Three and One Make Five

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I did once and he told me to mind my own business. He could get rough so I left it. Besides, it’s not a woman’s job to know about that sort of thing.’

  He remembered Tracey telling him how Clarke had become angry when she’d questioned him about the past.

  ‘Did you ever meet Roger Clarke?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Señor Roger Clarke. He lived at Bahia Mocamba.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘The señor didn’t mention him?’

  She made no answer, but finished her drink and then looked across. ‘Are you ready now for another?’

  ‘No, thank you, señora. I must drive back home to Llueso.’

  Walking still more carefully, though with less success than before, she left the room.

  He stood. She’d continue to drink until eventually she found a temporary forgetfulness. A dislikable woman, yet he felt sorry for her.

  When she returned she asked him again whether he’d like another drink and on his refusing she became abusive. He interrupted her to say he was leaving and she began to complain stridently that the natives were all the same, completely unfriendly.

  Out in the hall he came to a stop, turned, and said: ‘Señora, did your husband ever leave this island?’

  She drank, caught her breath, coughed, drank again.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘I couldn’t get him to go back home to see everyone. But they were our friends.’

  He said quietly: ‘Thank you for your kindness.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘I know it cannot seem so now, but time will help to heal the pain.’

  She stared at him. ‘Heal the pain?’ Her face crumpled and suddenly she was crying. ‘How bloody stupid can you get?’ she shouted wildly. ‘Heal the pain, knowing he’d a woman somewhere and it must be that bitch who’s got all his money?’

  ‘Can you give me her name?’

  ‘If I could, I’d have got hold of her and taught her a thing or two.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘I don’t know. When I asked him where he was going, he wouldn’t tell me. When I accused him of going to see another woman, he just laughed.’ Now, she was sobbing heavily. ‘I tell you, he laughed in my face.’

  ‘He saw a lot of her?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How often?’ he persisted, hating himself for continuing to question her at such a moment.

  ‘Every year we were here,’ she mumbled between sobs.

  ‘Are you saying he only went away once a year.’

  ‘Wasn’t that enough for her to get all his money?’

  ‘But if he really was seeing a woman, señora, wouldn’t he have visited her much more often?’

  She turned and made her unsteady way back into the sitting-room.

  He left the house.

  CHAPTER 8

  Alvarez lay on his bed but for once sleep would not come. The trouble was, his mind kept going round in circles.

  Were the two deaths connected or was it just a chain of circumstances which appeared to link them together? He tried to remember all the facts common to Clarke and Allen even when such facts on the face of things could hardly be of any relevancy. Both were approximately of the same age. Both had left England to come to live on the island at approximately the same time. They’d known each other, yet had never admitted to this. Both had bought expensive houses and lived at a luxurious level, although Allen had not been wealthy back in England. (It wasn’t clear what Clarke’s financial position had been.) After their deaths, there were no signs of the considerable capital that would have been needed to provide them with the income they had clearly enjoyed. Both had resented being questioned about the past. Each had made one or more trips abroad and had refused to take wife or girlfriend along . . .

  Alvarez yawned as he suddenly felt sleepy. He looked at his watch. Four-thirty. Perversely, it was now nearly time to get up and return to work. Perhaps, he assured himself, the morning had been so busy and emotionally exhausting that he could allow himself just a few more moments of much needed rest . . . Soon, he was snoring.

  Alvarez parked his car and crossed the pavement to enter the frozen food shop. Large freezer units were ranged against the walls and he crossed to the one which contained cuttlefish, spider crabs, crayfish, and many different grades of prawns. The store owner, a short, rotund, cheerful-looking man, came up. ‘Enrique! How’s life treating you?’

  ‘Very seldom.’

  ‘You’re a mournful old bastard, and no mistake.’

  ‘Are those prawns any good?’ Alvarez pointed at a box which contained the largest size.

  ‘A king’s ransom couldn’t buy better.’

  ‘I haven’t got a king’s ransom. How much are they?’

  ‘Two thousand a kilo.’

  ‘I’m not a foreigner. What’s their real price?’

  ‘That’s it. Look, I’m not responsible for the prices. It’s the government. I’m making so little profit it hurts to think about it. I have to pay eighteen hundred for them: eighteen hundred!’

  ‘Sure. For two kilos.’

  The owner always became annoyed when he was accused of profiteering: it was honest hard work which had brought him a house, a finca, three flats let to foreigners, two cars, and a large power boat. ‘You know your trouble? You reckon everyone’s a liar.’

  ‘That’s because of experience.’

  The owner pushed the box of very large red prawns to one side and pointed to another of much smaller, pink ones. ‘They’re only eight hundred.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising . . . What are you going to charge me for half a kilo of the big ones.’

  ‘A thousand, of course.’

  ‘I thought maybe you’d knock a little off?’

  The owner was about to disagree when he stopped to consider certain facts. He was in the middle of renovating and enlarging the finca and he hadn’t bothered to seek building permission from the town hall: he had, of course, made a tax return for the past year, but because his wife was becoming very extravagant he’d decided to declare only a third of his true income instead of the usual half: he hadn’t paid tax on his second car because his cousin worked at the town hall . . . He spoke with sudden bonhomie. ‘My dad knew your dad, Enrique, and they were good friends. So for old times’ sake, I’ll make it nine hundred.’

