Free Three and One Make Five by Roderic Jeffries Page B

They’re a big firm and their boats are usually good. So don’t expect them to admit that any of the gas lines or equipment could have been faulty.’
     
    Laraix valley stretched from Llueso to the Sierra de Roig which were part of the chain of mountains which, running from east to west, formed the backbone of the island. At no point wider than a kilometre, with stark mountains to the west and smaller, more civilized hills to the east, the valley in summer had a rugged beauty: in winter, however, when clouds stretched from side to side to enclose it, it became a dour, unfriendly, and at times even menacing place.
    Ca Na Rostra was along a dirt track which led off the single metalled road. Set in an oblong field in which grew oranges, lemons, grapefruit, walnuts, almonds, pomegranates, and figs, the stone-built, two-hundred-year-old house had been heavily and unsympathetically restored.
    Originally box-shaped, arched balconies and flat-roofed extensions had turned it into a surburban folly: the folly was compounded by a kidney-shaped swimming pool with changing rooms and barbecue area in Roman style beyond.
    Alvarez knocked on the front door. A wheeling raptor above the field was working a thermal while not far below it a flight of pigeons passed, unconcerned: the shrilling of cicadas was constant: in the next field, the bells around the necks of a flock of sheep maintained an unmusical, but not offensive, jangling: from a distance came the high pitched, unvarying note of an engine working a water-pump. There was no answer to his knock. He used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face and neck, then tried the door to find it locked. He walked round the side of the house to the back door which was half wood, half glass, and tried that: it also was locked and in none of the obvious hiding places was there a key.
    He returned to his car and drove up the long, loose-surfaced drive to the dirt track, turned left, and then stopped when level with a small house on the right-hand side. An elderly man was watering a flower-bed with a hose. Alvarez climbed out of the car. ‘Good morning, señor,’ he said in English, taking note of the floppy sun hat, the white shirt with slightly frayed collar, baggy shorts, socks, plimsolls, and tight moustache.
    “Morning,’ replied the Englishman in clipped tones which made it clear he was not buying anything.
    Alvarez introduced himself.
    ‘And my name’s Barker . . . You’ve come about the break-in at the Attrays’, have you? As it happened only a couple of weeks ago, I suppose you’re really on the ball!’ He gave a short, sharp bark of sound which might have been a laugh.
    ‘No, señor, I regret I have not come about that.’ The name of Attray seemed vaguely familiar, he thought.
    Perhaps it appeared in one of the reports lying about his desk. ‘I would like to speak about señor Short, who owns the house down there.’
    ‘That’s more than I would.’
    ‘You do know him?’
    ‘Depends what you mean by know. I’ve met the fellow. But I’ve taken damn good care not to get to know him . . . Blast!’ He had not been concentrating on what he’d been doing and in consequence had kept the hose directed at one spot for too long with the inevitable consequence that the crumbly soil had begun to wash away. ‘Here, hold this while I go and turn off. And watch where you point it.’ He left, disappearing round the corner of the house.
    Alvarez took the hose and almost immediately he saw, to his horror, a couple of Sweet William plants washed out of the ground. He hurriedly put the hose down on the lawn of gama-grass, knelt, and forced the plants back into the soil with scant regard for their root systems. His shoe hit the hosepipe and the nozzle swung round to soak his knees before the flow stopped. He had only just regained his feet when Barker returned.
    ‘Soaked yourself, I see. You Mallorquins don’t know the first thing about gardening. The wife went into the local