Juan Foot in the Grave Read online

  JUAN FOOT IN THE GRAVE

  Roger Keevil

  Copyright © 2012 Roger Keevil

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  ISBN 978 1780887 180

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To my Ma, who took me to see my first Agatha Christie film, and so gave me a taste for

  murder!

  ‘Juan Foot in the Grave’ is a work of fiction and wholly the product of the imagination of the author. All persons, events, locations and organisations are entirely fictitious, and are not intended to resemble in any way any actual persons living or dead, events, locations or organisations. Any such resemblance is entirely coincidental, and is wholly in the mind of the reader.

  As if you didn’t know.

  Prologue

  The Case of the British Connection

  “Guv… ”

  Detective Inspector Andy Constable opened one eye. The bright colours of the floral beach shorts standing next to his sun lounger made him shut it again in a hurry.

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Copper, don’t call me that here. Why I ever let you talk me into coming on this holiday is beyond me.”

  “Well, somebody had to use the other ticket, sir.” Detective Sergeant Dave Copper sounded hurt. “ ‘A holiday for two on the Costa Blanca’, that was the prize in the station Christmas draw. And it was either you or my brother. And he’s away in the Isle of Wight.”

  “Parkhurst, I shouldn’t wonder,” muttered Constable. “Anyway, what is it?”

  “Well, guv… ”

  Constable glared. “I’ve told you – call me ‘A.C.’”

  “Sorry… A.C. It’s that local police guy we were talking to in the bar yesterday – you know, Alfredo. Some bloke’s been found dead, and Alfredo reckons there’s a link with the British community out here, and we might be able to help him sort it out.”

  “Copper, if this is one of your more elaborate jokes… ”

  “Honestly, sir, no.” The injured innocence was plain in Dave Copper’s voice. “It’s genuine. I mean, there’s a body and everything. Alfredo’s just sent his son over with the message.”

  “If this turns out to be a wind-up, they’ll have a body soon enough. They’ll be able to read the story in the local English-language papers – ‘Easily Explained Death Of Holidaying British Detective’.”

  “It’s not a joke, sir,” insisted Copper.

  Constable sighed. “For crying out loud. We’ve only been here five minutes. Talk about ‘never off duty’.” He pushed himself upright. “All right then, Copper – where is Alfredo?”

  “Over in the bar, sir… A.C. Er, guv… couldn’t you call me D.C., just while we’re on holiday, like?”

  Along the road in the local bar, Captain Alfredo was waiting. Finishing his brandy, he turned and took off his mirrored sunglasses as his two British colleagues entered.

  “Hola, que tal?” Constable greeted him cheerily but then, wishing he’d actually completed that CD course in Spanish he’d bought three years before, lapsed into the comfort of English. “What’s your problem?”

  Alfredo’s English was, fortunately, excellent. “It is the owner of one of the local English television companies,” he explained. “A man named Rookham – his company is called CostaLot TV. His assistant found him dead on the floor when she arrived at his office this morning. We think perhaps maybe he is murdered because he is so unpopular. Maybe it is revenge.”

  “How’s that then?” asked Copper.

  “It is many different things,” replied Alfredo. “It is all the time in the papers. All the English people complain of being over-charged, or the service engineers do not keep appointments, or the television goes off for no reason in the middle of the football, as it did last night, which here in Spain is a clear motive for murder! I do not know how it is in your country.”

  Constable found himself intrigued by the problem. “Right, then – where’s your dead man? Let’s see what we can do.”

  The offices of CostaLot TV were only a few minutes away in Alfredo’s police car. As they passed the young officer on the door – Constable couldn’t help feeling a growing irritation that policemen were getting younger and better-looking these days – the two Britons noticed a faint smell of burning in the premises. On the desk, the red eye of a piece of electrical equipment was winking at them remorselessly – the only movement in the room, where the body of a middle-aged man was sprawled on the floor with an expression of horror on his face.

  “I see what you mean,” remarked Constable. “He’s not looking too well, is he? Let’s have a look – and Copper, turn off that blasted red light, whatever it is. It’s driving me mad.”

  “Righty-ho, guv… er, I mean A.C. Ow!” Copper jumped back with a yelp of pain as sparks flew from his fingertips.

  “What the hell are you playing at, man?”

  “It’s this thing, guv,” expostulated Copper. “It’s a telephone answering machine. That red light’s the ‘Machine Full’ indicator, but the On-Off button is live. That’s what gave me a shock when I touched it.”

  “Blasted foreign electrical equipment,” snapped Constable. “Sorry, Alfredo, no offence.”

  “Actually,” replied Alfredo, unplugging the device from the wall, “I think you will see that this is a British machine. It says “British Telefon” on the backside.”

