Relatively Dangerous (7 page)

‘Slacking?’

‘That’s right,’ she said, happy to see that his black mood was beginning to lift.

He watched her return into the kitchen, lit a cigarette. A year ago he’d been bumming around the world, weighed down by the chip on his shoulder. In the tiny fishing village of Amozgat, in the south-west corner of Turkey, he’d fallen ill with some kind of intestinal infection so severe that he’d become convinced he was dying; a conviction which the villagers had obviously shared and which equally obviously had not caused them any concern beyond the problems that his death might raise vis-a-vis the authorities. On the third day, when death would have been welcome, Helen had appeared in the squalid, stinking room and had nursed him with a devotion which was extraordinary since they were strangers, she was not a trained nurse, and the side effects of his illness were highly unpleasant. Later, he’d learned that her presence in the village had been pure chance. She’d been travelling a hundred miles to the north, had stopped at a cafe for coffee, and had heard one of the other customers mention the name Amozgat. For some reason, still completely inexplicable, she had been overwhelmed by the certainty that she must visit this place whose name she had only just heard . . . But for that, he might have died and she would in all probability have returned to the man from whom she’d fled two months before . . .

All right, so fate moved in mysterious ways. But why in hell had it moved to turn down his work permit?

She returned to the restaurant. ‘Let’s go.’

They went out by the kitchen door, walked round the building, past the patio and the palm trees, across the road, and on to the sand. She took off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a bikini; he was wearing trunks.

He was a much stronger swimmer than she and while she stayed within her depth—which, because the sea bed shelved so gradually was almost two hundred metres out— he continued on, enjoying the coolness of the water which had not yet warmed to tepid summer heat. Off the harbour, a large yacht was hoisting her spinnaker and as he watched the light wind began to balloon the multi-coloured sail. One day, when they were so successful that people came from as far away as Palma for a meal, he’d buy a yacht and name her Helen; she’d be the most beautiful craft afloat. He turned and, no longer employing a powerful crawl, swam slowly inshore. He thought how strange it was that now he should care so much for someone else when previously he’d been careful to care for nobody because experience had taught him that to care was to be rejected . . .

He reached her and they returned to shore. They stretched out on towels, rapidly drying in the hot sun. When the restaurant was a success, they’d shut up in the winter and he’d take her to Hongkong, Bali, Tonga . . .

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘That when we’re rich, I’m going to take you to all the glamorous places in the world.’

She reached out for his hand. ‘I don’t give a damn if it’s Clacton-on-Sea, provided you’re there.’

She was looking vulnerable, he thought, and he knew a fierce desire to protect her. Her character was a strange mixture of toughness and tenderness; no one could have been tougher than she in that Turkish fishing village, yet sentimentally she was weak.

They were silent for a while, then she said: ‘I saw your stepmother when I was in the port earlier on. I wonder what she was doing in this part of the island?’

‘Slumming. Did she deign to notice you?’

‘She was on the other side of the road and I doubt she even saw me. She was with that friend of hers—what’s his name?’

‘The Honourable Archibald Wheeldon.’

‘He’s very handsome.’

‘And wet.’

‘Her clothes were really lovely; they must have cost a fortune.’

‘She’s no idea that one can buy a dress for less than five hundred guineas.’

‘Mike, why do you two dislike each other so much?’

‘I’ve told you before, it’s traditional to dislike one’s stepmother.’

‘It’s more than that. And it’s such a pity.’

Such a pity the bitch didn’t fall over the edge of her patio and break her neck. He could still remember, with bitter irony, the words his father had used when he’d first talked about his forthcoming second marriage. Beautiful, charming, generous, kind . . . His father had used words with such abandon and skill that people had accused him not merely of having kissed the Blarney Stone, but of having swallowed it whole. His father had got things very wrong with Muriel. She might be beautiful and charming—if she could be bothered—but she wasn’t generous or kind . . .

