

-1

MOUNTAIN INTRIGUE

By

RICHARD F JONES

SMASHWORDS EDITION

To my dear wife Meg and my sister-in-law

Janet, who helped with this book.

©2013 Richard F Jones. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book maybe reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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MOUNTAIN INTRIGUE

by

RICHARD F JONES

PROLOGUE

A tidal wave of human frustration had seeped out onto the night time streets. On this occasion though the protesters were not all unemployed, or students, or the usual rag bag of political rent-a-crowd. Those who'd joined the march that evening, making for the Town Hall included doctors, lawyers, dentists, civil servants, professors and the like. All were protesting about the detrimental effects of the recession on their way of life and their Government's inability to deal with it. More than three thousand of them filled the narrow cobbled terraces. Many carried banners illustrating their particular grievance. All of them however, were solid as one in their condemnation of the current situation. Their chants of dissatisfaction echoed in the cold night air.

When they rounded the corner into the main avenue, the imposing sandstone edifice of the Town Hall came into view. Suddenly, gasps and groans of displeasure emitted from the multitude. Ahead of them, blocking the road, was a solid wall of helmeted, truncheon bearing, riot shield protected police officers. There was a communal intake of breath, a slowing of stride pattern, but vociferous, yelling exhortations through hand held megaphones drove the crowd on. The level of the chanting soon grew into a common call. As they neared, police and marchers physically braced themselves.

A stand-off ensued. Riot shields were raised. The senior police officer, through a megaphone, told the protesters that they would not be allowed to approach the Town Hall. The crowd roared back it's disapproval. The chanting increased. A deputation from the marchers moved forward into the no-mans-land between the two groups. Arm waving, pointing and noisy intercourse followed, resulting in much pushing and shoving. The police force moved forward as one. Both sides were now only steps apart. A melee ensued. Confrontation became inevitable. There were more marchers than police. The senior policeman blew loudly on a shrill whistle. In an instant the police moved forward, en masse, pushing and shoving at the marchers with their riot shields. The crowd responded and surged back at them. The police countered with a more powerful surge. People fell over, became trampled upon. Fisticuffs resulted. Truncheons battered heads, shoulders and backsides. The demonstrators hurled their placards. Somewhere from within the crowd paving slabs were lifted, broken into smaller fragments and thrown at the police. The senior policeman blew more shrill blasts on his whistle, then spoke into his mobile. Almost instantly a convoy of water cannon vessels appeared from a side street. The citizens were soaked with high pressure water. Upended bodies of professors and medics slithered uncontrollably, like drunks on an ice skating rink, across the road and over pavement edges. Tear gas was fired. The marchers retreated, but the police continued to lay into their heads with apparent random. Blood spouted copiously. The marchers fled back into the side streets.

Where was this? Libya? Egypt? Syria? South America? No, a small town in central Spain!

CHAPTER ONE

The temperature was in the high thirties. We were climbing in the mountains of the Valencia region in south east Spain. There was no breeze to cool us, or tree to shade us. My name is Robert Demaid. Us, being my girlfriend Elena and me. We'd stopped to take on some water and mop our sweat drenched bodies. From a nearby ledge the tinkling of sheep's bells was the only sound to break the silence. A flock of them were plodding in and out of the rocks near the summit. Then the figure of a lone man appeared on the adjacent ridge. I trained in on him with the binoculars. His build was thin and rangy. On his head he wore a white baseball cap, with a handkerchief, or something similar, tied on the back as a neck sunshield. Briefly he stopped when he saw us, then moved quickly on.

It took us some time, and more outpouring of perspiration, before we eventually reached where he had been. The view up there was spectacular. Lofty mountain peaks stretched away from us as far as the eye could see. I pointed the binoculars towards the spot where he'd disappeared and focused in on a cave. The mouth of it was wide. Inside it looked deep and dark. There was no sign of the man. After some conjecture we both decided that the route there was too dangerous for our amateurish scrambling techniques. Already we were exhausted, so reluctantly we made our way back down to our car.

The bar in the village square provided a haven of cool and liquid refreshment. Two beers each were required before bodily normality was reinstated. The barman was close at hand. I mentioned to him the sighting of the man up top. 'Oh him,' he responded caustically. 'Nobody knows much about him. In the summer he seems to live up there in the caves amongst the sheep and goats.'

'Is he their shepherd?' I asked.

'No,' he replied. 'He is English like you. In the winter he goes away.'

We ordered some _tapas_ then sat at a table in the corner. While we were eating the man we had seen on the mountain stumbled in. Many days growth of stubble covered his face. His clothes were dirty and unkempt as were his walking boots. He also ordered a beer from the barman but said nothing more. When it was poured he barged his way to a table in the other corner, bumping into chairs along the way. I tried an acknowledging smile but received no response. Under the peak of the baseball cap I did however spot sharp, ice cold, blue eyes.

I looked at Elena. By then we had been a couple for just over six months. Ten years younger than me she was a freelance photographer by trade and much talented. Being Spanish she possessed their accustomed dark hair and features, olive skin, and the complementary fiery temper. We hadn't actually moved in together, partly because of the temper; nights sleeping on the sofa were not my forte, but more importantly because we both needed our separate space to work in. At the time I was still trying to write novels, although I did undertake some freelance journalism to help pay the bills. For all intents and purposes though, Elena and I did cohabit.

The man in the other corner had slumped into the chair, pulled the cap further down over his eyes and proceeded to slurp on his beer. 'I'm sure I know that man,' I whispered to Elena.

'Well he doesn't seem to want to know you,' she replied quietly with the smile I'd become accustomed to. We'd met when I'd needed some photography to accompany one of my journalistic pieces. She'd been recommended by Antonio, a lawyer friend in town. After that wild horses couldn't keep me away from her.

We finished our _tapas_ , had another beer, chatted about the events of the day, but all the time I kept looking across at the other man. Eventually, when he finished his drink, he barged his way back across the room and out of the bar.

'I wish I could remember where I've seen that guy,' I said to Elena.

On our way out, as we paid our bill, I spoke again to the barman.'Do you know anything more about that man who was just in here?' I said and pointed to the corner where he had been sitting.

He shook his head. 'Only that he has a car,' he responded.'They say he sleeps in it up there when the weather is bad. But apart from that I know nothing more.' I thanked him, paid the bill and we drove back into town.

That evening Elena and I decided to go our separate ways. She had an early work appointment next morning. Her apartment was in the old part of town, just off the High Street. Mine was by the sea front, amongst the other _extranjeros_ (foreigners). Having the evening to myself left me with little to do but ponder about the man on the mountain. I knew for sure I had seen him somewhere, but where or when I couldn't recall. The result was a restless night.

* * * * *

For the best part of forty years Spain was run as a dictatorship under the iron rule of General Francisco Franco. After his death democracy returned and since then the government of the country has periodically switched between the Socialist Workers Party (the PSOE) and the Conservative People's Party (the PP).

Next morning, in my town, began the first concentrated days of electioneering for the forthcoming national general election. Over breakfast my attention was diverted by the coverage of it on the TV news. Outside my apartment cars with loud speakers began to proclaim the name of their associated candidate, whilst blasting out loud and intolerable canned music. According to the TV news it looked as though the incumbent Socialist government was about to be routed. The economy was wretched. Unemployment was rife; the housing market crippled and the Socialists were getting all the blame. Later on getting around town was difficult. Political activists kept pushing leaflets under my nose, while noisy speakers continued to trumpet the electioneering rhetoric.

All that on top of my restless night meant that my mind was too addled to concentrate on the machinations taking place in chapter thirteen of my novel. Some specialised photography work for the _Guardia Civil_ had required Elena's attention and she was bound for Valencia on that. So later in the day I journeyed again for the mountains.

Unfortunately my curiosity about the man on the mountain had got the better of me. I realised I was probably on a fool's errand, using litres of petrol I could ill afford, while my novel remained grounded on the rocks for another day. My irritation eased when the grandeur of the peaks came into view. The weather was still uncomfortably hot, but a trip up there was always worth the effort, whatever the cost. The previous days climb had left my limbs stiff and cramped, so no way was I going to attempt the peak again.

The road from the village to the mountain twists and turns upwards in a continually sharp spiral. Tight corners with alarming precipices slowed the car down to a crawl. At a height of about eight hundred metres the road ends. From there on it's just a steep, rugged, rocky mountain path to the summit. I parked the car and stiffly got out. There was no sign of my man or any other car. When I trained the binoculars on the summit it looked desolate.

Needing to stretch my legs I began to wander about. A short way off the road I could see a sheep or goat track. However, in this case, the vegetation on both sides appeared to be flattened back a little more than any animals would normally cause. I walked along it for a while, then around a curved rock face which took the path out of view from the road. There I came upon a coppice of trees. Silver birch, and mountain ash amongst others. Hidden underneath, in the shelter of their shade, was a relatively new Opel Corsa. Alongside was the ashes of a fire and leaning against the nearby rocks stood a battered, rusty barbecue and some stacked timber. No-one was about. The car was locked. I peered inside and could see a sleeping bag, some unwashed towels and clothes in similar condition. The Corsa was clearly driveable, with good tyres, although it was covered in Sahara rain dust. For half an hour or more I wandered about looking for any other clues but there were none, except the Spanish license number plate, which I made a note of. Before leaving I again trained the binoculars on the summit, to no avail, then I made the long journey home.

That evening I called in on Elena at her apartment. She welcomed me but I noticed something in her attitude towards me had altered. Over a couple of glasses of Rioja she updated me on her time in Valencia. Then without warning, an example of her fiery temperament emerged. In the corner of the room her TV was showing coverage of the election. There had been street protest riots in the region of Castille-La Mancha. Suddenly she became scathing in her comments about the ruling Socialist party. 'The whole country is in a mess. There's five million unemployed and what are these people doing about it?' she said with fires of anger in her eyes. When she looked like that she was even more beautiful.

Afterwards almost apologetically I told her about my mountain excursion. 'So you haven't done any work on your book all day?' was her instant and fierce response. I shook my head in contrition and quickly supped on the Rioja. 'Robert, you'll never finish that novel before the year is out at this rate,' she added.

My lack of perseverance in that respect was one of the issues we used to argue about. In contrast her application and dedication to her work was exemplary. As a result she earned a lot more money than I did. 'Unfortunately that man in the mountain bar has stuck in my brain all day,' I said. 'It would have been impossible to work.'

'And?' she responded, while fixing her stare on me. I described the car and the other things I'd seen. 'And that's all you've got to show for a whole day?'

Then I told her about the license plate number. 'I was wondering,' I continued, 'if you could use your contacts with the Guardia to find out the name of the owner?'

'I'm sure they have better things do,' she fired back at me. 'What excuse can I invent for asking them that?'

'I don't know but between us I'm sure we can think of something,' I said. She gave me an even more incredulous look. That night I returned to my own apartment. Worse was to follow.

Early on the Saturday morning I was making my way to the street market to purchase my weekly supply of fresh fruit and vegetables. On route I had to pass underneath the balcony of her apartment. It had been my intention to call in on the return journey. However, I was stunned, to the point of shock, to see another man up there, sitting at the small round table and smoking a cigarette. It was nine o'clock in the morning. The man would have been in his early thirties, stockily built, with a thick thatch of wavy, dark hair. For a few moments I stood and watched as he contentedly puffed smoke rings into the air. Behind him, the balcony door was open, although the curtain blind was half closed. There was no sign of Elena. I continued on for the market with a disturbed mind. The stalls were getting busy and I was glad to get my purchases over and done with before the tourists arrived. When I was back near her apartment I could see the man had gone from the table, although the balcony door and the blind remained in the same position. I decided to press on the door intercom.

I was invited up and Elena was waiting to greet me at the apartment door. Her dark hair was tied back. She was wearing a white sports shirt and blue jogging trousers. Her feet were bare. A welcoming smile spread across her face. When she looked like that it always managed to stir me. We exchanged a kiss on each cheek but it still felt that things were awkward between us.

My heart sank when I walked into the living room and saw the man who had been on the balcony sitting at the dining table, with the remains of breakfast in front of him. His hair looked as though it hadn't received a comb that morning. A day or more of stubble growth was evident on his face. He was wearing a green t-shirt and cream slacks and smoking a cigarette. His feet were also bare. The whole scene looked very domesticated.

'This is Amado,' Elena said in a bright and cheery manner, as though I should be pleased about it.

' _Buenos Dias_ ,' I said cautiously. Shaking hands was out of the question due to the parcels of fruit and vegetables I was carrying.

' _Buenos_ ,' he replied without any particular enthusiasm or attempt at a smile.

'He is my partner on my current work project,' Elena said, with a degree of excitement still evident in her voice. 'We are involved in a project relating to the election,' she said. 'We are working for the _Fe Jons_ party _._ There is some coffee if you like?' she added and gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs. The _Fe Jons_ are an extreme, right wing political party who came to the fore as staunch supporters of Franco's regime. They have never been in power. Their manifesto contained matters that could be described as inflammatory.

Elena's living room has everything in it one would need, sofa, chairs, dining facilities, TV, but it was the room of a working girl not someone house proud and fastidious with decor. Brown and greens were the predominant colours.

'No thanks,' I replied in respect of the coffee, but accepted the chair with gratitude as it enabled me to put down the parcels. Responding to her previous comments I said, 'I am surprised by your choice of party. To me their policies seem to be dead against all the socialistic views you have aired since I've known you.'

Amado glared at me starkly. For a moment Elena hesitated and looked embarrassed when she saw the look on his face.

'As I said to you the other day, this country is going to the dogs,' she retorted. 'Drastic action needs to be taken otherwise we are all going to be bankrupt. The economy is much worse now than it was, even in the poorer days of Franco's time. Half the banks are going bust. The two main parties have had their chance and they've failed. We have to try something different, and soon.' The passion in her words and gesticulations made my whole body tingle with excitement. I noticed Amado nodding his head in agreement.

'Well I'm sure you know what you're doing,' I said realising that counter-argument was pointless. 'Anyway that's not why I called.' I said, paused and took a deep breath. 'I wanted to know if I was going to see you this weekend?'

Amado looked across at her. She responded with a similar glance in his direction, then looked down at her feet. He coughed, then rose out of his chair. He was quite tall and stocky. For a few moments I felt intimidated. Then he said in Spanish to Elena that he was going out to get some cigarettes. None of us said anything more until he'd put on his shoes and left the apartment.

'Look Robert,' Elena began when he'd gone, 'I am sorry about this. I've known Amado since we were in school together. He used to be my boyfriend. Then, because of work we went our different ways. Now, by chance we have met up again on this project. It wasn't intended, but there it is.'

'So what about us? Do you want to go on seeing me?'

She paused, fiddled with the empty plates in front of her on the table. 'I think it might not be best until after the election.' She paused then added quickly. 'Robert I am sorry, but this is something I believe in and there wouldn't be much time for us to meet up anyway at the moment. If we did I would probably be tired and irritable, which would be no good.'

'Ok,' I responded and began to pick up my parcels off the floor. 'What about after the election?'

She sighed. 'Robert, I just don't know, we will have to wait and see. We always agreed that there was no commitment between us.'

'We did that,' I said and began to move out of the chair and towards the door. On my way across the living room I spotted leaflets, written in Spanish, on a side table. I knew enough of the language to understand they were election leaflets for the _Fe Jons._ 'I didn't know you were so heavily into such matters,' I said warily.

'It's a project I have been asked to work on,' she replied, without turning to look at me.

'Are you involved as a participant or is it purely in a photography capacity?' I queried.

'A bit of both, I suppose,' she responded.

'They certainly have some interesting viewpoints,' I ventured. 'And is Amado one of them?' I added.

'He's employed by them.' A defiant expression covered her face.

'Did you have any luck with the car number?' I asked.

'I did, but you must never ask me to do anything like that again.'

From the side table she picked up a scrap of paper on which was written the name David Royston Taylor and an address in Benidorm.

'Thank you,' I said gratefully.

I moved towards the door. She held it open for me and we exchanged a kiss on each cheek, then I left. I felt as though I had been kicked in the teeth, but I did know David Royston Taylor.

* * * * *

The man I knew who bore that name was a fellow writer. He'd been listed twice for the Man Booker prize and, like me, was also a Welshman. That's how we'd met. It must have been about three years back. I remembered we'd chatted while supping on some disgustingly warm Australian Chardonnay at a publisher's bash in Cardiff. He'd told me he was starting to publish his novels on e-books; a relatively new format at the time. 'I'm totally fed up of the London literary scene,' he'd said to me. We chatted some more and I'd found him to be good company. When we parted we'd agreed to try to keep in touch, but of course we didn't.

It didn't take long to find his web site on my laptop. The accompanying photograph however, was far removed from the man we'd seen the other day. In the picture, he was smartly attired in collar, tie and jacket, with fair hair, turning to grey at the temples. What stood out though were the same sharp blue eyes I'd noticed in the bar. On the photograph he looked to be in his late forties. I clicked through his titles. I seemed to remember reading one of them that had been listed for the Booker prize, although I couldn't recall the plot. There were some brief biographical notes. Born in Tredegar, in the South Wales Valleys. An English degree at Cambridge. Not much else. No mention of family or current homes. There didn't appear to have been any new novels for some time. What on earth had happened in the meantime, I conjectured.

* * * * *

During that week the campaigning for the forthcoming national election began in earnest. Around my town fly posters for the principal parties started to appear in strategic places. Throughout the day cars, blasting out the same pre-recorded jingles and canned voices, regularly toured the main streets making shopping noisy and getting about generally unpleasant. The local and national TV news continually featured footage of the leaders of the major political parties, and also included some coverage of the _Fe Jons._ Their head man, Hector Cebrian, who spouted much inflamed and passionate rhetoric, usually wore oversized, grey loose fitting suits and a blue bow tie. He was short, chubby, bald headed and middle aged.

Because of Elena's involvement I began to watch the news broadcasts with more interest. On the internet I also delved further into the party's history and that of its current protagonists. It made fascinating reading. Their doctrine was right wing in the extreme. As I delved I had continued difficulty in understanding how this philosophy fitted in with the Elena I had come to know. Throughout our time together I had always considered her to be liberal and socialist in her outlook, almost to the point of being a rebel to any standard convention. Her apparent reversal of viewpoint staggered me. During the following days there was no contact from her, nor sight of her around the town. When I passed her apartment the windows were always shut tight and the blinds closed.

The following afternoon I drove the thirty or so miles to Benidorm. The address for Taylor she had given me was clearly an apartment block. Those of you familiar with the town will know they feature predominantly in that locality. In the end I had to abandon my car and proceed on foot amongst the high rise skyscrapers. Eventually I found the twenty storey building, in what might be described as one of the less salubrious areas. The block was surrounded on all sides by _edificios_ of similar type, many with washing hanging over their balconies. I managed to get in the main door as someone else was coming out. ' _Catorce (_ fourteen _)_ ,' I was informed when I inquired about the floor number of the apartment I was looking for. Fortunately there was a graffiti covered, dilapidated lift. Pressing the doorbell on apartment 114 numerous times brought no response. Further along the cigarette-end littered passageway was another door with a bike parked outside. I could hear music coming from within. In response to my bell push, a dark haired youth, in his early twenties, with a pock marked face, opened the door and glared at me defiantly. I enquired in my pidgin Spanish if the _se_ ñ _or_ next door had been about recently. He responded with a disinterested shrug of his shoulder and shake of his head.

I was about to leave when, what I presumed was the lad's mother came to the door. 'Are you looking for _Se_ ñ _or Taylor_ ,' she asked me in Spanish.

' _Si_ ,' I responded.

'We are worried about him,' she continued in her native language. 'To us he seems to have gone a bit funny,' she said while pointing her index finger at her head and twisting it in a screwing motion. 'When he first came to live here he seemed very nice. But now he says nothing and usually comes and goes in the middle of the night and he doesn't look well.'

I tried to quiz her some more but there was little else she could add. On the drive back to my apartment I continued to speculate about the man I had met at the literary party in Cardiff.

CHAPTER TWO

The days that followed were lonely, as were the nights. Elena was away, apparently with another man. Concentration on my book was therefore difficult. In fact concentrating on anything was a struggle. Regularly the incessant racket from the electioneering cars, up and down the street outside, made me think about her; where she might be and what she might be doing. Then I'd spend minutes looking into space and wondering.

My concern for Taylor's welfare also continued to impinge on my thoughts. He was after all a fellow Welshman and as I've said a fellow author. So, despite the callings of my novel, I again set off early one morning for the mountain. I was aiming to get somewhere near the ridge before the sun got too high. The surrounding silence and the fresh mountain air when I got out of the car made me realise I had made the right decision.

I first checked the path where I'd found the car. Everything there was as it had been before. The car, the cut wood, the dilapidated barbecue. Anticipating I would spend two days up there I had packed supplies for that length of time. As soon as I strapped the knapsack onto my back I deemed it far too heavy. So the early metres up the path were gut wrenching. There was however no time to tarry. The sun was beginning to peep over the ridge. I needed to be up there before its radiant heat burnt my face.

Continually, when I took time to pause, I trained the binoculars in on the higher peaks, looking for anything, anybody, but there was no human activity. Occasionally one of the sheep would stick its head out over a boulder and bleat at me. Gradually, as I climbed the sun began to sear down on my head. Soon I'd consumed most of my first bottle of water. At that rate my supply definitely wasn't going to last two days. Eventually, after over two hours, I clambered, mostly on my hands and knees, onto the rocky summit. By then the sun was right above my head. For some time I lay out horizontally, breathing deeply. My clothes were soaked in perspiration and I needed to dab at my body with a small towel.

The plaintive screech of a wide winged buzzard echoed over my head. I watched how it used the air currents to assist its graceful, floating flight. I hope my man is up here somewhere, I thought to myself as I got up.

Honing my binoculars in on the cave I was able to look more closely at its entrance and the rocky track that led there. The track was narrow and descended some fifty or sixty metres down to the cave's entrance. On its outer side was a sheer drop of several hundred metres. On the other side, the blank face of a vertical wall of rock, rose steeply upwards. The path's surface looked to be composed of loose shale. Just before the entrance were two or three large boulders which appeared to block the way. I have to confess that I have no head for precipices. Vertigo is one of my ailments. The path therefore presented a complete nightmare for a dizzy headed man like me. Beyond the cave there appeared to be another track that led down the other side of the mountain and on to the next ridge.

I was in a quandary. Did I trust my shaky balance and continue with my search, or go home again having achieved nothing. This time Elena was not there to help or advise me. I gulped on the remains of the first water bottle, mopped my brow, adjusted the back pack to a more comfortable position, took a deep breath, then slithered off the summit.

It wasn't long before I was on the path heading for the cave. Immediately the loose shale beneath my feet eroded any confidence I may have had. Soon I was out on the exposed section. I didn't dare look left and downwards. Already I could feel the vast void below sucking me that way. I needed to keep my head down, watching every step, to ensure I didn't slip. For support I reached out with my right arm to touch the solid wall of rock. All the time I consumed deep lung filling gulps of air and counted to ten as I exhaled. I was petrified. It was a total nightmare. Regularly, when my feet made contact with the path, some of the shale disappeared off the ledge downwards. It wasn't long before I reached the point of no return. Briefly I stopped, with my hand against the wall of rock. My legs felt wobbly and I began to shake. No way could I turn around and go back. I knew if I tried my imbalance would take me off the precipice and I'd plunge to my death below. I was almost crying with fear. However, I moved on. Somehow, only God knows how, I reached the pile of boulders and felt out for their support. I still didn't dare look down and kept facing the solid rock in front of me. In height, the boulders were just above the top of my head. In normal circumstances well within my capability to scramble up, but in that situation the thought totally terrified me. After mopping my brow again, I slowly attempted to ascend. Instantly I slipped backwards to where I had been before, sending my body and brain into almost uncontrollable convulsions. My heels were less than a foot away from the edge of the precipice and my slide back down had caused a mini avalanche of shale. Sweat was running into my eyes making it difficult to see, and I had to mop my brow once more to enable me to look upwards for some footholds. With a lunge I managed to get my body in motion and scrambled up. Two more smaller boulders faced me. Beyond them I could see the haven of the cave. Behind me was nothing but empty space. I couldn't think any more. I was past caring. If I fell, I fell. I almost leapt up the two smaller boulders and dived in desperation into the mouth of the cave. In doing so I scraped my arms and legs. My cry on impact though was not of pain, but relief. No way was I going back that way. If I couldn't get out of there, they'd have to come and rescue me with the helicopter.

* * * * *

For quite some time I lay there panting and shaking while questioning why I was putting myself through such madness. Elena had been quite right. What did it matter whether I found this bloke or not? With the towel I dabbed at the cuts and abrasions on my arms and legs, then got up. I was still reluctant to look outwards and downwards. Behind me I could only marvel at the vast cavernous arching theatre of centuries old rock. Further back there were stalactites, hanging vertically, like monstrous elongated teeth. In the summer months, if you had enough food and water, I guessed you could hole up in there for many days. Stiffly I moved further in, looking for signs of habitation. Away from the frontage was the ash and timber remains of a fire. The ash was cold to the touch. Further on the cave narrowed to a tunnel. I had to stoop to enter. Soon I needed to be on my hands and knees to make progress. The space around me quickly became narrower and darker. I didn't have a torch so I was eventually forced to stop. By then the aperture around me was only about four foot in height and the same in width. Struggling back to the entrance, there was more light to see things. Tucked in a recess in the rock I found a full gallon plastic water can. My man must come here I thought. This must be his reserve supply. From it I refilled my small empty bottle.

By the time I was back at the entrance I had somewhat recovered my composure. The view outwards was awe inspiring. Endless mountain peaks stretched away from me as far as the eye could see. I decided to rest and eat a quantity of the food I had brought with me. Peering downwards, with some trepidation, I could see a small path leading away from the cave in the opposite direction from the way I had come up. It looked slightly easier and without the precipitous edge. I decided that was going to be my way back. No matter how many mountains I had to round, no matter how long it took, no matter how many miles it was, that would be the route back to my car.

I was soon heading that way. The sun was still right over my head though and I used a cap to protect it from the glare. My legs were wobbling from tiredness. Regularly I stumbled over large protruding stones. In front of me were miles of mountain ridges leading to infinity. What the hell am I doing this for I questioned again. This damn man could be anywhere within a hundred kilometres, I conjectured. The roller coaster trek, ascending and descending was like a switchback. Soon it began to take its toll on my body. When I was in the depths of a valley, in desperation I shouted out 'Mr Taylor, are you here?' and listened to the echo of my own voice reverberate around the surrounding peaks. There was no response. Afterwards I slumped to the ground feeling ridiculous and surmised that he was probably, by then, at home in Benidorm supping on a few drinks.

By then tiredness and exhaustion had infiltrated every corner of my mind and body. It was late in the afternoon and I knew I wasn't going to make it back to my car that night so I decided to head back for the cave. Halfway up the steep, slippery path to its aperture I suddenly crumpled in a heap and screamed out with pain. Cramp had violently consumed both my legs. I continued to shout and roll from side to side, while the loose shale underneath me inflicted more pain on my back. I could hear my own cries echoing back to me around the mountainside. There was no one there to pull my legs out into a stretch and relieve the condition. I had to content myself with my own pathetic attempts. Eventually I guess I must have passed out.

CHAPTER THREE

During the later few days of that week the national election was entering it's final stages. The ruling Socialist PSOE looked to be heading for a massive defeat. All the opinion polls confirmed a big swing towards the Conservative PP party. Unknown to me, because of my mountain excursion, trouble had been brewing during those days, in Albacete, in the Castille-La Mancha region of South East Spain. The very seat that Hector Cebrian was contesting.

For two or three days on the trot, during that week, demonstration marches and riots had occurred on the streets there. The clashes between police and marchers, were, I'm told, regularly featured on the night time TV news. Top line reporters from Madrid were dispatched to cover the events. Initially, the protests involved university students complaining about the lack of adequate educational facilities and suitable employment prospects. But by the end of the week nearly all classes and categories of the population had joined the marchers. The city had become a hot bed of revolution, with bloody clashes between demonstrators and police.

It was a situation that was tailor made for Cebrian and his impassioned rhetoric. Somehow or another his party's retrograde theories had managed to capture the imagination of the deprived public, resulting in a surge of his popularity locally. Night after night his inflamed speeches led the marchers out onto the streets. Again, unknown to me at the time, Elena was also amongst it all, photographing the details and happenings.

The _Fe Jons_ party had never won a national seat since Spain had reverted to being a democracy, although they had been successful in some municipal elections and were well represented at the regional assembly. In Franco's time they were mainly an organisation that supported him and his beliefs, not really a political party. It's rumoured that many of the dirty deeds required to enforce his power and authority were enacted by the _Fe Jons._ Hence the intense national media interest in Albacete.

Two nights before the election date events culminated in the largest demonstration, involving over three thousand protesters. The television cameras were on hand to record all the spilt blood; the excessive police brutality; the water cannon and the tear gas; the battered and bruised; the damaged shops and public buildings. Elena had also recorded it all on her camera. That night the Prime Minister and the leader of the Conservative PP both went on national TV to condemn the violence and the police brutality. 'Scenes not applicable to a democratic election,' the Prime Minister had said.

The only people to benefit from it all were the _Fe Jons._ They had captured the local mood of dissatisfaction. Suddenly Cebrian was headline news, locally and nationally and he was determined to take advantage of it by whatever means required.

* * * * *

'Are you all right?' I heard a man's voice say. I could feel a hand on my shoulder. When I opened my eyes the sky above was dark and the man's face was a blur. I was still lying on the ground. Fortunately the pain in my legs had eased, the cramp contractions were gone.

'Let's try and get you up,' he said and grabbed onto my arm.

'Oh hell,' I shouted when my legs stretched vertically. He clasped more firmly onto me and I steadied.

'It's not far up to the cave,' he said.

How I made it back up there I have no idea. It would have been impossible without the man's assistance. I do remember slumping down in the cave's entrance, near the spot where I'd previously eaten my lunch. Again I must have drifted in and out of consciousness for I can remember on some occasions being awake, sitting up in the dark, and not at other times. I do recall the man pouring water from the plastic container I had discovered earlier down the back of my neck. 'You shouldn't be out all day in this heat if you're not used to it,' I heard him say. The water did revive me. I also remember him feeding me some bread. After that I must have again either drifted asleep or passed out.

According to my watch it was five thirty the following morning when I opened my eyes properly. Dawn was breaking on the horizon. I was cold and lying further back in the cave, on top of half a sleeping bag, with the other half draped over me like a blanket. How I'd got into that position I don't know. I looked around and saw the man who'd rescued me lying asleep on another bed roll, some ten yards away, by the side of the embers of a puttering fire. I still couldn't see his face properly. The baseball cap was pulled down over it, but I was convinced it was the man I'd seen in the bar. I tugged some more of the sleeping bag around me to defray the cold, then tried squeezing and contracting the muscles in my legs. They were stiff but fortunately there was no indication of the cramp. Next, I stretched my legs up and down in front of me without too much difficulty. I tried getting up. Immediately I staggered and was forced to crumple back down in an untidy heap on the sleeping bag.

'Oh you're awake,' I heard the man say from behind me. 'Are you all right?'

'I'm not sure,' I replied. He began to move towards me. 'I guess I have to thank you for saving me?' I added.

'Well there was no-one else around,' he said with a snigger. 'It's dangerous being out on these mountains if you don't know your way around, especially in the summer heat. You could have died of dehydration or exposure. Fortunately I heard you shouting some miles away.' By then I could see his face properly. The baseball cap had been pushed onto the back of his head, revealing the sharp blue eyes. There were many days of stubble on his face, but it was quite definitely the man in the bar.

'Didn't you used to be Royston Taylor?' I said. He laughed out loud. For the first time his face changed from the previously pensive peevishness, to a grin.

'As far as I'm aware I still am Royston Taylor,' he replied continuing to chuckle.

I held out my hand for a handshake, which he took. 'Well I'm Robert Demaid,' I said. 'Another writer I'm afraid. We once met at a literary do in Cardiff, a few years back. Do you remember?' While he had my hand he pulled me up onto my feet, although I needed to hang on to him to stay upright. His whole demeanour was totally different from the man I'd met in Cardiff. There was none of the suave bonhomie that had existed then. This man could be a tramp. He was much thinner and possessed hollow cheeks.

'It'll be some time before you can consider moving on from here,' he said. 'You've got to get the blood pumping through your legs again first.' He kept holding on to me while I continued to totter. 'It's harder to go down than come up,' he added. Then he looked at me straight in the eyes. 'Yes, I think I remember you now,' he continued, referring to my previous question. 'A few days ago you were in the bar in the village with an attractive young woman?' he said as a question.

'That's where I thought I recognised you,' I replied.

'Were you up here looking for me?' he asked.

' Not then, but today yes, I have to confess I was.' He shook his head in surprise.

'I thought I heard you calling out my name when I was on the far mountain,' he said and pointed in the direction. 'I'll ask you why later.'

Slowly I began to move around the cave. Taylor was brewing some tea on the relit fire and I rescued the remains of the food from my knapsack.

'We'll have to think about getting you down soon,' he said while the tea brewed.

'I'm not going that way,' I responded pointing to the path I'd come up on. 'That's what nearly killed me in the first place.'

'No, there's an easier way down, back through there,' he said and gestured behind us, to the small dark tunnel I'd previously crept down on my hands and knees.

* * * * *

It was another hour or so before we tackled the tunnel. While we ate we talked. 'Why were you looking for me then?' Taylor asked.

'I don't mean to be rude, but your appearance and your demeanour has changed radically from the man I met in Cardiff,' I said. 'I suppose my curiosity got the better of me.' Then I told him about spotting his car, which led me to the flat in Benidorm.'

'You really are curious aren't you. Well, let's just say I've fallen on hard times,' he replied cautiously.

'Ok, but why come here, living in the mountains like this?' I spread my arms out to indicate the cave. 'It's a hell of a long way from the literary world of London and Cardiff we were both used to.'

He stared at me with his sharp, cold, clear blue eyes. 'I'd had enough of the established literary world,' he said then paused. 'And I've always been a bit of a mountain man. Coming from Tredegar, the Brecon Beacons were right on my doorstep. When I was younger I spent half my life in the mountains. They do have healing qualities you know.'

'The way I feel at the moment, I can't say I agree with you there.' He sniggered in response.

When we'd finished eating he made me pace back and fore in the mouth of the cave, undertake lots of stretching and knee bends. Fortunately it gave me the time to question him more.

'When we met in Cardiff you mentioned that you were going to try publishing your work as e-books?' I said. Suddenly the expression on his face changed. Instantly it became a twisted grimace again.

'Worst thing I ever did,' he responded with a growl. 'That was the start and cause of my downfall. And the dissolution of my marriage!'

'Oh , how come?'

He hesitated before replying, then said, 'It was a new industry. Like every other new industry, at the start, it's infested with sharks and get rich quick cowboys. At my age I should have known better.'

'Why did you get involved in the first place then? You were already a successful author?'

'Bloody egotism!' His South Wales lilt accentuated his words. 'I became too bloody greedy. Didn't recognise, or respond to the changes that were taking place. Thought I was a famous writer who deserved better. Big mistake on my part.'

'Go on,' I said. We were still pacing up and down. Fortunately a degree of composure had returned to his face.

'My error was in putting all my eggs in one basket,' he continued. 'As I've said the e-book industry was in its infancy. I should have taken more time and shopped around. Got to know the major players. Instead I jumped in feet first with an outfit who'd agreed to accommodate most of my wishes.'

'Who were they?' I asked.

'Oh a scurrilous set up called Readbooks. Run by a scoundrel known as Tyler Scott-Browne. A two faced bastard if ever there was one.'

'What made you choose them?'

'Greed! They offered me the highest rate of royalties. Of course in that form of publishing, as it was then anyway, you don't actually get to meet the people involved. It was all done over the internet. In the traditional publishing world you know or eventually get to know everybody who you're dealing with and even if you didn't, somebody else did. My agent warned me, but I didn't listen.'

'Did it start off OK?'

'Oh yes. At the start everything went swimmingly. This bastard Browne fell over himself to accommodate my every whim. He organised a marvellous cover design, everything. Being a well known writer was a bit of a scoop for them. I was featured on the front page of the their web site for months. You know the sort of thing, short listed for Man Booker prize, all that sort of stuff, and with the details of all my previous novels. I couldn't have asked for more.'

'Which story did you give him to publish?' By then the sun was fully up and over the horizon, warming me up.

'My latest novel at the time, 'All in a Day''. I was out of contract with my previous publishers. As I intimated earlier we just couldn't agree on figures. And because of my ambivalent ignorance regarding e-books my agent wasn't prepared to act for me in dealing with them. So stupidly I ploughed on by myself and signed the contract. Which, of course, committed me and the worldwide rights of the book, solely to Readbooks, plus any future novels I may write.'

'And?' I said.

Relating these details was obviously painful for him. Frown lines were by now permanently etched on his brow as he talked. 'The book was published and from the outset, the sales figures looked good. I was rubbing my hands awaiting the royalty cheques.'

'But?'

'They never came. The contract stipulated that they would only pay out quarterly, so I didn't expect anything at the outset, but when four months elapsed without a sign of any money, I started to get edgy. Suddenly getting hold of my friend Browne became difficult. There was a telephone number, but nobody ever answered it. The business address was somewhere in Jersey. My e-mails produced only spasmodic response from Browne. Continually he maintained that transfers of the royalties had been made to my bank. There must be a problem in the banking system, he stated more than once, while promising to look into it. Unfortunately I never heard anymore, or received any money. Six months passed during which time, sales, according to the statistics they pumped out, were running into thousands.

'H'm, so what did you do?' I asked.

'I was forced to go, cap in hand, back to my agent. I had to listen to 'I told you so' many times, but he did contact a private detective in Jersey, who visited the listed address on the contract. That turned out to be a disused postal box in a back street apartment block. And there was no trace or record anywhere on the island, of a man called Tyler Scott-Browne.'

'Oh dear,' was all I could respond.

* * * * *

Soon afterwards we descended down the tunnel. Taylor had a torch with him which made it slightly easier when we were on our hands and knees. Then after we passed the point I'd reached, the tunnel got narrower. I had to push my knapsack in front of me to get through. Sometimes it was a struggle to keep up with him. Despite his presence I remained apprehensive. Beyond his torch beam was total darkness. Suddenly he stopped crawling. There was no room for him to turn to look at me but he wanted to speak.

'In a few minutes you're going to hear water,' he said. 'It will get louder and louder until it's almost deafening. There's a big waterfall ahead. We have go underneath it. It's usually safe at this time of the year, so just follow me. I won't be able to talk to you though because of the noise.'

Once we moved on the sound of the crashing water became brain numbing. I really was quite frightened. Then in a while Taylor waved for me to stop. We had reached a ledge. He signalled that we would have to go down over it. The noise from the water was still ear-splitting. He shone the torch outward and I could see a massive waterfall slicing through a large cavern. No way am I going through that, I thought. Taylor slid over the ledge and beckoned me to climb down to where he was standing. With his torch he pointed out step-like rocks to place my feet on as I descended. I could feel my vertigo beginning to overcome me again. He held on to my body as I neared the bottom. Then we were standing on another shelf-like ledge about three foot wide. Spray from the waterfall was soaking us. Taylor continued to hold onto me and ushered me towards the cascading water. For a few moments I thought we were going to have to walk through it. Impossible I said to myself, while shaking with fear. He was still holding onto my body however, and shuffled me along. In time, by the light of the torch, I could see that the power of the waterfall was taking it out and over the ledge, thereby missing the path we were on. Taylor kept me moving. Being underneath that huge volume of water, in the surrounding darkness, with its accompanying noise, was both terrifying and mind boggling. He eventually managed to get me through to the other side. All the while I didn't dare look back or down. Afterwards there was another narrow tunnel, which in time began to travel downwards and again we had to crawl. Eventually the noise of the water behind us gradually receded. It was another ten minutes or so of crawling before we were able to speak normally.

'In the winter, when the heavy rains come, you can't get through that waterfall,' Taylor said. I was too shaken, gobsmacked, or whatever, to do anything but nod my head in response. He led on.

The tunnel gradually heightened, enabling us to walk, while semi-crouching. Daylight at last beckoned at the end of the passageway. The cave's mouth was not too dissimilar to the one we'd left on the other side of the mountain, although smaller. We both stood in the opening looking out over the valley below. My legs were still shaking but I felt better being in more normal air and standing on relative terra firma. 'How on earth did you find your way through there?' I asked him, while glancing back inside.

'Same way as you I expect, except I had a torch and kept on going. Once you get used to it it's not too bad. It's a far quicker route than the other way up the mountain. On a good day I can do it in about forty minutes.' I looked at him with admiration.

'If I had a choice I think I'd still choose the open way,' I replied.

He pointed out the path down the mountain. The dot of my car was just visible in the far distance. It looked a much simpler route. 'I'll take my leave of you here,' Taylor said. 'You should be OK from now on.'

'Won't you come down to the village and let me buy you a drink for your help?' I asked.

'Thank you, no,' he said. 'When I heard your calls I was trying to discover a new route up there. I'd like to press on with it while the weather holds.' We looked each other straight in the eye.

'Well, I remain eternally grateful,' I said. 'You could have saved my life.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'When you're next back in your apartment could I phone you and perhaps meet up?'

'I'll see. I don't usually answer the phone.' We both chuckled.

And so that's how we left it. He did however give me his phone number, but stressed that he didn't know when he would be back in Benidorm. We shook hands and I started to make my way stiffly down the path. After I had gone a few hundred yards I stopped and looked back. From there, if you didn't know where to look, the cave was well concealed in the mountainside. There was no sign of Taylor. In half an hour I was back at my car.

