Page 79 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
In his office, Señor Resano puffed on a huge cigar.
They made themselves comfortable in deep leather armchairs, and Atticus looked around at the piles of old books, framed diplomas, and memorabilia that reflected the lawyer’s many years of professional achievement. Distinguished by neatly combed silver hair, Señor Resano’s face suggested a well-lived life. His tailored suit, complemented by a conservative tie, matched his old-fashioned waistcoat.
Atticus thought Señor Resano was as ancient as the building itself and wondered if he was in safe hands. But Erik reassured him that all would be well and that he could trust the man’s legal expertise.
Señor Resano, however, was hesitant to act on Atticus’s instructions.
‘You are gifting a property to a woman you’ve only known for a few weeks?’ Señor Resano questioned. He puffed furiously on his cigar and smoke billowed around them, swirling in chaotic circles. ‘I have to ask if you think this decision is wise?’
Atticus waved his hand to disperse the dense blue clouds of smoke.
‘I know that you think the relationship might not work and I might lose a great deal of money,’ Atticus argued. ‘But at my time of life, there is really little to lose and much to gain from making a deserving person happy.’
‘If you insist. It is a generous thing to do.’ Señor Resano shrugged. ‘But,’ he added cautiously, ‘I must inform you that, given the current political situation, a Dutch national can purchase property here more easily than a British subject.’
One phone call later and Mr Rodrigues was delighted to find a buyer so soon after deciding to sell, with no need for agents. The price agreed upon was favourable to both parties.
‘So that’s settled,’ Atticus said. ‘Please complete the paperwork as quickly as you can, and I will arrange to have monies transferred.’
‘It is a fine property,’ the lawyer said, rising to his feet to shake Atticus by the hand. ‘I have it on good authority that the area will be developed in time, and those cottages will be worth agreat deal.’
‘Please don’t share that information with Mr Rodrigues.’ Atticus smiled as he shook on the deal.
‘I appreciate you fitting my friend into your busy schedule,’ Erik thanked the lawyer. ‘Your next visit to Nancy’s will be on the house.’
As they left the building and stepped out of the fug and into the sunshine, Atticus, taking a deep breath of clean air, was puzzled. ‘What did you mean,’ he asked, ‘the visit to “Nancy’s” will be on the house?’
‘It is a service I provide, but a service you haven’t needed.’ Erik shrugged. ‘I own Nancy’s. It is why I stay at Solma Vacaciones, to be close, yet not far away.’ Turning to Atticus, he grinned. ‘I have another Nancy’s in Amsterdam too.’
‘I know Nancy’s, the motel-like building set back from the main road junction, by the track leading to Solma Vacaciones,’ Atticus said. He remembered Ruby pointing out the building when he first arrived. ‘What sort of service?’
‘Nancy’s is my business in Spain, and in Amsterdam it is located in the Singelgebied area of the city, which is known as the red-light district.’
‘But what sort of business is it?’ Atticus was persistent. But as he saw Erik smile, the penny soon dropped.
‘Nancy’s is a place for gentlemen to relax, spend time, and ease their frustrations.’
‘Ah… A brothel.’ Atticus nodded.
And as they began to walk away from the lawyer’s offices, Atticus began to smile too.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was a busy Saturday lunchtime in The Black Bull, and Reg was run off his feet. A roaring fire crackled in the stone fireplace, and the scent of mulled wine, spiced with cinnamon and cloves, mingled with the hearty aroma of the tasty daily specials chalked up on the blackboard, which were selling fast. With only three weeks until Christmas, locals and visitors to the caravan site at Barn Hill Farm appeared to be celebrating early. Festive décor made the pub cosy, with twinkling fairy lights draped across the beams and garlands of holly and ivy adorning the walls. A Christmas tree stood in one corner, covered with shiny baubles.
In the backroom snug, Arthur sat with Jake. Dressed in a warm woollen sweater featuring a gnome-like snowman embroidered on the front, Arthur supped on a pint of real ale.
‘I like your Christmas jumper, Uncle Arthur,’ Jake said, sipping a Coke.
‘Shirley knitted it and insists I wear it throughout December,’ Arthur scowled. ‘I feel a bit of a tit, to be honest.’
‘Do you think Grandad will be celebrating Christmas in Spain?’
‘Aye, there’s no reason for him not to. But it might be different there.’
‘I wish we could go to Spain to see him.’
‘I have to agree that Christmas in the sun is appealing,’ Arthur said and grimaced at the thought of another year of Shirley, sherry, and a tin of Quality Street while glued to the Royal speech.