He’d cleared out of her home just one step ahead of being told to clear out. That’s when he’d begun his drifting which had ended in the village of Amozgat. It was funny—funny incredible—that not long ago he had managed to talk himself into believing Muriel would help him and Helen to buy the restaurant. It showed to what lengths self-deception could go. After all, in her eyes people who ran restaurants were on the butt end of the social scale. Yet he’d taken Helen to see her and to ask for the loan—the loan, not the gift—of six million pesetas. She’d treated Helen with disdain and him with sardonic dislike; she’d said that she was very sorry, but she couldn’t afford to help, certain that he knew full well she could have given him twice that amount without the slightest problem. Her contemptuous refusal had so infuriated him that he’d cursed the whole idea into oblivion. It had been Helen who had talked him round, stoutly declaring that somehow, somewhere, they’d find the six million . . . And they had!

‘I suppose we ought to move,’ she said.

‘I suppose.’

‘I could easily become as indolent as most of the foreigners out here.’

‘You’re far too intelligent.’

Tor those few kind words, thank you. And next time you call me weak-minded for making a nonsense of my figures, I’ll remind you of them.’ She sat up. ‘Come on, back to work.’

‘They must have had a tyrant like you overseeing the building of the Pyramids.’

They returned to the restaurant and just before she went into the kitchen, he looked at his watch. ‘I might find Carlos if I went along now.’

‘Why not? And persuade him that once we’re open, we want the vegetables picked much younger than they usually do.’

‘I’ll try, but you know what we’re up against—if you don’t grow it as big as it’ll go, you’re throwing away good money.’

He left and went round to the shed in which they kept the Vespino which he used when there was no need for the Citroen van. The Vespino proved difficult to start and as he pushed down the pedal for the fifth time, to no avail, he decided that the moment the restaurant proved successful, he’d buy a Volvo. He grinned. If he were to honour all his recent pledges, they’d have to start up a whole chain of restaurants . . .

Puerto Llueso lay to the east and it was appropriate that the first building he passed was a block of flats under construction, since for the past two years there had been an ever increasing rate of development. In one respect, this could be welcome. The more people, the more potential customers. But now the extent of building had reached the stage where it threatened to destroy the whole charm of the port, a charm largely based on sleepy smallness. Could not those responsible see that the development contained the seeds of destruction?

Ballester’s finca lay between the port and Llueso, three-quarters of a kilometre back from the main road. Two years previously, he’d been left a little money and he’d used this to have a well drilled. He’d been very lucky. They’d struck flowing water that was sweet and not tainted by sea-water, as so much was now that more and more fresh water was extracted from existing sources to service the tourist industry and the natural water table was dropping. He was young, which was unusual since few young men now went into farming or horticulture because the work was so much harder and less well remunerated than were jobs in the tourist industry; even more unusually, he was ready and eager to learn new methods.

He was working a rotovator when Taylor arrived. He stopped this, crossed the brick-hard land, shook hands with traditional courtesy, talked about the weather. It was almost ten minutes before Taylor was able to introduce the subject of the vegetables. Ballester listened, thought, finally said that he thought it might be possible; then he added that the vegetables would, of course, have to cost a bit more . . .

Taylor returned to the port. He stopped at a newsagent to buy an English paper, but all these had been sold and he had to be content with the
Daily Bulletin
. He continued on to one of the front cafes where prices were merely high and not exorbitant and sat at one of the outside tables. He stared across the road at the yachts in the harbour and he thought about his earlier promise to himself. . .

A waiter asked him what he wanted. He replied in good Spanish—he was a natural linguist—that he’d like a cafe cortado. After the waiter had left, he began to read the paper. On the second page, it stated that the Englishman who’d been killed in the car crash near Fogufol had been identified as Steven Thompson. His expression abruptly changed.

The Telex message arrived at ten-thirty on Monday morning. Reference the request for identification of the next-of-kin of Steven Arnold Thompson, passport number C 229570 A. This passport was one of twenty-five which had been stolen before issue some four years previously. An examination of records showed no Steven Arnold Thompson. It was, therefore, impossible to advise on next-of-kin.

