by Roger Keevil
“So,” said Andy Constable, taking the proffered hand, “are you on holiday here too?”
“Lord, no,” replied Percy, laughing. “I live here, for my sins. Have done for years. I used to live further up the hill, but as Eve says, I’ve just had a new place built across the road from where you’re staying. Just moving in this week, as it happens.”
“Friday, your party, isn’t it, Percy?” asked Eve. “He’s having a house-warming,” she explained. “Here, Percy, why don’t you invite the boys along? I bet you like a party, don’t you, Dave?” she said, shooting a glance at Dave Copper which might easily be read as some sort of invitation.
“Er, well… I don’t know if we… ” He looked desperately to his colleague for help.
“Oh, go on. Percy wouldn’t mind – he’d love to have you, wouldn’t you, Percy darling?”
“Of course,” responded Percy expansively. “You’d be very welcome, gentlemen. We’re all very sociable around here – sometimes you can’t walk round the block without getting invited in for a glass of wine at least four times!” And in response to Andy Constable’s evident hesitation, “Look, no pressure. You’ve probably got plans, and you don’t want to spend your holiday being monopolised by some old fogey and a bunch of exiles. But if you’d like to pop in for a drink, please do. Friday, eight-ish. Now, not meaning to listen to other people’s conversations, but weren’t you wanting to order some lunch from this young lady?”
Eve’s hand went to her mouth. “Sorry, loves, you were, weren’t you? But that’s me all over, isn’t it, Percy? Once I get nattering, I just forget my own head, don’t I?” Percy’s smile and chuckle left no need for a reply. “Look, get yourselves a table outside and I’ll be out with a menu in two seconds.”
As the detectives took their seats at a table in the shade of a large umbrella, a police patrol car drew up at the kerb and the driver, a tall muscular officer in his early forties sporting mirrored designer sunglasses, an impressive holstered side-arm, and what looked like the insignia of a senior rank, seated himself at the next table. He nodded to the other two.
Eve emerged from the bar. “Hola, Alfredo! Momentito!” she cried to the newcomer. “Right, darlings, here’s the menu. You should try the Emperador – it’s lovely.”
As the two Britons completed their order, Andy Constable murmured in a low aside to Eve, “Looks as if this place is respectable enough. You’ve even got the local law eating here.”
Eve laughed. “I should hope so, love. He owns the place!” She turned to the Spanish officer. “Alfredo, we’ve got two new customers – this is Andy and Dave. They’ve just arrived on holiday. Boys, this is my boss Alfredo Garcia – he’s the town Police Captain.”
The men shook hands amidst a round of smiling “Pleased to meet you” and “Mucho gusto”.
“Carajillo, Alfredo? Thought so. On my way.” Eve disappeared.
“On holiday?” enquired Alfredo in a voice which carried a tone which Constable could not quite identify. “Well, I hope you gentlemen have a quiet time.”
Constable smiled uncertainly. “I hope so too. Why, is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”
“Not at all,” replied Alfredo. “I just hope you are not here on the… what is it the English say when you are on holiday to work?”
“Busman’s holiday?” suggested Copper.
“Exactly this!” agreed Alfredo. “And when you have been a policeman as long as I have, you learn to recognise certain things. Like other policemen. So, captain and sergeant, is it?”
Constable sighed ruefully. “Inspector, actually. But I promise you, this is genuinely a holiday. Work is the furthest thing from our minds. We’ve even got a deal not to talk shop, haven’t we, sergeant… David?”
Copper nodded in confirmation.
“So if we could keep it between ourselves… ”
Alfredo nodded. “I understand. I will keep your secret. So, enjoy your holiday.” And as Eve arrived bearing the first of the plates, “Buen provecho!”
Chapter 3
“Thank you again for your help with Mr. Rookham, Andy and Dave.” Alfredo raised his glass, which contained a startlingly large measure of brandy, in toast. “Salud!”
“It really wasn’t anything,” protested Constable. “Just glad to help.” He sipped his drink. “Hell’s teeth… this is strong!”
