BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN

In the late nineties, I rented a modest pied-à-terre in Santa Cruz de Tenerife in the Canary Islands. The apartment had a balcony that overlooked a deep volcanic gorge, known as the Barranco, which wound its way through Santa Cruz town and down to the Atlantic. From this vantage point, I enjoyed a fine view of cruise ships, ferries, and hovercraft arriving in the port.

The landlord of the apartment was a local architect. Each month, I would visit him at his home up the hill to hand over the rent in fistfuls of pesetas. He and his wife always welcomed me with a bowl of olives and a glass of wine. We would chat amicably in Spanish about everything from football to Gibraltar. Over time, we became good friends, and occasionally they would drop by the apartment when I was in town and insist on taking me out for a steak stuffed with avocado or freshly grilled swordfish at restaurants frequented only by locals. These happy outings invariably ended with cognac and Cohibas.

One month, when I arrived at the landlord’s home with my rent, I found a smartly dressed older gentleman sitting there with a pile of papers on his lap. He was introduced to me as a local judge. He seemed nervous, and the landlord’s wife’s attempts to offer him wine were repeatedly declined.

Before I even sat down, the judge launched into a long story in Spanish about a notorious Englishman who controlled a significant portion of the south of the island. This man, he explained, had been the smelter in the 1983 Brinks-Mat heist, was deeply involved in timeshare fraud around the town of Las Américas, and effectively owned the local police, whom he reportedly paid off with a mix of laundered money and cocaine.

The judge’s voice trembled as he spoke, and his tale grew darker. He told me of a dangerous Lebanese associate of the Englishman who ran an illegal arms business from the island. This associate allegedly buried his enemies in the concrete foundations of apartment blocks and kept wardrobes full of dirty money for members of the Russian mafia—with whom he was connected—when they visited the island to party. (It seems the judge knew this arms dealer’s child’s teacher, who occasionally doubled as the nanny.)

As the judge recounted the horrors associated with this Englishman, I began to wonder what the documents on his lap contained. After ten minutes of describing the man—whom the judge repeatedly referred to as “Goldfinger”—he handed me the files. I opened them to find photographs of cracked walls, building plans, and numerous letters from the local ayuntamiento (local government). I must admit, I had been expecting something more dramatic: photos of corpses, arms manifests, or microfiches of police slush funds.

It turned out that the judge’s home in Santa Cruz was next to a building owned by this “Goldfinger” character. The building had been illegally converted into a bowling alley using laundered cash. Goldfinger’s use of shoddy builders and disregard for local building regulations had caused cracks to appear in the judge’s home. The old judge was clearly consumed by hatred for Goldfinger and wanted my help. He believed that Goldfinger wouldn’t harm a fellow Englishman and that I was well-placed to gather more information. The judge needed someone English he could trust.

Still in my early twenties and dating a local nurse whose family he knew (it’s a very small island), I was naive enough to assure the judge that I would visit the bowling alley that very evening and see what I could find out.

The judge seemed grateful. He even gave me a hug and finally accepted the glass of wine and remaining olives.

Now, I’ve never been fond of—nor particularly good at—ten-pin bowling. To me, it’s a kind of cricket for idiots. Nonetheless, I went to the bowling alley that evening with my girlfriend and reluctantly played a few strike-free frames. The staff were all Spanish and seemed friendly enough. The only other people there were in the next lane: a tanned British man in shorts, accompanied by an exotic-looking woman and a small child. There was also a bouncer-type thug at the door, which seemed excessive for a bowling alley.

I only noticed the cracks in the walls when I went to the bar to order a couple of beers. They didn’t seem particularly remarkable. However, when I visited the restroom, I saw that the cracks were worse at the back of the building. I took a few photos with a disposable camera I’d brought for the task. Not being a builder, I had no idea whether the cracks were serious or not. When I asked the staff, they didn’t know either.

My girlfriend, like most Canarians, was the chatty type. While I was busy photographing the cracks, she struck up a conversation with the exotic-looking woman and ended up bowling against the child. I took a seat behind them and chuckled at the child’s attempts to hurl the heavy bowling ball down the lane.

It was then that the British man sat down beside me.

He asked me where in the UK I was from and made a joke about my public-school accent. I recall him complimenting my girlfriend’s beauty in a typically male way. Then he asked me what I was doing on the island. I briefly explained.

I introduced myself first.

He then introduced himself. “Hi, I’m John. John Palmer,” he said, “Nice to meet you, mate,” as he leaned over and clinked his beer bottle against mine.

My facial expressions can be less than subtle at times. Poker was never my game. He obviously noticed my eyes widening when I heard the name John Palmer.

“Ah, you know me?” Palmer laughed.

“Yes, you’re Goldfinger,” I replied with a smile, making sure the disposable camera was safely hidden in my jeans pocket.

He laughed again.

We shared a few beers that evening before I made our excuses, said goodbye to Palmer’s henchman at the door, and headed back to my apartment.

Our brief meeting took place twenty years ago. Memory fades.

I recall Palmer trying to come across as a persecuted man. He was certainly amusing and, in my memory, somewhat charming. We looked each other in the eye. I remember him remarking that the locals were people he could move around like furniture. He clearly had a bully’s streak, but since I met him in a relaxed moment, he didn’t show much of that side. He wasn’t scary; if anything, he seemed rather sad. He spoke of having an increasing number of “anti-Spanish days” living on that Atlantic rock. More of an entrepreneur than an accountant, he was an old-school crook who had since been eclipsed by the murderous Russians and Ukrainians, I suppose.

I clearly remember his parting words to me: “Keep that one. If you don’t, tell her to call me.”

I didn’t. She didn’t.

I never saw or met Palmer again after that chance encounter in the bowling alley.

I think I saw the exotic-looking woman on a flight to Casablanca via El Aaiún from Lanzarote a year or so later, though I can’t be sure because of her sunglasses.

The judge was pleased with the photographs and my report. I understand his wall problem was eventually resolved.

John “Goldfinger” Palmer was murdered on June 24, 2015, at the age of 64, in his gated home in South Weald, near Brentwood in Essex. He died from a gunshot wound to the chest. This was after he had served time for timeshare fraud.

Neither the landlord nor the judge is still alive. The judge’s death didn’t surprise me—he seemed full of hate and stress, wound up like a coiled spring. He died of natural causes.

Time is a labyrinth. It occasionally presents us with wormholes. And every now and then, one finds the worm is at home.