by Roger Keevil
Constable laughed. “You’ve had about an eggcup-full, man. Don’t whinge. Just think what all the Friday-nighters must feel like after a heavy session in the bars in town at home.”
“I have no sympathy for them,” retorted Copper. “They deserve everything they get. Including a night in the cells.”
“No such luxury for you,” breezed Constable. “Rise and shine – I have a cunning plan.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the one who said that sort of thing, sir.”
“Yes, well, who said an old dog can’t learn new tricks? Come on, drag yourself from your pit, boy – we’re going out. Alicante beckons.”
A shower and a shave later, the two were on their way along the coastal highway. “I can’t get over how clear the roads are around here,” remarked Dave Copper. “You try driving into town on a Saturday night at home – it’s a nightmare. And,” he added a few minutes later as he manoeuvred the car into a parking space near to the city’s marina and adjacent to a large entertainment centre with cinemas and a gaggle of restaurants, “I can’t believe they actually let you park somewhere like this for free.”
“Thinking of moving to Spain?” asked Andy Constable, not entirely joking.
“Maybe when I get my pension, guv,” replied Copper in the same vein.
Alicante had the feel of a traditional Mediterranean city, a million miles away from the image of golden beaches backed by high-rise hotels so often seen in holiday brochures. There were high-rises, but they did not dominate the city’s skyline. There was a beach, mere yards from one of the main avenues of the town, where even in the fading light of the cooling early evening, a scattering of groups of locals sprawled and chatted as children played around them. But the beach was backed by a spectacular promenade, tree-shaded and with a swirling pattern of tiles along its booth-lined length, where spot-lit stalls sold a rich variety of crafts, jewellery, leatherwares, and mystic paraphernalia, while buskers played and artists sketched caricatures of self-conscious young men as their giggling girlfriends looked on. Smartly-dressed mature ladies in fur-trimmed coats, their iron-grey hair immaculately coiffed into metallic armour, walked their tiny dogs in minute shrub-shrouded public gardens. Palm-lined pedestrianised avenues, wrought-iron lamp standards beginning to twinkle, led up to spectacular fountains on roundabouts at the centre of a burst of radiating boulevards. Balconied town-houses with sinuous art-nouveau architectural lines rubbed shoulders with glamorous marble and crystal boutiques whose windows displayed an exuberant froth of bridal silk and lace. In the heart of the old town, a massive cathedral, its gloomy interior punctuated with red and yellow spots of candle-light and the gleam of silver from ornate reliquaries, spread its protective presence over the muddle of narrow twisting lanes crouched beneath its skirts. Above, watching over all, the huge castle threw curtains of masonry around its high crag, as the banners of Spain floated proudly from its topmost tower.
The two Britons gratefully immersed themselves in the relaxing atmosphere of the city, strolling aimlessly among the crowds, commenting occasionally as a colourfully tiled shop-front or a gleaming pepper-pot dome caught their eye. They laughed as, joining the queue at a street stall for generous portions of ice-cream, they were unable to stop drips from the cones from running down their chins and over their knuckles. They ventured among the alleys in the ancient quarter where, grasping their courage firmly in their hands and entering a bar in search of a snack, they were surprised to find themselves being taken through the extensive tapas menu in flawless English by a Swedish student working his way through Spanish university. And finally, as the sky eventually abandoned its struggle to hold on to the dark blue of late evening and gave in to a star-scattered black, they climbed the long steep spiral up to the castle where, perched on a parapet, they sipped a final beer from the tiny one-man booth and gazed across the bay towards the distant headland of San Pablo, the coast road a glinting necklace of orange, as the lights of the occasional aircraft drifted silently downwards into the airport.
“David,” sighed Andy Constable. “This trip was a very good idea of yours. I actually feel as if I’m on holiday. I have now unwound. Good man.”
“Cheers, guv,” responded Dave Copper in slight embarrassment. “Glad you’re enjoying it. But don’t relax too much just yet. Don’t forget, we’ve still got a long walk back to the car.”
