Death Trick Read online

  It was comforting to be certain that Raquel would never subject him to such ridiculously emotional scenes. She knew the score. But as sophisticated as she might believe herself, he’d soon identified her weakness. She yearned to lead the kind of luxurious life which trashy reading and viewing had persuaded her the wealthy lived. So it hadn’t taken many dinners at the most expensive restaurants in Palma, or visits to the Casino, to stop her pointing out the difference in their ages. . .

  He heard the crackling sounds of an approaching motorized bike of some sort and he vaguely wondered who this could be? Someone to speak to Julia, perhaps, but certainly not Raquel; Raquel would never use so plebeian a machine . . .

  Julia came into the courtyard. ‘There’s a man who wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked irritatedly.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Why the devil didn’t you ask?’

  She made no answer.

  ‘Find out who he is and what he wants.’ She really was stupid, but if he sacked her that would be to forgo the pleasure of employing her.

  She returned. ‘It’s Carlos Vidal.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He says he wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Is he a local?’

  ‘He’s a forastero,’ she replied, using a term which signified that he was a foreigner, not in the sense that he was not a Spaniard, but that he did not come from the island.

  ‘He can make an appointment to see me in the office.’

  She left.

  He watched a humming-bird hawk-moth hover in front of a lantana in flower as he planned the course of the seduction. One glass of wine and then he’d suggest a tour of the house. She’d wonder if that was really wise, but finally would agree. And in the master bedroom, he’d placed a small piece of jewellery on the dressing-table . . .

  ‘Señor.’

  Startled, he looked round. Framed in the archway stood a young man in faded shirt and patched jeans. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded roughly.

  ‘The great favour of a word with you, señor.’

  Andaluce, he judged immediately because of the way in which some of the words were slurred; a judgement confirmed by the jet-black hair, hawkish features, dark complexion, and last but not least, by his manner, which was one of insolent equality despite the poverty of his dress. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

  ‘The señora very kindly told me I should make an appointment at your office. But, señor, what I have to say is not for an office.’

  ‘Then clear off.’

  ‘You have been a friend of Señorita Eulalia Garcia, have you not?’

  ‘That’s none of your damned business.’

  ‘She needs help. I am here to tell you that you must give it.’

  For a moment, he was too surprised to speak; then the words came in a rush. ‘Must! I must! A tattered gipsy comes here and tries to tell me what I must do!’

  ‘Señor, she is very distressed . . .’

  Roig shouted: ‘Julia!’

  She appeared so quickly that it was clear she had been close by, listening to what was said.

  ‘Show him out.’

  She spoke to Vidal in a low voice. He shook his head. She spoke again, with more urgency, gesticulating with her hands. He shook his head a second time. She shrugged her shoulders and was silent.

  ‘Señor, I beg of you to understand . . .’ began Vidal.

  ‘Tell Pedro to come here and throw this bloody man out,’ Roig shouted.

  ‘Señor, you are making a very serious mistake.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something, it’s you who’s making the bad mistake; as you’ll find out soon enough when Pedro gets here.’

  ‘I have tried to speak with you, señor.’ Vidal’s manner remained courteous. ‘It is not my fault that you are too stupid to listen.’ He bowed briefly, turned, and left; his back was proudly straight, as if he had just been awarded two ears and a tail.

  CHAPTER 3

  Roig turned off the main Llueso/Puerto Llueso road on to a dirt track and the Citroën lurched into and out of potholes, despite its forgiving suspension. Just as well, he thought, that he wasn’t in the Porsche 928 which he’d so nearly bought from a German who’d run into financial troubles in his business because of bad legal advice. As beautifully made as they were, they weren’t for this kind of chassis-wrecking surface. Yet what a temptation it had been! The smart and the rich had been running Porsches for a couple of years, ever since it had become easier and cheaper to own a foreign made car . . . Yet he was a clever man who could recognize that there were times when it was wiser not to appear too smart or too rich. Now was such a time. In recent years, the system of taxation had changed from a levy on a group (with members of that group deciding what proportion of the total demanded each of them should bear) to individual assessment. Originally, every Mallorquin had laughed at this fresh stupidity from Madrid. But slowly it was becoming painfully clear that one really was going to have to provide figures which would be accepted by a beady-eyed, suspicious, vindictive, forastero tax inspector, or suffer very severe consequences. And if one were running a Porsche 928, how did one convince that man that one had virtually no capital and earned no more than a million?

  He slowed as he came abreast of an ugly house. Almost there. And to his angry annoyance, he recognized that he was very reluctant to meet Oakley. Why? What had he to fear? He was just as clever, as he’d proved over the past few months. Or had he? Had Oakley somehow discovered the truth? Impossible. Yet, if Oakley had, then that hint of steel beneath the cheerful, friendly, ironic exterior, might come more sharply into focus . . .

  He turned into a narrower and rougher track—almond trees to the right, orange and lemon trees to the left—and continued to the end where there was a turning circle, in the centre of which was an olive with gnarled, hollow trunk and a fan of branches which spoke of regular pruning. Beyond was an old stone farmhouse.

