by Roger Keevil
“Privilege of rank,” sighed Constable, settling back and smiling. “Your reward will come in heaven.”
“Can’t wait,” muttered Copper, as he climbed the spiral stairs in the direction of the kitchen.
*
“Who do you want to start with, guv?” asked Copper as, a restful couple of hours later, he ran his fingers through his tousled hair and then began to fasten his trainers.
Constable turned back from the window where he had been watching the sun which, already starting to decline towards evening, was losing its fierce whiteness and beginning to take on hints of yellow and orange. “It seems to me,” he replied, “that this whole business revolves around the building of these villas. And since Mr. X-Pat Connor is at the centre of that particular web, I think we ought to go and have a chat with him.”
“Plus,” pointed out Copper, “we know where he lives. We might stand a chance of actually finding him.”
“True,” said Constable, “although he wasn’t there this morning, was he? Let’s see if he’s re-appeared – we can surprise him.”
“It might not be easy tracking down the others, sir. Not on a Sunday. Fiesta, too.”
“We shall improvise, sergeant,” said Constable airily. “Enlist your famous power of positive thinking – that should do the trick.”
At X-Pat Connor’s house, the black car was in its previous position on the drive, and X-Pat himself answered the door in response to the detectives’ ring.
“Oh. It’s you again,” he said ungraciously. “Now what?”
“I do apologise for disturbing you again, Mr. Connor.” Andy Constable declined to be put off. “But I would appreciate it if you could spare us a couple of minutes.”
“I suppose you’re nowhere near sorting out this Juan thing?”
“I don’t know that I’d say that, Mr. Connor. I think we’re making some progress. But as I think I mentioned before, we have got some things to clear up, so we do need to have a further word with everybody who was present on Friday night.”
“You can’t talk to Phil – she isn’t here.”
“No, we are aware of that, sir. I think she’s working at the restaurant at the moment, isn’t she? I’m glad she’s feeling better than she was this morning.”
“What?”
“This morning, Mr. Connor. We did manage to have a few words with her when we called this morning.” X-Pat looked nonplussed. “When you were out, sir. We called in for a few moments with Captain Alfredo. Why, didn’t she mention it?”
“No, she did not,” said X-Pat shortly.
“Ah well, maybe she didn’t have the opportunity,” smiled Constable blandly. “So anyway, may we…?”
“I suppose you’d better come in.” X-Pat held back the door and indicated the direction of the living room. “Take a seat. Well, Mr. Constable,” he said, with an effort to resume his previous bonhomie, “what is it I can do for you?”
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Connor,” began the inspector. “When we first started to talk to people – oh, not just yourself, but pretty much everyone we spoke to – the universal impression we got was that Juan Manuel Laborero was liked by all, and to a great extend the lynch-pin of your operation. In fact, we learn, of several people’s operations. But, alas – as with so many first impressions, it turns out that this one wasn’t quite accurate. We’ve had conversations with various people since then, and it appears that there were those who had – or thought they had – reasons not to be quite so favourably disposed towards him.”
“Like who?”
“Well… like you, Mr. Connor. Just to take a random example.”
“Now who, I wonder, could have told you such a thing?”
“You won’t mind if I keep my cards close to my chest for the moment, I’m sure, Mr. Connor. But, going back to the first point, how am I to resolve this apparent contradiction between what we were first told about the dead man and the second version we heard?”
“I would imagine, inspector,” said X-Pat, “that it would be the same in any situation. Nobody likes to speak ill of the dead.”
Constable leaned forward to give his words more emphasis. “Yes, but the point is, Mr. Connor, that Mr. Laborero is dead.” A harder note crept into his tone. “And therefore, sir, I would be very grateful if we could avoid the pussy-footing about, and try to get to a few facts and some names. Any chance of a bit of co-operation on that front, do you suppose?” He held X-Pat’s eyes in a challenging gaze.
