Unseemly End (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 6)

by Roderic Jeffries

  Alvarez was certain he should do, but his thumping brain refused to recall the answer.

  ‘They are invariably a sign of asphyxiation.’

  ‘You … you’re telling me she was murdered?’

  ‘I am informing you of the fact that the possibility exists: it will require a post mortem to confirm or deny such possibility. However, if you press me for an immediate conclusion, I give my opinion that this is a case of murder. And here it is necessary to remember that asphyxiation often induces terminal vomiting.

  ‘Naturally, I ascertained the time of death: I would put this as having taken place at four a.m … I must remind you that such an estimate can never be accepted as accurate because of the many varied and often contradictory, even unascertainable, surrounding factors.’ He sounded annoyed by this breach in the armour of his certainty. ‘Well, I must leave and continue with my work.’ He walked with sharp, abrupt movements over to the door.

  ‘Can you hang on a sec?’ Alvarez unwillingly came to his feet. ‘There’s one thing I can’t really understand. If she was asphyxiated, why are nineteen sleeping pills missing — assuming they aren’t on the floor?’

  Rossello said: ‘Clearly, the question and answer both lie within your province, not mine.’ He continued to the doorway and went out into the hall.

  A great man for provinces, thought Alvarez. He heard the front door shut, a car engine start up, and then the crunch of tyres on the stone chip surface of the drive.

  He slowly made his way to the kitchen and slumped down on one of the bench seats in the eating area.

  Victoriana, who was stacking dirty glasses and crockery in the dishwasher, straightened up and studied him. ‘You look worse than ever.’

  ‘I feel even worse than that.’

  ‘You ought to have asked the doc for something to help.’

  ‘He only hands out long lectures.’

  ‘You can say that again! Went on and on at me over those sleeping pills. Wasn’t my fault, was it? If the señora swallowed half a bottle, what was it to do with me?’

  ‘You should have told him it wasn’t your province … Come and sit down. I want to ask you something.’

  When she was seated opposite him, he said: ‘Tell me, who slept here last night?’

  ‘Me and the señora.’

  ‘Not Ana?’

  ‘She went off as soon as we’d cleared up as much as we were going to. She lives in the village and when it’s her day off she always spends the night before and the night after at home.’

  ‘What did you do after she left?’

  ‘Went to bed, of course. After spending all day on my feet, working for the señora, d’you think I was going to rush off to a disco?’

  ‘Did you turn in before she did?’

  ‘No way! She couldn’t get to bed quickly enough the moment the last guest left. Talk about tight! Didn’t think she was going to get up the stairs.’

  ‘I suppose you got her room ready for her to turn in?’

  ‘Had to do that half way through the party when people weren’t boozing so much and there was just enough time to nip up and turn the bed down.’

  ‘Did you happen to notice if the bottle of pills, the case it came in, and the instructions pamphlet, were by the side of the bed?’

  ‘There wasn’t nothing there. I always check to make certain everything’s neat and tidy. That’s a job on its own with the way she leaves everything lying around.’

  ‘Where did she normally keep her sleeping pills?’

  ‘In one of the cabinets in the bathroom. Like a chemist’s shop. She was always taking so many pills it’s a wonder she didn’t rattle when she walked.’

  ‘Have you any idea of how many bottles of sleeping pills are in the cabinet?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know.’

  ‘If she went to bed right away, I suppose you did the shutting up of the house?’

  ‘Like always, after a party.’

  ‘How d’you go about it? Tell me the sequence.’

  ‘I just did it — there weren’t no sequence. Locked the doors, made certain all the shutters were fast. The air-conditioning had been switched off in the sitting-room because of the people having to pass through and the outside doors being opened, so there was no need to close that down for the night.’

  ‘Could you possibly have left a door or a shutter open by mistake?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Did you open up this morning before you went into her bedroom?’

  ‘Always do, at eight sharp. Not that either of ’em is ever down then.’

  ‘Were any of the doors or shutters open?’

  ‘’Course they weren’t …’ Rather belatedly, she realized the implications of his questions. ‘Here, you’re not saying someone broke into this place last night?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘But … but …’

  ‘Whereabouts do you sleep, señorita?’

  ‘At the back.’

  ‘Do you hear much of what goes on in the rest of the house?’

  ‘Not really — not unless there’s a lot of noise like the señor playing music very loud.’

  ‘Did you hear anything during the night?’

  She thought back. ‘Only her.’ She pointed at Lulu, who had waddled into the kitchen and climbed into the dog basket under the central table. ‘Had a bit of a bark, which kind of woke me, but not all the way, if you know what I mean?’

  He smiled. ‘You came up to the surface but very soon went deep down again?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Any idea of what time that was?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘There’s a photo up in the bedroom of a young woman — is that her daughter?’

  ‘That’s right. Looks quite nice now, doesn’t she? D’you reckon she’ll get this house?’

  ‘I’d think so, yes.’

  ‘Wonder if she’ll want me and Ana to stay on.’

  If she didn’t, he thought, neither of the two should have much trouble in finding another job. The señora had obviously demanded a high standard of work: these days, despite the high rate of unemployment, there were always positions for well trained staff. ‘Have you any idea who was her solicitor?’

