Mountain Intrigue

By Richard F Jones

After publishing his new novel with an e-book company David Taylor discovers that his work is being plagiarised. Some time later Robert Demaid, a fellow author, on a trip to the mountains in Spain with his Spanish girlfriend Elena, finds Taylor living the life of a recluse in a cave up there. Demaid’s curiosity gets the better of him.
In trying to help with Taylor’s problems he unfolds a trail of misdeeds and innuendo, including fraud, ballot rigging and a hit man assassin, which result in Taylor’s untimely death. Demaid’s enquiries lead him into a catalogue of catastrophes in Spain, London and South Wales, where he encounters another relationship with Barbara Harrison, one of Taylor’s previous girlfriends.
The novel is set against the desperate economic background of recent Spain, where riots, strikes, election frauds and murky history are rife. The story will have you guessing to the end to discover the outcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard F Jones
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301457250

Richard F Jones

I was born in Wales, but have lived in Spain, Majorca, the western highlands of Scotland and the Wye Valley.My books are mostly set in the places where I have had homes. These include ten published paperbacks and eleven e-books.I append below a review from Mr Derek J Edwards of my novel, 'Time on their Hands'.'I could not put this book down. It was full of interesting characters, with twists and turns in every chapter. I will certainly be looking for other novels by Richard F Jones. 'You can check Amazon Kindle for the authenticity of the review.

Book preview

-1

MOUNTAIN INTRIGUE

By

RICHARD F JONES

SMASHWORDS EDITION

To my dear wife Meg and my sister-in-law

Janet, who helped with this book.

©2013 Richard F Jones. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book maybe reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

MOUNTAIN INTRIGUE

by

RICHARD F JONES

PROLOGUE

A tidal wave of human frustration had seeped out onto the night time streets. On this occasion though the protesters were not all unemployed, or students, or the usual rag bag of political rent-a-crowd. Those who’d joined the march that evening, making for the Town Hall included doctors, lawyers, dentists, civil servants, professors and the like. All were protesting about the detrimental effects of the recession on their way of life and their Government’s inability to deal with it. More than three thousand of them filled the narrow cobbled terraces. Many carried banners illustrating their particular grievance. All of them however, were solid as one in their condemnation of the current situation. Their chants of dissatisfaction echoed in the cold night air.

When they rounded the corner into the main avenue, the imposing sandstone edifice of the Town Hall came into view. Suddenly, gasps and groans of displeasure emitted from the multitude. Ahead of them, blocking the road, was a solid wall of helmeted, truncheon bearing, riot shield protected police officers. There was a communal intake of breath, a slowing of stride pattern, but vociferous, yelling exhortations through hand held megaphones drove the crowd on. The level of the chanting soon grew into a common call. As they neared, police and marchers physically braced themselves.

A stand-off ensued. Riot shields were raised. The senior police officer, through a megaphone, told the protesters that they would not be allowed to approach the Town Hall. The crowd roared back it’s disapproval. The chanting increased. A deputation from the marchers moved forward into the no-mans-land between the two groups. Arm waving, pointing and noisy intercourse followed, resulting in much pushing and shoving. The police force moved forward as one. Both sides were now only steps apart. A melee ensued. Confrontation became inevitable. There were more marchers than police. The senior policeman blew loudly on a shrill whistle. In an instant the police moved forward, en masse, pushing and shoving at the marchers with their riot shields. The crowd responded and surged back at them. The police countered with a more powerful surge. People fell over, became trampled upon. Fisticuffs resulted. Truncheons battered heads, shoulders and backsides. The demonstrators hurled their placards. Somewhere from within the crowd paving slabs were lifted, broken into smaller fragments and thrown at the police. The senior policeman blew more shrill blasts on his whistle, then spoke into his mobile. Almost instantly a convoy of water cannon vessels appeared from a side street. The citizens were soaked with high pressure water. Upended bodies of professors and medics slithered uncontrollably, like drunks on an ice skating rink, across the road and over pavement edges. Tear gas was fired. The marchers retreated, but the police continued to lay into their heads with apparent random. Blood spouted copiously. The marchers fled back into the side streets.

Where was this? Libya? Egypt? Syria? South America? No, a small town in central Spain!

CHAPTER ONE

The temperature was in the high thirties. We were climbing in the mountains of the Valencia region in south east Spain. There was no breeze to cool us, or tree to shade us. My name is Robert Demaid. Us, being my girlfriend Elena and me. We’d stopped to take on some water and mop our sweat drenched bodies. From a nearby ledge the tinkling of sheep’s bells was the only sound to break the silence. A flock of them were plodding in and out of the rocks near the summit. Then the figure of a lone man appeared on the adjacent ridge. I trained in on him with the binoculars. His build was thin and rangy. On his head he wore a white baseball cap, with a handkerchief, or something similar, tied on the back as a neck sunshield. Briefly he stopped when he saw us, then moved quickly on.