* * * * *

In the evening, the TV news was full of the troubles on the streets of Albacete. There was also much coverage of Cebrian's speeches. I looked out for any sightings of Elena, but there were none. My worry about her continued. The next day, _S_ á _bado_ (Saturday), was what the Spanish call a day of reflection; the day before polling day, when no electioneering is allowed. My trip to the Saturday market was therefore relatively peaceful. When I passed under Elena's balcony her apartment still looked locked up, with all the blinds tightly closed. Over the weekend I attempted to resurrect my novel. In between I delved into the internet for the web site of Readbooks. There I found that Royston Taylor's book, 'All in a Day', was still heavily featured. Clicking through the advertised titles I also discovered a novel written by Tyler Scott-Browne. The book was centred around the world of motor racing. Reading through his brief biography notes I was able to establish that he was involved in the sport as an amateur racer. Over those couple of days I fired off e-mails to everybody I knew who had the slightest interest in motor racing.

_Domingo (_ Sunday _),_ was election day. The town was calm. The early morning streets deserted. Only the discarded fly posters fluttered aimlessly in the gutters and across the pavements. By night time the TV coverage confirmed that the Conservative PP had won by a big margin. Surprisingly, according to the pundits, the _Fe Jons_ had also won seats in Madrid and Castilla-La Mancha, their first ever in a national election. Live coverage of Cebrian's acceptance speech, in front of a large gathering outside the town hall in Albacete, was included.

* * * * *

The following day I continued to concentrate on my book, although there were also numerous e-mail replies from my connections regarding Tyler Scott-Browne. I was informed that he was born into a motor racing family. His parents and grandparents had been instrumental in the construction and the running of the Brands Hatch racing circuit in Kent, South East England. The track used to be known as the 'UK's best loved circuit.' Young Tyler soon became involved, and was an amateur racer even before he was legally allowed to drive on public roads. By all accounts he had been expelled from various public schools, before going onto Cambridge, where he managed to obtain a degree in Engineering. Afterwards he went straight back into the family racing business. At the time they owned a works racing team and Tyler immersed himself in that venture, as mechanic, technician and sometimes spare driver. His other loves, I was told, were women and horse racing. Consequently, he lost more money than he ever earned and eventually the family motor racing firm went bankrupt.

During the seventies and eighties he involved himself in local radio, fashion shops, and discos. Apparently few of them prospered, although he continued to race as an amateur driver. It appears he managed to get on the right side of the eighties property boom and made money out of numerous acquisitions. Subsequently, he lost most of it when that bubble burst in the late nineties. None of my contacts knew where he was currently living, although he was occasionally seen at horse and motor racing events in the UK.

I put in a call to Taylor at his Benidorm apartment but there was no reply. He'd also given me his mobile number. There was no response on that either, but I left a message on the voicemail. However, very early next morning I was awoken from my sleep by my phone ringing. Grumpily I fumbled for the relevant button. It was Taylor. 'Sorry, did I wake you up?' he said.

'You did, just a bit.'

'Well I apologise for that. When I got your message yesterday I was out of phone signal. But this morning there is the most marvellous sun rise. I've climbed up to a high point to view it and now I have a signal. What do you want?'

Imagining the endless views around him I was instantly jealous. I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes and quickly told him what I had discovered about Tyler-Browne.

'You don't have to do all that for me,' he responded.

'Yes I do. You're a fellow writer and countryman. And you're in a spot of bother. If you can't help a colleague who's in a spot of bother, who can you help?' Also, although I didn't say it, I needed a distraction from my own problems with Elena. For a few moments the line went quiet. I wondered if the signal had gone down.

'Well are you happy for me to continue with the investigations?' I asked.

'If you really want to, yes, please,' he replied eventually. 'I'll be back in Benidorm in a few days. I'll phone you then.' Shortly after that we ended the call.

For some time I remained in my reposed position in bed and tried to visualise the landscape he'd been speaking from. I guess it was from those moments of day dreaming that the mountains again began to infiltrate my soul. I was hooked. Eventually it became like a drug I couldn't shake off.

* * * * *

During the day more e-mails regarding Tyler Scott-Browne flashed up in my laptop inbox. One contact mentioned that Browne had quite definitely once been a resident of Jersey. Others confirmed homes in Scotland and also the Isle of Man. Readbooks publishing company was by all accounts also the subject of much controversy. A history of contentious issues and litigation had been the norm in their case, so my contacts said. More recent sightings of Browne had occurred at various UK motor racing circuits. Apparently he still competed in some events as an amateur driver. The most recent sighting though had been at that summer's Epsom Derby Day. He was spotted, kitted out in top hat and tails amongst a crowd of cronies and a bevy of glamorous women.

* * * * *

My worries about Elena increased over the next day or so. I'd made several phone calls to her home phone number and her mobile which failed to initiate a response. Having viewed all those riots and demonstrations on the TV I was concerned for her welfare. The election was over and by then she should have been back in her apartment continuing with her other work. On my shopping expeditions I looked up to her balcony but each time her apartment still appeared locked up. In the middle of the week, I rang on the doorbell of her neighbour. During my previous visits to her apartment I had made their brief acquaintance. They confirmed that they had not seen her or heard any sounds from her apartment for over a week.

Although it had been made plain to me that at that moment I was not exactly the number one man in her life, her continued absence disturbed me. In desperation I telephoned the _Guardia Civil_ in Valencia, for whom she'd recently worked. Dealing with them at any time is not easy unless you are completely fluent in Spanish. There is also a general reluctance on their part to get embroiled in foreigners affairs, unless it involves a serious crime. It therefore took several internal phone transfers to get through to anybody who was interested in what I was talking about. At least I had the small advantage of seeking the whereabouts of a Spanish national and also someone they were familiar with. Eventually a man promised to ring me back on the matter. As a result of everything, needless to say, application on my novel became even more fragmented.

The following day when I was trying to get my head down on the manuscript the telephone rang. It was the _Guardia_ from Valencia. 'You're friend has been arrested,' the voice on the other end of the line said to me in Spanish.

'Arrested!!' I shouted back in the same language. 'On what charge?' I continued breathlessly. 'Where?'

'At Albacete, in Castilla-La Mancha. As far as I have been able to ascertain, she is being held in connection with ballot rigging, along with a man named Amado Gonzales,' the policeman said.

I was stunned. 'But she works for your organisation,' I replied.

'That is only on a freelance basis, for her photography work.'

'Is she being held in custody?' I asked.

'At the moment yes, but I expect that once there has been a court hearing some bail will probably be set. Over the last week or so the judiciary have been involved in the elections so they are behind with their hearings.'

Suddenly I became frantic with worry. What baffled me most was that during all our time together I had found Elena to be the most democratic and liberal minded person I knew, almost to the point of obstinacy. Ballot rigging and extreme right wing politics were just not part of her make up. To me, clearly, this man Amado Gonzales had a lot to answer for. Searching the Spanish media on the internet I found, amongst the smaller news items, a few brief words about a ballot rigging enquiry involving the election procedures at Albacete.

That evening Royston Taylor telephoned me. Impending bad weather had driven him off the mountain. We arranged to meet up on the following day.

* * * * *

To compound matters, as Taylor had forecast, the day brought with it the arrival of the autumn rains. For most of the year Spain is mainly short of water, but when the rains do arrive, mostly during _oto_ ñ _o_ (autumn), it usually comes in torrents. Roads are flooded, dry river beds, by then clogged with summer weeds and bamboos, overflow, and all round chaos ensues. It happens every year. By the time set I set out for our agreed rendezvous, a bar/ _taberna_ half way between our two towns, the rain had eased from its torrential mode, into a more persistent downpour. Driving along the half flooded roads wasn't a pleasant experience. The Spanish don't seem to go in for road drains. In such conditions they all drive far in excess of even their normal high speeds seeming to regard the whole exercise, of sending waves of water in all directions, as great fun. I was glad therefore to get to the bar in one piece. Negotiating the pool strewn car park on foot was like competing in a hop, step and jump competition. Taylor was already inside waiting when I walked in. The foul weather had obviously kept most of the other patrons away. You could hear the rain rattling merrily on a nearby tin roof.

'Just like Wales,' he said, referring to the rain as we shook hands.

'At least we have proper drains there,' I replied. 'Outside my apartment, the water in the road's deeper than the Taff.'

'I'm having this,' he said, pointing to an opened bottle of red Rioja. 'You're welcome to share it with me or have something else. I'm in the chair anyway.' That day he looked more like the man I'd met in Cardiff. He'd shaved, obviously received a haircut and wore clean casual clothes. The sharp blue eyes though still retained their piercing quality.

I settled for sharing the Rioja. He called over the waiter who brought a glass. We exchanged moans about the weather and he told me he'd been caught up in the mountains at the start of the storm. Then he thanked me for my investigations on his behalf and went on to tell me more of his problems with Readbooks. It transpired that they had not only failed to pay his royalties, but they had also plagiarised his work.

'I didn't think that sort of thing went on any more?' I commented, astonished by his revelation.

'Nor did I, but I've discovered that anything is possible with this lot. I guess if you're going to be turned over, you might as well be done properly,' he chuckled.

'How did you find out?' I asked sipping on the Rioja.

'By chance actually. I was searching for a history book about New Zealand which at one time I had spotted on their web site. I couldn't find it, but I knew they had a New Zealand site, and an Australian one for that matter, so I decided to search there. When I got into the home page I glanced at the fiction books on offer. I like to keep in touch with anything new that's coming out,' he paused for breath. 'I couldn't believe it,' he continued. 'Reading the synopsis of one of them, I noticed that the story line was identical to 'All in a Day.' The title wasn't the same of course. And the author's name and the cover page were different, but the synopsis repeated my story. It was on the Australian site as well!'

'Good God!' I said. 'What did you do?'

'I downloaded the first twenty sample pages. You can do that for free.'

'Go on.'

'It's my story all right. Whoever had written it has changed the words and the names of the characters and switched some of the locations, that sort of thing, but it's definitely my story.'

'So what did you do?'

'I ordered it. Paid for a copy of my own story. Four days later it arrived in the post. I've got the damn thing here in my apartment in Benidorm.'

'Have you taken any action over it?' The first bottle of Rioja was by then empty. I ordered another.

'I spoke to my agent about it,' he said, 'but his overall reaction was to sigh with impatience. He told me he had no private detective connections in New Zealand. The only way to follow it up was to pay a fortune for a big international firm to look into it. Anything like that was out of the question. I was going through horrendous problems with my wife, which were costing me an arm and a leg. I sent more e-mails off to that shit Scott-Browne, but heard nothing in response. Then it all got on top of me and I suppose I had a bit of a breakdown. I had to sell my house in London to pay for the divorce and that's how I ended up here.'

For me it had been a revealing meeting. For the first time I could appreciate his desire for the space and peace of the mountains.

CHAPTER FOUR

When I returned to my apartment I switched on my laptop and tuned into the web site of Readbooks. Taylor's book 'All in a Day' was still featured on the first page. I read through the synopsis and all the accompanying details then downloaded the free sample twenty pages. The story was a fictional tale about a male and female pair of British agents pursuing Islamic terrorists. It didn't take long to read, and I quite enjoyed what there was. Afterwards I keyed into the New Zealand site Taylor had mentioned. This time I had to search around a bit for the alternative title, 'A Day to Remember', and the author John Mcabe. Again I downloaded the free sample pages. The similarity in the two stories was obvious from the outset. The names and locations had been changed. The prose was altered and the dialogue was in a different idiom, but in the twenty or so pages I read, the plot was identical. To confirm all of Taylor's revelations, I also keyed into the publisher's Australian web site and found the same book, by the same author. In my eyes Taylor therefore had a definite case for plagiarism. Reading the few lines of Mcabe's biography revealed he was a native of New Zealand, and resident in that country. Too far away for me to conduct any sort of meaningful investigation I thought. I realised the only hope of any progress was to try and track down this scut Tyler Scott-Browne.

* * * * *

Plagiarism can be difficult to prove and even more difficult to take action against. In the western world, the word is not mentioned in any current statute. Copyright laws are designed to protect our intellectual property, which includes writings, paintings, music, lyrics, poetry, etc. They make it illegal to reproduce someone else's ideas or information without permission. If you want to prove plagiarism you usually have to sue, which is often a lengthy process, involving a court case.

I decided to contact my agent and wrote him an e-mail about Tyler Scott-Browne. Some time later in the day he telephoned me back. Something that was almost unheard of when I was in Spain, because of the cost.

'How on earth have you become involved with this waster?' Ben Saunders said when I answered his telephone call.

I told him about Royston and his troubles.

'Oh bloody hell,' he sniggered. 'Well don't you have anything to do with Scott- Browne,' he continued. 'He owes money all over the place. From the little I know he's let everybody down all his life.'

I went on to describe the incident of plagiarism I'd discovered. 'That's the sort of thing he would do,' Saunders said with another guffaw. 'Didn't Taylor ask around before he got involved?'

'I think his agent tried to warn him, but I don't know much about that side of it. It seems he just went off on his own and made the arrangements with Browne by himself.'

'Silly man,' Saunders responded.

'Ben, I'm just trying to help the guy,' I said. 'He's in a mess. His wife's left him and he's lost most of his money. When I ran into him out here he was living the life of a vagrant and his health doesn't look good. He's a fellow writer,' I added. 'I have to try.' I heard Saunders sigh at the other end of the phone. 'Look Ben,' I continued, 'you know some of the people who concern themselves with plagiarism. Can you find out for me who they are and how they go about dealing with it.' There was more silence on the line before he spoke again.

'Where does this guy Browne live?' Saunders asked.

'At the moment nobody seems to know.' I heard another big sigh. 'If there's anything you can find out it will be a big help,' I said.

He agreed to do his best. 'How's the book coming along?' he said. 'You know you've only got till the end of the year!'

'It's coming along,' I replied. He promised to e-mail me with any details he could discover.

Afterwards I spent some time writing up the information I had acquired on the situation. Reading through my notes afterwards my overall impression, at that stage, was that Browne was a playboy and philanderer, who had sailed close to the wind all his life and didn't deserve anybody's sympathy.

* * * * *

As the days ticked by I continued to worry about Elena. My e-mails and telephone calls produced no response and there was still no sign of her around the town. There was one e-mail however, that did make me stop and take note. One of my pals said that he had met up with Scott-Browne at one of the UK's horse racing venues that summer. In their conversation he said that Browne had revealed that for some of the year he was living on the Costa del Sol, near Malaga, in Southern Spain. Instantly I phoned Taylor. There was no response but I left a message on his voicemail.

That same evening, for a change of scenery I took myself off to one of the local fish restaurants. It was a place Elena and I often frequented during our time together. The place was full, so being on my own I sat in the corner away from the main crowd and partially out of sight. I ordered a bottle of white Rioja, some mussels and a main course of Merluza. The waiter had just brought the Rioja and some bread and I was about to take a sip of the wine, when I spotted Elena come in through the door, accompanied by Amado. Because of my concealed table they didn't see me at first. I took a large gulp of my wine. For a moment I thought about getting out before I was spotted. Unfortunately I had already given my order and to cancel it then would only create a fuss and draw more attention to myself, so I gulped again on the wine and topped up my glass.

They settled at a table on the other side of the room. After their waiter had departed Elena looked around the room and saw me. I raised my glass in toast to her. Unfortunately she gave me the most delicious smile which caused all the familiar feelings about her to return to my body. To make matters worse she got out of her chair and headed in my direction. She was wearing a low cut, black top and short skirt of the same colour, with black tights.

'Robert, I am sorry I didn't see you there. Won't you come and join us? I don't like to see you dining alone.' As she bent over to talk to me I had a full view of the curved outline of the top of her breasts.

'Thank you, no,' I replied, 'three's a crowd.'

'That's silly. Three's not a crowd with you. Come on.'

'Thank you again, but no, I want to get back to edit today's writing before it gets too late,' I lied 'You'd be pleased with me, I've done quite a lot today.' She smiled one of her delicious smiles. 'I hear you've been getting yourself into a spot of bother?' I said.

'How did you know that?' she replied. A more serious expression settled on her face.

'I have ways of making people talk,' I said mimicking a German accent.

'Well, I'm on bail at the moment. It's all very complicated.' Frown lines gradually spread across her forehead.

'Feel like telling me about it sometime?' I queried.

She studied my face. 'Give me a call at the weekend? Amado will have gone back to his home by then.'

'I'll do that,' I said.

'Are you sure you won't join us?'

'No thanks,' I replied. 'I must get back soon.'

She gave me another smile, placed her hand on my arm and then went back to her table. I didn't take long over my meal. On my way out I waved to them both and received a similar acknowledgement back.

Meeting up with them like that had scrambled my equilibrium somewhat. Seeing her looking so glamorous in familiar surroundings brought all the pent up feelings of longing and desire back into the forefront of my mind. When I sat down in my apartment, clutching a large brandy, my phone rang. It was Royston Taylor.

'You were trying to reach me?' he said when I answered.

'Some news about Scott-Browne,' I said and went on to tell him about his possible residency in the South of Spain. 'Of course he may not be there now,' I concluded, 'but at least it's a lead and somewhere that's within travelling distance of here.'

'You have been very good for me, Robert,' he stated, to my surprise. 'You've given me hope. Before we met there was nothing but despair in my life. What do you think I should do?'

'Do you know anybody down there?' I responded. 'Any friends, contacts, someone in the locality who can do a bit of scouting around for us. It's a big area to cover without any positive leads.'

'I don't know,' he said. 'I'll have to get out my old address books. They're back in the flat in Benidorm.'

'Where are you now?' I asked.

'I'm in my car on the mountainside. It's cold up here tonight. There's half a gale blowing. The temperature dropped quite dramatically this evening and I was glad to get back here and put the heater on.'

We conversed some more then ended the call. Afterwards I smiled to myself as I sipped at the brandy. I could just imagine him sitting up there in his car, in pitch black darkness, in the middle of that copse of trees, alone and completely isolated from the rest of the world. Maybe there was something to be said for it after all, I pondered.

* * * * *

The following day I received another call from Ben Saunders, my agent. 'You could be opening up a whole can of worms with this business,' he said.

'I'm committed to helping this guy,' I responded. And went on to tell him the latest developments.

'Well there are firms on the internet who will check out plagiarism for you, but from what you now tell me you already have documentary evidence which you say proves the matter. So the only recourse open is to sue. To do that you need lawyers and barristers. That costs an awful lot of money. Then, even if you win, Scott-Browne, or the other bloke, may not have any money to pay you. They may put them in jail, but that doesn't mean Taylor would get anything.'

I listened despondently to Saunders' monologue. 'So what do you suggest we do?' I asked.

'Forget the whole thing and concentrate on your book. OK, I feel sorry for this guy, but if he'd listened to his agent, who I've spoken to by the way, he'd never have got himself into this mess in the first place.' We ended our call and afterwards I followed up on some of the other e-mails I had received.

* * * * *

Before venturing to the street market on the Saturday morning I telephoned Elena. By the sound of her yawning response she was obviously still in bed. She did confirm however that Amado had left for his home on Friday and that I would be welcome to call at her apartment on my return from the market, so I set off with a spring in my step. The streets in town were still dew damp from the previous nights sea mist. At the market the traders were struggling with icy fingers, intermittently warming them on mugs of steaming coffee.

I have to say I received a warm welcome when I entered Elena's apartment. Her smile was genuine. An affectionate kiss was placed on each of my cheeks. She was wearing a green, loose fitting jumper and blue tracksuit slacks. Her feet were bare. I guessed there wasn't a bra under the jumper.

'Coffee?' she asked.

'Please,' I said. 'It's cold and damp out there,' I added and deposited my packages on the floor, then sat on her sofa, while she brewed the coffee.

Our fingers touched when she handed me mine, then she sat at the dining table directly in front of me. Being alone with her and making physical contact, in such close proximity, instantly produced invigorating sensations in my body. Surprisingly she lit up a cigarette. It was one of the things we had bickered about during our relationship. When we first met she smoked quite regularly, but in time I had persuaded her to give it up, well in my presence anyway. I watched her draw heavily on the lighted taper.

'You've been having a tough time of it then?' I said.

'Just a bit,' was her concise response.

'Did they put you in jail?' She nodded her head in the affirmative. 'For how long?' I continued.

'Two days. Then we were under house arrest in a hotel until the court convened. How did you find out?' she asked and drew again on the cigarette.

'I was concerned about your welfare, so I enquired,' I said and received a weak smile in response. 'Where was the jail?'

'At the women's prison in Albacete.' Her eyes looked at me scarily. It wasn't a sight I'd seen before.

'Now you're on bail?' I continued. She again nodded her head. 'If you don't mind me asking how did you raise the money?' I knew I was pushing my luck with these questions.

'My parents signed a surety when they came to visit. The police still have my passport.' All her replies were short clipped. She was clearly embarrassed by the whole situation and puffed again on the cigarette.

'Is there any truth in the allegations?' I asked pointedly.

For a moment she hesitated, then sipped at her coffee. I watched her eyes mist up. 'It's all such a mess Robert. I don't know what to think,' she eventually said, still sounding embarrassed. 'The charge is that unused ballot papers were somehow purchased, then completed in favour of the _Fe Jons,_ before being inserted into the ballot boxes. As I expect you know they won the seat. That's the allegation anyway. But I obviously had nothing to do with that,' she remarked, adding a tone of defiance to the last sentence. There was the sound of a snuffle in her nose which she quickly dealt with. At that moment I wanted to take her into my arms and hold her tightly. A temptation I resisted.

'How did you become incriminated then?' I said next.

'I helped Amado carry some boxes into the polling station. It's alleged that those boxes contained the falsified ballot papers.'

'Would Amado have been involved in falsifying the papers?'

'He says not. He is however, very actively involved with the party and the police knew that. Maybe that is why he is a suspect. I really don't know.' Again there were large areas of doubt on her face.

'Do you have a lawyer?'

She nodded in affirmation. 'Yes. The _Fe Jons_ are paying for him.'

'Is it the same lawyer who is acting for Amado?'

'Yes.'

'H'm,' I responded. 'Is that wise? Wouldn't you be better to have your own? Amado may not be telling you the whole truth.'

This time there was a long pause before she answered. There were numerous sips on the coffee and sniffles of the nose, she stubbed out the cigarette before she said. 'I just don't know Robert. At this moment I don't know what to think about anything. I'm very tired and confused.' She rubbed on the side of her nose with her fingers. 'I'm going to have to think it through for a few days.'

'When is the trial?'

'At the end of the month.' The irritability I knew so well was in her voice again so I decided it was pointless pursuing the matter further.

'Well you know you can count on me for help at anytime,' I said. 'That's what friends are for.' This time I received a much better smile.

'You're very kind,' she added.

Briefly I told her about my discoveries concerning Royston Taylor's affairs. She was interested. 'So you see I've been a good Samaritan all round,' I added with a grin as I got up to leave.

'I'm sure neither of us deserve you,' she said returning the grin, then hugged me and kissed me on each cheek. I could detect the residue of the discarded cigarette, but the kiss made up for it.

'Perhaps I could take you out to dinner tonight?' I asked when we reached the main door. 'See if I can try and cheer you up a bit,' I added.

'Thank you. I'd like that,' she said.

Maybe things were looking up I thought.

* * * * *

That afternoon I received a telephone call from Taylor. He was back in his Benidorm apartment. 'In my address book I found a couple of old writer pals who live on the Costa del Sol,' he said.

'Good,' I responded.

'So, on the off chance I gave them a call. There was no reply on the first one. He could be away of course, or left there by now. But the second, Henry Williamson, answered. We used to be old drinking mates in London. He wrote a few novels back in the nineties and I'd remembered him retiring to the south of Spain on the proceeds.'

'And?' I interrupted.

'Well I told him of my plight and some of the background details and he was sympathetic. He said he would dig around locally on my behalf. Then after I had related some of Browne's activities he mentioned that there was now a new large horse racing track near to where he lived. He said he knew some of the members there, who were also members of his golf club. He would enquire about sightings of Browne and get back to me. That's good isn't it Robert?'

'Excellent,' I replied. 'And I've had another idea,' I stated. 'I mentioned to you when we met that occasionally I undertake the odd piece of journalism.' I heard him grunt in response. 'Well, when I've managed to get enough material together I'm going to write an article about plagiarism, using Readbooks as an example. If it's juicy enough one of the tabloids will print it. Then we'll have some publicity on the matter. And, as I'm sure you know, that changes everything.'

As we ended our call he sounded in better spirits. I told him I needed another day in the mountains soon and he agreed to that.

* * * * *

My evening out at the restaurant with Elena was both revealing and interesting, as well as stimulating. She was wearing a black and white striped top, black skirt and tights and calf length black boots. Her dark hair was hanging long and had been persuaded into ringlets. My eyes hardly left her face all the time we were there. It was great to see some warmth back in her eyes for me. We both chose oysters to start. I decided on the lamb, while she settled for a fish dish of John Dory. A white Rioja sufficed. I was pleased she'd decided not to smoke.

In view of her previous irritability on the subject I broached the matter of her arrest cautiously. When we had both supped on the wine and were into the oysters I began by asking her about the job with the _Fe Jons_.

'I was employed as their official photographer for the final run up to the election,' she said. 'They paid me a fee. The work was great. I had a pass that got me into all the meetings and press calls. I even met the Prime Minister once while he was canvassing locally and took pictures of him. It was all very exciting and sometimes glamorous, although there was some violence at one or two of the demonstrations. I've got some fabulous shots. It's a collection I'm quite proud of.' A glint of excitement was in her eyes as she talked about it.

'And Amado is employed by them?' I asked. The oysters were sliding across my plate and I was having difficulty controlling them.

'Yes. He was, or is, one of their senior administration liaison officers. He's employed on a full time basis. It was because of him that I got the job.'

'You said you met at school?'

'He was my boyfriend during the last few years there. Then we both went to different Universities. He was still my boyfriend during the _vacaciones_ , but in term time I went out with other guys. After Uni we went our separate ways, mainly because we worked in different parts of the country.'

'How did you meet up again.'

'It was on one of the projects I did for the _Guardia_. They were looking closely at some of the activities of the _Fe Jons_ and I took photographs at the demonstrations. Amado was at one of those events.'

'Was that when we were going out together?' I asked warily. She thought for a moment.

'I suppose it was. Except nothing came of it for some months. It was only when the election was coming to its conclusion that he contacted me about the job. The party wanted a permanent record of it all. I did all their publicity mug shots.'

'What's this guy Cebrian like?'

'Oh, a bit of an old bore, but he's a marvellous orator. He knows how to work a crowd.'

'So you've changed sides?' I said with a chuckle. 'First you are employed by the police to investigate the _Fe Jons_ and now the police are investigating you. Do you think the _Guardia_ will employ you again?'

I received one of those withering looks I knew only too well, so I took a large gulp of the Rioja.

'Robert I believe in democracy! And I repeat this country is in a mess.' The warm look had gone from her face. 'But of course I wouldn't ever do anything corrupt.' She paused. 'I expect you're right though and the _Guardia_ won't employ me again.'

'Ah, the price of freedom,' I said as a joke. She stuck her tongue out at me in response and the smile was back on her face again.

To change the subject while we waited for our main course I told her about the article I was going to write on plagiarism.

'I'm impressed. And what about your book?'

'At the moment it's going well.'

While we ate we talked more about Taylor and his problems. Before we finished up however I returned the subject matter back to her current troubles.

'I meant what I said earlier today,' I began. 'If you want me to help as a sounding board, I'm perfectly happy to lend you my ear. If you like I'll come with you when you meet up with those lawyers you mentioned. I still don't think it's right for you and Amado to have the same one though.'

She paused before she answered. 'You're very kind,' she responded. 'At the moment I just don't know what is the best thing to do. I need to think it all out myself first. So much of it is tied up with Amado, which doesn't make it easy.'

'Well the offer remains open.'

'I'm grateful Robert,' she said and I received another genuine warm smile.

We didn't team up that night. After a good night kiss she went back to her apartment and me to mine.

* * * * *

Over the next few days I really needed to keep my head down on my novel, but unfortunately it was difficult to disconnect my mind from Taylor and his problems. From the e-mails I had received and my own internet inquiries I had by then accumulated quite a dossier on Scott-Browne and the associated matters. Eventually I succumbed to the temptation and spent the best part of two days attempting to write a suitable newspaper article.

As a sideline from my normal writing activities I find the act of journalism occasionally invigorating. To deal in hard facts, for a change, is for me like taking a vacation, though no way would I wish to pursue it as a career. The mucky dealings of some members of the trade often leave me sickened to the point of nausea. However, getting my teeth into a real piece of corruption, fired the acid juices of my literary temperament and I enjoyed getting stuck in. When it was completed I managed to contact Taylor and arranged to meet up with him in the mountains. I also e-mailed a copy of the article to Elena. She had always been my severest critic and in that respect I valued her advice.

* * * * *

'Heard the engine,' Taylor said as I got out of the car at the beginning of the mountain track. When I had driven up the road there had been no sign of him, then suddenly, like a mirage, he appeared from around the big rock. 'Thought it must be you,' he continued. 'Not usually anybody else around at this time of the morning.' We shook hands. This time he was wearing a clean cream shirt and khaki slacks. A fresh looking handkerchief was knotted around his neck and a knapsack was on his back. 'When this mist clears it's going to be a cracker of a day,' he said pointing to the sky.

I'd told him in our telephone conversation that I had completed my article. 'Do you want to read it now or later?' I said.

'Let's leave it until we get to the top of the cave,' he replied. 'The air's thinner and I can think much clearer up there.'

We made our way along the shorter route through the inner waterfall. The recent rains had turned it into a raging torrent. No way would I have passed underneath it on my own. The noise was even more frightening than before, the volume of water mind boggling. However this time I had brought my own torch and with Taylor's guidance and patience, I managed to struggle along the ledge underneath it and afterwards up the narrow tunnel to the welcoming daylight of the cave's mouth on the other side.

We sat on the smooth rock face, looking at the view and sipping on some cool drinks. I then handed to him the proposed article. He put on a small pair of metal rimmed glasses and read it through.

'Do you think we'll get away with it?' he said eventually. 'You've named and shamed in here,' he added emphasising the point on the paper with the arms of his glasses. 'Won't we be sued?' In the article I had specifically mentioned Scott-Browne, John Mcabe and Readbooks.

'I don't see how if everything you've told me is the truth. The plagiarism of your story is real, I've seen it for myself.'

He returned the spectacles to the bridge of his nose and re-read my piece again, this time tracing the words with his index finger. 'And you reckon you can get this published in a national daily?' he said, pointing again at the piece of paper.

'I hope so. Nowadays newspapers are on the lookout for inflammatory stories about feckless entrepreneurs,' I replied. 'I think we have an even chance. Do you want me to go ahead?'

For many moments he looked at me hesitatingly over the top of his glasses, then said, 'I guess so. What have I got to lose?'

'Nothing as far as I can see,' I responded. 'Only the opportunity to redeem your reputation. And just think of what the publicity will do for the sales of your book.'

A broad smile crossed his face. After we'd finished our drinks we set off for the distant high ridges. I soon got into sync with his energetic stride pattern. As we walked we talked endlessly over a whole range of subjects. In time I became lost in the ambience of the whole environment, almost light headed, as though I was on a drugged trip. We walked for the rest of the morning, before reaching the ridge he'd found via the new route. We settled up there for our lunch. The view up the coast, some seventy kilometres or more, to Valencia was spectacular. On the return journey we took our time, as there was no way I could keep up any more with his extensive strides. He told me he intended to stay the night in the cave, but before we split up he did escort me back through the waterfall.

CHAPTER FIVE

Thereafter events moved on dramatically. I e-mailed a copy of my article to Ben Saunders with instructions to try and obtain newspaper publication. A day or so later he mailed back confirming that two of the UK's national newspapers were prepared to publish it, although each of them wanted exclusive rights. They both also wanted me to try and make contact with Browne and write a follow-up exposé article about him and his corrupt dealings. Saunders told me that at that moment he was trying to negotiate the highest fee, before settling on which paper to adopt. I replied that I would leave that side of it to him and then updated him on the latest information regarding Browne's whereabouts.

A couple of days later Taylor phoned with excitement in his voice. His pal Williamson claimed to know where Scott-Browne was living. The race track that was previously mentioned was situated just outside Mijas, a small town near the Costa del Sol coastline. Williamson had also discovered that Browne lived in a villa on the shoreline down there. He told Taylor that he would take him there if he wanted.

'What do you think I should do?' Taylor said to me.

'I think we should both go down and take a look,' I replied and went on to describe what the newspapers had said.

He sounded enthusiastic. Said he would re-contact his friend, arrange a date for later in the week and get back to me. We organised to travel in my car.

That evening I rang Elena. 'Do you fancy a trip to the Costa del Sol?' I said and explained matters. I told her that I would like to have some associated photography for the follow-up article if possible. I mentioned that it was likely that I would receive a fee out of which I would pay her for her work.

'That's the best offer I've had in days,' she responded.

'I'll get back to you when times are confirmed,' I concluded.

Straight away I e-mailed Saunders and told him to accept the highest fee the newspapers would pay soonest, as I had a fix on Scott-Browne and had also organised a photographer, which would have to be paid for out of any remuneration.

Next morning Taylor phoned to say Williamson had recommended that Saturday would perhaps be the best day to catch Scott-Browne in, so I subsequently organised matters with Elena.

By the Saturday Saunders had received and accepted a pro-forma contract from one of the tabloid dailies. The dawn was a long way off when I rang on Elena's doorbell. The street lamps were still alight, my car windows were covered with morning dew and darkness prevailed everywhere. The journey to Mijas was going to take a good three to four hours.

'I hope you've got the heater on,' she said as she struggled on board with her camera equipment. To have her alongside me in a working situation again was great. Instantly I caught the fragrance of her perfume. I was tempted to touch or kiss her, but remembering her morning grumpiness I refrained.

During our drive to Benidorm, to pick up Taylor, she told me that she had heard from the solicitor, who was handling her case, with a date for a pre-trial meeting. 'I've thought about it Robert and decided that I would like you to come with me, if you would please. You don't have to pay me for this work today. I'll do it as a pro-quo for your help on that.' We chatted more on some of the aspects of her case.

Taylor was waiting for us on the road outside his apartment block. It was evident that he was instantly taken with Elena. Most of the journey was via the motorway. South of Murcia the surrounding countryside becomes desert like, barren and bare, except for endless miles of fruit growing plastic greenhouses. Turning west, the snow capped peaks of Granada soon come into view, before we reached the more familiar Mediterranean idyll that is the Costa del Sol. During the journey Elena read my article.

* * * * *

It was nearing midday when we met up with Williamson. He was a slight, grey, thin, ageing man in his late seventies. Taylor introduced us all and he seemed pleasant enough. The long trip meant that the three of us were in need of refreshment, so firstly we all set off for the nearest restaurant. We ordered hot croissants with jam and coffee. Taylor and Williamson reacquainted themselves then Williamson told us what he had found out about Tyler Scott-Browne.

'One of my pals met him in the Member's Bar at the racetrack,' Williamson said. His voice had a soft Scottish lilt. 'I'm told he is rather gregarious and tends to hold court a bit. Usually he is surrounded by a group of hangers on and glamorous women. During the race meeting though he does tend to talk to everybody who's in the bar or the members enclosure. So he and my pal eventually chatted.'

'How did you find out where he lived?' I asked.

'My pal gave him a lift home once. Browne's crowd were going off somewhere else after the race meeting and for some reason or other, which I don't know, he wasn't able to join them. My friend told me where the villa is and since talking to David I've been to take a look.'

'What's it like?' I queried.

'Not really what you may expect. It's a lovely spot, right on the seafront and there's a Bentley parked outside. Not a new one I hasten to add. But the villa is quite small and far from ostentatious.'

'Would you prefer not to accompany us to the villa?' I asked.

'Well I would if you don't mind. I will take you near and show you where it is, but if I could I'd prefer not to approach his property. Naturally my concern at this moment is for David and his problems with the man. However, I still may have to see Browne again locally.'

* * * * *

During our journey to the Costa del Sol the three of us had discussed how we were going to approach Browne, if we found him. Although he had never met Taylor, he would have seen the photographs of him that accompanied his book. At this stage we didn't want a major confrontation so it was agreed that Elena and I would go first and knock on his door. We would pose as journalists writing articles about ex-pat's who had gone to live on the Costa's.

We travelled from the restaurant in two separate cars. Williamson led the way. Some way along the N-340 just outside Mijas Costa, he turned off the main highway on to a narrow road dotted with villas. We followed him halfway along until he stopped the car and got out. We could see the seafront at the end of the road.

'If you go down here till you reach the front you'll come to two villas on the right hand side facing the sea,' Williamson said to us through our open car window, while pointing out the direction. 'Browne lives in the first one. I think I can see the Bentley parked outside there now.' Taylor shook his hand and promised to let him know how things developed, then Williamson drove away and left us to it.

Slowly we inched down that road and parked behind the Bentley. Elena and I got out carrying her camera equipment. Taylor turned my car around and drove it back to a spot near where Williamson had left us. He was to remain there until we returned. As had been said, the Bentley wasn't new, but it was in immaculate condition. Highly polished, the paintwork gleamed and the chrome sparkled in the midday sunshine. Looking in through the windows we could see that the leather upholstery was in prime condition. Obviously a treasured possession. Elena took some photographs of it and the outside of the villa.

There was an entrance gate which was locked. I pressed on a intercom bell. A deep cultured voice answered ' _Digame_!'

'Mister Scott-Browne?' I queried.

'Yes,' the same voice responded.

'My name is Robert Demaid. I'm a journalist writing a piece on British ex-pats who have come to live in Spain. I was told at the racecourse that you may be able to help me. Could I come in and talk to you?'

A few moments hesitation passed before he said in an off hand manner, 'Oh I suppose so.'

'I have a lady photographer with me. Is that all right?'

'Yes, I guess so. Oh, there's a big dog in the garden,' he said. 'He'll make a lot of noise. He's chained up but don't go near him. I'll come out.'

We saw Browne emerge from the main door of the property. He was a big hefty, round faced man, sporting what is called nowadays a number two haircut. Not quite a skinhead in other words. He was wearing a red loose fitting sweat shirt and a pair of grey, three quarter length cotton slacks. On his feet he wore a pair of flip-flops. The dog saw Browne and erupted into a spine chilling bark. He was the biggest Alsatian I had ever seen. 'Be quiet Bruno,' Browne shouted, then threw a stick to the other side of the garden, which the dog chased after. 'Just ignore him, he's all noise,' Browne said to us as he opened the gate. 'Oh hello,' he continued on seeing Elena. 'You're pretty.' She gave him one of her best smiles. The dog continued to bark ferociously.

'We were admiring the Bentley,' I said once we were inside the main door. 'Is it yours?'

'Yes. My pride and joy. Had it for nearly ten years now.' In most respects he possessed a pleasant smiling chubby face. A small golden earring dangled from his left ear lobe. I introduced ourselves properly. Elena clearly took his fancy. When he shook hands with her I noticed he held onto it much longer than mine. As he guided us through to the living room I told him that I was a journalist who had been made redundant by the Daily Mail in England. I had come out to Spain to spend time with my girlfriend, Elena, and undertake some freelance work locally to try and make a living. He seemed to accept what I said, although once we were in the living room, his eyes were more on her than me.

The villa was clearly not an expensive property. There was only one large living, dining, kitchen room, which was sparsely furnished. I guess there were a couple of bedrooms, maybe one was en-suite and there was another bathroom off the hall. If you were going to rent it for a holiday it certainly wouldn't be classed as luxury. He eventually took us outside to a medium size balcony which had a marvellous view out to sea. The walled garden led directly onto a sandy beach, with the Mediterranean beyond. He took pains to point out the peaks of the Atlas mountains of Africa, which were just visible on the horizon.

'Some view,' I said as we were offered seats on the balcony. I began to explain about the intended article, saying I was trying interview as many different people as possible to get a consensus of opinion. I asked if he didn't mind Elena taking photographs of him and the view across the garden and out to sea.

'I wouldn't mind Elena doing anything with me,' he responded. She was wearing a hip hugging pair of blue jeans, brown knee length boots and a loose grey cardigan top, over a white t-shirt. I thought she looked good enough for any guy to drool over. While he and I talked she surreptitiously photographed Browne, the villa and the sea view.

'How long have you lived here?' I asked him.

'About six months now?'

'Are these villas expensive?' I queried. I had brought a notebook with me and scribed in it as we talked.

'In this part of the world anything on the seafront is over priced,' he said and pointed to the vista, then quoted a figure for the approximate value of the villa, which I considered extortionate. 'But I don't own it,' he continued. 'I only rent it from a scoundrel of an estate agent.'

I smiled. 'What brought you to this part of the world then?'

For a few moments he thought while tapping on the side of his chair with his fingers. 'For my health. As you see the weather is brilliant,' he replied jocularly. 'And as you've found out there's a racetrack nearby. What made you go there anyway?' he queried.

'Well I guessed it would be a place where ex-pats would hang out,' I said. 'The Spanish aren't heavily into horse racing yet.' He nodded his head and again seemed to accept what I said. While he was answering my questions he regularly looked across at Elena, who continued to snap away. The camera she had with her possessed a silent shutter. Each time he looked in her direction, she returned a delicious smile. I knew she was getting some good mug shots.

'What was your work in the UK before coming here?' I said to him.

Again he hesitated before replying and looked at me questioningly. 'Oh something and everything,' he related with a dismissive wave of his arm. 'Property, investments, everything that's gone bust in this damn recession,' he added.

I was getting near to the nub of what I wanted to ask him but I knew I had to tread carefully. At this stage I didn't want to arouse his suspicions. 'Oh don't tell me,' I responded. 'That's why I'm here scratching a living like this,' I said holding up my notebook. 'Newspapers, publishing, they're all in the same mess,' I added and paused.

I deliberately paused for a long while to see if he would take the bait. 'Publishing, huh! that was another venture that went upside-down,' he hollered. I paused again waiting for him to continue, but he said nothing more on the subject. At that stage I didn't want to press further. My aim at this visit was to get the man's confidence.

I changed the subject and for half an hour or more I questioned him about life in the locality, the property values, the ex-pat community, the Spanish, everything I wasn't particularly interested in, but essential in establishing my credibility in his eyes. Gradually he opened up. I managed to get him to talk about his family and his motor racing hobby. Then I knew we had the right man.

When it came time to take our leave, it seemed he wanted to go on talking, but at that juncture Elena and I were not ready for our final assault. We left him beaming and smiling at her. On my way out I made a note of the address.

