‘How many Anglo-Spanish old-age pensioner detective agencies are there on the Costa Blanca?’ his new deputy asked.
‘Given that combination – Anglo-Spanish, old-age pensioner, and detective agency – how many do you think there are likely to be?’ Cheavers asked.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
And to think that one day, this idiot – Gerwain Fartington Bumhole, or whatever his bloody name was – would probably be one of Her Majesty’s ambassadors, Cheavers thought with a sigh.
‘There’s only one,’ he said.
‘Then it’s bound to be the best,’ said his assistant, looking puzzled. ‘And the worst, too.’
‘Do you know, I’d never thought of it like that,’ Cheavers said. ‘What a sharp, analytical brain you do have, my boy.’
‘Thank you,’ his assistant said. ‘And what was it, exactly, that this Charlie Woodend wanted?’
‘Oh, he was just warning me that he could have a spot of trouble, and might need my help to sort it out,’ Cheavers said vaguely.
‘Trouble?’ his deputy repeated. ‘Difficulties with his residence permit? Something like that?’
‘Yes, something like that,’ Cheavers agreed.
FIFTEEN
Kate Meadows was in a bad mood, and it showed in the way she was driving, Jack Crane thought, as, for the third time since they’d set out, the sergeant only avoided a collision by wrenching violently on the steering wheel.
‘Steady on, Sarge,’ he said.
‘Don’t be such a baby, Jack,’ Meadows replied, accelerating her way out of yet another potential accident.
‘What’s your problem?’ Crane asked.
‘My problem is that, as far as this case goes, good old Colin Beresford’s been thrown a real chunk of meat to get his teeth into, and all we’ve been slipped is a nut cutlet.’
‘You think what we’re doing is a waste of time?’
‘I know it’s a waste of time.’
‘The boss has to pursue this line of inquiry, if only to cover her back in case anything goes wrong,’ Crane pointed out. ‘And surely, as part of her team, we should be happy to help her to do that?’
‘You’re probably right,’ Meadows agreed, slowing down to a speed which was only slightly dangerous. ‘In fact, you’re definitely right. We’ll go through the motions because that’s what we need to do for the boss – but there’s no reason why we can’t have a bit of fun along the way, is there?’
Have a bit of fun?
Oh dear, Crane thought. He didn’t like the sound of that at all.
Sunshine Holidays’ main depot was outside the Whitebridge boundary, just on the edge of the moors. It had been built in a slight dip, and was invisible from half a mile away, so it was only when Meadows’ car reached the crest of a small hill that it was suddenly – and dramatically – spread out in front of them.
‘Behold – the Martinez Empire!’ Crane said, with a flourish.
He had a point, thought Meadows. Covering an area larger than some of the nearby villages, it certainly did have an imperial feel about it.
The depot was surrounded by a large, electrified fence of reinforced wire netting, and the only entrance was the main double gate, next to the security officer’s booth.
Meadows pulled up by the booth, and showed her warrant card to the guard, who was an oldish man with a grumpy expression.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, when you’re all so obviously in mourning,’ she said.
‘In what?’ the guard asked.
‘In mourning!’ Meadows repeated. ‘For your boss!’
The guard sniffed. ‘I suppose there’s some that might mourn him,’ he conceded.
Once through the gate, they could see the complex in all its commercial grandeur. Two large garages – almost as big as aircraft hangars – ran along the east and south sides of it. Next to the south wall garage, there was a car wash, and just beyond the east wall garage were a series of petrol pumps. The north side of the compound was used as a workers’ car park, and along the west side there was a row of one-storey buildings where the offices, toilets and canteen were housed.
‘It’s a big business,’ Meadows said.
‘It’s forty per cent larger than its nearest northern rival,’ replied Crane, who had an annoying habit of always doing his homework.
For much of the first couple of hours of their journey northwards, they had the Mediterranean Sea to their right, and orange groves to their left, and given the almost agonizingly slow speed at which they were travelling, Woodend had ample opportunity to enjoy both these sights.
He should have insisted on hiring a bigger car – one that wasn’t going to be overtaken by almost every other vehicle on the road – he thought.
But he knew, deep down, that that would have been a mistake. Paco was now too old to legally drive a hire car, and while the two of them might be equal partners in the business, this was still his country, and it would have hurt his pride to have been chauffeured around it.
Where he should have put his foot down, Woodend decided, was over their route. It was clear from the map that the quickest way to get to Arco de Cañas would have been to go through Madrid.
Yet Paco had been adamant on this point, too.
‘You can’t just go by the maps,’ he’d said. ‘You must take the road conditions into account, too.’
‘But going to Madrid, and from there to Burgos, we’d be travelling on much wider roads than the ones on the route you propose,’ Woodend had argued.
‘It will be quicker to go north, and then cut across country,’ Paco had said firmly.
And Woodend had been forced to accept it, even though he was sure that if they’d gone by the other route, they would have been much closer to their destination by now.
The orange groves began to peter out, and soon they were passing stretches of water which could have been taken for inland lakes, had it not been for the fact they were rectangular, and clearly man-made.
