to fear.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Now, what will they charge Frank with?’

‘He has already been charged.’ Señor Danvila was staring fixedly at me. ‘It’s a tragic affair, Mr Prentice, the very worst.’

‘But charged with what? Currency violations, tax problems …?’

‘More serious than that. There were fatalities.’

Señor Danvila’s face had come into sudden focus, his eyes swimming forwards through the thick pools of his lenses. I noticed that he had shaved carelessly that morning, too preoccupied to trim his straggling moustache.

‘Fatalities?’ It occurred to me that a cruel accident had taken place on the notorious coastal road, and perhaps had involved Frank in the deaths of Spanish children. ‘Was there a traffic accident? How many people were killed?’

‘Five.’ Señor Danvila’s lips moved as he counted the number, a total that exceeded all the possibilities of a humane mathematics. ‘It was not a traffic accident.’

‘Then what? How did they die?’

‘They were murdered, Mr Prentice.’ The lawyer spoke matter-of-factly, detaching himself from the significance of his own words. ‘Five people were deliberately killed. Your brother has been charged with their deaths.’

‘I can’t believe it …’ I turned to stare at the photographers arguing with each other on the steps of the courthouse. Despite Señor Danvila’s solemn expression, I felt a sudden rush of relief. I realized that a preposterous error had been made, an investigative and judicial bungle that involved this nervous lawyer, the heavy-footed local police and the incompetent magistrates of the Costa del Sol, their reflexes confused by years of coping with drunken British tourists. ‘Señor Danvila, you say Frank murdered five people. How, for heaven’s sake?’

‘He set fire to their house. Two weeks ago – it was clearly an act of premeditation. The magistrates and police have no doubt.’

‘Well, they should have.’ I laughed to myself, confident now that this absurd error would soon be rectified. ‘Where did these murders take place?’

‘At Estrella de Mar. In the villa of the Hollinger family.’

‘And who were the victims?’

‘Mr Hollinger, his wife, and their niece. As well, a young maid and the male secretary.’

‘It’s madness.’ I held Danvila’s briefcases before he could weigh them again. ‘Why would Frank want to murder them? Let me see him. He’ll deny it.’

‘No, Mr Prentice.’ Señor Danvila stepped back from me, the verdict already clear in his mind. ‘Your brother has not denied the accusations. In fact, he has pleaded guilty to five charges of murder. I repeat, Mr Prentice – guilty.’

2 The Fire at the Hollinger House

‘CHARLES? DANVILA TOLD ME you’d arrived. It’s good of you. I knew you’d come.’

Frank rose from his chair as I entered the interview room. He seemed slimmer and older than I remembered, and the strong fluorescent light gave his skin a pallid sheen. He peered over my shoulder, as if expecting to see someone else, and then lowered his eyes to avoid my gaze.

‘Frank – you’re all right?’ I leaned across the table, hoping to shake his hand, but the policeman standing between us raised his arm with the stiff motion of a turnstile bar. ‘Danvila’s explained the whole thing to me; it’s obviously some sort of crazy mistake. I’m sorry I wasn’t in court.’

‘You’re here now. That’s all that matters.’ Frank rested his elbows on the table, trying to hide his fatigue. ‘How was the flight?’

‘Late – airlines run on their own time, two hours behind everyone else’s. I rented a car in Gibraltar. Frank, you look

‘I’m fine.’ With an effort he composed himself, and managed a brief but troubled smile. ‘So, what did you think of Gib?’

‘I was only there for a few minutes. Odd little place – not as strange as this coast.’

‘You should have come here years ago. You’ll find a lot to write about.’

‘I already have. Frank –’

‘It’s interesting, Charles …’ Frank sat forward, talking too quickly to listen to himself, keen to sidetrack our conversation. ‘You’ve got to spend more time here. It’s Europe’s future. Everywhere will be like this soon.’

‘I hope not. Listen, I’ve talked to Danvila. He’s trying to get the court hearing annulled. I didn’t grasp all the legal ins and outs, but there’s a chance of a new hearing when you change your plea. You’ll claim some sort of mitigating factor. You were distraught with grief, and didn’t catch what the translator was saying. At the least it puts down a marker.’

‘Danvila, yes …’ Frank played with his cigarette packet. ‘Sweet man, I think I’ve rather shocked him. And you, too, I dare say.’

The friendly but knowing smile had reappeared, and he leaned back with his hands behind his head, confident now that he could cope with my visit. Already we were assuming our familiar roles first set out in childhood. He was the imaginative and wayward spirit, and I was the stolid older brother who had yet to get the joke. In Frank’s eyes I had always been the source of a certain fond amusement.

He was dressed in a grey suit and white shirt open at the neck. Seeing that I had noticed his bare throat, he covered his chin with a hand.

‘They took my tie away from me – I’m only allowed to wear it in court. A bit noose-like, when you think about it – could put ideas into the judge’s mind. They fear I might try to kill myself.’

‘But, Frank, isn’t that what you’re doing? Why on earth did you plead guilty?’

‘Charles …’ He gestured a little wearily. ‘I had to, there wasn’t anything else I could say.’