'You're an awful flirt,' I said to her as we walked back up the road to my car.

'How do you think I got you interested?' she replied.

Taylor was waiting in the car to hear our report. Firstly though we journeyed to the other side of the town and found a restaurant for some lunch. I didn't want Browne suddenly appearing on that road and spotting the three of us together 'He's our man all right,' I said to Taylor as we travelled. Elena showed him the pictures she had taken of him on her digital camera.

'That's him right enough,' Taylor remarked as he looked at the images. 'Photo's of him occasionally used to appear on the web site,' he added.

What our next move should be was our principal concern over lunch. 'Why don't we just go back there and confront him with everything?' Taylor said. We'd ordered paella and it was taking time to arrive. 'Catch him while he's there and the three of us are all together. Save on the petrol cost of another visit.'

I thought for a few moments before replying. 'I'm not sure what we would actually achieve by that,' I said. 'He'd just deny everything and there could be a rumpus. And there's a bloody big Alsatian dog living with him as well. He'd probably set the damn thing on us if we confronted him with everything all at once.' Elena nodded her head in agreement.

'But he may move away and then we'd lose track of him again.' Taylor responded.

'I think that's a chance we'll have to take. Perhaps if you speak nicely to your friend Williamson he may keep an eye on the place for us. If the Bentley remains outside, Browne will still be there. He won't go anywhere without that.' Elena again nodded her head.

'I think we need to marshal all our facts together before we do anything more.' I continued. 'Let's get the printed copies of the plagiarised version of your book first. Perhaps you can find the details of your contract with him and the payments due to you. I'll also need to speak to the editor of the newspaper who's going to print the article. I'd like to get his advice first as to how to go about it all. They'll have done this sort of thing many times before. It's no good us blundering in without their backing. If we did that Browne would definitely do a runner.'

Our paella eventually arrived. While we ate we discussed all the possibilities and attempted to formulate a plan. It was a long drive back to the Costa Blanca, but we all felt the journey had been worthwhile. Taylor remained in good spirits. Mind you I think Elena's presence helped in that respect.

* * * * *

The following day I sent off a long e-mail to Ben Saunders with details of the previous days events. I explained our need for caution in confronting Browne and requested he forwarded to me contact details of the editor who was backing us. When I'd originally switched on my laptop there was already an e-mail from him, with a copy of my contract. I was impressed by the fee he'd negotiated and congratulated him accordingly in my message.

Afterwards I tried to concentrate on my book but my mind continued to wander on what we discovered in Mijas. This man Browne was clearly a complicated character. He undoubtedly possessed a serious amount of charm. Your first impression was of a good guy. It would be difficult initially to dislike him, although he was obviously covering up a lot in our presence. Details of his childhood and upbringing clearly came through as an adventurous time. He hadn't given the impression though of being spoilt. In a way, everything in life, to him, seemed a bit of a joke. Perhaps that was his downfall I surmised. Maybe he took nothing too seriously.

Before the day ended I also received an e-mail from Elena with the downloaded photos, which were very good. She had compiled an album, including close-ups of Browne, and with him standing next to the expansive sea view, as well as pictures of the Bentley. They made him appear like a wealthy ex-pat and I was pleased with her work.

* * * * *

Saunders came back to me with the newspaper editor's name, one Daniel Day and a contact number. I put in a call. He possessed a Geordie accent, his words were rapid fire. I asked if he was going to print my first article now or wait for the follow up investigative piece. The first article had centred predominately on the principles surrounding plagiarism, the type of activity involved and only finally mentioned Scott-Browne, Mcabe and Readbooks. I told him we had found Browne and related some of the details of our meeting.

'Perhaps it would be best to write the second article now,' he replied. 'If it's OK, I can run them both on two separate days. I don't think it's worth approaching the guy again until the two articles are published, then you can go back to him for his response.'

So that's what we agreed to do. I would download the completed article to Day's direct e-mail address and he would get back to me with his decision. In a way I was relieved as I had no particular yen to revisit Browne and that Alsatian dog of his at that juncture. In the meantime I thought about buying a crash helmet and a suit of armour!

CHAPTER SIX

In the evening, when I had finished work on my book and after my meal I began to write an outline for the article. The following afternoon Taylor arrived at my apartment armed with chapter and verse on the matters relating to his plagiarised book and his outstanding debts. It was the only time he visited me there. He told me that Williamson would continue to help us. We spent the rest of the day inserting his details into the article. Afterwards we dined at my favourite fish restaurant. He proved to be good company. His demeanour and attitude was more in keeping with the man I had encountered back in Cardiff. His wit had returned. No longer was he the surly uncommunicative man we had come across in the bar at the bottom of the mountain. His blue eyes sparkled more readily. We spent two hours over dinner, recounting days back in Wales and the literary people we knew.

'I'm going to need your assistance with this article,' I said when we were about to make for home. 'When I have a first draft under my belt, I'd like your considered opinion.'

'I'm flattered,' he replied.

It took me a couple more days to complete the work to my satisfaction before e-mailing it on to Taylor. At the same time I also sent a copy to Elena, who I had not heard from since the trip to Mijas. Another day or so passed before I heard from her. 'I think it's good, but I don't think it's vindictive enough,' was her response. 'This man Browne has cheated and robbed Taylor of his earnings and then used the contents of his book to make more money for himself. It's entirely up to you, but I would make it more acid and cutting,' she'd spelt out in her e-mail. I said that I would call into her apartment on the Saturday morning to discuss the matter, after my market visit.

I was laden with packages of fruit and vegetables when I struggled in through her door mid morning, to be greeted with a smile and a kiss on each cheek. Out on the early morning streets it had again been chill and she remarked how cold my cheeks were. While she prepared coffee I unburdened myself of the packages, retrieved a copy of my article from my jacket pocket, then flattened it out on the dining room table.

'So you don't think this is up to the mark,' I said, as she approached me carrying two steaming mugs. Her coffee was always made from fresh beans which contained a slight chocolate aroma. That morning it tickled the senses in my nostrils.

'I think it is good, but as I said I don't think it's bitchy or vindictive enough.'

'Perhaps that's because I'm a man not a woman,' I said and received one of her withering looks. 'Ok, what would you change?'

She supped at her coffee, then said, 'You've written it purely from a journalistic point of view. Facts and details in other words. That was all right for the first article as that set out what had been going on. I think this one should be written more from Taylor's point of view. He's the one who's been cheated, lied to, abused if you like. That element should be worked into this piece. Remember how he was when we first saw him. You haven't got that across. You haven't spelt out how this business has ruined his life. And there's not enough emphasis on how Browne has defaulted all his life to fund his high lifestyle. That's what my pictures tried to depict. So that's my opinion, for what it's worth.'

I swallowed hard, took a gulp of my coffee. It was too hot for me to drink properly and I spluttered. Instantly I knew she was right. I pointed to the copy of the article and turned it around on the table so she could see it as well. 'Could I work that in this part here?' I asked pointing at a section of the print.

'You're the writer,' she replied snappily. 'I just take the pictures.'

While I drank the coffee I brought her up to date on the other aspects pertaining to the subject matter.

'Oh by the way,' she said when I was about to leave. 'I've got a meeting next Thursday at Albacete, with the lawyers. Could you make that?'

'I'll drive you there,' I said.

She was happy with that. The rest of the weekend was spent redrafting my article.

To say I burnt the midnight candle would perhaps be overstating matters, but it was late on the Sunday night before I was satisfied enough to e-mail the amended copies to both Taylor and Elena.

The following morning their responses of approval were awaiting in my inbox.

For an hour or two afterwards I pondered over some of the grammar, but by lunchtime I decided to send it off to Daniel Day, with Elena's accompanying photographs. I also sent a copy to Saunders.

'I like that,' Day said to me over the telephone next morning. 'I'll run the two articles sometime this week and send you a copy of what we've printed.'

* * * * *

Thursday seemed a long time in coming. In the interim I managed to re-concentrate my mind back onto my book. With each day though I became more desirous to be back up amongst the clean thin air of the mountains, particularly as I knew that Taylor was up there.

Once again it was dark when I picked Elena up at her apartment for the trip to Albacete. The journey was going to take a couple of hours and she wanted to be there with time to spare. She looked smart in a black trouser suit, over a white blouse. During the drive she revealed more about what had happened on the election day. She told me that excitement and confusion had prevailed most of the time at the various polling stations. During the preceding days the pre-election polls had suggested that the _Fe Jons_ may spring a surprise by winning the seat. Because it would be their first national election victory in over half a century the media interest was intense. Spanish TV and radio news crews were everywhere. Cebrian was around all the time enthusing his impassioned rhetoric to voters and media alike. Elena said she had a huge batch of pictures of everything.

Albacete is a medium sized city of about a hundred and seventy thousand people, situated some two hundred and fifty miles south east of Madrid, in the autonomous community of Castille-La Mancha. There is much industrial activity in the area, including the manufacture of knives, scissors and fine daggers, as well as a large regional university campus. When we got near Elena guided me through the busy streets. Fortunately she knew of a car park near the lawyers offices.

Amado had been forewarned of my presence. He was waiting for us in the reception area when we arrived, with another official of the _Fe Jons_ party. Amado greeted Elena with much hugging and cheek kissing. The welcome for me would at best be described as frosty, although he did shake my hand. The other man known as Ruiz, was short and wiry, sporting a small black moustache and casual clothes. Amado spoke continually to Elena in Spanish, which annoyed me somewhat, as I knew he did speak English. After some delay we were guided into the lawyer's office.

Gustavo Morales was a tall, well built man, in his early forties, with a slight paunch and short brown hair organised into a frontal quiff. He was wearing a grey shirt, and waistcoat, with grey suit trousers and a dark blue tie. His jacket was arranged around the back of his high back leather chair. He stood up to greet us and shook hands with us all. Elena introduced me as a friend and explained that my Spanish was not good and that she would occasionally have to translate for me.

He began by reading from a sheet of paper the charges that were laid against the two of them. I didn't understand everything he said but I followed enough to get the drift. More tellingly he explained, in a serious manner, that at the worst, if proven, the charges could lead to a prison sentence. Elena looked shocked. Amado's reaction was more moderate, as though he had been expecting something of that nature. Ruiz cut in and said that the _Fe Jons_ party would back the two of them, no matter how many appeals it took to prove their innocence.

Morales then brought into the room a woman stenographer to record the conversation. I remember she wore a mini skirt and had stunning slim legs encased in black tights. Morales told us that he wouldn't know what the prosecution case would be until a few days before the trial.

Then for more than two hours he, Amado and Elena went over and over the incidents of the election day that related to them. Occasionally Elena had to translate for me. The inference I got was that Elena was totally confused about her involvement. She attempted to convey that her mind had been pre-occupied with her photographic work and had therefore not really concentrated on the other events happening around her. In contrast Amado was clear and concise in relating what he'd done during the day. He stated irrevocably that he remembered carrying the boxes in question into the polling booth, although he added that he had been told they were boxes of votes from an out of town district. Elena did vaguely remember helping to carry some boxes from a van into the polling booth, but what they looked like she really couldn't recall.

A notable point struck home to me when Morales asked her if, before this project, she had been employed by the _Guardia_ in investigating the _Fe Jons_ activities. She confessed that she had, although she added that all she did was take photographs. Ruiz seemed to me to scoff a little at her response. Amado remained silent. Morales continued to question them both on their activities during the day. He eventually suggested another meeting with the two of them, two days before the court hearing, by which time he said he would know more about the prosecution's case. He ended by stating that he felt sure they would not be convicted. Unfortunately I didn't feel so confident. My lack of Spanish vocabulary prevented me from understanding everything that was said, but in general terms I really didn't think they had a good case. And I also considered that the meeting was slanted heavily in the direction of Amado and Ruiz, with Elena only appearing to be an afterthought in their deliberations.

When we left the lawyer's office Elena, Ruiz, Amado and myself went to a nearby restaurant for some coffee and food. There, Amado annoyed me intensely by constantly fawning over Elena flirtatiously in Spanish. Very little was said about the meeting with the lawyer, only that Amado kept reiterating that everything would be all right and that the party would look after them both. 'After all,' he said jocularly, 'Cebrian is now the Senator for the area.' Ruiz who could speak no English virtually ignored me the whole time we were there. I soon made excuses about a long journey back and was glad when we all parted.

During the journey I attempted to convey my fears to Elena about her situation. Initially she responded like Amado, by repeating that she had done nothing wrong and that the party would look after them.

'The point that concerns me,' I eventually retorted back, 'is that you and Amado were carrying ballot boxes. He confirmed that. Well as far as I am aware only polling station officials are allowed to carry or handle ballot papers or ballot boxes. To have a member of any party touching those items is tantamount to a crime whatever the circumstances.'

'But I didn't know they were ballot boxes,' she replied.

'I know you didn't, but Amado would have known and also he would or should have been aware of the consequences.' She went silent so I continued. 'And, Amado is an employee of the party, you're not. They are going to look after him as a priority. Back there, in the lawyers office, I'm afraid I didn't detect much concern for your welfare. I therefore have to ask myself if they were attempting to involve you because of your previous association with the _Guardia_?' There was more silence from her and she shuffled in her seat and turned to look out of the side window. 'Elena I'm still of the opinion that you should have your own lawyer in this.'

It was again some moments before she replied. 'But that would cost a lot of money. I don't know if I have enough money for that.'

'Still better than going to jail. You tell me you've tried that already.'

'Don't you think you're over reacting a bit?' she said. 'I've told you before I've known Amado for most of my life. He wouldn't deliberately try to get me into trouble.'

'You haven't known him in recent times. At the moment he works for this party and to me they seemed to be fanatical in their attempts to win the seat and get Cebrian elected. Power corrupts you know, or it can do. Amado is near to the seat of power, locally anyway.'

After that we sat in silence for some moments while we travelled. 'I'm only trying to think of your welfare,' I did say to her eventually.

'I know you are Robert. It's just that I am so confused by the whole business.'

For the remainder of the trip she explained to me some more of the conversation between Morales, Ruiz and Amado that I hadn't understood because of the language difficulties. The more she told me the more worried I became about her situation. Again, when we got back to town, we went our separate ways.

* * * * *

The following morning an e-mail from Daniel Day was waiting for me in my in-box. Attachments contained a copy of my two articles, which he informed me were being published in his newspaper on Thursday and Friday of that week. I read them several times and was pleased with what I saw. Both had been edited or, to be more precise, condensed. Some of my excessive descriptions hadn't made the cut but the basis and tone of the articles remained intact. Elena's pictures of Browne, the villa and his Bentley accompanied the second article, while images of Taylor's book and the plagiarised version by John Mcabe, were included in the first. The printed work came over as both damning and critical of Scott-Browne, which had been my intent. Day stated in his e-mail that he wanted a follow up article containing the man's reaction.

Immediately I e-mailed copies to Elena, Saunders and Taylor and told them about the newspapers requirements of a follow-up. Saunders was the first to respond later in the day. I knew Elena didn't interrupt her work to deal with e-mails and I guessed Taylor was still up in the mountains, the lucky man.

'That'll set the cat amongst the pigeons,' was the first line of Saunders e-mail response. 'I'll get onto the editor soonest,' he continued. In my mail I'd asked him to try and negotiate another fee for the follow-up. 'If I were you I'd also organise some bodyguards,' he'd replied in italics. 'The follow up may be a tricky business and I don't want anything to happen to you before you finish that damn novel. That's still your main income earner.' Despite his intended attempts at humourising my situation, I too was more than concerned about meeting up again with Browne, once he became familiar with these revelations. Hence my request for another fee, and it didn't help by Saunders ending his message with, 'You take care now!'

For some time I sat at my desk wondering how on earth I was going to go about it. Plagiarism is only punishable, as I've stated before, by a civil court action, so there was no way I could involve the police. All day images of that damn great big Alsatian dog continued to cloud my thoughts on the matter. Somehow or another I had to devise a plan of action that could accomplish the task without risking my health. I also needed input from the others.

Elena telephoned that evening. 'Your articles come across very well,' she said.

'Well I have you to thank for that,' I replied, then went on to tell her about the request for a follow-up.

'Oh dear, do you think that's wise?' she said. 'It could be dangerous. You're not even a registered journalist. If you were attacked or injured you'd get no compensation.'

I knew what she said made sense, but I responded with a lot of tosh about seeing the task through and trying to help a colleague in need.

'Don't you think you've done enough already,' she snapped back at me. Surely this is now Taylor's business, not yours. You've exposed the matter. Shouldn't you leave the rest to him. You've still got your book to finish,' she continued irritably.

We disagreed some more but she did end up agreeing to meet for dinner on the Saturday evening. She said there were still matters she wanted to discuss regarding her court case.

Initially I received no response from Taylor to my e-mail so I left a message on his voicemail, saying there had been developments. On the Saturday he phoned me back from Benidorm having read my mail and the attachments. 'You've done a splendid job,' he said, 'but where do we go from here?'

'We need to formulate a plan,' I responded. 'I don't think it would do any good to just turn up at his villa and confront him. He'd probably lock the door and set the dog on us.'

'Those were my thoughts.' Taylor said. 'Robert,' he continued, 'I don't want you to feel you have to do this for me. You've done enough to help me all ready. If it's going to become dangerous I don't expect you to risk that on my behalf.'

For a moment I said nothing. 'Well that's exactly why I have to do it,' I eventually responded. 'I can't turn my back on it now. It would go against every principle in my body. Surely that's why we're writers, journalists, reporters, whatever. Our job is to expose wrong doing wherever we see it.'

'I guess you're right,' he said after a few moments thought. We agreed to meet up again in a few days time for lunch.

* * * * *

On Saturday evening I called at Elena's apartment to pick her up for our dinner date. She looked dynamic in a white short jacket, tight black slacks and black shiny knee length boots. As it wasn't far to our chosen restaurant we decided to walk. On the way we chatted amiably just as we'd done when we first went out together. Somehow it felt we were close again.

In the restaurant we both decided on a John Dory fish meal. While waiting we discussed matters relating to the forthcoming trial, we chewed on fresh bread rolls dipped in Allioli and sipped at a crisp white Rioja.

'I have been thinking about what you said regarding a lawyer,' she began.

'Yes?'

'You may be right.' Her eyes met mine full on. I was happy to let their warm glow settle on me. For some minutes we talked around the possible consequences 'But I still don't know if I could afford it,' she commented eventually.

'There's Antonio in town. We both know him. He wouldn't fleece you,' I said.

'But it would still run into a lot of money. The trial may take more than a day. If I stick with Morales there would be no fee.'

'But if you stick with Morales you may end up in jail. You heard what he said on that.' Frown lines spread across her forehead. 'I'll have this fee from my articles,' I said. 'We could put that towards it. You've helped with the article anyway, so you're entitled to some of it.'

'That's your money,' she hollered back at me. 'I couldn't possibly take that. I said I'd do that as a quid-pro-quo for your help with my troubles.' The previously pleasant countenance on her face had disappeared. 'Robert I've got myself into this mess, it's up to me to get myself out of it,' she continued.

'All right then I could loan it to you.'

Fortunately the appearance of the waiter, with our fish, interrupted what looked like the beginning of one of her tirades. I ordered another bottle of Rioja. While we ate I got her to go over again all the events she could recall of the election day. Throughout those turbulent hours at Albacete she confirmed that she was busily involved photographing Cebrian's various appearances around the town. All day they whisked her from place to place in a high speed motor cavalcade. The incident with the fateful boxes happened near the end of the day at the main polling station, where the votes were to be counted. She told me she was getting out of the car outside the polling station when Amado asked her to give him a hand to carry them inside. They were just unmarked cardboard boxes and she repeated that she had no idea what was inside them. They'd been in a white van which had been part of their motorcade. What she described again reiterated the disorder and chaos that prevailed.

'And what are your feelings towards Amado now?' I ventured hesitatingly.

She looked at me intently before replying. 'Confused, I suppose is the best way of putting it.'

'Do you still feel attracted to him?' I asked knowing I was treading on dangerous ground.

Again there was a delay before she replied. 'I guess I'll always feel that. That's how we got together over this job. I doubt if I would have accepted it if I'd not met up with him a few months before. It was only because I knew I'd be working with him that I took it on.'

'What about his work with the party? Does that still inspire you?'

'That's where the confusion comes in. As I've tried to describe, at the time it was all very exciting and stimulating. And I still think the country's in a mess. Something has got to be done. But being away from all the action has enabled me to put a lot of it into context.'

By the time we'd finished the John Dory the subject was exhausted. 'Why don't you go in and just see Antonio on Monday morning?' I ventured. 'Get his advice anyway. He won't charge you much for a consultation. You told me that you'd once photographed his children when they were babies. I'm sure he owes you a favour or two.'

She looked hard at me. There was warmth again for me in her eyes.

'You know I may just do that,' she said and held out her hand across the table for me to hold. 'But what about you and this man Scott-Browne,' she then said.

'Oh that's a different matter altogether,' I replied and listed out the story so far on that one. Then we ordered desserts.

'Don't you think you've done enough?' she said when the waiter departed.

Once again I restated my reasons for wanting to continue, then said, 'and there will probably be another fee for an article, which could help us all at the moment.'

Many questions were in her eyes. 'Wouldn't it perhaps be best to try and approach Browne away from his home?' she said. 'At least that way you won't have the dog to worry about.'

'You're not just a pretty face are you?'

'Occasionally I'm told I have my uses.'

For the rest of our time at the restaurant we went over the possible ways of meeting up with Browne. It was clear from her attitude that she wished to be involved as well. That was something I worried about. However for me, it was just great to be back in her relaxed company again. I dawdled over finishing our desserts and coffee. When it came time to leave I suggested a nightcap, but my request was refused. A kiss on both cheeks was my only solace before I made my way back to my own apartment.

* * * * *

My next meeting with Taylor, was at a restaurant he knew, not far from his apartment. He said the lamb chops were worth having, so we ordered those and a bottle of red Rioja.

'How were the mountains?' I asked.

'Wonderful as always.'

'I wish I had been with you.'

He repeated his delight at the way the articles had turned out. His concern was about how to pursue the matter.

'Elena thinks we should try and tackle him somewhere away from his villa, somewhere where the dog won't be. Somewhere where we could take him by surprise.'

'I think she's right there. You are a lucky man having her for company.'

'Well I'm still working on a complete reunion. Do you think you could contact your pal Williamson again? See if he can find anything out about Browne's future movements.'

Taylor agreed to do that. Then, for an hour or more we discussed the possibilities open to us. By the end of our meal we had formulated the outlines of a plan, of sorts.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Within a day or so Taylor had contacted me again by phone. He said he had been in touch with Williamson who revealed that there was a race meeting coming up at Mijas later that week. He felt sure Browne would attend. In the interim Williamson promised to continue to keep watch on the Bentley, to make sure Browne was still in the locality.

'What do you think Robert?' Taylor asked me. 'Could that be our opportunity to tackle him? It would be away from his villa.'

'H'm,' I responded while trying to think. 'Maybe. At least it would be in public and he couldn't cause much of a ruction there. Let me think on it for a while. I'll get back to you.'

I put in a call to Elena. Fortunately she was at home processing some of her photography. When she answered she told me she'd been to see Antonio, the lawyer in town.

'What did he say?' I asked.

'Much the same as you?' she responded. 'I went over it all with him and his opinion is that as I am not employed by the _Fe Jons,_ it would be much better to have my own lawyer. He's prepared to do it for me at a reduced fee, although it will still cost a lot of money. And he didn't charge me for the consultation.'

'There you are, what did I tell you,' I said smugly, then went on to tell her the news on Scott-Browne. She wanted to come with us to the race track and take some more photos.

Then I phoned Daniel Day. 'There's been a good response to your article,' he told me. 'It seems the other newspapers are also interested now.'

I told him about our planned encounter at the racetrack. He thought it a good idea. 'Although that will reveal his whereabouts,' he added.

'I don't think we'll mind that, at this stage,' I replied. 'From now on the more pressure on Browne, the better,' I said

He said he would await developments and another article.

* * * * *

The race meeting was an evening affair. It was early in the afternoon when I picked Elena up outside her apartment. 'I've had another meeting with Antonio,' she told me when she'd settled in the car.

'Good,' I responded. 'And?'

'He has heard from the prosecution. Their case is going to be built around the evidence they have about the boxes we carried into the polling station. The say they also have details that money was passed to enable the _Fe Jons_ to get their hands on the vouchers.'

'That is a bit nasty,' I said.

'Robert I'm worried. Antonio is going to present my case around my innocence of the whole matter. He will emphasise that I am not an employee of the party and would therefore in no way have benefited from the fixing of any ballot papers. He intends to stress my independence as a freelance photographer and that I have previously worked in that capacity for the _Guardia_.'

'It's a good job you changed lawyer then. Have you heard from Amado?'

'Yes, by telephone. He wasn't very pleased about me changing to Antonio. I think I've offended him badly.'

'Good,' I said. 'He's the one who got you into this mess in the first place.'

She looked across at me but said nothing more. We were soon outside Taylor's apartment. From there and for the rest of the journey, our conversation centred on the likely scenarios facing us at Mijas.

* * * * *

The racecourse was a recently constructed affair, situated inland from the main town. All the races would be run under floodlights, which suited us, as we could remain incognito until we needed to tackle our target. There was a good crowd. The British were predominant, although there was also a mixture of Arabs and some Spanish.

Williamson had agreed to help out. We had arranged to meet him at a spot near the entrance to the parade ring. There we'd get a good view of the early comings and goings. He'd also told us he was prepared to sign us into the members bar or enclosure if necessary. He was waiting to greet us when we reached our agreed point.

'No sign of our pal yet,' he said when we met up. Considering his age and his outward appearance of frailty he looked remarkably up for the task. 'I've checked inside the bar but he's not there,' he continued, 'or in the members enclosure either. I hope I'm not bringing you all this way here on a wild goose chase?'

'It's still early,' I responded. 'The first race isn't for another half hour or more.'

Because we didn't want to implicate Williamson or forewarn Browne of our intentions, we all separated amongst the crowd. Elena had donned a baseball type cap and went off to take some photos. Taylor and I split up to look around and evaluate the form. More in hope than anything else, I even placed a bet on the first race.

When the horses entered the parade ring we returned there. Williamson was the last to arrive. I could see by the excited look on his face that something was up. He stood a few feet away from me.

'Browne is in the bar with a group of cronies,' he mouthed quietly to me.

'How many?' I asked.

'About half a dozen I think, including a couple of women, but it's difficult to be exact.'

Gradually, one by one, the horses and their respective owners and trainers began to fill up the parade ring. I had by then taken a higher vantage point on some steps that formed part of a viewing terrace. From there I could see the whole ring, the spectators and the surrounds. Eventually I caught sight of Browne heading in our direction. I honed in with my binoculars. He was wearing a smart, light grey suit, a dark blue shirt and a floral tie. From what I could detect there were three other men accompanying him, similarly attired, and two very glamorous women, wearing off the shoulder flowery dresses. There was much joviality amongst his group as they studied the card and evaluated the favourites. I caught Elena's attention. She had moved to a spot where she could discreetly photograph them. As the horses left the ring Browne and his pals made their way back to the members enclosure. Williamson returned to stand near me.

'Are you going to try now?' he asked.

'No I think we'll leave it for a race or two,' I said. 'Let them all relax a bit and down a few drinks. The crowd will also have built up by then.'

Quickly I moved out to the track to watch the first race. It was an exciting affair with a good finish. The crowd were suitably animated, shouting for their favourites. Unfortunately my horse wasn't placed. I lost track of him somewhere in the final straight. Afterwards I made my way to a spot near the members enclosure. From there I could see Browne, surrounded by a gaggle of people. Taylor came and stood close to me.

'If you look over there you'll be able to see how your royalties are being spent,' I said and pointed towards Browne and his group of friends.

For the next race the same sequence of events occurred. Browne and his mates eventually turned up around the parade ring, only this time their actions were noisier and more ebullient. I could see Elena taking more photos, then we all made our separate ways out onto the course. I didn't bother with another bet. The race though was equally exciting, resulting in a photo finish. Afterwards Taylor came and again stood near me, alongside the members enclosure. Once more I pointed out Browne and his party. Taylor nodded his head in resigned recognition.

'After the next race I think it's time for us to make our entrance,' I said to him. Then I moved near to Williamson who I'd spotted close by and repeated the same remark.

* * * * *

During the week leading up to the race meeting Taylor and I had visited Antonio at his offices in town. We told him the history of Taylor's problems with Browne and the amount of money he was owed. As a result Antonio was able to draw up a summons document claiming the monies from Browne. That document was with me that evening at the race track.

* * * * *

For the next race, which the favourite galloped away with, we adopted the same procedure, except afterwards the three of us gathered near to the entrance of the members bar where Williamson was waiting for us. He signed us all in then he made some prearranged excuse about needing to go and place a bet. The three of us were given temporary membership badges.

The bar was full. The hubbub intense. At the far end we could see Browne surrounded by about twenty people, including numerous glamorous women. Around them were tables littered with iced buckets of champagne. Elena and I headed that way, leaving Taylor out of sight. She had removed the baseball hat.

'Mister Scott-Browne, we meet again,' I said when I arrived at his side. In his right hand he was holding a flute of champagne, in his left a race card.

He turned and look surprised to see me. 'Oh hello,' he replied cautiously. 'And hello to you again as well,' he added when he spotted Elena and raised his glass at her.

'Can I have a quick word?' I asked. He moved hesitatingly a few steps away from his group. 'I see you've been making the headlines,' I continued, then from my jacket pocket I produced copies of my two newspaper articles.

For a few moments he looked completely stunned. I wasn't sure if he was going to explode with rage or pass out. He looked across again at Elena and grabbed out at the sheets of newspaper. 'You're the bastards who wrote this,' he spluttered out. 'I guessed as much. You're a conniving couple of pricks,' he continued in the same manner.

'Well it takes one to know one,' I responded. 'We've brought another old pal of yours along to see you as well,' I continued. By then Taylor was standing alongside us.

'Hello Tyler, it's nice to meet you at last,' Taylor said sarcastically. Browne clearly recognised him. 'I've waited a long time for this,' Taylor continued.

Browne's mouth dropped open. The three of us stood our ground, smiling at him sweetly. 'Look here,' he eventually said. 'I'm having an evening with my friends, can't we deal with this at another time.' I evaluated the scene around us. By then we had achieved most of our initial objectives.

'We have no wish to cause you any further embarrassment tonight,' I said. 'We just wanted to give you this,' I added and handed to him the summons document. Fortunately he took it. As he did so Elena took two photographs. 'All we are asking is that you pay the amount stated in there,' I said and pointed to the summons, 'to our solicitor within the time limit set and there will be no problem. If not we will be pleased to meet up with you in court.' Browne looked completely flabbergasted. 'Anyway as I said,' I continued, 'we have no wish to cause a scene here, so we'll take our leave of you. You can tell your pals we were doing some publicity photo's for one of your books if you like.'

The memory of his shell-shocked face, while clutching onto the documents, with the champagne flute in his other hand remains with me to this day. We three headed quickly for the exit where Williamson was waiting for us.

'Everything all right?' he asked.

'Everything's fine,' I said. 'We managed to achieve what we set out to do.'

We talked briefly. I mentioned that Elena had taken some shots of me serving Browne with the summons, which would be suitable in law to prove that he had been served with the documents. We thanked Williamson for his help then made haste to leave the racecourse. We didn't want Browne sending any of his cronies out after us. Some time later we found a suitable bar on the outskirts of town for some food and wine before making tracks for home.

* * * * *

Over the next couple of days I spent considerable time and not a little effort in formulating another article. During its compilation I sent copies, via e-mail, to Taylor and Elena and included some of their ideas. Unfortunately, once again, progress on my novel suffered. I did, however, hear from my agent with another reminder about the approaching deadline. More importantly his e-mail confirmed that he had negotiated another generous fee out of Daniel Day. I replied sarcastically that I was pleased he was still earning his keep. After many re-drafts I eventually forwarded the completed article to Day, with a selection of photos Elena had taken at the racecourse.

A day or so later I received a telephone call from him. 'Your piece is good stuff,' he said. 'I can use that,' he continued. 'You won't believe it though, but we've received a threatening letter from a firm of solicitors claiming to act for Browne, saying they are going to sue us for defamation of character.'

'Oh Lord,' I replied. 'What are you going to do about it?'

'Give the letter to our lawyers with instructions to fire back a broadside and publish your article later in the week.'

'Oh,' I said hesitatingly. 'No, that's good,' I added hastily. 'It's time Browne got his come-uppance. I just hope I haven't caused you a lot of trouble.'

'Don't worry,' Day responded. 'Somebody tries to sue us nearly everyday of the week. Being a fellow writer, I also can't abide plagiarism. We have to stick together on something like that. I just thought I ought to let you know in case you need to keep your head down for a while.' We talked a bit more then finished our conversation with him promising to send me a copy of what he was going to print.

Thinking afterwards about what he'd said did worry me. Not just for my sake, but, more importantly, for Elena and Taylor. Immediately I sent them both an e-mail on the situation. I conjectured that at that moment there was no way Browne could possibly know where Elena or I lived, but Taylor's address was included on the summons we served on him at the racecourse. I advised him to get himself up into the mountains as soon as possible. Also, Elena's trial was due shortly. It would almost certainly attract media attention. Up until then we didn't really know what sort of a bastard Browne was. However, I concluded that when you pushed people into a tight corner they often lash out. To me Browne, if provoked, looked the sort of guy who was perfectly capable of lashing out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A couple of days before her trial I accompanied Elena to a meeting with Antonio, during which he attempted to prepare her for the accusations the prosecution would throw at her. Neither of us had ever been in a proper court of law before, so we were both surprised by the nature of the allegations he indicated might come up. He was convinced they would make a big play about her close relationship with Amado. For nearly an hour he play acted at being prosecutor, continually firing questions at her. I watched the expressions of horror cross her face as she struggled with the answers. By the time he'd finished she was exhausted. Before we left I told Antonio about some of the details relating to our involvement with Scott-Browne. I showed him a copy of my latest newspaper article, which included Elena's photographs. I emphasised our desire to keep Elena's identity under wraps, to avoid any retaliation from Browne.

'It won't be easy,' he retorted. 'This is going to be a political trial as much as anything else. There's bound to be national media interest.' He thought for a moment. 'I'm glad you told me though. I will see what I can do.'

Afterwards Elena and I needed a meal and a couple of stiff drinks, so we dined out together. 'Robert I realise now that it would have been hopeless if I'd let that other lawyer represent me,' she said as we ate.

* * * * *

On the morning of the trial I was again in my car before dawn, outside Elena's apartment. She was wearing a smart black trouser suit, but she looked nervous when she got in alongside me. Once we were out of town I tried to go over with her some of the things Antonio had said. During the journey we agreed that she would change her responses. I thought it was important for her to disassociate herself as much as possible from Amado. I said she needed to stress that she was an independent freelance photographer who was paid to do a job for the party and that her political involvement was nil. Antonio had also thought it would be beneficial to bring into her defence the previous work she had undertaken for the _Guardia_. Our continued conversation meant that the journey passed quickly.

Following the election day a government inquiry had been set up to investigate the ballot rigging accusations in Albacete. It's conclusions were not going to be published until after the trial, but if the evidence was conclusive there would have to be a re-vote for Cebrian's seat. As a result, in the preceding few days, there had been much media interest in the trial. When Elena and I arrived at the court house newspaper photographers and TV news crews were awaiting us. I took her arm to guide her through the scrum as the flashbulbs popped and the microphones protruded.

Antonio was waiting inside. He kissed Elena on both cheeks and shook my hand. At the far end we could see Amado, the lawyer Morales, Ruiz, and surprisingly Cebrian, as well as some other members of the _Fe Jons_ party. Antonio needed to speak with Morales so we all moved towards them. Amado's welcome for Elena was not exactly ecstatic. He did just about manage to kiss her cheeks, but few words were exchanged. He totally ignored me, as did Ruiz. Morales nodded hesitatingly in acknowledgement. In contrast Cebrian was almost ebullient. Hugging and kissing Elena with enthusiasm and shaking hands energetically with me. Having only seen him before on television I was surprised how rotund he looked in real life. His grey suit hardly fitted anywhere and his bald head shone like a beacon in the bright overhead lights.

'We will soon have all this over and done with,' he said. 'All a load of nonsense,' he added with a dismissive wave of his arm. 'I can't image how such accusations have evolved. These good lawyers,' he continued, pointing at Morales and Antonio, 'will soon have you on your way safely home.'

Elena's parents arrived while we waited for the trial to be called. Her mother, a tall, elegant woman, with the same shaped face and jet black hair, was wearing a black jacket and skirt and holding back tears, as she hugged her daughter. I was introduced and received cordially. They also greeted Antonio, Cebrian and of course Amado, who they'd known since he was a boy. Elena's father, a tall straight backed, grey haired man, in his sixties, was wearing a charcoal grey business suit, with gleaming, highly polished black shoes. Everybody's face though, except Cebrian's, looked pale and strained. When the case was called a surge of human bodies made for the court room. I had my arm around Elena's waist and gave her a hug as we entered.

When everybody was gathered we all faced three judges, two men and a woman, who would hear and decide on the case. Elena sat at the front, behind a table, with Antonio on her left and Amado, then Morales on her right. Alongside was another table for the three prosecuting attorneys. Behind them all sat members of their respective legal teams.

A wooden bar and gate separated the public area from the main protagonists, which was where I was sat, next to Elena's parents. It was a full house. Every seat was taken. There was a large press presence as well as members and employees of the _Fe Jons,_ including Cebrian. A clerk read out the charges before the centre judge, the lady one, outlined the proceedings and who was representing whom. The chief prosecutor then began to set out his case.

My incomplete knowledge of the Spanish language prevented me from understanding much of the detailed dialogue. From the little I do know, I detected that the prosecutor was quite vindictive with his accusations towards Elena and Amado. He said they had been observed on camera carrying the said ballot boxes into the polling station. Apparently there was CCTV evidence to that effect, which he would show later. He also implied that they clearly had the motive. Amado was a senior official in the _Fe Jons_ local organisation. It would be to his benefit, the prosecutor said, to have their local candidate, Cebrian, elected. He maintained that Elena was Amado's long standing girlfriend and was thereby actively involved in the crime, as the CCTV evidence would show. The prosecutor, a short wiry man, with closely cropped, dark hair and wildly gesticulating arms, maintained that he would also present evidence of money changing hands for the purchase of the unused ballot papers. It was a long and involved monologue, which reactivated my worst fears.

With the aid of his team he then displayed the CCTV film showing Elena and Amado carrying the boxes out of the white van and into the polling station. He gestured to their identity on the film footage, then pointed directly towards them both in the court room. There followed a succession of witnesses; civil servants who were responsible for the organising and counting of the ballot papers, and some police officers. It was revealed that after polling day the Town Hall had received a tip off about the ballot papers. A later check confirmed that there were indeed ballot papers relating to people who hadn't voted. A police officer then began to testify about their inquiries into the incident. They had testimony from a part time polling booth official who admitted receiving money from Amado for the purchase of the unused ballot papers. Occasionally Antonio and Morales interjected with a few pertinent questions, but they produced no major revelations. After two hours the judge called for a recess.

There was a café across the road. Elena, her parents and I headed that way. Strong coffee was required. Their faces showed strain. During the short time we were there I attempted to apply words of comfort in Elena's direction, but we soon had to dash back to the court house.

The prosecutor re-commenced his case by bringing to the stand, a short, tubby, grey haired man in his early seventies, dressed in a body warmer, over a shirt and jeans. He bore a small walrus moustache and wore frameless glasses. He didn't look a well man. In reply to the prosecutors questions he confirmed he was a part time ex-council employee who sometimes helped out on election days and similar occasions. Under interrogation he admitted he had taken cash for handing over the boxes containing the unused ballot papers. He confessed that in his ignorance he didn't realise the significance of what he had done. He maintained that he thought the papers were going to be taken away to be destroyed and at the time was glad to earn a bit of extra cash to supplement his meagre council pension. I realised that this man was the crucial witness. Whatever his crime there was no way they were going to send this poor decrepit old fellow to jail. My theory was confirmed in the next few seconds, when the prosecutor said to him, 'And who gave you the money?'

'That man over there,' he replied staunchly and pointed directly at Amado. There was a murmur of sound around the court house. The prosecutor repeated the question and asked him to point out Amado again. He duly obliged.

'And was this young lady with him?' the prosecutor asked as he walked towards Elena and pointed at her.

' _Si_ ,' the man said.

'Are you sure?' the prosecutor asked.

' _Si_ ,' the man repeated positively. I felt my body shudder.

Morales and Antonio both questioned the old man severely. Morales asked him about the current state of his eyesight, mentioning the old fashioned glasses he wore. He replied that he'd had a recent eye test and the glasses were in accordance with the opticians prescription. Antonio questioned if Elena had handed any money to him. He replied that she hadn't. 'How close was Elena, when you say the money was passed over?' Antonio pursued.

He looked puzzled before saying, 'She was nearby.'

'As far away as she is now?' Antonio asked. Her table was about twenty feet from the witness stand and Antonio pointed at Elena.

'About that I guess,' the man said.

However hard they tried, Morales and Antonio could not get the man to budge from his story. Another witness who completed the prosecutions case, claimed that he had seen Amado in an ante-room at the polling station, with pen in hand and a pile of ballot slips in front of him. The prosecutor again asked the witness to point out the man he had seen and he pointed directly at Amado.

* * * * *

Morales opened his defence by calling Cebrian to the stand. Instantly you could hear the click of the reporters biros and the opening of notebooks. Having centre stage the man was in his element. To him it was just another session on the hustings. He became verbose in the extreme. A couple of times the judge had to ask him to confine his answers to the question being asked. At one point the prosecutor intervened and objected, by asking the judge to remind Cebrian, that, 'the election was over. This is a court of law!' His objection was sustained.

Throughout his testimony Cebrian maintained that there was no way that his party would risk losing the seat by indulging in criminal activities. He hollered that they were a democratic institution, with traditions going back fifty years.

