Sun, Sea and Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘You had difficulty in finding someone who could answer your questions; your car broke down and you could not phone for help because your mobile needed charging; or did you trip and fall, twist your ankle and have only just been released from the medical centre?’

  ‘I first spoke to the planchista, señor. The panels and bonnet had been sent to the pintura. The jefe there expressed his surprise at the number of coats of paint which had been demanded, but with a car of such amazing quality—’

  ‘Contain your desire to deliver another panegyric.’

  ‘The depression on the bonnet was not readily visible. It was roughly circular and that would, of course, respond to contact with part of the victim’s body, perhaps the head. On its own, that evidence carries very little weight, but together with all the other evidence—’

  ‘You were asked to ascertain facts, not deliver conclusions which lie beyond your capabilities. Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘You will make a full written report and fax it to me, to be on my desk immediately. Once I have ensured it is comprehensible and have corrected your grammar and spelling, it will be sent to England. One last thing. Do not bother to try to tell me this evening that I have not received your report because the fax machine has failed.’

  Alvarez replaced the receiver. A long and arduous task lay ahead, made all the more unwelcome because there seemed to be no way of escaping it.

  SIX

  August was hot; as hot as any recorded. In Alvarez’s office, the fan was turning at maximum speed, but he was sweating so hard that his shirt stuck to his back.

  The phone rang. After a while, he answered it.

  ‘Woken you up, have I?’

  A comedian. ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘When we were young, you threw stones at Fat Lucía to make her swear, which she did better than any man.’

  ‘Jaume! The same old liar. I have never thrown stones at a lady.’

  ‘Not a memory the noble inspector wishes to remember?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A friendly chat.’

  ‘When you—’

  ‘Woke you up?’

  Alvarez laughed. ‘You always were a bastard!’

  Conversation became less confrontational. The health of each other’s family was discussed, past youthful escapades were remembered. Jaume explained he had been living in Ibiza from the time he had married Cecilia until she went off with another man; he had recently returned to Mallorca and had started working for a firm which delivered parcels all over the island. Alvarez expressed his commiserations for Jaume’s marital loss.

  ‘No need to shed tears. Years looking at the same woman over breakfast dulls a man’s imagination. Eloisa brightens it up . . . I was going to get in touch to suggest a drink together, but right now I’m ringing because I was de­livering a parcel and when I braked to a stop in front of Es Teneres—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Old age making you deaf?’

  ‘In Val de Teneres?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, out through the front door rushed a young woman in hysterics. Took time to calm her enough to understand she had gone into the library and found the owner on the floor, with blood on his shirt and shorts . . .’

  ‘Señor Tyler?’

  ‘Some name like that. I went in to make certain she wasn’t hallucinating, then called emergency. The duty doctor from the health centre arrived, said the man was dead – which didn’t need brains to decide – and that he had ­apparently been shot.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘Must you repeat everything I say?’

  ‘Shot where?’

  ‘In the stomach. Twice.’

  Suicide? Conscience could overwhelm even the corrupt soul. ‘Was there a gun on the floor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Under his body?’

  ‘Why are you going on about a gun?’

  ‘To confirm it was suicide.’

  ‘When the doc reckoned the Englishman had been murdered?’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so at the beginning?’ Salas might have said that. ‘Have you called the policia local to put a watch on the place?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who’s in the house right now?’

  ‘The cook’s away, ill in bed with something or other, so it’s just the maid. The gardener turned up and wanted to know what was going on. There’s no more to tell, so I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘You’ll wait until I arrive. And make certain no one goes near the library before a policia arrives to take over.’

  ‘I’ve a job to finish.’

  ‘Which you can when I’m satisfied you didn’t do the shooting.’

  Jaume expressed his feelings in basic Mallorquin.

  Alvarez smiled as he replaced the receiver. Jaume would assure himself that the possibility he might have shot the dead man was a tasteless joke, made in retaliation for suggesting Alvarez had thrown stones at an elderly woman when young, but there would be a corner of his mind which would worry he might be suspected . . .

  He phoned Palma.

  ‘Yes?’ Salas demanded.

  ‘Señor, I am ringing to report that Señor Tyler has been found dead.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You will remember we were asked by England to question a Señor Cyril Tyler—’

  ‘Since there were two Tylers involved in that matter, a responsible officer would have taken the trouble to make certain it was clear as to which one he was referring.’

  ‘Cyril Leo Tyler. He lives . . . lived in Es Teneres and was suspected of having driven his car into two young people in England. Tyler—’

  ‘You intend to deliver a résumé of the case?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘Unlikely. Where did he die?’

  ‘In his house, here, on the island.’

  ‘Why does his death concern you?’

  ‘The doctor – he is not certified for forensic work. At least I presume he isn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was the doctor on duty at the health centre. He went no further than to say Tyler had been shot twice in the stomach.’

  ‘You have waited until now to inform me this is a case of either murder or suicide?’