Alfredo laughed. “It is my best brandy. You have deserved a reward for all your hard work. And for the fact that I have – what is it you say in England – ‘blown your cover’.”
“Yes,” agreed Constable ruefully. “So much for keeping a low profile and not talking shop on holiday.”
“Actually, I do not think you will have to worry a lot about that. My officer does not speak much English, so he will not say anything to anybody. And of course,” smiled Alfredo, “I will be taking all the credit for solving Mr. Rookham’s death when I report it to my Commander.”
“What about Eve?” put in Dave Copper. “Won’t she tell people? If I know anything about barmaids… ”
“No,” replied Alfredo. “She was not here this morning when the body was discovered, and that is why I sent my son over to bring you. So I think your secret is safe.”
At that moment, Eve emerged from the bar. “Everything all right, darlings?” she enquired as she rapidly fielded the debris from three other tables where there was clear evidence that the locals had been taking the traditional Spanish late second breakfast of coffees and croissants. “Anything else I can get you?”
Alfredo rose to his feet. “Yes… two more brandies for my friends.” And as Constable started to protest, “No, you are here on holiday. You must enjoy yourselves. But I must work. So you stay here, and I will do my job to keep the streets safe for you.” He smiled. “And I know how you English like to eat early, so you can stay and have lunch. On the house. So, welcome to Spain.” Donning his sunglasses, he climbed into his squad car and was gone.
“Well,” said Eve, “you boys have certainly made a hit there. I think my boss has taken a liking to you – he’s not normally so fond of giving away the profits to every tourist that comes in here. Don’t tell me you’re long-lost relatives or something.”
“No, no, not at all. We just got chatting,” explained Constable airily. “Turned out we had some interests in common. We were talking about football mostly.”
“And gadgets,” added Copper.
“Well, he’s the boss,” shrugged Eve. “I just do what I’m told. Actually, he’s very good, so I’m not complaining. So, a couple more brandies, then?”
“Any chance of a coffee to go with it?” said Copper. “Too many more like that and I shall be flat out.”
“That’s what the Spanish siesta was invented for,” laughed Eve, “so don’t you worry about that. Just let me clear those empties.” She leaned forward over the table, causing Dave Copper to avert his eyes hastily from the impressive amount of cleavage revealed by her open-necked blouse.
“Here guv,” hissed Copper in an undertone as Eve disappeared into the interior of the bar. “Do you reckon those are real?”
“How on earth am I supposed to know, Copper? You’re meant to be a detective – if you’re that bothered, you work it out.”
“Hmmm,” murmured Copper. “The Mystery of the Spanish Chest.”
Constable sighed.
*
Dave Copper pored over the map spread out on the kitchen table. “Anywhere you fancy going in particular, guv?”
“A.C.”
“Sorry… A.C.”
“Not really, as long as it’s somewhere. Look, it’s Thursday already. We’ve been here two days, and all we’ve done is look at a dead body, eat, drink brandy, and sleep it off round the pool. Nice as this place is, I could easily get cabin fever. And I’m sure you are itching to go driving in that shiny new car of yours, so let’s make a day of it. Any suggestions?”
“Well… as far as I can see, there’s a r
oad up through the mountains which is marked ‘Ruta Turistica’, which I’m guessing means ‘touristic route’… ”
“Such a relief to know that all those years of training as a detective didn’t go to waste!”
“… and it goes to a village which has got symbols which stand for castle and church and viewpoint, and there’s a lake, so I’m guessing that might be worth the drive.”
“So, you’re the driver. Let’s give it a go.”
The drive up through the hills was spectacular, beginning with a gently meandering road through fields of olives, palms and trees laden with the white blossom of almonds, dotted with tiny hamlets where the only signs of life seemed to be a dozing dog and a black-clad old lady crocheting on a doorstep, before looping ever more tightly and steeply through groves of oranges and lemons, and passing over narrow stony bridges across deeply-cleft ravines as the rocky peaks drew nearer.