“Okay.” The builder sighed. “So, maybe you’re right. Juan might have had a lot of friends, and he was a very useful guy in lots of ways, but there were a few people who weren’t that fond of him. I know he’d certainly had one or two rows with Tim Berman, but I don’t know how serious they were.”
“Any idea as to the subject of these rows? Do you happen to know whether they were of a personal nature, or were they tied up with business in some way?”
“Couldn’t tell you, inspector. I don’t make a habit of going around listening at keyholes.”
“Always assuming that the doors with the keyholes in them have actually been fitted, sir,” commented Dave Copper. “Could there have been disagreements about the scheduling of the works? Was somebody messing somebody’s plans up?”
“Come on, sergeant,” replied X-Pat. “You’ve said it yourselves. You’re here investigating a murder. Who gets excited about a few bits of wood?”
“That, sir, would be related to how exciting the wood is, I expect. We’ve been told there are some quite exotic timbers involved. Maybe somebody might get rather cross, or worse, if they thought their time or their money was being wasted.”
“I suppose it all depends on the price, doesn’t it, sergeant.” X-Pat’s tone grew momentarily grim. “Everyone has their price, don’t they? I couldn’t answer that one – that’s one of the many things I delegate. If you want to know, you’d better ask Tim.”
“We shall, Mr. Connor,” said Constable, “just as soon as we can. You wouldn’t by any chance know where we might find him at the moment, would you? Of course, I dare say he’ll be here in his office downstairs on Tuesday, but I’m afraid our time is rather short, and we have a flight to catch on Tuesday, so if you can point us in the right direction… ”
“I’ll do better than that, inspector.” X-Pat leaned over the back of the sofa, picked up a telephone, and dialled. “Tim… yes. Look, I have two charming British policemen sitting here in my house asking all sorts of questions about Juan. And now they want to talk to you… yes, again. So if you’re not too tied up, how would you like to pop over to the house, and we can both get them off our backs… Fine. See you in ten.” X-Pat beamed as he replaced the phone. “Happy, gentlemen?”
“Very kind of you, sir,” responded Constable, echoing the smile. “But not quite finished, I’m afraid. You see, we skirted round the matter of personal motivation earlier on, but I’m afraid I can’t ignore it. Which brings me to the rather delicate subject of Miss Philippa Glass.” X-Pat grew very still. He looked at the inspector fixedly and waited. “How can I put this?” continued Constable. “It appears that there was a suspicion in your mind that the friendship between Miss Glass and Mr. Laborero might have gone further than simple friendship. And you were reported, on the strength of this suspicion, to have made threats against Mr. Laborero.”
“Gossip!” snorted X-Pat. “I can guess who told you that. I wouldn’t believe everything you hear, inspector. There’s nothing wrong between Phil and me, but even if there were, I don’t think she’d be too happy to pay the price if I caught her playing around, which I don’t for a minute believe she was.”
“Everyone has their price, sir? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Phil is far too comfortable where she is,” retorted X-Pat firmly. “I don’t think she’d want to risk everything, do you? So, if you’ve no more insulting questions to ask, I suggest that you might be happier waiting for Tim Berman outside in the str
eet.” He stood. “Okay?”
*
Dave Copper and Andy Constable stood at the foot of the steps to X-Pat Connor’s house.
“Angry? Jumpy? Guilty? What do you reckon, guv?” asked Copper.
“Could be any of them,” surmised Constable, “or even a mixture of all three. I’m not leaping to any instant conclusions, but you have to admit, the mask has cracked, hasn’t it? I suggest you move the car out into the road – we don’t want to give any further excuse for a display of the alleged shocking temper.”
As Copper complied, Tim Berman drove up in a rather dilapidated white pick-up truck.
“What’s all this, then?” he said as he climbed out. “X-Pat thrown you out already?”
“We’d finished our conversation, Mr. Berman,” explained Constable smoothly, “so we didn’t see the need to take up any more of Mr. Connor’s time.”
“So now you’re going to take up some of my time,” said Tim, casually leaning on the truck’s bonnet. “I suppose you’ve thought of some more of those questions you were going to ask me.”
