A Question of Motive by Roderic Jeffries Page B

brought out the contents, placed them on the desk.
    Gill’s paperwork had been left in good order. There were folders marked investments, credits, outgoings. There were statements from banks in Mallorca, England, and Liechtenstein, all showing healthy credits. There was an IOU, signed by Timothy Kiernan, for 10,000 pounds. Gill’s will, in Spanish and English, was in one folder. His estate was left to Mary Farren, subject to payments of legacies. These were 1500 pounds to Parra, Luisa, and Santos, 1000 pounds to Eva, and 10,000 pounds to Miranda Pearson.
    Using the calculator on the desk, he made a quick estimate of the worth of the estate. Roughly thirty thousand in the banks. The latest investment report totalled 1,876,000. The property? A million.
    He leaned back and gazed into a life of millions of euros. A farm, around a hundred hectares. Considerably larger than usual in the area, but not impossible. A finca, to let to tourists, not to live in – there was not wealth sufficient to forgo Dolores’ cooking. A large flock of red sheep, now not quite so close to extinction since the government had seen the wisdom of granting subsidies to promote their breeding. Many pigs. No animal was the equal of a pig in the kitchen. Chorizo, sobresada, botifarró; chops, legs, trotters, tongue; ham and hamon serano. Cows? Fresh milk was a different liquid from that which one bought in cartons and which was fortified, skimmed, pasteurized, and heaven knew what else. But cows had to be milked twice a day. Hire a cowman.
    Regretfully, he returned to the world he lived in. He collected things together, returned them to the safe, locked that, swung the section of false bookcase back into position. In the last investment analysis, his account executive had written that markets had been volatile and Gill’s holdings had inevitably suffered, but the losses had been less than those of the general market. The outlook was uncertain, but there was good reason to think that in relative terms, the investments would remain firm.
    Gill, suffering from no fatal disease or mental problem, living in luxury, rich enough to survive a worldwide financial crisis, enjoying at least one loving mistress, was going to commit suicide? Even Salas would accept that he was not.
    In the sitting room, Mary was knitting. She looked up, said ‘Damn!’ and looked back down at the knitting, fiddled with the needles.
    â€˜Lost a stitch?’ he asked.
    â€˜Two.’
    He sat. ‘Do you do a lot of knitting?’
    â€˜What else is there for an oldie to do but that and watch the telly?’
    â€˜I’ll never see a younger oldie.’
    â€˜How do you manage always to say the right thing?’
    He smiled.
    â€˜Have I said something amusing?’
    â€˜Many people would suggest I never manage to say the right thing.’
    â€˜Then they don’t know you.’ She had regained the stitches and started another row. ‘I’m making a baby jacket for the wife where I get the Sunday papers and quite often a daily one. She told me what was very obvious and is worried because her husband isn’t well and she has to be in the shop all day, every day, and there isn’t the time to prepare for the coming baby. I said she should close in the afternoons and evenings, and she said she’s not allowed to. Is that right?’
    â€˜Newsagents have to be open all day, every day. That law was meant to encourage people to read.’
    â€˜Surely, there isn’t anyone now who doesn’t? So why not relax the law?’
    â€˜Politicians don’t worry about the effects of the laws they promulgate unless they become involved in the consequences. And when you say everyone now is literate, that’s almost true but, not so many years ago, some people had to give their fingerprint instead of a signature at a bank because they could not write.’
    â€˜Then there’s been real progress.’
    â€˜I