[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan

by Christopher Lowery

  Sadly, her aspirations of happily married life with lots of kids were short-lived. She lost the baby, a girl, at six months, after falling off her bicycle in the high street. What was worse, she couldn’t have another child. They talked about adoption for a while and even visited an orphanage, but it was a complicated and somehow very invasive procedure. She also realised that Ron wasn’t really cut out for fatherhood, he could be moody and sometimes behaved like a child himself, rather than like a father. So she bought a dog.

  And that was Jenny’s life at twenty-six years of age; a husband called Ron, a garage business, a West Highland terrier named Cooper, a semi-detached house in Ipswich and golf lessons twice a week, weather permitting.

  It was after 11:00 pm when she pushed her baggage trolley out to find Juan carrying a card with the name Bishop scrawled on it. A nondescript, balding man in a black tee shirt, she had met him only once, at Ellen’s funeral, so without the sign she would have missed him amongst the dozens of families, friends, rental car touts and tourists crowding around the arrival hall. She used up most of her Spanish vocabulary saying Buenas Noches and shook hands with him.

  It was pouring with rain outside. Jenny couldn’t believe it, she had never seen it rain in the Costa del Sol. Juan held an umbrella over her as they hurried across the wet pavement.

  Juan was a shy, quiet man, happier working out of sight in the garden than trying to have a conversation. But tonight he was agitated, extremely jumpy. As they reached the ticket machine in the car park he started telling her something in rapid, voluble, Andalucian Spanish. He kept repeating “Robo, robo,” but she couldn’t get the gist of it at all. Finally, he shrugged and put some coins into the machine. He said something about Leticia and then fell silent.

  He stowed her bags in the boot of a metallic grey Bentley Continental and they drove to Marbella in silence, apart from the swish of the windscreen wipers. They went on the old coast road, which even at that hour was busier than she remembered. Jenny suspected that Juan didn’t like using the toll road where you had to pay a few Euros. The oncoming headlights flashed on the wet windscreen. It’s just like being in Ipswich, she thought. Juan put the radio on and she watched the coast slip by in darkness on her left.

  Several years ago, Charlie had sold the hacienda and built an enormous new house situated on a hill overlooking Las Manzanás Golf Course, near Marbella. He and Ellen had moved in the year before her death, and she hadn’t finished her final decorating touches when she died. The house, or mansion, more like, was up at the top of the exclusive Las Manzanás estate. Jenny didn’t like ostentation and York House was the epitome of it.

  The whole urbanisation was surrounded by a massive wall made of white Mijas stone, kilometres long, with a guard in a cabin down at the entrance. He was still on duty and waved as they started up the main street to Calle Venetia. Juan drove around the three metre high wall that surrounded Charlie’s property and stopped at a pair of huge iron gates with CCTV cameras stuck on top of the gateposts. He fumbled with the remote control and the gates slid back.

  York House looked as if it was lit up for Christmas. Every light in the house and gardens seemed to be on. There was enough light to illuminate a small town. As they pulled up in front of the four door garage, she saw Leticia come running down the staircase to meet her. The rain had stopped.

  ELEVEN

  Wednesday, April 16th, 2008

  Marbella, Spain

  It was a warm bright morning and the sunshine slanting in between the blinds caused Jenny to leap out of bed like a child. There was some humidity after the rain and just getting dressed after her shower caused her to perspire. She put on shorts and a tee shirt and decided to start the day with a swim from now on. Then she remembered Charlie’s last swim.

  She came down to the terrace just after eight and, breathing in the fragrance from the masses of flowers and shrubs that Juan tended with obsessive devotion, she marvelled at the vista before her. Across the swimming pool was the golf course, surprisingly lush and green despite the well advertised water shortage in southern Spain. Groups of olive trees and umbrella pines lined the fairways and she could make out the light blue reflection of the early morning sky glittering in a long, narrow lake which almost surrounded the nearest green. The lake seemed to be attracting regular visits from the golfers who could already be seen, either pulling golf trolleys or riding in electric buggies.

