Orozco picked up a plant, used the mattock to fold open the soil, dropped the plant into the hole and butted the earth with the heel of his boot. ‘Dung’s dung.’
‘D’you feel like taking a breather?’
Orozco said nothing, but set out the remaining plants. Then he straightened up, pressed his fists into the small of his back, and stretched. The sunlight picked out his face to show it as rough, stubborn, and proud.
Alvarez offered a pack of cigarettes. ‘Is there somewhere we can go and sit down?’
‘Feeling tired, are you?’
‘And old.’
Orozco looked briefly at him, then said: ‘Come on.’
Alvarez followed along a gravel path which led past orange trees whose fruit was showing the first flush of gold to the drive. They turned into the courtyard and crossed this to one of the downstairs rooms below the servants’ quarters on the north side. Clearly, the room was the garden store: there were tools on the walls and on shelves, heavy-duty grass-cutter, pots, wide gauge hose-pipe, and a workbench littered with hand tools, broken pots, and empty seed packets. Orozco sat down on one of the two old wooden chairs.
‘I hear you and Señor Freeman didn’t always get on too well together?’ said Alvarez, as he sat.
Orozco reached over to the workbench and picked up a penknife and a square of wood which had been roughly shaped yet whose final form was not yet readily identifiable. He squinted at the wood and then carefully began to slice off thin slithers of wood from one side.
‘Seems like there were often rows?’
He held the wood out at arm’s length and studied it.
‘What did you mostly row about?’
‘The garden.’ He resumed working on the wood.
‘In what way?’
‘In all ways.’
‘Then what exactly was the trouble last Thursday afternoon?’
Orozco said uninterestedly: ‘He was on again about what happened to all the seeds he gave me.’
‘What did happen to them?’
‘They didn’t grow.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I never planted ‘em.’ He looked up and spoke contemptuously. ‘Think I’m fool enough to waste me time with foreign seeds?’
‘Had he discovered you hadn’t planted ‘em?’
‘Him? He’d never discover anything unless it wore a skirt. He just got to shouting because I said them seeds wasn’t no good.’ He spoke with sly satisfaction.
‘Why did he get quite so upset?’
‘Reckoned nothing shouldn’t ever go wrong for the likes of him.’
‘Wasn’t there anything else upsetting him?’
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t seem much to row about.’
‘Tell him that, not me.’
‘I take your point.’ Alvarez stared at the grass-cutter. After a while he stood up and crossed over to study it. ‘Looks man enough for near any job.’ He rolled the machine back along the floor to gauge its weight. ‘I hear you fought for the other side. Why? This island was for the Nationalists.’
‘I was young and stupid enough to think that ideas mattered.’
‘D’you see much fighting?’ Alvarez left the machine and returned to his chair.
‘A bellyful.’
‘How d’you make out? Did you get wounded at all?’
‘Twice.’
‘D’you feel afterwards it was worth it?’ he asked with companionable curiosity.
Orozco sliced off a couple of chips of wood, then suddenly spoke more freely. ‘A young bloke gets ideas and fights for ‘em because there’s no one to tell him different or he won’t listen if there is. And when the bullets and shells are thicker’n fleas on a hedgehog and his belly’s turned to water, he gets to discover that all his ideas along with all the ideas of everyone else what’s fighting are a load of balls. The only things what really matter in life are a hole to shelter in, water to drink, grub to eat, and friends.’
‘So what did you do when it was all over?’
‘In the end, I got back to this island.’
Alvarez wondered what odyssey of hardships was concealed behind those laconic words. ‘Did Senor Freeman know about all this? Did he go for you, jeering at you for being a commie?’
‘You think a great hidalgo like him worries about what an ignorant peon like me has ever done or been?’
‘It’s odd who can worry about such things.’
‘Only people who never actually held a gun and shot or got shot at.’
‘What about Luis?’
‘He fought.’
‘On which side?’
‘He was bright. He chose the winning side.’
‘The only recipe for success.’ Alvarez folded his arms across his chest and stared down at the floor. After a while, he said: ‘I don’t know how we got to talking about the war. I’m supposed to be finding out how the señor came to eat a Uargsomi.’
Orozco changed his grip on the knife and, applying pressure with his thumb, very carefully shaved off a slither of wood.
‘You must have thought about things. How d’you reckon it happened?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Senora Blanco says there was no Uargsomi among the esclatasangs you gave her.’
‘Of course there bloody wasn’t.’
‘Yet the señor died from eating one. It had to come from somewhere.’
‘Maybe he picked some more for himself and made a mistake.’
‘Why should he have picked any more?’
‘Who knows what about an English señor?’
‘Where did you go picking esclatasangs?’
‘There’s some rough land beyond the urbanizacion. They grow there. Else I look up the Laraix valley.’
‘And there are llargsomis as well?’
‘Have you ever picked esclatasangs when there weren’t?’
‘Never. Did you see any when you picked the last lot?’
‘Yeah. And I kicked ‘em to bits.’
CHAPTER XI
‘Well?’ demanded Superior Chief Salas over the telephone.
‘Senor,’ answered Alvarez, ‘since you rang this morning I have been making very extensive enquiries . . .’