It took us some time, and more outpouring of perspiration, before we eventually reached where he had been. The view up there was spectacular. Lofty mountain peaks stretched away from us as far as the eye could see. I pointed the binoculars towards the spot where he’d disappeared and focused in on a cave. The mouth of it was wide. Inside it looked deep and dark. There was no sign of the man. After some conjecture we both decided that the route there was too dangerous for our amateurish scrambling techniques. Already we were exhausted, so reluctantly we made our way back down to our car.

The bar in the village square provided a haven of cool and liquid refreshment. Two beers each were required before bodily normality was reinstated. The barman was close at hand. I mentioned to him the sighting of the man up top. ‘Oh him,’ he responded caustically. ‘Nobody knows much about him. In the summer he seems to live up there in the caves amongst the sheep and goats.’

‘Is he their shepherd?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘He is English like you. In the winter he goes away.’

We ordered some tapas then sat at a table in the corner. While we were eating the man we had seen on the mountain stumbled in. Many days growth of stubble covered his face. His clothes were dirty and unkempt as were his walking boots. He also ordered a beer from the barman but said nothing more. When it was poured he barged his way to a table in the other corner, bumping into chairs along the way. I tried an acknowledging smile but received no response. Under the peak of the baseball cap I did however spot sharp, ice cold, blue eyes.

I looked at Elena. By then we had been a couple for just over six months. Ten years younger than me she was a freelance photographer by trade and much talented. Being Spanish she possessed their accustomed dark hair and features, olive skin, and the complementary fiery temper. We hadn’t actually moved in together, partly because of the temper; nights sleeping on the sofa were not my forte, but more importantly because we both needed our separate space to work in. At the time I was still trying to write novels, although I did undertake some freelance journalism to help pay the bills. For all intents and purposes though, Elena and I did cohabit.

The man in the other corner had slumped into the chair, pulled the cap further down over his eyes and proceeded to slurp on his beer. ‘I’m sure I know that man,’ I whispered to Elena.

‘Well he doesn’t seem to want to know you,’ she replied quietly with the smile I’d become accustomed to. We’d met when I’d needed some photography to accompany one of my journalistic pieces. She’d been recommended by Antonio, a lawyer friend in town. After that wild horses couldn’t keep me away from her.

We finished our tapas, had another beer, chatted about the events of the day, but all the time I kept looking across at the other man. Eventually, when he finished his drink, he barged his way back across the room and out of the bar.

‘I wish I could remember where I’ve seen that guy,’ I said to Elena.

On our way out, as we paid our bill, I spoke again to the barman.‘Do you know anything more about that man who was just in here?’ I said and pointed to the corner where he had been sitting.

He shook his head. ‘Only that he has a car,’ he responded.‘They say he sleeps in it up there when the weather is bad. But apart from that I know nothing more.’ I thanked him, paid the bill and we drove back into town.

That evening Elena and I decided to go our separate ways. She had an early work appointment next morning. Her apartment was in the old part of town, just off the High Street. Mine was by the sea front, amongst the other extranjeros (foreigners). Having the evening to myself left me with little to do but ponder about the man on the mountain. I knew for sure I had seen him somewhere, but where or when I couldn’t recall. The result was a restless night.

* * * * *

For the best part of forty years Spain was run as a dictatorship under the iron rule of General Francisco Franco. After his death democracy returned and since then the government of the country has periodically switched between the Socialist Workers Party (the PSOE) and the Conservative People’s Party (the PP).

Next morning, in my town, began the first concentrated days of electioneering for the forthcoming national general election. Over breakfast my attention was diverted by the coverage of it on the TV news. Outside my apartment cars with loud speakers began to proclaim the name of their associated candidate, whilst blasting out loud and intolerable canned music. According to the TV news it looked as though the incumbent Socialist government was about to be routed. The economy was wretched. Unemployment was rife; the housing market crippled and the Socialists were getting all the blame. Later on getting around town was difficult. Political activists kept pushing leaflets under my nose, while noisy speakers continued to trumpet the electioneering rhetoric.

All that on top of my restless night meant that my mind was too addled to concentrate on the machinations taking place in chapter thirteen of my novel. Some specialised photography work for the Guardia Civil had required Elena’s attention and she was bound for Valencia on that. So later in the day I journeyed again for the mountains.