When the prosecutor came to cross examine him, he drew attention to Cebrian's very small winning margin. He also read out a list of the more well known misdemeanours the _Fe Jons_ had committed in law over the years. He even read out from a sheet of paper some minor offences that Cebrian had been involved in during his lifetime. Cebrian exploded in disbelief, claiming misrepresentation and slander. The judge again had to remind him of his behaviour. I had a feeling he was doing us more harm than good. Later there were more witnesses to support the two defendants, before the judge called for an adjournment for lunch. Elena, her parents, Antonio and I again trouped over to the restaurant. Antonio wanted to prepare Elena for her turn on the stand that afternoon. None of us had appetites, although much _café solo_ (black coffee) was consumed. On our way back to the court house I told Elena just to be herself and not get angry, however stupid the questions may seem.

* * * * *

The afternoon session began with Amado taking the stand. Again I didn't understand all that was being said, but Morales began by listing Amado's academic achievements, his past work and his criminal free record. He took considerable time in getting Amado to explain his position within the _Fe Jons_ party and his role on election day. As his questioning drew to a close, Morales asked Amado if he had ever paid money to the old man, as was claimed, and had he at any time involved himself in doctoring ballot papers. Each time Amado repeated in a positive manner that he hadn't. He also asked why he was carrying the boxes into the polling station. He replied he didn't know there were ballot papers in the boxes. He said he thought he was just helping out with some of the _Fe Jons_ documents.

The prosecutor though was not so accommodating. He referred to the unequivocal images of him on the CCTV and the clear evidence of the council employee who had received the cash. 'Why would he want to lie?' I understood the prosecutor to ask. Amado's answers were unconvincing. Finally, from what I could interpret, I heard the prosecutor say to Amado, 'I put it to you that you committed this crime to ensure that your party won this election seat, which in turn would only enhance your own career.' Amado was too stunned by the accusation to make any reply. Murmurs reverberated around the court room.

A feeling of uneasiness hovered over me when Elena took the stand. I could see her demeanour was nervous. Her voice quivered with emotion as she read out the oath. Antonio attempted to keep her calm by asking simple and direct questions about her work, including her employment with the _Guardia_ and her relationship with Amado. 'Did you know what was in those boxes you were seen carrying on the CCTV film?' Antonio asked her.

'No,' she replied. 'As far as I was concerned I was just helping Amado. I was standing nearby and there were many boxes to carry inside, so I helped.' With Antonio's prompting she then described what her job on the election project entailed.

'And were you aware that money had changed hands over the contents of those boxes?' he asked her.

'No way,' she replied. 'For most of that day I wasn't with Amado. I was busy photographing Señor Cebrian and his various activities around the town. The only time I was near Amado was when we carried the boxes into the polling station.'

'Were you aware that there were ballot papers inside the boxes?'

'Absolutely not,' Elena replied vehemently.

'During the day did you catch sight of anybody altering or filling out the ballot papers?' Antonio asked.

'No. I repeat that for most of the day I was being driven around the town to different venues. By the time we got back to the main polling station the polls were closed.' Her voice was gaining in confidence.

Antonio continued with more questions to back up her statements. Eventually, the moment I was dreading arrived, when the prosecutor rose to his feet to question her. He began in a sarcastic tone.

'Can you please describe for me and for the benefit of the court, your relationship with Amado Gonzales?'

Elena said he was her boyfriend.

'At the time of the events on the election day,' the prosecutor pursued, 'would you describe Amado as your lover?'

Elena looked horrified. 'He was my boyfriend!' she shouted.

'Ok,' the prosecutor fired back. 'But the night before the election, did you stay with him and sleep with him?'

'Objection,' Antonio said rising out of his seat. 'I don't see what relevance that has to the case.'

The lady judge asked the prosecutor to elucidate.

'I am only trying to establish how close the bond was between the two defendants, particularly during the few days each side of the election,' he replied.

The judge thought for a few moments before speaking to Elena, 'You don't have to answer the question about being Señor Gonzales lover, but you must confirm, or not, whether you were staying together during the election.'

'We stayed in a hotel together,' Elena said sharply. The prosecutor continued.

'So would it be reasonable to assume that during those few days you were close confidents.'

'I guess so, but we didn't talk a lot about his work. Our work conversations were mainly about the things I had done and photographed during the day, which I'd found exciting.'

The prosecutor continued to ask her awkward and pertinent questions, which I could see she was having difficulty with. I just hoped she wasn't going to lose her temper. Finally he stood close to her and said, 'I put it to you that you were well aware what was in the boxes that have been mentioned and that you were also complicit in assisting your boyfriend in committing these crimes.'

'I absolutely deny that,' Elena shouted back at him.

He'd finished his questions and I could see tears leaking from Elena's eyes as she walked back to her seat at the table. Antonio comforted her as she sat down.

The two lawyers then both made their final statements. They both tended to gabble in Spanish so I was unable to translate most of it, but the essence of their respective addresses followed the course of their previous questions. It was late in the afternoon when they finished. The woman judge said she and her colleagues would need time to consider their verdict. As a result she adjourned the case until the following morning, when they would announce their decision.

Outside the court room Elena buried herself into her parents arms. Before we left she had a brief word with Amado, then her parents and I decided she needed a meal before travelling home, so the four of us found a suitable restaurant. It was a delicate and difficult hour or so. Her parents didn't speak any English so I mainly let them talk amongst themselves. When I dropped Elena off at her apartment later, I asked if she wanted me to come inside, but she said she would prefer to be alone.

That night there were demonstrations on the streets of Albacete. Mostly, the marchers were supporters of the _Fe Jons,_ complaining about police intervention into the running of the election at the seat they had just won. Confrontation occurred. Water cannon and tear gas were used by the police. Before I went to bed I tried telephoning Taylor, but got no response. I guessed the lucky man was back in the mountains.

* * * * *

Next morning Elena and I made another early start for Albacete. I could see how worried she was. 'If they find me guilty they will send me to jail,' she said at one point during the journey.

'Don't forget Antonio said he would appeal if the verdict went against you.' I replied. 'That could take months. You'd still probably be allowed bail.' I put my foot down on the accelerator in an attempt to speed us along.

Outside the court house there were again many cameramen awaiting us. We pushed through the melée to be greeted inside by the concerned faces of her parents. Antonio was soon with us, telling us all not to worry. Amado only briefly acknowledged our party before we were all ushered into the court room. Once more the public space was filled with reporters and members of the _Fe Jons_ party, including Cebrian.

Slowly, calmly and with solemn countenance, the three robed judges made their way, in single file, to their seats behind the raised bench. The clerk of the court then read out several statements and notices, most of which I didn't understand. He then asked the two defendants to stand. At that moment I was still unsure what the outcome would be.

The lady judge was again the one who did the talking. She looked down at her notes and referred firstly to Amado. She said that she and her two colleagues had all agreed he was guilty of the charges claimed.

A communal gasp filled the court room. The judge added that there had been clear evidence from the witnesses and the CCTV images, of him carrying out all of the unlawful actions of which he had been charged. His punishment could well involve a prison sentence, she continued, so she would have to refer the matter to a higher court. Amado turned with a scowl to face his supporters. The result was an uproar from the _Fe Jons_ party members. The clerk called for silence two or three times. He then threatened to clear the court. When the hubbub quietened I still feared the worst.

The judge referred once more to her notes, then looked at Elena. My heart was in my mouth. The courtroom had gone silent. In her case she said all the judges had agreed that she was a victim of circumstances and was therefore not guilty of any of the crimes. Without realising it I pumped my fist in the air. Elena's mother put her arms around my shoulder and hugged me. There was more noisy reaction from the public area. Elena turned around and hugged and kissed her parents.

When matters had settled down Amado, Morales and his team went over to the clerk's desk to make arrangements for the continuation of the case. I noticed that Elena tried to make contact with Amado, but he appeared not to want to know and kept his back to her, so we all left the court room. Outside we thanked and shook hands with Antonio and his team. Then the four of us decided to seek a meal. First though we had to again contend with the microphones and cameras. Somehow we managed to get through. This time our meal was a far more relaxed occasion. Afterwards Elena decided to spend a few days with her parents so I drove home alone. When I got there I put in calls and an e-mail to Taylor, still to no response. I thought it strange as I knew how much he wanted to know about Elena's trial.

That night and for the next couple of nights there were more demonstrations and trouble on the streets of Albacete. The _Fe Jons_ activists had been joined by other sections of the population, complaining about the economy, unemployment and taxes. Clashes with the police became violent. Blood was spilt, casualties were numerous.

CHAPTER NINE

The next day I received a telephone call from Ben Saunders, my agent. 'I've had a telephone call from Daniel Day saying that the response to your articles has been favourable.'

'Good,' I interjected. 'When am I going to get paid?'

I heard him laugh. 'You know full well that all newspapers are eternally slow in paying out.'

I went on to tell him a little about Elena and her troubles. 'Ben I need that money as quickly as possible. Can you chase Day up?' We talked some more then rang off.

I still couldn't get any response to my communications to Taylor and it continued to trouble me. I knew his mobile was often out of range in the mountains, but I'd left a message on his voicemail about Elena. When we'd last spoken he'd specifically asked me to let him know the outcome of her trial and I was sure he would have been back to me about it. By then I was also anxious to know of his intentions regarding Browne. If necessary I was prepared to help him to try and recover his money and assist with the aspect of plagiarism.

When, by the next day, I had still heard nothing I decided to take a drive to his apartment in Benidorm. I rang on his doorbell but there was no response. When I pressed on the bell next door fortunately the same lady opened up. She recognised me from before. It seems there had been trouble. 'Señor Taylor has not been around for some time,' she told me. 'But his apartment has been burgled,' she continued. 'We found the lock broken and the door open. We had to send for the police,' she added. 'The concierge had to repair the lock.' She didn't know what had been taken.

I thanked her and said I would tell Taylor when I found him. I guessed it was going to take another trip into the mountains to achieve that. I did, however, wonder if the burglary was more than just a simple break in.

Later on I telephoned Daniel Day in London. He sounded pleased to hear from me. 'Your articles have been well received,' he said.

'Well that's why I'm phoning you,' I responded, then told him about wanting to help Taylor some more. 'If I do, would you publish more follow-ups on the outcome of the money owed and the plagiarism aspects?' I asked.

'Sure,' he replied, 'if they are of the same quality as before.'

'And would you pay me?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Any chance of getting the money for the last ones. Times are tough for a struggling author.'

He chuckled. 'Your agent has already been on to me about that. I've arranged for a cheque to be sent to him within the next seven days.'

* * * * *

When Elena returned from her parents home I called in to see her. The previous strain was gone from her face and eyes. The break had obviously done her good. I was greeted with warmth. 'I'm sure I wouldn't have got off the charge if I hadn't listened to your advice about changing my lawyer,' she said to me.

She was concerned to learn about my problems in tracing Taylor. I brought her up to date on the newspaper articles and my intention to assist him in that respect. There was a backlog of work on her desk, so I wasn't surprised that my request for a date that evening was politely rejected. I did manage to persuade her into a tentative agreement to dine out on the Saturday night.

'I'm going to have to go back up into the mountains to search for him again,' I said. 'You wouldn't want to come with me would you?'

She looked at me in silence for a few moments then down at the outstanding work on the desk. 'Can you hold on until Sunday?' she said.

'If it means having you with me, yes,' I replied, then explained about the waterfall. A frown crossed her forehead, but she agreed to go with me anyway.

Over the next few days, while I got on with my novel, I continued to issue texts and voicemails to Taylor's number, still without response.

* * * * *

My meal out with Elena on Saturday evening was pleasant enough although we again both went our separate ways afterwards. Early on Sunday morning I was again waiting outside her apartment in my car. I had advised her to wear strong walking boots and bring a torch. During the journey I asked if she'd heard from Amado.

'No, nothing,' she replied. 'I think I may be better off keeping out of that one.'

An hour or so later we were at the top of the mountain road. Firstly I took her to the spot where Taylor parked his car. There, amongst the trees we found the Opel. 'Oh hell,' I said. 'I hope he isn't ill or injured. He still hasn't replied to any of my messages, which is unlike him, of recent times anyway.'

While we organised ourselves for the climb I pointed out the cave that led to the waterfall. 'Are you willing to try that way?' I asked. 'Also it's the way Taylor would have gone, so if he's injured, he may be somewhere along that route.'

'As long as you promise not to fall into the water,' she replied. 'I've had enough trauma recently, thank you.'

Pretty soon I was having trouble keeping up with her on the path. Regularly I needed to stop and take on water. The weather was bright and clear.

It wasn't long before we were at the cave, then crawling on our hands and knees through the tunnel. Soon the crashing sound of the waterfall began to echo through the tunnel towards us. 'Robert this is some place,' she shouted to me. 'You have impressed me. I didn't know you had it in you.' Neither did I, I thought.

With every yard the thundering noise became louder. We needed the torches. Some way along I was able to turn my head around to talk to her. 'From now on,' I shouted, 'you won't be able to hear me.' Briefly I explained about the ledge and having to go under the waterfall. The previous confident look on her face evaporated. We moved on slowly forward.

The noise inside the cavern was deafening. We were standing up again by then. I shone my torch to illuminate the cascading water and upwards to the domed ceiling. Her hand was covering her mouth in amazement at the spectacle. With my torch, I pointed out the ledge under the waterfall and the way we would have to go. She looked at me sceptically. I beckoned for us to go slowly and led the way. On the ledge I reached behind for her hand to hold on to. That way we inched precariously across. I didn't dare look down. The spray was continually dampening my body. Somehow we made it to the other side. Then, with the torch, I illustrated the protruding rocks we needed to tackle to get up to the higher shelf. I continued to lead. I needed her help to bunk me up, and pulled her up after me. When we were on the shelf standing upright she fluttered her hand in front of her face in mock relief. I could see she was astonished by the ferocity and volume of the water. She took some flash photographs.

Soon we were crawling on our knees again. 'Robert you are the most amazing man,' I heard her say when the sound of the waterfall had receded behind us.

We struggled along, with me puffing and panting in front. Once we were able to stand we could talk again properly. 'Robert that is the most fantastic place I have ever been to. You must have been very brave to tackle that waterfall?'

'Well I did have Taylor with me.'

'On the way back I want to take some more photos.'

'There's some fabulous views from the cave's entrance,' I said. We tramped on. Soon daylight became visible. 'Wow,' Elena exclaimed when she first saw the vista out across the mountain ranges. I was beginning to smile, then, to my horror I spotted something which instantly brought me out in a cold sweat. In the corner, lying on the cave floor was David Taylor's dead body. I moved hesitatingly towards him. I could see a bullet hole on the side of his head and blood on the ground below him.

Elena still hadn't spotted him. Her attention had been distracted by the panoramic view. 'Don't look this way,' I said, but of course she did. A spine chilling scream shrieked from her mouth and echoed around the mountains.

* * * * *

Over the next few days chaos reigned. Most of it was harrowing. After walking around searching to find a mobile signal we were able to phone the _Guardia._ They sent out a helicopter. When it arrived it blew ferocious gusts of air which forced us into the far corners of the cave. Two policemen and a paramedic came down to the cave's mouth on a winch. Then there was the business of medically confirming Taylor's death and the bagging of his body, before winching it up to the helicopter. All of which Elena and I found particularly distressing. After explaining to the men about her photography work for the _Guardia_ , she tentatively took some shots of Taylor's body and the bullet wound, for their purposes. The experience clearly shattered her. Afterwards we sat at the other end of the cave's mouth, attempting to avoid the unpleasant scenes taking place behind us.

By then our sweat drenched chilled bodies were shaking with fear and emotion. Our clothes hung damply against our skin. The _Guardia_ tried to explain that there was no room for us on the helicopter. It took some time and also a degree of argumentative persuasion to get them to agree to come back for us. No way could we have contemplated the route back through the waterfall. Thankfully Elena was a Spanish national for whom they had some compassion.

Waiting three thousand feet above sea level, shivering intensely, only increased our ongoing feelings of hypothermia. Half an hour later the sight of the helicopter on the skyline somewhat eased our anxiety. The fierce downdraft from the helicopter's blades again engulfed the entrance to the cave. There followed the scary death defying business of winching us up separately. Then there was an uncomfortable flight back to our car. With hindsight I may have preferred the waterfall route.

From the helicopter window, we could eventually see an ambulance and several police cars. When we disembarked there was more disagreement. The police wanted to take us back to the police station for questioning. No way, we argued vehemently. Their man said they'd need to know why we were there, who we were and how we'd discovered Taylor's body and what we knew about him. We explained about our physical condition and the shock of discovering our friend dead. Elena's pleading again about her recent employment with them helped. The verdict of the paramedics clinched the decision. After they'd inspected us, they declared we were not in a fit state to drive. So we travelled in a police car to Elena's apartment, while a policeman drove my car. Even then, when we got there, they required sight of all our documents and withheld both our passports before they left. They said they would send a car for us next morning.

Elena brewed hot coffee, laced with brandy. As all the emotion finally seeped out we needed to hold on to each other for comfort. By then it was early evening. Elena found some pizzas in the fridge, which we somehow downed with more brandy and coffee. Afterwards, not for the first time, I slept on her sofa, while she went alone to her own bed. My brandy induced sleep was dominated by crazy dreams of Taylor's corpse and the bloody hole in the side of his head. I slept but it was not what I would call restful in any way.

CHAPTER TEN

Very early next morning, before dawn, after partaking of coffee and muesli with Elena, I returned to my apartment. We were not due to be picked up by the _Guardia_ until later on and I wanted to get details of yesterday's events to Daniel Day's newspaper as quickly as possible. So I phoned the night editor in London. Not long afterwards Day phoned me back. I told him that I wanted to write a piece for him to publish immediately. The police examination of Taylor's body at the cave had revealed that there had been no robbery. His wallet, his mobile phone and his camera were still with him, but no laptop. 'Royston had very few friends left in the world, let alone enemies,' I continued to say to Day. 'I can only think that it had something to do with Scott-Browne,' I said. 'Taylor was a once famous writer who has been murdered in Spain. Surely that alone is newsworthy.'

He agreed instantly to take it on board. I sent an e-mail to Ben Saunders on the matter. Then I settled down to write. I tried to write the piece from my heart, but it also needed to be journalistic and factual, a somewhat difficult task for a novelist. It took an hour or so to complete, but eventually I bagged it as best I could and e-mailed it to Day, with a copy for Saunders and Elena. Before I left to return to Elena's apartment I put in a telephone call to Williamson. He said he would go that morning to see if the Bentley was still outside Browne's villa.

I arrived back at Elena's apartment before the _Guardia_ got there. She'd read my piece on Taylor and thought it good. 'Perhaps you should have been a journalist,' she said to me. 'Maybe you're better when you have an instant deadline to meet.'

'Thanks very much,' I replied cynically. 'It's not a profession I'd choose to work in though.'

We discussed what might await us at the offices of the _Guardia_ _Civil_. I suggested that she should continue to stress her recent employment with them. 'It might save us some aggro,' I added.

'You know Robert, these last few weeks all I seem to do is deal with police, lawyers and courts. I've never known anything like it in my life before.'

'You'd better prepare yourself for some more,' I said. 'I expect there will be an inquest at sometime or another.' More frown lines appeared on her brow.

That day our meeting with the _Guardia_ at Benidorm was both tiring and time consuming. They required fingerprints and DNA samples. We were informed that they had brought Taylor's car down from the mountainside. I asked, and was told, there was no laptop in it. I said they should check his apartment to see if it had been stolen in the burglary there. They agreed to do that. Then there followed endless questioning, firstly individually and then together. When I advised them of our involvement with Taylor over his problems with Scott-Browne they brought in another chief inspector, with whom I had to go over it all again. He wanted to know what we knew of Taylor's background. In all we were in there for six hours, which after the previous day's trauma was both mentally and physically draining. Eventually we pleaded for rest, so they adjourned the session until the following day. They said when we returned that they would require copies of my articles and Elena's photos. Our passports were still withheld.

Later in the day Williamson phoned me back. He had been to the seafront at Mijas and confirmed that the Bentley was no longer there. He'd nosed around, he said. There was no sign of the dog. 'I tried the neighbours and made some excuse about wanting to tell Browne about a forthcoming race meeting,' he continued. 'But they hadn't seen him for a couple of days.' We talked some more. He told me he wished to be involved in helping out with Taylor's affairs. I promised I'd let him know when something positive was arranged.

Next morning I received messages from Saunders and Day. 'Your writings are making headline news,' Saunders said in his e-mail. 'The other newspapers are now hot onto the story. Day has spaced your article into two pieces on different days. I've asked him to give you some publicity for your previous books. He's done that on the second one. Your publishers have also been on the phone to me. They're anxious to get your latest novel out to take advantage of the publicity. I'm almost scared to ask how it's going. Perhaps you'll let me know, then I can at least give them something positive.' His words made me even more conscious that I had done nothing on the novel for a few days.

Day's e-mail congratulated me on my writings and attached copies of the finished articles. He asked if I required any journalistic assistance. It was something I needed to think about as I was falling badly behind schedule on my novel. In previous e-mails I had asked him to keep my whereabouts secret, but I guessed the other newshounds would now soon find where I was. Then I could be completely snowed under and would probably need help.

Elena and I took with us the details and the documents the Guardia required when we met up again with Gomez that afternoon. He told us that a search had been put out for Browne. Elena's photo shots enabled them to blow up the picture of the Bentley to view the number plate, which was British. Her pictures of him and the car were circulated to all police stations in the area while we were there. For some time I went over at length, with the other senior detective, everything I knew of the difficulties Taylor had been experiencing with Browne. I described the history of it all, the plagiarism, the money owed, our encounter at the race track and the summons we served on Browne there. Another detective took notes and all our conversations were recorded on tape. Most of the time Elena was able to sit with me to add details of her involvement. Again it was another long, tiring and brain draining session. They told me that no laptop had been discovered at Taylor's apartment. 'It must have been stolen then,' I responded. 'That means that all our e-mails and details would be available to whoever has got it now,' I continued. After the meeting our passports were returned to us.

* * * * *

Over the next few days there was much media activity in our locality relating to the murder. The crime was featured on the local TV station and in the local press. Even El Pais, the main national newspaper of Spain, carried a small piece about it on their front page. According to a statement released by the _Guardia_ , 'An Englishman was helping them with enquiries.' That man being me, although I was of course a Welshman. Fortunately at the time most of the media activity was centred in Benidorm.

I was lucky. An Englishman in the Benidorm area is like referring to a Pakistani man in Bradford. Thousands of Englishmen live in and around the town. I had also asked the _Guardia_ to keep my identity and whereabouts a secret. However, during her work travels about the area, Elena was getting word that the press in particular had been sniffing about asking if I was staked out there. They were familiar with my articles on the matter and also that I was a writer of novels.

During the time I had resided there I hadn't advertised my method of employment much amongst the locals. My original intention on purchasing my apartment had been to provide a bolt hole, where I could get my head down and work on my novels in peace. Unfortunately at that moment my publishers were anxious to cash in on my new found fame and provided the newspapers with publicity material relating to me, which contained related photographs.

Then Elena telephoned me one evening. 'Someone I know in town has been asked about you,' she said. 'They were shown a photograph. The people involved don't know where you live, but they did know you resided locally.'

'Oh Lord,' I responded. 'What do you think I should do?'

'Keep your head down and keep out of sight.'

'That'll be exciting.'

'Well I can do your shopping for you.'

'But I like to go out. I can't sit in here all day.'

'Well it's up to you,' she replied tetchily. 'Don't say I haven't warned you.'

For the rest of the day the matter haunted me. Being cooped up in my apartment all day was not my idea of living. But no way was I going to allow the newsboys to steal my thunder on the story. I also knew that any imposed purdah would provide me with a much needed opportunity to concentrate on my novel.

Elena called at my apartment that evening with the bits and pieces of shopping I had asked her to get for me. 'I've had an idea,' I said to her after I had poured out two large glasses of wine. She fixed on me with a frown. 'I don't much like the idea of being a recluse,' I continued.

'And?'

'I think I'll take myself off to the mountains for a couple of days, just as Taylor did. The weather's set fair for the rest of the week. By then it'll be old news and the media will have given up and gone home.'

I could see the storm welling up inside her. 'That's just ridiculous,' she responded. 'How are you going to write your book up there? And how are you going to get under that waterfall by yourself?' I could see her patience running thin.

'I can take my laptop with me. And if you were very kind you could lend me your re-charger, to keep my laptop going.'

'And what happens if you drop it and your laptop into the water?'

'Then I'll have to buy you another one.'

'What if you fall into the water with them?'

'Then I won't be able to buy you another one. You'll have to claim it from my estate afterwards.' She looked exasperated.

'I never heard anything so stupid in all my life. What are you going to eat?'

'I'm only talking about a couple of days. I can take enough with me for that length of time. I used to be a boy scout you know,' I said with a dismissive wave of my arm.

'Words fail me,' she responded.

'Good,' I said.

There were only a few more terse words between us before she left. I did, however, manage to persuade her to lend me her re-charger.

'You can pick it up in the morning,' she'd said curtly. 'But don't expect me to be pleasant to you. It's the craziest idea I've ever heard.' Then she was gone leaving half of her wine unfinished.

* * * * *

In the morning I set off early for her apartment. On the previous day I had purchased bread, ham and cheese. I pressed on her door intercom with trepidation. I was invited up. Fearing the worst, I was taken aback when I saw her dressed in what looked like hiking clothes.

'I've decided that you're not safe to be trusted on your own,' she said before I could make any response. 'You're just too much of a liability to be let loose up there by yourself.' I was standing in front of her, in her doorway, in open mouthed amazement. 'I will take my own car and see you across the waterfall, then come back by myself,' she continued. 'And I'll do the same when you come back down. That way I won't blame myself if something happens to you. I've also packed some tortilla in my knapsack which you can take on with you.'

I was too astonished to say much. So that's what we did. I drove to the mountain in my car and Elena followed in hers with the re-charger and extra food supplies. When we reached the top of the mountain road, I parked my car amongst the trees where Taylor had hidden his. Elena accompanied me to the waterfall, helped me across, then watched as I climbed up the rock steps to the top ledge. Once I was up there we waved to each other, before she went back down the tunnel. As I was struggling with the two knapsacks through the narrow aperture upwards, I thought that perhaps she did love me after all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

While I was resident on the mountain all sorts of machinations occurred relating to Taylor's death. By moving around I was able to get a mobile signal at certain spots and Elena kept me up to date during my absence. I also received calls from Williamson, confirming that Browne had left the area. He'd made various visits to the villa, but there was no still no sign of man, dog or Bentley. Therefore he made enquiries with his pals at the racecourse. It seems Browne had definitely done a runner, and under a bit of a cloud. There was an outstanding bar bill and various other large debts with bookmakers. Williamson told me that the course had suspended his membership, after instructing the police.

Elena related that there was still newspaper activity in town regarding my presence there. They'd tried contacting her, but she'd kept a low profile around town and didn't answer her doorbell. An inquest on Taylor's death had been set for the middle of the following week, at which I was required to attend. In addition, there had been a sighting on CCTV cameras of Browne's Bentley, on the main road out of Sevilla, heading towards the Portuguese border. The _Guardia_ said that the sighting of it was before the estimated date of Taylor's death. The police in Portugal had been alerted, as well as the law and immigration at Gibraltar.

Luckily for me the weather during my time in the mountains was superb. The days were warm and long, the nights clear, starlit and balmy. As a result, once I'd organised somewhere comfortable to sit, out of the glare of the sun, I was able to do quite a lot of work on my novel. My only disturbance was the sight and sounds of the nearby roaming wild animals. Up there when sitting quietly for long enough it's amazing how many creatures you can spot close by. Suddenly, you realise you are surrounded by a whole host of goats, sheep, foxes, wild boar and cats, all going quietly about their business, only a few yards away. As I had hoped a supply of Taylor's unused water remained in the jerry cans in the tunnel. After a few unsuccessful attempts I was able to light a fire at night in the cave's mouth and, with the aid of Elena's sleeping bags, settle to sleep. In between, to stretch my legs, I roamed the nearby hills. Surprisingly, and in view of our discovery of Taylor's dead body there, I didn't find it particularly frightening or lonely. In all it was idyllic. I don't know why I hadn't tried it before.

* * * * *

By the Saturday evening I was out of provisions. Elena told me on the phone that the newspaper people appeared to have left town.

'Can you come and rescue me in the morning then please?' I asked her when we spoke.

'No,' she replied. 'I've decided to leave you up there. I seem to get more done when you're not around.'

'Thanks very much!' I responded. Anyway we arranged to meet in the tunnel early next morning.

In many respects I was sorry to leave my mountain eyrie. I decided I would be back again soon. On the Sunday morning I saw Elena's flashlight on the other side of the waterfall. Somehow, I managed to scramble by myself down the rocky steps. Afterwards I was grateful to clasp onto her outstretched hand as I edged across the ledge under the waterfall. Because of the surrounding difficulties we were only able to exchange smiles. Soon we were on our hands and knees, crawling downwards through the tunnel. We couldn't converse much until we reached the cave opening. Much to my delight however, we did indulge in a comforting embrace when we were finally standing upright.

She had brought with her a flask of hot coffee. While supping on the warm sweet liquid I could see her car parked at the top end of the mountain road. 'What's that by your car?' I said urgently. We both stared. I handed her my cup and reached inside the knapsack for my binoculars. Through them I could see a man looking around the outside of her car and peering into the windows. It appeared he had a rifle slung over his right shoulder.

'What do you think?' I said. We swapped. She took the binoculars. I held the cups. Her eyes were better than mine anyway. She took a few moments to focus in properly.

'Could be a hunter,' she said. 'A lot of them do come up here. You can see that by the number of spent cartridges on the track.'

'Where's his car then?'

'He could have walked from the other mountain. You know from your time with Royston that people roam all over these hills for days.'

'I don't like the look of the rifle,' I responded. 'Can you hone in closer?' The man was still moving around her car. He was dressed predominantly in green hiking clothes.

'It looks a bit of a weapon,' she said to me. She was familiar with guns and rifles from her police work. 'It's got a telescopic sight, but he'd need that anyway if he was a proper hunter.'

'He's moving away,' I said. We watched the man walk across the road. 'He's going down the track towards my car,' I whispered. In a few moments he was out of sight behind the big rock. 'Let's see what happens.' We both got down on the ground. I pulled the sleeping bag out of the knapsack to make it more comfortable for us to lie out flat. I let Elena continue with the binoculars.

For quite some time nothing happened. We thought we'd lost him. Then when I spotted him again he was walking up the mountain track towards us. 'There he is,' I whispered and pointed.

'Got him.' Elena said refocusing. 'Robert I don't like this. He doesn't look very pleasant.'

'Let's give it a minute,' I said. About a quarter of a mile, along the path, there is a turn off, where you either take the route to the cave, or carry on up the way we first climbed to the top. 'Let's see what he does,' I added. 'Shit!' I said three or four minutes later. 'He's coming this way.'

We had to decide quickly what to do. In the mouth of the cave, if the guy was really looking for trouble, we'd be sitting ducks. The same would apply if we met him on the path. 'Let's get out of here,' I said. 'Just pray he hasn't spotted us.' We needed to get down below and hide amongst the scrub. Beneath us was an abundance of trees, bushes and shrubs, which would provide adequate cover as long as we were quick and quiet in getting there. It would be sometime before the man got that far along the track.

Scrambling and scurrying like demented rabbits being chased, we were soon off those cliffs and delving into the undergrowth. To move fast without breaking twigs and snapping branches, was a problem. We found a spot behind a boulder, surrounded by a dense cluster of shrubs. From there, by poking the binoculars through the foliage, I had a good view of about ten or fifteen yards of the track. Elena had also brought her telephoto lens camera, with the silent shutter, which she also poked through the shrubbery. I made sign language for absolute silence. No speaking, no moving. From under our feet I moved a few twigs and sticks we may possibly tread on in our excitement.

Eventually our man appeared near us on the track. I focussed in on him with the binoculars. Elena did the same with the camera. He looked as though he could be a big bundle of trouble. He must have been six two, six three in height and about sixteen stone. He was wearing green fatigues over a check shirt and carrying a small knapsack. He bore a large walrus moustache. He looked skin headed, but was wearing a small wool skull cap. His arms were thick, like tree trunks. The rifle looked menacing. Not a man to cross on a dark night, or for that matter an isolated mountainside I thought. The sun was out and I could see him clearly. Elena was snapping away by my side.

I held my breath when he walked past. For some moments we were both paralysed with fear. Fortunately he kept moving on up the track. I beckoned Elena to crouch down further. I didn't want him to spot us when he looked back from the cave.

We watched as he climbed into the cave's mouth, then turned around to look outwards. For some time he stood surveying the view, with a pair of binoculars. We crouched even lower. After some more moments the man took a slug from a hip flask, then turned back inside the cave. I whispered to Elena that we would wait a quarter of an hour. I didn't want him coming back to the cave's mouth and picking us off with that rifle. When I thought enough time had elapsed we slowly edged down alongside the track, trying to keep under the cover of the bushes and trees. By the time we made it to Elena's car our arms and legs had been scratched mercilessly.

'Don't stop now,' I said to her. 'We need to get away from here as fast as possible. 'Let me see if my car's intact.' I ran that way while she turned her car around.

Mine was OK and started first time. I reversed out onto the road and we both drove down to the village faster than we had ever done before.

* * * * *

An incident like that was worrying for both of us. We knew we were going to have to contend with more publicity at the inquest in the middle of that week. Now this other new danger had suddenly presented itself. The man on the mountain could well have been just an ordinary hunter, roaming the hills for game. Somehow though, my sixth sense told me something else. And I was worried about Elena. There'd been Royston Taylor's murder and before that her court trial with Amado for her to deal with. I knew she was a strong woman, but there's only so much anybody can cope with and I wasn't going to allow her to take any more chances on my behalf. After much discussion, although she pleaded about work to catch up on, I managed to persuade her to accompany me to the _Guardia Civil's_ office at Benidorm next morning.

* * * * *

We'd phoned ahead and asked to see Chief Inspector Gomez, whom we'd met before. This time we were ushered upstairs into his spacious office. He was a square jawed, dark haired, middle aged man, with a swarthy slightly pock marked face and was wearing glasses. Overhead, above his desk, was a large rotating fan which kept the room cool. Between us we described the events of the previous day on the mountain. I emphasised my concern about reprisals in view of our involvements with Taylor, Browne and the up and coming court inquest. He listened attentively. Elena showed him the photographs she had taken of the man with the rifle. She had also brought with her the camera, so they could download the images on to their computer. The inspector instructed one of his minions to set up a search process. 'Are you asking for security?' he then asked us.

'I guess we're seeking your advice on that,' I replied. He looked at me quizzically over the top of the glasses, then snapped back at me.

'I specifically asked you to remain in your apartment until after the inquest. We can't take care of either of you if you go traipsing off into the mountains.'

Elena looked across at me. 'I accept that,' I responded. 'At the time I was attempting to escape from journalists because of the publicity surrounding my articles on the matter. No way would I have gone into the mountains, or risked taking Elena with me, if I'd been aware of these possibilities,' I argued while pointing at her photographs.

'We'll wait to see what the search tells us about the man,' Gomez replied. 'It could take some time. In the meantime you must both go back to your apartments and remain indoors until I contact you again. I will organise a police car to follow you to your homes. It is only two days until the inquest. If necessary we will review the situation after that.'

So that's what happened. A police car followed mine to Elena's apartment. Throughout the journey she bewailed about getting further behind with her work. The police car then tailed me back to my place. When I was inside I put in a call to Williamson.

'Oh Lord,' he responded when I updated him on events. 'You two must take care. I'm convinced that poor Royston's death has something to do with this awful man Browne,' I could hear his chest wheezing as he spoke. He went on to tell me that he was planning to come to Benidorm for the inquest and repeated his intention to help with Taylor's arrangements thereafter. He said had already contacted the British Embassy and he told me they were attempting to get in touch with his ex-wife. To that date Taylor's body still hadn't been released, but once it was, after the inquest, there would be a funeral, which Williamson was prepared to organise. 'It's the least I can do,' he said. 'I've known him for so long.' I was relieved to hear about that.

Later in the afternoon I received a telephone call from Gomez. Their searches had not revealed the identity of the man in Elena's photographs. 'I still think it better if you both stay in your apartments until after the inquest,' he said. 'I will send a car to take you both to the court on that day,' he said. 'We will then review the situation.'

When I phoned Elena with the news I had to listen to another tirade about the effect these matters were having on her business. 'How can I do my work if I can't go out,' she wailed at me down the phone. I had a feeling that my recently acquired Brownie points were very rapidly disappearing. I also still had a fear that the man we saw on the mountain had indeed been looking for us, but for the time I held my tongue on that one.

During those days I became like a caged lion. Cooped up in my apartment was mind numbing. I longed for the open spaces and fresh air of the mountains. Feelings of guilt over Elena's situation only added to my general depression. My enforced incarceration automatically removed any excuses I may have conjured up about getting on with my novel. Each time we spoke on the phone Elena pointedly asked me how many pages I'd written since our previous conversation.

* * * * *

On the morning of the inquest both Elena and I were driven separately to Benidorm in police cars. A media scrum was again awaiting outside the court house. This time however, a large police presence cleared a path for us. I had arranged with the _Guardia_ to admit Williamson and we met up inside. Only identifiable members of the media were allowed into the court, apart from the lawyers and court officials. Thankfully Antonio was also allowed to attend, although he had no specific roll to play. The room was small and a relative haven of tranquillity after the commotion outside. The coroner began by outlining the details and the procedure. He spoke entirely in Spanish and I had to rely on Elena, who was sitting alongside me, to translate.

To begin with, the police, the forensic people, the doctors and the pathologist gave their evidence. They were all questioned by a state lawyer. Their combined verdict confirmed that Taylor had been shot in the head by a single bullet, which was probably fired by an automatic rifle. It was stated that there was no evidence of Taylor possessing a firearm. The autopsy revealed no traces of anything similar on his hands and body. The opinion was that he had been dead for a day or so when we found him.

Afterwards Elena was called to the stand. Again, I could only follow snippets of the dialogue between her and the lawyer, although throughout her time on the stand she looked upset and distressed. Basically she told them about our trip up the mountain to search for Taylor. Then she began to cry while relating the horror of discovering his dead body. I felt awful at putting her through such an ordeal. One of the forensic people was brought back to confirm that there was no evidence of Elena's DNA on Taylor's body. She was then allowed to stand down.

I was next up. Because of my poor facility with the Spanish language it had been agreed that the court would provide an interpreter, albeit that the state lawyer and the coroner did both speak a little English, which helped. The lawyer began by asking me to describe my background with Taylor and the reasons for my recent involvement with him. My replies concluded with me relating the problems with Scott-Browne and the newspaper articles I had written, copies of which were shown in court. 'Why did you go up the mountain on that day?' the lawyer asked me.

'Because I hadn't heard from him for a few days and I was concerned about his welfare,' I replied. Then I told them about his habit of living in the mountains for days at a time and our worry about reprisals from Browne.

At that point the forensic man was re-introduced into the proceedings. He confirmed that there were samples of my DNA on Taylor's body. I told them that I had partially turned him over when I first saw his body, to ascertain the extent of his injuries. I then went on to relate what happened afterwards. Again it was a long and tiring session. At the end the lawyer asked me if I had any idea who might have killed Taylor.

'Not specifically,' I replied. 'At this juncture that would only be speculation, which probably wouldn't help.' I was repeating what Antonio had told me to say in one of our telephone conversations beforehand. Afterwards I was allowed to stand down.

The coroner called for a brief recess. Elena, Antonio and I were allowed into an ante room where we were able to speak with Williamson, who had taken our advice and appointed Antonio to look after Taylor's legal affairs in Spain. It wasn't long before we were called back in.

The coroner firstly read a resumé from a statement he had obviously prepared during the recess. Then he pronounced that Taylor's death was caused by a single bullet, fired by a person unknown. He was therefore prepared to release the body for funeral and hand the case over to the police for further investigation. From the court house Elena and I were taken directly to the police station.

We again saw Gomez. 'I am still concerned about our safety,' I said to him.

He advised care and not to go far from our apartments. 'I will organise for a police car to patrol regularly around the areas where you both live.' Elena bemoaned again about the effect on her work. Gomez shrugged his thickset shoulders and replied that they would continue with enquiries on the photographs she had provided. They were also still trying to catch up with Scott-Browne, he added.

I reiterated my concern about Taylor's stolen laptop and the e-mails it would contain to me and other matters relating to our investigations regarding Scott-Browne.

'This is now a murder investigation,' he stated forcefully. 'It will therefore have our fullest attention.'

Little did I realise at the time that all those events were only the beginnings of our troubles.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The days that followed continued to be depressing. I did venture around the town for shopping and to Elena's apartment but that was about it. She was in much the same mood, so when we did meet up we didn't bring each other much cheer.

Williamson was also in touch by telephone. Taylor's funeral had been set for a few days hence at the crematorium in Benidorm. He told me that he had managed to make contact with Taylor's ex-wife, who it appeared would be attending along with Taylor's brother. 'On the telephone she sounded rather awkward,' Williamson said to me.

'That's all we need,' I replied. 'I remember Taylor telling me that he had an awful time with her during their divorce.' He confirmed that he was dealing with Antonio on the matter.

I told him that subject to police approval I hoped to attend. Later on I telephoned Gomez to get clearance to go. He sighed, then reluctantly agreed for there to be a police presence at the crematorium. I informed Elena who agreed to come with me. The rest of my time was spent writing my novel, although my depressed mood didn't help in that respect. In between I received e-mails from Saunders demanding information on its progress. 'Haven't you something I can send to your publisher?' he'd written. 'Anything to keep them quiet.' I duly obliged by sending him a few chapters.

The day of the funeral dawned warm, but windy. A south easterly had crept up from Africa making the streets around the town distinctly draughty. Elena travelled with me in my car. The turnout at the crematorium was sparse. Apart from the funeral directors, initially only Williamson, Antonio, Elena and me were present. On our way in we spotted two policemen in a police car in the car park. Then when we were inside the chapel, waiting for the service to begin, a tall elegant woman strode in, accompanied by a man in his fifties. The woman was wearing a dark grey two piece suit and high heels. Her haughty manner was intimidating. She possessed light brown hair, tied up in a bun. Ignoring our group she sat at the far end of the front row, away from us. The man looked across towards us but said nothing. He was Taylor's brother. There was a vague resemblance, but you'd never have guessed it if you didn't know. Then I heard another movement behind us. I looked around and saw that a big, hefty thickset middle aged man, with grey hair, in a black suit had taken a seat in the back row. He didn't look Spanish. He also made no attempt to acknowledge us.