‘With what results? Was it murder or was it an accident through negligence?’
‘Señor, at the moment it is impossible to be certain . . .’
‘It is your job to be certain. Have you been in touch with England to see if they can help?’
‘Not yet, because . . .’
‘Perhaps because it has not occurred to you that a man’s background might be of importance? Inspector, I hope you don’t make quite so many mistakes in this case as you did in a previous one when for a long while you totally misidentified the man who had died.’
‘That was rather a complicated case. . .’
‘I imagine that you must find every case highly complicated.’ He rang off.
On Tuesday morning, Alvarez set the alarm for six o’clock and when it sounded he forced himself to get out of bed straight away. He dressed and went down to the kitchen where he warmed up some soup. He was about to drink this when Dolores, wearing a flowered dressing-gown over her nightdress, entered.
‘What in the world are you doing up at this time, Enrique? Is something wrong?’
‘It’s just that I’m going to pick some esclatasangs and if I don’t start as soon as it’s light enough someone else will strip the land clear.’
She frowned. ‘You’re getting up early just to pick esclatasangs?’ She was a strikingly handsome woman, with an oval face and jet black hair.
‘Why not, when we all like them?’ He switched off the gas and poured the soup into a bowl.
‘Because usually not even an earthquake will get you out of bed until the last possible moment.’ She shook her head, asked him if he’d like some chorizo fried, and then brought out from the larder a chorizo from which she cut several slices. She fried three in oil and he ate them with pan Mallor
quin.
After breakfast he went out to his car, which proved to be in one of its more temperamental moods and only-started at the seventh attempt, and drove out of Llueso on the bridge over the torrente, only a trickle since there had not yet been heavy rains up in the mountains, crossed the Laraix road, and continued along the lane which wound through the dark brown, fertile soil of the Huerta until he reached a dirt track leading off to the right, along which he parked.
The ground here was sloped - the mountain immediately to his left began to rise steeply only half a kilometre from where he was - and he was able to look out over the land below him and pick out the roof of Ca’n Ritat. From there to where he stood would take an active man no more than five minutes, he judged.
He began his search. It was a very rocky area, with boulders up to two metres high, and among the typical maquis scrub grew pine, evergreen oak, and an occasional algarroba tree. He used a stick to scratch through the rotting leaves on the ground, especially close to bushes, and in half an hour he had found over three-quarters of a kilo of esclatasangs, one or two of them as big as six centimetres in diameter. He had also found two Uargsomis. He studied the two varieties of fungi, perhaps for the first time truly mystified by the fact that one was delicious to eat and the other deadly. Why? The esclatasang, resembling a chanterelle, was fawny-brown on top, to a certain degree tulip-shaped, with a rippled surface: underneath it was grey-brown with complicated gills: draw a thumb across it and a red liquid oozed out: leave the picked fungus for a time and green veining would appear. The llargsomi at a cursory glance hardly differed in appearance: the colouring and the shape seemed the same. But a closer, more searching inspection showed that the tulip shape was more pronounced and the surface was more unevenly rippled, the gills were more grey than brown, and when the surface was disturbed the liquid exuded was colourless.
He drove back to the house and handed the esclatasangs to Dolores. He watched her take them out of the plastic bag and visually check each one, even though she must have had every confidence in his ability to distinguish what was safe from what was deadly. No Mallorquin, certainly no adult Mallorquin, could or would ever accidentally cook a poisonous Uargsomi.
Caroline turned off the front road on to the western arm of the harbour and drove past the landing-stage for the Parelona ferries and the restaurant to the boatyard. She parked by the main gates, which were roughly opposite the point at which the harbour arm began to curve, and climbed out, becoming aware of the continuous slap-slap of halyards against masts, a sound peculiar to any mooring.
She went through into the yard and saw Anson on the hard, painting anti-fouling paint on to the keel of a yacht in a cradle. She threaded her way past piles of chocks, old oil drums, and tackle. He climbed down off the wooden box on which he’d been standing. ‘What’s brought you here at this time of day, Carrie? Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘Nothing. Just a piece of news for you.’ She managed to sound casual.
He relaxed and then, perversely, perhaps because he had instinctively braced himself for bad news, said rather shortly: ‘Couldn’t it have waited? I’ve got to get this job finished today.’
‘Stop behaving like a grumpy bear and take enough time off to come and have a coffee with me. I’ll bet you haven’t had a break all day?’
He hesitated a moment, then jumped down. ‘OK. But I can’t be long.’
She laughed. ‘No one’s ever going to accuse you of being obsequiously polite.’
In the past, he had found the world too hard a place for him ever to be bothered with politenesses, but when he was with her he often cursed himself for his seeming crudity which came from embarrassment as much as ignorance or lack of experience.
They left the boatyard and walked past the yachts, each one of which he studied with a professionally critical eye, to the road and then down to the bar overlooking the square. It was almost empty and the barman greeted them warmly and asked Caroline, in Spanish, how she was. Anson said she was fine and ordered two coffees, then led her over to one of the tables. He was suspicious of any man who smiled at her.