  As he stepped out of the car, Oakley came through the doorway of the house. “Morning. Very kind of you to come along.’

  Since it had been more of an order than a request, the word* could have been ironic; yet Oakley’s expression suggested only friendly gratitude. Roig never trusted people who could conceal their thoughts. ‘I had business at this end of the island in any case, señor.’

  ‘Good. Then I haven’t upset your working day . . . But do forget the señor. As I’ve told you before, I’m Gerald or Gerry; provided, of course, that it’s spelt with a G.’ He smiled.

  Roig couldn’t understand the significance of that and had the uncomfortable feeling he was being mocked.

  ‘But let’s move, out of the sun. It really has been too hot these past few days, even for me. Yet according to the BBC this morning, in London it’s overcast and cool. If only we could swap a little of our sun for a little—and only a little —of their cool.’

  The farmhouse was typical of its period, built long before foreigners had come to live on the island and basically owing everything to need and nothing to aesthetics; the walls were of stone, bonded by Mallorquin cement which powdered, the shallow roof was supported by timber beams, the windows were small and originally had had solid wooden shutters which had done away with the need for glass. In the past few years it had been reformed and the work had obviously been done under the supervision of someone with taste and intelligence.

  They passed through two rooms, the one leading directly into the other, and out on to the south-facing patio. Overhead vines, trained over wires, provided a shade which shimmered as the very light breeze stroked the leaves.

  ‘Grab a seat,’ said Oakley, ‘and tell me what you’d like to drink?’

  ‘A whisky, please.’

  As Oakley returned into the house, Roig sat and looked out. Beyond the patio was a small garden bounded by a low drystone wall and then a field, recently harvested, in which grew fig, almond, and algarroba trees; several sheep were grazing the stubble. As a boy, living i
n the casita, one of his jobs had been to herd their small flock of sheep. These had had such little grazing, of such poor quality, that they’d forever been breaking out in search of something more to eat. Each time they’d escaped him, his father had beaten him with a thick leather strap. He hated sheep, couldn’t even enjoy eating lamb, although one might have thought that that would furnish a welcome revenge . . .

  Oakley returned. ‘One Scotch.’ He put a glass down in front of Roig, sat, raised his own glass. ‘Health, wealth, and happiness; and I leave you to place them in order of priority.’

  Was that a malicious dig at his values? Roig didn’t know the answer and silently cursed his inability to understand Oakley.

  ‘I thought it would be an idea to have a chat—quite apart from the pleasure of meeting again.’

  Roig drank.

  ‘Things aren’t going too well, are they?’

  ‘Aren’t they?’ Roig said, trying to sound surprised.

  ‘For one thing, the sales of plots of land haven’t proved as high as projected . . .’

  ‘I did say from the beginning that we were asking far too much per square metre.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, you did, but I still disagree with you. The cutting edge of our sales pitch is that we’re offering exclusivity; the world’s become so democratic that one can’t demand good breeding, so one has to rely on wealth and shut one’s eyes to the accompanying vulgarity. We’ve made certain that only the rich will buy into the urbanization.’

  Roig couldn’t decide how serious Oakley was being.

  ‘But, in fact, that’s not really the issue; if it were merely a case of depressed sales, I wouldn’t be worrying because I’m convinced that once a sufficient number of people complain loudly enough about the ridiculous prices we’re charging, we’ll sell everything . . . No, what really bothers me is that there seems to be a heavy drain on resources which isn’t immediately explainable, but is putting us into serious trouble. D’you know anything about it?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Why? Because, Pablo, I have a very great respect for your intelligence.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Don’t try to hide behind your overdeveloped sense of modesty.’

  Roig, again wondering whether Oakley was speaking seriously or mockingly, uncertain how much was known or guessed, experienced a growing fear. He drained his glass.

  ‘You are beyond any doubt a very sharp and intelligent man. That, of course, is why I approached you to join the company in the first instance. That and the fact that you equally obviously are a man who—how shall I put this?— knows how to fix things greatly to his advantage.’

  What did that really mean?

  ‘So, because you’re a clever man, Pablo, perhaps you’ve begun to suspect that someone could be swindling the company?’

  ‘Certainly not. That’s impossible,’ he replied, with more emphasis than he’d intended.

  ‘Impossible or improbable? Or would you say that the answer’s far more likely to lie in thoughtless inefficiency rather than in thoughtful dishonesty? Frankly, I hope that that is not so. Thoughtful dishonesty can be sharply reversed, thoughtless inefficiency can take a fatal time to correct. And it’s beginning to look as if we don’t have much time in hand.’ Oakley stood. ‘You’ll have a refill, won’t you?’ He did not immediately move away after picking up the glasses, but remained by the table. ‘If you’ve reason to suspect there may be something going on but, being a lawyer, you only speak out when you’re twice certain, have a word on the quiet with whoever’s concerned and suggest that if all the ill-gotten gains are refunded . . .’

  ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘Then there’s no need to continue and I can, as the Scots so aptly put it, save my breath for cooling the porridge. Though the thought of porridge in this temperature . . .’ He smiled, left, and went into the house.

  Roig thought about everything that had been said and his fear subsided and was replaced by a sense of comforting superiority. Clearly, Oakley had not the slightest idea of exactly what had been going on . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  Julia Monserrat awoke. The year before, she would have left the bed immediately, but she allowed herself a further few minutes’ rest; it was one concession to a perpetually tired and aching body she now allowed.

  From the other bedroom there came the sound of snoring. She’d heard Adolfo return, but had no idea what time of the night that had been. From the noise, he’d been tight again. She sighed. She kept trying to persuade him not to drink so much, but his job as a waiter in a cafe militated against her efforts. It was a tragedy that his father, who would surely have taught him more sense than she’d been able to do, had died when he was only five.

  So many years without a man, she thought as she stared up at the still darkened ceiling. Her friends often complained that their husbands were forever demanding and told her how lucky she was to be able to lead her own life; she never replied that meeting a thousand demands was far preferable to perpetual loneliness.

  She switched on the light, climbed out of bed, and went into the bathroom. There was running water now. That and the electricity were the only changes there had been since her husband had died. Even if she’d had the money for extensive improvements—friends had altered their houses almost beyond recognition—she wasn’t certain she’d have had the work done; somehow it seemed right to keep the house as near as possible to how it had been when her husband had been alive.

  She went out and into the barn which was built on to the side of the house. Here, she milked the only cow that was lactating, then collected up an armful of fodder for the rabbits. These were plagued by myxomatosis—she’d lost two in the past week—and after feeding them she took down the sacking over the fronts of the wooden cages and resoaked this in disinfectant before replacing it. She began to carry the pail of milk to the kitchen, but was reminded by the two cats that they had not yet been given their small ration of milk and she turned back to fill the shallow earthenware bowl they used. That done, she took the milk through. When she returned from work that afternoon, she must water the tomatoes and pick beans ready for her friend to take to the market the next day . . . Life would have been a lot easier if only Adolfo had given a hand, but he flatly refused, saying that he did his work at the cafe and when he was at home, he rested.

  For breakfast, she ate a plateful of milk and bread. Then she bicycled the six kilometres to Casa Gran. Much of the journey was uphill and recently she’d been finding the effort of pedalling very much harder, but she’d no thought of giving up the job because she needed the money to keep the house going. When Adolfo had started work, she’d expected him to pay towards his keep. He never had.

  She began to sweat, although normally she looked too dried-up to be capable of doing so. She waved to an old friend, at work in a field, and had hurriedly to grab the handlebars to keep her balance. Less than a year ago, through waving to someone else, she’d fallen and had cut and bruised her ankle so badly that she’d been unable to go to Casa Gran for several days. Roig had turned up at her house and had threatened to get someone else unless she returned immediately, long before the ankle had properly healed . . .

  She thought she understood Roig’s motive for humiliating and bullying her, but not the reasoning behind such motive. How could he sensibly blame her for the way life had been when they’d been young? And how could he now be so blind to decency as to flaunt his excesses in front of her? Not that one could really use the word ‘decency’ where his women were concerned. No better than cheap whores. Except for poor Eulalia. So innocent, she had been seduced by words of love. Roig would never commit a crime greater than speaking those words . . .

  She turned on to the dirt track which led to the big house. Ferriol was spraying vines and when he saw her he stopped and came across, sliding the knapsack sprayer off his shoulders as he came up to where she waited. He nodded a good morning. She pointed at the nearest row of staked vines.
‘They’re looking all right.’

  ‘There’ll be a crop, if it don’t rain heavy.’ Much rain between now and the harvest would create meteorological history, but if one worked on the land, one did not tempt fate by assuming favourable weather.

  There was a long silence, which she broke. ‘I’d better move on and start some work.’

  ‘Aye. He’s up there.’

  ‘The señor is?’ Despite her contempt for the way he behaved, she never referred to him without the respectful title.

  ‘He was there when I arrived; leastwise, his car was.’

  ‘Then maybe he’s spent the night here.’

  ‘With the latest, like as not, so he won’t have done much sleeping.’ He chuckled salaciously.

  She showed her disapproval of such talk. Ferriol was far too interested in the women up at the house—a man of his age should have calmed down.

  She climbed on to the bicycle and cycled up the track and round to the back of the house, which faced the mountains. Roig’s Citroën was parked outside the garage; she was vaguely surprised that if he had spent the night in the house, he had not put the car under cover since he normally fussed obsessively over all his possessions. She left her bike, crossed the cobbled yard to a stone urn, and felt underneath this for the key to the main back door which wouldn’t be unlocked because Roig never used it—the back door was for servants. She unlocked the door and went in. The passage gave access to the unfurnished room in which she kept all the cleaning things. She lifted an apron from one of the hooks, picked up the cane basket in which were dusters and furniture polish, and left. Today was the day for polishing the furniture in the bedrooms.