Juan Foot in the Grave

by Roger Keevil

  “Hang on a second, sir. I just want to… ” Copper started the engine, pressed a button, and with a click and a smooth hum the roof disjointed itself, folded itself up neatly, and stowed itself away under a panel at the rear. The grin on his face grew even broader as he twisted round to reach into the bag behind his companion’s seat and produced a pair of bronze-tinted aviator glasses. “Right then… shall we?”

  “Nice roads,” commented Copper as they headed south along the surprisingly empty highway. “I’ve never driven in Spain before – I expected it to all be a bit rougher round the edges.”

  “E.U. money,” replied Constable. “So don’t be too surprised, because that’s some of your tax money you’re driving on. And apparently the trains are brilliant. The Spanish have done very well out of all the support funds over the years.”

  “What, even now with all the financial stuff going on?”

  “Oh, I don’t say things haven’t changed a bit lately – bound to have done. But if you’re going to be full of money worries, I can think of worse places to do it than here.”

  It was true. The sun was shining, the temperature was beautifully warm but not oppressive, and the sky was the clear rich blue of a late spring Mediterranean morning. As the car topped a rise, the view opened to reveal the sea to the left, glinting in the sunlight, while closer at hand, scrambling up a hillside scored with rocky ravines and dotted with clumps of pine trees, spread the cluster of villas and low blocks in a mixture of whites, ochres and pastel blues that was their destination.

  “There you go, si… A.C.” said Copper happily. “San Pablo. Didn’t take long, did it?”

  Following the travel agent’s printed instruction sheet, the detectives pulled off the main road at a sign marked ‘San Pablo – urbanizacion’, past a parade of shops, bars and restaurants that was obviously one of the social centres of the village, and up a long curving hill to find themselves in another commercial area housing banks, cafes, estate agents, convenience shops, and a large building sporting a coat of arms and flying the Spanish flag from its roof.

  “Stick the car in the car park on the left,” instructed Constable. “Look, that’s the property agency over there.”

  Dave Copper pulled in and parked next to two police patrol vehicles in the parking lot. As the two men got out of the car, two uniformed police officers emerged from the building and, with a great deal of smiling, laughing and back-slapping, climbed into the patrol cars and drove off.

  “Isn’t that great, guv?” laughed Copper. “We’ve only gone and parked outside the local cop shop. It’s just like home from home, isn’t it?”

  “Highly amusing,” agreed Constable drily. “And that’s the last I want to have to do with the local force, if that’s all right by you… David.” And in response to his colleague’s look of surprise, “Don’t be too amazed, man. I said I would make an effort. Come on, let’s go and find out where this apartment of yours is. I’m not used to this sunshine – I’m starting to get hot and sticky. I want a shower.” He headed across the road towards the estate agency bearing the legend ‘Lott’s Property’, and looked back over his shoulder. “And don’t call me ‘guv’.”

  As Constable led the way into the blessedly cool interior of the agency, passing the display boards with their array of villas and apartments for sale and to rent, a smartly-dressed woman in her thirties rose from behind a desk at the rear of the office and came forward to greet them. Her glossy dark hair, cut in a long bob and held back with a pair of white sunglasses pushed up on to the top of her head, framed a face tanned to a golden bronze, with deep red lips, large dark eyes, and immaculately sculpted eyebrows. Chunky gold gleamed at her wrist and throat. She shimmered towards them on impossibly high heels.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Andy Constable stepped aside in favour of his colleague. “You’d better do this. You’ve got all the guff.”

  Dave Copper fumbled in his shoulder bag for the paperwork. “We’ve got a reservation for an apartment for a week – hang on, it’s here somewhere – at a place called ‘La Caca del Toro’, I think.” He held out the sheet of paper he had been hunting for.

  The woman laughed as she took the printout. “I think you mean ‘La Casa del Torero’, don’t you?” she said. “You wouldn’t want to get that wrong.” Copper frowned in bafflement as she glanced over the form quickly. “Don’t worry about it. Just a little Spanish joke. Oh yes… Mr. Copper. David, is it? Do you mind if I call you David? We’re very informal round here. I’m Liza – you know, like ‘Liza With A Zee’. I own the agency.”