Rounding a turn in the road, the veil of pine trees drew aside to reveal a tumble of whitewashed buildings clustered around a crag topped by the stony battlements of a miniature castle. A solitary eagle circled high above the village, while at a lower level, wheeling crows cawed in accompaniment to the chimes from a church whose tiny blue dome gleamed a striking spot of vivid colour in a monochrome landscape.
“This,” remarked Constable, “looks a bit more like the real Spain. None of your tourist traps here.”
“I wouldn’t actually bank on that,” countered Dave Copper as he drove into the small and dusty square at the foot of the village. Although not crowded, the car park was populated by a significant number of hire cars bearing the stickers of a variety of rental firms, while at one end, a coach bearing a placard from a British tour company was in the process of disgorging a miscellaneous group of mature ladies in print frocks and sensible shoes, sunburnt fathers in long shorts with their skimpy-topped and high-heeled partners, and a gaggle of children who immediately marauded noisily away in several different directions.
“Elevenses, I think, don’t you?” suggested Constable. “With a bit of luck, that mob is on a tour. I’m betting they’ll be in and out in five minutes, once they’ve done their photos of the kids grinning inanely in front of whatever-it-is you grin in front of round here. Let’s hope so, anyway. Right, let’s apply the ‘go where the locals go’ rule.” He pointed to a pair of elderly Spanish men engrossed in a lively game of backgammon at a table under the shade of a fig tree in the forecourt of a small cafe tucked to one side of the square.
Constable won his bet. By the time the two officers had finished their coffees, the coach party were already beginning to straggle back to their vehicle, and within a few minutes a calmer air had descended on the village.
“Shall we?”
“Why not?”
The cobbled village street wound its way steeply upwards between a mixture of houses with tightly-closed shutters but occasionally-open doors, through which shady interiors with massive wooden furniture could be glimpsed, and small shops with an astonishing profusion of surprisingly tasteful souvenirs. Passing through a tunnel cut into the rock of the crag, where a massive and ancient wooden door stood still ready to withstand an attack, the Britons emerged into an even tinier square, where the door of the church stood open to reveal the flicker of candle-light within. To one side, a steep path led through a stone arch towards the castle perched on its crest. Ahead, beyond the one-room village school with its class of attentive pupils, lay a walled terrace with a spectacular view over a deep turquoise lake several hundred feet below, and the mountains beyond it.
“Is this where I do the grinning inanely bit, guv?”
Constable smiled. “I’m never going to break you of that, am I?”
Copper laughed. “The inane grinning, or calling you ‘guv’, guv?”
“Both, probably. Or neither. Whatever.” Constable seated himself on a stone bench and stretched contentedly. “I shall just have to put up with the ‘guv’, shan’t I? And as for the inane grinning, I doubt if there is anything to be done about that, and unfortunately, I do not appear to have brought a camera with me, so that will have to remain unrecorded for posterity. Hard luck, David.”
“You think?” Dave Copper triumphantly produced a mobile from his pocket. “Photo or HD video, do you reckon? Sorry, but the guys at the station would never forgive me if I don’t.” He handed the phone over to his superior. “Sorry, guv.”
Constable glared severely at his colleague, took a deep breath, and the two men collapsed in helpless laughter.
*
The drive down from the village offered a choice of routes at a fork in the road. In one direction, the reflection of the sun on the distant sea revealed the shape of the harbour wall of a fishing port, and thoughts of lunch made the decision an easy one. After a swift descent along virtually-deserted country roads – “I could get used to driving round here,” remarked Copper – the pair joined the coastal highway on the outskirts of a town which revealed itself to be a mixture of holiday resort, with a large sandy beach lined with blocks of apartments, and a working fishing village with trawler-lined quays and a commercial warehouse.
“Swim or lunch first?” enquired Copper as the two climbed out of the car on the beach-front promenade surprisingly free of any attempt to charge for parking. “I mean, it does seem a shame to waste a great beach… ” he added meaningfully.