Unfortunately my curiosity about the man on the mountain had got the better of me. I realised I was probably on a fool’s errand, using litres of petrol I could ill afford, while my novel remained grounded on the rocks for another day. My irritation eased when the grandeur of the peaks came into view. The weather was still uncomfortably hot, but a trip up there was always worth the effort, whatever the cost. The previous days climb had left my limbs stiff and cramped, so no way was I going to attempt the peak again.

The road from the village to the mountain twists and turns upwards in a continually sharp spiral. Tight corners with alarming precipices slowed the car down to a crawl. At a height of about eight hundred metres the road ends. From there on it’s just a steep, rugged, rocky mountain path to the summit. I parked the car and stiffly got out. There was no sign of my man or any other car. When I trained the binoculars on the summit it looked desolate.

Needing to stretch my legs I began to wander about. A short way off the road I could see a sheep or goat track. However, in this case, the vegetation on both sides appeared to be flattened back a little more than any animals would normally cause. I walked along it for a while, then around a curved rock face which took the path out of view from the road. There I came upon a coppice of trees. Silver birch, and mountain ash amongst others. Hidden underneath, in the shelter of their shade, was a relatively new Opel Corsa. Alongside was the ashes of a fire and leaning against the nearby rocks stood a battered, rusty barbecue and some stacked timber. No-one was about. The car was locked. I peered inside and could see a sleeping bag, some unwashed towels and clothes in similar condition. The Corsa was clearly driveable, with good tyres, although it was covered in Sahara rain dust. For half an hour or more I wandered about looking for any other clues but there were none, except the Spanish license number plate, which I made a note of. Before leaving I again trained the binoculars on the summit, to no avail, then I made the long journey home.

That evening I called in on Elena at her apartment. She welcomed me but I noticed something in her attitude towards me had altered. Over a couple of glasses of Rioja she updated me on her time in Valencia. Then without warning, an example of her fiery temperament emerged. In the corner of the room her TV was showing coverage of the election. There had been street protest riots in the region of Castille-La Mancha. Suddenly she became scathing in her comments about the ruling Socialist party. ‘The whole country is in a mess. There’s five million unemployed and what are these people doing about it?’ she said with fires of anger in her eyes. When she looked like that she was even more beautiful.

Afterwards almost apologetically I told her about my mountain excursion. ‘So you haven’t done any work on your book all day?’ was her instant and fierce response. I shook my head in contrition and quickly supped on the Rioja. ‘Robert, you’ll never finish that novel before the year is out at this rate,’ she added.

My lack of perseverance in that respect was one of the issues we used to argue about. In contrast her application and dedication to her work was exemplary. As a result she earned a lot more money than I did. ‘Unfortunately that man in the mountain bar has stuck in my brain all day,’ I said. ‘It would have been impossible to work.’

‘And?’ she responded, while fixing her stare on me. I described the car and the other things I’d seen. ‘And that’s all you’ve got to show for a whole day?’

Then I told her about the license plate number. ‘I was wondering,’ I continued, ‘if you could use your contacts with the Guardia to find out the name of the owner?’

‘I’m sure they have better things do,’ she fired back at me. ‘What excuse can I invent for asking them that?’

‘I don’t know but between us I’m sure we can think of something,’ I said. She gave me an even more incredulous look. That night I returned to my own apartment. Worse was to follow.

Early on the Saturday morning I was making my way to the street market to purchase my weekly supply of fresh fruit and vegetables. On route I had to pass underneath the balcony of her apartment. It had been my intention to call in on the return journey. However, I was stunned, to the point of shock, to see another man up there, sitting at the small round table and smoking a cigarette. It was nine o’clock in the morning. The man would have been in his early thirties, stockily built, with a thick thatch of wavy, dark hair. For a few moments I stood and watched as he contentedly puffed smoke rings into the air. Behind him, the balcony door was open, although the curtain blind was half closed. There was no sign of Elena. I continued on for the market with a disturbed mind. The stalls were getting busy and I was glad to get my purchases over and done with before the tourists arrived. When I was back near her apartment I could see the man had gone from the table, although the balcony door and the blind remained in the same position. I decided to press on the door intercom.

I was invited up and Elena was waiting to greet me at the apartment door. Her dark hair was tied back. She was wearing a white sports shirt and blue jogging trousers. Her feet were bare. A welcoming smile spread across her face. When she looked like that it always managed to stir me. We exchanged a kiss on each cheek but it still felt that things were awkward between us.

My heart sank when I walked into the living room and saw the man who had been on the balcony sitting at the dining table, with the remains of breakfast in front of him. His hair looked as though it hadn’t received a comb that morning. A day or more of stubble growth was evident on his face. He was wearing a green t-shirt and cream slacks and smoking a cigarette. His feet were also bare. The whole scene looked very domesticated.

