Juan Foot in the Grave

by Roger Keevil

“One what?” asked Copper, slightly puzzled.

  Percy laughed. “No, that’s his name. Juan Manuel,” he explained as he headed for a marble table bearing glasses and several rows of bottles. “He’s the foreman – keeps that little lot in order. Most of them don’t speak much English, so he keeps the wheels turning. Anyway, what’ll you have?”

  With glasses in their hands, the visitors dutifully followed Percy as he showed them the seeming acres of marble, granite and tile which made up his new domain. Swags of carved velvet flanked the windows. Stainless steel gleamed everywhere in the kitchen. Bronze fittings and Moorish motifs adorned the several bathrooms.

  “D’you reckon there’s much more of this?” hissed Dave Copper in an aside to Andy Constable as yet another lavish guest bedroom was revealed. “Only I’m starting to get a bit ravenous.”

  “Well, what do you think of the place?” enquired a beaming Percy as the three descended the curving staircase.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” replied Constable, draining his glass. “Unfortunately,” he added ruefully, “it’s a bit above my pay grade.”

  “Mine too,” put in Copper.

  “Oh, I say, look – the tide’s gone out,” remarked Percy, indicating the pair’s empty glasses. “Come along, let me get you a top-up. I’m sure the others will be here soon.”

  “Look, Percy, it’s very kind of you, but would you be terribly offended if we sneak off now?” asked Constable. “I’m sure everyone’s very nice, but we really don’t know anyone, and David here’s getting rather peckish… ”

  “Not at all, lads, not at all!” cried Percy. “No, you go off and enjoy yourselves. After all, you’re on your holidays, aren’t you. You don’t want to be taking up your time listening to an old buffer swanking on about his new house. I don’t know what I was thinking of. Lord knows I’ve been bored to death by people I don’t care about at enough parties in my time. Go on, off you go – if you’re quick, you can probably make your escape before I have to start introducing you to everyone, and then you’d never get away! I’ll see you out,” he added, heading for the hall.

  As if on cue, the front door bell sounded.

  “Right then, Plan B,” said Percy with a twinkle. “Always have a Plan B. Learnt that when I did my National Service! Nip round the side of the house while I answer the door, and then you can slope off before anyone sees you. Thanks for coming anyway – although I can think of a certain young lady who’s going to be disappointed that young David here isn’t present.” With a cheery wave and a wink, he headed for the door as the two detectives hurried out through the patio doors towards the terrace and, under the slightly puzzled gaze of the group of workmen, sidled around the corner of the building and down the drive as the door closed to Percy’s cries of welcome for the new guests.

  “Lucky escape there, young David,” commented Constable with a smile. “Otherwise that certain young lady might have tried to ply you with drink, and lord knows where that would have led. You’d have needed a snatch squad to come in and rescue you.”

  “Can we not go into that too deeply, guv, if you don’t mind,” protested Copper. “You wouldn’t want to spoil my appetite, would you?”

  Andy Constable took pity on his colleague. “Right, then – food it is. You’re the chauffeur. Get the keys, and you can have the pleasure of driving us into town in that nice shiny car of yours to find a restaurant. And as my reward for saving you from a grisly fate at the hands of the lovely Eve, I will delegate the choice to you, and as a special treat, I’ll even let you pay.”

  “You’re good to me, guv,” grinned Copper. “Just a sec while I work out whether I should be grateful.”

  *

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous!” Constable slowly focussed his eyes on the clock display of the radio at the side of his bed. “Who the hell is ringing the door-bell at quarter past seven on a Saturday morning, for God’s sake?” he muttered to himself, as he swung his feet around and stood up.

  “It’s okay, guv, I’m there.” Dave Copper, in a pair of boxer shorts with a colourful pattern of capering teddy bears, trotted past the bedroom door.

  “Nice shorts,” called Constable.

  “Christmas present,” retorted Copper shortly, and opened the door. During the murmured conversation which followed, Constable swiftly climbed into a T-shirt and shorts, and emerged to find Captain Alfredo standing at the door, with a junior officer hovering behind him.