“Do you know, Mr. Berman, as it happens, we have. We’ve been able to learn quite a lot from our various interviews with those involved… ”
“Interviews? This is beginning to sound very formal, inspector. Are you going to start cautioning me next?” Tim’s flippant tone was contradicted by a dawning look of apprehension in his eyes.
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” Constable reassured him. “We’re nowhere near that stage. As yet. But we’ve been given some information that… shall we say, the financial dealings surrounding the building operations of Mr. Connor’s business weren’t entirely transparent. Any comment on that?”
“I’ve been grassed up, haven’t I?” said Tim. “Look, why don’t you tell me straight what it is I’m supposed to need to defend myself over.”
“Very well, Mr. Berman. Plain talk. We have been told by a source who should know what they’re talking about, and whose accuracy I see no reason to doubt, that sometimes the customers don’t quite get what they pay for. Now one might easily conclude that Mr. Laborero might have had a problem with such an arrangement. That could give you a motive, sir.”
“What, a motive to kill Juan? Don’t be ridiculous! All right, I’m not going to deny it – I’ve cut a few corners here and there, and we’ve all got to earn a living, haven’t we? But there’s a world of difference between a few little fiddles, and stuff that’s going to land you in prison or worse.”
Andy Constable refused to be deflected. “Ah, but it’s not just you, Mr. Berman, is it? You have quite a close working relationship with Mrs. Stone over the supply of building materials, don’t you? I’ve also heard it mentioned that perhaps that relationship goes further than the professional.”
“And what has that got to do with anything, inspector?” Tim sounded furious. “Okay, Roxanne and I have a nice little earner going with the materials, and you don’t mind paying a bit of – how shall we say – commission to anyone who helps you out along the way. As long as nobody gets too greedy. Has it not crossed your mind, inspector, that that might be how Juan fitted into the picture?”
“Many things have crossed my mind, Mr. Berman,” replied Constable calmly. “The fact that you went looking for Mr. Laborero on the fatal night, for instance. I ask myself why. And the fact that you said you couldn’t find him in the darkened garden. I ask myself why not.”
“Yes, well, before you start chucking accusations in my direction, you can also ask yourself this. Who is going to get into bigger trouble – me, or someone who is capable of blowing the whistle on some very powerful people? If you want a motive, try looking there for one. And now, if you will excuse me, I think I need a drink.” He climbed back into his truck, slammed the door violently, and drove off in a spray of gravel.
“You know what, guv?” remarked Dave Copper. “I think we’re starting to get under a few people’s skins.”
“Excellent,” responded Andy Constable. “That’s just the way I like my suspects. And I think our Mr. Berman has given us the perfect hint as to the next one on our list.”
“Ewan Husami, by any chance?” hazarded Copper. “He’d fit into the ‘powerful people’ category a treat, wouldn’t he?”
“My thoughts exactly, David. Shall we go and find out if Mr. Husami is taking a fiesta sundowner on – what did Walter Torrance call it – ‘that great big boat of his’? Let’s see if his hospitality extends to offering a drink to a pair of thirsty detectives.”
*
The road into San Pablo was heavy with traffic.
“Bit busy, guv,” said Copper. “Something going on, do you reckon?”
“Of course!” Constable snapped his fingers. “I know exactly what’s going on. It’s the main fiesta parade on the Sunday, isn’t it? That’s where they’re all going. Let’s hope we can park.”
As Constable and Copper walked up the pontoon of the marina towards the ‘Medea’, Ewan Husami could be seen lounging casually on the after-deck, speaking unhurriedly into his mobile. Completing the call, he replaced the phone on the table, a self-satisfied smile touching his lips, and as he picked up a cut-glass tumbler, ice chinking in its amber contents, his eyes met those of Andy Constable waiting at the foot of the gangplank.
“Well, well, inspector,” said Ewan. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” He did not sound remotely surprised. “Two visits from the forces of law and order in two days. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such an honour.”
