Most of the time I work on my own, for obvious health and safety reasons (my health and safety, obviously, not others) but I have to own up to using certain friends in certain places, one of them being Barcelona. Over the years I have met and worked with people whose abilities and integrity I trust (almost) implicitly and one of these is Donatila Alvarex-Snuff Countess of Catalunya. I am not sure if she is actually a real Countess but that doesn’t matter a jot. She moves in all the best circles and knows everyone who is anyone in the very structured world of Catalan society. Her only frailty is in a weakness for over-endowed young men which can sometimes affect her judgement in matters of the heart. In matters of stopping someone else’s heart she is coldly professional. A quick social media post established that she was in the city so we arranged to meet.
You might think that social media are not secure but you would be surprised how a simple code can enable easy communication. When you see those pictures of ugly babies with ‘Gorgeous child’ replies or women who are not obviously contenders for a beauty contest with ‘Lovely Lady’ you have to realise that all is not as it seems!

The Bar El Gato Negro is in the Barri Gotik area which is very touristy but an obvious place to be seen if you are pretending to be a tourist. The countess entered like a force of nature, oblivious, imperious and entitled. I had seated myself in a corner with my back against the wall (old fieldcraft habits die hard) and she joined me, starting the process of an extravagant continental greeting from several metres away. ‘Darling!’ She held out her hand and I kissed it, clicking my heels like Captain von Trapp at an Officers ball. She leant forward, and almost nibbled my ear, whispering conspiratorially ‘who are we topping this time – or did you just have a desperate need to see me’ the waiter brought over a glass of her favourite local red wine served cold, (as it was designed to be) without prompting and gazed in unabashed admiration over the dark polished wood of the bar. ‘You have an admirer there’ ‘Oh, Jordi Mas, you mean’ she laughed ‘he was good, but I broke him – I break them all, but I never’ she smiled’ broke you, darling’ ‘Sadly untrue’ I countered.

With the pleasantries over, we got down to business and I made my goodbyes, leaving her thinking about giving Jordi another try and him hoping she would have ‘una mas Mas’.  Back at the Fisherman’s houses, Mrs Victor had pounced on the brochure for the Besos Tower and demanded that they visit it ‘as a family’ that very afternoon, which is why I was following their taxi on my borrowed scooter. As I guessed, Mrs V and the boys darted for the playground whilst Victor headed up the stairs for some peace, quiet and a view of the coast. A call on my mobile set up the next phase and soon I heard the rhythmic whump-whump of a helicopter approaching. The tall buildings around deflected the noise so it could be coming from anywhere. Victor reached the top landing and another message sent the helicopter hurtling at low level over the top of the tower.

The sudden noise and shock sent a surprised Victor spinning around, grabbing for the safety-cable rail. My cork bands had kept the acid next to the cable long enough to do its weakening work whilst giving the appearance of rust, before dropping off (it wasn’t cork, really, but I’m not giving you all my secrets).  His motion was barely arrested as the cable snapped and he went over the edge. People who do that in films scream, but in reality the shock and disbelief usually stun them temporarily before the ground does a more permanent job.

I moved in towards the body as did others, since moving away immediately is suspicious, before turning back towards the scooter and leaving. La Contessa had ordered the helicopter to collect her from the ‘W’ hotel but to wait behind the Besos until called. The pilot’s timing was superb and she was obviously beyond reproach.

Job done and I have a few hours to wait before my flight so I’m going to visit the new motorcycle museum. They have a Ducati in there that won the ‘24 horas of Montjuic’ race in the seventies and I’d really like to see it…