rose from the table and wandered off, no verbal goodbye or wave, just a ghost drifting along, back to her dreadful life.
Back in London, I mused on what to do. I couldn’t make my claim official. It would raise questions I had no wish to answer like:
“How did you come to be in possession of that many diamonds?”
If the Police ran some basic checks, would it show I was insolvent? Yes. Would the Official Receiver be interested in any ex curricular assets I had happened across? Yes.
Now I really was nowhere. I had no job and about to lose my house and car. I'd also cruelly let down Michaela. Time to resolve the most pressing need, accommodation. I rang Uncle Guy and was invited over to the canal boat at Camden Lock.
I was there by late afternoon the next day. Guy could be seen with feet up on the top deck of the “Light Fantastic” a 40-foot narrow boat. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than an experienced seafarer. A weather beaten face, a beard, what was left of his hair was tied round the back in a ponytail. The boat was a real looker,
decked out in British Racing green set off with gold trim.
He greeted me from fifty yards away with an expansive wave of the arm and a shout: ‘Over here Jimmy.’
He’d prepared food and we knocked back a bottle of wine each. I recounted my adventure throughout the meal. By nighttime, lights were glowing along the river. I actually felt at home.
‘What’s the plan then? You going to try and track this Nigel bloke down?’ ‘Going to try, but I don’t hold out much hope.’
I excused myself and went to bed. Guy was up the next morning and cooked breakfast could be smelt in my little cabin. Up on deck, we resumed the conversation from the previous evening.
‘Tough break you’ve had. If I can help in anyway other than this accommodation you just say ok?’
‘That’s good of you. Let’s see how the next few weeks pan out. I don’t think I’m going to get anywhere.’
Having discounted going to Koenig’s, it was obvious Nigel had hopped it with my diamonds or the proceeds. I had one long shot to try.
The first (and only) stop would be back at Nigel’s Golf Club.
I chose a Sunday morning as the best time to catch the most people who would know him. I asked around in a cheery manner, not wishing to come across anything other than normal. However, nobody in the Clubhouse knew anything about Nigel’s private life or his circumstances. The barman looked like he was paying close attention at one stage to my conversation. As did someone else I recognised from my previous visit. I approached him to see if there might be something forthcoming. It came to nothing.
The Pro Shop might be a better place for gossip. I noticed the wall plaque that listed the Professional staff.
Teaching Professional: Conrad Darlington.
The Darlingtons' were well known in county golf circles, assuming it was the same family. The old man had just been at the end of his county amateur golf career as I started mine. We played the morning foursomes as a team in his last appearance against Hampshire, I think it was, and then he retired.
Browsing the stock I heard:
‘Can I help you?’
Looking round, I saw young Conrad, you could see a family resemblance.
‘Excuse me for saying, but you’d have to be the son of Giles Darlington?’
‘Can’t deny it.’
‘We played my first and his last county game together about, well, a long time ago now.’
With the connection made and some kind of mutual ground established I made some headway. It transpired that Conrad’s flat mate was known on the gay scene and had a friend who’d befriended Nigel.
Conrad confirmed the obvious, that he had disappeared from the golf club.
‘Could I meet your flat mate?’ I asked.
Conrad was a little surprised by my request and wanted to know exactly what the reason might be. I explained along the lines of wanting to catch up with him for old times’ sake and mentioned vaguely about a team reunion.
He got straight on the phone to Wilf his flat mate. A meeting was set up for later that evening. We met in a flat over a kebab shop in Kemptown.
Yes they had been “involved” it was all over, but they‘d parted on “okayish” terms. Slightly ambiguous I thought and so it proved. Wilf somewhat in denial that Nigel had taken up with a much older man, whose description sounded much like Tilo the appraiser.
‘Not his style at all. It didn’t make any sense to me. I could see there was nothing there, in that way, if you get my meaning. But my oh my, was this guy’s friend loaded! A Mega-Yacht and a flat in the Marina. To be honest I’m a bit worried about my Nige.’ ‘Did you get a name for this chap” I asked.
‘T something I think.’
‘Couldn’t have been Tilo could it?’
‘Yep, that’s it!’