“Well, Mr. Husami,” replied Constable, “unfortunately, it seems that the more we talk to people, the more questions arise and the fewer answers materialise. So we hoped to catch you to have a further word, if we may.”
“And again, not a social call, I assume. This will be about the unfortunate Juan, no doubt.”
“Exactly so, sir.”
“‘Sir’ again,” smiled Ewan. “I have no idea why, but I always get nervous when a policeman calls me ‘sir’.”
“Gets to talk a lot to policemen, does he, guv?” muttered Dave Copper out of the side of his mouth. “Wonder why that would be.”
Ewan either ignored or failed to notice the aside. “I suppose you had better come aboard.” He waved the two detectives up the gangplank, and gestured to seats alongside his own chair. “Now, as we’ve already established that you’re not on duty, I expect you’ll take a drink. I have a very good single malt here,” he indicated his own glass, “which my Scottish relatives would probably ostracise me for adulterating with ice, but as they’re far away in the cold and I’m here in the warmth of a Mediterranean evening, I’ll do as I please. Will you have the same?” In response to his guests’ positive response, he rose and busied himself at the bar with bottle and glasses.
“You’re very kind, Mr. Husami,” said Constable. “And yes, you’re right. We may not be on duty, but I’m afraid Mr. Laborero’s death won’t just go away, and that means that neither will the investigation into it.” He sipped.
“Justice never sleeps, inspector?”
“I’d try not to put it too pompously, sir, but in essence, you’re right. And so, despite this extremely agreeable whisky, I’m afraid I need to talk to you about the case.”
Ewan leaned back in his chair, reached into a nearby locker, opened a box, and drew out a cigar, which he proceeded to light in a leisurely fashion as the inspector looked on in silence. He did not offer the box to the others. “Do you know what talks loudest around here, inspector?” he asked after several long moments, releasing a stream of smoke. “Money.” He waved a hand to indicate the boat, the marina, the town bathed in the glow of an early Mediterranean evening. “This is a good place to be. And if it wasn’t for the building trade on the Costa, there would be a lot of people a great deal worse off. Oh, I don’t just mean in the building business itself, although I dare say you’ve heard enough stories about the hard times. Well, I can assure you, the times are not hard for everyone. One way and
another, we provide a lot of money to the government – local government too, if you know what I mean.”
“I believe I do, Mr. Husami. We’ve already gathered that much of the business depends heavily on… personal contacts? Would that be a good way of putting it?”
“I see you understand me, inspector. So I think you’ll agree that the last thing I needed was for Juan to be taken out of the picture. I needed him for the contacts, because, let’s be brutally honest, not everyone wants to do business with someone like me.”
“Why would that be, sir?” enquired Copper. “From what you told us before, you’ve got businesses coming out of your ears.”
“Some of our clients have rather fixed ideas,” smiled Ewan. “Perhaps some of the Spanish – maybe a few of the East Europeans. I mean, I may sound Scottish, but I don’t exactly look it.”
“I still don’t get it.”
Ewan laughed. “I admire your innocence, sergeant. Let’s just say that I’m a wee bit…” He searched for the right word. “… tanned for the liking of some clients.”
“Oh.” Dave Copper blushed as he caught on.
“So you see,” continued Ewan, “Juan was very valuable. He looked after me, and I looked after him.”
“Financially.” Constable’s statement was blunt.
“Yes, financially. And in other ways.”
“But you weren’t the only person he handled matters for.”
“Indeed not, inspector. But just how well he looked after some other people, I really wouldn’t care to say. But you might like to speak to Liza Lott – she has dealings with far more people than I ever do, being in contact with the public, so she may be able to help you out there.”
Nice swerve, thought Constable. “That reminds me, sir,” he said, as he emptied his tumbler and replaced it on the table. “Just one thing before we go. We’ve been told that on the evening of Mr. Laborero’s death, Miss Lott was looking for him, and apparently she was concerned over the question of certification, and there was some mention of safety or security. It seems she was quite agitated, and I gather she went looking for you. Can you throw any light on what this may be all about?”