“Oh rats!” retorted Constable good-humouredly.
“Not only that, guv, but in case you’ve forgotten, tomorrow we’ve got to… ”
“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” Constable interrupted him firmly. “I refuse to think about it.” He drained the last few drops from his bottle and hoisted himself off the parapet. “Ouch! My dogs, as my old granny used to say, are barking. Tomorrow is when I shall pay for all this walking. And, while we’re on the subject of wise old saws, in the words of the Chinese, the longest journey begins with a single step. Come on – let’s go.”
The evening had ended companionably at the ‘Casa del Torero’ with a poolside glass of brandy from a bottle unexpectedly discovered at the back of a kitchen cupboard. But now, as Andy Constable towelled himself off briskly in the aftermath of the morning swim, he realised that time to conclude the investigation was slipping inexorably past. “Right,” he said, “enough pleasure. We’ve been enjoying ourselves far too much. Better get back to the grindstone and see if we can sort out Alfredo’s little problem.”
“You know what, guv?” countered Dave Copper. “I know it’s against all your instincts, but I could murder a Full English. I know they do them at the Runcorn. I don’t suppose you could consider compromising your instincts just this once?”
“Sergeant Copper,” said Constable. “I wish you’d stop having these good ideas. You’re on. Get your kit on, and we’ll see what delights Eve can offer you first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, spare me,” muttered Copper in despair.
*
At the Runcorn, trade was brisk. Several Spanish families, their young daughters draped in white mantillas and evidently heading for mass, sipped coffees or dunked churros into mugs of chocolate. Two tables of obviously retired British expatriates were ploughing wordlessly through large platters of bacon, eggs, and fried bread, accompanied by incongruous pints of lager, as they surveyed the football reports in the back pages of their Sunday papers. The detectives hardly had a chance to take their seats at a table on the terrace before Eve burst forth from the interior of the bar.
“Morning, boys – how’s it all going?” she enquired breathlessly. “Are you getting anywhere?”
“Hello, Eve,” replied Constable, refusing to be drawn. “You seem to be here all the hours God sends. Can’t they run this place without you?”
“Don’t!” returned Eve with a grimace. “Sorry, darling, but I’m not my usual happy self this morning.”
“Why’s that then?”
“Because… ” Eve sighed. “Because I was supposed to be having this morning off, and Philippa was supposed to be working, but she’s phoned up at about ten minutes’ notice to say she’s not up to it, bless her, so can I cover for her?”
“Ill, is she?” asked Copper.
Eve threw her hands up. “Don’t ask me what goes through that girl’s mind sometimes, darling. I just know that she’s not coming in, so I’m chief cook and bottle-washer until the chef comes in to start the lunches.”
“Maybe she’s upset over Juan Manuel’s death?” hazarded Copper.
Eve glanced around before lowering her voice. “Yes, well, I could tell you a thing or two there.”
“You did say you wanted to talk to us yesterday, and we never got the chance,” Constable reminded her.
“I do, but not now. Let me get on with things here, and we’ll have a chat when I’ve got a minute to myself. Whenever that may be… Si, si, un momento,” she cried in response to a raised hand across the terrace, and was gone.
A chair scraped as it was drawn up to a table clos
e behind the detectives. Turning slightly, Constable saw a man in his forties with a shock of dark red hair and a friendly creased face whose complexion was evidently not designed to cope with prolonged exposure to the sun. The slightly bulbous nose was red and peeling. The man nodded and smiled slightly, murmuring a subdued ‘Morning’ before raising his voice to hail Eve as she headed for the restaurant door.
“Good morning, young lady! I’ll have the usual, when you’re ready!”
“Oh, Wally, I didn’t notice you come in.” Eve bustled over. “Sorry, love, I’m running about like a mad thing. Usual full breakfast, is it?”
“Aye, and mind you don’t forget the black pudding like you tried to the other day.”
“Could we order the same while you’re at it?” interjected Andy Constable as Eve seemed poised to depart.