  A couple of kilometres further down the valley was the azure line of the Mediterranean. The divide between the sea and the sky was still clear in the morning light, but she knew that as it got warmer that line would gradually disappear. Despite peering closely to the South she couldn’t make out the far coastline of Morocco, but turning towards the west she was rewarded by a vague outline, bulging out into the sea. Gibraltar was almost sixty kilometres away, but it was unmistakably visible at that time in the morning.

  She went in through the French windows to the kitchen. “Good morning, Leticia. Isn’t it a beautiful day, as usual?”

  The housekeeper was already fussing about with fruit and orange juice and toast. “Jenny, how are you?” She hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’m so pleased that you came here. Have you slept well? It was very late when you arrived.”

  She had welcomed her last night and offered to make her supper, in her melodic, Spanish-accented English. Too tired to eat, Jenny had sent her off to her family, dumped the bags in the hall and climbed into the bed that was made up in one of the five bedrooms on the second floor of the house. For the first time since Ron’s death she hadn’t taken a sedative and incredibly, she had slept like a baby and woke up feeling alive and well.

  She sat on the kitchen bench and admiringly watched the young woman as she prepared breakfast. If she had been born into a family in Europe, Leticia da Costa could have been a supermodel. She had that extraordinary combination of fine bone structure and wide, slanted, brown eyes that always looked stunning, surrounded by curly, rich brown hair cascading down to her shoulders. At thirty-four, just two years younger than Jenny, she was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen.

  Jenny had only met her three times and had never met her parents, so she knew nothing of her family’s background. Ron had told her only that they were originally from Angola and had come from Lisbon to the Costa del Sol twelve years ago. They lived in a flat in the old working area of Marbella, about fifteen minutes drive away, and Leticia had worked for Charlie since he and Ellen had moved into the new house.

  Now, Leticia was fidgeting in the kitchen, moving things unnecessarily from place to place and wiping imaginary stains away. Jenny thought of her own experiences over the last several months, realising that the housekeeper must still be affected by the accident.

  She said, “Come and sit on the terrace for a moment, it’s a change for me to be able go out without a coat and umbrella.” They went out and sat on a large rattan settee. It was going to be a hot day, the sun’s rays were already warming Jenny’s body through her blouse.

  Leticia sat looking down at the pool on the level below the terrace, without speaking.

  “It must have been difficult for you since the accident. These things are never very easy. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  The young woman remained silent for a moment, running her hand nervously through her hair. Then she turned. “Can I tell you, Jenny? I think it’s better for me if I can tell you.”

  The words poured out of her as she described every event since the day Juan had discovered Charlie in the pool and the disruption it had caused to the tranquil life in York House. For the last couple of days the property had been invaded by security guards, policemen, forensic experts, lawyers and friends, or at least acquaintances, who had come to pay their respects or just to satisfy their morbid curiosity. “Everybody has come to the house since the accident,” she said. “Just like going to the market place.”

  She took Jenny down to the swimming pool. It was still cordoned off with red an
d white plastic tape until the enquiry was ended. Pointing to the spot where she had seen her employer’s body lying by the pool, she said, “Juan told me that Charlie was a very heavy body to take from the piscina. His head was not cut. Una fractura, the doctor said.” She indicated her own temple, “Ahí dentro, en la cabeza, in Charlie’s head. Then he drowned in the water.” She pulled out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes and sighed, “The police say it might be robbers, but I don’t believe it. I can see nothing missing in the house.”

  Jenny realised what Juan had been trying to tell her, robo, robbery, of course. But a robbery by burglars who stole nothing from an unoccupied house?

  They walked around the pool talking until Leticia had calmed herself down then went back up to the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, Jenny thought the kitchen was way over the top. The marble floor must have measured ten metres by five, lined with every conceivable machine. A huge island of ceramic hot plates and other equipment stood in the middle and a series of cupboards lined the walls. The cupboards along the windowed walls were half height, with a counter along the top, and there was a long granite table with a row of chairs on each side and a bench seat built against the wall around the end. At the back of the room there was a large, cool pantry, where the household supplies and kitchen utensils were stocked on wide, deep shelves.

