Three and One Make Five by Roderic Jeffries Page A

bay.’
    ‘Mother of God!’ she exclaimed.
    After he’d rung off, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the window, still shuttered so that the room was in half light. At this stage, any connection with the deaths of Clarke and Allen—and were they connected?—was obviously tenuous in the extreme. Short had been wealthy, he’d bought his house about three years previously, he’d lived outside England, and he’d died in what appeared to have been an accident. Yet what were the odds against even these few similarities occurring in three deaths over so relatively short a period? . . . Had Short known Clarke and Allen? What had his circumstances been back in England? Had he visited the island before he’d bought the house?
     
    The new morgue had been built by the side of one of the two firms of undertakers in Llueso. Many of the villagers crossed themselves as they walked past it and even the children regarded it with a certain awe. Inside, there was a small reception area, an office, a cloakroom, and the main room with cold storage shelves.
    The man who looked after the morgue was squat, hairy, and cheerful, and quite unperturbed by the fact that he was generally known as Marcelo the Dead.
    ‘He’s a bit messed up,’ he said.
    ‘I didn’t expect him to be covered in roses,’ replied Alvarez, who hated the morgue and everything to do with it.
    Marcelo pulled out one of the refrigerated shelves which, despite its weight, rolled easily on runners set on ball-bearings. There was a light green rubber sheet and he drew this back.
    The body had been so extensively burned that, ironically, the horror was less than if its appearance had been more normal. Due to the contraction of muscles from heat, the posture was the typical pugilistic attitude—clenched fists on bent arms.
    ‘Are there any special identifying physical features?’ Alvarez asked.
    ‘There’s been no call to check. But you’re not going to find out much this side of a PM, are you? . . . The only thing I’ve noticed is the ring on his right hand.’
    Alvarez moved down the side of the shelf until he could examine the hand. The ring was blackened, but had not begun to melt. There was some form of signet, but it would be impossible to make out exactly what this was until the ring was cleaned. ‘I wonder if they’ll be able to get his prints?’
    ‘When he’s burned this hard?’
    ‘It’s amazing what they can do these days. They get the imprint from under the surface skin.’
    ‘What d’you want ‘em for?’
    ‘He’s not going to be positively identified any other way, is he?’
    ‘Don’t you know who he is, then?’
    ‘Sure. But my boss is one of those people who wants everything treble-checked.’
    ‘The world’s full of stupid bastards,’ said Marcelo philosophically.
     
    The bush telegraph in Llueso operated with enviable efficiency. Although about ten thousand people lived in the village, by the time Alvarez returned home for lunch, Dolores had discovered the name of the woman who worked at Ca Na Rostra.
    Juana Ortiz had been widowed over two years ago, but in the face of a rapidly changing custom, she still wore black. She was good-looking, though on the plump side, and might easily have married again had she not held to the traditional view that a widower might remarry, but a widow might not. She worked in order to support her daughter at Barcelona University: her son was doing his mihtary training.
    Alvarez knew her, if not well, and for a while their conversation concerned her children, but then he said: ‘I expect you’ve heard about Sen or Short?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Will it distress you to answer a few questions about him?’
    She fidgeted with a button on her black cotton dress. ‘The Lord rest his soul, but he was not a very nice man,’ she said, by way of an oblique answer.
    ‘When did you last see him?’
    ‘It was only yesterday.’
    ‘How was he?’
    ‘It’s difficult to say. I mean, he didn’t know any