Eve’s hand went to her mouth. “Andy, Dave, I’m so sorry,” she apologised. “I never did take your order. Honestly, I don’t know where I am today.” She took a breath and pulled herself together. “Right, three breakfasts coming up. Won’t keep you.” As she was about to leave, a thought appeared to strike her, and she turned back. “I’ve just realised. Andy, this is Wally. He was at Percy’s party as well, so I bet you’ll want to talk to him.”
“Mr.… Torrance, would it be?” produced Constable after a moment’s frenzied digging in the memory banks.
“Aye, that’s right,” confirmed the other.
“Well, in that case, Eve is absolutely right. We would be grateful for a word, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Ah. I heard this might be in the wind. This’ll be about Juan, no doubt?”
“That’s right, sir. I ought to tell you, my colleague and I are police officers.” Constable effected the introductions and explained Captain Alfredo’s request for help. “We’ve already spoken to most of the people who were present at Mr. Vere’s house on Friday night – we got a list from Captain Alfredo, and I think yours is the last name on it.”
“I see. Well, in that case, you’ll already have had your wee chat with the rich member of the family.” And in response to Constable’s look of uncertainty, “Ewan, I mean.”
“Ewan? Family? What, you mean you and Ewan…?”
“He’s my cousin, inspector. Did he not tell you? Well, I guess he did not, otherwise it wouldn’t come as a surprise to you. Aye, we’re cousins, because his mum and my mum were sisters, although you’d never think it to look at us, would you. Chalk and cheese, eh?” Walter chuckled. “But family nonetheless. Which is how he came to get me this job out here, working for X-Pat on his new villas.”
“Well, if you wouldn’t mind my sergeant here making a few notes… Copper, I don’t suppose you’ve got that notebook handy, have you?”
“Never leaves my person, guv,” responded Copper.
“Another from your department of amazing coincidences?” enquired Constable in an undertone.
“On so many levels, sir,” replied his colleague. “So, sir, it’s Mr. Torrance. And is Wally short for…?”
“Walter. Walter Torrance. I’m X-Pat’s chief plumber.”
“So, Copper, another of Mr. Husami’s many cousins,” commented Constable with only minimal irony. “Who’d have thought it? I think I remember you remarking that Mr. Husami’s family seemed unusually large.”
“Oh, I’m not the half of it,” broke in Walter. “You wouldn’t believe the number of Moroccan cousins he’s got.”
“We have heard about his other businesses.”
“No, no, I mean in the building trade – the younger guys. I’ve got some of them working for me. Not that they arrive with all the skills they need, by any means, but given a bit of training, they soon come up to scratch. They’re quick learners.”
“Sorry, hold on a second. Arrive? What, you mean you bring in the workforce from outside the country? How does that go down with the locals?”
“No, they might come from North Africa originally, but they’re all residents, just as much as me. It’s all legal and above-board – I see all their I.D. cards when I take them on, and there’s not a thing wrong with them. You can’t mess about with that kind of thing – those famous Spanish bureaucrats would be down on you like a ton of bricks.”
“I don’t recall any of these chaps being pointed out to us at the party, guv,” said Dave Copper.
“There’s a good reason for that,” answered Walter. “They weren’t there. They wouldn’t have enjoyed it, and most of them don’t drink anyway, so I told them to take the night off – it was the start of the fiesta weekend, after all. I shouldn’t be surprised if they did what they usually do when they’ve got time off – go fishing.”
“Fishing?” Copper sounded surprised.
“Aye, they’re off all the time. They love it, for some reason. Mind you, having said that, they’re not the only ones. Tim’s a bit of a fisherman himself. I could never see it myself, but there’s loads of people around here who are out there at all hours. Apparently this coastline is special, for some reason. Have you not seen them all along that rocky bit of coast the other side of town down towards Torrenueva?”
“No, we’ve not been down that far, sir.”
“Car-loads of them, sometimes. And every so often I think Ewan takes some of them out on night-fishing trips on that great big boat of his.”
“The ‘Medea’? Yes, we’ve seen Mr. Husami’s boat. Not exactly your average trawler, is it?” remarked Copper wryly.
