Death Trick (3 page)

They passed through two rooms, the one leading directly into the other, and out on to the south-facing patio. Overhead vines, trained over wires, provided a shade which shimmered as the very light breeze stroked the leaves.

‘Grab a seat,’ said Oakley, ‘and tell me what you’d like to drink?’

‘A whisky, please.’

As Oakley returned into the house, Roig sat and looked out. Beyond the patio was a small garden bounded by a low drystone wall and then a field, recently harvested, in which grew fig, almond, and algarroba trees; several sheep were grazing the stubble. As a boy, living in the casita, one of his jobs had been to herd their small flock of sheep. These had had such little grazing, of such poor quality, that they’d forever been breaking out in search of something more to eat. Each time they’d escaped him, his father had beaten him with a thick leather strap. He hated sheep, couldn’t even enjoy eating lamb, although one might have thought that that would furnish a welcome revenge . . .

Oakley returned. ‘One Scotch.’ He put a glass down in front of Roig, sat, raised his own glass. ‘Health, wealth, and happiness; and I leave you to place them in order of priority.’

Was that a malicious dig at his values? Roig didn’t know the answer and silently cursed his inability to understand Oakley.

‘I thought it would be an idea to have a chat—quite apart from the pleasure of meeting again.’

Roig drank.

‘Things aren’t going too well, are they?’

‘Aren’t they?’ Roig said, trying to sound surprised.

‘For one thing, the sales of plots of land haven’t proved as high as projected . . .’

‘I did say from the beginning that we were asking far too much per square metre.’

‘Yes, that’s right, you did, but I still disagree with you. The cutting edge of our sales pitch is that we’re offering exclusivity; the world’s become so democratic that one can’t demand good breeding, so one has to rely on wealth and shut one’s eyes to the accompanying vulgarity. We’ve made certain that only the rich will buy into the urbanization.’

Roig couldn’t decide how serious Oakley was being.

‘But, in fact, that’s not really the issue; if it were merely a case of depressed sales, I wouldn’t be worrying because I’m convinced that once a sufficient number of people complain loudly enough about the ridiculous prices we’re charging, we’ll sell everything . . . No, what really bothers me is that there seems to be a heavy drain on resources which isn’t immediately explainable, but is putting us into serious trouble. D’you know anything about it?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Why? Because, Pablo, I have a very great respect for your intelligence.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘Don’t try to hide behind your overdeveloped sense of modesty.’

Roig, again wondering whether Oakley was speaking seriously or mockingly, uncertain how much was known or guessed, experienced a growing fear. He drained his glass.

‘You are beyond any doubt a very sharp and intelligent man. That, of course, is why I approached you to join the company in the first instance. That and the fact that you equally obviously are a man who—how shall I put this?— knows how to fix things greatly to his advantage.’

What did that really mean?

‘So, because you’re a clever man, Pablo, perhaps you’ve begun to suspect that someone could be swindling the company?’

‘Certainly not. That’s impossible,’ he replied, with more emphasis than he’d intended.

‘Impossible or improbable? Or would you say that the answer’s far more likely to lie in thoughtless inefficiency rather than in thoughtful dishonesty? Frankly, I hope that that is not so. Thoughtful dishonesty can be sharply reversed, thoughtless inefficiency can take a fatal time to correct. And it’s beginning to look as if we don’t have much time in hand.’ Oakley stood. ‘You’ll have a refill, won’t you?’ He did not immediately move away after picking up the glasses, but remained by the table. ‘If you’ve reason to suspect there may be something going on but, being a lawyer, you only speak out when you’re twice certain, have a word on the quiet with whoever’s concerned and suggest that if all the ill-gotten gains are refunded . . .’

‘I know nothing.’

‘Then there’s no need to continue and I can, as the Scots so aptly put it, save my breath for cooling the porridge. Though the thought of porridge in this temperature . . .’ He smiled, left, and went into the house.

Roig thought about everything that had been said and his fear subsided and was replaced by a sense of comforting superiority. Clearly, Oakley had not the slightest idea of exactly what had been going on . . .