  “Er yes… David’s fine… er, Dave is better, actually.”

  Liza proffered a red-taloned hand. “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Dave.” She arched an eyebrow towards Andy Constable. “And your… friend?”

  Copper failed to stop himself blushing. “No, this is my… I mean, this is the… ”

  Constable stepped forward to rescue his floundering colleague. “Andy.” He held out his hand. “We work together.”

  “Oh I see,” said Liza. “So, it’s a boys’ out-of-the-office jolly, is it?”

  “Something like that,” agreed Constable. “Just a break out of the routine for a week.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place if you want a bit of peace and quiet,” remarked Liza. “The season hasn’t really got going here yet, so we haven’t got that many tourists around here at the moment. Just the residents.”

  “Is it all English round here, then?” asked Copper.

  “Oh no, Dave, not at all,” said Liza. “Far from it. The owners round this bit are mostly foreigners – you know, British, German, a few French, a fair number of Norwegians, actually – but you do get quite a lot of Spanish people as well because they like to have a second home at the seaside for holidays. That’s up here in the urbanisation. But once you get over the other side of the hill it’s a proper Spanish town, with the fishing harbour and the marina and the shops and a few hotels. It’s a nice mix.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Oh lord, yes. I’ve been here for years. I first came out here when the boom started. Mind you, that was then, and this is now, and it’s all a bit different these days.” Liza seemed to pull herself up short. “Anyway, listen to me going on, and we haven’t got you sorted out.” She started to leaf through a box of folders on her desk. “Here we are – ‘La Casa del Torero’.” She surveyed the papers swiftly. “Yes, that’s all sorted out. And you’ve got it all to yourselves – that’ll be nice. Everything’s prepaid in England, so no need for a deposit. The cleaning’s all been settled in advance, and the cleaner’s opened it up for you. D’you know, I can’t think of a single extra to charge you for.” She laughed. “There’s a first! Right, here’s the key, here’s a little map of how to get there – it’s only a couple of minutes down the road – here’s my card with my mobile number on it in case you have any problems – have a lovely time.” Beaming, she ushered them out on to the pavement.

  *

  ‘La Casa del Torero’ came as a pleasant surprise. Utterly different from the groups of pleasant but repetitive small blocks and villas which lined the road which swept down the hill in a gentle curve, it peered over its surrounding wall like a rather grand but slightly disapproving dowager. As Dave Copper pressed the button on the key-fob which opened the electric gates and drove into the forecourt, it became clear that the building was something out of the ordinary. Dazzling white walls were dotted with intricately-carved stone balconies, draped with skeins of multi-coloured bougainvillea, and topped with toy crenellations which would not have looked out of place in a child’s story-book castle. Painted shutters in varying shades of pastel blue, some partly open to reveal muslin drapes wafting gently in the soft breeze, flanked the windows. At the head of a flight of steps, an impressive front door in beautifully-grained wood was adorned with monumental cast-iron hinges and handle. Tow
ering palm trees surrounded the building, and through a stone arch could be glimpsed a courtyard garden with the turquoise glint of a swimming pool.

  “Bloody hell, sir,” said Copper. “That’s not bad, is it?”

  “As you say, bloody hell,” replied Constable. “I’m assuming you’ve brought us to the right place? I know Mr. Patel was grateful to you, but he’s not a registered charity, is he?”

  “Well, he did do me a bit of an upgrade when he knew it was me that had won the prize,” grinned Copper, “but I didn’t think he’d manage to get us the King of Spain’s summer palace. Hang on a sec… ” He leafed through the sheaf of papers on his lap. “Fret not, guv – it’s not all ours.” He browsed the sheet in his hand. “Apparently the guy who built it was going to use it as a holiday home, but then he changed his mind and had it converted into four separate apartments. Except Liza said there was nobody else here, so we’ve got it all to ourselves after all. We’re in… yes, Number 3. Shall we have a look?” Eager and smiling, he hopped out of the car, popped the boot, seized his case, and led the way to the front door, as Constable followed him with an amused gleam in his eye.

