Death Among the Olives

By Olivier Bosman

Three middle-aged, gay men, each with their reasons for starting over, share a house in a small, rural town in Andalucia.

Learning to adjust and adapt to new housemates is a hard trick for these old dogs to learn, and things do not go smoothly. But a sensational murder in their adopted town soon brings the men together.

The death of a migrant worker in the olive fields has the whole town on tenterhooks, and our three heroes become consumed with the desire to solve the mystery.

“Death Among the Olives,” is a comic and colourful book set in a picturesque region of Southern Spain, renowned for its undulating olive groves and medieval castles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivier Bosman
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005149673

Olivier Bosman

Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I've spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have every confidence that I will now finally be able to settle down among the olive groves of Andalucia.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Colin

Isaw Jack as I walked out of the arrivals gate in Malaga Airport. He was a mildly handsome man. Medium height, slim, short-cropped hair. A little grey in the temples. He looked good for a fifty-year-old. He stood amongst the throng of holiday reps and cab drivers, holding up a sign with my name on it. I smiled. A sign seemed rather unnecessary. I recognised him from the pictures he’d sent me. Surely he’d recognise me from mine.

Jack, I said, walking up to him with an outstretched hand.

He looked me up and down before cautiously taking my hand. Colin?

I laughed. Don’t you recognise me? I sent you photos. Quite recent ones too. I had them taken especially.

He went red. Sorry. I’m bad at recognising faces. How was your flight?

He barely looked me in the eyes from then on. Perhaps I shouldn’t have laughed. The flight was pleasant enough. A little turbulence over the Atlantic, but otherwise not too bad.

My car is over here. We marched towards the parking lot. He walked a few paces ahead of me,  parking ticket in hand. I tagged along behind him, dragging my two suitcases. Not once did he bother to turn his head and look at me. I couldn’t make out if he was rude or shy.

It was surprisingly hot for January. I was wearing my autumn coat – it was below zero when I’d boarded the plane in Birmingham – and a string vest under my shirt. I was breaking into a sweat.

So... what’s the weather been like over here? I was desperately trying to conceal my breathlessness. He looked pretty fit, and I didn’t want to show myself up.

The weather’s been normal.

What’s normal?

You never been to Spain?

I’ve been to Benidorm a few times. But never in the winter.

Well, it rained yesterday. It’s been sunny today.

It’s hot now, though, isn’t it?

It’s always warm in Malaga, but we’ll be heading inland where it’s much colder. I hope you brought some jumpers.

He stopped at the ticket machine and inserted the parking ticket. I took this opportunity of taking off my jacket and rubbing my tired shoulders. I hadn’t expected Jack to be galant or anything – we were, after all, just going to be housemates and nothing more. He’d made that perfectly clear in our correspondence – but he could’ve at least offered to take one of the two cases!

He paid the parking fee, then marched on towards a dark grey Land Rover. He opened up the hatch and stepped aside for me to load my bags into the trunk.

Will I need my jacket? I asked, huffing and puffing as I lifted my heavy cases into the car.

He looked at me, confused.

Will it be cold in the car? I explained.

He frowned and shrugged. I dunno. He closed the hatch.

Well, I’d better take it with me. I wrapped the jacket around my arm and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I’m not good with cold. It’s one of the reasons why I decided to move to Spain.

It’s a two-hour drive, he said, opening the car door and stepping behind the wheel. We should get there just after midnight.

It was dark when we drove out of Malaga. I wanted to see the landscape of what was to be my new home, but all I saw were the car’s headlights illuminating the tarmac before me and the silhouette of thousands of olive trees against the starry night sky.

A lot of olive trees, I said. It was an inane thing to say, but we’d been largely quiet since we drove out of the airport, and thirty minutes into our journey, I felt someone had to say something.

The whole province is like that, Jack said. They call it the sea of olives. How’s your Spanish?

"I’ve got an app on my phone. I was studying it on the plane. My resolution is to learn a new word every day. Today’s word is bienvenida. Isn’t that lovely? Sounds like a girl’s name. If I had a daughter, I’d call her Bienvenida." I smiled, but Jack seemed unimpressed.

You’ll need more than an app.

I’ve been to Spain before, you know? Most of the Spaniards I met speak some English.

