An Air of Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Describe Francisco,’ he said, hoping she would picture a man with straight brown hair who always shaved each morning. Her description closely matched that of the dead man found in Le Vail d’en Fangat. Til make inquiries right away.’ Once again, she expressed her fears. Alvarez tactfully brought the conversation to an end, replaced the receiver, and stared unseeingly through the unshuttered window at the sun-washed wall of the building on the other side of the road. Of all the jobs a policeman had to do, imparting tragic news was the worst.

  It took forty-five minutes to learn where the small firm of builders were working, another twenty to drive to the site in the centre of the flat land between Llueso and the bay. A metre-high rush fence had been erected on top of the rock wall which bordered the road, an indication that permission had not been granted to build.

  He opened the gates and drove in; as he stopped, a barrelshaped man, stripped to the waist, spotted with sandstone dust, came out of the half-built house and up to the car. ‘You want something?’ he demanded through the opened window, his belligerence tinged with uneasiness.

  ‘Cuerpo. Is Francisco Jiminez here?’

  ‘Ain’t been from Monday on.’

  ‘Then I’ll have a word with Jacobo Beltrán.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That’s between him and me.’

  ‘I ain’t having him off work, so you can come back when we knock off for grub.’

  ‘And leave me with nothing to do but wonder whether the ayuntamiento knows you’re building here?’

  ‘You lot don’t give a man a chance to make an honest living.’

  ‘Which maybe is why so many of you make dishonest ones.’

  Carlos muttered something, turned and went back into the house; a couple of minutes later, Beltrán – tall, handsome in an oily manner – came across to the Ibiza. ‘What’s up, then?’ he asked.

  Alvarez stepped out of the car. ‘I’ve had a call from Francisco’s mother and she’s very worried because she hasn’t heard from him in days.’

  ‘You’re here because of him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Beltrán became aggressively self-confident. ‘She fusses over him like an old hen.’

  ‘Does that mean you have seen him very recently?’

  ‘No, it don’t.’

  ‘But you’re not concerned?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I guess it’s just he’s found the courage to get shacked up.’

  ‘And forgot to contact his mother or come to work?’

  He sniggered. ‘It’s always good the first time.’

  ‘Do you know what woman he’s with?’

  ‘Can’t say since I wasn’t with him when he clicked.’

  ‘Then you’ve no idea where he might be?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘His mother told me you and he share a place in the port. Is there likely to be a photograph of him there?’

  ‘Could be, I suppose.’

  ‘Then get in the car.’

  ‘Here, I ain’t done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Nothing I know about. You’re going with me to look for a photograph of him.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to. Get in the car.’

  They reached the port seventeen minutes later. Carrer Talaia had once been the boundary of the seaside village and beyond it had been green fields, a few cultivated, most too stony to grow anything but trees, now it was surrounded by blocks of flats; once, Casa Jasumella had been a fisherman’s cottage, now it was owned by a Mallorquin widow who let it for a rent that would have astonished her late husband.

  Beltrán led the way into the front room. ‘Haven’t had time to tidy up,’ he muttered.

  Alvarez looked at the empty beer bottles, dirty glasses, plates, and cutlery, the shirt and socks thrown onto one of the worn-out chairs, and wondered if the time was ever found. ‘See if you can find a photo of him.’

  Beltrán went through the far doorway. Alvarez, avoiding a plate on the floor, crossed to the low glass-topped table – the glass was cracked – and picked up one of the soft-porn magazines on it. Unimaginative. The second, no better, had been covering a brochure for the BMW Z4. For those with a love of cars, but not the money to buy their choices, the brochure could be as frustrating as the magazines.

  Beltrán returned and handed Alvarez a photograph. In this, he was in swimming trunks and in close embrace with a lissom woman in a monokini; by their side stood a second man, his head turned so that much of his face was in shadow. The shape of the head, that part of the face which was visible, the build of the body, made Alvarez reasonably certain the murdered man in Le Vail d’en Fangat, was Francisco Jiminez, but he needed a more definite identification before bringing tragedy into the mother’s life. ‘I think Francisco is dead.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘But I can’t be certain, so you have to come to the morgue to make a positive identification.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘It has to be done.’

  ‘Not by me, it doesn’t.’

  ‘By you.’

  ‘Why not his mother?’

  ‘Because there’s one chance in a hundred the dead man is not Francisco,’ Alvarez replied contemptuously.

  ‘Look, I just can’t do something like that.’

  ‘You’ll find you can.’

  Beltrán went over to the table and picked up one of the dirty glasses, left the room; when he returned, the glass was filled with red wine. ‘Can’t you get someone else?’

  ‘No.’

  He drank.

  ‘Who took the photograph?’

  ‘The other woman,’ Beltrán answered, before he slumped down on one of the chairs, to the accompanying twang of springs.

  ‘How long ago was it taken?’

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘By remembering.’

  ‘You don’t understand, I can’t look at a body . . .’

  ‘When was the photograph taken?’

  Beltrán drank. Maybe earlier this month.’

  ‘Who was the other woman?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I want a name.’