There was only a very brief reading by an official before the coffin was transported mechanically behind the screens. By the time I had turned into the aisle to make our way out the man behind us had gone. In the outside foyer Taylor's wife and the brother turned to face us.

'Which one of you is responsible for my husband's death?' she hollered loudly. The funeral directors all looked at her.

'I suppose indirectly I am,' I responded.

'What business have you nosing into other people's affairs like that, causing all this trouble?'

For a moment I was taken aback. I could feel Elena move towards me and she hooked her hand around my arm. 'Well I guess because he asked me to,' I replied. Yvonne Taylor looked at me with daggers in her eyes.

'Well have you got this money he's supposed to have been diddled out of?'

'Not as yet, but I am working on it.'

'Fancy plastering all his problems over the pages of the tabloid newspapers like that. You should be ashamed of yourself. And what has it resulted in? This,' she said and pointed to the inside of the chapel. 'I hope you are pleased with yourself?' I felt Elena's hand close tighter around my arm. 'His brother and I are his sole surviving relatives,' she continued, nodding her head in the man's direction. I could almost taste the venom emitting from her mouth. 'If there is any money due and recovered it has to come to us.'

Throughout most of her diatribe Antonio had been standing alongside me listening to the woman's vitriol. 'I'm afraid that depends on Mister Taylor's last will,' he intervened.

'And who are you?' the woman replied.

'I'm a Spanish lawyer, who is involved in this case,' he replied. 'Mister Taylor died in Spain. And, as he was a resident here that makes his estate subject to Spanish law.'

'We'll see the British Consul about that,' the brother interrupted for the first time. He was a tall gangling man, receding to baldness, with a small weak chin.

'By all means,' Antonio replied. 'Here is my card. You, or they are invited to call me at any time.'

'You'll be hearing from us,' the woman said and headed with the brother towards the car park. We all looked at each other. There was no sign out there of the man I'd seen at the back of the church. I did however spot Chief Inspector Gomez leaning against the police car, talking to the two policemen who were sat inside. Out of his office he looked taller and more bulky than I'd previously envisaged. There was a confrontational menace about him. I walked his way.

'Thanks for coming,' I said to him. 'Did you spot the man who came out earlier?' I asked.

'We did.'

'I don't think he has anything to do with Taylor's family,' I said. 'His wife and his brother were the other people you saw. They say he has no other surviving relatives and the man completely ignored them.'

'We have a picture of him,' the chief inspector said and pointed to a camera which was camouflaged into the back of the police car's rear view mirror. 'We'll put a trace on it. I'll let you know if anything comes of it.'

Inside the crematorium there was a small cafeteria, so Antonio, Williamson, Elena and I headed that way for some strong coffee.

'Leave me to deal with the ex-wife,' Antonio said when we were sitting at a table with four black coffees in front of us. 'Don't you three get involved in that. It may take some time, but I can find out if Taylor left a more recent will.' The rest of us nodded in appreciation.

'The events of his death have grounded my enquiries on the plagiarism aspects of his book,' I said.

'H'm,' Antonio sighed. 'You two must be very careful. We don't want anymore fatalities. I think you should both keep to town and the areas around your apartments until the police have more positive leads on all this.' I could see a look of exasperation spread across Elena's face.

'Perhaps I could do some of the leg work,' Williamson intervened. 'Hopefully if there are any idiots still at work on this they won't know much about me, as yet.'

'Well that's up to you,' Antonio responded, 'but all I can reiterate is extreme caution. It's obvious that we are dealing with very dangerous people.' The three of us again all nodded in agreement.

Antonio said he had to get back to work, but Williamson stayed on with Elena and me for a further round of coffees, during which I was able to bring him up to date on my progress with the matters of plagiarism. Being a fellow writer he was concerned about the situation and anxious to do what he could to help. He had many contacts in the publishing world and indicated he would be happy to pursue the details I had discovered with them. I promised to e-mail him with all the information. Then Elena and I had to make our way back to the semi-confinement of our respective apartments. A situation neither of us was happy with.

* * * * *

A couple of days later I received a telephone call from Gomez. 'This man who we saw at the crematorium has form,' he said to me. 'He could also be the man you saw on the mountain.' I was too stunned to make much response. 'He's Belgian and does have a history of violent crime,' Gomez added. 'I'm waiting for the written report, but I thought I had better phone you first.'

'So what do I do now?' I replied.

'Continue to do what I hope you have been doing. Keeping a low profile and staying close to your apartment. I'll continue to keep the patrols up near where you live and for the _se_ ñ _orita_ as well. I was going to phone her next.'

'Any news of Tyler Scott-Browne?' I asked.

'There was a sighting of the Bentley on a motorway camera in Portugal, but nothing more positive than that. I think if he is as cunning as you make out and is definitely on the run he would have got rid of that by now. It's too identifiable, but we'll keep investigating.'

I gave him time to telephone Elena, then later in the day I called at her apartment.

* * * * *

On my arrival there I had to listen to another tirade of frustrations regarding her confinement. 'It's all right for you, you can carry on with your work from home,' she said, amongst other things. 'To earn my living I have to get about in the community.' Sometimes when she got angry it made her look even more sexual. The pores in her skin seemed to come alive, illuminating all the sensuous aspects of her body. I almost responded by outlining my own frustrations regarding her but I held my tongue on that.

When she'd calmed down a little she poured us both a glass of red wine and we sat together on the settee in her lounge. 'I've heard that the authorities are pressing for a re-vote at Albacete,' she said. 'The local papers there are full of it. I'm told Cebrian has been stirring up all hell. And there are still demonstrations on the streets most nights.

'And what about your pal Amado?' I asked.

'He's out on bail awaiting his next trial.'

'Have you heard from him?'

'No, and I hope I don't.'

'So where does that leave us?'

Initially she looked at me intently. Those warm brown eyes held mine. Then to my surprise she lent towards me, moved her arms around my neck and pulled my head towards hers. We began kissing passionately. Hungrily her tongue engaged with mine. My hands slipped around her waist and I pulled her closer towards me.

When we came up for air she said, 'I'm still confused Robert. There's been so much trauma recently, so I just don't think I'm mentally stable enough at the moment to enter into anything sexual. My whole equilibrium has been turned upside down by all that's happened. I know you've been good to me and I'm grateful. And I also remember how it was with us before, but you have to give me a little time, please.'

Somehow, without me realising it my left hand was stroking her knee. She didn't remove it but in return rubbed my arm affectionately.

'Well, as it seems we're both going to have a certain amount of time on our hands, perhaps we can use it to try and get our act together again?'

'I'd like that very much,' she said and placed another warm kiss on my lips. The passion in it made me feel better than I'd felt for weeks.

* * * * *

So for the following few days we spent what you might call quality time together. The promenade seafront of our town is within short walking distance of our respective apartments and is usually busy with tourists. During most days, when we had completed our work tasks, we would stroll the mile or so to it's end and back. When it was really warm we'd take two deckchairs down onto the sandy beach. Elena would swim and I would watch her lithe body cavort amongst the waves and sunbathe. Nearly every other night we would dine out together, but each time afterwards we would make our separate ways to our own apartments.

Our relative peace was broken one morning when I received another telephone call from Gomez. He wanted to come to see us both, together if possible. I said I would walk to Elena's apartment and we could all meet up there.

What he told us when he arrived caused us both to shudder with fear and horror. We were standing, facing each other in her lounge. 'As I mentioned to you before, this man we saw at the crematorium does have form,' he began. 'You'd better sit down,' he continued and gestured to the settee. 'The man's name is Gerolt Beekman. He's Dutch,' he continued when we were both seated. He had remained standing. 'He is what's known in the trade as a hit man, an assassin, if you prefer.'

'Jesus Lord,' I said. I felt Elena shiver beside me and I put my hand onto her arm to try and placate her. 'No, I don't prefer,' I replied. 'What the hell are we supposed to do now?'

'Well it's entirely up to you, but I think we should put you in a safe place, until we get to the bottom of all of this.'

'If he is such a dangerous man, why was he able to get so close to us at the funeral?'

The inspector sighed and sat in a chair opposite us. 'One of his trademark peculiarities is that he is a master of disguise. He doesn't operate regularly and after he has undertaken a job, he disappears with a new disguise and new papers. When somebody gets a trace on him, he disappears again under another new identity. It's happened two or three times before. Somehow he seems to know when we are getting close to him.'

'Was he the man on the mountain?' Elena said.

'Quite possibly,' the chief inspector replied. 'We've tried to merge the two photo images,' he continued and then took some photographs from a file he had been carrying. 'As best as we can we've superimposed the image of the man at the crematorium onto the photo you took up the mountain. It isn't easy because the bodies are in different angles, and he's wearing different types of clothes, but as you can see there are definitely similarities in height and build.'

The inspector had given us prints in 3-d negative form in black and white. Elena snatched at them before my hands could make contact. 'I see what you mean,' she said. 'You know of course that I'm a photographer,' she continued. 'Could you download me your image? I could do more with this on my equipment.'

'Of course I can,' the chief inspector replied. 'But it's what to do about your safety that's paramount at the moment. Would you be prepared to stay in the same accommodation together? It would make it easier for us.'

We both looked at each other. 'It's possible,' I interjected quickly, 'but we would need to discuss it privately.'

'Yes of course, but you must make a decision quickly. In the short term I can put a guard in the foyer of both your apartments, but that would not be a long term solution.'

'This guy must have the cheek of old nick?' I said. 'I mean he walked in and out of the crematorium in broad daylight right in front of you.'

The inspector looked embarrassed. 'It seems that's been part of his modus operandi in the past. I repeat, the records show that his disguises have been very good. I can only say that his gall makes me more determined to catch him.'

'As long as he doesn't kill us first,' I said.

'At this moment that is my sole concern,' Gomez said. We talked some more then he left us. We agreed to let him have our decision about residing together in the morning.

* * * * *

After he had gone I poured us both large brandies. Before we supped on them I pulled Elena into my arms. 'Well it seems you've got your wish,' she said.

'What's that?'

'You've managed to get me back into cohabiting with you.'

I sniggered.

'I'm sure though it wasn't necessary to go to all these lengths,' she added and turned her eyes upward coyly towards mine. 'What happened to good old charm and romance?'

I laughed. Moved over to pick up the brandies. Handed her one, then said, 'It didn't seem to work with you.'

For the next hour or so we discussed the implications of moving in together. Part of the problem was that we'd never actually lived together before, just stayed overnight when the mood overtook us both. She remained concerned about the detrimental effect on her work. I retorted that her life was more important and stated that the money for the newspaper articles I'd written was forthcoming and that we'd share it for living expenses until it ran out. I maintained that I would respect her wishes not to sleep together if that was her wish. 'I suppose it will be an opportunity to see if we really do get on,' she exclaimed almost light-heartedly.

* * * * *

So that evening I collected a few clothes and overnight requirements from my dwelling. When I got back to her apartment she was dressed to go out to eat. A white shimmer effect dress dramatically set off her dark, shiny hair. When we got downstairs to the foyer I could see a police car parked outside at the kerbside. The officer inside rolled down the car window as we walked by and spoke to us in Spanish. 'Can you tell me where you are going?' he asked. Elena gave him the name of the restaurant. 'I am instructed to follow you,' he responded. 'My orders are that you are not to leave the town or drive anywhere by yourselves.' Elena looked at me then conversed with the officer some more. It seemed the alternative was for them to follow us at a discreet distance, or for us to cadge a lift. We opted for the latter. When we went inside the restaurant the police car remained on the pavement near the front door.

Our meal was pleasant enough and she looked very glamorous. We attempted to talk about matters not related to our incarceration. On the way home we accepted another lift. The thought of a police car trailing behind us through the streets of town was just too awful to contemplate. Inside the apartment I found it difficult to settle. Elena was preparing coffee and some more brandy. Through the windows I could see the most amazing things happening outside in the night sky.

'Come and take a look at this,' I called out, switched off the internal lights, and opened the patio doors. One of the other instructions we had received from the chief inspector was not to make ourselves too conspicuous on the balcony. According to him it was one of the favourite ways for assassins to finish off their targets. I didn't know that before! Fortunately Elena's balcony had a deep overhang, so if we stood in the patio doorway, in the dark, with the lights off, it would be difficult for anybody to pick us off. She stood next to me and passed me a glass of brandy. I threaded my arm around her waist and drew her closer to me.

Then I pointed skyward towards the crazy, swirling clouds of gold and apricot floating gently up above. Slowly their multi-coloured blanket began to mask the setting westerly sun. I've seen the Northern Lights but this was the best I'd seen since then. Before long the nearby mountain was all but in shade except for a small patch of sunlight on its lofty summit. On the shoreline the darkened images of the sky-scraper apartment blocks stood out, tall, dark and foreboding, like ancient trees. Down below, the streets were quiet. The air was still warm after the heat of the day. The ambience was calm, tentatively serene.

'We could almost be in heaven,' I said to Elena. For some time we stood watching the spectacle unfolding before us. 'Magic,' I commented as the darkness quickly descended.

'Let's go to bed and see if we can make our own magic,' she whispered to me softly, held my hand and then led the way to her bedroom.

It had been many, many weeks since we'd last physically got to grips with each other. At first we were both almost shy, like it had been on the first occasion. For a few moments we just stood facing each other in the darkness, alongside the bed. Then tentatively, my arms stretched out and encircled her slim waist. Almost instantly her hands encircled my neck. Our lips met with uncontrollable passion. While our tongues contested, my fingers found the zip on the back of the shimmer dress and gently pulled it downwards. I unhooked the dress off her shoulders and it fell onto the floor. She pulled my shirt off over my head.

Quickly we removed the rest of our clothes. She pulled back the coverlet and we were soon naked on the sheets. Rediscovering the elegant contours of her fine body was both invigorating and erotic. Gradually she began to respond to my touch with sighs. 'Oh Robert I have missed you so much,' she whispered in my ear.

I think we were both surprised by the passion we generated. Before our split up there had perhaps been a tendency for us both to take it for granted. Certainly on this occasion we discovered a new found vigour. By the time I was spent both our bodies were damp with sweat. Afterwards I lay alongside her, panting, yet deliriously happy.

Then she was bouncing up and down on top of me as though she was cantering on a horse. It became my turn to moan and groan. Afterwards, we fell asleep in each others arms. Some time in the middle of the night we did it all again, this time with me on top.

In the morning when we began to move around I think we both felt embarrassed at the steam we'd created during the previous night.

'Is this how it's going to be if we live together?' she said when I returned to the bed bearing two cups of coffee.

'I hope so I,' I replied.

After we had drunk the coffee we continued on from where we had left off in the early hours of the morning. Suddenly I was beginning to enjoy this confinement.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As with all good things something always seems to come along and spoil your pleasures. The telephone ringing made us both jump. Elena got out of bed to deal with it. The chief inspector was on the other end of the line. He wanted to know if we had come to any decision about being incarcerated together. Elena put her hand over the phone's mouthpiece and asked me the same question. 'Yes please,' I called out to her. She giggled and removed her hand from the mouthpiece. 'Yes, we are happy to be together, for a while anyway,' she said down the phone in reply. He continued to talk to her for some minutes. Occasionally she responded with, 'OK,' and 'Oh,' but I had no idea of what he'd said until she put the phone down.

He'd told her that there were two places which he considered as safe houses where we could camp out for a while. He thought it best if we went to the police station that morning to discuss the details. He would send a car straight away to collect us, he said. So, quickly we had to shower, shave in my case, dress and grab some breakfast, before the police car arrived. An hour or so later we were both sitting in front of his large desk at his Benidorm office.

My first query asked about the investigation of Scott-Browne. He told me that the Portuguese police had confirmed a couple of sightings of him. They said that our man was constantly on the move and when they'd arrived at each place he'd moved on. He said his men continued to be in constant contact with the Portuguese on the matter. As far as the hit man was concerned, there was no positive news. Beekman was only one part of the murder enquiry, Gomez told us. They couldn't discount the possibility of another person being responsible for Taylor's death and so they had begun to delve into all his affairs more deeply. Of necessity, Gomez said, it was a slow and deliberate process.

Turning to our situation he stated in his brusque manner that he wanted to get us away to somewhere safe at the earliest opportunity. 'For how long?' Elena interjected, then continued with another tirade about how it would effect her work.

I watched him sigh. 'At least until we have some positive leads on the murder enquiry. It's for your own safety,' he said, sounding slightly exasperated.

He continued by describing two properties, situated inland, which he felt would be suitable for us to hide in. One was in the town of Alcoi, some fifty kilometres away, which he pointed out on a map. There, above the town's police station, he told us was a large modernised apartment, which used to be occupied by the chief superintendent; the top _Guardia_ man at the town. However, the current incumbent of the job was married and his wife preferred to live in their own villa rather than above a police station, so the apartment was currently vacant. The other place was situated outside the town of Ontinyent thirty kilometres further north. Again he pointed out the location on the map. Some five miles from the town centre was a _Guardia_ barracks, where the officers were trained. Inside the fenced compound was a group of small bungalows in which the married training officers were housed. In that instance there was currently one that was vacant. However, at Ontinyent we would be more or less confined to barracks. Gomez stated that either would be suitable for his purposes as there would be a constant police presence. Something he couldn't guarantee where we lived at that moment.

Elena and I looked at each other. 'Can we have a moment in private to discuss the matter?' I asked. He agreed and we were shown to a nearby interview room.

Dealing with Elena on the matter wasn't easy. She continued to berate about her work. How could she do anything if she was confined to a barracks, she snapped at me. I said the apartment in Alcoi was the best solution. 'At least there would be something for us to see and do.' I responded. 'It's in the middle of town,' I added. Eventually that's we what agreed upon.

* * * * *

Over the next couple of days the machinations of getting us to Alcoi became nearly as complicated as the plot of one of my novels. We were advised to take everything with us that we would need for a prolonged stay. With Elena that almost included the kitchen sink. Her photographic equipment took up a lot of room and, to me, she appeared to be taking enough clothes for a six month cruise. 'We're only going to an apartment in Alcoi,' I said.

'But I don't know what the weather is going to be like,' was her response.

Fortunately my bits and pieces were an easier proposition. As long as I had my laptop and a few changes of shirts, pants and trousers, I was quite happy. Getting the gear and us there though was a different matter altogether. The essence of the plan to re-house us was secrecy and the necessity to cover our tracks. So a covert police operation was mounted.

In my case there was a fire escape at the back of my apartment block. In the early hours of the morning, under the cover of darkness, a small police van was driven to that point, whereupon I was able to carry my belongings down the stairway and stow them on board. Elena's possessions though were a different proposition. There was no fire escape at the back of her premises, so an ambulance was seconded and again in the middle of the same night, policemen, disguised as ambulance people, carried three stretcher loads of her chattels, covered to look like bodies, down to the awaiting vehicle. God knows what the neighbours made of it if they were watching.

Later in the day a police car took us both to Benidorm police station. There we were made to wait until dark. Then in an underground car park we were piled into the back of a police van, with no windows, and driven to another police station at Cocentaina, some twenty kilometres from Alcoi, where we waited for another hour or so, in case anybody had been following us. Then we transferred to a different police van to be taken to the gated car park of Alcoi police station. The intention was to get us into the flat without being spotted. Later on, some time before dawn, our chattels arrived in the gated compound in another windowless police van. The contents were dumped on the floor in the apartment's lounge, by police officers and afterwards, for some moments, Elena and I just stood looking at each other in silence.

'How did we manage to get ourselves into this situation?' I said to her eventually.

'Because of your obstinacy,' she replied.

'I thought you'd say something like that.'

The apartment overall looked quite comfortable. Later we moved a few items from the floor into more tidy locations, but it wasn't long before we crashed out on the double bed to sleep. In a strange way it felt like we were on honeymoon.

The ancient city of Alcoi is situated in the Province of Alicante. The language spoken is predominantly Valenciana. It's an industrial town with a population of roughly sixty thousand people. Historically the major industries have been textiles, paper and metal. In April each year the city hosts one of the largest Moors and Christian festivals in Spain. Colourful parades through the wide streets celebrate the re-conquering of Spain by the Christians from the Moors of Africa. During the week bands play, flags flutter, traditional costumes are worn and guns explode. Vast crowds come from all over Spain to view the spectacle.

We were late getting up the following morning. The big double bed being more than suitable for all our requirements. While Elena tidied the apartment and organised some breakfast I delved into my laptop to check on my e-mails. There was a message from Antonio. It seemed he had received a communication from Taylor's ex-wife claiming any monies that might come into Royston's estate. By all accounts she told him that she possessed a copy of a will which left everything to her. I e-mailed Williamson accordingly. His reply was, 'if that is the case is it worth us pursuing the matter of the owed royalties.' My initial reaction was the same as his. This business had brought us nothing but trouble and heartache. But something inside me told me that the will might not be an up to date version and that Yvonne Taylor was a money grabbing bitch. Antonio's mail had also indicated the original will may be invalidated by the divorce. He'd said he would search for a more recent one. His correspondence also revealed that the Government enquiry into the vote at Albacete had been completed and that a re-election there would be required. A date had also been fixed for Amado's appeal, which was due in a few weeks time.

I related the details onto Elena as we ate breakfast. 'I'm afraid that has been my opinion since Taylor's death,' she responded, referring to what Williamson had said. 'To me there seems little point in going on with it. You're only digging yourself into a deeper hole and now you're dragging Williamson into it as well.' I nodded but didn't respond much.

Later in the morning we both went downstairs to make acquaintance with the Chief Superintendent. He was a very tall man, dressed in the green uniform of the _Guardia_ , with dark swept back hair. We remarked on the good quality of the upstairs accommodation. He didn't speak any English so Elena did most of the talking. He shrugged his broad shoulders and said, 'Let's hope that it will not be needed for long,' he replied, referring to the accommodation. Then, quickly he rattled off the restrictions that would apply to us during our stay. We must not, he emphasised, for the immediate future anyway, venture further than the main streets near to the police station. He pointed out the shops and supermarkets close by. He could not guarantee our safety otherwise, he said. On no account must we go out of town. And, if we noticed anything suspicious we must report it to him or his assistant, whose name he gave us. That was about it. He then made gestures to indicate he had much work to get on with. So we walked out onto the main street.

'I hope our lives don't depend on him,' I said to Elena when were outside.

The streets near to the police station were busy thoroughfares, with traffic flowing noisily and speedily in both directions. Pedestrians going about their daily business thronged the pavements. It didn't do to dwell on any crossing point for long. Ear splitting blasts from car horns were frequent and long. Within walking distance of the apartment we found a plethora of adequate shops for our daily needs and we took the opportunity to stock up on supplies.

It felt strange, yet invigorating, to have Elena alongside me in that situation. Our prior relationship had never actually involved us doing anything like that together. Wearing tight black trousers, knee length shiny black boots, a loose collared green jumper, with a black shiny belt, she fitted into the local environment like a smart glove on a delicate hand. Her striking hair was tied up and back. Every transaction she negotiated with the local shopkeepers sounded to me like an argument. However, that seemed to be the way matters were conducted in those parts. Soon I was relegated to the role of a loaded donkey, following obediently behind. After lunch, which we took in the apartment, I retired to the spare bedroom and tried to pick up the pieces of my novel. I have to confess it was hard going. The recent trauma and upheavals made it difficult to resurrect the previous spark, but I knew that my deadline was rapidly approaching. Previous experience had shown me that if I was going to make it I had to get my head down and grind out the pages, which wasn't easy with a sexually motivated, glamorous, bored woman, hanging about in the next room. Such are the trials of authorship.

* * * * *

Most evenings we found an acceptable restaurant within walking distance of the police station. At night and during the siesta we continued to indulge in our new found sexual compatibility, constantly pushing out the boundaries to our joint surprise and exaltation. Then one day I received an e-mail from Williamson. He had discovered that Scott-Browne had apparently wound up his e-book company in the UK. There was no longer any trace of it on the internet, although it seemed that the Australian and New Zealand sites were still active, he wrote. His guess was that Browne had taken out whatever money there was in the UK set up and as we already knew, 'done a bunk.' I replied that I would lean on the police again to try and trace his whereabouts in Portugal. Later, Elena and I went downstairs to the police station and with her linguistic assistance we managed to persuade the local guys to let Elena speak to Chief Inspector Gomez on the telephone. She told him of the developments regarding Scott-Browne and our desire for more action on finding him.

'That is something I have no direct control of,' he replied to her. 'As he is presumed to be in a foreign country it is a matter for the police there. All I can do is to keep pestering them. If we were sure who murdered Taylor we could perhaps put more pressure on them.'

I was beginning to get frustrated.

Around that time I also received another e-mail from Antonio. He had managed to trace a will which Taylor had made after divorcing his wife. In it he'd requested that the proceeds of his estate were to be left to a woman named Barbara Harrison, who up to that date nobody had ever mentioned. Antonio told me there was an address for her on the will, somewhere in Newport, South Wales, which he spelt out in the missive.

'I wonder if I could get over there to see this woman?' I said to Elena as soon as I had read the mail. She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

'How can you do that when we are here under house arrest?' she responded.

'We are not under arrest. We have been re-housed for our own protection.'

One of those looks was beginning to form on her face again. 'So you want to risk our lives now with a wild goose chase to Wales?'

'Who's going to know I've gone there,' I quipped back. 'I can travel incognito to an inland airport and fly direct. No hit man is going to pick me up doing that.'

'How can you be sure. And do you propose to leave me here by myself?'

'It will only be for a day or two.'

'Robert you do come up with some ridiculous ideas. That's why we're in this mess in the first place.'

Later on I e-mailed Ben Saunders with Barbara Harrison's address, and asked him to make enquiries about her. It was a day or so before he got back to me.

'What nonsense are you up to now with this woman?' Was the first line of his reply. 'I have checked the details you gave me and according to the electoral role and the telephone directory, there is still a woman living there by that name. I shall be charging my time and the expense incurred to your account,' he continued. He'd also included her telephone number in his e-mail. 'I would remind you that you only have six weeks left until the deadline date for your book is up.'

My reply e-mail to him was simple. 'Thanks for your help,' was all I wrote.

While in the spare bedroom, on the pretext of writing my book, I clicked up on the internet flights to South Wales. There were many available. From my window seat I could see the peaks and mountain ranges Taylor and I had climbed together. It made me think of him again. Oh how I longed to be up there at that moment.

* * * * *

I guessed that broaching the subject of going to South Wales with Elena was again going to be difficult. Over the previous few days she'd managed to immerse herself again into her photography work. The results were more than interesting. She really did have a talent. I was therefore reluctant to disturb this semi-nuptial bliss during the day time. I decided to wait until our early evening session at a restaurant. I hoped that in those convivial surroundings there would be less items near at hand for her to throw at me.

I delayed raising the topic until we were well into our main course. We were eating lamb. When we'd both downed a glass or two of wine I said gingerly. 'I've been thinking some more about taking a trip to South Wales.' Instantly I detected a withering look beginning to form on her face so I quickly continued. 'There are flights from Valencia that go every other day. I could be back in forty eight hours without anybody knowing.'

Without saying anything, she cut up a piece of lamb and with her fork inserted it into her mouth, then chewed on it for some moments, while still keeping her head down.

'Well, what do you think?' I asked when the silence continued. Eventually she lifted her face up to meet mine. The expression on it was coloured with exasperation.

'I think it's the most insanely crazy idea I've ever heard of in my life. How do you expect to get away from the apartment without the police knowing? And if they find out, they'll abandon their attempts to protect you. And then we both might get shot. What's your master plan for all that.' Every word she uttered was laced with scorn. I took another sip of wine.

'I thought if you stayed at the apartment and they saw you around the place they'd assume we were both there,' I said 'I mean they don't actually come and check on us. In the time we've been here they haven't bothered us once. And as I said I can be back in forty eight hours.' For some moments there was more silence, worsened by the scathing eye treatment she was continuing to give me.

'So I'm expected to stay put in the apartment by myself while you go gallivanting back to Wales am I?'

'As I say it will only be for two days at the most. I can catch an early flight one way and be back on the next one the following day. No-one will know I've gone. It will at least give me the opportunity to speak to this woman. Then I will know if it's worth pursuing the matter of Taylor's royalties and the plagiarism of his work, or not. If she is genuinely the beneficiary of his estate it's the least I can do for him.'

We argued on the matter for more than a day. During that period our lovemaking ceased. I wasn't exactly banished to the sofa, but that was the impression Elena exuded as regards me. Several times, on my mobile, I tried to telephone the number Ben Saunders had given me for this woman Barbara Harrison. On about the fifth attempt she answered. I needed to embark on a lengthy introduction and explanation before she followed anything I was talking about. She knew nothing about Taylor's death. My words on that obviously shocked her. It seems that they had not been in touch for a long time. I told her that I was living in Spain, and as I'd been Taylor's last real friend I felt I needed to come and see her to explain some of the circumstances. 'When would it be convenient?' I asked. I mentioned I knew her address. She was curious to know how I came by it. I told her I'd explain when I saw her, but I'd bring with me some recent photographs of Taylor, when I'd been with him, to prove my case.

For some moments she made excuses. 'Trouble is I'm a nurse,' she said, 'and I work shifts, which means I'm only here at awkward hours.'

'Doesn't matter to me,' I responded. 'I've got to fly over from Spain and I will only be there for a day. It's just a matter of tying it in with a flight.'

'Oh I don't know,' she replied hesitatingly. 'My relationship with David was a long time ago.'

Again I outlined some of the matters without going into too much detail. When I said that she had been mentioned in his will her attitude changed. We eventually settled on a date in the afternoon, some days ahead. I told her I would phone again to check when I had booked a flight, to which she agreed.

Elena and I argued, sometimes vehemently, on the matter at regular intervals. Her opinion of me and the venture descended from stupid to complete and utter madness. A position I couldn't change her mindset on no matter how hard I tried.

However, I duly organised a flight to Cardiff International airport, the nearest, some fourteen miles from the city of Newport. The day before I again telephoned Barbara Harrison and she told me that was still prepared to see me. The tacit arrangement I had with Elena was that we would go out for a meal somewhere in Alcoi, then I would organise a taxi from the restaurant to take me to the airport.

'I don't care. Do what the hell you like,' was her response to most of my descriptions over a difficult lunch. I promised to keep in touch on the mobile. 'I may not be here when you get back,' was her reply. As you can imagine it was not exactly a lover's parting when I left the restaurant to pick up the taxi.

The flight to Cardiff took just over two hours. Walking down the aircraft gangway and onto Welsh soil for the first time in many years felt decidedly strange. As Welshman we are supposed to feel 'hiraeth' (a longing or a tugging of the heart strings, for the home country,) but I have to confess that up till that moment there had been very little of that. However, when I looked around at the nearby green hills and the adjacent agricultural land, a lump of a sort did come into my throat.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I hired a car and set out for Newport. Almost immediately I noticed the changes there had been since my last visit. On the road there was so much more traffic than I remembered, all flying around at incredible speed. Driving in Spain was bad enough, but this was worse. And on my journey I noticed many modern housing estates, where there had once been green fields. The city of Newport provided the biggest shock. In times gone by the streets had been busy and bustling. An industrial town, famous for its large steelworks and major iron ore importing docks. When I arrived what confronted me was a high street full of boarded up shops and pavements inhabited by people who appeared to want to be recognised as third world refugees. I was deeply shocked. This town was a place where I once lived and happily worked.

With a heavy heart I negotiated my way to the out of town address of Barbara Harrison. Again what I saw saddened me. What used to be a tidy working class estate, occupied mainly by employees of the docks and steelworks, had degenerated into a graffiti festooned enclave, littered with pavement encamped cars. Some were derelict and unlikely to ever move again, except on the back of a scrap wagon. Her house was a mid road semi, three up two down, with a Ford Ka parked outside.

I approached the front door with some trepidation. The person who opened it took me by surprise. Barbara Harrison was a glamorous woman touching on forty. She had jet black hair, a la _Espa_ ñ _a_ which was half pinned up. There were gorgeous blue eyes, slim pencil sculptured lips, a well made up complexion and what appeared like a great figure, ensconced in a blue jumpsuit. I introduced myself and was slightly taken aback by the flash of a pearl white toothed smile. 'Come on in lovely,' she said. The expressed word 'lovely' was a local colloquialism I was to get used to in time.

I was invited into the lounge but before I sat down, to prove my connection with Taylor, I produced my most recent photographs, taken on our last trip to the mountains. 'Oh gosh he doesn't look very well,' Barbara Harrison said.

I was offered tea and accepted. Sitting on a modern sofa I looked around at a respectable living room containing lots of TV and hi-fi equipment. 'You must be tired after your flight,' she said when she returned with the tea, in a mug.

'Not really,' I responded. 'It was only just over two hours and I haven't been doing much at home recently.'

'Why were you so anxious to see me?' she asked when we began to sup on the tea. I was still taken with her aura She was not at all what I had expected. However, I embarked on a lengthy dialogue, describing how I had met Taylor, our trips to the mountain and my investigations into the plagiarism of his work. Intermittently she would interrupt with the occasional 'Oh,' and 'I didn't know that.' Then, when I went on to tell her about the circumstances of his death, she was shocked.

'That's awful,' was her response. She did look genuinely concerned. 'It's been such a long time since we were last together,' she added.

'How long?' I asked.

'At least three or four years. Before he went to live in Spain anyway.'

'How did you meet?'

'He was a patient at the hospital,' she chuckled. She really did possess the most photogenic smile. I could see the attraction Taylor would have had for her. 'He was in for about a week for some operation,' she continued. 'All day he used to tease me and joke with me. When it was time for him to go he asked for my phone number. At first I didn't know what to do. I mean he was so much older than me. And we are not supposed to get involved with patients. But he seemed to be such fun and full of life and I was at a low period in my life. There was nobody else at the time. I'd been divorced a couple of years before.' She fiddled with a loose end of the jet black hair. 'So after a great deal of thought I decided I would risk going out with him. He took me for the most super expensive meal I had ever had. I remember him telling me during the meal that, like me, he was just getting over his divorce. I gather it had been pretty painful, so we had that in common from the beginning. We both needed cheering up and to have some laughs. We certainly did that.' I watched her face lighten again at the thought of it all. She was totally different in manner and deportment from Taylor's ex-wife.

'How long did the relationship last?'

'Oh, for about eight or nine months or so. We did have some fun though. He was lovely and he used to make me laugh so much and of course he was much more worldly and intelligent than me. With him being a writer and everything.'

'Did you read any of his books?'

'I tried one but it was too clever for me. I had difficulty following the story.'

'If you don't mind me asking what ended the relationship?'

'He wanted to go and live in Spain and I didn't want to do that. I enjoy my work here as a nurse and I didn't like the thought of living abroad.' She paused before speaking again, then said, 'And we had a disagreement. A big disagreement I suppose.'

I hesitated before pressing her on the matter. I just looked her straight in the eye and said nothing. Her eyes were warm and held mine. 'You see after I got divorced I joined the Church of Scientology,' she said. 'They helped me get back on track. But David didn't agree with all that and we eventually fell out over it. When I first went out with him I didn't tell him anything about it.'

'Oh,' was all I could respond, so she continued.

'You see that's what I don't understand. You say he's left me something in his will. Why would he do that, when we'd fallen out?'

'I don't know. Perhaps you made him happy when you were together,' I said. 'Happier than he'd been for a long time anyway,' I continued. 'He told me his divorce was painful. I expect he made another will afterwards. But he never mentioned anything about you in the time we were friends, although he often told me about the difficulties he had with his wife. It was as though he wanted to get it all off his chest.'

'We really did have some lovely times,' she responded, 'but I think it was just one of those things that happens. We were two lonely people who hit it off. I honestly didn't think there were any long term possibilities in it. Our ages were so vastly different, for a starter.'

We talked some more about Taylor and how he'd been when he and I met up. After an hour or so I thought it was time to take my leave. By then I guessed I had achieved as much as I could. I ended by telling her that I expected the Spanish solicitor who was dealing with Taylor's will would be in touch. I gave her my e-mail address and left her the photos of Taylor I had brought with me. At no time did I mention anything about my sighting of a so called hit man, or my current situation of confinement. I didn't feel it was relevant.

'Will you continue to pursue the plagiarism thing?' she asked me when I got up to leave.

'Don't know,' I replied. 'It depends on the murder enquiry really. I don't want to go barging in anymore while that's still active.'

Soon afterwards I left. I had enjoyed my time with Barbara Harrison. She was a glamorously, vivacious, attractive woman. I could see why Taylor would want to be involved with her. 'Goodbye lovely,' she said to me on her front doorstep. I suggested we keep in touch via e-mails, at least until the will had been sorted out.

Then a strange thing happened. She had closed her front door and I was walking towards my hired car. Suddenly I spotted, across the road, a large black SUV vehicle, very unlike the other cars parked about. Sitting in the front seats I noticed two men, sporting designer sunglasses. I got in my car and drove away. Only I stopped the car around the next corner, got out and walked to a spot where I was out of sight, but could see down the road. The two men, smartly attired in dark suits, were making their way towards Barbara Harrison's front door. She let them in. Immediately my mind thought of the Church of Scientology. Now that did put a different aspect on everything.

* * * * *

That night, from the hotel room I'd booked into near the airport, I telephoned Elena. She certainly sounded angry. She related that the chief inspector had been on the phone, wanting to see us. 'I had to make up some lie about you being ill and unable to go out because of a virulent stomach bug,' she said. 'He'd even suggested that he visited us here, so I had to invent even more lies about you being too bad to see anybody. Robert, I do wish you wouldn't get me into these situations. This is the national police force we're dealing with and I hope that perhaps one day I may work for them again.'

I spelt out my apologies and told her a little bit about my meeting with Barbara Harrison. She responded by caustically saying, 'Well I hope you thought it was all worth while.' After that we didn't say much else.

That night while I struggled for sleep in the stuffy hotel bedroom thoughts about Church of Scientology kept me awake. That Barbara Harrison was a member was her business not mine. She'd related that they had brought her some comfort after her divorce. My concern was that my efforts in pursuing royalties might end up benefiting the Scientologists with whom I had no truck.

In the morning I caught a busy flight from Cardiff back to Valencia. In many ways, excepting my concerns about Barbara Harrison's situation, I had enjoyed the brief visit to my homeland. Despite it's shortcomings and the ravages inflicted on it by the recession, it had felt good to be back amongst my own people with their familiar dialects and strange colloquialisms. From Valencia I took a taxi back to Alcoi and organised for the driver to drop me off a few streets away from the police station. Elena was inside working on her computer when I entered the apartment.

It was good to have her lips make contact with mine again. 'Look at this,' she said to me when we came up for air. She began to fiddle about with some pictures on her laptop.

'What do you think?' she added. I looked closer at the images on the screen. Somehow she'd manage to combined the image of Gerolt Beekman taken from the police car with the pictures taken of the same man on the mountain. I could see that they definitely looked like the same person.

'That's very, very clever,' I said. 'We'd better show it to the chief inspector.'

She made a meal and afterwards she phoned Gomez at his Benidorm office. At that moment it seemed I had managed to keep my escape to Wales undiscovered.

* * * * *

Elena took with her the flash disc she had transposed of Beekman to our meeting with Gomez at Alcoi police station. He allowed her to download the images onto his office computer.

He was impressed. 'These are very good. Can I download them,' he said to Elena.

His attitude towards us appeared to have softened somewhat. He even inquired after my health.

I rubbed my stomach and said, 'In Britain we sometimes call it Delhi Belly,' He smirked.

'It is about Beekman that I wanted to see you,' he said and pointed to his image on the computer screen. 'I thought you should know that there has been a sighting of him on a CCTV camera at Valencia airport.'

Elena told me afterwards that my face went as white as a sheet. I failed to make any response to Gomez's statement so she had to continue.

'So that means he's still in the area then?' she said.

'Seems like it,' Gomez responded. 'As far as we can find out there's no record of him boarding a flight from there, but we can't be absolutely sure because he's probably travelling under a fictitious name and a false passport.' I was still too dumbstruck to make any coherent response, so again Elena had to fill in for me.

'Does that alter our situation here?' she asked.

He looked at her intently for a moment. 'I think we will have to move you into the barracks,' he said eventually. 'I can't guarantee your safety while you wander around the streets of this town. This man could latch onto you anywhere. It only takes one bullet,' he said dramatically. Elena and I looked at each other in horror. 'At the barracks there is a surrounding perimeter fence, alarms and everybody has to enter through a security gate,' the inspector continued. 'You would not be allowed outside, only in a police van, with no windows.'

'For how long ?' I asked.

'Until we find Beekman, or eliminate him from our enquiries. There is no other way we can guarantee your safety,' he then added, 'Of course you can refuse protection. That would be your choice, but then we would have no responsibility for you. You could go back to Britain, but there's no guarantee Beekman wouldn't find you there, if you are his intended victim.'

While Elena and I remained speechless he went on to tell us that a police van would transmit us to the barracks that evening, under the cover of darkness. We were to organise our belongings to go anytime after eight o'clock. We both still remained silent with shock. He said he would organise everything. At the barracks, he added, someone would do our shopping for us. 'All you have to do is give them a list each day and they will get what is required. But for the time being,' he continued, 'you will not be allowed outside the compound.' Then he rose out his seat, shook both our hands and indicated that the meeting was over.

On our way back to our apartment I realised that maybe my little trip had perhaps not gone undetected after all. Elena was not in the best frame of mind so I sidled off to my computer and wrote an e-mail to Williamson. Without telling him of our whereabouts I brought him up to date on everything, including my trip to Newport. I advised that for the time being I thought it would be best if he didn't follow up on the aspect of plagiarism.

He replied that he was shocked to learn of our worsening situation. His advice was not to do anything silly and he agreed with what I said. He'd also heard from Antonio who'd told him about receiving more damning correspondence from Yvonne Taylor and her solicitors. The lawyers' response had been to send them a copy of the will mentioning Barbara Harrison.

