Free An Artistic Way to Go by Roderic Jeffries Page A

and leaned against it, sweating, his stomach churning. Before him was a dramatic scene of sudden, soaring depth and a deep blue sea, but he would rather have faced a king cobra. His torment was not yet at an end. Summoning his last reserve of inner strength, he leaned forward until he could look down the face of the cliff. Below – kilometres below – the sea washed against the rock to cause brief ripples of white foam. If a man … He tightened his grip still further … If a man fell accidentally, there had to be the possibility that on the way down he would slam into the cliff face; if he jumped, he would probably fall in a curve that would keep him clear of that. In the latter case, would the impact with the water knock him unconscious? Were there rocks just below the surface? If he retained consciousness and tried desperately to escape that which he had just courted, was it reasonable to accept that he could have swum along the coast until he found somewhere to land? All questions that might need answering. All questions that he was not going to answer because there was nothing on this earth that would persuade him to descend on a rope to search the cliff face for signs of contact …
    He released his grip, turned, and walked slowly because the two cabos were watching him. He came to a stop by the driving door of the Renault.
    The driver stared up at him, squinting because of the sun. ‘Are you all right?’
    â€˜Why d’you ask?’
    â€˜Because you look bloody awful; like you died yesterday.’
    â€˜Then you can start showing some respect for the dead. Was the BMW locked?’
    â€˜Yeah, and no sign of the key. But there are brains in our outfit, so we got in touch with the distributors and they provided another key.’
    â€˜Where’s that now?’
    The second cabo slapped the breast pocket of his grey-green shirt.
    â€˜OK. You drive the car into Palma and leave it with Traffic for a detailed examination.’
    â€˜I’m finished and off home in an hour.’
    â€˜For the good officer,’ Alvarez said with hypocritical satisfaction, ‘duty always comes before pleasure.’

CHAPTER 10
    When Alvarez drove up to Ca’n Oliver, a battered grey Seat 127 was parked in the turning circle. He climbed out of the Ibiza, crossed to the front door, rang the bell.
    Rosa opened the door. ‘Is there any news?’
    He prevaricated. ‘Nothing definite.’
    â€˜I couldn’t sleep properly last night, thinking of what could have happened to him.’
    That, he was certain, had not been said for effect. It was in the Mallorquin character to be concerned by another’s misfortune, even when there was little enough reason to like that person. ‘I’ve come to have a word with the señora.’
    â€˜Then you’re out of luck. She left here after breakfast and hasn’t been back.’
    Conducting her own search? Or…?
    â€˜Did she tell you how to get hold of her if that was necessary?’
    â€˜No.’
    If searching, wouldn’t she have done so?
    â€˜But maybe Señor Field knows where she is.’
    â€˜Is he the owner of the Seat outside?’
    â€˜That’s right. He’s a friend of the family.’
    â€˜Then I’ll have a word with him.’
    As he entered the hall, she said: ‘Last time I saw him, he was in the sitting-room. You know the way.’
    He was amused that she was not going to be bothered to announce him. When the shepherd was out of sight, the sheep strayed. In any case, no Mallorquin saw merit in unnecessary formality.
    He entered the sitting-room to see an elderly man by the French windows. ‘Señor Field?’
    â€˜That’s right,’ Field answered in Castilian. ‘And you are?’
    It was very unusual to meet an Englishman who not only chose to speak Castilian, but did so with a degree of fluency. ‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de