You’ve been to Benidorm. Alcatrava is not Benidorm. We’re heading into the back of beyond. It’s the old Spain. People there still live in the 1950s.

I smiled. Sounds idyllic.

Jack went quiet again. I stared at the reflection of his face on the windshield. It was a handsome face. A little craggy, a little wrinkly, but attractive. And he’d be even more handsome if he’d smile once in a while. I wondered if he’d always been this gruff. What had he been like as a young man? I bet he was quite a looker. One of those men who was good-looking without knowing it. A diamond in the rough.

How long have you lived in Alcatrava? I asked. We’d had almost five minutes of silence. I felt another question was in place.

Didn’t I tell you? was his answer.

He had told me. He’d sent me a very short bio during our correspondence. He’d been living in Spain for five years. He worked as an English teacher at a language academy. Before that, he’d been a primary school teacher in Africa and South America, where he’d learned to speak Spanish. But there was nothing there about his personal life. It was a very cagey bio. He was very cagey now.

I can’t remember, I said.

Five years.

And why did you choose to move to Alcatrava?

It was the only place where I could afford to buy a house.

But surely that wasn’t the only reason.

It was.

There’s going to be another housemate, isn’t there?

Yes. He’s flown into Madrid and is making his own way down. He’ll probably show up tomorrow.

So, tell me something about him. What’s his name?

Victor de Souza.

Ooh. Sounds exotic. Where’s he from?

England.

He doesn’t sound English.

Well, he is.

Jack sounded very glum. I got the impression he didn’t really want any housemates. That he was begrudgingly renting out his spare rooms to make a little money, it would explain his cold reception of me.

Well, tell me more about him, I said. What is he like? How old is he? What does he do?

Jack frowned. I don’t know anything about him.

He must’ve sent you some information. I did.

He’s sixty-five. He’s a retired actor.

An actor? Oooh! What’s he been in?

I don’t know.

I’ll look him up. I took my phone out of my pocket and consulted IMDB. How do you spell his name?

Jack spelled out his name to me, and I typed it in. "Oh, here he is. He’s been in a 1981 movie called Malicious Intent. He played belligerent punk 4. And he was in an episode of Casualty. Those are all the credits. I don’t suppose he was a very successful actor. I put my phone away. Or maybe he was more of a theatre actor."

Jack seemed completely uninterested. Maybe.

We fell into silence again. I turned towards the window. The moon shone over a small hill, popping out of the sea of olive trees. A castle stood on the top of the hill, around it a cluster of tiny white houses.

What’s that castle over there? I asked.

Jack shrugged. I don’t know. There are so many of them. Every village has a castle around here. There’s one in Alcatrava too, but it’s a ruin.

Why are there so many castles?

"Because of the Reconquista."

The what?

He finally turned towards me and scowled. Don’t you know your Spanish history?

There was something a little rude about his tone. Or perhaps I was being over-sensitive (I am a rather sensitive chap). Maybe he thought me ignorant – which I admit I am– or maybe he thought I was talking too much. Either way, I ignored it. I couldn’t sit in silence for two hours. And anyway, I wanted to get to know my new housemate.

I’m afraid I haven’t read up on Spanish history yet. I planned to discover it all when I’ve settled into my new home.

This whole region used to belong to the Moors. There was still a frown on his face. The Christian Spaniards conquered it off them. You really should read up on the history of the places you visit. It’ll help you appreciate them better.

He sounded like a school teacher. Well, I guess he’d been one for so long, he couldn’t help it.

I’ve never travelled much in my life, was my defense. My parents were poor. We used to go to Blackpool or Scarborough for our summer holidays. And I went to Benidorm a few times with Nigel. Nigel was my partner.

I know.

We recently split up. After twenty-five years.

I know. You wrote about it in your email.

He was still frowning. What was his problem? Was I getting too personal?

I know I wrote to you about it, but I still want to tell you.

That did the trick. He stopped frowning and almost smiled at me—a half-smile. By way of an apology, I think.