  “He’s right, guv. The bloke must have brought it over from England.” Copper looked again closely. “But look, that’s not a British plug, is it? It’s a two-pin. He must have changed it so’s he could use it here.”

  “There you are, then,” retorted Constable triumphantly. “I know the identity of your murderer, and how it was done.”

  “So please, explain for me.”

  “Mr. Rookham had obviously messed about with the wiring when he changed the plug, and not earthed the machine properly. You told us that everybody was up in arms and complaining about this guy’s TV service. It looks as if loads of people rang up to complain last night, more than usual because of the football, so that the answering machine exceeded its capacity and the red light started to flash. When Mr. Rookham came in first thing this morning, he must have pressed the button to turn off the light. You can check with the post-mortem, but I’m guessing that he must have had a weak heart, unlike Copper here who is as strong as a horse, and the electric shock killed him.”

  “So who is the murderer?” asked a slightly bewildered Alfredo.

  “Obviously,” replied Constable, “the entire British community. But I think,” he continued, smiling, “that if you decide to charge the whole lot of them, they have a very clea
r case of self-defence. After all, the British are quite fond of football too.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” agreed Alfredo. “And so I can tell my Commander that the case is solved. And perhaps you will join me for a large brandy in my bar.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” grinned Constable. “Another triumph for the team of A.C. and D.C. Come on, Copper – I think it’s about time we started enjoying our holiday.”

  Chapter 1

  Detective Inspector Andy Constable disliked November. It was wet, it was cold, the nights were drawing in with a vengeance, and the approach of Christmas meant that the incidence of shoplifting rocketed. Which might not be thought the worst of the world’s problems, but it meant an annoying increase in the crime statistics, which led to the local papers ramping up their criticism of local policing methods, which led to the upper echelons of the County Constabulary breathing down his neck in an effort to find some success stories to offset the bad press. All of which tended to increase his load of paperwork, which was one of his un-favourite parts of the job.

  Andy ran his hands through his hair, dark brown but with a bit more grey in it than he would have liked, and down across his face. His friendly brown eyes – friendly unless you found yourself on the opposite side of a table in the interview room with some explaining to do, that is – caught sight of his reflection in the glass partition facing his desk. Not too bad for forty-something, he thought. No jowls, not too many lines around the eyes, and if he took care not to let his head drop, there was absolutely no sign of even the start of a double chin. “Oh for goodness sake, get a grip and stop being miserable,” he thought. And then, “Note to self. Do not bunk off more gym sessions than you absolutely have to. Do not let the waistline escape.”

  “Morning, guv!” Detective Sergeant Dave Copper positively bounced into the room. “How are we this bright and sunny?”

  Andy Constable bit back the retort that almost sprang to his lips, and took a deep breath. “Copper, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “How so, sir?”

  The inspector laughed. “Although your fine detective’s brain will have clearly brought you to the conclusion that today is neither sunny nor particularly bright, you come bounding in here like a two-year-old with a song on your lips and a smile on your face, as if the world is a toy which you just got for Christmas. How in the name of all that’s holy do you do it?”

  “Power of positive thinking, sir,” smiled Copper in reply. “Gets me through the day.”

  In his late twenties, with a shock of light brown hair which insisted on sticking up in every direction despite all attempts to tame it, Dave Copper looked as if nothing would ever be allowed to get the better of his natural good humour. His face always looked as if it was ready to burst into a grin, and in fact on more than one occasion his easy ability to see the funny side of a situation had caused many of his superiors to wonder whether he was in the right job. Andy Constable had never had quite the same doubts – in the three years or so that he had been working with his junior colleague, he had quietly enjoyed the younger man’s sometimes irreverent take on the business of detection and his often surprising insights into complicated cases. And if Copper sometimes overstepped the mark, and Constable felt compelled to slap him down, no matter. Each man liked and respected the other. They made a good team.

  “By the way, sir,” continued Copper, “on the subject of Christmas, have you got your ticket yet for the Christmas draw?”

  Constable shook his head. “No, I have not,” he replied shortly.

  “Oh sir, why not?” asked Copper, plonking himself into a chair across the desk from the inspector.

  “Because in all likelihood, it would be singularly pointless. I’ve never won a thing in that raffle in all the years I’ve been doing it – unless you count that bottle of Blue Tower two years ago, which I could not give away quickly enough.”

  “Negative thinking again, sir. You really ought to give it a go. And there’s a decent prize this year, for a change.”

  “Oh?”

  “Holiday, sir. You remember that business with the guy who attempted to rob the building society, and then ran into the travel agency and tried to hold the owner hostage after our mob turned up before he could get away?”

  “I do, sergeant,” answered Constable. “I seem to remember you covered yourself in glory with that one, even though you weren’t actually on duty at the time.”

