Troubled Deaths

by Roderic Jeffries

  After stirring in a spoonful of sugar and sipping the coffee, she put down the cup and said: ‘If Mabel won’t help, you’ve got to find some other way of getting the money and I think I’ve found one. The banks won’t lend it to you now because you can’t offer them any security. But suppose you put down half a million and then only asked for the remaining million? You’d be showing them how you believe in yourself and that means a lot. I think they’d let you have it.’

  ‘If I’d half a million, I’d have already tried that.’

  ‘I’ve that much which I could bring out from England.’

  ‘No,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Why not? It’s not as if I wouldn’t get it all back. And if it would make the bank lend you the rest . . .’

  ‘I’m not taking a peseta from you.’

  ‘But this is your chance in a lifetime.’

  ‘It’s the chance I’ve longed for from the day I first saw a dinghy in a stiff wind tacking across the Test with her gunwale almost under and the sail as tight as a drumhead. But I’m still not touching a peseta of yours.’

  ‘You can be terribly stubborn.’

  ‘I was born plain, bloody awkward.’

  ‘Then I’ll go back and ask Mabel again. Maybe I could get her in a more sympathetic mood.’

  ‘I’ve told you once. Keep your nose out of my business.’ She was not upset by his rudeness. She understood that it concealed emotions which he did not wish to be identified.

  CHAPTER IV

  Luis Blanco had grey hair, a leathery, creased complexion, dark brown eyes, and a wide, thick-lipped mouth. He walked with a slight limp which became pronounced whenever he was tired: a .303 bullet had nicked his femur – a fraction to the right and it would have shattered the bone, perhaps beyond repair. He wore a badly fitting grey suit which hung about him and the collar of his shirt was so large that it gaped away from his neck and the tie sagged: his beret had once been brown, but now it was more nearly black. He carried a medium-sized suitcase, one corner of which was badly worn so that the middle layer of cardboard showed through the plastic.

  He stopped half-way along the drive, put down the suitcase, and waited patiently for Orozco to finish the work he was doing: one hurried only for birth or death. He took a large red handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, so loudly that the dog in the courtyard barked a couple of times.

  Orozco finished what he was doing, dropped the mattock to one side, and plodded along the side of a flower-bed to the drive. ‘Are you off now, then?’

  ‘Hernandez’s brother is driving his lorry into Palma and he says he’ll take me.’

  ‘Have you heard how your brother is?’

  ‘They say he is very ill. Perhaps he is dying.’

  ‘Please God they are wrong and there will be no bells and long-faced priests.’

  Blanco shrugged his shoulders with a fatalistic acceptance of whatever the future might be. A tomato seed sewn in January grew into a plant which fruited in June and died in October and no man could alter that rhythm: death came when it wished, not when man willed. ‘I’ve spoke to Matilde and said I must be with my brother until he gets better or dies. Perhaps I will be there many days. See all goes well, Lopez.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Luis, I will look after her.’

  Blanco nodded. He blew his nose again, hawked, spat. TU be on my way.’ He picked up the suitcase.

  ‘God go with you,’ said Orozco. He watched Blanco walk to the end of the drive, pass through the gateway, and turn right on to the camino.

  He went back along the drive and from behind an oleander bush he picked up a leather porron and drank some wine from it. He wondered what Barcelona looked like now. He remembered it as a city of hatred and revenge, where God had been forgotten and the Devil ruled in high state.

  As he replaced the porron, Matilde came out of the courtyard and walked towards him. She was beautiful, he thought without lust. She smiled at him and said: ‘I suppose you saw Luis a moment ago?’

  ‘Yes. He told me that Hernandez is taking him into Palma. He says his brother is very ill.’

  ‘Did he ask you to look after me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He always used to fuss and now he fusses more than ever. Of course I shall be alright. I am not a child.’

  He said nothing. It was obvious to anyone that she was not a child.