  They took the breakfast things out to the terrace and sat together in silence for a while. Jenny pictured Leticia returning to the house to find her employer lying dead by the pool. She shivered, unwelcome memories of Ron’s death flooding back into her mind. The housekeeper sat with a sad expression in her eyes and said nothing.

  As she drank her coffee and spread her toast with fresh bitter marmalade, home-made from the Seville oranges in the orchard, Jenny felt a gentle stroking on her bare ankles. She looked down into a pair of huge green eyes. A magnificent black cat was looking up at her, purring and rubbing itself against her legs. She stroked the lovely creature on the top of its head and under the chin. The cat turned and lay on its back, purring happily, inviting her to rub its stomach. Its long, thick fur was so black that the reflection from its coat made it appear to be midnight blue. A small splash of white on the tip of its tail was the only identifying mark.

  “Look what I’ve found, a new Spanish boy friend. Black cats are lucky, you know.”

  Leticia stooped to stroke the cat. “His name is Fuente. You know what it means?”

  Jenny’s Spanish vocabulary was minimal. She shook her head.

  “It means fountain, Charlie told me the right word.”

  “He’s really handsome, such a gorgeous thick coat.” The cat returned to stroking itself against Jenny’s legs. “I think he likes me. I must smell like fish or something”

  “You’re very lucky if Fuente likes you, he is a very fussy cat. I can tell you he doesn’t like men. He was not friends with Charlie, he scratched him and he doesn’t like Juan.”

  She went into the kitchen to put some cat food into a plastic dish, added some sort of fish supplement and placed it on the tiled surface beside them. The cat crouched down and ate hungrily, looking up at them after every few mouthfuls and licking its lips.

  “So why on earth did he get him?”

  “He never got him really. The cat came to the garden two years ago, just a baby, very wild. I think his mother is dead. He was trying to catch fishes in the lake and he fell in the water, beside the fountain.” She giggled, a delightful sound. “So, Charlie called him Fuente.”

  “You mean he adopted you. He sneaked his way into your life, like animals always do.”

  “It’s like that, yes. He was so wet and hungry, I gave him some food and now he comes a few times in the week, when he wants. It’s a very independent cat.”

  Fuente finished his breakfast. He lay there for a moment, wiping his mouth on the back of his paws then he stretched luxuriously, and wandered off into the garden.

  “See what I mean? He comes and goes when he likes.”

  They watched the animal depart and then the housekeeper lapsed into silence once more. Jenny tried again to shake her out of her melancholy mood. “That’s enough mooching around,” she said, “I want you to cheer up and tell me all about your family.”

  At this, Leticia started to talk in an animated manner about her father, José, who was about to retire from his job at the supermarket and Encarni, her mother, who still made almost all her own clothes. Jenny was impressed by her greatly improved English. She rarely switched into Spanish or Portuguese, as she had done when they had last met.

  She turned to pour another cup of coffee and suddenly caught a Spanish word which she knew. “Mi hijo,” Leticia had said, “My son.”

  Jenny spun around and looked into her dark brown, liquid eyes. “You have a son?”

  “Si, si, Jenny. I have a son, his name is Emilio Salvador.”

  “But, but, then you have. I mean, you are…”

  Leticia interrupted her in turn. “Casada, married?”

  Jenny nodded, looking at the young woman, with a puzzled expression.

  She said shyly. “No, I am not a married woman. I am just a single mother without any husband or lover.” While Jenny pondered this reply, she went to her bag on the counter in the kitchen and pulled out a small photo wallet.

  “See how handsome he is already.” A happy, smiling face looked out at her from the photograph. Emilio’s curly black hair was just like his mother’s, but his skin was a lighter, olive colour, enhanced by sparkling hazel brown eyes.