Around about nine o'clock that evening there was a knock on the main door of the apartment. We had been sitting on separate chairs, not speaking, and watching television, with our packed bags on the floor in front of us. I let in two policemen who had come to take us to the barracks. They helped us and our baggage into the back of a windowless police van which had been parked in the gated car park. Needless to say the journey to Ontinyent was unpleasant. Uncomfortable, bumpy, tiring, with little conversation between the two of us. The bungalow allocated for our accommodation there was surprisingly roomy and comfortable with two bedrooms. Once we had unloaded, Elena grabbed her bags and laptop, then strode off into one of them, announcing that 'this would do for me' and slammed the door closed.

Ontinyent is a historic town of about thirty seven thousand people, with a busy commercial centre located some thirty kilometres north west of Alcoi. For many years it has manufactured linen and woollen clothing, paper, brandy and earthenware, based on the availability of a cultured water supply. The following the morning, a very tall, upstanding uniformed officer, Captain Mendoza, who was in charge of the barracks, came to the bungalow to welcome us. On his head he wore the square cap of a _Guardia_ officer. By then Elena had come out of her enclave. He said if we provided him with a list of our shopping requirements he would organise for them to be delivered. Then he took us on a short tour. The facilities in the compound were very good. There was an indoor gym and swimming pool which we could use when they weren't being occupied for military training. He introduced us to one of our neighbours, a pretty young Spanish woman, with two very young children, who was married to one of the instructors. Elena immediately seemed to hit it off with her and arranged to meet up later in the day for coffee and cigarettes!! By the middle of the morning Elena had managed to summon up a few words to say to me. Most of them however were curt and sharp.

So that's how we existed for the following few days. I certainly wasn't allowed into her bedroom and our verbal exchanges continued to be short and succinct. Separately, we both used the gym and the swimming pool and Elena spent a lot of time next door, with the pretty Francesca, playing with the children, while drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. For many hours I worked in my bedroom on my book. At least substantial progress was at last being made on that.

Then a few days later, to my surprise, I received an e-mail from Barbara Harrison. She told me that she been harassed by a call at her home from Yvonne Taylor and Taylor's brother. She related that it had been an upsetting experience and to get rid of them she even had to threaten to call the police. It seems her visitors had brandished the will David Taylor had made in Yvonne's favour. They claimed that she had no right to any part of his estate as she'd never married him. They issued verbal threats of legal action. My impression, when I met her, was that Barbara Harrison was no frail waif, but clearly she was shaken by the incident.

I replied that she had no alternative but to stand her ground. Yvonne Taylor's claims were errant nonsense, I told her. My conversations with David Taylor had made it clear that he had no remaining affections for his wife.

Daily I was becoming very frustrated with myself and the situation I found myself in. The hours I spent at the gym increased in an attempt to rid myself of the overwhelming desire to scream. Although Elena and I had become more or less compatible again we still continued to occupy separate bedrooms. Incarceration didn't suit me one iota. I longed for the freedom and open spaces of the mountains. We heard very little from Gomez, and Mendoza had no information on the situation. My book was virtually at its conclusion, so when something happened one afternoon, I was spurred into taking matters into my own hands.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I'd been busy organising the final pages of my book for onward transmission to my publishers. Nowadays, with the facility of the e-mail system, it is a far simpler process than when we used to have to parcel hundreds of pages of manuscript to send by post, at an exorbitant cost. I was saving and copying the relevant pages to go into the e-mail and looking forward perhaps to a cooling dip in the swimming pool, when a mail notice, flashing in my inbox, caught my eye.

It was from Barbara Harrison. 'I appear to be getting a lot of hassle about this will,' her missive began. 'The Taylors and their lawyers have been inundating me with threatening letters and now my church are giving me bother on the same matter. I was foolish enough to tell them about me being a beneficiary. You are the only one I can turn to for help. Is there any way I can get out of receiving the money?'

For a moment I stopped reading to visualise Barbara Harrison's attractive face. The glamour and vitality of it was still embedded in my mind. By her own admission she was no university professor, but I did imagine her to have a large degree of feminine guile and intuition. So this plea for help came as both a shock and a surprise. As far as I knew Taylor had no children, or any other close dependants, except his brother and his former wife and if this woman had provided him with a few moments of happiness, while he was going through the 'hell' of his divorce, I could visualise, knowing his phlegmatic manner, that he may well have wanted to leave his estate to her. There was no doubt that she was a vibrant and entertaining companion. But the last thing I wanted was to be dragged into a triangle of attrition about his estate.

Before telling Elena about the e-mail, I fired off a message to Antonio, relating details of Barbara Harrison's communication and requested an update on the current situation regarding the matter. I also sent an e-mail to Ben Saunders advising him on the circumstances of my current incarceration. In addition I requested that he checked with my publishers on the progress of the recently downloaded manuscript.

Elena was busy in her bedroom with her photography work when I had completed those tasks. I stood in the doorway and told her about the correspondence from Barbara Harrison. 'I just don't see what that has got to do with you anymore,' was her curt response.

'Well I feel implicated,' I replied. 'In many ways my dabbling in Taylor's literary affairs caused some of these troubles and I was the first person to break the news to her about the legacy.'

'But Robert don't you think we are in enough bother already. I mean, we are locked up here in captivity and by all accounts there is the possibility of a death threat hanging over us. How much further do you want to go with this before we both get killed?' Her face was covered with a look of total exasperation.

'I just feel so useless hanging around here all day,' I said. 'What's the point in it? It could be months or years before they run this man Beekman to ground and even then he and Taylor's death might be completely unrelated incidents. In the meantime do we remain in this place forever?'

'Don't tell me about being locked up in this place. At least you can do your work here. Everyday I'm here my business continues to go downhill and rapidly into bankruptcy. What have you got in mind? Are you going to take off and stalk this supposed assassin by yourself.' By then she had turned around in her chair to face me. Every word of those last remarks had been emphasised by her jabbing index finger.

'I was wondering if it might be better if we took ourselves off to the UK for a time. At least it would get us out of this place.' She emitted a big sigh then rose out of her seat and stood facing me.

'And what do you expect me to do with myself in the UK? What other bright ideas have you got?' It quickly became obvious that my suggestions were landing on stony ground. Once again the swimming pool provided a relaxing haven.

Fortunately that day I had the place to myself and immersing my body in relatively cool water, while gently lapping up and down the twenty five metre lengths, enabled me to gather my thoughts a little more cohesively. Continuing on as we were, I considered, was getting us nowhere. We could remain cocooned in this establishment for months. Elena's words about her deteriorating photography business and my train of thought on the up coming publication of my novel were travelling along the same lines. We both needed to be on hand to attend to each of them. That we were likely targets of an assassination attempt was still pure conjecture. And we couldn't go on running for cover for the rest of our lives. Eventually you have to face down your foes and your demons. With these thoughts in mind I returned to the bungalow determined to initiate some action.

Elena was next door with Francesca and the children when I got in. On my e-mail list were replies from Antonio and Saunders. Antonio said that he was still receiving correspondence from Yvonne Taylor's solicitors claiming the balance on Royston's estate. He told me they had tried to place an injunction on the matter, which he was dealing with. The process of gathering Taylor's assets together had begun. The flat in Benidorm, which he owned, had an approximate value of one hundred and eighty thousand euros and there were some savings, amounting to about another twenty thousand. In addition royalties were still coming in on his previous novels from his old publishers. So all in all the estate was likely to exceed two hundred thousand euros.

The e-mail from Saunders began with another lot of carping on about how stupid I'd been to involve myself in a matter which had led to my current impounded situation. His text continued to emphasise the importance of the forthcoming publication of my new novel. He went on to say that he had been in touch with my publishers although he hadn't told them about my latest problems. However, an editor had been appointed to work with me on the manuscript. Their thoughts were that it would be better for me to be on hand, on a daily basis in London, rather than on the e-mail set up from Spain.

Those matters were swirling around in my head when Elena came in from next door. 'I've been thinking more seriously about our situation,' I said to her as soon as she was in the lounge.

'And what brainwave have you come up with this time,' she replied sarcastically, accompanied by a face that mirrored the intonation of her words.

I took a deep breath. 'I've had a couple of brainwaves actually,' I replied trying to make a joke of my response. The expression on her face confirmed that my attempt at humour had fallen flat. 'Ok,' I restarted in a more serious manner. 'I don't think remaining here serves any useful purpose for either of us. I feel we would be safer in Britain, where we could live a reasonably normal life. I need to be there to deal with the ongoing aspects of my new book. You could come with me and continue with your photography work. There would be lots of new locations for you to photograph and with your talent you'd soon find plenty of work. You speak the language, so there wouldn't be a problem in that respect. Many foreigners work in London.'

'What about the little matter of us not getting murdered?' she replied, while remaining stony faced.

'I think our presumed death threat is less likely there. This man Beekman would have to enter Britain via a customs terminal. He might not risk that. Here there aren't any border checks of any significance. He can drive down from northern Europe without being stopped and back again unchecked. He couldn't do that in the UK. Whatever else, living there for a while would be different and fun. You'd enjoy it.' I said, trying to implant a smile on my face.

Initially she made no reply, moved over towards the cabinet in the lounge and poured herself a large glass of red Rioja. It was some moments before she turned to face me. 'So now you're asking me to give up my life in Spain and go and live with you in London. Have I got that right?'

'Only as a temporary measure,' I replied quickly. 'And only if you want to,' I added. 'Most of the Spaniards I know who've been to London enjoy it there.'

'Do I have any choice?'

I took a deep breath. 'Yes. You can remain here. You can go back to your apartment, or you could live somewhere else entirely different by yourself,' I said counting the choices out with my fingers. 'Or I guess you could live with your parents.'

Exasperation was still etched on her face. 'How did I ever get involved with you?' she questioned.

'From what you said some time ago I got the impression that it was you who seduced me.'

She looked me straight in the eye. 'Well I'm going to need some time to think about it.'

And think about it she did. For another two or three days in fact. Despite my promptings she still wouldn't give me a definitive answer one way or another. I had a feeling she was doing it deliberately, just to annoy me. By that point I was desperate to move on, firstly because of my book, secondly because I needed Saunders to arrange some accommodation for us, or me, in London and thirdly because every day in the barracks was driving me crazy, especially without my book to work on. Eventually my patience ran out.

'Elena if you don't give me your answer today I'm going to have to do this by myself.' She looked at me indolently. 'But before we can do anything we are going to have to see Gomez.'

'Ok let's see the chief inspector then,' she replied. 'I will give you my decision after we have spoken to him.'

So I telephoned Gomez. He agreed to meet up with us at the barracks that afternoon.

* * * * *

Gomez conducted the interview in his usual brusque, offhand manner, as though he was dealing with the outcome of a traffic incident. Firstly I asked him if there was any progress in the murder investigation, and of Scott-Browne and Beekman. He confessed that although new leads presented themselves daily, which his men were working on, there was nothing positive to report. 'These matters usually take time. Then suddenly we get a break and the whole thing unravels. That is my experience anyway,' he concluded on that matter with a wave of his arms. Elena had needed to undertake some translation on my behalf during his discourse. Then, with her assistance, I went on to tell him about my plan to move temporarily back to London. I added that I did hope to take Elena with me but as yet hadn't persuaded her, to which she made no response.

He looked at us both carefully, then mostly at Elena as he responded. He confirmed that if we moved out of the barracks he could no longer guarantee our safety. If we did that he emphasised his responsibility for us would cease and we would have to organise our own protection. I replied with my theory that it would be more difficult for a man like Beekman to collar us in Britain and outlined the reasons I had explained to Elena. He shrugged his shoulders and said that if that was my decision, so be it.

At this point Elena chipped in using their own language. 'What if I decide to stay in Spain?' I understood her to say.

'For us to guarantee your safety you would need to stay here in the barracks until the element of reprisal had been eliminated from our enquiries,' he said. She looked at me but said nothing. The chief inspector placed both his hands palms downwards on the desk and said, 'I will abide by both your instructions whatever they may be.'

I asked about getting either or both of us to the airport and on a flight to the UK. He confirmed that they would take us to the airport, in a police van, and stay with us until we boarded a flight for take off, 'then you would be on your own,' he said. Soon afterwards he indicated that he had many things to do and brought the meeting to a close. I promised to get back to him with our decision within the next twenty four hours. Elena nodded her head in agreement.

We walked back to the bungalow in silence. Inside I poured us two large glasses of Rioja. Elena had gone to sit on the settee and I handed one of them to her. 'Well?' I asked and remained standing.

'Robert I just don't know what to do. It seems I have very little choice in the matter.'

'Yes, you have. You have the choices I outlined to you the other day.'

'And the safest of those would be to stay here by myself in this place,' she retorted.

'We both know, or hope anyway, that this is only a temporary measure until your police can get to the bottom of all this.'

'Oh they're my police now are they?'

I resisted the temptation of rising to that bait. 'Well I have decided to return to the UK and I would like you to come with me, for the time being anyway, for both our sakes. I'm going to go and e-mail my agent now to see if he can find us some accommodation. I'd like to have your decision soon to enable me to make the necessary arrangements.'

She supped on her wine and made no reply, so I moved off to my bedroom and fired an e-mail off to Saunders, requesting his assistance in finding suitable lodgings. I mentioned that I might be bringing with me a girlfriend, so the place needed to be reasonably respectable without being too costly, I added. While I was on the machine I also sent a mail to Williamson telling him of my intentions. In it, I also suggested that he kept a low profile on matters relating to Scott-Browne until the police had more definite news on all the aspects of the case.

When I returned to the lounge I could see Elena, in her bedroom, active on her laptop. 'You know I've never been to London,' she called out to me when she heard me moving around. I went and stood in the doorway to her room. On her laptop screen I could see pictures and details of London.

'You'll love it,' I said. 'It's one of the most exciting cities in the world. Does this mean you'll come with me?'

'I want to sleep on it. I'll let you know in the morning,' she said.

* * * * *

I broached the matter again over breakfast next morning.

'I'm prepared to try it for a while,' she replied to my inquiry.

'Great,' I said, smiled broadly and rested my hand on her arm. She didn't remove it or pull away.

'But if it doesn't work out, I'll want to come back after a few weeks. I've never lived abroad before.' I nodded my agreement.

Once we had cleared away the breakfast things we both became busy on our respective laptops. Elena contacting her family, while I was pleased to see replies from both Williamson and Saunders on mine. Williamson said he was glad to hear my news. He would do no more on the aspect of plagiarism, but would continue to work with Antonio on the clearing up of Taylor's estate. On that matter he would keep me up to date. Saunders however, began his message in his usual sarcastic style. 'I thought I was supposed to be a literary agent,' his message began, 'not a bloody wet nurse to an itinerant nitwit.' He did go on to say that he would put out some feelers for a suitable apartment, although he added that 'I was living in cloud cuckoo land if I was under the impression that anything in London was going to be reasonably priced.' He concluded by confirming that he had advised my publishers of my decision and my impending visit to the city. As usual his correspondence left me feeling in a bad mood and I went off to the gym to work off some of my frustrations. I told Elena that I would leave off contacting Gomez until we had confirmation of some accommodation. That morning she seemed in a more affable mood.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Somehow we both made it to London. Saunders had managed to find us an apartment in Notting Hill, belonging to his sister, for which we were charged a peppercorn rent, by London standards anyway. It was made available to us initially on that basis for three months, which suited our purposes. There was much hassle in Spain before we left. When it came down to it the Spanish police were reluctant to let us leave. We were berated repeatedly by Gomez about the risks we were taking on. He addressed most of his comments to Elena, who was the only one anyway who completely understood what he was saying. 'When you return here.' he said to her. 'We will not be able to offer you protection again.'

Fortunately by then she had set her mind on accompanying me. I got the impression that she was going to treat it as a bit of a holiday. The thought of living and hopefully working in a foreign city had begun to excite her.

The arrangements to transfer us from the barracks to the airport were both pedantic and tiresome. We were made to sign many forms absolving the Spanish police from any responsibility for our protection. For the purposes of speed and necessity we travelled light, except for Elena's photography equipment. She complained that nearly all of her respectable clothes were back at her apartment. We were not allowed back there, but her parents did bring a quantity of them to the barracks. To me she seemed to have enough garments with her to last for three years not three months. We were both relieved when we were eventually ensconced in the aircraft as it took off.

London life was a dramatic shock and change of culture. It had been some years since I'd lived there. I couldn't get over how cosmopolitan it had become. In the area around where we stayed English often seemed the least spoken language. Elena was in her element. Most days she was out with her camera taking pot shots at everyone and everything. After our recent confinement it was heaven for us both just to be able to go out and wander wherever we pleased, alone or together. The first floor flat was comfortable enough with large rooms, although the fitments could hardly be called the most up-to-date. However we managed. We had graduated back to sleeping together. There was a delicatessen shop on the ground floor selling the most mouth watering cakes. Elena became one of their best customers, although I constantly I reminded her of the expense and the likely effects on her figure.

Soon after our arrival I began making a daily trip to the plush offices of my publishers, Hornby, Dent and Baker, to meet up with my appointed editor, Jill Coldwell. She was a bright intelligent girl, in her late twenties, with a sharp mind and an agile quick witted tongue. She had brown, neck length hair, freckles and a wispy thin figure. Usually she was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, but occasionally she condescended to wear a non-descript dress. If she'd taken more trouble with herself she would have been dramatically attractive. We argued constantly, in a good humoured manner. I can't really remember who came out on top, her probably, but it meant the work did make constructive progress. At lunch time we'd usually eat out together at a nearby sandwich bar. During the day there were other meetings with cover designers and publicists. Then in the evening I would write up and correct the alterations Jill and I had agreed on during the day. Hornby, Dent and Baker were one of the smaller sized publishing firms who had survived the holocaust caused by the ending of the Net Book Agreement some years earlier. Certainly they were no Hodder Headline or Random House, but they remained fairly buoyant by accumulating a talented and successful list of award winning writers. Elena meanwhile was busy during the day with her camera and then afterwards cataloguing each day's photographs on her laptop. In a strange way we were probably happier than we'd ever been together.

Then, as the saying goes, the shit hit the fan. I remember it was one weekend. Whether it was a Saturday or Sunday, I don't recall. The sun was out. It was too good to be stuck in the apartment, so we took ourselves off to Kensington Gardens. The trees were in full leaf, the birds were singing, the bedding plants in glorious bloom. We strolled together arm in arm enjoying the spectacle. There was also the Albert Memorial, the Italian gardens and the Peter Pan statue to see. Occasionally we sat on one of the benches and watched the world go by. Elena had brought her camera. For our personal album she took some photos of me sitting and standing alongside the manicured flower beds. People passed by similarly enjoying themselves.

It wasn't until that evening that the shock hit us. I was watching some television. Elena was in the spare bedroom messing about with her pictures. She shouted out, 'Robert come here quickly.'

I moved to the bedroom. 'Look it's him,' she hollered. I stood behind her and studied the screen on the laptop. She'd blown up a section of one of the photographs taken in the park. 'I am right aren't I? That's him isn't it?'

I got closer, bent my head to study the image further. 'Let me have a better look,' I said, changed places with her and sat on the chair. Horror filled my body. As far as I could detect, the man in the background, behind the park bench I'd been sitting on, apparently watching me, looked like Gerolt Beekman.

'Bloody hell!!' I said and tried to adjust the focus on the laptop. In doing so I managed to make the picture more blurred and had to let Elena re-adjust it. 'Have you got the one of him the police took at the funeral?' I asked. She reclaimed the seat then clicked onto one of her many photography folders. Eventually she brought up the image of Beekman at Benidorm. 'Now go back to today's photo,' I said. She clicked at the mouse. Instantly you could see the two images matched. With more mouse clicking she was able to align the images side by side on the same screen. Then the similarity was obvious.

'Bloody hell,' I repeated. 'What do we do now?'

She turned her head, looked at me intently and said. 'You're the brains. You're the one who brought us here. It was you who said we would be safer here than in Spain.'

Frankly, at that moment I was stuck for an answer. How the hell had Beekman followed us, I conjectured. Nobody but the Spanish police, Saunders, my publishers and her parents knew we were in London. Even they, except for Saunders and my publishers, didn't know exactly where in London we were living. Elena and I had made stringent efforts to keep all that information under wraps. Antonio and Williamson also knew we were in London but neither of them knew our address. However, by then we were both pretty sure in our own minds that this man Beekman was out to get us.

It was an uncomfortable night. Neither of us slept much. Twice I got up to make hot drinks. Tea for me, coffee for her, which I laced with brandy, to little effect as far as the insomnia was concerned. By the morning I had decided to tell my publishers. Elena was reluctant to let me leave the apartment by myself and travel on the tube, as I had done up until then, but I did anyway. On arrival I asked to see the partner who was in charge of my book, one Osborne Dent, who everybody referred to as Ossie. He was a tall, dark haired, smartly dressed man, with warm brown eyes, and as I later discovered a penchant for the ladies. Or to be more accurate, they had for him. When he welcomed me into his oak panelled office, he was dressed in a blue and white striped open necked shirt and royal blue trousers. A strong whiff of his aftershave hung in the air.

'I hear the book's going well,' he said as we shook hands. Then he offered me one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.

'Very well,' I answered. 'I'm pleased with Jill Coldwell, but that's not what I've come to see you about.'

As I unfolded my tale of plagiarism and hit men I watched the frown lines etch deeper and deeper in his forehead. 'That sounds a good story for a book,' was his flippant initial response when my tale reached its conclusion. He was aware of the plagiarism matters from the newspaper articles and what Saunders had told him, but we had kept him in the dark about Beekman. 'You really should have told me about all this before coming to London,' he said. 'You've not been fair with us. This will jeopardise the publication of your book.'

'I don't see how,' I said. 'I told you things are going swimmingly with Jill Coldwell.'

'Yes, but we can't send you out to publicity and promotion events, book signings and that sort of thing, with this hanging over you. How could we risk that?'

'You won't have to. I've had an idea.' He puffed out his cheeks, eased back in his executive leather chair and listened.

The suggestion I put to him that day made his eyes pop wide open. So much so, he was stunned into silence. To fill in the silence I continued. 'If it works out we won't need much promotion and book signings, the publicity will do the job for us, initially anyway.'

He scratched his head and stared at me intensely for some more moments. 'You'll have to let me think about it,' he said eventually. 'It's a mighty big risk.'

'I know it's a risk but I'm the one who's taking it.' He again scratched his head.

'Well in view of what you've told me we'll have to arrange some security for you. We're too near a print run to take any chances. Once we're into a print run we're out on a limb financially. That's my problem.'

I argued vehemently against his suggestion of security, but he was having none of it. I was going to get security whether I liked it or not. In the end I managed to whittle down his idea of security from something that resembled the protection of the President of the USA to one man, who would follow me everywhere and watch my back at all times. As at that moment I hadn't mentioned anything about my idea to Elena and I told Dent that I wouldn't want anything to proceed until I'd discussed it with her. He nodded his head but replied that he was going ahead with the security whatever.

'I have to protect my investment Robert,' he said. 'I'd be failing in my duty as a partner of this firm if I didn't do that. And at this moment in time you and your book are our investment. Once it's printed and selling you can do what you like.' I was taken aback by his directness, but I could see his point.

For the rest of that morning I reverted to the editing task with Jill Coldwell. More progress continued to be made. Before we adjourned for lunch Dent came down to her room. 'I've made arrangements for your safety,' he said as soon as he walked in through the door. Behind him stood a coloured man in a light grey suit who he introduced as Thomas Mason. 'He will join you both for lunch and explain to you his duties and requirements,' Dent continued. Jill and I just looked at each other. Before we could say anything Dent had left the room. While Mason stood with us I had to bring her up to date on my situation. In response she just shook her head in bewilderment.

Mason was all of six foot three. In his right ear was a telephone earpiece. He was in his mid thirties, about fifteen stone, skin headed and could have been taken for a Super league American footballer. He also wore the shiniest pair of black shoes I have ever seen. He politely informed us about his qualifications and the background of the company he worked for. He called me Mister Demaid. Over a lunch of prawn sandwiches, water and coffee, he explained to me the procedures he would adopt. Jill listened in silence. Wherever I went, he said, he would follow me, but try to remain in the background. Whenever I left our apartment I was to telephone beforehand and let him know of my intended destination. He pointed to the earpiece, and said he would be waiting somewhere discreetly outside on the pavement. Each day I was to give him my itinerary and let him know in advance if there were going to be any changes. He promised to be as unobtrusive as possible. He would never walk alongside me, he said, so as not to identify himself with me. In fact he asked me to let him know if he became too visible as that would mean he wasn't doing his job properly. He wanted details of everything I knew on Gerolt Beekman. I promised to download these to his e-mail address, with the images Elena had of him. Jill paid for the lunch and we returned to her office, conscious that somewhere behind us Mason was following.

After an hour or so of more work I said that I had better get home to Elena to update her on the latest situation. As arranged I duly telephoned Thomas on the number he had given me and set off for the apartment via the tube. During that journey I never saw him, but all the time I had an itch on the back of my neck.

Elena sat looking aghast as I outlined the plan I had revealed to Dent. She made very few verbal responses until I'd finished. 'And you think that's going to ensure our safety? ' she said sarcastically.

'Not entirely, but it means I am doing something about it. It means that we will have the initiative. Surely that's better than skulking around here, or in that barracks in Spain.'

'Not much good to us if we're dead though Robert.'

'I'm not completely convinced that is what will happen.' She looked at me wide eyed. 'Beekman has had a couple of opportunities to take us out already,' I continued. 'He saw us at the funeral. He saw us in the park. Why hasn't he acted. These guys don't usually get that many opportunities.'

'Robert this is driving me crazy' she shrieked back at me. 'What am I supposed to do now, sit around here all day waiting to get bumped off?' She was soon in tears. It took a lot to console her. Later I suggested we go out for a meal but she couldn't face it. However in the morning I telephoned Daniel Day and made arrangements to see him that morning at his newspaper's offices. Beforehand as agreed I duly telephoned Mason and he said he would follow me. He'd received the copies of Beekman's image. Throughout my journey to the newspaper office, on foot and on the tube, I never saw him once.

I received a warm greeting from Daniel Day. Wide double glazed windows gave his office a panoramic view across the city. The internal walls were also all glass, making his activities visible to all those in the newsroom. He was a tall man, casually dressed in shirt, tie and slacks, with a shock of blonde hair.

He listened intently as I told him about our current predicament. 'Robert that's terrible,' he responded. 'What do you want to do about it? More particularly what do you want us to do?'

Briefly I outlined the idea I'd put to Dent and revealed to Elena. 'I'd like to write another article, updating our situation and exposing this man Beekman. We've got pictures of him that could accompany the piece.'

Day rubbed his chin as though he wasn't sure. 'We'd have to inform the police,' he began. 'This is a potential murder situation. They'd need to be involved, which means you'd have to do what they told you to do, just as you did in Spain. And I'd need to check it out with our legal people. I'm not sure that the paper can be seen to be accusing someone of being an assassin without any specific evidence. From what you tell me he's never been convicted.'

'Well he's never been caught,'I responded. 'But he's wanted all over Europe.'

'Maybe, but that doesn't actually prove he's actually committed any crimes. The paper would be on very shaky ground with that one.'

I felt deflated, my enthusiasm rebuffed. Day obviously could see the look on my face. 'Tell you what Robert,' he said. 'You go and write the piece. Write it as you did the other pieces and I'll look at it. In the meantime I'll check with the legal people. But if we are going to do anything for you they will probably want to instruct the police first.'

Reluctantly I had to accept his decision. Before I left he said, 'For God's sake Robert do take care. I really think you should go to the police with this anyway. You are playing with fire here. And there's Elena to think about.'

From his offices I travelled across town to my publishers to meet up again with Jill Coldwell. When I entered the room she had a worried look on her face. 'What's up?' I asked as I sat down.

'I've been thinking all night about your circumstances,' she replied. 'It must be awful for you. How can you concentrate on this book with all that going on,' she added, pointing down to the manuscript on her desk.

'In a way it helps,' I said. 'If I did nothing but think of the other matters all day I'd go off my head.' She shook her head and said no more on the subject. Soon we were into the work again.

In our apartment an uneasy truce developed between Elena and me. Over the following few days I realised that my latest idea hadn't gone down well with her at all. She had also stopped going out by herself. When she knew Thomas was on hand she would accompany me, but she'd lost the zest she previously had for sightseeing and photographing by herself. And even when we were out together she seemed reluctant to draw attention to herself by using her camera. When I was in telephone contact with Mason, he told me, he was making more enquiries on the continent about Beekman. He said when he had more information he would send a report on the matter to my publishers. He and I had agreed not to e-mail each other too much in case they were being intercepted. In between, when I was on the tube and during my odd snatches of spare time, I tried to cobble together the article I had proposed to Day.

It wasn't easy. When I really got my head down on it I was struggling. Daniel Day's words about ensuring the article was factual as well as interesting was proving to be more of a problem than I had imagined. Thereby hangs the difference between journalism and writing fiction. Journalists have to get their facts right to avoid being sued. Novelists can make up anything they like. The more the merrier; it all adds to the fun. So those were trying days. The only good thing happening was that Jill Coldwell and I were rapidly coming to the end of the editing task. Osborne Dent though was getting edgier by the day. I think he was worried that I might be bumped off before the book was out.

When I returned home to the apartment I found Elena to be in a succession of awkward moods. Her replies to everything I said became snappy and evasive. The happy, carefree woman I'd known at the beginning of our London escapade was no longer in evidence. The sighting of Beekman in the park that day had obviously upset her badly.

'I've been thinking about my situation,' she said eventually, one day.

'Go on,' I encouraged.

'I'm thinking that I might pack up here and go home,' she continued. Up until that moment we'd both been standing. On hearing her words I went and sat on a chair at the dining room table while she settled on the settee, so we were facing each other.

'Do you feel you will be safer there?' I asked.

'I don't know,' she replied. 'I'm not really concerned about my safety. It's my way of life that's more important. I just don't feel that I can go on like this, hiding and skulking everywhere we go. Like you said the other day, it's got to the stage now where I don't really care much one way or another what happens in that respect. I just want to go home to my apartment and get on with my work. If something else happens, well so be it.'

I knew she was right. She was really only echoing my sentiments, although I hadn't actually said so to her in as many words, partly because it had been my decision to come to London, and partly because I did genuinely have concerns about our safety. In reply I did go over with her some of the necessary reasons for our confinement, but I knew my words were falling on deaf ears. We agreed that she would think on it some more for a couple of days and then make a final decision at the weekend.

When I got to my publishers offices, the next day, Osborne Dent had a message out that he wanted to see me. When I entered his room he was pacing up and down with a sheet of paper in his hands. His normal placid face looked severely agitated. He'd received a report from Thomas Mason's security firm about Beekman. 'This guy Beekman is obviously a nutcase,' he said to me while continuing to pace and slap the paper with his hand. He had his back to me. 'He's got a history as long as your arm connected with assassinations. Why haven't they caught him yet?'

'You tell me,' I replied. I remained standing as I hadn't been offered a seat and Dent was still pacing.

'We're going to have to do something Robert. We can't have one of our authors getting murdered. Not at publishing time anyway.'

I snortled a disdainful response. He suddenly realised what he'd said. 'I'm sorry,' he added and pointed to one of the leather chairs for me to sit in. 'I'm serious though. Do you realise what danger you are in?' He sat down on his high backed chair behind his desk and looked nonplussed.

I concurred with him that I was well aware of the dangers surrounding me. I reiterated the situation we'd been through at the Alcoi police station and the barracks at Ontinyent. Then I said, 'But I have to get on with my life. I want this book published and out on the shelves. It's not in my nature to go about hiding as though I was the criminal.'

I think he was taken aback by the ferocity of my little speech. 'Well at least I think we ought to involve the police,' he responded.

'No,' I said forcefully. 'If we did that they'd want to lock me up again somewhere safe. I'm not having that. We've got Thomas Mason. He's giving me twenty four hours cover. I think he's doing a good job. Osborne I'm not prepared to countenance any more confinement.'

He berated some more on the matter, but I wasn't about to change my mind. Eventually I was allowed to go downstairs to Jill's office to tidy up the editing job. Afterwards there were more meetings with the cover design people, and the publicity department.

Later in the day, at our apartment, I tried again to get to grips with the article I was writing for Daniel Day. Eventually I gave what was either my fifth or sixth draft to Elena to read. She disappeared into the bedroom with it and was gone some time. I was beginning to get worried. Surely it wasn't that bad, I thought. Eventually she appeared back in the living room.

'Well?' I enquired delicately.

'Don't know,' she said. 'There's a few little things I've altered, but if I was an outsider on all this, my initial reaction would be, so what! Poor old sod, that's you, has got himself in trouble, but that's his doing and nobody elses. Perhaps I'm wrong or maybe just biased. I don't know.'

I remained silent and seated for a few moments letting her words sink in. She handed the copy papers back to me and I studied her pencilled amendments before replying.

'How would you tackle it then?' I asked eventually.

She shook her head to indicate a negative response. 'Don't know if I would tackle it at all, Robert,' she said. 'Not that way anyway,' she added, pointing to the pieces of paper in my hand. 'But as I've said before, you do the writing I take the photographs.'

With that she turned and headed to the kitchen leaving me alone with the sheets of paper still in my hand and many quandaries in my head. For an hour or more I went over the piece and the other copies that remained alongside on the table, desperately trying to concoct a decent headline, eye catching article out of the debris. By the following morning I wasn't much further advanced. More in hope and out of frustration though I did e-mail a copy to Daniel Day.

* * * * *

Over the next few days I continued with the trips to my publishers offices to finalise the outstanding matters regarding my book. Then, suddenly in the middle of one of the meetings I was summoned up to Osborne Dent's office. 'Oh hell,' I thought as I climbed the two flights of stairs, 'I'm going to get another ear bashing about police protection.' The print run was imminent and I wondered if Ossie's nerves had finally crumbled.

However, I was in for a big surprise. As soon as I walked in through his door he greeted me like he was meeting his boyhood hero for the first time. 'There you are Robert old chap,' he said, strode towards me and vigorously shook my hand. 'We've got some great news,' he added. I half wondered if my book had perhaps received ten thousand advance orders. Some sections of it had already been sent to the press, prior to release. I was even more surprised to see Thomas Mason standing at the back of Dent's office. His pearly white teeth highlighted a big grin across his ebony face. Dent continued. 'This man and his firm,' he continued in a clearly excitable manner, while pointing at Mason, 'have made a major breakthrough in your case. I'll let him tell you about it.' he said and again pointed at Mason.

Mason cleared his throat. 'When I was tailing you a few days ago I spotted a man in the background who looked like the images you gave me of Beekman,' he began. So I immediately phoned our people and they quickly got some other guys to tail him. They followed him eventually to a small hotel in Kensington where he was staying. Then they called the police. It was Beekman. He's been arrested. As you said he's wanted all over Europe.'

Instantly I felt a ton weight disappear from my shoulders. After I had shaken Mason's hand I slumped into one of Dent's leather armchairs. Suddenly I felt exhausted. I wanted to cry but somehow I managed to resist the temptation. Dent was fussing around me as though we had sold a million copies of my book. He added the police wanted to see me, but he had wanted to tell me first. He said he had arranged for them to come to his office. He told me that he would be present throughout as well as one of the firm's lawyers.

There followed a long and tiring day. I was required to relate my whole tale on this matter to a detective inspector and a man from Interpol. We were brought refreshments when we stopped for various breaks. I was questioned as to why I hadn't contacted the police about the matter when I'd arrived in the country. My excuses were poorly received. 'This man is a dangerous and wanted criminal,' the inspector berated.

'How did he manage to get into the country then?' I responded. Words about lax customs surveillance at the tunnel were offered in response.

It was after five o'clock before they finished with me. When I was about to go Osborne told me that the firm had decided to keep Thomas Mason on as my minder for a while. 'At least until we have finished the initial publicity for your book,' he said. Surprisingly I was pleased. Afterwards I couldn't wait to get home to tell Elena. I had considered telephoning her with the news but I wanted to break it to her in person and watch the expression on her face.

When I told her about Beekman, I could see that her response was similar to mine. Only, with her, the tears did trickle down her cheeks. She fell into my arms and we embraced for a long time. The one downside of the day was an e-mail from Daniel Day rejecting my article. He commented that it was too light on specifics. I replied by relating the news about Beekman and said I'd write another piece reflecting the recent events for his consideration. That night, for the first time in many days, Elena and I ate out at a quality restaurant, then later we continued our celebration in bed. Before we turned over to sleep I whispered to her that I hoped Thomas Mason hadn't been watching us. She giggled like a schoolgirl.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The news of Beekman's arrest was the cue for Elena to make tracks back to Spain. I could appreciate her point of view. She wanted to resurrect her photography business before it disintegrated into bankruptcy. She had seemingly enjoyed the first few weeks in London, but the more recent restrictions imposed on us had again curtailed most of the pleasure of it for her. Also, although we couldn't be completely sure that we had in fact been Beekman's intended victims it meant the pressure was off us.

So it was with a heavy heart that I saw her off from Heathrow airport, on a flight bound for Valencia. We agreed that we would keep in touch by e-mail. Fortunately for me, as the print run on my book was imminent, I had a full diary of publicity and promotion events to occupy my time. However, whenever I returned to my apartment a strange feeling of loneliness and desperation engulfed me like a shroud. Before the week was out I received an e-mail from her. In it she related that the economic situation in Spain had worsened. Trouble was still rife on the streets of Albacete, where a re-run of the election was about to take place. Because of the recession nobody was spending money as they'd done before, and her business was struggling. She mentioned she was trying to resurrect the work she had done for the _Guardia_ , but not making much progress. She finished by saying she missed me.

For me it was strange, to say the least, to be involved once again in the publicity and promotional bashes surrounding a book launch. It had been some time since I'd last been involved in such like. In the interim I'd forgotten the insipid taste that endless warm white wine leaves in your mouth and the permanent stomach ache from eating too much rich food. The whole exercise just wasn't my scene at all. Oh how I longed to be in the mountains I'd climbed with Royston Taylor in Spain. Saunders and my publishers had lined up some interviews for me with the national press and Daniel Day had organised for one of their better literary critics to do a piece on me, into which he was able to draft some of my more recent troubles, which proved to be good publicity.

In desperation, one weekend, I decided to head off to Wales. Beforehand I had phoned Barbara Harrison and arranged to take her out to lunch. She had been surprised to hear from me and that I was in London. However she readily agreed to my invitation. I hired a car and set off down the M4 towards the border. I had booked a small hotel on the outskirts of the Wye Valley, near enough to Newport to enable me to travel in for my Saturday lunchtime date with her. I had also given Thomas the weekend off. I told him categorically that I didn't want him following me to Wales. Jokingly I told him that he'd stick out like a sore thumb there and not remain inconspicuous at all. He laughed and after arguing a little, eventually conceded to my demand.

When I got out of the car in the hotel car park, the first breath I took tasted like sweet nectar. For the first time in weeks the air wasn't tainted with petrol or diesel fumes. There was also no throb or hum of traffic and people. In fact at that moment there was nobody around at all. It was late on a Friday afternoon and I was the only occupant of the car park. I looked around at the green hills surrounding me. In the very far distance I could just see a tractor working in a field, but apart from that and the birds singing overhead nothing else was moving. 'This will do nicely,' I surmised as I looked at the old red sandstone, Victorian ex country manor house that provided the accommodation. Their publicity blurb had confirmed eight bedrooms, all with en-suite, a large comfortable lounge with log fire and a panelled dining room. Once I had checked in and been shown to my room I told them I was going to take myself off for a walk, but would be back for dinner. To stretch my legs properly amongst green fields on hilly roads was sheer delight, although I soon found my leg muscles to be out of condition. It didn't matter. Later, the meal in the dining room was enjoyable, with pleasant normal people, who provided amiable, yet unobtrusive company.

More greenery and rolling hills accompanied my route into Newport next day. Barbara Harrison was awaiting me when I rang the bell of her front door. This time I could see no SUV vehicles parked nearby. She greeted me with a warm smile and a 'there you are lovely.' Dressed in a light blue, two piece skirted suit, over a darker blue blouse, she looked very smart. The black hair was hanging loose, and I guessed tinted a little darker which made her look extremely glamorous.

I had booked lunch at a pub restaurant on the outskirts of town, where in times gone by I had remembered they cooked reasonable food. I was just hoping the place hadn't changed in the interim. During the journey we chatted amiably and I did my best to entertain her with some of the more colourful incidents I'd encountered in the publishing world over the previous few weeks. I kept well off the subject of Gerolt Beekman or anything similar.

The restaurant still appeared to be in good hands. From the generous menu I chose the sole mornay, while she settled for veal. Looking at her across the table I was more than pleased with my attractive date. Once we'd supped at a decent Chardonnay I asked her about her troubles with the Taylor family.

'It's been most unpleasant,' she replied in her twangy Newport accent. 'They've nearly driven me mad. 'Not only with their visit, but I've also received lots of silly correspondence from their lawyers.'

'Have you thought about seeing a local solicitor?' I asked.

'I couldn't afford that,' she said as we started on our meals. 'And this guy Antonio has been in contact with me from Spain. What he tells me is pretty much what I'd expect somebody here would say to me on the matter. I just wonder if it's worth me getting involved in all the hassle. I mean it's not as though I was expecting to be left any money.'

I took a large sip of the Chardonnay before I spoke. 'I think you may be surprised by the amount of money involved,' I said. 'For starters David owned his flat in Spain. As far as I am aware there was no mortgage on it. So that's a six figure sum to begin with.'

She looked completely astounded. For many moments she just stared wide eyed at me. 'You're joking,' she eventually responded. I shook my head. 'I had no idea it would be anything like that. Oh Lord, now I can see why Mrs Taylor is getting upset.'

'Have you told any of your friends at the Church anything about it?' I asked. She hesitated before answering.

'Yes I have,' she responded cautiously. 'I had nobody else to talk to on the matter. I mean it's not the sort of thing I could tell my friends at work.'

'What was their response at the church?'

