An Air of Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘It’s left to our discretion.’

  ‘And what is your discretion?’.

  ‘It is hot so I should very much like a drink, Señor.’

  ‘Come on in.’

  Alvarez, his surprise continuing as he followed Gerrard through a small, dark sitting-room and an equally small, if well-equipped, kitchen, to the patio.

  ‘Do sit. What would you like? I can offer gin, whisky, brandy or beer, but I fear we drank the last of the Krug eighty-two last night.’

  ‘May I have a coñac with just ice?’

  Gerrard returned into the house and Alvarez settled in a chair. There was an old Mallorquin saw, ‘The man who is astonished is fortunate because he has learned something.’ To find this English couple living in a small, mean caseta caused him great astonishment, but he wasn’t certain where lay the fortune to him.

  Gerrard returned, carrying a tray on which were three glasses and a small earthenware bowl filled with crisps. He handed Alvarez a glass, put the other two down on the table together with the bowl, sat.

  Laura came out of the house. ‘Filipe says Lady Gerrard is out to lunch.’

  ‘Then I must thank you for having saved me a journey, Señora,’ Alvarez said.

  ‘Not much of a journey,’ Gerrard observed. ‘Five hundred metres at the most.’ He raised his glass. ‘Your good health.’

  ‘And yours, Señor.’ Alvarez drank. It was not the quality of brandy one expected in a foreigner’s home; indeed, it was no better than he drank in his own. Perhaps this couple were leading a simple life because they found spiritual satisfaction in self-denial. A pleasure he had never understood.

  ‘Since Heloise isn’t at home, is there any way in which we can help?’ Gerrard asked.

  ‘Is that meant to be a subtle approach?’ Laura asked.

  ‘An approach to what?’

  ‘Satisfying your curiosity, because you’re forgetting, curiosity is ill manners.’

  ‘You, my love,’ Gerrard said lightly, ‘are forgetting that curiosity is ill manners in another’s house.’

  ‘And this isn’t another’s house?’

  He said nothing.

  There had been a sudden bitterness in her voice, Alvarez noted. ‘I need to ask Lady Gerrard if two people visited her house.’

  ‘Are we allowed to know their names?’ Gerrard asked. ‘Señorita Coates and Señor Short.’

  ‘Then I can tell you that they probably did since they called here five, six days ago, thinking this was where she lives. Which points to poor eyesight or lack of common sense. We directed them to Ca’n Jerome.’

  ‘Perhaps you know that Señorita Coates died on Tuesday night?’

  ‘We heard someone of her name had drowned, but we weren’t certain if the report was true.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Sad.’ Gerrard drank, put down his glass. ‘There’s some problem about her drowning?’

  ‘We have to try to prevent a similar tragedy happening.’

  ‘And Heloise may be able to help you do that?’

  ‘Curiosity killed the . . .’ Laura stopped. ‘Not exactly the smartest thing to say, was it? Inspector, do you live locally?’

  ‘In Llueso.’

  ‘Have you always lived in the village?’

  ‘For a long time now, but I was born and lived for several years in another part of the island. My parents had a small farm by the sea.’ Which they had been persuaded to sell at a fraction of its later value by a smart con-man. ‘And you, Señora, have you been here for many years?’

  ‘It’s quite a time. We originally came for three months to find out how Charles liked working here and have just never returned to England. The island has that effect on a number of people.’

  ‘Aeaea,’ Gerrard said.

  ‘Does that have meaning or were you clearing your throat?’

  ‘An island of enchantment, lacking only the enchantress, Circe; although the behaviour of some of the tourists can lead one to think she is around.’

  ‘Señor, would you know why Señorita Coates wished to visit Lady Gerrard?’

  ‘I can only guess. She worked for her as a lady’s maid until Fergus was born and then as a nursemaid until my nephew required a jailer rather than a nursemaid.’

  ‘A jailer?’

  She said: ‘As you will probably have gathered, Inspector, my husband has a unique sense of humour – capable of being enjoyed only by himself. . . Probably, Dora thought Heloise would be interested to see her and learn what she’d been doing since she left Stayforth House.’