  ‘I can’t remember what it was.’

  ‘Think harder.’

  In a rush of words, Beltrán tried to explain. He liked the ladies and they liked him so most warm evenings he’d walk the beach and chat to likely prospects; since there was always one willing to enjoy a spot of fun, it was impossible to remember who was who.

  ‘If you . . .’ Alvarez checked what he had been about to say. The woman’s identity was unlikely to be relevant, so why pursue the question? Because she would be attractive and almost certainly enjoyed a spot of fun, so should he meet and question her . . . ? There was no greater traitor than one’s own mind.

  Beltrán interrupted his thoughts. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘No. Which is why you’re coming to the morgue.’ Beltrán drained his glass, hurried out of the room to refill it. For once, Alvarez had not remarked on the thirsty weather – there were still places where one could buy fifty-cent wine. When Beltrán returned, fear and alcohol prompted his tongue. Where women were concerned, Francisco was odd. Not that odd, just odd. Liked to talk about them, to buy magazines and videos, but face to face was scared of them. He, Beltrán, always had to make the contact for both of them and usually Francisco made such a cock-up of chatting up his companion, he returned to the house on his own. And there had been the time when a sound had made him think Francisco was spying on him and his woman – he’d not made certain because one couldn’t leap off the bed in the middle, could one? Then there were the night-vision binoculars. Francisco had said he’d bought them to study wild animals at night. That was a laugh!

  ‘You’re suggesting Francisco’s fun was peeping?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘So if he is the victim, it’s very unlikely he ran into trouble because he was playing aro
und with someone else’s woman, it was because he was peeping.’

  ‘You’re saying . . . You’re saying he was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Beltrán drank the wine in the glass, stood. ‘I need another.’

  ‘Better take it easy if you don’t want to feel queasy even before we reach the morgue,’ Alvarez said uncharitably.

  Seventeen

  IN THE OFFICE, ALVAREZ THOUGHT UP SEVERAL REASONS FOR NOT phoning Salas, but regretfully decided none of them would sound convincing if challenged. He dialled Palma and after the customary wait was put through to the superior chief. ‘Señor, yesterday, some time after we had spoken over the phone, I was informed that a body had been found in Le Vail d’en Fangat and injuries to the head suggested murder. I spoke to your secretary and told her . . .’

  That you knew virtually nothing. If you have further information, why am I only receiving it now?’

  ‘Señor, I arrived at the office very early in order to make my report to you, but there was a phone call from Teresa Jiminez to say she feared her son was missing. Since there had to be the possibility he was the murdered man, I decided it was necessary to check whether that was so before reporting to you, knowing how you like all the facts . . .’

  ‘There is no need to repeat yourself.’

  ‘I asked her to describe her son and what she told me made me reasonably certain the dead man was he. I could, of course, at this point have phoned you, but since the identity of the dead man was so important, I decided first to speak to Jacobo Beltrán, who shared a small house in Port Llueso with Francisco Jiminez. He showed me a photograph of Jiminez. This seemed to confirm the identification while still leaving room for doubt, so I have arranged to drive Beltrán to the morgue this afternoon.’

  ‘What was the doctor’s opinion?’

  ‘That the dead man had probably been struck more than once on the head with a heavy object. He was fairly certain the victim had not died where he was found and possibly had been carried there, bundled up in some form of woollen material.’

  ‘Who is Francisco Jiminez?’

  ‘He’s from Port Llueso and works for a builder. It’s possible he is, or was, not quite normal.’

  ‘Physically or mentally abnormal?’

  ‘I suppose one would call it mentally.’

  ‘From what form of mental instability did he suffer?’

  ‘He didn’t get on with women.’

  ‘You suppose that to be abnormal?’

  ‘He enjoyed pornography, but was shy meeting them and didn’t . . .’He became silent.

  ‘Well? Didn’t what?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘If I knew, I should not ask.’

  ‘Didn’t get cracking.’

  ‘I have had to learn that on this island there is not the level of intelligent communication one expects in Madrid, but you manage to reduce almost any conversation to incomprehensibility. What was he supposed to crack?’

  ‘He didn’t try to seduce the woman he was with.’

  ‘Even though your past attitude should have forewarned me, I am surprised and disheartened you should obviously regard such reticence as abnormal rather than the behaviour of an upright man.’

  In a moment of pure mental aberration, Alvarez said, ‘Perhaps his problem was the lack of uprightness.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing, Señor.’

  ‘I find it abhorrent that you seek to introduce sex into every case.’

  ‘If it’s there . .

  ‘Only the impure delight in seeking out impurity.’

  ‘But I think it’s important to know what kind of sex life Jiminez led.’

  ‘I am not surprised. However, to someone of a balanced mind, that will be a matter of neither importance nor interest.’

  ‘Not if it identifies the motive for his murder? He was probably sexually immature – perhaps because of an overprotective mother . . .’

  ‘You will leave such supposition to those psychologists who are content to spend grubby professional lives.’

  ‘Because of his immaturity, he gained his kicks from peeping.’