  The apartment was on the first floor at the rear of the building. What had not been clear from the forecourt was that the building was perched on the rim of one of the shallow ravines which the officers had seen as they approached the town, so each of the two bedrooms offered a different view across the lower streets which faded away to open countryside with a distant vista of hazy mountains.

  “Nice and quiet,” remarked Constable.

  The sitting room, large and leather-furnished with a tiled floor, an impressive brick fireplace containing a huge wood-burning stove, and highly-polished dark wood cabinets in traditional Spanish designs, led on to a spacious balcony overlooking the pool, with teak table and chairs and a wrought-iron spiral stair leading to the lower terrace level, where loungers and umbrellas waited expectantly.

  “Any preference for which room you want, guv?” asked Dave Copper. “I mean, I don’t really mind, so whichever you’d rather… ” He tailed off.

  “Don’t pussy-foot around, man,” replied Constable. “Look, sit down a minute.” He took a breath. “I have been a grumpy old sod at work lately, and you have refused to be beaten down, and you have probably been the only person who could have kept me sane, and this is your treat. So you will have whichever room you want, and we will both relax and have a good time and drink sangria and sunbathe, and forget work for the week.”

  “Righty-ho, guv. Sounds good to me.”

  “And you will stop calling me ‘guv’, and I will make a strenuous effort to call you something other than ‘sergeant’. Deal?”

  “Deal, sir. Sorry… force of habit.”

  Constable laughed. “We’ll work on it. Come on – I’m going to chuck my stuff in my room, grab a quick shower and change, and then we are going to go out and find somewhere to have lunch. And since I must admit that you have done rather well for us in sorting out this place – David – this is my treat.”

  *

  Just along from the apartment stood a small row of commercial premises which housed an incongruous mixture of an opticians, a bank, a pet shop combined with a vet’s surgery, a knick-knack shop which also advertised a selection of British groceries, and a large double unit which was divided into a bar and cafe to one side, and a restaurant on the other. The place seemed to have an oddly split personality – while the restaurant proudly bore the title ‘El Rincon de San Pablo’ in florid Hispanic lettering, a sign over the bar door displayed the slightly more confusing legend ‘The Runcorn’ in good plain stolid English. The tables outside on the pavement indicated a similar mix of clientele – at one table a pair of obviously Spanish electricians, their white vans canted on the pavement at careless angles of abandonment, gesticulated in animated discussion over coffees and brandies among the debris of an extensive meal, while at another an elderly couple sipped a modest glass of beer and a rather anaemic cup of tea as they unspeakingly browsed their copies of the Daily Mail and ‘Pick Me Up’ magazine.

  “What do you reckon to this place, then?” asked Dave Copper. “Looks as if they do food. Shall we give it a go?” And in an undertone, “And they seem to cater for the British.”

  “I think we should do exactly that,” replied Andy Constable. “But here’s a little tip I’ve picked up along the way. Beware of the places which do the British food – all that ‘All Day Breakfast’ and ‘Mum’s Sunday Roast’ stuff. The food will always be worse and the prices will always be higher, from what I’ve been told. So what you have to look for is the places where the locals eat. Which they clearly do here,” he added in response to a crescendo of laughter from the two Spanish customers. “Look at this.” He pointed to a chalked blackboard displayed at the bar entrance. “‘Menu del Dia’ – that’s meal of the day. Three courses, choices along the way, salad and drink included – 10 Euros. That’ll do me.”

  “Bargain, sir,” agreed Copper. “Provided you know what you’re ordering, that is. I haven’t a clue. I can just about say ‘paella’. How’s your Spanish?”

  “I dare say I can get by,” responded Constable airily. “I did a C.D. course a while back, so I expect we shall be fine. Well, let’s give it a go.”

  As the detectives made to enter the bar, they almost collided with a blonde young woman who was emerging carrying a tray bearing two enormous brandies.

  “Cuidado!” she chirped as she swerved expertly, and raised her eyebrows in interrogation.

  “Buenos dias, senorita,” began Constable hesitantly.

