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

time. ‘Señora, rest assured that almost all missing persons turn up sooner rather than later. But to make certain there is no obvious cause for concern, I’ll be along as soon as I have finished some very important work which, regretfully, I cannot delay.’ He said goodbye quickly – women when emotional could become very argumentative – and replaced the receiver. He settled back in the chair.

CHAPTER 7
    Over the years, the slowly rising land of La Huerta de Llueso had been overtaken and overlaid by luxurious homes, gardens, swimming pools, and even hard tennis courts, so that now only a bare half of the area was under cultivation. It was a sad sight for anyone who could remember when every last centimetre of every field had been worked.
    The narrow lane had been designed for mule carts, not cars. As Alvarez slowly approached a very sharp right-hand bend, made blind by the house on the corner, a Mercedes came round at speed and was forced to brake fiercely enough to make the tyres squeal shrilly. The driver sounded the horn and angrily waved at Alvarez to back. Alvarez did so until the road briefly widened sufficiently for two vehicles to pass. The Mercedes drew level. ‘Pity you didn’t ever learn to drive,’ the man behind the wheel shouted in English through the opened window before accelerating away.
    Alvarez thought up an answer after the Mercedes’s dust had settled. He continued on around the corner, turned left a hundred metres on. Now he was level with a small orange grove in which a man was working with a Roman plough, pulled by a mule, a sight which in the past decade sadly had become rare. Alvarez braked the car to a halt, leaned across to lower the passenger window. ‘Felipe.’
    Caimari shouted at the mule, which came to a stop, head drooping. He dropped the reins, walked between orange trees, came to a stop, and looked up – at this point, the road was a metre higher than the field. ‘It’s you, Enrique! Not seen you for a long time.’
    â€˜Life gets even busier. How’s the family?’
    â€˜Can’t complain.’
    He was of a generation who had endured great want and hardship and had learned the truth in the old Mallorquin saying, Do not complain that the rich man is robbing you lest he realize you still have something worth stealing. ‘Which is Ca’n Oliver, owned by English people?’
    He thought. ‘Along the next dirt track to the right. The land belonged to old Serra until he died.’
    â€˜D’you know the English señor who lives there?’
    â€˜I’ve seen him. He’s not seen me.’
    Alvarez correctly understood that the Englishman was one of those foreigners who snobbishly ignored the locals. ‘His wife says he’s gone missing since yesterday morning.’
    â€˜Surprised she’s bothered to report it.’
    â€˜Why d’you say that?’
    â€˜It don’t mean nothing. And if you ain’t anything better to do than talk, I have.’ He turned, stumped his way back between the trees, picked up the reins, shouted at the mule and resumed ploughing.
    Alvarez drove on until he reached a dirt track on his right, turned on to this. A couple of hundred metres on, a drive flanked by oleanders, grown as trees, not bushes, led up to a turning circle in front of a very large bungalow. Visible were flower beds which were a mass of colour, and part of a lawn that looked fit enough for bowling. Because the land sloped very gradually all the way to the distant shore, Llueso Bay was visible; seen at this distance, all development around the water became mere blotches that hardly diminished the beauty of the scene.
    The door opened and he turned to face a young woman in neat maid’s uniform. He introduced himself.
    â€˜You’d best come in instead of standing out there,’ she said pertly.
    He stepped into the large, air-conditioned hall, almost icily cool in