  “Good morning, Andy. I am sorry to call on you at this hour… ”

  “Morning, Alfredo. What’s up?”

  “There is a problem. There is something across the road that I think you ought to see.”

  “What sort of problem?” asked Constable warily. This did not sound good.

  “We have found something. And since you were so kind as to help me with Mr. Rookham… ”

  “Oh strewth!” groaned Constable. “Not another one!”

  Chapter 4

  “But I still can’t see that we can be much help to you,” protested Constable, slumping back on the sofa. “Surely you’re much better placed to carry out an investigation than we would be?”

  “But it is fiesta,” replied Alfredo simply.

  “So what difference does that make?”

  “Ah, the Fiesta de San Pablo is the biggest fiesta of the whole year here in the town, and so we have big celebrations for three days, starting today. There is the landing on the beach, and the battle, and the big processions, and the special masses in the church, and the fireworks.”

  “So what’s all that in aid of?” asked Copper, intrigued.

  “It is celebrating our history,” explained Alfredo. “Hundreds of years ago there was a big struggle between the Christians and the Moors about who would rule Spain, and there were many fights. And in this place there was a little castle, and a lot of boats full of Moors came to attack it, and there were few Spanish soldiers in the castle, but many Moors. But the Christians prayed to San Pablo to help them, and it is said he appeared on a white horse and helped them to win the battle. So the town was born, and every year they have the fiesta to remember the story.”

  “So how does that stop you investigating a case?” asked Constable.

  “Ah, you do not understand,” smiled Alfredo. “It is Spain. Here, fiesta is sacred, and nobody works. All my offices are closed until Tuesday – you know, the investigators of the blood and the fingerprints…?”

  “Forensics?” suggested Copper.

  “Yes, that is it. And also, the thing is that all the people that could have done it are English, or some piece English, and I think you understand the English mind better than I do, so you will see better if they do not tell the truth or are hiding some things.”

  Constable capitulated. “Okay, Alfredo. Tell us all about it. What exactly has happened?”

  Alfredo stood. “You had better come to see.”

  *

  The Villa Demasiadocara stood still and silent as Alfredo led the way round the corner of the building and down past the patio to the building works surrounding the pool. There, among a jumble of builder’s rubble, odd chunks of timber, broken terracotta pipes, and discarded workmen’s tools, running between the pool and what appeared to be a small pump-house lay a trench which had been partially and not particularly expertly filled in. Startling in its incongruity, there protruded from the rough soil infill a foot encased in a shiny blue trainer. Standing by, and looking very young and rather scared, was another junior police officer.

  “I recognise that shoe,” said Andy Constable. He turned to Dave Copper. “That’s that Spanish builder guy who was here last night – the one we almost bumped into when Percy was showing us around.”

  “Juan something, wasn’t it? Oh yes, I remember those shoes. I thought they were a bit over-the-top at the time. That’s if they’re the same ones, guv.”

  “Something of a coincidence if they aren’t.”

  “Yes, we think it is Juan
Manuel Laborero,” confirmed Alfredo. “Mr. Vere has said he was here.”

  “I suppose you’re absolutely sure he’s dead?” enquired Copper, turning to Alfredo. “I mean, I don’t know if you get a pulse in the ankle or anything, but I suppose you have checked.”

  “We have,” answered Alfredo shortly. “Nothing.”

  “In which case, sir,” commented Copper, “this has to be the nastiest case of trench foot I’ve ever seen.”

  “Copper,” responded Constable, “your penchant for graveyard humour never ceases to amaze me.”

  “Oh, I can do much better than that, guv, given a bit of thinking time.” Copper was in no way abashed by his superior’s disapproval. “So, if we’re on the case, shouldn’t we start digging for clues?”

  Constable was not to be drawn. “Alfredo,” he said, “hadn’t you better get the poor chap out of the ground? We might be able to tell more if we know how he died.” He crouched down. “For a start, take a look at this.” He gestured to what seemed to be part of a sturdy stair-post lying nearby. “If I’m not much mistaken, that looks like blood on the corner of that, so that’s worth taking a closer look at.”