London added that they would be grateful if they were informed should any details come to light as to how the deceased had come into possession of this stolen passport and they would in due course welcome the opportunity to examine it.

‘That,’ said Alvarez to a passing fly, ‘is not going to make Salas’s day.’

‘I suppose I should have expected it,’ said Salas over the telephone.

‘Señor . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter how simple a case is beforehand, the moment you have anything to do with it, the complications start.’

‘Señor, I really cannot be blamed . . .’

‘How much do we know about the dead man?’

‘Very little, I’m afraid.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the only person apart from the man who hired him the car and the porter at the hotel—and their evidence is virtually useless—who I’ve been able to find who knew him is Señor Higham. He’s in hospital because he was in the crash . . .’

‘To save time, please assume I have taken the trouble to acquaint myself with the basic facts of the case.’

‘Yes, señor. Unfortunately, there’s very little that Señor Higham could tell me. Señor Thompson—according to the three of them—flew in from somewhere where it was noticeably colder than here, he owned a boat, he was gregarious but yet a little secretive at the same time, and he suffered from migraine.’

‘Are you suggesting that these details are of the greatest importance?’

‘No, señor; I said they weren’t. But I wanted to illustrate how little I’ve been able to find out.’

‘Have no fear on that score.’

‘But he said nothing personal . . .’

‘Has it not occurred to you that he must have said more to the hitch-hiker than that.’

‘I know it sounds reasonable . . .’

‘Which is, no doubt, why you are so reluctant to accept the conclusion. Question him again and this time do so thoroughly.’

‘You don’t think . . .’

‘Will you kindly obey my orders without arguing.’

‘Yes, señor. I’ll drive in to Palma tomorrow morning and . . .’

‘You will drive in this morning.’

‘But I have a great deal of work in hand.’

‘I want this matter cleared up and cleared up quickly.’ The line went dead.

Alvarez replaced the receiver. He’d planned a quiet day. But now he had to rush into Palma and question Higham again, when it was perfectly clear to anyone but a mule-headed superior chief that it would be a complete waste of time. He sighed.

The door banged open and a guard walked in, dropped a large brown envelope on to the desk, held out a sheet of paper. ‘Sign this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s come from Palma on the bus and they want a receipt. That’s all I know.’

Alvarez signed and the guard left. He stared doubtfully at the envelope for several seconds—it was his experience that communications direct from Palma were seldom of a pleasant nature—finally opened it. Inside was a British passport and a wallet. He opened the passport. Jack Higham, accounts clerk, born in London on 21 October, 1941, residence England; height, 1.80 cms; signature a bit of a scrawl; photograph the usual stark, unflattering reproduction which left Higham’s face almost expressionless.

He checked the wallet. No money, of course. No credit cards. A couple of stamps, a receipt from a hostal, a list of numbers with some crossed off, and a photograph of a woman who was laughing. The wife who had run off with another man because she couldn’t take the bad times as well as the good? He replaced the photograph. If she were the wife, then the fact that Higham had kept it showed that his casual acceptance of all that had happened was a mask, concealing his true emotions. Poor sod, thought Alvarez, knowing what it was like to suffer.

* * *

He returned both wallet and passport to the brown envelope.

Higham was sitting in the armchair near the window, to the side of the settee. His colour was much better and the bruising on his chin had almost disappeared. Alvarez handed him the copy of the
Daily Mail
which he had just bought.

‘That’s really decent of you.’

He sat on the edge of the bed, produced the brown envelope and emptied out the wallet and passport. ‘These were dropped into a litter-bin, here, in Palma.’

‘Good God!’

‘I’m afraid all the money’s gone. What happens is, the thief takes everything he wants, then drops the rest. That way, he gets rid of any incriminating evidence at virtually no risk to himself.’ By leaning forward, Alvarez was able to pass them across. Higham flicked through the passport, then checked each compartment of the wallet.