  ‘A totally mistaken belief,’ Gerrard said.

  ‘But people quite often like to make contact with someone from their past. Remember how that old gardener turned up for a chat before we left England?’

  ‘Joe? Spent hours talking about late frosts ruining the runner beans and how Father had a guest who ate all the peaches being specially grown for the local flower, fruit, and vegetable show. Couldn’t get rid of him.’

  ‘But he got tremendous pleasure from talking to you.’

  ‘Proving that despite Kinsey, pleasure is seldom mutual. I find Dora’s visit odd. She’s quite sharp enough to know Heloise’s forte has never been to reminisce with past employees. And come to that, on my one trip back home, I was at Stayforth and talking to Heloise – can’t remember why; arguing over something, probably – when she was told Dora had called to see her. From her reactions, she’d have welcomed Lucrezia Borgia more readily.’

  ‘Señor, would Señorita Coates have been highly paid?’

  ‘I doubt it, but domestic help has been scare for a long time and so her wages were possibly good. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She had a large sum in her possession. She had also paid for her nephew’s holiday.’

  ‘Really? I shouldn’t have thought generosity was one of her vices.’

  Alvarez drained his glass. ‘Thank you for your help, Señor, Señora.’

  ‘You’re a one-drink man?’ Gerrard asked. ‘Or may I refill your glass?’

  There was just time for one more drink before he returned home and enjoyed a pre-lunch drink. ‘Thank you, Señor.’

  Eight

  ALVAREZ HAD LEFT HIS OFFICE AND CLOSED THE DOOR WHEN HE heard the phone ring. He hesitated. He had been on his way home, but in theory – never mind what he had said to Dolores – he was meant to remain at work until later in the evening. He sighed, opened the door, crossed to the desk, and lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The superior chief wishes to speak to you,’ said the secretary with a plum-laden voice.

  He went round the desk, phone to ear, sat.

  ‘Why have you not made a report?’ Salas demanded, dispensing, as was normal, with any form of social greeting. ‘Report about what, Señor?’

  ‘You need to be reminded what cases you are supposed to be investigating? . . . Even a modicum of intelligence would enable you to determine that I was referring to the death of Señorita Short.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Señor . . .’

  ‘You are admitting to a lack of even that modicum?’

  ‘It was not Señorita Short who drowned – he is not she and it was she, not he, and so when you said he, but it was she . . .’

  ‘Do you ever indulge in intelligent speech?’

  ‘Señor Short is alive. It was Señorita Coates who drowned.’

  ‘Which is what I said.’

  ‘No, you said . . .’

  ‘I’ll not have an inspector contradicting me!’

  As Claudio Gil had written, ‘Injustice is the handmaiden of authority.’

  ‘Have you begun to pursue investigations into the drowning of Señorita Coates? Or, as would seem very likely, are you investigating the death of Señor Short even though he is very much alive?’

  ‘I have questioned Señora Eloisa Cardell, who heard the screams – or shouts. I tried to question Lady Gerrard . . .’

  ‘You have had the presumption to try to question a lady of quality without any ref
erence to me as to the advisability of your doing any such thing?’

  ‘What her quality is, I don’t yet know, not having spoken to her.’

  ‘As a Mallorquin, you are almost certainly incapable of recognising its presence – I don’t doubt you would regard someone who knows how to use a knife and fork as being of quality,’ Salas said, allowing his resentment over being posted to Mallorca and not to a command on the Peninsula to surface.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Alvarez said, ever ready to defend his island.

  ‘Your insolence extends to telling your superior officer he is ridiculous?’

  ‘I was referring to the suggestion that we mostly eat with our fingers. To try to eat Sopes Mallorquines, which is a favourite dish, with one’s fingers would truly be ridiculous.’

  ‘Stop wasting my time with nonsensical conversation.’

  ‘But, Señor, it was you who said . . .’

  ‘Was Señorita Coates murdered or did she drown accidentally?’