  ‘And he is ridiculous to think I am too friendly with Garcia. I talk and laugh with Garcia when I meet him, but that is all. I said to Luis, “Do you think Garcia can be anything to me but someone to laugh with and talk to? You are my husband. He is just a boy!” ’

  Her friendship with Garcia was no concern of his so long as Garcia did not try to come to Ca’n Ritat whilst Luis was away. And no matter what, no woman in full bloom was going completely to ignore the admiration of a handsome man of her own age. Still, it was right a husband should be jealous.

  She was disappointed when he remained silent. ‘The señor wants lettuce for lunch,’ she said, speaking rather sullenly, ‘so pick me two.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘He’s having company.’ She was far too cheerful by nature ever to remain annoyed for long and now she giggled. ‘Special company, he calls her.’

  ‘What does that mean? Another whore?’

  ‘Some of ‘em dress more like grand ladies.’

  ‘The more paint, the bigger whore.’

  ‘And how would you know?’ she asked archly. ‘Or did you do much more than just fight in the war?’

  ‘If I did it was all a long time ago.’

  ‘Just as well! . . . You ought to get married again.’

  ‘I’ve suffered enough for one life.’

  She laughed. ‘Come on, you old misery, how about those lettuces?’

  He left and walked back to the long kitchen garden. He chose the two thickest-hearted plants and pulled them, knocked off the earth from their roots against the heel of his shoe, then stripped off some of the outside leaves. He returned to the drive and handed her the lettuces.

  He watched her walk back to the house, hips swinging.

  Freeman briefly looked at his plain gold Previn wristwatch. Ten minutes late, which for this island was early. A woman pushing a pram, began to cross the road without looking and he hooted, making her start. The locals had the traffic sense of half-witted Hottentots, he thought with sharp annoyance.

  He turned on to the front road and went along past the end of the central island to swing round so that he could drive back up to the cafe. He passed one of the hotels and then saw Veronica at a table at the first cafe. She was staring to her right, trying to identify him as he drove out from the Llueso road. She’d missed him because she’d no idea he had a Mercedes.

  He braked to a halt and still she didn’t look round. She was wearing a very tight blouse and a skirt which was too short: she had used over-much make-up. Flashy, he thought, but flashiness had always held a perverse attraction for him.

  He pressed the switch and the nearside front window wound down to the low hum of an electric motor. ‘Hi, there! Looking for someone?’

  Startled, she turned. She noticed the car and although she tried to hide the fact, he could see she was impressed by its opulence.

  ‘I’m going for a drive. Care to come along?’ he asked facetiously.

  ‘You’re late, Geoff, and I was beginning to think . . .’ She stopped.

  She’d begun to think he couldn’t be bothered. Probably she’d been all ready to bitch if and when he did finally turn up, but now he’d arrived in a vast Mercedes she was too awed to say anything much. ‘Well, are you coming my way?’

  She stood up, crossed the pavement, climbed into the front seat and as she settled down she looked back along the pavement towards the hotel. Hoping her friend could see her riding off in the lap of luxury, he thought. ‘You’d better do the safety-belt up. It’s obligatory and if the police catch you with it undone they fine you some fantastic sum of pesetas.’

 
She clipped the belt around herself. The police out here scare me, with all their guns. D’you know, when we were coming to the hotel from the airport we saw a couple of policemen with sub-machine guns.’

  ‘You’re quite safe. They only shoot tourists in leap year.’

  She giggled. ‘I must remember not to come out then,’

  He put the gear lever to drive and drew out into the road, careless of an oncoming Seat 600 which had to brake quite sharply and noisily.

  ‘Where are we going for lunch, Geoff? That place in Palma you were talking about where the food’s so special?’

  He accelerated to the K-junction, then braked heavily for the Llueso road. He was in a fast car, so he always drove fast. ‘I had a change of mind. I thought it would be more fun this time to have a meal at my place so I told the cook to lay on a really nice cold meal.’

  ‘Have you got a cook?’