  Looking at the photos of the little boy, Jenny felt a pang of envy. It seemed that neither of them any longer had a man in their life, but Leticia was left with a lovely child and she was left with nothing. It doesn’t seem fair, she thought. Suppressing the feeling, she said, “He’s gorgeous, Leticia. Congratulations! How old is he?”

  “Just two years old now.”

  “A lovely son,” she said. “You are very blessed, Leticia.”

  “Thank you, Jenny. I am blessed, you are right, only...” She didn’t finish the phrase, but wiped her eyes again with her handkerchief and replaced the photos in her handbag. Jenny was puzzled, but said nothing further. She knew when it was best to leave things alone.

  It was after nine when they carried the dishes into the kitchen and Jenny went to get the file given to her by the policewoman all that time ago in the cold, miserable UK. She went through the names and details to brush up her memory for the phone call. Now for the difficult bit. She dialled the lawyer’s number.

  Juan opened up the garage and drove out a silver Mercedes 500SL which was parked alongside the Bentley and a blue Mini Cooper. There was also a quad bike and a golf buggy in the cavernous space.

  Leticia was to drive her to the lawyer’s office, since he had suggested that they come together. She appreciated the lawyer’s thoughtfulness, not knowing the way and glad of the company. Uneasy and apprehensive of what awaited her in the next couple of hours.

  “What about Emilio?” She asked.

  “There is no problem, I called my mother, she likes to have her grandson with her. They will go for a walk at the beach today. Emilio, he loves to run on the sand.”

  So that was settled. Jenny liked the way that everything in Spain was settled so easily.

  Leticia drove her Suzuki Vitara into the courtyard then got into the Mercedes. The two seater sparkled as if it had just come from the showroom and when she pressed a button, the roof folded away into the boot, making the car look even more sleek and flashy.

  “Fresh air and sunshine, better than England?” Leticia said, a picture of health and beauty posing in the open top car. Jenny looked at her and laughed out loud, intoxicated by the sunlight and warmth.

  God, that feels so good, she thought. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed like that. Taking the file and her handbag, she climbed into the passenger seat and they drove out the gates and down to the motorway.

  TWELVE

  Wednesday, April 16th, 2008<
br />
  Malaga, Spain

  José Luis Garcia Ramirez must have been about sixty-five years old. A large, portly man in a smart, striped navy suit and maroon tie, Jenny had met him only once, fleetingly, at Ellen’s funeral. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He had a full head of hair, which had now turned a pure white. He wore it slightly longer than before, which gave him a rather raffish air. He came to the reception area at precisely ten thirty and welcomed them in an old fashioned manner, calling Jenny “Dear Madame Bishop”. Kissing her hand and sympathising with her over her recent losses. Apart from a slight limp, José Luis looked as well as he had done previously. He kissed Leticia on both cheeks and asked after her parents and her son in rapid Andalusian Spanish that sounded so melodic to Jenny’s ears.

  They were ushered into a comfortable conference room with impressive views over the Parque de la Constitución to the sea and José Luis took a seat opposite them across the conference table. Jenny hadn’t had much to do with lawyers, but when he put on his spectacles and placed a fat dossier on the table, marked “C. W. Bishop,” he certainly looked like one to her. The only thing that spoiled the appearance was that he constantly wore a large smile on his face, even when delivering complicated or even disagreeable information.

  This time it was he who said, “Please call me José Luis. It’s so much simpler than Spanish double barrelled names without end.” So they continued the meeting all on first name terms.

  She felt a stab of apprehension when he pulled the big file towards him and opened it up. It seemed that she had spent the last four months doing nothing but looking at dossiers that got bigger and bigger without any end in sight. The lawyer extracted a few documents, then pushed the file to one side and smiled across the table at her. She immediately felt better.

  “Now then,” he said, “do you know much about your father-in-law’s life or affairs?”

  Jenny dredged her memory and told the lawyer the little she had learned from Ron about Charlie Bishop’s life, in dribs and drabs, over the years. She knew he had lived in Portugal at the time of the revolution and had been involved in finance and banking, especially between Portugal and Africa.