“Have you learnt nothing, man?” retorted his colleague with a smile. “Spanish hours! It’s nowhere near two o’clock yet, so if we have lunch this early we shall be pointed at and mocked as tourists! Which I am not ready for.”
“Swim it is, then,” grinned a happy Dave Copper as he retrieved a backpack of towels and shorts from the boot of the car. “Good job I put this lot in. Forward planning and positive thinking again, you see. And it looks as if we’ve pretty much got the sea to ourselves. I can’t believe it – can you imagine how a beach like this would be at home on a day like today? You’d be falling over people.”
“It’s probably still too early in the season for the locals,” responded Constable. “They probably think it’s still the middle of winter, and only the mad Brits go swimming at this time of year.”
“In which case, guv, we’re going to get pointed at and mocked as tourists whatever you say, so what the hell? Just let me get in that water.”
After a brisk swim – the sea temperature was still too fresh to tempt the majority of sunbathers into the sea – and a few minutes drying-off time in the sun, the two looked about for the best choice of restaurant.
“Any preference, guv?”
“My instinct, David,” replied Constable, “is to head for the harbour. I fancy fish, and I reckon we’ll probably get better choice from the place they actually catch the stuff.”
“Wow, guv, this is pretty impressive deductive work, if you don’t mind me saying so. Do you reckon if I work very hard and pass all my exams, I could be a detective just like you?”
“Tread carefully, Sergeant Copper,” growled Constable in feigned reproof. “You should beware of mocking your superior officers, for fear that they should visit the most terrible punishment upon you.”
“Oh no, sir,” quavered Copper. “You don’t mean…?”
“Oh yes I do,” laughed Constable. “You will be paying for lunch. Let that be a lesson to you.”
“Deal!” smiled Copper happily.
As anticipated, the curve of the harbour was lined with over half-a-dozen restaurants, all spilling on to the pavement under extensive awnings, and each with a display of the seafood on offer in a large chilled cabinet, which was constantly basted with shovelfuls of crushed ice from a large freezer by whichever of the establishment’s waiters happened to be passing. The range was huge – everything from lobsters large enough for two to share, through mackerel, mullets red and grey, and a selection of spiny goggle-eyed fish which Dave Copper had never seen before, to more familiar sardines and whitebait. Competition between the restaurants
was fierce – outside each, cajoling passers-by to choose his establishment, stood a member of staff who, no matter what language any attempted brush-off was couched in, immediately responded in the same language with a fulsome description of his venue’s advantages. Most offered free drinks. Some proffered trays of samples of the food on offer.
“It’s a bit different from the High Street on a Friday night, isn’t it,” commented Dave Copper. “There we get chuckers-out – here they have chuckers-in.” He took a free glass of sangria with one hand while the other hovered over a tray of small fried seafood. “Here, what do reckon these are?”
“Well, whatever they are,” answered Constable, helping himself to a portion, “they have tentacles, if you don’t mind that kind of thing. Me, I’m not fussed.” He took a bite. “Actually, they’re rather good.”
“They are chopitos, my friend,” said the waiter holding the tray. “You’re English? Baby squids. Very good. Speciality of the house. I think you like, yes?” as Constable took a second handful. “If you want, I give you portion for starter free – on the house. Yes? Table for two? Okay? Here in the shade is good. And you like Mama’s famous special sangria? You want a jug for drink with your meal?” And as Dave Copper began to protest about needing to drive afterwards, “Is okay – is not too strong. Your friend can drink it all! Mama! Una jarra de sangria! I come back with menu in one minute.” In seconds the two detectives found themselves seated with drinks in their hands and a basket of bread and garlic mayonnaise in front of them.
“I assume we’re having lunch here, then, David,” remarked Constable with raised eyebrows, as his colleague continued to goggle slightly at the sheer speed of events. “Good choice.”
The lunch was delicious – Dave Copper’s order for garlic prawns was met with an enormous platter of the largest langoustines he had ever seen, while Andy Constable’s sole actually overhung the dish it was served on at both ends. A resourceful chef had even managed to squeeze a portion of chips and a serving of salad on to each plate.