  “You are right,” said Alfredo. “I had not noticed that, because I was hurrying to come to see you to ask your help. But I will have my boys wrap it and take it. And I will have them dig up the body, and then we will know for sure if it is Juan Manuel, and maybe we know how he died.” He issued rapid instructions in Spanish to his two junior colleagues.

  “Hold it!” ejaculated Constable, as one of the two reached for a spade which was lying alongside the trench. “Don’t touch that! Look at the handle – I think there seems to be blood on that as well. That’s another one for your forensics team when they finally get back to work, Alfredo.”

  “What if they use some gloves? Look, we have some gloves here.” Alfredo gestured to a pair of dust-covered and tattered gloves lying nearby on a spoil-heap. He stooped to reach for them.

  “Whoa!” cried Constable urgently. “For all we know, the murderer might have used those as well, in which case you’ll be able to get DNA off the insides. I’d send those off to forensics too if I were you. Not that I’m trying to tell you how to do your job,” he added.

  “We will get other spades,” said Alfredo, sighing and gesturing to his juniors. “Thank you.”

  “Fine,” replied Constable. “Right, next step. Who found him, and when?”

  “We will go indoors. Mr. Vere will tell you.”

  *

  Seated in the villa’s living room, with a still-shaken-looking Percy Vere appearing small and shrunken in a huge leather armchair, Alfredo consulted a notebook.

  “So, Mr. Vere, Andy and David have agreed to help me, so I would like you to tell them what you have said to me.”

  “Alfredo says you two are policemen, then,” said Percy, sitting up a little straighter and seeming to make an effort to gather his wits. “You kept that a bit quiet, didn’t you? What, over here on a case, are you? I must say, I take a dim view of it if you’re doing some sort of investigation and making use of me and my house.”

  “No, I promise you it’s nothing at all like that,” Andy Constable reassured him. “It’s absolutely one hundred percent coincidence that David and I happened to be here. We are genuinely on holiday, and I can assure you that nothing was further from my mind than getting involved in a suspicious death.”

  “Two, sir, actually.”

  “Thank you, Copper, for that very helpful addition to the conversation,” said Constable drily. “Look, Mr. Vere, let me introduce myself properly. I’m Andy Constable – I’m a detective inspector in the U.K., and I’m sorry to have to tell you that this bright young spark is Detective Sergeant Dave Copper, who works with me. And if I’m being honest, I’m blaming him for the whole thing.” He smiled slightly to take the seriousness out of his words.

  “Fair do’s, guv,” responded Copper. “I just won the holiday. None of this was my idea.”

  “Be that as it may,” continued Constable, “I’m afraid that Alfredo spotted us on our first day here. Policeman’s instinct is obviously international. Anyway, he asked us to help sort out a little problem he had… ”

  “If you can call a dead body a little problem,” commented Copper.

  “Which we were happy to do,” pressed on Constable, “but we asked him not to mention the fact to anyone, and not to mention that we are police officers, because we just wanted to have a normal holiday. Somebody, however,” he added heavily, “seems to have other ideas.”

  “I see,” said Percy, mollified. “So now he wants you to help with our ‘little problem’, does he?”

  “Yes,” said Alfredo, taking charge. “So, Andy – I will still call you Andy, yes? I will tell you about this morning. Mr. Vere says he woke up early, and when he looked out at his window, he saw the foot as you have seen. Is this correct, Mr. Vere?”

  “That’s right, Alfredo. I woke up because I wanted to – well, you know, it was the party last night, and I’d had quite a few drinks, and none of us is getting any younger, and when you get to my age… anyway, I needed to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, I opened up the shutters, looked out, and saw that… that foot sticking out of the ground. Couldn’t believe it. So then I must admit, the old brain went a bit fuzzy. I thought, ‘I’ve got to tell somebody’, and I suppose I must have thought of Alfredo subconsciously because I chucked a dressing gown on and went over to the restaurant and started banging on the door. Must have looked a right fool!”

  “So what happened?” asked Andy Constable.

