An Artistic Way to Go by Roderic Jeffries Read Free Book Online Page A

ordered her brother.
    â€˜Clear it yourself.’
    She turned to Jaime. ‘Tell him he’s got to do it.’
    â€˜It’s women’s work.’ Jaime said to Alvarez: ‘She thinks you’re after Adela. You aren’t, are you?’
    â€˜You think I’m that crazy? Luis always said that he’d have been more comfortable living with a porcupine.’
    Jaime jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. ‘For God’s sake don’t let on until after the meal.’
    For once, Alvarez thought, Jaime had spoken sense. Let her work herself into a full temper and even at this late moment she might deliberately become so careless that the meal was less than perfect. He poured himself another drink.
    She carried in plates, returned for an earthenware dish which she set on the earthenware ring in the centre of the table. She lifted the lid and prepared to serve.
    Sopa de peix de Sant Telm! Alvarez thought. When made by Dolores, a fish soup to lift up a man to dine with the gods. As he drained his glass and refilled it with wine, he allowed his thoughts to become more charitable. Women had many failings, but there were some whose achievements went a long way towards excusing these.
    *   *   *
    Members of the Cuerpo General de Policia normally operated from the police stations of the Policia Armada y de Trafico, but some years before and as a temporary measure, Alvarez had been given an office in the Guardia post in Llueso. He had remained in Llueso ever since, an arrangement that suited him since otherwise he’d have been stationed several kilometres away in Playa Nueva and have been unable to return home to lunch.
    He settled in the chair behind the desk and pondered the question, What might Dolores have cooked for lunch? It was quite some time since they’d had Greixnera de xot, and if anyone could turn lamb stew into a dish fit to be served in a five-crossed-forks restaurant, she could … The telephone rang. Grunting from the effort, he wriggled himself into an upright position and lifted the receiver.
    â€˜There’s a call for you,’ said the duty cabo. ‘Some foreign woman can’t find her husband.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜He’s missing.’
    â€˜Since when?’
    â€˜How should I know?’
    â€˜By asking her.’
    â€˜That’s your job, not mine.’ There was a change of tone. ‘You’re through, señora.’
    She said, in Spanish: ‘My husband has gone…’
    He interrupted her, speaking in English since only an Anglo-Saxon could so molest a language. ‘What is your name, please?’
    â€˜For God’s sake, he’s missing…’
    â€˜I do have to have your name, señora.’
    â€˜Rachael Cooper.’
    â€˜And you live where?’
    â€˜Ca’n Oliver. In the huerta.’
    â€˜When did you last see your husband?’
    â€˜Yesterday morning, when I went out to do some shopping.’
    â€˜What time was that?’
    â€˜About ten. When I got back, he wasn’t here and his car was gone.’
    â€˜Were you expecting him to return last night?’
    â€˜Of course I was.’
    â€˜Have you spoken to friends to discover if he’s with them?’
    â€˜No one’s seen him. Something terrible’s happened, I know it has.’
    â€˜Do you have reason to suppose he might be in trouble? Has he received any threats?’
    â€˜No.’
    If the husband really had disappeared, then an investigation should start immediately. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, ‘missing’ husbands preferred not to be found until they had had time to concoct a story good enough to allay the suspicions of their wives. Added to which – though, of course, this was not in any sense a deciding factor – by the time he’d driven to the huerta, talked to the señora, and determined the facts, it would be long after lunch