  ‘Nine hundred for half a kilo? If things keep on like this we’ll all have to go back to farming.’

  The owner, certain the reference to the country had not been without special significance, kicked the base of the deep-freeze. ‘Eight hundred.’

  ‘Seven hundred and fifty.’

  The owner picked up the box and carried it over to the small counter on which the scales stood. Two handfuls of prawns weighed five hundred and seventy-five grammes. He went to remove some of the prawns.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Alvarez cheerfully.

  He returned to the car and drove down to the front and along to Tracey’s flat. She was wearing a bikini top and jeans and had been listening to the radio. She switched this off. ‘The news is nothing but trouble and it’s put me in a down mood. What are you going to do about that?’

  ‘Cook the supper I promised.’ He opened the plastic bag and showed her the prawns.

  ‘My God! They’re almost like baby lobsters. What are you going to need for the cooking?’

  ‘Olive oil, parsley, garlic, and a lemon.’

  ‘I’ve everything but the parsley so at some stage I’ll have to slip down to Margarita’s and buy a bunch. But first, we’re going for a voyage so while I put these in the fridge, you change into a costume.’

  ‘A voyage?’

  ‘You’re taking me out on a pedallo to the horizon.’

  ‘The horizon? You’ll be lucky if I do not collapse before we reach the end of the harbour.’

  She put out her hand and rested it on his forearm, in what for him had already become a familiar gesture. ‘Stop selling yourself short,’ she
said, almost angrily. ‘You’re pefectly strong enough to pedal us both to Shangri-la.’

  After the meal they sat out on the patio. The gentle breeze, which had started at dusk, prevented the heat being oppressive and it was another cloudless night with the moonlight strong enough for them to be able to see each other clearly.

  He sipped a brandy and listened to her talking about New Zealand and he wondered, sadly, if perhaps her criticism of the lives her parents and sister led was a defence against homesickness . . .

  ‘You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.’

  He started. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you never to say that?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘What were you thinking about?’

  ‘As a matter of fact . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘As a matter of fact . . .’ she mimicked.

  ‘I was wondering about Sen or Clarke.’

  ‘Goddamn it, I could kick you where it really hurts! You’re sitting here, with me, looking at a romantic bay, and all you can think about is Roger.’

  ‘It’s my work.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be playing now.’

  ‘You must understand, Tracey. At work I keep asking myself questions and because I’m not clever, the answers refuse to come. And later the questions keep returning to mock me . . .’

  She laughed. ‘My God, you sound like someone out of a gothic mystery.’

  He was sufficiently encouraged by her laughter to ask, diffidently: ‘Would you talk a little about him? Then perhaps the questions will go away.’

  ‘Anything for peace, I suppose. But let’s have another drink first.’

  He refilled their glasses. ‘Tracey, did he ever talk about his life before he came to this island?’

  ‘Hardly ever. He was a secretive kind of a guy. But that didn’t worry me because I suppose in many ways I’m a secretive kind of a woman. Not that I expect you to believe that!’

  ‘He never mentioned what happened?’

  Just very occasionally he’d let something slip. Like that he went to Oundle.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Oundle’s one of the big public schools in England.’

  ‘So he came from a big family?’

  ‘He was from an old family, if that’s what you’re getting at. You know the kind of thing the English go in for—ancestors who were too lucky to be found out and hanged, lots of land and peasants to touch their forelocks, and an overwhelming sense of their divine superiority. But from what he said another time, things had changed more than somewhat. The family had to scrape like hell to pay his school fees. And I don’t know what sort of work Roger started at, but when he got married he was obviously not much more than a glorified clerk. He said that his bitch of a wife was always going on at him because he didn’t make enough money for them to lead any kind of a social life.’

  ‘Then if he was not wealthy, how was he able to come here and buy a luxurious home and not have to work?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘He never gave even a hint?’

  ‘If he did, I wasn’t sufficiently interested to pick it up. Just as I’m not now. The subject’s boring me and if we don’t hurry up and talk about something else I’ll develop a nasty headache. You may think you’ve seen me in a foul temper, but you haven’t until you’ve seen me with a nasty headache.’

  On Saturday morning Alvarez entered his office and looked at the telephone on his desk, then went over to the window and stared out at the street below. Forget it, he told himself. He was seeing shadows where there was none. Why be a fool and antagonize Salas by propounding a theory which was, as yet, quite incapable of verification . . . Yet only a little imagination was needed to bond together some of the proven facts . . .

  He made up his mind. He would ask Salas to get in touch with England.

  He sat at his desk, leaned over, and pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer to bring out the bottle of brandy and a glass. Dutch courage was preferable to no courage at all.

  CHAPTER 9

  England telexed Palma on Monday morning and Salas immediately telephoned Alvarez. ‘The report reads: “Neither Roger Clarke nor Simon Allen has criminal record. Nothing known about either.” That is the end of the message.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Alvarez, deeply disappointed.