He brought out a pack of Ducados cigarettes and offered one. ‘What’s the news that simply couldn’t wait?’
She stared at his strong face, which could look almost harsh at times, and she wondered how she was going to persuade him to forgo his pride. ‘Teddy, before I tell you, will you promise me something?’
‘What?’
‘First promise.’
‘All right. Now what have I promised?’
‘That you won’t get angry with me.’
He smiled. ‘OK. But I can belt you one without getting angry.’
She laughed, because despite his hard, quick temper it was impossible to imagine that he would ever hit her. ‘I just couldn’t stop thinking how awful it was that you’d been offered the chance of a lifetime and yet you couldn’t grab it with both hands on your own and wouldn’t accept any help.’
‘I’ve tried to explain why . . .’
‘Don’t worry, I got the message,’ she said, with light mockery. ‘You are a man of inflexible principles and concrete will-power . . . With emphasis on the concrete.’
‘What’s made you so chirpy?’
‘Teddy . . . I think I’ve done it!’
‘Done what, for Pete’s sake?’
‘Persuaded Mabel to lend you the money so that you can become a partner. Think what it means! That new sign will go up outside the yard. Mena and Anson. And in a couple of years’ time you’ll be building the future winner of the America’s Cup.’
He said nothing.
‘I’m so excited I feel as if I’d just won the lottery.’
‘I thought she reckoned I was a beach-bum who needs to be packed off to darkest Scotland to work in the salt mines?’
The barman brought the coffees to their table.
‘I suppose it’s a horrible thing to say, Teddy, but poor Geoffrey’s death does seem to have changed things for the better. I’ve done what I could for Mabel, trying to cheer her up, and this morning she suddenly started saying how wonderful I’d been to her and how I was the only person on the island who cared anything for her . . . I tried to tell her how wrong she was. Everyone’s sorry for her.’
‘How do you manage to see through such thick rose-tinted spectacles? Carrie, the only thing that really upsets most people out here is when the price of gin or brandy goes up.’
She ignored his cynical comment. ‘And then she told me that because I’d been so kind she wanted to do something for me and what could she do? I’m afraid I rather seized the opportunity and went on again about you and the wonderful chance you’d been offered, but couldn’t take. She thought for a bit, with that odd look of hers, and then said that if I liked you enough to go on trying to help you, you must be a different kind of a person from what she had always thought and so if that’s what I really wanted she’d like to help you if she could. Teddy, if you’ll talk things over with her, I think you’ll find she’s ready to lend you most or all of the money you need to buy the partnership.’
‘Why should she do that for someone she so dislikes?’
‘Heavens above, I’ve just explained!’
‘People don’t change their character that far. Haven’t you ever been told about the leopards?’
‘Teddy . . . You’re looking at things from all the wrong angles. What she wants to do is something that’ll give me pleasure.’
‘It sounds screwy.’
Her excitement had been so great that now her disappointment was equally intense. ‘Oh, Teddy. I thought it would be so wonderful for you.’
‘You’ve got to stop being naive about people. The old girl’s had a nasty shock because she was stupid enough to go for Geoffrey. You’ve given her a shoulder to cry on and so she’s temporarily filled with Christian thoughts, but in a couple of days she’ll have recovered and reverted to her normal, bitchy self.’
‘That’s being beastly.’
�
�Carrie, the world isn’t made of sugar and spice. It’s made of rats and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.’
‘Only when people think it is . . . Why assume that Mabel didn’t really mean what she said? Why be so certain she’ll go back on her word? Suppose she’s like I know she is and not like you think she is? Then she really does mean everything. Teddy, you’ve got to come and see her and talk over your plans.’
‘And bow down in front of her and knock my forehead on the floor?’
‘Don’t be such a fool,’ she said sharply. ‘Start swallowing this stupid pride of yours which for some ridiculous reason makes you turn on anyone who tries to help you. Why can’t you find a bit of humility and learn to accept help when it’s offered?’
It was not a question he had ever asked himself.
Alvarez sat at his desk and wondered how Dolores would cook the esclatasangs. In oil, with garlic and parsley, so that they melted in one’s mouth? The telephone rang.
‘There’s a Telex message just in from England, Inspector. I’ll read it out. . . “Reference Geoffrey Freeman, previous address in UK given as twenty-one, The Rise, Larkton, passport number five four three nine six nine. Regret address non-existent, passport stolen, name of Geoffrey Freeman unknown” . . . Well, that’s it, Inspector.’
‘Thanks a million.’
‘Always ready to help a colleague.’
CHAPTER XII
‘Alvarez,’ said Superior Chief Salas over the telephone, ‘did you not assure me that this case was perfectly straightforward and the identity of the dead man was beyond question?’
‘I don’t think I ever put it quite in those terms, Senor . . .’
‘Not so many months ago you reported dead a man who was alive. Now you report dead a man who never existed. What will it be next time?’
‘Señor, it was your suggestion I should ask England for information. It is they, not me, who now say the Englishman never existed.’
‘A ridiculous argument. I’ve no doubt that what’s actually happened is that you’ve sent the wrong information.’
Troubled Deaths Page 8