Canary Islands Mysteries - Books 4-5

3. Lunch in Cofete-1

When the minibus pulled up in the car park outside the restaurant, the lads in the back cheered. Francois killed the engine and exited the driver’s seat, rounding the front of the vehicle to open the side door. Keen to be the first off, the matrons swung round in their seats. Richard was still gripping his. Clarissa took in the look of terror in his eyes and began to wonder why he bothered coming if he was that scared of heights. Maybe he hadn’t known about the road to Cofete.

Fred said, ‘There you go, Margaret. It wasn’t too bad.’

Clarissa wasn’t sure Margaret agreed with him, judging by the pale expression on her face.

The tour party decanted, the matrons leading the way, followed by Fred and Margaret and then Simon, his perfume trailing behind him like a wraith. Clarissa blocked the aisle and let Richard go in front of her. The lads followed close behind. The moment they were off the bus they hurried into the village, presumably to explore. The frail-looking woman was the last off and Francois had to almost carry her down the two steps. She appeared to be shaking and looked unhealthily pale. Wisps of mousy hair appeared stuck to her forehead. A fever? Her eyes were dull and her thin lips pinched. Perhaps it wasn’t the dust after all. Perhaps she had a virus. Clarissa didn’t like to ask and no one else looked bothered or had even noticed.

Awaiting instructions, they congregated in the car park between the bus and three cars parked closer to the restaurant. A few other cars were parked haphazardly further off. Meaty garlicky smells greeted her nostrils. Chattering voices and bursts of laughter carried on the wind. Not far away, diners, seated behind a low wall containing the al fresco area of the restaurant’s frontage, were having a merry time. She looked forward to joining them.

Ignoring his charges or indeed his duty, Francois locked the minibus and disappeared into the restaurant. As if that were a cue, the matrons followed on behind. Unsure whether to do the same, Clarissa hung back with the others, pushing away locks of her hair that the wind had whipped into her face as she surveyed the surroundings. She’d carried no preconceptions, although she was not surprised to discover the locale had an atmosphere she didn’t take to, made all the more desolate by the fast-gathering calima. She could appreciate the appeal of the remoteness and the back-to-earth lifestyle, harsh as it was, but there was something else, an undertow, something temporary perhaps, an energy that shouldn’t be here, danger. That was as far as her clairvoyance would take her.

Cofete itself comprised a staggered cluster of about twenty ramshackle stone huts that blended in with the cliff towering a touch menacingly at this point with its jagged crest. The appearance of the village was best described as rough and ready. No one out here gave a damn about being tidy or giving order to anything. If you wanted to escape the modern world, here was the place to do it, although the tourists came, braving the road, as did some of the locals. And there were solar panels and satellite dishes and television aerials and Clarissa assumed the dwellings had every convenience, in their way.

In front of the village and somewhat obscuring the ocean view was a hill sporting a small steel windmill. The hill, more a mound protruding out of the steady decline to the beach, did not look as though it belonged in the landscape. Clarissa was pondering that thought when a woman appeared in the car park with two donkeys. She wore grubby dungarees over a loose and faded T-shirt, her voluminous hair gathered up and held in place with a large comb. Ignoring the tour party, she strolled across to the restaurant and greeted a scruffy-looking man in a long white apron who emerged through a side door. They chatted for a while. He seemed agitated. The woman fiddled with one of the pack saddles and handed him a small parcel. He scanned the car park and quickly disappeared. Steadfastly avoiding contact with the tour party, the woman gave the zebra bus a wide berth as she steered her donkeys back through the car park, disappearing into the enclosed compound of the farmhouse nearby. But for the curious behaviour of the man – who had the shifty demeanour of a d**g dealer receiving his latest stash – it was a moment belonging to a century past.

Francois reappeared, marching to a spot halfway between the restaurant and the bus, where he came to a halt and hailed the tour party to follow him. Like sheep, they obeyed. Francois then stood at the entrance to the al fresco area, ushering the tour group to where two tables had been positioned end-to-end in a corner away from the other diners. Clarissa made her way past those seated in twos and fours and sixes – the restaurant was packed – as she struggled to rationalise the fact that people would want to come all the way out here to eat on any day, let alone on this dusty day. As for those who’d decided to open an eatery here in the first place, with all that that would entail, it was unfathomable, especially if they didn’t live here. What a commute!

The matrons were already seated at the table in the middle seats on the far side, with all the appearance and manner of officials on a commission panel. Fred and Margaret sat opposite, their inquisitees. The frail woman took up a chair beside Fred. Richard, obviously seeing he could not avoid his fans, sat next to the matrons, leaving the bearded man to take up the chair at the end beside him. Clarissa was about to give Richard no easy ride when the lads bounded in from nowhere and plonked themselves opposite each other down at the other end, leaving Francois to take the head and Clarissa the last remaining chair beside Helen. No place had been laid at the table’s foot.