  ‘That is hardly the reply you led me to expect.’

  ‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’

  ‘It is extraordinary the ability you have to complicate even the most straightforward and simple events.’

  ‘But it did seem as if the only feasible explanation was that the two men had been involved in some form of criminal activity . . . And if they weren’t, where did all the money come from?’

  ‘Is it not a trifle naive to overlook the fact that no man with any sense declares all he possesses either to his wife or his tax inspector?’

  ‘So far as I can understand, Señor, they do things differently in England. And in any case, neither of them had the kind of job where they’d make large sums of money that needed hiding.’

  ‘Nevertheless, wherever the money did come from, it clearly was not from a criminal source. Therefore it does not concern us.’

  ‘Not directly, no. But if I’m right as to the rest of what I said . . .’

  ‘Frankly, that is a presumption I am not prepared to make.’

  ‘Señor, more than ever I have a feeling . . .’

  ‘I am tempted to suggest that the most helpful thing for you to do will be to take two stomach tablets,’ snapped Salas, before replacing the receiver.

  Alvarez walked up the road, turned into the square, and crossed to the Club Llueso where he entered the bar. ‘A coffee cortado and a coñac.’

  ‘You look as if you’d forgotten to hand in the winning football pool coupon,’ said the barman.

  ‘No. It’s just work.’

  ‘It’s not like you to worry over that.’

  ‘I’m getting old.’

  ‘It happens.’ The barman moved away to the espresso machine.

  Alvarez sat and stared out through the window at those people at cafe tables who were visible to him. Foreigners with too much time and money: foreigners who died and in dying made a simple inspector’s life hell.

  If there were a connection between Clarke and Allen, beyond the known one that they were acquaintances, then the odds increased against their deaths being accidents. And the more one studied the facts, the more difficult it became not to believe that there had been a connection between them. How could wealth come so suddenly? There were three possibilities. Through an inheritance, winning it on some form of gambling, or through a criminal activity. Surely, if they had been left money or had won it, they would have invested at least part of it so that now there would be some record of it? That left some criminal activity which would explain why the money had had to be kept hidden—so well hidden that there was no trace of it. Yet England had negated the possibility that either of them had been engaged in a criminal activity while in the UK.

  ‘Here you are,’ the barman called out.

  He left the table and went over to the bar.

  ‘A hundred pesetas.’

  ‘Don’t you mean ninety?’

  ‘Prices have just gone up on account of the new tax.’

  Gloomily Alvarez returned to the table. He sipped the brandy, added sugar to the coffee and drank some of it, then poured the rest of the brandy into the cup. There had to be a connection between the two deaths. Despite Superior Chief Salas’s scorn, there were times when one had a gut feeling about a case that was taller and broader than logic and could not be denied. But unless fresh evidence came to light there now seemed little chance of ever finding out what that connection was or what part it had played in their deaths.

  He shrugged his shoulders. The dead men had been foreigners. He drank the coffee and it warmed his stomach and soothed away his frustrations.

  The trawler yacht was an off-sh
ore cruiser, sufficiently seaworthy for quite heavy weather. She was 38 feet long and had, at cruising speed, a range of 1,000 miles or a maximum speed of 20 knots. She possessed a stateroom, a double berth cabin, two toilets and a shower room, a main saloon with dining area, and a deck-level galley. In daylight her lines were more purposeful than beautiful, because of her deep bulwarks and large wheelhouse. But riding to anchor in moonlight, with her lines softened and slightly blurred, she became touched by the sea’s romance.

  There was virtually no tide and, in that part of the bay where she lay, very little current. She headed south-east while a schooner, moored only a couple of hundred metres away, headed south-west: with her higher superstructure, she was more influenced by the breeze. A light shone from her saloon and this, shimmering, stretched across the water almost parallel to the moonlight’s path. Beyond that, there were no signs of life aboard her.

  At 2304 hours—the time was logged by the assistant harbourmaster—there was a heavy explosion and seconds later flames belched out of her shattered accommodation. The assistant harbourmaster called on the crew of a fishing-boat, about to put to sea, to help him and they sailed him over to the blazing vessel. Showing considerable courage, he tried to quell the fire with the two chemical extinguishers he’d taken with him, but it proved a hopeless task.

  The boat continued to burn until sufficient of the hull had been consumed for the sea to enter. She began to settle, the flames retreated, and finally she sank. As she went down, a badly burned body floated clear of her. Overcoming the nausea which the task produced, the assistant harbourmaster lashed the body to the side of the fishing-boat and then gave orders for them to return to the harbour.

  CHAPTER 10

  On Tuesday morning, Alvarez parked by the side of the harbourmaster s office, half way up the eastern arm of the harbour, and went inside. The harbourmaster, a grizzled man in his late fifties, shook hands. ‘Well, we’ve identified him, Enrique. We’d the name of the boat from when she arrived—Janet II—and I’ve checked her out. She was from Palma, on charter, and the man who chartered her was called Peter Short.’