Free Relatively Dangerous by Roderic Jeffries Page B

inscribed. When the last cubicle was filled, the first one was emptied and the bones were taken out and stored with the bones of those locals who had died well back in the past; in death there was no equality, in disintegration there was.
    Religion raised one further question. Where was the burial ceremony to be held? The solution of the Fogufol priest, a traditionalist who viewed the spirit of œcumenicism in a less than happy light, was to ask that it be held under the archway of the entrance; after all, Moses had been allowed to view the Promised Land.
    Alvarez parked next to the Citroen 2CV van, as battered as his 600, in front of a narrow flowerbed which ran the length of the cemetery wall. He walked slowly to the arched entrance to the cemetery. There were very few people present. The Anglican churchman was pacing backwards and forwards, a puzzled look on his ancient, lined, and toothy face; each time he reached the outer side of the archway, he came to a stop and stared up the path, seeking a press of people which never materialized. The undertaker and two assistants waited lethargically on one side, three men employed by the local council even more lethargically on the other. Taylor, his rugged face set in sullen lines, dressed in open shirt and cotton trousers, stood by the doorway into the chapel.
    Cicadas shrilled, a hoopoe hooped, sheep bells clanged, and dogs barked. The clergyman cleared his throat as he looked at his watch. ‘Perhaps we should begin the service.’ He picked up a pile of printed sheets and handed these around; the council employees and the undertakers refused them. The clergyman announced the first hymn, la-di-dahed the tune, and then led the singing; it turned out to be a solo.
    Alvarez studied the young man. He was casually dressed, as if he could not be bothered to offer the deceased any respect, yet his expression was unmistakably sad and, perhaps, resentful, in the sense that the living sometimes resented the fact that the dead had left them . . . The son had told Cantallops over the phone that he could not come to the funeral and this man’s face was bronzed, whereas almost all newly arrived visitors from Britain were white, yet if the son did live in England there was still no obvious answer to the question, how had he learned of his father’s death?
    The clergyman announced that a last prayer would be said at the graveside and left. Taylor followed him. Alvarez returned to his car, opened both doors and sat, beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks and back to make him feel still more sticky and uncomfortable.
    After a while, Taylor walked out of the archway and across to the Citroen van. As he opened the driving door, Alvarez called out. Taylor looked at him for a moment, climbed in behind the wheel, slammed the door shut. Alvarez crossed to the van as the starter engine engaged, but the engine refused to fire. ‘One moment, please, señor.’
    ‘What d’you want?’
    ‘First, to know your name.’
    ‘How the hell’s that any of your business?’
    ‘Cuerpo General de Policia.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So I would like to know your name, please.’
    ‘Where’s your identity card?’
    ‘My what?’
    ‘Your card, proving you are a detective.’
    Alvarez spoke with astonishment. ‘Would I be here, on a day this hot, attending the funeral of a man I never knew, if I were not?’
    ‘How do I know what anyone on this crazy island will do?’
    ‘Your papers, please.’
    ‘Look, I’m here for a funeral. That’s all.’
    ‘Of course. I would still like to see them.’
    Taylor reached across to the locker and brought out of this a heavy-duty plastic envelope which, sullenly, he passed across.
    Alvarez briefly checked the insurance papers, yearly licence, and photostat copy of a Spanish driving licence. ‘Your name is Michael Taylor and your address is Calle Llube, number fifteen, Puerto Llueso?’
    ‘That’s what written down.’
    ‘Do you know that you should have with you your