  ‘And therefore, because of your predilections, this case is affording you considerable interest?’

  ‘Beltrán reckons Jiminez used to try to peep on him when he was with a woman in the bedroom and they . . .’

  ‘You will refrain from lascivious supposition.’

  ‘Another thing. He’d bought himself a pair of night-vision binoculars.’

  ‘That is of significance?’

  ‘It meant he could go out at night and watch couples who believed the dark hid what they were doing.’

  ‘Listening to you is like visiting Sodom and Gomorrah.’

  ‘It seems possible he was caught peeping on a couple and the man was so furious, he hit Jiminez over the head, killing him. He panicked, removed the body in a rug, and tried to hide it where he thought it wouldn’t be found until decayed beyond the likelihood of ever being positively identified. Of course, if that is what happened, it must prove very difficult to identify him; doubly difficult if he’s a foreigner who might well have already left the island? .

  ‘You seek excuses for failure already?’

  ‘Señor, I’m just pointing out that with thousands of possible suspects, unless the post-mortem can provide a definite pointer to the murderer’s identity . .

  ‘One must hope the p.m. provides not only a definite pointer, but one that gives you no further opportunity to pursue interests that a cultivated man will eschew.’ He cut the connection.

  Alvarez replaced the receiver. Had the superior chief always been as obnoxious? The phone rang. He lifted the receiver. ‘Inspector Alvarez . . .’

  ‘Unfortunately, I am only too aware of who – I am tempted to add, what – you are,’ said Salas. ‘Have you considered the possibility there is a link between the murder of Jiminez, if that’s who the dead man is, and Señorita Coates?’

  ‘Yes, Señor, and in my opinion there can be none.’

  He rang off.

  It was still very early to leave for home, yet Salas was unlikely to phone again and the thought of a drink before lunch – Bacalao con pasas y huevos duros? – outweighed any sense of caution.

  The assistant slid out the refrigerated compartment, one of twelve, to its full length. Beltrán was sweating heavily and he kept plucking at the neck of his shirt as if it was too tight, rather than unbuttoned and open. The assistant pulled back the green sheet to reveal the dead man’s head, not yet repaired and cleaned as it would be before burial.

  ‘Is it Francisco?’ Alvarez asked.

  Beltrán swallowed heavily; he nodded.

  ‘You’re quite certain?’

  He began to retch.

  ‘Through there, turn right,’ said the assistant as he pointed. He watched Beltrán rush through the doorway. ‘Hope he makes it or there’ll be more work for me.’ He pushed the compartment back into the unit.

  ‘Is the professor here?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘Can’t rightly say. Best ask upstairs.’

  He made his way to the office of Professor Fortunato; a secretary told him the professor was away at a conference, but Mateo Sastre, who had conducted the post-mortem, would be able to speak to him.

  Sastre could provide little information of immediate consequence. Jiminez had been killed by two blows, perhaps three, from a heavy instrument; a piece of bark embedded in the skull suggested a section of branch rather than anything metallic; the bark, quite fresh, had already been identified as coming from an almond tree.

  There was no reason to doubt the doctor’s assessment that death had occurred two to three days before the body was found. Green and purple staining had begun to spread from the . . .

  Alvarez tried not to listen.

  The doctor had been correct that the presence and absence of lividity, still faintly visible, showed the victim had not been killed in the position in which his body had been found. Very pr
obably, it had been bundled into something – a blanket or rug, judging by the single woollen thread on the clothing – and transported to the field where it was dumped.

  There was nothing else to report.

  Alvarez made his way downstairs and along to the ‘Communing’ room, a place of peaceful colours, comfortable chairs, fresh flowers, religious tracts, and supposedly soothing piped music. Beltrán had regained some composure.

  ‘If you’re ready, we’ll leave,’ Alvarez said.

  ‘I feel terrible.’

  ‘A coñac will set you up.’

  He led the way out on to the street and along to a small cafe which had four tables set out on the pavement. They sat; almost immediately, a man came out and took their order.

  ‘Who could have done it?’ Beltrán asked, his voice shaky. ‘I’m hoping you’ll help me answer that.’

  ‘You think I know? I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Alvarez answered confidently – murderers came in many shapes and sizes, but none of them Beltrán’s. ‘But perhaps you’ll be able to tell me something that will enable me to identify who did. For the moment, I’m assuming Francisco was out peeping, was caught by a man who was so furious he grabbed a length of wood and struck him. So to your knowledge, did Francisco go out peeping at the weekend?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think back.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  It seemed the questioning would have to wait. The waiter returned with two brandies. Beltrán drank his as if it were medicine, Alvarez almost as quickly, but with pleasure. As he placed the empty glass down on the table, he thought about ordering another but remembered Traffic was proposing to set up road-blocks in certain areas and to breathalyse every driver. A wasteful exercise, since the quality of the driving of any Mallorquin was equally poor whether drunk or sober.

  By prior arrangement, Beltrán was in Casa Jasumella when Alvarez arrived on Thursday morning. No attempt had been made to clean the sitting-room and on one of the plates a piece of food was beginning to grow fungus.