“What?” said Tristan.
“That Spanish guy you’ve been looking for. The one who I caught in the back of the car with Noah Huntley. He’s only gone and become a fucking Euro MP!” said Ade. “The only thing is that he’s not George, spelt G-e-o-r-g-e. He’s George, spelt the Spanish way, J-o-r-g-e.”
“So that’s why we didn’t get any hits when we googled him,” said Kate.
“Yes. I remember him from when he was a barman. I do admit that I did lust after him. He’s filled out nicely, but it’s him. He’s the right age—all Euro MPs have their date of birth on their little online profiles, and their place of birth, which I remember was Barcelona. You remember the story I told you about Monsterfat Cowbelly . . . who, incidentally, I got back in contact with. He’s moved to Orkney, of all places, and had his stomach stapled. He looks completely different . . . It even says on Jorge’s CV on the European MP site that he studied in the United Kingdom. I know of many things he studied intently, but I don’t think they involved a classroom.”
“Ade, is there a number we can get in contact with him?” asked Kate.
“Yes, I’ve just emailed a link to Miss Marple. I’m actually really happy that he isn’t dead, and that he’s doing very well, by the look of it. He’s been a Euro MP for five years. He got reelected last year to the Progressive Alliance of Socialists and Democrats, one of the biggest center-left parties in Brussels,” said Ade.
“Ade, that’s brilliant. Thank you,” said Tristan. “I definitely owe you a drink.”
“Well, mine’s a Campari and lime. Phone me later, Miss Marple, and lovely to meet you, Kate.”
Ade hung up.
Tristan glanced across at Kate with a big smile on his face.
“There’s a service station coming up in a mile. Do you fancy a cold drink, and we can try and get in contact with Jorge Tomassini?” said Tristan.
“Just remember, Jorge Tomassini might not want to talk to us.”
“I know, but we’ve found him.”
“Yes, we have, Miss Marple,” said Kate.
“You should hear what he calls you.”
“What?”
“Hercule Poirot.”
30
The petrol station café was hot and crowded, so they bought iced coffee and sandwiches and came back to the car. It was like a hotbox when they opened the doors, so they waited a couple of minutes for it to cool down before they got back in.
Tristan found the email from Ade, and they compared the photo of Jorge Tomassini on the European Parliament website with the photo from Ade of Jorge at the fancy-dress party as Freddie Mercury. His hair was short, and he wore a shirt and tie, but it was the same person.
“It’s great that he’s alive, but we’ve been basing our investigation on Jorge, David, and Gabe going missing,” said Kate, suddenly seeing this might not be the breakthrough they were hoping for.
“If he was there at the time, he might have known David and Gabe. What do you think we should do? Email or phone him?” asked Tristan.
“Let’s see how far we get phoning the switchboard. I’m sure we’ll have to leave a message,” said Kate.
She dialed the number and listened to a long recorded message in Spanish and then English. She was surprised when the phone was answered after a few rings and a voice said, “Tomassini.”
“Hello. Jorge Tomassini?” asked Kate, saying his name as she thought correct—with a j.
“Yorge. The j is pronounced as a y,” he said, speaking clear English with a Spanish accent. It threw Kate for a moment.
“Hi. My name is Kate Marshall. I’m calling from the UK. I run a detective agency based in Ashdean, near Exeter. I’m trying to track down a couple of guys called David Lamb and Gabe Kemp. I think you knew them, and I just need your help.”
There was a long silence.
“Can I call you back?” he said and hung up. A minute passed, and then five.
“Do you think he freaked out?” asked Tristan.
“Maybe.”
Five more minutes passed.
“I’m going to call him back,” said Kate, but there was no answer, and this time the recorded message went straight to voice mail.
“We’ve spooked him,” said Tristan. He started the engine, but just as they got to the motorway ramp, Kate’s phone rang again. She answered and put it on speakerphone.
“Hello. Kate? I’m sorry,” Jorge said. “I prefer to speak on my private mobile phone, and it takes quite a while to get outside the building. I’m at the European Parliament in Strasbourg.”
They could hear the sound of traffic and people in the background.
“I thought I’d scared you off,” said Kate.
“No, I just avoid discussing personal matters on my business phone,” he said.
Kate briefly outlined everything to do with the Joanna Duncan case, and she explained that everyone she’d spoken to thought he had gone missing, along with David Lamb and Gabe Kemp.
“People seriously thought I’d gone missing?” he said, sounding shocked.
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
“I just had enough one day, and I left the UK. I came back home to Barcelona. I didn’t really tell anyone in Exeter, and back then I didn’t have any social media or email. Thank God! It was a much freer time.”
“Did you ever live at the commune on Walpole Street in Exeter run by Max Jesper?”
“Yes, for a couple of months, when I first got to England—I think it was back in early 1996. It was very cold.”
“Do you remember Max Jesper?”
Jorge laughed. “Yes, I do. A wily queen if ever I’ve met one, but he was kind and welcoming.”
“Why was he wily?”
“He never seemed to pay for anything. That old dump was falling to pieces. He drilled into the electric meter to stop the disc going around, he said he never paid for electricity.”
“Did you have to pay to stay at the commune?”
“Yes, but it was pennies. I forget how much. I think I paid five pounds a week or something silly like that. Max had various friends who used to give him food, and we shared a lot of stuff. He used to boast that he’d been on state benefits whilst three prime ministers were in office.”
Kate told him about Max Jesper’s reversal in fortunes with the hotel.
“You’re kidding. A boutique hotel? It is a long time since I was there. He always said he wanted to claim squatter’s rights.”
“Did Max Jesper have a boyfriend?” asked Kate.
“Boyfriends I think is the better description. I think most of the young guys who passed through there might have had a night or two with Max. He did have one guy who was a constant in his life. Nick,” said Jorge.
Kate and Tristan exchanged a glance.
“Nick Lacey?”
“Yes, that sounds right. Nick Lacey was Max’s boyfriend: a tall, well-built guy with thick brownish hair. He’d come for a night or two each week, sometimes a weekend. And he’d often bring Max food and give him money, and I think some of the other guys would join them in their bedroom . . . Listen. I hope this is going to remain confidential?”