  ‘I doubt it is suicide . . .’

  ‘I prefer to wait for an opinion from someone on whom reliance can be placed. You have called for a forensic doctor?’

  ‘Of course, señor.’

  ‘Have you searched for a gun?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You fail to understand the necessity of doing so?’

  ‘I am here, not there.’

  ‘Where is “here” and where is “there”?’

  ‘I am in my office at the post.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have only just heard of Tyler’s death.’

  ‘And you see no reason for conducting an immediate investigation?’

  ‘You have always said you require a report to be made at the first possible moment.’

  ‘A report requires facts. You have offered none beyond the fact of a probable shooting. You will go to the home of the dead man and learn the forensic doctor’s verdict. You will search the house and grounds, question the staff, neighbours and anyone else who might be able to help. Then, and only then, will you be capable of making a report of any value.’

  Alvarez gloomily wondered how he could return home in time for his meal. One could only be gratified to learn Tyler was dead, but why couldn’t he have chosen a more convenient time and method to die?

  As Alvarez braked to a halt, Jaume hurried out of Es Teneres and across to the Ibiza. ‘Have you walked here?’

  ‘Does it look as if I did?’

  ‘Then buy a car with an engine. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting when I’ve work to be finished before I can knock off?’

  Alvarez climbed out of his car. ‘If you don’t have to continue through half the night, every night, you don’t
begin to understand what work is. Has the policia arrived?’

  ‘A sight sooner than you.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Hanging around in the hall, trying to get me to bring something out from Palma for nowt.’

  ‘Let’s get inside out of the sun before you tell me what happened.’

  ‘You think I’m going to stay now you’re finally here?’

  ‘Unless you don’t care if I begin to wonder why you’re in such a hurry to leave.’

  ‘No one told you a joke gets stale quicker than yesterday’s paper?’

  They went into the house. The policia who had been pacing the hall came across and they briefly chatted before Alvarez stepped into the library, which was very cold, thanks to the air conditioning having been set to a low temperature and working for a long time.

  For once, he was able to look at violent death without suffering the inescapable fact and accompanying fear that all life must end, including his own. Convinced Tyler had been the driver of the car which had killed the young couple in Kent, he studied the body with equanimity.

  Tyler, dressed for heat and not the cold of the room, had probably been sitting on the far side of the elaborately inlaid kneehole desk. A chair was on its side on the floor – knocked there as he fell or struggled to drag himself up? His eyelids were slightly open, and he might have been beginning to smile. The manner of death was not always apparent in a face. The cotton shorts and the silk sleeveless shirt had been stained with blood.

  Alvarez visually searched the room. No gun was visible. A laptop on the desk was at an angle which allowed him to note the screen was blank. Not switched on because there had not been time? Nothing apart from the chair appeared to be out of place; the books neatly filled the bookcase and provided a sign of genuine or implied learning.

  He walked slowly, carefully around the room, checking spaces which had not been visible from the doorway. The papers on the desk were filled with handwritten figures and indicated innumerable calculations. Pursuing moves to ease the problems to which Tyler had referred in his interview?

  A crumpled piece of paper under the central space of the kneehole desk caught his attention. He bent down, picked it up and smoothed it out. A receipt from a supermarket. Meaningless. He scrumpled it up again and was about to throw it into the waste-paper basket when it occurred to him that if he replaced it, it could provide evidence to convince Salas that his search had been a very thorough one.

  Miro, one of the photographers employed by the police, entered the library. They chatted for a while before Miro took photographs at Alvarez’s orders. To Miro’s annoyance, Alvarez asked for three photos, taken from different angles, of the receipt under the desk.

  Miro had just finished his initial task when Dr Font, whom Alvarez had met several times, arrived.

  ‘Inspector . . .?’

  ‘Alvarez, Doctor.’ Font’s sharp facial features suited him. Visit him because one felt unwell, but lacked definite symptoms, and one would be met with sharp irritation.

  Font put his small, well-worn leather case down on the floor, crossed to the body and studied it. ‘Well?’

  ‘Cyril Leo Tyler. He drove over from England in the first week of July. The maid came in here, found him lying where he is, and became hysterical. The driver of the van that’s outside reported the shooting.’

  ‘You have already diagnosed he was shot?’

  ‘Not me,’ Alvarez said with some satisfaction. ‘The doctor from the health centre. It was his opinion that Tyler had been shot twice.’

  Font opened his case, brought out surgeon’s gloves and carried out an external examination of the body. He twice measured its temperature, checked movement of arms and legs, spent minutes closely examining the two wounds.

  He stood, peeled off the gloves. ‘There are no injuries other than the two gunshot wounds. No doubt you are going to ask for a time of death. That rigor is not yet appearing in the face and the blood temperature suggest a time of about two to three hours ago. However, the temperature of this room will have, to a considerable extent, interrupted the normal processes of decay. How long has the air con­ditioning been on at the present setting?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

  ‘It would have helped to know.’