Julia Monserrat awoke. The year before, she would have left the bed immediately, but she allowed herself a further few minutes’ rest; it was one concession to a perpetually tired and aching body she now allowed.

From the other bedroom there came the sound of snoring. She’d heard Adolfo return, but had no idea what time of the night that had been. From the noise, he’d been tight again. She sighed. She kept trying to persuade him not to drink so much, but his job as a waiter in a cafe militated against her efforts. It was a tragedy that his father, who would surely have taught him more sense than she’d been able to do, had died when he was only five.

So many years without a man, she thought as she stared up at the still darkened ceiling. Her friends often complained that their husbands were forever demanding and told her how lucky she was to be able to lead her own life; she never replied that meeting a thousand demands was far preferable to perpetual loneliness.

She switched on the light, climbed out of bed, and went into the bathroom. There was running water now. That and the electricity were the only changes there had been since her husband had died. Even if she’d had the money for extensive improvements—friends had altered their houses almost beyond recognition—she wasn’t certain she’d have had the work done; somehow it seemed right to keep the house as near as possible to how it had been when her husband had been alive.

She went out and into the barn which was built on to the side of the house. Here, she milked the only cow that was lactating, then collected up an armful of fodder for the rabbits. These were plagued by myxomatosis—she’d lost two in the past week—and after feeding them she took down the sacking over the fronts of the wooden cages and resoaked this in disinfectant before replacing it. She began to carry the pail of milk to the kitchen, but was reminded by the two cats that they had not yet been given their small ration of milk and she turned back to fill the shallow earthenware bowl they used. That done, she took the milk through. When she returned from work that afternoon, she must water the tomatoes and pick beans ready for her friend to take to the market the next day . . . Life would have been a lot easier if only Adolfo had given a hand, but he flatly refused, saying that he did his work at the cafe and when he was at home, he rested.

For breakfast, she ate a plateful of milk and bread. Then she bicycled the six kilometres to Casa Gran. Much of the journey was uphill and recently she’d been finding the effort of pedalling very much harder, but she’d no thought of giving up the job because she needed the money to keep the house going. When Adolfo had started work, she’d expected him to pay towards his keep. He never had.

She began to sweat, although normally she looked too dried-up to be capable of doing so. She waved to an old friend, at work in a field, and had hurriedly to grab the handlebars to keep her balance. Less than a year ago, through waving to someone else, she’d fallen and had cut and bruised her ankle so badly that she’d been unable to go to Casa Gran for several days. Roig had turned up at her house and had threatened to get someone else unless she returned immediately, long before the ankle had properly healed . . .

She thought she understood Roig’s motive for humiliating and bullying her, but not the reasoning behind such motive. How could he sensibly blame her for the way life had been when they’d been young? And how could he now be so blind to decency as to flaunt his excesses in front of her? Not that one could really use the word ‘decency’ where his women were concerned. No better than cheap whores. Except for poor Eulalia. So innocent, she had been seduced by words of love. Roig would never commit a crime greater than speaking those words . . .

She turned on to the dirt track which led to the big house. Ferriol was spraying vines and when he saw her he stopped and came across, sliding the knapsack sprayer off his shoulders as he came up to where she waited. He nodded a good morning. She pointed at the nearest row of staked vines. ‘They’re looking all right.’

‘There’ll be a crop, if it don’t rain heavy.’ Much rain between now and the harvest would create meteorological history, but if one worked on the land, one did not tempt fate by assuming favourable weather.

There was a long silence, which she broke. ‘I’d better move on and start some work.’

‘Aye. He’s up there.’

‘The señor is?’ Despite her contempt for the way he behaved, she never referred to him without the respectful title.

‘He was there when I arrived; leastwise, his car was.’

‘Then maybe he’s spent the night here.’

‘With the latest, like as not, so he won’t have done much sleeping.’ He chuckled salaciously.

She showed her disapproval of such talk. Ferriol was far too interested in the women up at the house—a man of his age should have calmed down.