  “With you in a second, darling,” she interrupted. “Just let me get Diego and Carlos sorted out and I’ll be with you. Oh, by the way,” she tossed over her shoulder as she headed for the two drivers, “it’s after two, so it’s ‘tardes’. Go on in.” And without a pause, she launched into a flurry of rapid Spanish as she delivered the drinks to the two at the table.

  Constable and Copper perched on stools at the opposite end of the bar from an elderly gentleman who gave them a nod and then returned to his Telegraph crossword.

  “Right, boys, what’s it to be?” The young woman was back behind the bar almost before the detectives heard her approach.

  “We’re not too late for lunch, are we?” asked Constable. “We’ve only just arrived this morning, so we’re running a bit late.”

  The barmaid laughed. Her blonde hair, piled into a confection of curls and tendrils, may well have been natural, but the huge sooty eyelashes adorning her large hazel eyes definitely were not. Fuchsia eye-shadow merging to soft brown toned with the pearlescent pale pink of her lipstick, while her animal-print top with its deeply-scooped neckline and extremely short black skirt were a perfect tribute to the 1970s. “Too late? I shouldn’t think so! This is Spain, darling – everything’s a bit late round here! Most of the Spanish don’t even start having lunch till after two, so you’re fine. Having the Menu, are you?”

  “If we can.”

  “No problem, love. Right, let’s sort you out with a drink first, and then you can grab a table outside and I’ll come and get your order. So, you look like beer boys to me. Couple of pints, is it?” As she busied herself pouring the beers, the barmaid seemed disposed to chat, although her style of conversation left little room for anyone else. “Just got here this morning, then? Holiday, is it? That’s nice. Bet the weather here’s a bit better than at home, eh? By the way, I’m Eve. And you are…?”

  “David… Dave.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Dave. There’s your pint, darling. And…?”

  “Call me Andy.”

  “Andy – not Andrew, then? Bet your mother used to call you ‘Andrew’ when you were a bad boy.”

  “Just ‘Andy’ is fine.”

  “Right you are, then, just Andy – and there’s yours. So where are you staying?”

  “Just along at the… ‘Casa del Torero’,” said Dave Copper carefully, not wishing
to cause any further inexplicable mirth.

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” replied Eve with enthusiasm. “That place is really beautiful.” She looked the two men up and down. “I can see I shall have to look after you two boys. You must be worth a few bob to be able to afford a place like that.”

  “Sorry, afraid not,” responded Copper regretfully. “I won a holiday in the raffle at work. But you can still look after me if you like.” He stopped short as if suddenly realising the implications of his remark.

  “Well, well done you,” said Eve with only a shade of disappointment. “I hope you have a good time. So, you work together, do you? What sort of job’s that, then.”

  “Oh, just in an office,” said Constable hastily. “Nothing very interesting.”

  “Did you hear that, Percy?” said Eve, addressing the elderly man along the bar. “Dave and Andy are staying at the ‘Casa del Torero’. That’s just across the way from Percy’s new place,” she explained to the detectives. “He’s just had this lovely new villa built, haven’t you, Percy?”

  “Eh? What d’you say?” The man tore himself away from his crossword.

  “I said Dave and Andy here are staying at the ‘Casa del Torero’ just by you,” repeated Eve. “They’re on holiday. Boys, this is Percy – he’s one of my best customers, aren’t you, darling?”

  “If you say so, Eve,” chuckled the man, turning to Constable and Copper. “Pay no attention – she says that about everybody.” He laid aside his newspaper, rose, and extended a hand. “Percy Vere. Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.”

  Percy might well have come straight from a casting session for the archetypal elderly Englishman abroad. A tanned face with rosy cheeks and deeply incised laughter lines, with bright blue eyes twinkling with good humour, gazing out from beneath bushy white eyebrows which perfectly matched his luxuriant white moustache and thick head of hair, swept back in a careful wave. A bright paisley-patterned cravat added a splash of colour at the neck of his crisp white shirt, topped with a cream linen jacket, while faultlessly-polished brown brogues gleamed below immaculately-creased cavalry twill trousers. A Panama hat sat on the bar between his newspaper and what looked like a very large gin and tonic.