‘Those are rice fields,’ Paco explained. ‘If you look at the military map of Spain in the early stages of the Civil War, you will see that most of the areas held by the Republic grew rice, and most of the areas held by the fascists grew wheat. And the reason for that is obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Not to me.’
‘The wheat areas were controlled by the big, powerful landlords, whose interest was in keeping the common man down, and who forced the workers to join the fascist army. The rice fields were controlled by cooperatives – people working together in the interests of the community.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Woodend said.
And normally, he would have found it interesting. But there was only one thing occupying his mind at that moment, and that was the investigation.
It would be, he was sure, his last big case – and he was eager to get stuck into it.
‘When do you think we will reach Arco de Cañas?’ he asked.
Paco shrugged – and even that slight gesture seemed to shake the little car.
‘Not for a while,’ he said.
‘Six o’clock?’ Woodend suggested. ‘Seven o’clock?’
‘Not quite so soon,’ Paco said evasively.
‘Eight o’clock? Nine o’clock?’ Woodend asked.
‘It will be some time tomorrow,’ Paco replied.
‘Until he was elected to parliament, Mr Robert was in charge of the day-to-day running of the business,’ said Lewis Mitchell, who, according to the brass plate on his desk, was the managing director of Sunshine Holidays. ‘And since I’ve only been in this job for a few months, I’m not sure how much of a help I can be to you.’
She’d got his number, Meadows thought. He was one of those bland men who never want to commit themselves to anything, and who believe that if they can just manage to go through life wearing their amiability on their sleeves, no one will ever have the heart to challenge them.
‘Well, I suppose you could start by telling us everything you know about the
stiff,’ she suggested.
‘The … er … stiff,’ Mitchell repeated, uneasily.
‘Javier Martinez,’ Meadows said. ‘He’s the stiff that I was referring to – unless you can think of any others.’
‘No … er … as far as I know, there’s only Mr Javier,’ Mitchell replied.
‘So what was he like?’
‘I didn’t really have much to do with him. He was mainly concerned with accounts and purchasing, and he did most of that from his home. He left the actual business of running the coaches to me. If anybody checked up on how things were going on this side of the operation, it was Mr Robert.’
‘But you must have seen Mr Javier from time to time, didn’t you?’ Meadows persisted.
‘Yes, I suppose I must.’
‘So what did you think of him?’
‘He … er … wasn’t an easy man to get to know.’
‘So you didn’t like him,’ Meadows said. ‘And is your view shared by the majority of the people who worked for him?’
‘I never said I didn’t like him,’ Mitchell replied, flustered, ‘and if you want to know what other people thought about him, I suggest you ask them.’
‘My, my, my, you really didn’t like him,’ Meadows said, grinning.
Despite his concern that Meadows might decide to have a little too much fun, Crane couldn’t help smiling inwardly. This direct approach, which he had privately named the ‘Jab the Subject with a Pointy Stick and See How Much He Squeals’, was not unique to Sergeant Kate Meadows – but she certainly used it more than most other officers did.
‘You really didn’t like him, but I don’t think you disliked him enough to kill him,’ Meadows continued.
‘I strongly resent that!’ Mitchell told her.
‘Oh,’ Meadows said, sounding surprised. ‘Have I got it wrong?’
‘You most certainly have.’
‘So you did dislike him enough to kill him?’
‘No, I … what I meant was …’
‘Look, Mr Mitchell, all we want is for you to be honest with us,’ Meadows said, switching to a soft, persuasive tone. ‘I can assure you that anything you tell us will never leave this office.’
Mitchell took out his handkerchief, and mopped his brow.
‘I didn’t warm to Mr Javier,’ he confessed. ‘But that’s mainly due to his reputation, because, as I said, I’ve had little personal experience.’
‘And what is his reputation?’ Meadows wondered.
‘They say he was a socialist when he lived in Spain – that he really cared for other people – but having this business seemed to have changed him. In his last few years running the company, he could have given General Franco lessons in authoritarianism.’
‘Really?’ Meadows said.
‘Really,’ Mitchell confirmed. ‘There were no second chances with him. If you were late for work a couple of times, you were gone, and never mind the fact that the reason you were late was because you’d been visiting your sick wife in hospital or attending your mother’s funeral. Of course, things changed when Mr Robert took over. Everybody liked him – and he seemed to like everybody.’
‘Which of the staff has worked for Sunshine Holidays the longest?’ Meadows asked.
‘That would be Fred Sidebotham,’ Mitchell said. ‘I believe he’s been here right from the time the company started.’
‘Then given Javier’s general attitude, he must have been an exemplary employee to have survived so long.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘You’re being overcautious again,’ Meadows said, with a gentle hint of warning in her voice.
‘By all accounts, Fred used to be a very good worker, but some years ago, he started to develop a weakness for the drink,’ Mitchell explained.
‘And Javier didn’t sack him?’
‘From what I’ve heard, he did want to get rid of him, but Mr Robert wouldn’t have it. They had a blazing row about it – the only one anyone can remember them having. Mr Javier said that Fred was useless, and had to go. And Mr Robert said that he’d served the company loyally for a good many years, and if that meant the company had to carry him until he retired, then that was exactly what the company would bloody well do.’
