THE SPANISH WAITER: EIGHT

A little look at the trio of spooks, including the man he was accused of murdering, who seem to be following Ivan

Boney Cranmer aka Bonehead aka Gaddy Carter was, for the first time since his team Sparky and Murial had known him, looking uncertain.

They were on the back seat of the coach where the was room for three to sit in a row, and setting off from the overnight hotel where Boney had spotted someone he’d rather not have spotted, and he was wise enough to know that doing what he did for a living it was best to take note of anything he might see that could eventually turn sour on him.

“The Governor said nothing about him being out here,” he growled, “and he’d know, so why is he keeping quiet?”

“Maybe you’ve discovered something he doesn;t know?” put in Sparky.

“Or you’ve made a mistake and it;s not him?” dared Murial.

“I know him! And if you two had eyes that worked you would too!” snapped Boney/

“And?” asked Sparky.

“The Governor knows everything,” snapped Boney

“Nobody knows everything, not even him, so chin up!” said Murial sharply. She was normally sharp, even when she spoke to the cell’s leader.

It had been a good cell over the years and while some cells had outlived their usefulness the Governor still found vital work for it to do, and so it continued in the firm performing vital work in the name of Queen and Country and now looked forwards to serving King and Country in the same way. That cell had kept trouble at bay, had even challenged elements of what was looked on as the Russian Mafia, and won. The Governor respected it. Respected Boney and his team of two. And there being two of them, a man and a woman who could quite easily seem to be a man if the situation demanded it made the cell versatile. Murial was one of those women who, though they didn’t actually need to shave, looked as if shaving was what they did. And in her younger years she had looked like a lad on the pull rather than a young and desirable sex kitten, which she could also be.

The Governor reckons to be infallible,” muttered Sparky in defence of the firm’sl head.

“So is that bloke with a beard who I think he is?” asked Boney almost of himself.

“He’s a lookalike and that’s for sure,” murmured Murial. “Maybe the bloke who killed you according to the judge in his court has a doppelganger.”

“Or he might have got out of jail, the miserable sod only gave him twelve years and that will have been up long since…”

“For doing nothing wrong,” pointed out Sparky, “he might have resented that. If it was me I would. I’d be searching you out wherever the Governor sent you, and that would be that. You’d be a gonner and no messing.”

“Then it’s just as well it isn’t you, Sparky,” smiled Boney.

“Well, you know what the Governor always says,” contributed Murial, “if in doubt sort it out. And if you think there’s a chance the waiter at the hotel back there might be the school teacher who allegedly did you in and wouldn’t say where he’s buried you, then you’ll have to sort him out!”

“Ah the Governor,” muttered Boney. “Look, I’m not an unreasonable man, am I? Do you think I should be about putting an end to British citizens because I don’t know for certain who they are? And if he is who he looks like I’d say he’s already had a raw enough deal at our hands. But we had a job to do, we did it, and I had to leave the scene with nobody any the wiser who I was and who we were. If the silly devil had argued with me a bit more rather than stalking off back to his own place he might have seen the way you abducted me and drove off with me, and that would be that as far as he was concened. But no. He didn’t want a row. He didn’t want to make a scene, the silly nonce, so off he went!”

“Maybe he was still upset because his woman went off with, what’ the milkman?”

“Someone like that,” grinned Sparky.

“I tried to make him angry enough to need to defend himself,” sighed Boney, “and it usually works. You know it does. But I suppose he was just too decent compared with half the trash I have to deal with. Well, you know what I think of decent people. They deserve all that’s coming to them.”

“The Governor’s a decent bloke,” pointed out Murial.

“Is he, then? Tell me, lass, what do we know about him? Oh, I know where his office is and how to ring it if I need a word. But that’s about all. Let’s say I’m ringing him now. It’ll be to his office phone because that’s the only number I know. If someone who I don’’t recognise answers the only name I know for him is Governor. I can’t call him Pete or Joey or even Bonny Lad because I haven’t a clue what his real name is. If I want to call on him out of office hours I don’t know where he lives. I haven;t a clue and neither have either of you. And as far as I know he’s just as anonymous to everyone else at the firm. When he pegs it goodness knows what we’ll put on his coffin!”

“It’s the way he keeps his business and personal lives seperate,” suggested Sparky.

“Anyway, this is getting us away from the point. Look, my little playmates, we’re already a few kilometres from that hotel. I want to get off this charabanc and make my way back. I need to know two things: who the doppelganger is and is he after me.”

Then he stood up as the coach rocked along a road that was badly in need of resurfacing, nnd called out,

“Driver! I say, driver, stop will you! Now! My sister’s feeling ill and might be sick over everything. We’ll get off here and hitch the rest of the way to Portugal when she’s feeling better!”

No driver likes the idea of having to clear away hastily spewed vomit, so the coach slewed to a standstill at the edge of the road, to the accompaniment of a loud hooting from a lorry equipped with deafening air-horns.

Murial did a valiant job of assuming sickness, clutching one hand to her mouth as if she was holding back a fountain of unpleasantness. They hurriedly made their way to the door half way to the front, which the driver opened for them after shouting for them to be careful and look for traffic.

When the three of them were safely on the road and teetering on a narrow verge as a stream of vehicles rushed by and their coach set off on its way towards Portugal, they stood looking at each other.

“What now?” asked Murial.

“I happened to notice what looked like a nice little bar back there,” indicated Boney, “and I’m in need of a beer to help me think!”

“You do know that our luggage is all on the coach, and we’re not,” pointed out Sparky.

“Of course I do! I’m not stupid! Come on, this way. We’ll catch up with our clobber somehow, but first I want to be quite certain that Mr Hotel Waiter at that hotel isn’t going to be after me the moment my back’s turned. After all, if you’re talking about a motive for murder, letting a man rot in jail for, what was it, twelve years has got to be be at the top of the list.”

© Peter Rogerson, 01.11.22

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