‘This is Amado,’ Elena said in a bright and cheery manner, as though I should be pleased about it.

‘Buenos Dias,’ I said cautiously. Shaking hands was out of the question due to the parcels of fruit and vegetables I was carrying.

‘Buenos,’ he replied without any particular enthusiasm or attempt at a smile.

‘He is my partner on my current work project,’ Elena said, with a degree of excitement still evident in her voice. ‘We are involved in a project relating to the election,’ she said. ‘We are working for the Fe Jons party. There is some coffee if you like?’ she added and gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs. The Fe Jons are an extreme, right wing political party who came to the fore as staunch supporters of Franco’s regime. They have never been in power. Their manifesto contained matters that could be described as inflammatory.

Elena’s living room has everything in it one would need, sofa, chairs, dining facilities, TV, but it was the room of a working girl not someone house proud and fastidious with decor. Brown and greens were the predominant colours.

‘No thanks,’ I replied in respect of the coffee, but accepted the chair with gratitude as it enabled me to put down the parcels. Responding to her previous comments I said, ‘I am surprised by your choice of party. To me their policies seem to be dead against all the socialistic views you have aired since I’ve known you.’

Amado glared at me starkly. For a moment Elena hesitated and looked embarrassed when she saw the look on his face.

‘As I said to you the other day, this country is going to the dogs,’ she retorted. ‘Drastic action needs to be taken otherwise we are all going to be bankrupt. The economy is much worse now than it was, even in the poorer days of Franco’s time. Half the banks are going bust. The two main parties have had their chance and they’ve failed. We have to try something different, and soon.’ The passion in her words and gesticulations made my whole body tingle with excitement. I noticed Amado nodding his head in agreement.

‘Well I’m sure you know what you’re doing,’ I said realising that counter-argument was pointless. ‘Anyway that’s not why I called.’ I said, paused and took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to know if I was going to see you this weekend?’

Amado looked across at her. She responded with a similar glance in his direction, then looked down at her feet. He coughed, then rose out of his chair. He was quite tall and stocky. For a few moments I felt intimidated. Then he said in Spanish to Elena that he was going out to get some cigarettes. None of us said anything more until he’d put on his shoes and left the apartment.

‘Look Robert,’ Elena began when he’d gone, ‘I am sorry about this. I’ve known Amado since we were in school together. He used to be my boyfriend. Then, because of work we went our different ways. Now, by chance we have met up again on this project. It wasn’t intended, but there it is.’

‘So what about us? Do you want to go on seeing me?’

She paused, fiddled with the empty plates in front of her on the table. ‘I think it might not be best until after the election.’ She paused then added quickly. ‘Robert I am sorry, but this is something I believe in and there wouldn’t be much time for us to meet up anyway at the moment. If we did I would probably be tired and irritable, which would be no good.’

‘Ok,’ I responded and began to pick up my parcels off the floor. ‘What about after the election?’

She sighed. ‘Robert, I just don’t know, we will have to wait and see. We always agreed that there was no commitment between us.’

‘We did that,’ I said and began to move out of the chair and towards the door. On my way across the living room I spotted leaflets, written in Spanish, on a side table. I knew enough of the language to understand they were election leaflets for the Fe Jons. ‘I didn’t know you were so heavily into such matters,’ I said warily.

‘It’s a project I have been asked to work on,’ she replied, without turning to look at me.

‘Are you involved as a participant or is it purely in a photography capacity?’ I queried.

‘A bit of both, I suppose,’ she responded.

‘They certainly have some interesting viewpoints,’ I ventured. ‘And is Amado one of them?’ I added.

‘He’s employed by them.’ A defiant expression covered her face.

‘Did you have any luck with the car number?’ I asked.

‘I did, but you must never ask me to do anything like that again.’

From the side table she picked up a scrap of paper on which was written the name David Royston Taylor and an address in Benidorm.

‘Thank you,’ I said gratefully.

I moved towards the door. She held it open for me and we exchanged a kiss on each cheek, then I left. I felt as though I had been kicked in the teeth, but I did know David Royston Taylor.

* * * * *

The man I knew who bore that name was a fellow writer. He’d been listed twice for the Man Booker prize and, like me, was also a Welshman. That’s how we’d met. It must have been about three years back. I remembered we’d chatted while supping on some disgustingly warm Australian Chardonnay at a publisher’s bash in Cardiff. He’d told me he was starting to publish his novels on e-books; a relatively new format at the time. ‘I’m totally fed up of the London literary scene,’ he’d said to me. We chatted some more and I’d found him to be good company. When we parted we’d