  ‘It’s impossible to be certain at this point.’

  ‘Or probably at any other point, since you are concerned. Have you spoken to the woman who heard the cries?’

  ‘As I said at the beginning, I . . .’

  ‘Damnit, learn to answer the question.’

  ‘I have spoken to her, yes, Señor. Unfortunately she cannot be certain whether it was a cry of fear or of momentary hesitation.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about now?’

  ‘As I think I also mentioned before, there has to be the possibility the cry was not made by Señorita Coates, but by a woman who was with a man to whom she had given more encouragement than she had intended . . .’

  ‘You will refrain from indulging in your perverted interests.’

  ‘She also cannot testify whether the cry came from ashore or the water.’

  ‘Then her evidence is useless.’

  ‘Not completely. I think it points to murder.’

  ‘Then I have little doubt we should assume accidental drowning.’

  ‘If Señorita Coates was murdered, there’s the probability Eloisa heard her cry out before her head was finally pushed under the water; the words can support such a picture. The person who pushed probably had to be in water shallow enough to be standing and so gain the necessary leverage; this would be consistent with the evidence of the sand under the finger-nails. Had the drowning been accidental, the cry would surely have been “Help”, repeated as often as was possible.’

  ‘Supposition piled on top of supposition. And clearly, being more concerned with possibilities which do not occur to a refined mind, you have not considered that the cry might have been addressed to the fates, not an assailant.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I will explain as simply as possible in the hope it will be simple enough. It is a known failing of the human kind to expect life to proceed peacefully – my job constantly proves the falsity of such expectation – and when it does not, a person of weak character blames the fates.’

  ‘If I were drowning, I’d shout for help, not bother about the fates.’

  ‘I am not prepared to accept your reaction as a guide to anything other than mistake. Are you taking any account of the fact she may have been under the influence of alcohol?’

  Tve spoken to the hotel staff and established that she was.’

  ‘On your own initiative? . . . Then knowing that, does it not occur to you to accept her actions are unlikely to have been logical?’

  ‘I reckon someone who is accidentally drowning will call for help.’

  ‘You are unaware drunken people have drowned in a few inches of water?’

  ‘She wasn’t that drunk.’

  ‘A further supposition? Or perhaps a judgement based on experience?’

  ‘If she’d been so totally overcome by alcohol, could she earlier have walked from the hotel to the beach? Yet since she did, surely she must have retained sufficient comprehension to stand up and save herself?’

  ‘Only if in shallow water.’

  ‘The sand under her fingernails says that she was.’

  ‘My understanding is that it proves no more than that she had dug her hands into sand. Drunken people do ridiculous things. Before entering the water, she might well have played in the sand, perhaps making a sand castle.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘You seem determined to treat this as a murder case. Where is the evidence – not supposition – that she did not drown accidentally?’

  ‘There isn’t any hard evidence, but instinct tells me she was murdered.’

  ‘Is there a more unreliable gauge? . . . What provides the strongest evidence of murder?’

  ‘A body.’

  ‘You like to jest?’

  ‘No, Señor, of course not. It’s just that if there isn’t a body, one can’t be certain of murder unless there is overwhelming circumstantial evidence . . .’

  ‘Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, there is strong motive for the killing. What motive is there for the señorita’s death?’

  ‘There hasn’t been time to . . .’

  ‘An efficient officer makes time.’

  ‘I was intending to . . .’

  ‘An inefficient officer always intends to do something, never succeeds in actually doing it.’ Salas rang off.

  Having replaced the receiver, Alvarez leaned back in the chair. Occasionally, a superior officer said something intelligent. If Dora Coates had been murdered, the prime suspect had to be Short. He knew she had gone swimming, he had left the hotel ostensibly to search for her, making it clear that, as a loving nephew, he was worried on her behalf; he had returned to the hotel and raised the alarm, his wet clothes explained by his having waded into the sea in an attempt to find her. Did he have a motive for her murder? Hatred? Hatred seldom affected only one party, leaving the other unaware of that emotion; she had liked him or she would not have paid for his holiday. Money? For a man who was out of work, two thousand, two hundred and fifty euros in untraceable cash was an appealing sum. But had that cash provided his motive for murder, wouldn’t he have taken the money out of her room at the first possible moment, since who would have known it was missing? Or had it been left there because he was clever enough to see the presumption its presence must raise? Perhaps she was quite well off and he was her main or sole beneficiary? The English authorities must be asked to determine her financial position at her death, whether she had left a will and, if so, who were her beneficiaries.