“You could say that,” agreed Walter with a smile. “But he’s pretty good to the lads. Off he goes in the middle of the night, and whenever I see him coming back in the morning, it turns out he’s been out there with a bunch of his cousins. They must go miles, the amount he spends on fuel. Well, he can afford it, so it’s no skin off my nose. And he’s always saying to me, ‘You should have seen the fish Ali caught – what a whopper’. He always laughs – great sense of humour, our Ewan. And to tell the truth, I wouldn’t know who on earth he’s talking about, because I don’t know that side of the family at all well, and they all seem to be called Ali anyway. It’s funny, sometimes at work I’m half-way through a job and I need a hand with something, so I yell ‘Ali!’, and two or three guys come running up. Half the time I can’t tell one from another.”
“So all these cousins are also connected with Mr. Connor’s building business?” Constable sought to confirm. “It seems to me, Mr. Torrance, that there isn’t anybody round here who isn’t.”
“And you’d be right there, inspector,” said Walter. “We all seem to be at it, one way or another. Except Ewan, of course – if you’re talking about the actual hard graft, he never needs to get his hands dirty, but that’s because he’s rolling in it. But then, you’ll have guessed that already, if you’ve seen the ‘Medea’. I’d not even like to think how much that cost him. It’s like the people who have these villas built. Have you seen some of them?”
“The people or the villas?”
“Both.”
“We’ve only seen Mr. Vere’s villa close to, but thinking about it, I dare say Mr. Connor built his own place. Very smart indeed, sir, as you say. And Liza Lott has given a pretty good impression of her… international clientele, shall we say.”
“Well, there you are then. You know all about it. Money no object, no expense spared. You’d be amazed at the number of people there are like Percy Vere. Sold up in the U.K., or wherever it is they’ve come from, moved out here with more money than they know what to do with, and desperately looking for ways to spend it. So what do they do?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, Mr. Torrance.”
“Aye, well, you wouldn’t be much of a detective if this came as a surprise to you – they build a big house. Liza fixes everything for them, and there’s a girl who knows her way around the system. It’s amazing what permits she manages to get hold of. It’s all in the contacts, you see – she does have a lot of friends where it counts, and the customers se
em happy enough to pay to get what they want.”
Constable studied Walter’s face, searching for indications of an underlying meaning in his expression. “Are you trying to tell us, Mr. Torrance, that there are implications of dealings which aren’t one hundred percent by the book?”
“Oh come off it, inspector,” laughed Walter. “You’re no fool. You know as well as I do that sometimes, things get a little shove along the way. Now I’m not saying you, but I bet you know someone in your line of work who’s slipped someone the odd bottle of scotch in recognition of a bit of help. And surely you don’t need me to tell you that the building business is full of people on the fiddle.”
“Including yourself, Mr. Torrance?”
“Och, no!” grinned Walter. “I’m as honest as the day is long, me. You’ll not find that there’s much of a demand for illicit plumbing. Worse luck me, you might say, but I get to sleep at nights with a clear conscience, which suits me.”
“So then, sir,” joined in Copper, “who doesn’t have a clear conscience?”
“I’m not going to name any names, sergeant.” Walter suddenly grew serious again. “I don’t want anything nasty happening to me like poor old Juan.”
“So the sort of thing we would be talking about, sir, would be… ?” Copper attempted to tease out further information from the witness.
“All right, sergeant. Well, put yourself in the position of one of these clients of Liza and X-Pat’s. And then ask yourself, just as a for-instance – could you tell the difference between ordinary hardwood and special mahogany imported from Malaysia at about six times the price?”
Copper shook his head. “No, don’t reckon I could, sir.”
Walter smacked his knee in emphasis. “Exactly – and neither could I. We’re not experts, you see. Or, say you paid to have something built in solid marble? I don’t know, something around your pool, or something in the bathroom. How would you know if whatever-it-was was just built out of blocks and then just clad in marble, all while you were away in the U.K. or wherever?”