‘And Tilo’s friend the one with the mega-yacht?’
‘No sorry, I could find out though.’
Don’t happen to know what the name of the yacht was per chance?’
‘Northern Lights; we were going to go, to see them. Just the two of us, sad irony really. Also, I think there was something or somebody troubling him. We used to go to Brighton races together. Boy, did he like a punt.’Wilf confided.
'I do remember one occasion, he had an argument with this rough looking bloke, I was surprised he even knew someone like that to be honest. I did ask him about it at the time, but got a severe brush off.’
Wilf had a different mobile number for Nigel than I did. Had he dialled it recently? I queried.
‘No.I’m off his radar now, pity we got on so well, I do hope he’s alright.’
I headed for Brighton Marina. The Harbourmaster would only confirm that a Gibraltar based company owned “Northern Lights”.
‘It’s gone then?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘Where for?’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Don’t they have to file like, I don’t know, a where they are going thing, like a plane does a flight plan?’
‘Advisable obviously but it’s under 150 feet so not required. Doesn’t surprise me that they didn’t, funny lot.’
I pressed him on “funny lot” but he’d said too much already apparently, I begged to differ. When I arrived at the mooring, as he said the vessel had set sail.
The empty space was the end of the trail. Or at least what I believed to be. I sat on the quayside; the boat next door to where I was sat had people on board.
A man with a florid face in his sixties appeared on deck, he seemed a little unsteady on his pins. Given that the boat was moored up in a tranquil Marina, I surmised he must have had an alcoholic afternoon. He looked my way.
‘You look like you lost a quid and found a sixpence mate?’
‘As it happens you’re not far wrong.’ I looked around helplessly.
‘I was hoping to catch the guys on Northern Lights’ I threw out, in the hope something illuminating might be returned. And it was.
‘Nige and Tilo gone, coupla days ago.’
‘Can I ask, do they sail themselves? You know drive it themselves as it were.’ Talk about show one’s ignorance!
At this the man became helpless with laughter and was joined by some curious shipmates from down below.
‘What’s the joke, Ron?’ A woman asked.
‘My friend here asked if Tilo and Nige would be sailing themselves to PB.’
She burst into laughter, on the strength of the merriment I had caused; I was invited aboard.
Inside were others that had clearly passed a convivial time as well.
‘You a friend of Nige and Tilo?’ Ron asked.
‘Nigel really, we used to play county golf together.’
Sorry we’ve not made introductions have we? I’m Ron, slightly pissed obviously, this is my wife Eve, over there Dave D, and Dave C and Sylvia, or it would be if she was awake.’
I wasn’t intending staying long but with no pre
ssing business, passed, what turned out to be a pleasant couple of hours. If the conversation drifted away from my particular area of interest, I steered it back on course.
‘Lucky them, Puerto Banus, don’t you just love PB?’
‘Oh yes, my favourite.’
‘I’ll give them a ring. See how they are doing.’ I said wanting to seem in some way legit.
With no more information forthcoming, I bade my hosts’ farewell and found a seat at a waterfront Café. I ordered some food and ruminated on my findings. I could pass Nigel's whereabouts information onto the Police, but would it help me personally? Probably not.
If I was going to take this further I would need to look at my finances. I’d made some cash on a few high-end machinery units the Receiver wouldn’t know about. I have to say I did this with no conscience whatsoever. I’d put heart and soul into Printworks over twelve years. The company had employed a staff of tax paying citizens, and acted as an unpaid tax collector. Right or wrong, that was the way I saw it.
As I would have no accommodation costs courtesy of Uncle Guy I justified the expenses for the trip to Spain. I would find and confront Nigel, and for that matter Tilo and threaten exposure to the authorities and hope to get some cash. It seemed they were well connected so it gave me some hope.
Anyway, I felt I had nothing to lose. How much worse could things get and besides Uncle Guy had in a moment of inebriation, indicated a helping hand if the proverbial did hit the fan.
Next stop Puerto Banus! Bling or what? How the other half lives.
I’d been there back in the early 80’s, pretty hedonistic place. Nigel I imagined would fit right in. I wanted to keep a low profile so attempted to find ‘Northern Lights’ without recourse to