‘That’s absurd. You had nothing to do with those deaths.’

‘But I did. Charles, I did.’

‘You started the fire? Tell me, no one can hear this – you actually set the Hollinger house ablaze?’

‘Yes … in effect.’ He took a cigarette from the packet and waited as the policeman stepped forward to light it. The flame flared under the worn hood of the brass lighter, and Frank stared at the burning vapour before drawing on the cigarette. In the brief glow his face seemed calm and resigned.

‘Frank, look at me.’ I waved the smoke aside, a swirling wraith released from his lungs. ‘I want to hear you say it – you, yourself, personally set fire to the Hollinger house?’

‘I’ve said so.’

‘Using a bomb filled with ether and petrol?’

‘Yes. Don’t ever try it. The mixture’s surprisingly flammable.’

‘I don’t believe it. Why, for God’s sake? Frank …!’

He blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling, and then spoke in a quiet and almost flat voice. ‘You’d have to live for a while at Estrella de Mar even to begin to understand. Take it from me, if I explained what happened it would mean nothing to you. It’s a different world, Charles. This isn’t Bangkok or some atoll in the Maldives.’

‘Try me. Are you covering up for someone?’

‘Why should I?’

‘And you knew the Hollingers?’

‘I knew them well.’

‘Danvila says he was some sort of film tycoon in the 1960s.’

‘In a small way. Property dealing and office development in the City. His wife was one of the last of the Rank Charm School starlets. They retired here about twenty years ago.’

‘They were regulars at the Club Nautico?’

‘They weren’t regulars, strictly speaking. They dropped in now and then.’

‘And you were there on the evening of the fire? You were in the house?’

‘Yes! You’re starting to sound like Cabrera. The last thing an interrogator wants is the truth.’ Frank crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, briefly burning his fingers. ‘Look, I’m sorry they died. It was a tragic business.’

His closing words were spoken without emphasis, in the tone he had used one day as a ten-year-old when he had come in from the garden and told me that his pet turtle had died. I knew that he was now telling the truth.

‘They’re taking you back to Malaga tonight,’ I said. ‘I’ll visit you there as soon as I can.’

‘It’s always good to see you, Charles.’ He managed to clasp my hand before the policeman stepped forward. ‘You looked after me when Mother died and in a way you’re still looking after me. How long are you staying?’

‘A week. I should be in Helsinki for some TV documentary. But I’ll be back.’

‘Always roaming the world. All that endless travelling, all those departure lounges. Do you ever actually arrive anywhere?’

‘It’s hard to tell – sometimes I think I’ve made jet-lag into a new philosophy. It’s the nearest we can get to penitence.’

‘And what about your book on the great brothels of the world? Have you started it yet?’

‘I’m still doing the research.’

‘I remember you talking about that at school. You used to say your only interests in life were opium and brothels. Pure Graham Greene, but there was always something heroic there. Do you smoke a few pipes?’

‘Now and then.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell Father. How is the old chap?’

‘We’ve moved him to a smaller nursing home. He doesn’t recognize me now. When you get out of here you must see him. I think he’d remember you.’

‘I never liked him, you know.’

‘He’s a child, Frank. He’s forgotten everything. All he does is dribble and doze.’

Frank leaned back, smiling at the ceiling as his memories played across the grey distemper. ‘We used to steal – do you remember? Strange that – it all started in Riyadh when Mother fell ill. I was snatching anything I could lay my hands on. You joined in to make me feel better.’

‘Frank, it was a phase. Everyone understood.’

‘Except Father. He couldn’t cope when Mother lost control. He started that weird affair with his middle-aged secretary.’

‘The poor man was desperate.’

‘He blamed you for my stealing. He’d find my pockets full of candy I’d pinched from the Riyadh Hilton and then accuse you.’

‘I was older. He thought I could have stopped you. He knew I envied you.’

‘Mother was drinking herself to death and no one was doing anything about it. Stealing was the only way I could make sense of how guilty I felt. Then she started those long walks in the middle of the night and you’d go with her. Where exactly? I always wondered.’

‘Nowhere. We just walked around the tennis court. Rather like my life now.’

‘Probably gave you a taste for it. That’s why you’re nervous of putting down roots. You know, Estrella de Mar is as close to Saudi as you can get. Maybe that’s why I came here

He stared bleakly at the table, for the moment depressed by all these memories. Ignoring the policeman, I reached across the table and held his shoulders, trying to calm the trembling collarbones. He met my eyes, glad to see me, his smile stripped of irony.

‘Frank …?’

‘It’s all right.’ He sat up, brightening himself. ‘How is Esther, by the way? I should have asked.’

‘She’s fine. We split up three months ago.’

‘I’m sorry. I always liked her. Rather high-minded in an unusual way. She once asked me a lot of strange questions about pornography. Nothing to do with you.’

‘She took up gliding last summer, spent her weekends soaring over the South Downs. A sign, I guess, that she wanted to leave me. Now she and her women friends fly to competitions in Australia and New Mexico. I think of her up there, alone with all that silence.’