'They told me to stick with it. They told me to seek their advice if I wanted to.'

I made no comment to that but continued to update her on what Antonio had told me about the procedures. Her interest in the matter increased. In time I managed to change the course of the conversation to more aspects of what I knew of the latter stages of Taylor's life and our times together in the mountains. I tried to avoid the subject of plagiarism. I thought she had enough to cope with regarding him without that.

Throughout our time together at the restaurant I found her company to be attractive and entertaining. When she did let it go she possessed a wide toothed smile that lit up her face. Usually it accompanied a hearty laugh which I had always enjoyed in a woman.

'You know I think this is very strange,' she said to me. I looked at her questioningly. 'I mean me having lunch with another writer after all these years. There's something fatalistic about it.'

I considered it would be very easy to want her as a companion. So much so I asked when I drove her home, to see her again the following day. I had wanted to go hiking in the hills before returning to London, but somehow my enthusiasm for her company got the better of me. She said she was again working nights so I arranged to pick her up late on the Sunday afternoon. When I got back to my hotel I was surprised by what I had done.

In the morning I drove to Abergavenny. The day was bright and clear. The panorama from the Sugar Loaf mountain, which overlooked the town and across to the Black Mountains was spectacular. When I reached the summit I felt physically better than I had done for weeks. There were many days to come in the near future when I would have been more than grateful for just a little of that elated feeling.

I indulged in a pub lunch at a pleasant watering hole near the foot of the mountain, then drove back to my hotel to shower and change before my meeting with Barbara Harrison.

I was completely unprepared for the glamour puss that greeted me at her front door. She had fluffed up her hair. A pair of designer sunglasses were lying on her hairline. Her tanned upper body was perfectly set off by a white, low cut, figure revealing halter top. Covering her pert rear and legs were hugging tight fitting dark blue slacks. High heeled black shoes appeared to add to her stature. She was carrying a dark lightweight jacket and could have been mistaken for a high flying _se_ ñ _ora_ from the Costa Blanca. All I could manage to say was 'Wow, you look great.' I was certainly taken aback.

We drove to a tea room in the Wye Valley, chatting like old friends. Overlooking the wide river we ate scones with cream, and Welsh cakes, and more than one pot of tea. She possessed a healthy appetite which she put down to an exhausting night on the ward. When we settled to concentrated conversation she wanted to know more about all the aspects of plagiarism I had briefly mentioned at our first meeting.

She kept repeating, 'That's awful,' as I related details of Taylor's problems in that respect.

'And you think that might have had something to do with his death?' she asked.

'It's possible,' I replied.

'And this man Scott-Browne has disappeared to Portugal you say?'

'That was the last sighting, yes,' I responded.

'That's awful,' she said again.

We spent well over an hour together at that tea room. Her glamour, vivacity and attractive nature had captured my complete attention. When I pulled up outside her front gate later on I had been planning to drive straight back to London, having already booked out of the hotel.

'Would you like to come inside?' she said, surprising me. I must have hesitated with my reply as she followed the remark up by saying, 'You don't have to if you don't want to.'

'I'd like to very much,' I quickly responded.

Once we were inside it didn't take very long before we were upstairs in her bedroom. The attributes she possessed were far too powerful for me to resist. Her long, curvaceous naked body provided a time consuming exploration of endeavour and pleasure. My watch showed well past nine o'clock when I eventually set off on my journey for London. As I drove I couldn't really work out how it had all happened so fast and without warning.

* * * * *

When I awoke on the Monday morning in the Notting Hill apartment I was totally confused. When I was younger I guess I had, from time to time, indulged in one night stands, but after marrying, then divorcing, the contemplation of such a happening was something that held no real appeal for me. There had been the occasional girlfriend, some had lasted a few weeks, others even a few months. Then more recently there had been Elena, which was about as long lasting as it had got. So at that moment I was at a loss to explain the previous days encounter. Unfortunately I had thoroughly enjoyed myself. Yet I couldn't explain why. I hardly knew the woman or anything detailed about her background. That we had been good together, in bed and when we were on our date, was not in doubt though.

So for the first hour or two I wandered around the apartment, getting my breakfast, undertaking my washing and shaving chores in a kind of dream. Reality was reinstated by Thomas phoning to enquire about my plans for the day. I knew I had to be at my publishers for a photography session. Then afterwards Saunders rang confirming an appointment with a literary magazine for later in the day. Also there were e-mails from Elena and Williamson awaiting in my inbox.

Waves of guilt flashed over me when I read Elena's text. Not so much for what she wrote but more importantly because of yesterday's encounter. She told me that the re-election had taken place in Albacete and that Cebrian had been reinstated as the Senator, with an even larger majority. Amado's appeal was also imminent. I delayed replying to her mail until later. I certainly didn't want her picking up on any of my vibes from the previous day.

Williamson's e-mail contained more important information. He had heard from the Spanish police. There had been a sighting of Scott-Browne back on the Costa del Sol. His missive also included other matters regarding Taylor's estate. I wrote back suggesting to him that we consider reinstating our search for Browne. Later in the day Thomas Mason let me know that the Spanish police had an extradition notice out for Gerolt Beekman, which he expected the British authorities to act upon.

Hence, it was with a degree of chaos swirling around in my head that I went about my publicity tasks for the early part of that week. I did eventually reply to Elena but kept it to factual matters regarding my publishing dealings. But throughout those days, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get thoughts of Barbara Harrison out of my head.

It was therefore with some trepidation that I opened up an e-mail from her in the middle of the week. She wondered if we would be able meet up during the coming weekend. 'I have the whole weekend off from work,' she wrote. 'And I did enjoy our time together last weekend,' she continued. My immediate reaction was to bury my head in my hands. Could this be really happening to me I pondered. The excited state of my body indicated that this woman had become a fatal attraction for me. I hesitated over my reply for a long while. What lay at the back of her invitation I wondered? And how much further did I want to involve myself?

Over the next few days I did some serious thinking. My initial e-mail reply to Barbara was that I wasn't sure about the weekend as there could be publication events I would be required to attend. That of course was complete fabrication as nothing usually happens in the literary world at weekends, unless you are lucky enough to be invited to an alcohol laced soiree at some country retreat. I did however promise to get back to her on the matter before Friday.

My genuine thoughts on everything were a bundle of disorder. In truth, most of the initial publicity events in respect of the book had already been completed. The print run was about to happen, after which there would be an expensive book launch bash, but that was over a week away. Thereafter, some weeks in the future, depending upon the success of the early sales, I may be required to go on a book signing tour. The immediate threat of Gerolt Beekman had been removed from my shoulders and had therefore released a freedom to contemplate other actions. But, did I want to continue with my foray into the plagiarism of David Taylor's work? If I did, where did Barbara Harrison fit into that scenario and what were my real feelings for her. And then there was also my relationship with Elena to consider. At times during her stay with me in London we had been closer than at any time before. What would my feelings be when I eventually faced her again.

* * * * *

I decided to visit my agent at his home. There were matters for us to clear up regarding the book, which was the excuse for my call when I telephoned him. His office is located in the ground floor front room of his large three storey house in Highgate. That and most of the adjoining rooms are a convoluted mess of manuscripts, books, contracts, magazines and newspapers. He does have a large lounge on the first floor which is usually more presentable. This time however, I was ushered into the stuffy, cigar laced environment of his office. I did try a cough on entering, in the hope he may open a window, but the hint fell on deaf ears.

As I have attempted to explain, Saunders can be an irascible old sod at the best of times. That day proved no exception. After offering me a chair and a brandy he went and sat behind his enormous cluttered desk. He looked older than his sixty years. The skin on his face had become wrinkled. The once dark hair had thinned to reveal most of his pate. He was wearing a check shirt, with a green tie. A Crombie jacket, sporting a blue breast pocket handkerchief and corduroy trousers completed his attire. We managed to get through the business matters without too many problems, except for him continually moaning about how little money he was making out of me. A long playing record I had been forced to listen to many times before.

Then I broached the subject of continuing to investigate the plagiarism aspects of David Taylor's book.

'Fucking hell!!' he swore. 'Don't you think you've got enough on your hands getting _your_ book off the ground without messing about with somebody else's troubles?' His face was becoming a contorted mess of antagonism. 'You know times aren't good in book sales,' he continued. 'For Christ sake Robert what do you want to go faffing around with some other author's book for, especially when the poor man is dead.' I had obviously upset him. His eyes were almost bulging out of their sockets as he continued to berate me. 'Considering the trouble it's already caused you I can't believe you are even contemplating the matter.' He added caustically. As if to emphasise his irritation he delved into his desk drawer, pulled out a packet of Havana cigars and lit one up.

I was taken aback by his vitriol, but I had to respond. 'Because as a fellow author I don't think I can just turn a blind eye, however convenient it maybe for me to do so. These are the sort of violations we should all fight to eliminate. And in this case the man was a pal, whose company I'd enjoyed.'

Saunders kept puffing clouds of cigar smoke into the space between us.

'But you mentioned that this man Scott-Browne is in Spain or Portugal, or Timbuktu,' he continued. 'You haven't the time at the moment to go buggering off when your book is about to become published. Your presence is required here.' We continued to disagree on the matter for the duration of our time together. You could say I left his house with several fleas in my ear and rancid cigar smoke in my nostrils.' The rebellious streak in my nature resulted in me telephoning Barbara Harrison. Her recent e-mail had provided me with the perfect excuse and outlet for my frustration. London was hell. I needed to get away. She told me she was working nights. I said I would be staying at the same hotel as before and extended an invitation for her to join me there. We arranged for me to pick her up at her home on the Saturday afternoon.

Driving down the M4 on the Friday afternoon, in another hired car, with London fading in the rear view mirror, felt like playing truant and striking a blow for freedom. When the greenery began to appear on each side of the motorway my brain and body began to relax properly for the first time that week. I was warmly welcomed back at the hotel. Having booked a larger double room, I informed them that I was expecting a guest on Saturday evening, then followed the same procedure as before in taking a hill walk before dinner.

By the time I was outside Barbara Harrison's house next day I had settled into my new found weekend mode. Dinner the previous night at the hotel had again been pleasant and I'd also managed a morning hillside walk. The intoxicating air had cleared my head and loosened my limbs. The feel good factor of the day was completed when my date opened her front door. Another figure revealing blue top and tight grey slacks took my breath away. A small suitcase, which I carried for her, confirmed her acceptance of the overnight stay.

We chatted amiably as we drove for the hills. She remained fascinated as I related more about the machinations of the book publishing world. Regarding her own work she was reluctant to expand much beyond the usual moans and groans about the shortcomings of the national health service. That afternoon we were heading further afield. Monmouthshire is a beautiful county. In our journey we explored many of its narrow tracks and twisting hillside roads. As before we found a suitable restaurant for tea.

There, I again asked her again about her involvement with the Church of Scientology. 'There is always someone there for me to talk to when I need it,' she responded, and confirmed how they had helped her during a difficult part of her life.

'What commitment is required on your part?' I asked. She looked at me with questioning eyes. It was the first time I had seen any real hesitation on her part in responding to me.

'I am expected to attend a certain number of meetings a month. In a way I don't mind because with me working funny hours it makes it difficult to establish normal friendships. Most of the meetings are more like social get-togethers and afterwards we chat and exchange ideas.'

'Do you have to make any financial commitment?' I asked.

Again she hesitated before replying. The relaxed happy-go-lucky look on her face had suddenly disappeared. 'I am supposed to donate a percentage of my salary each month?' she said. I made no immediate reply. She continued. 'Sometimes if there is a special charity fund raising event, they ask us for more, usually at one of the meetings.'

Again I was cautious about asking too much and spoiling the cordiality of our date.

'If I am not being rude can I ask what percentage of your salary you have to give?'

'About ten per cent,' she replied sharply.

Instantly, I decided, for the time being anyway, to drop the subject. The main point of that weekend, for me, was to get away from the hubbub of London and to a certain extent indulge myself in the erotic pleasures offered by Ms Harrison's curvaceous body. I certainly didn't want to ruin my opportunities in that respect before we got anywhere near a bed. So I changed the conversation to more general matters. We finished our tea. The smile returned to her face and eventually we made our way back through the narrow twisting lanes to the hotel.

When she saw the spacious, well fitted luxury bedroom she exclaimed, 'there's lovely,' I have to say the hour or so we spent on the large double bed, before dinner, was a satisfying sexual romp.

For dinner she wore a short, tight fitting floral dress, which showed off her long legs and everything else to great effect. That night I was able to sleep the sleep of the just. Her presence alongside me, the fresh mountain air through the open bedroom window, provided the sublime recipe.

Sunday morning began well. Despite her protestations about not having the right clothes I managed to persuade her, after breakfast, to accompany me on a walk in the nearby hills. Fortunately the weather was still good. We kept mainly to the roads and narrow lanes. Her walking ability bore no resemblance to Elena's athleticism, but after the previous evenings activities, I was grateful. Our problems came to a head over lunch.

I had found a pub/carvery which looked suitable. Once we were settled into roast beef and Yorkshire pudding I again broached the subject of the Church of Scientology.

'If you received the money from David's estate would the church put any pressure on you to donate a part of it to them?' I asked innocently.'

Her face froze. It's previous contented demeanour changed instantly into a tense, frowning scowl. 'I don't know,' was her snappy reply. She quickly followed it up by saying, 'They may do, but at the time I don't think I mentioned to them the likely amount involved.'

'I'm only asking,' I responded, 'because you said it was one of the issues you and David fell out about?'

'It was, but back then I had no idea he was going to leave me anything in his will. He must have made the will after we split up and went to live in Spain. There's no way I could have had any influence on him in that respect. I never heard from him again afterwards. If he left me something surely it is up to me to decide what to do with it.' There was an acidity in her voice. Up until those few moments our times together had been mostly easy going, relaxed and pleasurable. Suddenly her demeanour had changed.

'I'm sorry,' I said, quickly cutting in, trying to undo the damage. 'I was only thinking of your welfare.' But she was obviously not going to let go.

'Sometimes people treat me like a child. They think I'm not capable of making up my own mind on matters that relate to me. I do have a brain you know.'

Clearly I had exposed a raw nerve.

'I agree with that,' I concurred.

Thereafter, whatever I said to her was dealt with in the same curt manner. The warm, affectionate woman I'd known up until then had suddenly disappeared behind a veil of acrimony. As we finished our lunch I changed the subject. Although the indignation in her tone did alter somewhat, an edge still prevailed in her responses. When I drove her back to her house, the atmosphere between us wasn't the same as before. We didn't actually row, but there wasn't the camaraderie we'd shared before either. Outside her front gate, she thanked me profusely for 'treating her to the 'lovely' hotel and everything else. 'It's certainly a lifestyle I could get used to,' she added with just a tinge sarcasm.

I told her that I would be busy over the next fortnight with matters relating to the book, but would keep in touch by e-mail. And that's how we left it. This time I was not invited inside. We exchanged a brief kiss. I waited until she got to her front door, from where she waved to me and then I drove away.

Her reaction to my question about the Church of Scientology haunted me all the way back to London. It was obvious that she was under pressure about it.

* * * * *

During that week I was again busy with promoting my book. Every passing day I missed the hills and fresh air of the Monmouthshire countryside. Living on my own in London had become a drag. A batch of e-mails I received during the week pushed me into more positive action.

Elena wrote saying living in Spain had become economically desperate. Unemployment was rife. Taxes, fuel bills, food, had all increased dramatically. Nobody had spare money and accordingly her photography business was suffering badly. She wrote that riots and demonstrations had become a regular weekly occurrence in the major towns and cities. She sounded low. Reading her words made me feel even more guilty about my activities with Barbara Harrison. As a result I tried to write a comic and upbeat message back to her, describing some of the people and antics surrounding my publicity events. As my book was in print I had received another advance from my publishers in lieu of royalties. There and then I decided to send Elena a cheque for a portion of it to cover some of the loss of money she had incurred due to her involvement with me. It wasn't a vast sum but it did ease my conscience somewhat.

There was also a mail from Williamson. He told me there had been another sighting of Scott-Browne at a celebrity party in Malaga. One of Williamson's racecourse pals had also been invited to the same do and had spotted him there.

Thirdly an e-mail from Barbara Harrison added to my problems. In it, she was contrite about her behaviour over the latter part of the previous weekend. She apologised and said that after I had left she had felt badly about it. She asked if I could spare some time to meet up with her again to discuss the problem. If it helped she said she would meet me half way, at the motorway service station at Reading. If I was too busy it didn't matter she added. She gave me some alternative dates and times. I thought long and hard before replying. Should I draw a line under our relationship or continue to involve myself, I wondered? Eventually the pompous and generally overbearing attitude of my publishers coerced me into wanting to escape from London. The book launch publicity bash was glaring up at me from my diary for later in the week, making the day before a good time to quietly slip away without telling anybody. So I wrote back to Barbara confirming I would meet her at the time and place she had suggested.

Rather than hire a car I decided to catch the motorway bus to Reading service station. That way I could properly relax and enjoy the trip. I arrived too early but hung around the entrance foyer until I spotted her approaching. When she saw me her face broke into one her best smiles. Her dark hair was tied up and she looked smart in a dark blue jump suit. When she got close she practically ran into my arms. We exchanged a fervent kiss.

'I feel awful about my behaviour on Sunday,' were her first words to me.

I made light of it and we moved off to the cafeteria. We both chose tea and sandwiches. She insisted on paying. 'This is my turn, as I asked you to come,' she added. We sat at a table near the window with a view of the car park.

She continued to apologise for her attitude on the previous Sunday. I cut in and said, 'Well I am here now, so what is it you want to see me about?'

She opened a packet of the sandwiches, cut one in half then said, 'It's about the money in the will.' I suppose I had half guessed as much so I said nothing and let her continue. 'As you know,' she said, 'until you told me about it, I had not even considered the possibility. I didn't really believe it, or that it would be anything like the amount you've told me since. Initially I thought it might be five hundred quid or maybe even perhaps a thousand, but nothing like those sums you've mentioned, so before I knew the amount involved I told my friends at the church.' She bit hungrily into the sandwich. 'Then as you know I had that awful visit from David's family and afterwards the letters from their lawyers.' I nodded and sipped on my tea. 'Well,' she continued, 'I've never been a greedy girl. For me to have a windfall like this, is like gold falling from the sky. All I've ever really wanted is my home and my work and perhaps the right man to share it with.'

'Yes,' I said, then supped on some more tea so as not to interrupt her flow.

'Well now I'm under pressure on it. The Church are badgering me to meet with their financial advisers. I expect that will involve putting the money into one of their hair brained schemes that will only benefit them in the long, run not me.' I looked at her understandingly. 'As well I've been getting telephone calls from Yvonne Taylor telling me how desperately broke she is. She's even asked if I would share any money due, with her, as she says her husband left her penniless. Robert I just don't know what to do for the best. I'd like to pay off my mortgage and do some of the other things I want to do, but I keep wondering that if I'm going to continue to get all this aggro if it's all worth it.' She picked up her cup and drank some of the tea.

I was taken aback. I began by saying that 'money can't buy you happiness,' then regretted every word of it. I bit into a sandwich which gave me time to think. 'Firstly,' I continued, 'whatever you or anybody else may think or say, you are entitled to that money. David left it to you of his own free will, at a time when you weren't seeing each other and when he was completely separated from his wife. So no way could anybody claim that he was coerced into his decision one way or another. And from what little he did tell me during our friendship, about his divorce, leads me to take Yvonne Taylor's remarks about being penniless with a pinch of salt. From what David said I gathered that the divorce settlement virtually bled him dry of nearly every penny he had. Of course she may have blown it all by now, but if that's the case that's her fault. If you like I'll talk to the lawyer in Spain about it, but I expect he'll say much the same thing.'

'What if she keeps pestering me with these claims? It would drive me mad.'

'Well if it continues you'd have to sue for harassment. If you took the money at least you'd be able afford a lawyer.' She looked amused by my remark. I finished off the sandwich and poured some more tea from the pot. 'As far as the church is concerned,' I continued. 'I think that is a matter for you. Only you can decide on that one. It depends completely on how committed you are to their cause. Regarding their set up and background I have my doubts, but it's not for me to say one way or another. You were involved with them before any of this came to light and before you met me.' She nodded her head then finished off her portion of the food and tea.

'I'll contact Antonio,' I said, 'and let you know by e-mail what he says. For what it's worth, if you want my advice, I would take the money, pay off your mortgage, then put most of the rest away for the other things you want to do, and a bit more for a rainy day, then think about what you may do with the residue.'

She giggled and put her hand on my arm. 'Do you think there may be enough for all of that?'

'There could be,' I replied. She giggled again.

Thereafter she took some time to thank me for my time and trouble, while continuing to express her apologies for the previous Sunday. I told her a few more details about my forthcoming publicity bash which she listened to avidly. 'How exciting,' she responded to each of my descriptions.

We began to make our farewells. Time was approaching when I needed to catch the return bus. I promised to be in contact by e-mail, then I watched her drive out of the car park.

* * * * *

My disappearing act on the day before the launch bash had clearly given Osborne Dent palpitations. Numerous telephone messages were on my answer phone when I got back to Notting Hill. I deliberately delayed returning their calls until the following morning.

Preparing and eating my evening meal, in relative peace, gave me time to reflect on Barbara Harrison's earlier revelations. At the back of my mind there was still a nagging doubt about whether I should continue to get myself involved. In truth I really didn't know much about her background. On the face of it she was without doubt an attractive, competent woman, but my past experience had caused me to have doubts about what is sometimes seen at face value. At her age surely I wasn't the only shoulder she had left to cry on, I thought. However, when I had finished my meal I sent off e-mails to Antonio, Williamson and Elena, updating them on the matters that related to each of them.

For me the next day turned out to be the nightmare I was expecting. During nearly all of the book launch Osborne Dent paraded me around the stuffy hotel conference room like a prize bull at a county fair. As I had anticipated most of the invited guests were more interested in the free champagne and canapés than anything to do with me or my book. It was exhausting, but throughout I was able to maintain my most pleasant looking face and patience, although there were one or two occasions when I felt like telling the person facing me to 'bugger off'. Thankfully, afterwards there was a car to take me home. Also, at the conclusion of the proceedings it had been decided to dispense with Thomas Mason's services. Before I got into the car I was able to thank him for his help and professionalism. I couldn't actually say I enjoyed his company because in reality he didn't spend much time close to me, but it had been good to have him nearby and on hand if required.

Afterwards the peace and emptiness awaiting inside my apartment was like ascending into heaven. I sat for a long time in the most comfortable armchair, with a large brandy, gathering my wits and faculties. When I eventually switched on my computer there were three e-mails awaiting me. Williamson wrote to say that there had been another sighting of Scott-Browne on the Costa Del Sol. Antonio said there had been interest in Taylor's apartment and that he'd received more correspondence from his ex-wife's lawyers suggesting that because of her unhappiness, with regards to the final will, there should be a Family Deed of Variation, dividing up the proceeds between her and Barbara Harrison. Antonio said that he rejected any such idea and had told them so accordingly. He added that Barbara Harrison should adopt the same stance if she was similarly approached. The third e-mail was from Elena who simply said that she missed me.

After reading each of the missives two or three times I poured myself a second brandy. There was enough food for thought in each of them to cause me another sleepless night. By the following morning I had made up my mind that positive action was required on my part. My publishers would not require me for any publicity events for the next few weeks. Matters in that respect would be on hold until it could be gauged how the initial sales had progressed. So there was, at last, a window of opportunity for me to tidy up all of these matters.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Despite Saunders' protestations I decided to travel back to Spain and so I e-mailed Williamson, Elena and Antonio to confirm my intentions. Elena replied that she would pick me up at the airport. I also mailed Barbara Harrison to that effect and said I would keep in touch. She replied that she would miss me.

When I walked off the aeroplane at Valencia the heat instantly hit me. Temperatures were in the twenties, far higher than in the UK. Elena was waiting for me outside the arrivals terminal. It took me a few moments to adjust to the fact that this gorgeous creature was there to meet _me_. She was wearing a short, thin summer dress which added to the effect. Her greeting kiss demanded my instant attention. We walked off arm in arm to her car.

En-route to our town she updated me on the current economic situation. Many local businesses had closed down. Prices were high, as was unemployment. Her business continued to struggle. She still hadn't obtained any more work from the _Guardia_. She thanked me for my cheque, but added that I shouldn't have done it. Again I explained to her my reasons. On either side of the motorway the yellowy/brown earth was parched like a dust bowl. There had been no rainfall for months. Water shortages were imminent. What a contrast to the landscape I left behind in South Wales I thought. She took me to my apartment and we arranged to meet up for dinner later.

It wasn't until we were settled in one of our favourite local restaurants, sipping at a decent Rioja, that she asked me what I was going to do with myself while I was there.

'I want to get to the bottom of all these matters that have been plaguing me over the last few months,' I replied.

'Do you really think there is anything more you can really do,' she said.

'Oh yes,' I responded. 'Considering all the trouble it's caused me I just can't leave everything dangling in the air. I owe it to myself and Royston Taylor to try and get to the bottom of it all. I wouldn't be able to face myself in the mirror if I didn't at least try.'

She sighed. I went on to describe the machinations that Barbara Harrison had got herself into over the will. While I spoke on that subject I was conscious of her eyes studying me closely. I fought hard to keep any emotion or over-excitement from my voice. I also told her what Williamson had mentioned to me regarding a sighting of Scott-Browne on the Costa del Sol.

'I think I have to start there,' I said.

'Robert you must be careful. It's obvious he's a vindictive man.'

'So am I when I'm riled.' She looked at me and smiled. I still considered her to be gorgeously attractive. Over the rest of our time together she updated me on the local gossip and I kept her amused by relating the incidents of my recent book publicity events. It was good to be in her relaxed company again. By the late evening I was bushed after my journey so that night we went back to our respective apartments. We did however arrange to cohabit together at the weekend.

Next morning I took myself off to see Antonio. Having telephoned beforehand he was waiting to greet me in his large office. Files were stacked high around his desk. 'At least somebody's busy with work,' I said, pointing at the files and referring to the economy.

'Thankfully, yes,' he replied.

I got him to update me on the latest developments regarding David Taylor's estate. He told me that there was a party interested in buying his apartment. He said it was early days, but the prospects for a sale looked good. I related what I'd learnt from Barbara Harrison. He replied that in theory he had seen off the solicitors representing Taylor's family. 'A Deed of Arrangement is only applicable if all parties agree to it,' he said. 'Barbara Harrison only has to stand her ground. No way can she be made to relinquish any of the money in the estate to somebody else if she doesn't want to. The divorce laws in Spain are also heavily weighted in favour of the husband. Many of the wives sometimes get nothing at all in a divorce settlement. So any challenge wouldn't stand up in court here.'

I switched the conversation to Scott-Browne and the sighting of him on the Costa del Sol. 'Is the summons we served on him at the racecourse still valid?' I asked.

' _Si_ ,' he said. We've got an order, but of course, as you know, he disappeared. At the time it wasn't cost effective to pursue it further.'

'But if we could get a trace on him. If I could find him would the order still apply?'

' _Si_ , but he may no longer have any assets.'

'I should have taken the Bentley when I saw it,' I said jokingly.

He laughed. 'Robert you must be very careful. We still don't know for sure, but he could be the man behind David Taylor's murder. If you take the law into your own hands, it could be dangerous.'

'But I could lead the police to him?'

He sighed. 'You could indeed, but it would be on your own head. My advice would be not to try.'

Antonio knew that Beekman had been extradited, but he wasn't aware of the updated situation regarding that matter. So after we'd made our farewells I journeyed to the police station in Benidorm to see Chief Inspector Gomez. In his spacious office he greeted me warily. From the expression on his face it seems he felt I had caused him enough unnecessary trouble already. Not having Elena to help with the translation also made our conversation difficult. He told me that Beekman was being detained in Madrid. He had received no information recently and guessed it would take some time before there was any relevant outcome. He said that Williamson had made him aware of the sighting of Scott-Browne and that he had passed the information on to the police on the Costa del Sol. Then, as before, he made motions and noises to indicate that he was very busy and that he had much work to do.

On returning to my apartment I contacted Henry Williamson by telephone. It was good to be able to discuss the matters with someone who had sympathy for my cause. 'I think I'm going to have to get myself down to the Costa del Sol to try and trace this scut Scott-Browne,' I said. 'I've got a few weeks free from my book's promotional work.' I added. 'It's going to be the only time I may have available in the near future.'

'Robert please be careful. We've had one fatality already, we don't need another.'

'I know,' I responded. 'But somebody has to do it. I'm the only one.'

'Nonsense,' he said. 'I will come with you. Two heads are better than one on something like this. At least I can look out for your back if there's any trouble.' I was worried when he said that. Henry wasn't a fit young man. He had a chest complaint and coughed regularly when I was with him. I didn't want him to risk his life as well. He interrupted my thoughts though before I could respond properly. 'Leave it with me for a couple of days,' he interjected. 'I'll chase up my friends down here and see if they can come up with some more information.'

I agreed to do that. The weekend was approaching during which I was hoping to spend some quality time with Elena.

* * * * *

On the Friday evening we dined out together, then returned to her apartment for the night. Over dinner, at the restaurant, she continued to tell me about the problems of her photography business. Apparently the tourist season had been poor. 'There's been plenty of people about,' she said, 'but nobody's spending any money. The bars and restaurants say the same thing.' I attempted to sympathise, although there was little practical advice I could offer. Later, inside her apartment, I approached our love making with caution. I really just didn't know how I or my body would react after my recent deviations with Barbara Harrison. Throughout my life I had only ever had one girlfriend, or wife, at a time and usually there had been long and sometimes painful interludes between each one. I needn't have worried though. Elena's streamlined features and enthusiastic activity soon banished any negative thoughts I may have had.

The biggest shock of all though happened on the Sunday morning as we were dallying over breakfast. The telephone rang. Elena answered. It was Chief Inspector Gomez. There had been a major development regarding Taylor's death, he said. He wondered if I we could get to the police station as he was busy dealing with the various aspects of the case. Quickly we both dressed, then she drove us in her car to Benidorm.

When we entered the _Guardia_ complex a hive of activity was evident. Speedily we were ushered up to Gomez's office. More policemen were scattered around his room, some on telephones, others poring over maps and photographs. On this occasion he was even more brusque.

'As you can see,' he said spreading his arms to illustrate the action around him, 'we have a major breakthrough in the case of Señor Taylor's death. In view of your close involvement and detention afterwards I felt it was important to let you know.' Somehow that day his square jaw looked even more prominent, as though he was thrusting it outwardly with his enthusiasm for the cause.

I extended my thanks, but before I could complete my words he had impatiently interjected. 'There has been the discovery of another body at the cave in the mountains,' he said. Elena and I were shocked into silence. 'A group of potholers discovered the dead man in the water near the underground waterfall. They were following the route downstream from the waterfall when they came across his body. As we have had no rain recently the waterfall has been reduced to a trickle and the level in the stream is very low, making the man's body visible. That's why the potholers were there. It was the first time since the winter they have been able to get down that section.' Gomez wiped his brow. It was warm in his room. However, he continued speaking again before we had a chance to say anything.

'The body was found jammed behind a rock. We know him to be a Russian. He has two bullet holes in his temple. I expect his killer thought the body would be washed further down stream, but it must have got stuck behind the rock. He has been dead for some time.' Gomez was gabbling now, no way could I follow his Spanish. 'At this stage we are unable to state categorically when because of the decomposition, but it looks like he was killed at the same time as Señor Taylor. The bullet holes in his head are similar to the one in Taylor's head. At this moment we have to assume that they were both killed by the same man, around about the same time.'

'Gerolt Beekman?' I interrupted questioningly.

Gomez shrugged his shoulders. 'Maybe,' he said and began again to gesticulate that he had much to get on with. Then he said, 'the main reason I have brought you here today is not only to tell you the news but also to ask you not to leave the region, or more particularly the country, in the immediate future, at least until we are further along with our inquiries. We may need to go over your evidence in more detail again.' He paused as Elena was having to translate, for my benefit. 'I could confiscate your passports,' he continued, 'and put you both under house arrest again, but I think we all know each other well enough by now not to have to do that. All I ask is your co-operation.' He started to get out of his chair. Elena and I looked at each other.

'We may have to go out of the region on work projects,' I said quickly. 'But if we do, I promise to let you know where and when,' I added. 'We won't leave the country.'

By then he was well out of his chair and walking towards us to shake hands. Before doing so he again shrugged his shoulders, then repeated, 'I can only ask for your co-operation.'

'Has any contact been made with Scott-Browne?' I asked when we were all standing.

'I am afraid not,' he said.

With the shake of our hands completed we were dismissed and he turned to talk to the other officers in the room.

As we drove home Elena and I were both still shell-shocked by Gomez's revelations. His news had torn apart most of the preconceived notions we had regarding David Taylor's death. For the entire journey somehow the right words wouldn't form in our mouths to correctly express our incredulity of the situation. All we seemed to manage was a succession of 'how crazy' and 'so where does that leave us now?' It wasn't until we were back in her apartment, sipping on a strong coffee that we were able to make any sensible analogy.

'I guess that blows sky high our theory about Scott-Browne being instrumental with David's death?' I said eventually.

'So what do you want to do on that one?' she asked.

'Don't know,' I replied. 'I'll need to talk to Williamson.'

'And so, why or how did Taylor manage to get himself shot?'

'Don't know,' I repeated. 'Perhaps the answer will become clear when more is known about the Russian.'

Together we went over some of the possible scenarios on each matter, but by the time I went off to phone Williamson we still hadn't formulated any sensible theories. As the hours ticked by the discovery of the Russian's body had been featured on the national and the local TV news. Williamson was aware of it when I phoned him.

'Any more news of Scott-Browne?' I asked him.

'My friends tell me that there have been a few more sightings of him in the Marbella area,' he replied. 'There's a rumour that he has set up a publishing business with somebody else down there. I'm told that they are using the other partners name up front, but Browne is providing the expertise. I do stress that it is only a rumour.'

'I think I'm going to have to get myself down there,' I replied.

'I'll come with you,' Williamson replied instantly.

'Henry are you sure? One of our writer pals has already been killed. I don't want to have another one on my conscience.'

'But the latest news makes it doubtful that Taylor's death was anything to do with Scott-Browne. Anyway it's my choice. Nobody's forcing me to go.'

We talked some more, but eventually I agreed to pick him up on my way to Marbella. Then all I had to do was tell Elena!

A difficult twenty minutes followed. At first she thought the idea preposterous. 'What do you hope to gain by it ?' she asked.

'I still feel I owe it to David Taylor and as a writer it's an issue that needs tackling.'

We argued some more. At first she wanted to come with me. Then she changed her mind when she realised she couldn't neglect her work anymore.

It was mid morning, later in the week, when I picked up Williamson at his splendid villa residence with its dramatic white marble frontage. Before leaving my apartment I telephoned Gomez to say that there was some publishing matter I had to attend to in Marbella. I gave him my mobile number so that he could contact me if necessary. I told him that it would only be for a couple of days and if I was needed urgently I would come back. He grunted in response. I wondered if he thought it was anything to do with Scott-Browne, but he didn't ask, so I didn't say. During the previous couple of days Williamson had been undertaking more detective work on our behalf. He began to relate the details as we drove past his blue private swimming pool and out through the tall wrought iron gates of his home.

He said he'd been researching matters on the internet. 'I think I've got the names and addresses of a couple of possible publishing businesses,' he said in his croaky voice as we headed through the expensive villa inhabited roads on our way to the motorway. 'Either could be the one. I've tried telephoning them both, but each denies a Scott-Browne works there. But they would say that wouldn't they.' I listened attentively as we motored along. He had all the information written down on a foolscap pad. I was impressed.

Marbella is a sprawling labyrinth of a place. A jazzy nineteen eighties town, full of outrageous gin palaces. Fortunately Williamson had the foresight to bring along an internet orientated road map. Our first port of call was going to be the business address of the company he guessed could be the one we were looking for. I had to negotiate my way around busy streets dodging Rolls Royces, Porsches, Mercedes and BMWs. The recession didn't seem to have taken hold in this town, I remember thinking at the time. Williamson needed to call out the road turnings to reach our destination; a six storey office block, with an underground car park. As I pulled the car into a vacant bay we saw the realities of how the other half of the community lived. Around the dustbins and rubbish heaps were the homemade shelters and detritus of the town's low life. Homeless and probably drugged, their haggard, gaunt faces presented a totally different picture from the glamour and glitz up above on the main street. The offices of the company were situated on the third floor. We'd agreed on the journey that Williamson would initially go in alone, on the pretext of getting some work published. Our concern was that if he was there, Scott-Browne might remember my face from our altercations at the racecourse and his home. We knew we had to be careful in how we approached him. I was also glad that I didn't have to leave my car unattended.

Williamson was gone some time. I was beginning to get edgy. The underground population had started to move around the car park. I guess we had disturbed them in the middle of their day. 'I don't think he is involved with that firm,' Williamson said when he got back into the car. 'Sorry I was so long. It took a bit of time to find someone who I could talk to on the publishing matter. However, once I had their confidence I introduced Browne's name into the conversation. Said I used to know him back in the UK. Unfortunately there was no spark of recognition even though I repeated his name a few times and told them what good chums we used to be.' Williamson paused for breath and his chest wheezed. 'Of course I can't be a hundred per cent sure, but that doesn't seem to be the place we are looking for.' I wasn't sorry to drive out of the car park. The natives were beginning to get restless.

The next venue we visited was situated on an industrial warehouse complex away from the centre of town. A sign pronouncing WORDBOOKS stood out in a row of similar corrugated units. This time I was able to park the car on the roadside, although I kept it well away from our destination. Again Williamson went in alone.

Waiting in the car in that heat was trying. Opening the windows only seemed to increase the temperature inside. Thankfully Williamson wasn't gone long. He was perspiring when he struggled back into the front seat, but I could tell from his movements that he had achieved something. 'I think that maybe the place,' he said excitedly. 'This time I changed my tactics. There was a girl sitting at a reception desk. Initially I asked her outright if I could see Browne. I could tell she was just about to agree, then I watched her face change. Quickly she said that no-one by that name worked there. She phoned through to the back office and another man came out. I went into my spiel about what I needed publishing, which he dealt with OK. As we talked I continued to bring up Browne's name. He also denied any knowledge of him, but I could see at the back of his eyes that he was covering up.' Williamson was perspiring more by then. 'What do we do now?' he then said.

'I think we need to go for a cool drink,' I replied.

We found a suitable bar overlooking the seafront and ordered two cold lagers and some tortilla. While caressing the ice cold glasses and supping on the chilled liquid we attempted to formulate a plan.

'We could sit outside that warehouse for a few days to see if Browne turns up,' Williamson said.

'We could,' I replied, 'but from what I experienced today it could be a very long, hot process with no end product. I mean he could be involved with the firm, yet still not actually go in there. Especially if he is wanting to keep a low profile. Nowadays with laptops and computers you don't actually have to go into work.'

'What then?' Williamson said. Our tortilla arrived.

'Somehow or another we have got to find a way of flushing him out.'

'What do you think would cause him to break cover then?'

'Greed,' I said. 'That's always been his downfall in the past.'

* * * * *

Over the following hour Williamson and I dissected various scenarios which we hoped might tempt Scott-Browne out of his lair. To enact it's implementation we needed to go back to our home territory to organise the details. When I returned Gomez rang, wanting to see me. Beforehand I had just about managed to tell Elena of our ideas. She had listened patiently, with eyes filled with amazement. After Gomez's call she drove me again to Benidorm.

On this occasion Gomez's greeting was even more taciturn than usual. I was led to an interview room on a lower floor where two detectives were waiting to quiz me. Gomez introduced them and said they needed to go over my evidence regarding Taylor's death again. When he left the room the detectives began to question me. They both spoke English, but I soon realised that I was perhaps under suspicion regarding the crime.

'I've been over all this with you people before,' I eventually exploded and pointed to my previous statement, which was on the table in front of them. 'Surely you don't think I murdered anybody. Taylor was my pal. I was helping him with his publishing problems,' I continued, still shouting.

'But now we have another murder on our hands,' the tall one, with shiny black hair, sitting across the table from me said. A dictaphone recorder was switched on alongside his arm. 'In view of that we have to go over the original evidence to see if we have missed anything,' he paused for breath then continued. 'When you went up into the cave and found Taylor's body did you see anything of this Russian man, who we now know is called Masmekhov?'

'No.' I replied categorically.

'Well was there any evidence of his presence anywhere in the cave or by the waterfall? We must ask you to think carefully, it is very important.'

'No of course there wasn't or I would have said so in my previous statement,' I replied and pointed to the copy.

The other detective was standing at the side of the room by the door. He was a short, dumpy man, wearing a casual green shirt and brown slacks. He said, 'In the time you knew him, did Señor Taylor ever mention anything about dealings with Russians, or Masmekhov in particular?'

'No,' I replied impatiently. 'We hadn't known each other that long and I've found out since that there are many aspects of his life I knew nothing about. When we talked we concentrated mostly on his literary problems and the affairs of the world in general. I don't think anything to do with Russians was ever mentioned. As you know there was the problem relating to the plagiarism of his book, but I have spelt out all I know about that in my previous statement.' I said pointing at it again.

'H'm,' the one sitting at the desk said. 'We have to ask you these questions because you were the first person at the scene of the crime and you were known to one of the murdered men.'

And so it went on. For more than two hours they grilled me in a similar manner. They wanted to know if I thought the people who plagiarised Taylor's work could be responsible for his murder. I said it had crossed my mind, but now that there was a second body, maybe not. By the time they finished I was exhausted. When the detectives left the interview room Gomez came back in with Elena. He explained that they had discovered that the Russian, Masmekhov, was on the run from the authorities there for supposed embezzlement. 'Surely you guys don't think Taylor or I were involved in anything like that,' I snapped back. He shrugged his shoulders. Before Elena and I left he insisted that he retained our passports. We both objected vehemently but we were forced to hand them over.

After that I knew that my time on these matters was running short. If I was to achieve anything at all I had to get on with my enquiries before the _Guardia_ stopped or curtailed my activities completely. The business of the murders was out of my league. I knew that was a matter for the police. But the plagiarism of Taylor's work was a civil matter, something I should actively pursue before I was wanted back in London for my book.