We met when I was in my late twenties. He was a few years younger than me. He’d only just come out, and I was his first boyfriend. We were perfectly happy for most of the time. It’s only in the last few years that he started having doubts. I suppose he was having some kind of mid-life crisis. He said he wanted to start playing around. Said he’d missed out on it when he was young. He’d hooked up with me and never had anyone else, and now he wanted to catch up before it was too late. So after twenty-five years, we split up. Sold the house we’d bought together, split the money, and went our separate ways. And now here I am. Making a fresh start of it in Spain.

I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. Instead, he just kept staring ahead of him; his hands gripped tightly against the wheel, an anguished expression on his face. Poor guy. He was one of those repressed, introverted types that couldn’t handle personal conversations. But I didn’t care. We were going to be housemates, for god’s sake! I was determined to get to know him better.

What about you? I asked.

What about me?

How’s your love life?

I haven’t got one.

You haven’t met any handsome Spanish men in the five years that you’ve been here?

No.

What about your exes, then?

I haven’t got any exes.

You haven’t been in a relationship before?

No.

Never?

Nope.

I stared at him with disbelief. Fifty years old, and he’d never been in a relationship? Was he lying? Or was he just being evasive, hoping that this would put a stop to the personal conversation?

Oh, I said and resumed staring out the window. I’ll get him to open up soon enough, I thought. I had a knack for that.

AT SOME POINT DURING the drive, I dozed off. I was jolted awake when Jack slammed his foot on the brake, and the car screeched to a halt. I had drool running down my chin and a pain in my neck. Lord knows how long I’d been asleep.

I looked at Jack. He was staring at the road, an expression of shock on his face.

What happened? I asked.

He didn’t answer. He unfastened his seat belt, opened the door, and jumped out of the car.

I also unfastened my seatbelt and stepped outside. As I walked towards the front of the car, I saw someone lying on the road. A young black man, with a dark blue hoodie and jeans. Around his neck, he wore a seashell neckless. I put my hands to my mouth. Oh my God! Did you hit him?

Jack didn’t answer. He was looking down at the man. "¿Estás bien?" he asked.

The man lifted his head. He looked at Jack. Then he turned and looked at me.

Jack said something else in Spanish. I don’t know what he said, but it involved the words hospital and ambulancia.

The man shook his head. He pushed himself up and slowly got on his feet. He was not well. He put his hands to his face and swayed from side to side.

Jack repeated the words hospital and ambulancia. More firmly this time. But the young man wouldn’t have any of it. He shook his head and walked off, mumbling something in Spanish.

What did he say? I asked.

He says he wants us to leave him alone.

What happened? Did you hit him?

Jack frowned. I did not hit him! He walked into the car. He’s drunk. Or doped.

I watched the man stumble down the road. It was only at that point that I realised we had reached the outskirts of a small town. I saw it rise before me. A ramshackle pile of tiny white houses, built up a rocky hill, with church steeples and palm trees sticking out here and there. The orange glow of streetlights formed a kind of halo around it, making it look very magical and unreal.

You can’t just let him walk away, I said. He might have a concussion. You should call an ambulance.

He doesn’t want an ambulance.

So you’re just going to let him walk away?

That’s what he wants.

Jack stepped back and got into the car. I remained where I was and watched the man stumble off the road and onto a dust track among the olive trees.

I turned back towards Jack, sitting at the wheel, strapped into his seat, looking ahead of him and breathing deeply. He was still in shock. Do you know who he is?

African migrant worker, he said. It’s olive harvest season. The town is full of them.

I walked back towards the car and climbed in. Are you all right? I asked.

I’m fine. He changed gear, put his hands on the steering wheel, and drove on. We’re here, he said. This is Alcatrava. Welcome home.

I FELT BUTTERFLIES in my stomach as Jack drove into the town. It looked rather ordinary at first, apartment blocks on either side of the deserted road, punctuated by occasional cafes, betting shops, or grocery stores. But then Jack turned upwards towards the old town, and here the architecture changed. We were in the old Spain now, just as Jack had said. Whitewashed houses standing side by side, some very large, some curiously small. Some had been modernised; others retained their authentic wooden doors and shutters. Some had pretty Juliet balconies, others large roof terraces with crenelated walls. Some were decorated from top to bottom with potted geraniums; others were abandoned and at the point of collapse.

I marveled at the skill with which Jack navigated the confusing maze of