  “Well, as luck would have it, Eve heard me, and came down.”

  “Eve Stropper,” confirmed Alfredo. “She is my waitress. You know her. She lives in the apartment above the restaurant.”

  “Ah yes, the lovely Eve,” said Constable. “David’s… admirer.”

  “And what did she do?” hurried on Dave Copper, anxious not to linger.

  “She telephoned me,” replied Alfredo, “and I came here, and then I called my two officers to come here with me, and then I came to you.”

  “And very generously placed the ball firmly in our court,” said Constable in tones which did not exactly convey warm gratitude. “So, that’s the what. Now how about the who. Who do you have in the frame for this? After all, Mr. Vere here had a houseful last night, didn’t you?”

  Alfredo consulted his notebook again. “Actually, it is not so bad. We only have six or seven people who were still here when Mr. Laborero was last seen, and they have all to do with the building of Mr. Vere’s villa, and as I tell you, all English, so this is why I have asked you to help.”

  “But what about that bunch of builders who were here when we arrived?” protested Dave Copper. “How come you aren’t including them?”

  “Oh, they’d all gone by that time,” explained Percy. “Can’t say I blame them. Lot of young chaps with their wives and girlfriends, they don’t want to be hanging round here all night listening to a group of foreigners trying to talk to them in bad Spanish just for the sake of politeness. They’d much rather be off down into town making a start on the fiesta weekend. So they were all gone… oh, not that long after you two went, actually. Certainly by nine o’clock, and Juan Manuel was still alive and kicking then.” He pulled a face. “Sorry – unfortunate choice of words.”

  “So,” asked Constable, “who was still here?”

  “Look, Alfredo, can I leave this to you,” said Percy, who seemed to be beginning to wilt. “You’ve got all the names, and I’m feeling a bit knocked about – I could really do with a shower and a cup of tea. Would you mind awfully?”

  “That is no problem, Mr. Vere,” replied Alfredo. “I will take Andy and David up to my office. I have on my computer all information about foreigners who are resident in my area, so I can give you all the names and pictures too. I think this will help perhaps. So it is okay if you go and shower and put clothes on, but please do no
t go away anywhere.”

  “Of course not,” bristled Percy. “Why would I?”

  “What I think Alfredo means,” interjected Constable soothingly, “is that we shall probably want to have another word with you when we come back, when you’re feeling a bit more up to it.”

  “And also,” added Alfredo, as the sound of digging began to filter in through the open patio doors, “my officers are still here, remember. Come, Andy and Dave – we take my car.”

  *

  The car park outside the police station was deserted, and as the three officers entered the building, their footsteps echoed down the silence of the tiled corridor which led to Alfredo’s office.

  “You weren’t kidding about this fiesta business, Alfredo,” remarked Dave Copper. “I can’t believe there’s not a soul about. At home, they’re more likely to drag us in for extra shifts when it’s a holiday weekend. No wonder your two guys were looking a bit cheesed off. Here guv, can you imagine what it would be like at home if we all took public holidays off?”

  “A great deal more restful,” replied Andy Constable drily. “After all, nobody wants to work on holiday, do they?”

  Alfredo affected not to hear the comment as he turned into his office, seated himself behind his desk and booted his computer. A few clicks later, after consulting a file from a cabinet alongside the desk, he swivelled the monitor and gestured to the two Britons to take a seat alongside him.

  “These are the people who were at the house of Mr. Vere last night.” With each click, a face appeared on the screen. “This is Mr. Connor, who is the builder of the villa… this is Philippa – she is his girlfriend, and she also works for me sometimes in my bar.”

  “Did you say you’ve got pictures on file of all the foreigners who live on your patch?” asked Dave Copper, incredulous. “I bet it comes in handy sometimes, like now for instance, but don’t the civil rights people go mental about something like that? I know they would at home.”

  “This is because you do not have identity cards in England,” said Alfredo. “Here, we have them, so everybody has to carry their papers with them, and if you are a foreigner you have to apply for a card if you want to live here, and so we have all the pictures on the national computer.”