  ‘That’s what she calls herself, but most of the time she could fool me. They’re all the same out here. Give ‘em a cupful of beans and an ounce of belly of pork and they knock up a meal for half a dozen peasants, but give ‘em decent food and like as not they’ll ruin it.’

  ‘If you’ve a cook, I suppose you’ve quite a big house, Geoff.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ever call it that,’ he said, in a throwaway tone of voice. He could almost hear her mind working: expensive car, a cook, a big house . . .

  They left the Port and he drove very fast along the straight Llueso road, blasting past a couple of small cars which had strayed into the centre. ‘Most of ‘em still think they’re in donkey carts,’ he said. ‘They spend their time at the wheel asleep.’

  ‘But aren’t the donkey carts fun? I think it’s all so romantic’

  ‘Provided you like donkeys.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve been around the world too much to see it like I do?’

  ‘I’ve been around,’ he agreed.

  She sighed. ‘I’ve always wanted to travel a lot. As I said to Di only yesterday, there’s nothing like travel to show you how the other people live. And that has to be a good thing, doesn’t it?’

  It was extraordinary how most people led cliche lives and could only think and talk in cliches. Rose had been like that. Just for a moment, he wondered where Rose and the two children were right then. Not driving around in a Mercedes, that was for sure.

  When they turned into Ca’n Ritat’s drive, she said: ‘Is this where you live? But it’s lovely. So . . . so local. And look at all the flowers in the garden. There aren’t really any flowers left in the garden at home. My dad’s a terribly keen gardener and if he could see this he’d go green with envy. I suppose you spend all day in the garden?’

  ‘Me? Why should I get my hands dirty when I employ a gardener to get his?’

  ‘You’ve got a gardener! . . . He must be a good one.’

  He stopped the car. ‘He’s OK on vegetables, but pretty bloody useless on anything else. Can’t grow English seeds even when I tell him exactly how. And you’re not going to believe this, but he ignores the weather and won’t plant out until it’s the right Saint’s Day for whatever it is he’s planting!’ He looked at her and saw she was puzzled, not having understood the reason for his scorn. Peasant-minded.

  She opened her door, released the seat-belt, and stepped out. The dog, which had come forward to the extent of its chain, barked. ‘Belt up,’ shouted Freeman.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

  ‘God knows.’ He picked up a stone, threw it, and missed.

  ‘Why d’you throw that?’

  ‘Because the bloody mongrel’s good for nothing but barking. I’ve told the Blancos to get rid of it, but like the rest of the people on this island they never do what they’re told.’

  She walked over to the dog, spoke to it, and patted its head. The tail began to wag. ‘He’s not nearly as fierce as he sounds. Are you, poochy? Geoff, he’s really friendly.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do about that? Take it to bed with me?’

  She gave it a last pat. She wasn’t sure if she liked Geoff as much as she’d thought she would. Then she looked at the house, the garden, and the car, and decided that one couldn’t have everything.

  ‘Leave it alone and come and have a drink.’ He led the way along the gravel path which ran round the side of the house, past the front door, to the patio.

  ‘You’ve even got a swimming pool!’ she exclaimed, as she came round the corner of the house and saw the pool for the first time.

  ‘The water’s heated, so you can have a dip.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I haven’t brought a costume.’

  ‘Why should that stop you?’

  She giggled.

  They went from the patio into the sitting-room. She had expected comfort, but not the degree of luxury she saw. The furniture, furnishings, silver, and paintings, all spoke of considerable wealth. His wife would be able to dress in expensive clothes and drive around in her own Mercedes . . . Di would choke with envy . . .

  ‘What’ll you drink?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a very little gin and tonic’

  ‘On this island, no one’s ever heard of a little gin.’ He crossed to the cocktail cabinet. ‘Park your bottom. There’s no extra charge for sitting.’

  She sat on the settee, crossed her legs, and with great affectation tugged her skirt an inch further down her thighs.