  He looked at his watch and was annoyed to learn he could quite properly have left the office a quarter of an hour before.

  The steps leading up to the Calvario had been extended, buildings between them and the old square demolished, in order to provide what local authority had considered to be a more impressive approach (one could afford fantasies when the EU was paying the bills). That tradition, the quirks of the past, homes, and memories had been destroyed was of small account.

  At eleven fifteen on Friday, Alvarez crossed the old square, from which the Calvario was now visible, and went into Club Llueso for his merienda.

  ‘You’re late,’ the barman said. ‘Thought maybe you wouldn’t be coming in here today.’

  ‘Work,’ Alvarez answered shortly.

  ‘They say a change is as good as a rest.’ He filled a container with coffee, clipped it into the espresso machine. ‘So how about a complete change? A coke instead of a brandy with the coffee?’

  ‘You’ll never make a living as a comedian.’

  The barman picked up a bottle of Soberano and poured out a large drink, slid the glass across. Alvarez lifted it up and drank.

  ‘There’s a bloke in El Dia saying it’ll be the hottest summer the island’s ever known,’ remarked the barman.

  ‘I’ve always understood people write in newspapers, not talk.’

  ‘I reckon you won’t ever be much of a comedian either.’

  Alvarez crossed to one of the window seats. He stared through
the window and an overweight woman, wearing straining-tight slacks, went past. Did the foreigners never see themselves as others saw them? There appeared a young woman with raven-black hair, an elfish face, the trimmest of bodies well detailed in hugging-tight blouse and shorts . . .

  ‘You want to know what frustration is?’ the barman asked as he put a cup of coffee down on the table.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s standing here and watching the likes of her go by outside.’

  ‘I thought you were married?’

  ‘Makes it even more frustrating, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But not more than sitting in front of an empty glass.’ As the other, glass in hand, walked away, Alvarez’s mind reverted to the problem which was troubling him – did he, or didn’t he, bother to seek the superior chiefs permission to ask the English authorities for information regarding Dora Coates? Regulations demanded he gain Salas’s permission, but to make the request was to give Salas the opportunity to make more irrational and undeserved comments.

  The bartender returned and put the refilled glass down on the table. ‘A man in Andratx won the primitive lottery this week.’

  ‘Why depress me with someone else’s good fortune?’

  ‘You’re a miserable old bastard!’

  ‘Not so much of the old.’

  ‘What would you do if you won a really large sum?’

  ‘Move to a village where all the bartenders were dumb,’ Alvarez replied, before he picked up the glass and drank.

  Nine

  ALVAREZ STILL HAD NOT DECIDED HOW TO FORWARD HIS REQUEST to England; the phone brought a temporary pause to the problem.

  ‘Joaquin Delgado, Institute of Forensic Anatomy. I have the p.m. report on Señorita Coates and thought you’d like a quick resume.’

  Such thoughtfulness momentarily made Alvarez uneasy. ‘Death was by drowning in salt water. We have examined the very small incision on the scalp and can offer no definite conclusion, largely because of the time the head was immersed. It could have been inflicted shortly before, but equally feasibly after, the time of death; we cannot be more precise. The possibility that it was caused by a fingernail of someone pressing the head under water has been raised – we can only say size, shape, and depth are all consistent with this possibility, but we cannot determine that that is what happened. We agree with the doctor’s judgement that the hands were thrust into sand with considerable force; this is consistent with having occurred during the last convulsive moments before death. There were no signs of drugs, but blood-alcohol level was high; around a hundred and twenty.’