  Was he, Alvarez wondered, supposed to have done what he did not know he would be required to do?

  ‘Any estimate of time of death in this case, even when the question regarding the air conditioning can be answered, has to be very unreliable.’

  ‘Can you say from what distance the shots were fired?’

  ‘There are no contact wounds and the entry holes are split by the tail-wagging of the bullet. The range, as one can verify from the room, was less than fifty metres. The degree of soiling from the bullets implies a distance of at least one metre. There are no exit wounds and the bullets remain in the body. Lividity shows the body was not moved at any length of time after death.’

  ‘The two wounds seem to be rather far apart.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Wouldn’t one expect the gunman to have fired the second shot as soon as possible after the first?’

  ‘If one ignores other possibilities such as spacing making it more likely a vital organ was hit, or that nervousness hindered an immediate second shot.’

  ‘You’re saying the killer was nervous?’

  ‘I am saying no such thing.’

  ‘But it’s likely?’

  ‘You would prefer to draw your own conclusions?’ Font closed the case with a snap. ‘I expect to hear details of when the air conditioning was switched on as soon as possible.’ He lifted up his case, left.

  Alvarez picked up the chair behind the desk and sat. He phoned the undertaker. He felt cold for the first time in weeks, even months, and was about to get up and leave, when Jaume entered.

  ‘Happy, are you? Doing what you like best, sitting on your ass and staring into space?’

  ‘I am contemplating the various facts so far ascertained.’

  ‘More like wondering what you’re meant to do next. I have to finish my job, so I’m away.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the maid?’

  ‘Julia.’

  ‘Is she still hysterical?’

  ‘No more than any other woman. Wanted to chat to someone, so I listened for a while. From what she said, it was seeing the bloodied clothes which upset her, not him being dead. If you ask me, she won’t be laying flowers on his grave.’

  ‘I doubt anyone will.’

  ‘He was a bastard?’

  ‘As big a one as you’ll ever meet . . . We’ll move in to another room and be more comfortable.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me say I’m away to finish work?’

  ‘When you’ve told me what happened.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Over the phone and disjointedly.’

  ‘You were wrong when you said the dead man was as big a bastard as I’d ever meet.’

  Neither of them looked back at the corpse as they left.

  Once seated in the sitting room, Alvarez said: ‘Describe what happened when you arrived.’

  ‘I blew my nose.’

  ‘Makes a change. Did Julia come out of the house before you braked to a stop?’

  ‘You want to know, did she walk, trot, run? What’s it matter if she came out on her hands? You don’t give a damn how long I’m kept here.’

  ‘What makes you so keen to work?’

  ‘You won’t understand even when I speak slowly. It’s a sense of duty.’

  ‘More like a penalty from your pocket if a parcel isn’t delivered inside the guaranteed times.’

  ‘You mind is malevolent.’

  ‘Conditioned by experience. Now, start describing.’

  ‘I drove in and stopped . . .’

  ‘Who else was around?’

  ‘Only the gardener.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Gardening. What the hell do you expect him to be doi
ng?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Julia came out of the house, shouting and screaming. Took time to understand what it was all about, then I went into the library. Phoned one-one-two and you and that’s it.’

  ‘Where did you go when you were in the library?’

  ‘Over to where he was lying.’

  ‘Did you pass to the right or the left of the desk?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Did you touch the body?’

  ‘I reckoned from the look of him he had to be dead, but I still felt for a pulse.’

  ‘Did you move the body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s lying exactly as it was when you first saw it?’

  ‘If no one’s rolled it around.’

  ‘Where was the chair?’

  ‘On the floor.’

  ‘You didn’t knock it over by mistake?’

  ‘Most of us aren’t as bloody clumsy as you.’

  ‘Did you search for a gun?’

  ‘Wasn’t doing your job for you.’

  ‘Were there any empty cartridges on the floor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you didn’t specifically look for any?’

  ‘How many more daft questions are you going to ask?’

  ‘Who other than Julia was in the house?’

  ‘No one. I told you, the cook was away, ill.’

  ‘Away where?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? At home, I suppose.’

  ‘The staff don’t live in?’

  ‘You learn fast.’

  Alvarez brought a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘D’you smoke?’

  ‘Offering something in your old age? I don’t smoke and you’d be more of a man if you didn’t.’

  ‘I am not old. Where was the chair when you entered the library?’

  ‘You’ve just asked.’

  ‘I’m interested to find out if you give the same answer.’

  Jaume stood. ‘You think you’re going to question everything I’ve already told you just to show what a great man you’d be if you weren’t filled with wind?’

  ‘I never threw a stone at Fat Lucía.’

  ‘If I’d the time, I’d remind you of Magdalena.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You never knew a Magdalena, I suppose, and it wasn’t you who explained to her how a ram tupped a ewe.’