  Matilde came into the sitting-room and looked with brief curiosity, and perhaps a suggestion of criticism, at Veronica, then said in Spanish:

  ‘Everything is ready for the meal, señor.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I have put on the table chicken and ham and potato salad and lettuce . . .’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Should there be anything more you want, señor . . .’

  Til shout.’

  She left.

  ‘Was that the cook?’ asked Veronica, and although she wasn’t aware of the fact her voice had sharpened slightly.

  ‘She does the cooking, sure. But like I said earlier, the only thing she can cook well are beans.’

  Then there was a readily available excuse for sacking her at the first opportunity, thought Veronica, who had been disagreeably surprised to see how attractive Matilde was.

  He poured out the drinks, gave her one, and then went and sat in one of the armchairs and not on the settee with her as she’d obviously expected. He talked casually, lightly, and maliciously, about the people who lived in the area, making it seem as if the rich and the titled were his constant and boon companions. He gave her a second and even stronger gin and tonic and after handing her the glass he let his hand slide along her arm. She smiled coyly at him, was clearly very surprised, even disconcerted, when he did not follow up his advance, but retired to his chair. She was not used to very strong drinks on an empty stomach and after a third one she began to tell him about how she’d always wanted to live on a sunny island.

  A grandfather clock struck the half hour. He crossed to the settee and she put her nearly empty glass down on a piecrust table and waited. He kissed her with skilful passion and began a pincer sweep of his hands. She did not retreat and when his advances threatened to become a full frontal attack, she murmered: ‘Not here, Geoff darling.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Someone might come in. Your cook . . .’

  ‘I told her to keep right out of it.’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs?’

  ‘You’re not living in Clapham now,’ he said cryptically, as he began a flanking movement.

  She lifted herself up to aid him in his task and then suddenly thought she heard something. ‘What’s that?’ She instinctively grabbed his right hand which was making a final tactical withdrawal.

  ‘My hand. What in the hell d’you think it is?’

  ‘But I heard something go bang.’

  He suggested what she had heard and she giggled and let go of his hand in a sign of total surrender. She began to unbutton him
.

  A high-pitched voice cried out: ‘Oh, my God!’

  They turned, their hands momentarily frozen in position. When Veronica saw Mabel, she gave a muted scream. She released him, made a grab for her pants and tried to pull them up from her ankles, rolled off the settee and landed on the floor with a thump that made her gasp.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ cried Mabel for the second time. Her face was working and her expression was one of tortured shock: she kept looking away and then back at the two of them.

  ‘What in the hell are you doing here?’ demanded Freeman. He began to button himself up.

  ‘You . . . you . . .’ Mabel closed her eyes and shivered. ‘You invited me to lunch,’ she wailed. She suddenly began to sneeze: long-drawn-out sneezes which shook her whole body.

  ‘Not today, for Pete’s sake.’

  She opened her eyes and managed to catch her sneezing long enough to say: ‘You told me today.’ Tears welled out of her blue eyes and coursed down her roughened cheeks. ‘You asked me for Thursday.’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘You said Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday, Friday, tomorrow, today, God Almighty, who the hell cares now?’ muttered Veronica frantically. She rolled over, came to her feet, bent down to pull up her pants, overbalanced, and slid so that her backside stuck up at a sharp angle and she was reminded of the fact that her bottom had recently become rather pimply. She began to sob from humiliation.

  ‘If there’s one single way of getting things wrong and creating a snarl-up, you’ll find it,’ he said to Mabel.

  ‘Geoffrey, I promise you . . .’ Mabel sneezed. ‘You did tell me Thursday.’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘What’s the matter if you said bloody Sunday?’ screamed Veronica. ‘She’s here now, isn’t she?’

  They ignored her. ‘You asked me for Thursday, today,’ said Mabel and she suddenly began to moan.

  Veronica tried to get up, forgot her pants were still around her ankles, and collapsed sideways, knocking over the table on which her glass had been. The remaining gin and tonic splattered over her stomach.