‘Where can I find this Fred Sidebotham?’ Meadows asked.
‘He’ll probably be behind the south side garage, sitting on an oil drum and reading the newspaper. Chances are, he’ll have a bottle of brown ale hidden behind the drum, but if I were you, I’d pretend not to notice it. I always do.’
Meadows stood up and held out her hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Mitchell, you’ve been very helpful,’ she said.
It was early afternoon when Paniatowski and Robert Martinez paid their call on Doña Rosa. Martinez had been expecting the interview to take place in the cosy atmosphere of the kitchen, but the old woman had other ideas, and ushered her guests into the formality of her small front parlour. Once inside, Doña Rosa gestured that they should sit on the sofa, while she herself took the straight-backed chair which she had placed facing it.
‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on a padded chair, Doña Rosa?’ Martinez asked solicitously.
‘My grandmother never sat on a padded chair in her life – and she lived to be ninety-four,’ the old woman replied.
‘Yes, of course,’ Martinez said, giving into the inevitable. ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you, Doña Rosa?’ he continued, in a soothing tone. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski would like you to tell her what you told me this morning, and she’s given me her word that you won’t get into any trouble for it.’
The old woman nodded.
‘I will trust you because Don Roberto trusts you,’ she told Paniatowski. ‘He is a good man.’
‘Yes, I know he is,’ Paniatowski agreed.
‘And the Hispanic Circle – which he, and he alone, created – is a wonderful thing,’ the old woman continued. ‘It has brought Spain back to those of us who missed it so much that it was breaking our hearts. It has given us a reason to carry on living.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, it is not quite the same now that he has deserted us.’ Then she smiled, to take the edge off her words. ‘But I cannot blame him for that – he is still a young man, and he has more important things to do with his time than spend it with people like us, who already have one foot in the grave.’
Robert Martinez laughed awkwardly, then said, ‘Tell Monika how you met Elena, Doña Rosa.’
‘I was walking past the bus station on last Tuesday evening when I saw a woman sitting on a bench,’ she said. ‘She was shivering with the cold, and she was singing to herself to keep her spirits up.’ She looked Paniatowski straight in the eye. ‘People like us know a lot about singing to keep our spirits up.’
‘I can understand that,’ Paniatowski said sympathetically. ‘Are you sure it was on Tuesday that you saw her?’
‘Yes,’ Doña Rosa said firmly. ‘Tuesday is my day for visiting Doña Antonia, a poor old soul who is bedridden. Once, when I had a bad cold, I did not visit her until Wednesday, and she was most upset.’ She shrugged. ‘The old have strange notions of how they want things to run – and I should know, because I am old myself – but it is not for anyone else to question those notions, and so I have visited her every Tuesday for nearly ten years.’
The porter at the railway station had said in his statement that Elena had arrived on Wednesday, Paniatowski thought, and Dr Shastri was almost certain that it had been on Wednesday evening when her body had been dumped into the canal. Yet here was Doña Rosa claiming that it was definitely Tuesday when she had seen the woman.
‘Please go on,’ she said.
‘To my eternal shame, I think I would have walked right past her if I hadn’t heard the words of the song she was singing,’ Doña Rosa said. ‘But I did hear the words. The song was “Ay Carmela”.’
‘What’s that?’ Paniatowski asked.
Instead of answering, the old woman began to sing in a voice that was thin and
cracked, and yet held great emotion.
‘El Ejército del Ebro
Rumba la rumba la rumba la
El Ejército del Ebro
Rumba la rumba la rumba la
una noche en el río paso
Ay Carmela! Ay Carmela!
Rumba la rumba la rumba la
Ay Carmela! Ay Carmela!
Rumba la rumba la rumba la’
‘It was one of the most popular songs of the Republican forces,’ Robert Martinez explained.
‘I asked her who she was, and said her name was Elena, and that she had arrived here that same day,’ the old woman continued. ‘I asked her what she was doing in Whitebridge, and she said she was on unfinished business.’
‘Did you ask her what that unfinished business was?’
‘No, if she had wanted to tell me, she would have done, but she did not, and so it was none of my concern.’ Doña Rosa paused. ‘Those last few years I spent in Spain, I learned it was safer for everyone not to ask questions – because the less you knew, the less you could betray.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I said I would walk with her to her lodgings, but she said that she did not have any, because she couldn’t afford them. I asked her where she would spend the night, and she told me she would sleep on the bench, as she had often had to do in the old days. That was when I invited her back to my home.’
If Elena really had arrived a day earlier than the porter had said – and it was looking increasingly likely that she had – then why hadn’t she gone straight to her husband’s house? Why had she, instead, decided to spend the night outdoors, in the freezing cold?
‘It was very kind of you to invite her into your home, Doña Rosa,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Kindness had nothing to do with it!’ the old woman said fiercely. ‘I was showing solidarity with a comrade!’
‘What happened when you came back here?’
‘I made her some food – though she seemed too nervous to eat much – and then we talked.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘About a world that that hijo de puta Francisco Franco has crushed beneath his heavy jackboot – a world of innocence, where the mountain air was always fresh, and people respected themselves and each other.’
Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire Page 16