When Elena and I got back to her apartment I went on the internet. WORDBOOKS certainly had an impressive web site containing many titles. All were e-books and written in English, although I didn't recognise any of the author's names. There was also no mention anywhere of Scott-Browne. In my internet search I did discover that Scott-Browne's UK e-book publishing company READBOOKS was no longer active on the web. However, the Australian and New Zealand branches of the business were still trading. Among the many listed titles I found that John Mcabe's version of David Taylor's story was still available. So I had a basis to work on. And I was prepared to act on Williamson's hunch that Browne was somehow involved in WORDBOOKS. It took me a couple more days to organise matters accordingly.

After a great deal of coercion, I managed to persuade Elena to play a part in the plot. I had remembered the admiring glances and attention Scott-Browne had profferred in her direction when we originally met up at his villa. With her assistance I managed to get her to dress up in a suitably alluring short, red skirted outfit. Then from the local ladies hairdresser she managed to hire a dark curly haired wig. By the time she'd dabbled around with make-up, she was almost unrecognisable. When the disguise was complete she photographed herself accordingly in various tempting poses. Meanwhile, after reading through some of Taylor's previous novels I cobbled together about twenty pages of a story, written in his style. The story had no middle or ending but I trusted that the few chapters suitably reflected the characters, places and attitudes that his writing generally followed. Many phone calls and e-mails were exchanged with Williamson, who was also familiar with Taylor's writing, to edit and correct my work as the text unfolded. To save time I sent him each page as it was completed, which I usually received back, suitably corrected and amended before I'd finished the next one. To ensure we were happy with it's contents we both slept on the final draft overnight.

While that was progressing Elena set up a fictitious e-mail address in a Spanish female name. The whole process took two or three days to finalise, but eventually the three of us decided that we had enough bait to dangle in front of what we hoped would be Scott-Browne's nose.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The trap was set by an e-mail, which the three of us concocted together, from a supposed Maria Sanchez, who purported to be the girlfriend of the recently murdered novelist David Taylor. It ran:

to WORDBOOKS. I have recently lost my dear friend and partner, the award winning author David Taylor. I am informed by the Guardia that he was murdered on a mountain in the Costa Blanca. His death has not only caused me great heartache, but also financial loss as David had always promised to take care of me financially. His unexpected death has therefore left me completely unprovided for.

However, when he had stayed with me, by chance, he had left in my apartment the manuscript of a novel which he had just completed. During our time together David mentioned that his new books were being published as e-books. I am therefore approaching a number of companies, on the internet, who specialise in such publication. Attached to this e-mail is a copy of the first twenty pages of the manuscript I have. If you would like to meet up to discuss the possibility of publishing the whole manuscript I would be happy to do so. I enclose a photograph of me so you will recognise me when we meet, if you are interested.

Yours

Maria Sanchez

The three of us went over the final draft several times before e-mailing it to WORDBOOKS with the attached twenty pages and photographs of Elena in disguise. I crossed my fingers when Elena clicked on the send tab. Afterwards we looked at each other more in hope than anticipation. I also phoned Williamson and told him that the mail had been issued. He promised to keep himself available for the next few days.

* * * * *

We didn't have to wait very long for a reply. The following day there was an e-mail response from WORDBOOKS to the e-mail site of Maria Sanchez. A telephone number was included to arrange a suitable time and date to meet at their Marbella offices. Now the reality of the project was at hand Elena began to have doubts.

'I don't know if I could pull it off,' she said after we had digested the contents of their e-mail.

'Of course you could,' I responded. 'You only have to play the part of the dumb female,' I continued. 'That shouldn't be difficult.' My attempt at humour fell on stony ground. I was in receipt of one of her looks. Quickly I had to interject to recover her co-operation. 'What I mean to say is that you don't actually have to agree anything while you're there. And Williamson and I won't be far away.'

'Huh. That's a big comfort to me I'm sure.' She began to walk off then turned again to face me. 'What if Scott-Browne recognises me?'

'He won't recognise you. Kitted out as you were the other day even I wouldn't recognise you. And it's a long time since he last saw you.'

'Robert I don't know. I'll need to think about it.' She was getting angry. 'I just don't know why I allow myself to become involved in these scrapes with you,' she continued. 'Every time I do I seem to get myself deeper and deeper into trouble. It's not as though I haven't got better things to do.'

'You got into trouble with Amado.' I fired back.

She hesitated before replying. 'H'm, but with him I didn't know I was actually getting myself into trouble. With you I do.'

Later I telephoned Williamson to tell him about my difficulties with Elena. He advised that I shouldn't push the matter. It had to be her decision, he said. So we delayed replying to WORDBOOKS and I concentrated on keeping on her good side.

It was another two days before she mentioned anything more on the matter. In that time we had gone back to our separate apartments and she had concentrated on her photography work. Then late one afternoon she turned up at my place. She had obviously been out on her work as her camera and photography bag were hooked over her shoulder. I let her in welcomingly and brewed some coffee for her and tea for me. While the kettle boiled we talked about her days work. When I eventually put the two cups down on the table, she said, 'Robert I've been thinking some more about this business in Marbella.'

'And?' I responded, then held my breath.

'I've decided to have a go.'

'Great,' I said cautiously. 'What brought you to that decision?'

'Oh I don't know. Firstly because I'd feel such a wimp if I didn't do it. But more importantly I'm thirty three years of age, my business is on the rocks, the only fun I have around me is you, so what I have I got to lose?'

'Well I wouldn't actually say all that is correct, but I'm pleased you are prepared to have a go. If we get into real trouble on this we can always call out the police. All it would take would be a telephone call from me to Gomez and they'd be down on Scott-Browne like a ton of bricks. He's still a potential suspect in a murder case.'

'I just hope he doesn't murder me.'

I brushed aside her remark then phoned Williamson to tell him of her decision. He was pleased. We settled on some possible days to go to Marbella. Then I faced Elena again. 'Would you like to try and phone these people now?' I said to her. 'Get it over with.'

She agreed to do that. Before she picked up the phone I poured her a large brandy and made her drink some of it. Then I encouraged her to take a few deep breaths. After I'd scribbled down some alternative dates on a piece of paper she picked up the phone and dialled the number. 'Just keep it short,' I said to her before it rang out. 'You've only got to arrange a day and time.'

The call actually took some time because at the other end they had to go and find one of the publishers, but eventually a date was agreed; two days hence, late in the morning. When she put the phone down she said, 'My whole body is shaking.'

I encouraged her to drink the rest of the brandy. To celebrate I agreed to take her out that night to an expensive restaurant. Afterwards we came back to my apartment and spent the night together. The next day I made a trip to Alicante to purchase a few items I needed for our escapade.

* * * * *

The very next day the three of us embarked on the journey to Marbella. We had agreed on this occasion to travel from Williamson's home in two cars, partly in case mine was recognised from our previous meeting with Browne and partly to assist us in what we needed to do. Elena travelled with Williamson in his car, while I drove Elena's car. She was dolled up to the nines in the revealing red dress. On her head was angled an enormous hat of the same colour. Pinned to the front of the dress, on the shoulder strap, was a large fake diamond encrusted brooch. With make-up, she had made alterations to the shape of her lips and eyebrows, which gave almost an oriental appearance. I said to her, 'If your photography business completely fails you could always get work as a high class hooker.' She was not best amused. Later in the morning both cars pulled into a lay-by, a few blocks away from WORDBOOKS warehouse property. We needed to make certain adjustments to Elena's dress. Afterwards we drove closer to the offices and parked out of sight. We had agreed in our plan that Elena would drive on from there, by herself, to give the impression, if needed that she had driven there alone. Williamson and I would retire to a near by café we had spotted, in his car and await her return.

'Here we go. Wish me luck,' she said as she got into her car. With her was a folder containing the fake manuscript and a large black handbag. I tried to give her an encouraging kiss on the cheek, but was brushed away in case I made a mess of the make-up.

With trepidation filling our minds Williamson and I watched her drive away. 'That is one brave girl,' he said to me. I nodded in agreement then hastily we made our way to the café. For what seemed like an eternity we downed numerous cups of coffee. Time eked away slowly and with every second I became more anxious. I lost track of the number of times I must have said, 'I just hope everything is all right.' Williamson also became repetitive with his comments of concern. His thin face was creased with strain.

Then, when I was nearly up the wall in panic mode we spotted her car come careering into the café's car park. Williamson and I both dashed outside to greet her.

'Did it work? Was he there?' I said breathlessly.

'Yes on both counts,' she replied as she got out of the car. Before we could exchange information we had a contingency plan to enact.

To enable us to have a base in the area we had organised a room in a nearby motel. Our plan was that if Scott-Browne had been present at the meeting with Elena then Williamson and I would go back there to wait and see if he left WORDBOOKS office and hopefully lead us to wherever he was living. In the meantime Elena would go to the motel in her car and await our return; hence the need for two cars. Within moments Williamson and I were hurtling back to WORDBOOKS. We parked close enough to see the doorway, but hopefully also out of sight. It was approaching the lunch hour and my hunch was that sometime around then Browne would leave the offices.

Impatiently both Williamson and I tapped our fingers on the dashboard while silently praying for something to happen. In time our patience was rewarded. Firstly I spotted a rather run down blue Mercedes pull into a parking space outside WORDBOOKS premises. The car slithered to a halt with a squeal of brakes, then the driver emitted two noisy blasts on the horn. In time a long legged blonde with cascading shoulder length hair, wearing a flimsy white dress with a short skirt and enormous high heels slid out of the front seat. She walked awkwardly on the heels, from the car into the premises. I watched her nice little arse energetically wiggling from one side to the other as she trotted along. About ten minutes later she reappeared arm in arm with Scott-Browne. They got into the Mercedes and he drove it away with more screeching and squealing of tyres.

I revved up Williamson's BMW, slammed the gear into reverse to back out of our spot, then attempted to catch up. We were driving through streets I didn't know. Scott-Browne was motoring as though he was in a race, so keeping up was difficult. A couple of times I thought we'd lost him, but each time Williamson managed to spot him, either far ahead, or turning off into another road. Then we were driving up a hill through a maze of suburbs. Keeping up became even more difficult. The twists in the road made it impossible to see far ahead. Near the top of the hill I really thought I'd lost him. Fortunately Williamson spotted the Mercedes parked down one of the side roads.

We approached cautiously and parked some way back on the other side of the road. There were no other cars around and the locality was quiet. I had with me one of Elena's cameras and managed to get a good photo of the blue Mercedes and its number plate. The property was a white painted, low grade, two storey detached residence; what they would call in Spain a town house. There was a locked, single front gate. It was the type of residence that would be let out to tourists during the summer months. There was no sign of Browne or his girlfriend on the outside terrace.

In time we drove on past and took a good look at the house, which was numbered 117. Williamson made a note of it in his file. At the end of the road I turned the BMW around and very slowly drove past the frontage again. Williamson had the camera and through the open passenger window he took more shots of the Mercedes and the property. Some way down the hill a workman was tending to some phone cables. I got out of the car and asked him the name of the development and the district. Again Williamson made a note of it. Then we drove back to meet up with Elena at the motel. That in itself was a major exercise in logistics as we'd taken so many turnings following Scott-Browne that we really didn't know which way to go.

* * * * *

In our absence Elena had changed out of her harlot's outfit into a more normal t-shirt and jeans. The eccentric make-up had also been removed from her face. The relief amongst the three of us that our task had been completed without any major mishap was evident. We all embraced.

'Well did you manage to follow him?' she asked.

'Just about,' I replied and related the details. 'More importantly how did **you** get on?' I asked.

'OK, I think, although I was terrified. Browne was there, with another man, who's name was Hampshire. He did most of the talking and only introduced Browne as his partner, without actually referring to him by name. I don't think Browne recognised me but it was difficult to tell. I could feel his eyes devouring every inch of me. It felt like he was undressing me. Inside I was shaking like a leaf. I just hope it didn't show. From your description Henry, I think Hampshire was the man you must have seen. They asked me a lot of questions about Taylor. I think I got by, by just playing dumb. I made out that I didn't know a lot about his past, only that he'd been a successful writer and won some sort of award. I said that he did occasionally stay at my place for the night. I told them that was when he left the manuscript. I said after his last visit I never saw him again and then I learnt he'd been murdered.'

'What about the manuscript?' I asked.

'They seemed interested,' she said. By then the three of us had all settled comfortably and I'd poured each of us a good slug of brandy.

'While I was with them they just flicked through the pages,' Elena continued. 'Hampshire said they were aware of Taylor's work as a writer. They wanted to know if I had the rest of the manuscript and how many pages it was in total. I told them what you told me to say,' she said and nodded at me. 'They said they'd read what I'd given them and let me know if they could use it. They wanted to know where I lived and my telephone number. I said I couldn't afford a phone and I gave them the address in Benidorm we'd invented. I told them I worked at a supermarket near there and that's where I'd met Taylor. Eventually they agreed to contact me by e-mail. Then I left. It was a strange meeting. They both have very scary eyes, almost hypnotic. I don't think I'd trust either of them on anything.'

'You've done brilliantly,' I said.

On the table in front of us she'd also laid out the equipment I'd purchased in Alicante the day before. Inside the fake brooch was a hidden camera lens with a microphone, which had been tuned, by frequency, into a battery video recording machine in the big black handbag. We all sat closer around the table and watched the playback of everything she'd just related. We could see Scott-Browne, Hampshire and hear everything they said. Afterwards we all shook hands and hugged each other in celebration.

Having achieved our objective the problem was what to do next. Our original plan had been to go back to our homes and present the evidence to Gomez. However, as everything had gone so smoothly and we'd achieved more than we had dared to hope for, I said we should strike while the iron was hot. Knowing Scott-Browne's past activities I felt he could do another runner any day, particularly if he had been in any way suspicious after meeting Elena. We discussed the matter for some time but it was eventually agreed that we would phone Gomez with the information there and then.

Because of the language difficulties Elena spoke to him, while we listened in. The conversation began with Gomez adopting his normal gruff indifference. Quickly though his attitude changed when Elena explained the details of Browne's whereabouts. He said he would immediately contact the local _Guardia_ commander in Marbella and get back to us. It wasn't long before we received his return call. He'd made arrangements for us to see a Captain Mendoza, who was the head man in Marbella. We were to take with us the video recording and go there immediately.

As none of us had eaten much since the early part of the day we bought some pizzas from a pizza bar near the motel and munched on them as we journeyed into town in Williamson's car. The _Guardia Civil's_ office in Marbella was a brash three storey premises in white marble. The Spanish flag fluttered on the roof. We were promptly ushered up to the Captain's swish air conditioned office. Mendoza was a clean cut, dark haired man, dressed in an officers uniform, who greeted us cordially. in good English. Firstly he wanted to see our identification. As is necessary we all carried Spanish residency papers. These were handed to another officer who'd been in the room since our arrival. He quickly disappeared with them, presumably to check on their authenticity.

The three of us settled in chairs in front of Mendoza's large desk. He listened attentively while I, with Elena's prompting, told him about the background to our investigation. Some of it, like Taylor's murder and the search for Scott-Browne he already knew about. He interrupted with questions and took notes. In time the other officer returned with our papers. ' _Vale_.' (OK), he said to Mendoza and handed them across to him. By then I had told him of Elena's meeting with Scott-Browne, our trail of him to the house and the registration number of the Mercedes. He gave these details to the other officer, they talked in Spanish, then the other man disappeared again. Mendoza said they would send patrol cars to pick up Browne straight away. Then we played back the video tape for Mendoza to see. He studied it closely. 'You have done very well,' he said. 'Would you like jobs as detectives?' He smiled, then said. 'But now it is a police matter. These men could be dangerous. We have to take over from now on.'

I pleaded to be kept informed and explained to him some of the outstanding matters relating to Taylor's estate. He agreed to that and I gave him Antonio's name and address. 'He will act for us if necessary,' I said, which he understood.

By the time we left his office we were all very tired and hungry. The journey to our home town that evening was too daunting to contemplate so we booked another room at the motel, for Williamson, then found a nearby restaurant. Afterwards we were all exhausted and crashed out for the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The sequence of events that followed seem to me now like a crazy nightmare. Looking back on it all fills my emotions with horror, disappointment, frustration and a small degree of elation. You will notice that the word satisfaction is missing from the list. That's because the outcome of all this didn't provide any of us with that.

Matters started to go awry as soon as we were home. Elena was intent on pursuing her photography work, while I wanted to reach some reasonable conclusion on Taylor's affairs before I was whisked back to the UK for more publicity stints in connection with my book.

The economic situation in Spain was also deteriorating daily. The European Central Bank required more austerity measures to be enacted by the Spanish government. Locally this resulted in increased social unrest and demonstrations. Businesses were closing by the score. Local government wages were slashed or just not paid. Strikes ensued. The cost of living escalated. In some places the chemists shops ran out of medicines because they couldn't pay their suppliers as they weren't getting paid by the municipal government. Agitation was rife everywhere.

The day after we returned from Marbella I called in to see Antonio, to update him on our activities. He listened with interest. 'If the police manage to get Browne into custody perhaps we could do something about the court summons?' I asked. He promised to contact the authorities to see what could be done. Then he told me there were problems with Taylor's estate. Due to the worsening economic situation the prospective buyers had pulled out of the purchase of his apartment. It seems they had been unable to organise a mortgage because of the banks restrictive lending practises. 'It is the same all along the coast,' he said. 'Properties remain unsold everywhere.' Then he said that he had also received communication from Yvonne Taylor's solicitors stating that they were going to take their dispute over Taylor's will to the European Central Court.

'What does that mean?' I asked.

'It means the whole business could drag out for months, maybe years,' he said.

By the time I left his office my prior enthusiasm had dissolved. I went back to my apartment and e-mailed Barbara Harrison with the news. In my inbox there was also a mail from Ben Saunders. Apparently the initial sales of my book had been disappointing. My publishers wanted me back immediately in the UK for more publicity work. Then I had a call from Gomez. He wanted to see me in Benidorm, pronto. He wouldn't say what for. I made myself some lunch then made the trip to the _Guardia_ 's offices there. Inside his room he and the two detectives I'd met up with before were waiting for me. I was told that the _Guardia_ in Marbella had picked up Scott-Browne at the address we'd given them.

'Good,' I said feeling pleased with myself.

Gomez, who was sitting behind his desk then said, 'but now that man is raising all sorts of allegations against you.' The two detectives were both standing behind him, watching me. Occasionally they had to translate his words for me.

'He is accusing you of ruining his business,' Gomez continued. 'He says he had to get out of the area because of the summons you served on him for an amount of money he didn't have, because his business had been adversely effected by the publicity you stirred up in the newspapers in the UK.'

'That's nonsense,' I retorted. 'We served a summons on him because he owed David Taylor royalties for books he had already sold. The loser in that scenario was David Taylor not Scott-Browne. The publicity in the newspapers was to illustrate the corrupt practice of plagiarism which Browne was organising through his Australian and New Zealand outlets. He knew those books were derived almost entirely from Taylor's work. I've been through all this with you before,' I said with exasperation.

'Well, we will have to go over it all again.' The tall detective with the dark shiny hair interrupted.

'Also Browne says,' Gomez continued, 'that you recently tried to con him with another of Taylor's books. He says he recognised the _se_ ñ _orita_ when she tried to get him to publish it. Browne has asked Captain Mendoza to find out what you are playing at. I have to ask you the same question? He also categorically denies being involved in Taylor's murder.'

For a moment I was stunned. 'So now you think I'm the criminal?' I exploded eventually.

'We are not saying that,' the detective said. 'But as I said to you before, we have two murders on our hands and now there is more circumstantial evidence involving you and Scott-Browne, which we have to get to the bottom of.'

'And I warned you before about taking the law into your own hands,' Gomez cut in. 'You were very foolish to go involving yourself with Scott-Browne the way you did. The crimes of murder are very serious and difficult cases to deal with and should only be dealt with by experienced police officers. Your intervention could jeopardise the whole case.'

'But with Scott-Browne I was only concerned with the aspects of plagiarism and getting back the money he owed Taylor. Anyway you lot didn't find him. I was the one who found him,' I stated with exasperation.

'OK. But then you should have left it for us to deal with. As we have said we needed to question him first about the murders, but as soon as we caught up with him he began throwing these other aspects back at us,' Gomez said. 'Now I am afraid you will have to go downstairs with these two officers and explain everything over again in minute detail. We have to be sure we haven't missed anything.'

So once more I was taken to the interview room and painstakingly I again went over every aspect of my involvement with Taylor and Browne. It took nearly three hours. When they were eventually prepared to let me go I explained about needing my passport to get back to the UK for matters relating to my book.

The short dumpy one buzzed up on the phone to Gomez and spelt out my request, which was categorically refused, 'while these enquiries are ongoing,' I was told.

* * * * *

On returning to my apartment I found an e-mail waiting for me from Barbara Harrison which only added to my gloom and doom. After thanking me for updating her on the situation she continued by expressing her disconsolation with the whole business. She said that she was continuing to get flak from the Taylor family and her associates at the Church. She repeated that she was beginning to regret her involvement.

Then I had to write a mail to Saunders informing him of the problems with my passport. Afterwards in an attempt to relieve my mind of despair I decided to get some fresh air and to walk through the town to Elena's apartment. My attempt at exercise brought little relief as on that particular day the local government workers had decided to hold a protest march over the non-payment of their wages for the last two months. Whilst I had every sympathy with their cause it didn't help my overall irascibility. Because of the march several streets in the town were blocked off and I was forced to take an alternative route, away from my intended walk along the sea shore promenade. To make matters worse, when I got there, Elena was out.

On my return there was a long winded e-mail epistle from Saunders expressing his views on my incompetence in returning to Spain, 'at such a vital time in the publication of your book. How am I supposed to explain this to your publishers?' he questioned. 'Did I realise that they would be perfectly entitled to pull the plug on any further publicity?' he continued. 'Did I know that the initial sales had been disappointing?' and 'Are you absolutely certain that you really want to make your living as a writer?' And so it went on for nearly two pages. Near the end of the tirade he did ask if I knew 'when I might get my passport back?' In all honesty, I didn't know the answer to that, so I delayed my reply.

Worse news was to follow. Despite my repeated telephone calls to Elena throughout that evening, I was unable to get any reply. I became worried. Although we had made no immediate plans to meet up, we were still in daily contact about common matters, and at that stage in our relationship it would have been unusual for her to go off somewhere for a night without telling me. In desperation I rang her parents. Her mother answered and told me that there had been some kind of accident in her car whilst she was going about her work, somewhere near Valencia. At that moment she was in hospital there and apparently unconscious. Her father was currently with her, I was told. I scribbled down the address of the hospital, then immediately drove there.

It was late in the evening when I met up with her father outside the hospital ward. We shook hands. He looked worried. He told me in Spanish that her car was a write-off. Another vehicle was involved, but it hadn't stopped. The police didn't rule out the possibility of a hit and run, he said. Elena's initial diagnosis revealed a broken arm and other superficial bruising. She had, he said, drifted in and out of consciousness since his arrival, but the doctors felt she would recover and were happy to let her rest in that manner. Through the glass screen of the ward I could see her lying in a bed. Tubes and wires were plugged in all over her body. From what I could see there appeared to be no damage to her head, although her father said she had a black eye. We both made arrangements to sit out the night in the hospital waiting room.

In the morning our patience was rewarded. She had regained full consciousness and we were allowed to see her. We received a weak smile. Her father and I sat each side of the bed, offering words of comfort. Her right arm was in a sling and we could see evidence of bruising. Gradually, through a few tears, she was able to tell us that another car had overtaken her and then tried to run her off the road. She'd hit a crash barrier which had saved her from more extensive damage. The other car had driven off. She recalled it was a white, five door Seat Ibiza.

We weren't allowed to stay with her long. The doctors told us that rest was her best cure. She would be kept in for a few days during which time they would tend to the broken arm and probably put it into plaster. It was agreed upon her release that she would stay with her parents to recuperate. As her father and I were leaving we noticed the _Guardia_ making their way to her ward.

Later in the morning I drove home with a heavy heart and a thousand thoughts swimming through my mind. Had Elena really been the victim of a personalised attack. If so, was it in retaliation for the part she had played in snaring Tyler Scott- Browne? If that was the case, then her injury and incapacitation was my responsibility. Why didn't I just stick to being a writer, to quote Saunders' words, I conjectured as I drove south.

Upon returning to my apartment I telephoned Williamson and told him of the situation. He was distraught to learn of the events. I also mentioned the problems regarding Taylor's estate. 'You'd better leave that side of things to me,' he said. 'You've got enough on your plate with your book, Elena and the plagiarism. I'll keep in touch with Antonio on that one and let you know of any developments,' he said. So that's what we agreed on.

* * * * *

Thereafter, events were overtaken by the actions of my protagonists. A day or two later I was reversing my car out of it's parking space, near my apartment, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a white five door Seat Ibiza parked some way back down the street. As I drove away I kept watch in my rear view mirror and noticed it slowly begin to follow me. When we both turned the corner into the main road I spotted a dent in its front wing.

We both travelled towards town. When the Seat caught up with me, I pulled my car into another parking spot near the shopping area. I think I'd caught the Seat unawares and given it no alternative but to drive on past me. As it went by I was able to note the registration number, but perhaps more importantly I spotted a sticker on the back windscreen that indicated the car belonged to a well known Spanish car hire firm. As a result I abandon my plans for the day and drove back to my apartment and telephoned Chief Inspector Gomez.

He told me he'd received a copy of a report on Elena's accident. I asked him for an update on the situation regarding Scott-Browne. He said that the Marbella police had released him on bail, pending further inquiries. I then related details about the white Seat Ibiza. He promised to check who had rented it from the car hire firm.

While I awaited his reply I telephoned Elena's parents. She was, by then, home with them, which meant I was able to speak to her. She sounded not in the best of moods. Her arm was in plaster which precluded her from pursuing any of her photography work. She told me that the police had interviewed her extensively in hospital. Their guess was that it could well have been a hit and run incident, which they would pursue. She said that most of her time since leaving hospital had been spent dealing with her insurance company. I mentioned about my sighting of a Seat Ibiza. Her interest was tempered by her aggressive attitude, which I took to mean that she blamed me entirely for all her troubles. I promised to visit shortly. Her response didn't hold out much hope of a big welcome.

Later in the day when I was looking out of my patio window I spotted, in a nearby parking space, a white Seat Ibiza. By going to the side window and with the aid of my binoculars I was able to confirm that it had the same registration number as the car I had seen earlier in the day. Straight away I phoned Gomez. When I got through he was able to confirm that the car had been rented out to one Tyler Scott-Browne of the address we had discovered in Marbella.

'Well that car is here now!' I shouted down the phone. 'Fifty metres from my apartment.'

'I will arrange for a patrol car to be there quickly,' he said. 'Now don't you go doing anything silly,' he remonstrated. 'You must leave this to us.'

I went downstairs to the foyer of my apartment block, from where I had a better view of the Seat. Soon I spotted a _Guardia_ patrol car approaching. Thankfully no alarms or lights were flashing. They drove slowly along the road and parked behind the Seat, preventing it from reversing out. In the distance I could also see another patrol car on its way. Two officers from the first car got out and spoke to the driver of the Seat. Meanwhile, the second police car had arrived making four policemen in all. I watched two men get out of the front seats of the Seat. Both wore baseball caps. The police frisked them, then began to inspect their papers. It was at that moment I made my move. I walked out of the foyer towards the cars. When I was near I could see clearly that the man who'd been driving the Seat was Tyler Scott-Browne. When I got near, whilst the police were going about their business, I called out, 'Good afternoon Mister Scott-Browne. You have a nice day now do you hear.' I had the pleasure of seeing his horror-struck face glaring at me, but I moved on quickly and took a circular route back to my apartment, then telephoned Elena with the news. Later on I put in a call to Antonio. 'The police are holding Scott-Browne locally,' I said to him. 'Can we do anything to pursue our summons while he is in custody?'

He promised to look into it.

* * * * *

All those machinations meant that my active involvement in any of them was limited. I really should have used the time to get back to the UK to try and revive the fortunes of my novel. Over those days I received many e-mails from Ben Saunders and Osborne Dent on the matter. However, despite my pleas Gomez would still not release my passport.

So, as I had time on my hands I decided to take myself off into the mountains to retrace the paths I had walked with David Taylor. Somehow I managed to reach the underground waterfall by myself. The continued absence of rain meant that the waterfall remained little more than a trickle. Crossing the narrow ledge however, still remained a frightening experience. The water level in the pool was low and rocks I had not noticed before protruded up through the calm water. There was little evidence of where the body of the Russian might have been, although there was a certain amount of debris lying around from the police, and potholing activities. Afterwards I clambered up the tiny steps and made my way to the mouth of the cave.

The view outward remained stunningly spectacular. The sky was clear. In the distance I could see endless mountain peaks. Suddenly all the trauma of the preceding months overcame me. I needed to sit down to compose myself. The last time I had been up there with Elena we had discovered Taylor's dead body. I looked across to where he'd lain and felt a great wave of emotion fill my mind and body. It took some time for me to regain control. I decided against continuing with the walk. I would come another day and bring some flowers to place on the spot where Taylor had died. As a result of my emotionally delicate state I found the crossing back across the narrow ledge harrowing, but somehow I made it.

* * * * *

The following week I visited Elena at her parent's home. Despite my trepidation she appeared pleased to see me, although I could sense something in her attitude towards me had changed. On my arrival we exchanged kisses on each cheek. Then we sat together in her parent's lounge; they had both gone out. Her broken arm was healing slowly she told me. The pain had gone. 'It's just become a matter of time and coping with the plaster,' she said. She told me the local police were pursuing a case of hit and run against Scott-Browne. Apparently traces of paint on her car matched the paint from the white Seat Ibiza and vice versa. At that time Browne was being held in custody at a jail near Alicante.

'I've got something important to tell you,' she said then took a deep breath. 'I've decided I need a change of direction,' she continued. 'I suppose this business,' she pointed to her plastered arm with the good one, 'has brought it all to a head, but it's something I've been thinking about for some time anyway.' She shuffled in her chair, attempting to get the plastered arm into a more comfortable position, then continued. 'With the economy as it is I don't see how my photography business is ever going to make any money, now or in the foreseeable future. I guess all these enforced absences haven't helped.'

'So what have you got in mind?' I asked, feeling markedly guilty.

'There's a job vacancy for a lecturer in photography at the College of Art, in Valencia. I've already applied for it. I think I've got a good chance as the principal there knows of my work.'

'You won't have the freedom you've got now,' I said.

'I don't agree. At the moment I don't think I've got any freedom. I have to go where I'm wanted, at the drop of a hat, to earn peanuts. That's not really freedom. You're the one who has the freedom. You can work from home, then do what you like for the rest of the time.' I had to agree with her.

'So where will you stay?'

'Initially, here with my parents. It's not far to travel from here. If it all works out I'll probably sell my apartment and buy a smaller one in Valencia. I hope there'll be much more for someone of my age to do there.'

'And us?' I queried hesitatingly.

'This is the hard part,' she began. 'You know we couldn't go on for ever. Our age differences are too great. Robert, we've had some good times together, but I think this is a good time to call it a day. At the moment I'm off men. They seem to get me into constant trouble. I need a break.'

'But I'd like to keep in touch, by e-mail anyway. You've been a big part of my life recently.'

She hesitated, then said. 'Ok, to begin with, if you want. Then we'll see how it goes.'

After that I didn't stay long. I brought her up to date on the matters of concern and we agreed to correspond on the developments. When it was time for me leave, we hugged each other enthusiastically, exchanged cheek kisses. 'I will miss you,' I said.

'Me too,' she replied.'

* * * * *

From there on events tumbled into each other like a roller coaster, out of control. Antonio was in touch. He told me that his investigators had carried out a search of Scott-Browne's affairs. Their findings confirmed that the man's liabilities totally exceeded his assets and for all intents and purposes he was bankrupt, beyond the point of no return. He concluded therefore, that there was little point in pursuing the claim for unpaid royalties, particularly in the current economic crisis. He said that with Henry Williamson's assistance, they might file a case of plagiarism against John Mcabe for the books he'd published in Australia and New Zealand. He also told me that the _Guardia_ were bringing a case against Scott-Browne for intended assault on Elena and that he would be representing her in that. Browne would remain in police custody until the court case.

Another large chunk of worry was lifted from all our shoulders following another meeting with Chief Inspector Gomez in Benidorm. He'd summoned me to his offices there. 'What now?' I thought as I drove. However, on this occasion he greeted me with a warm handshake, together with the faint traces of a smile. 'Some good news,' he said to me as he offered me a seat in the chair in front of his desk. I listened expectantly, and concentrated hard on his mixture of Spanish and pidgin English. 'My fellow officers in Madrid have been able to extract confessions from Gerolt Beekman,' he began. 'As was surmised for most of his life he has operated as a contract killer. But now, in conjunction with Interpol, my colleagues have been able to obtain concrete evidence of two previous death contracts he carried out. To save himself from further court appearances they then gave him the opportunity to confess to any other crimes. Amongst those he confessed to was the contract to murder the Russian, Masmekhov. It was all to do with money owed for the sale of a big Russian company. Masmekhov was on the run. During his confession Beekman revealed that he had needed to kill David Taylor, who, by all accounts, was an innocent bystander on the mountain. We are told that your friend Taylor was witness to most of what happened during the other incident with Masmekhov. We can only guess at the circumstances but it was most unfortunate. He was just an unlucky man to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,' Gomez said. Instantly it felt as though a ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I slumped in the chair. 'So my friend,' Gomez continued. 'I have the pleasure of returning your passport, with apologies for the inconvenience. I'm sure you realise that in matters like this we have to take the utmost care.' He slid my passport to me across his desk. I thanked him profusely. Too profusely probably, but I allowed my relief to show. He said he would arrange 'for the _se_ ñ _orita_ to receive her passport as well.'

* * * * *

I made immediate arrangements to travel back to London later in the week. I sent e-mails to Elena and Williamson to that effect. She replied wishing me luck and confirmed that she'd received her passport and been updated on all the other matters. There was however one duty I needed to perform before I left Spain.

Armed with a spray of flowers I climbed the mountain one more time and made for the cave. The water levels were still low so I was able to get along the ledge without disaster. Standing in the yawning gap of the far opening, I looked out over the surrounding terrain and again felt quite emotional. This spot had become a special place for me. A spot where I had encountered much wonder and drama. It had opened my eyes to another world. I took some pictures with my camera and thought of Elena and Taylor. As well as the spray of flowers I had also brought with me a small plaque I'd had organised to have made in town, together with a small battery operated drill, some screws, rawl plugs and a screwdriver. The plaque read;

David Royston Taylor

Author

was murdered here; a place he loved.

God rest his soul.

With tears in my eyes I duly screwed the plaque to the rock face, near where he had lain, then placed the flowers on the ground below. I took one last look at the outward view. Dark rain clouds were gathering in the distance. 'I'll be back to see you sometime old friend,' I said.

I don't remember much about my trek past the waterfall or down the mountain path. My mind was too absorbed with emotion and tears. I had to hurry. The rain was becoming heavy. I ran the last part, tripping and falling into bushes along the way. I only just made it to my car before the heavens opened completely. A torrential, monsoon like downpour ensued. The narrow twisting road down the mountain was awash with water, making driving dangerous and unpleasant. When I arrived back in my town the local roads were partially flooded. Chaos prevailed as it always did. A few days later during my journey to the airport, I conjectured that I'd been lucky to get through the waterfall before the rains made it impassable.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In the immediate days before my departure from Spain I had managed to get my head down and put together an article for newspaper publication, which I e-mailed on to Daniel Day. In it I had managed to update my previously rejected piece, with all the correct facts about David Taylor's misfortunes, the plagiarism of his last work and the harrowing details of his untimely death. I couldn't go into too much detail about Tyler Scott-Browne as his case involving Elena was still pending in Spain.

When I arrived in London I stayed again at the flat in Notting Hill belonging to Saunders'sister. The day after my arrival I was delighted to receive a glowing response from Day about the piece I had written. He stated that he intended to publish it that week. I duly telephoned Saunders asking him to negotiate a fee on my behalf.

The response at my publishers to my return was not so welcoming. Osborne Dent berated me about my absence, complained about the poor sales of my book and asked me how I was going to earn back my advance.

'Well I'm here now. What do you want me to do?' I responded.

My punishment turned out to be a book signing tour of all the damp, cold and lonely towns and cities of the UK during the early winter months.

Beforehand, the response to my article in Daniel Days' newspaper had recreated an interest in my work. At the bottom of the article Day had also included some publicity for my new book. So, by the time I actually began the tour, sales had improved dramatically. At most of the venues I was well received by an enthusiastic crowd who wanted to know more details about my troubles in Spain. Thankfully the majority of them also purchased a copy of the book. The extra publicity had also revived some interest in my previous work, so I was approaching the end of the year in a reasonable frame of mind.

Some time near the end of the book tour I had to undertake a book signing assignation in Cardiff. By then I was frazzled with all the travelling and attendant attention and so, as it was close by, I decided to take a weekend break at the hotel I had previously stayed at in the Wye Valley. My legs and lungs were crying out for the fresh mountain air and terrain I had last experienced on my final trip to the cave in Spain. On the off chance I telephoned Barbara Harrison. I had not heard from her for some considerable time. It took a few calls to catch her in, but when I did she seemed pleased to hear from me and I managed to persuade her to have lunch with me on the Sunday. All of the Saturday I spent roaming the hills and tracks around Abergavenny. The weather held fine and I was able recreate a sense of peace and space in my mind, something that had been badly missing over the previous weeks. There and then I made up my mind to do something positive about it.

My luncheon date with Barbara Harrison turned out to be both fun and interesting. On my travels during the previous day I had found another suitably auspicious restaurant. She had retained her glamorous appearance and was decked out harmoniously in a black trouser suit. Her bright personality had also remained undiminished. I began by relating my adventures on the book signing tour which she seemed to find fascinating. 'There's lovely. You live in another world Robert,' she commented. By the time our main courses had arrived, duck for me and roast beef for her, I was into updating her on the matters in Spain.

'That's partly why I wanted to meet up with you again,' she responded in the middle of my dialogue about Taylor. Then it was my turn to listen attentively. 'The business with David's will has caused me so much heartache,' she continued. 'So after a great deal of thought I've decided to relinquish my inheritance and sign it over to his wife.'

'Are you sure?' I queried, too stunned to say much else.

'Yes, I'm sure. Since I found out about it, it's brought me nothing but unhappiness. As I mentioned to you before I had no idea he was going to do anything like that. And I don't really feel entitled to it. Ours was only a casual relationship, he and his wife were married for years.'

'But you may never get a sum of money like that again. It could set you up for the rest of your life.'

'But that's no good if I'm unhappy. I was relatively happy before I knew about it. Now I've fallen out with the people at the church. I don't go there anymore. And I'm worried sick about all the legal problems. The Taylor's now want to take it to the European Court. I just can't stand it. It's driving me mental. Money isn't everything.'

'Have you told Antonio?'

'No. I wanted to tell you first.' She paused to take in some food, then continued. 'I may ask to have just five hundred pounds from David's estate, so I can buy something special to remind me of him. Do you think they'll allow that?'

'I'm sure they will,' I responded, then for the next ten minutes I tried to persuade her otherwise, but in the end I could see that she'd made up her mind.

I told her about my trip to the cave and the plaque I'd erected there and showed her the photographs. She seemed pleased with that. We spent the rest of the meal in pleasant conversation. Afterwards we took a small walk in the adjacent countryside.

'It looks like my book commitments are going to keep me in the UK for some time,' I said as we strolled. Around us the leaves on the trees had taken on their autumn, russet brown. 'If that's the case I'd like to spend a few more weekends at the hotel,' I added. 'Would you be happy to meet up with me there?'

She turned to face me. 'I could think of nothing better,' she replied and smiled generously.

Afterwards I took her back to her house, then drove off for London, leaving with a promise to be in touch soon.

* * * * *

Some time later I received an e-mail from Antonio confirming that he'd received Barbara's decision, on which he was reluctantly acting. He also said that with Williamson's assistance he had managed to take out an injunction against John Mcabe which had forced him to withdraw his plagiarised version of David Taylor's novel 'All in a Day'. I subsequently corresponded with Williamson on the matter and told him about the success of my book, about which he was pleased.

A few weeks further on I received an e-mail from Elena in which she told me that she had got the job at the art college and was thoroughly enjoying the work. She had put her apartment up for sale and was actively seeking a new one in Valencia. She related that Tyler Scott-Browne had received a prison sentence for his attempt to run her off the road and was now in Alicante jail. 'I don't think I'll visit him,' she added jokingly. Amado had failed with his appeal and was now also receiving a custodial sentence, although the term had been reduced. 'I won't be visiting him either,' she mentioned.

Near the end of her mail she wrote, 'I do miss you Robert. It was unfortunate that we endured so many horrid times together during this last year. Perhaps when I'm settled in Valencia you might want to call in and see me, if you're down this way.' I read her mail through several times.

* * * * *

So now I am in a quandary. At the moment my book, 'Take Your Time' is settled nicely in the best sellers lists. For some time now I've been in Osborne Dent's and Ben Saunders's good books. Ossie is publishing David Taylor's book, 'All in a Day' and Saunders is acting as the agent. It's selling well and there are times when they are both almost pleasant to me. Most weekends I return to the Wye Valley and spend time with Barbara Harrison. During my excursions there I am actively looking for a small cottage in the surrounding hills to live in. I've decided that the mountains are the place for me and I have Taylor to thank for that. But then there is also the question of my apartment in Spain and an open invitation to meet up with Elena.

THE END

ABOUT RICHARD F JONES

If you have enjoyed this book Richard has five other published novels, War to the Death, A Flight Home, Dancing with the Devil, Time on their Hands and Explosive Voyage. Details can be found on his web site:

http://www.richardfjones.net

Richard was born in North Wales, but he has also lived in the highlands of Scotland, the Wye Valley, Spain and Majorca. All his page turning novels are set in places where he has had a home.

