Page 8 of His Worst Crime

“Thanks for the grub,” he mumbled at Ramon, barely meeting his eyes. “I should get back. Work to get done.”

“Nice to meet you, David,” said Ramon, giving him his hopefully most seductive but at the same time innocent smile. “Thanks for your work on Estel. I really appreciate it. I’ll stop by tomorrow, and see how he is.”

David just nodded, and Ramon watched him walk away, definitely trying to keep his eyes off that pert ass encased in the faded red trackies that David perhaps didn’t know he was wagging so arousingly as he sauntered back toward the stables.

“Still hungry for something?” Carme asked roguishly, following the direction of his gaze.

“How did you find him?” he asked with a frown, ignoring the innuendo.

“He caught Boira one day after she’d got loose, out there in the parking lot. You’ve seen how he is with horses. He’s a natural, knows a ton… not just about training but he’s got vet skills too. You saw that. He grew up around horses back in England… clearly.”

“So he just appeared. Did you check his references?”

“I trust my instincts, Ramon. Look at him. You know I’m right. He’s just traveling through, needed a job for a while. It’s no big mystery. I’m lucky to have him for as long as he wants to stay.”

“You should have done a background check at least. I’m not going to ask if you’re paying him under the table because I don’t want to know. But you’re now the official director of these stables, Carme. The buck stops with you. And you have some expensive horses here.”

Carme looked annoyed that Ramon was reading her the riot act, even if she knew he was right.

“Yeah, but you know what it’s like in this sector. People come, people move on. Getting good stablehands is hard when you can’t pay them more than minimum wage. David’s a good worker, keeps to himself, doesn’t go out getting drunk or any shit like that. Maybe he’s got some skeletons in his closet, but… don’t we all? God, I hardly go about telling people who my parents are.”

Ramon smiled in spite of himself, drumming his fingers on the table as the waitress put down coffee. When she’d gone he said:

“You don’t tell because you don’t want the notoriety. You think David’s hiding something like that?”

Carme shrugged.

“I doubt it, but I’m going to respect his privacy. You’ve seen… he’s very shy. If and when he wants to talk about himself, then I’ll listen, but until then…”

“What’s his full name?”

“Oh come on, don’t go all Interpol on me.”

“I’m not going to!” Ramon looked exasperated. “But come on, Carme, you should do minimum due diligence of anyone you have working in the stables!”

“His name’s Cooke, with an ‘e’. David Cooke. Do your worst.”

After that, they drank their coffee in silence, before Carme excused herself to get back to the stables. It wasn’t the end to the lunch Ramon had hoped for.

five

The biggest mistake of his new life was agreeing to meet Ned. But he’d thought that by seeing him once, he might get rid of him. Big mistake. They arranged to meet in Cafè de l’Òpera, halfway down the Rambla. It was an elegant café decorated in the floral style that the people in this city loved. David had come across it in his early wanderings around the city and absolutely fallen in love with the cool, high-ceilinged bar. Its cream walls were decorated in elegant panels showing Grecian urns and satyrs bearing fruit, interspersed with full-length mirrors etched in nymph or goddess designs. Below them, a scrunched-up mess of brown-varnished wooden tables, through which bow-tied waiters maneuvered with cheerful efficiency, seemed to him typically European. Sitting there with a cafè amb llet or milky coffee in an elegant white Viennese-style porcelain cup and saucer before him on the table, gazing out at the stately Liceu opera building across the Rambla, and the people strolling up and down, made him feel like he’d truly succeeded in changing his life, escaping. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself on the minimum wage that Carme paid him. True, sleeping above the tack room, he didn’t have to pay rent, but he was trying to save as much as he could for whatever the future might bring. Who knew how long he’d be able to keep working here? And after those two coppers had shown up yesterday, now he was even less sure.

“Milky coffee? I thought you’d be greeting me with something a little stronger than that!”

“Hello, Ned.”

He stood, and they gave each other a clumsy hug, before Ned crashed down into the chair beside him. When the waiter appeared almost immediately, he ordered for them both:

“Give us two beers, mate, big ones!” He laughed that long, loud hyena-like laugh of his that had everyone in the café pausing and staring over at their table before continuing. “And two tequila chasers! Start as we mean to go on, eh!” he cried, slapping his big hand down on David’s thigh. “Let me look at you: still the same little Davey Dormouse, ain’t you!”

“Don’t call me that, Ned,” David murmured. “That was primary school!”

“Still suits you!” Ned laughed his expansive laugh again.

If anyone hadn’t changed it was Ned. Sprawling there in one of the café chairs, his long-limbed length seemed to occupy almost the entire width of the café, forcing waiters and patrons to step over his gangly legs and scuffed boots. He still wore the battered leather trench coat that was his signature attire winter or summer, and his expansive bird’s nest of wiry red hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in months. His pale blue eyes interrogated David:

“So, why Spain? Why the change?”