A quick glance around and she saw she was the eldest member of the party by at least a decade, Richard taking second place. She’d put Fred and Margaret in their late-fifties. Everyone else looked younger. She had two options: assume a matriarchal role and command the table, or remain silent and observe. She chose the latter approach, knowing she would disappear as all old women do if they choose not to assert themselves. People were in the habit of assuming an old woman was done with life and had nothing interesting to offer. How wrong the world was, but there were times the assumption could be played to her advantage and this, Clarissa sensed, was one of them.

Francois, too, seemed disinclined to play host. There was a long silence peppered with exchanges of cautious looks, the strained atmosphere broken by Fred. ‘Some introductions, don’t you think? I’m Fred. Fred Spice.’ As if his surname mattered. It didn’t.

He stood and proffered his hand to the woman opposite him. Rosy-cheeked and square-jawed, her robust face was framed by hair shaped like a combat helmet, and if it wasn’t for her doe eyes, she would have come across too severe for comfort. As she shook Fred’s hand her face lit a little and everyone seemed to relax.

‘Vera,’ she said. ‘And this is Carol.’ She pointed to the woman beside her and there was an exchange of handshakes.

‘And this is my wife Margaret.’ Fred looked to his right. ‘And you are?’

‘Helen.’

Fred ignored Clarissa and turned to the lads with an outstretched hand.

‘Dave and Steve,’ the blonder of the two said, pointing at his dreadlocked friend.

Uncertainty passed across Richard’s face and before Fred had a chance, he introduced himself. Fred then sat down. Realising she had been thoroughly ignored, Clarissa stood and reached out her hand and announced her name and exchanged handshakes and greetings with the others. The group then all turned to the bearded man still buried in his phone.

‘Er, Simon,’ he said, lifting his gaze momentarily before returning to whatever was so compelling on his screen. It was almost as if he didn’t recall his own name. As if he had made it up on the spot. Clarissa found his disengagement puzzling. His behaviour was not that of a typical tourist. Indeed, he didn’t seem to want to be there.

Menus arrived and were passed around. Francois spoke to the waiter, who hovered expectantly for a moment then walked away.

‘So, you’re a writer,’ Vera said to Richard. ‘What do you write?’

Everyone at the table glanced up. Fred lowered his menu and listened, smiling proudly. Clarissa felt Richard’s discomfort. He kept his gaze on Vera’s face and said, ‘Mysteries mostly.’

‘Nothing like a good mystery. I’ll have to look you up. What’s your full name?’

Richard recoiled slightly. Clarissa hoped no one else noticed. The poor man was overly self-conscious. An introvert perhaps. Certainly not given to holding court.

‘Richard H. Parry,’ he said, adding, ‘You need to remember the aitch or you may end up with a different Richard Parry.’

‘What does the aitch stand for?’

Richard hesitated.

‘Harry,’ said Fred.

‘Richard Harry Parry.’

An amused look appeared in Vera’s face. She managed to disguise her mirth by turning to Carol and talking about the last book she’d read. Finding himself no longer the object of her attention, Richard began to regain his equanimity. He might just as well have left the bit about his middle name out and done himself a favour. A short while later, he stood and excused himself. Simon left the table as well, presumably to visit the same destination. Vera then whispered something to Carol who laughed and they both returned to study their menus.

Clarissa presumed both women to be around fifty. Carol was the more buxom of the pair. Laughter notwithstanding, her disposition appeared anything but jolly. She carried a forthright, no-nonsense demeanour of the sort crafted through decades in positions of administrative authority. And she wanted the world to know it, the severity in her face accented by her cropped black hair, greying about the temples. Attired in a conservative outfit, she gave the impression of a career in the civil service. Health, perhaps, or education. Like her counterpart, she was not in the business of flattering men.

Neither was Helen, who sat a little hunched in her seat. On closer scrutiny in her side vision, Clarissa couldn’t help noticing the drab, poorly cut attire the woman had chosen to put on for the outing. Perhaps she was a woman of limited means.

Clarissa had been raised to cultivate her assets, not in order to endear herself to the opposite s*x but to present to the world the most appealing version of herself possible, whether that be through style of hair or dress, the use of scarves and jewellery, whatever it took to make a good and lasting impression. Which was why she sat in her smart new blouse and matching capris and leather sandals, all purchased from Mrs Fortescue-Blair’s boutique in her local High Street back in England. She outdid everyone at the table, although she was certain she was the only one who spotted the fact. She also spotted that Helen’s pallor had not recovered.

‘Are you quite well?’ Clarissa asked softly, head bowed and tilted in Helen’s direction, hoping she was being discreet.

‘I’m fine, yes, thank you. Just recovering from minor surgery.’

Clarissa had lost count of the times she’d heard that. In her friendship networks it was a euphemism for all manner of ailments, including the most serious. Anything, apparently, could be deemed minor. But she was reluctant to pry, especially at the table.