She climbed on to the bicycle and cycled up the track and round to the back of the house, which faced the mountains. Roig’s Citroën was parked outside the garage; she was vaguely surprised that if he had spent the night in the house, he had not put the car under cover since he normally fussed obsessively over all his possessions. She left her bike, crossed the cobbled yard to a stone urn, and felt underneath this for the key to the main back door which wouldn’t be unlocked because Roig never used it—the back door was for servants. She unlocked the door and went in. The passage gave access to the unfurnished room in which she kept all the cleaning things. She lifted an apron from one of the hooks, picked up the cane basket in which were dusters and furniture polish, and left. Today was the day for polishing the furniture in the bedrooms.

Although the house was large, its basic layout was simple and there was a direct, if rather lengthy, route to the living quarters. She entered the left-hand hall and was about to cross to the stairs when she checked herself. From the room now on her right there came a strange sound, rising and falling both in tone and pitch, which she could not immediately identify, but which for some reason disturbed her. She hesitated, then crossed to the door and knocked—in a spirit of contempt, he had ordered her to knock before entering any room; in truth, she would never have done otherwise for fear of what disgusting scene she might witness if she did not. There was no answer to her knock and the sound inside continued. She opened the door. The body of Roig was slumped across one of the tapestry chairs and it had become an attraction for a swarm of blowflies. She crossed herself.

Alvarez stared down at the untidy pile of papers on his desk, an expression of sad bewilderment on his pudgy face. Ten years ago, perhaps even as little as five, that quantity of paperwork would have encompassed a couple of months’ crime, yet now it barely represented a fortnight’s. Where would it all end?

He slumped back in the chair. Politicians. They created the troubles of the world, but left others to clear up the mess, vilifying them when the task proved impossible. Anyone but a politician would have known that to relax the laws against drugs was an act of insanity. Yet the present government had done just that and so now one could buy any drug one fancied in Puerto Llueso—if one wasn’t mugged first. Puerto Llueso, so beautiful, it clutched at a man’s soul, once so peaceful it had seemed as if angels often gathered there . . .

The telephone rang. His caller was the superior chief’s plum-voiced secretary who said that Señor Salas wished to speak to him. As he waited, he modified his previous conclusion. The problems of the world were created by politicians and superior chiefs.

‘Alvarez—presumably you’ve heard about the murder in Prevaix?’

‘I read an account in the paper, señor, but . . .’

‘In his practice, Roig dealt with a large number of foreigners. The investigating inspector, Jaume, speaks no foreign languages which makes for difficulties, so you are to assist him.’

‘But surely he can . . .’

‘Why do you always have to argue? It is an unfortunate fact that you are the only inspector on the island with an adequate knowledge of any foreign language; were there any other even partially competent linguist available, rest assured I would never call on you to help, since bitter experience has shown that you delight in complicating the simplest of issues. Why I, who have always done my duty and honoured State and Church, should have to bear such a crippling cross, I just do not understand.’ He cut the connection.

Alvarez checked the time. Ten to one. Even if Jaume was still in his office, he’d be on the point of leaving it to go home to lunch; if he was not in his office, there was small point in phoning. The call could reasonably be left until after lunch.

Rising a little late from his siesta, Alvarez did not return to the guardia post until well after five. He climbed the stairs, sweating from the exertion, and went along to his room, where he slumped down in the chair to recover his breath. He looked at the telephone with a sense of bitterness and cursed Jaume—a man whom he normally liked. Why the devil couldn’t Jaume cope with his own problems, instead of incompetently forcing them on to others? As Alvarez slowly regained his breath, his mood became less belligerent. Jaume was smart, so surely there was every chance that by now he’d found out who’d murdered Roig and there’d be nothing to do . . .

‘You must be joking!’ said Jaume, the telephone exaggerating his gravelly voice which ill-suited his small, slim build.

Alvarez’s gloom returned.

‘It’s not too much of an exaggeration to say that right now all we know for certain is that he’s dead.’