  Dave Copper blushed. “It wasn’t really anything, sir, and you know that. I just happened to be on the spot at the time. I was just getting some cash out of the hole in the wall, and I heard all this yelling and the alarm went off, and then somebody scooted past me and into the travel agent when one of our cars pulled up. Perfect timing by uniform, for once. Actually, the guy was a total idiot. He had one of those joke shop nose-and-glasses sets on, and a toy gun which wouldn’t have fooled a seven-year-old.”

  “Well, it was good enough to put the wind up the building society cashier and the travel agent,” remarked Constable. “Although obviously not a highly-trained detective such as yourself.”

  “As you say, sir,” grinned Copper. “So while uniform were far… fiddling about on the pavement, I just followed him into the travel shop, where there was a lot of screaming and cowering going on, so I thought, ‘I can’t be doing with all this’ and grabbed the guy. He wriggled and managed to get out the back door, and tried to do a runner down the back alley.”

  “Where, if my memory serves me correctly, you managed to catch him and bring him down with a textbook flying tackle with his face nestling in the fragrant overspill from the fishmonger’s bins.”

  “School rugby first fifteen, sir,” said Copper. “You never lose the knack. Anyway, the whole point is, the travel agent was so grateful that he’s donated a holiday to the station raffle as a prize. Which I am going to try to win.”

  “I can’t help thinking that it would have been suitably generous if Mr. Patel had just given you a free holiday as a token of his gratitude and cut out the middle man.”

  “What, and run the risk of accusations of police corruption, sir?” retorted Copper in mock horror. “No, I’m going to rely on positive thinking again. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. Tell you what, guv – if I do win the holiday, I’ll take you with me. Can’t say fairer than that.”

  “Yeah, right,” grunted Constable. “Good luck with that, sergeant. Anyway, if you haven’t anything better to do, shall we try doing some work? Pass me that blue file off that cabinet… ”

  *

  “You doing anything special over Christmas, Andy?” The custody sergeant had been in the force long enough, and had known his theoretically superior colleague long enough, to get away with both the informal address and the pair of reindeer antlers on the headband he was wearing. Together with the small twinkling fibre-optic tree on his desk, they added an incongruous festivity to the rather bleak area which led to the police station’s cells.

  “Not really,” answered Constable. “After that business at the College Ball, I’m knackered. I thought I’d just slump in front of the television and eat myself silly for the actual three days that I’ve got off. Anything except chocolate, of course.” He laughed.

  “Too right,” agreed his colleague with a grimace. “I don’t reckon I’ll be eating much chocolate for a while – well, not after you found what they put in the stuff! And I suppose you can’t really spend Christmas with the family, can you? Where is it your sister lives?”

  Constable smiled. “Vancouver. Which I think you’ll agree is a bit too far to go, even for the promise of a white Christmas and a plate of roast moose, or whatever the tradition is in Canada.”

  “So do you ever see them?”

  “She and Tom and the boys came over to the U.K. a couple of years ago on holiday, but other than that, no. We phone and email. And I dare say that tomorrow morning, or whatever time the crack of dawn is in British Columbia, I shall have the boys
yelling at me on skype to say thank you for their presents.”

  “You ought to take a holiday and go and see them. You haven’t had a holiday in ages, have you?”

  “Far too busy tracking down evil-doers for you to tuck up nice and cosy in your cells,” responded Constable with a laugh. “Anyway, I don’t do holidays.”

  The custody sergeant nodded in agreement. “I suppose you’re right. It’s not that much fun going off on your todd. Oh well – that’s what you get for being married to the job. Still, I reckon you ought to think about it. You could go on one of these singles holidays they advertise – you know, walking in the Lake District or learning how to paint watercolours in Suffolk. It’d take you out of yourself. We all have to re-charge our batteries sometime, you know. Give yourself a fresh perspective.”

  Andy Constable gave him a look. “Don’t you start feeling sorry for me. I’m perfectly fine as I am.”

  “Guv!” Dave Copper’s voice echoed down the corridor, and he burst through the door with a huge grin on his face. “They told me you were down here, sir. You’ll never guess what! They’ve just done the Christmas draw, and I’ve only gone and won, haven’t I?”

  “Easy does it, sergeant,” said Constable, amused at the younger man’s exuberance. “You’ll go pop if you go on like this. Well done. I suppose this is all down to your famous power of positive thinking. So, what is it that you’ve won?”

  “That’s just it, sir.” Copper was triumphant. “First prize, sir! I’ve won the holiday!”

  *

  “Good Christmas, sir?”

  Andy Constable looked up from his paper-strewn desk. “Fabulous, thank you, sergeant. I did absolutely nothing.”

  Dave Copper perched himself on the front of his own desk, balanced the holdall he was carrying precariously on top of a stack of filing trays, and frowned. “What, nothing at all, sir? Didn’t you even go out or go round to see people or anything?”