  ‘She usually went to a bloke in Palma: don’t know his name but his office was somewhere close to Jaime Three. But she did recently go to Sen or Vives, here in the village.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know why she suddenly went to a local solicitor?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said virtuously.

  He thought for a moment. ‘Whereabouts in this place does she keep her personal papers?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by personal papers. She kept things in the study and didn’t like anyone else going in there unless it was to give a quick dust round. And then she kept a good eye open to see what was happening. Could be in there, couldn’t they?’

  ‘It certainly sounds likely. Which room is the study?’

  ‘The one on the right of the hall as you come into the house.’

  ‘I’d better have a look in there … You’ve been a great help. Thanks.’

  She showed signs of fresh uneasiness. ‘What’s going to happen? I mean, are you staying on here?’

  ‘Certainly for a little while.’

  ‘You … Does that mean … Didn’t she just die?’

  ‘I don’t know one way or the other right now.’

  ‘But maybe … she was killed?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  She shivered. She looked up at the electric clock on the wall. ‘It’s coming up to lunch … Wouldn’t like to stop and have some grub here, would you? She’d said she wanted gambas, steak, and chocolate mousse, and it’s all ready. Seems a pity not to use the food up, doesn’t it?’ To some extent Victoriana had remained insulated from the death of the señora when it had seemed to be due to natural causes. But now it was possible that the señora might have been murdered, she was scared to be in the house on her
own. Clearly, it would be a kindness to stay with her for as long as was possible. The fact that grilled gambas was his favourite dish did not, he assured himself, in any way influence his decision to remain.

  *

  The three men from the undertakers were quiet, efficient, and quick. They wrapped the body in a modified flexible stretcher and carried it out to the Seat 124 which had a vanlike body and was painted black.

  Alvarez watched them drive out on to the dirt track, then returned into the house. He must remember to phone Superior Chief Salas tomorrow morning and tell that great man what had happened. He thought gloomily that Salas, in his imperious Madrileño manner, would inevitably find fault in whatever had been done.

  He turned and entered the study, examined the bookcases, the small cupboard, the filing cabinet, and finally the desk. The long drawer and the top drawer on the left of the kneehole were locked and it seemed reasonable to assume that it was in one or other of these that she kept her confidential papers. He checked everywhere a second time, looking for the keys, but failed to find them. Perhaps Victoriana would know where they were kept.

  She was sunbathing by the swimming pool, wearing a brief bikini. She seemed to have lost her earlier sense of apprehension and, not for the first time, he envied the young their ability to switch emotions so quickly. ‘Señorita, I have been looking around in the study and find the desk is locked. Have you any idea where the keys to this are?’

  She shook her head. There was a patio chair nearby and he sat. She continued to look at him for a while, then settled, her head pillowed on her outstretched arms, her back burning hot from the sun. He thought about the keys. If Victoriana had no idea where they were kept, then clearly they would not be found in any of the places which a maid might clean or otherwise investigate. That surely left the señora’s handbags or, if she didn’t want to carry the keys around with her, an unusual hiding-place. He closed his eyes, the better to identify all possible hiding-places.

  When he awoke, Victoriana had gone and, as he discovered, so had his headache. He went indoors and upstairs to the master bedroom and there, twenty minutes later, he found two small keys on a key ring in the toe of a shoe, one of dozens on the racks in the bottom of the built-in cupboards.

  One key opened the top, long drawer of the kneehole desk in the study. The jumble of papers inside was daunting, but on the top was a large brown envelope and inside this he found two copies of the señora’s will, one in Spanish, the other in English. He read the Spanish copy. Everything she owned was left to Mark Erington with the sole exception of a pewter cigarette case which was to go to George Trent.

  Why had Trent been left what was clearly a very ordinary cigarette case? A sentimental gift? But if she had had a gram of sentiment in her, she would surely have left at least part of her fortune to her daughter? … The feeling within him grew that there was some special significance to be attached to the terms of this will, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what that could be.

  CHAPTER 12

  Kenley walked up to the hedge and carefully trimmed one corner of it.

  Lettie spoke wearily. ‘Come back here, Steve.’

  He stared beyond the hedge at the road where their car was parked and there was a look of yearning on his face.

  ‘It’s no good your running away. We’ve got to talk this matter out.’

  He turned. There was a sudden catch in his throat when he first saw the plaster on her leg, as there always was, even after all these months, even though he had last seen it not very long before. Slowly he walked back across the garden.

  ‘Sit down.’

  He sat in the second patio chair, set just within the shade of the house.

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Lettie.

  He nodded. At first he had thought that the report of Dolly’s death must be just one more rumour, but earlier he had met a friend who had assured him it was true.

  ‘And all she has referring to the loan is your signed statement agreeing the total amount borrowed? There was nothing in writing about interest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then no one can demand any interest from you.’

  ‘But if she thought I’d given my word …’

  ‘Stop being so soft.’ She saw his hurt look and put out her hand to rest it on his. ‘I didn’t mean to be nasty, but you’ve just got to be realistic.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘And anyway, it’ll be her daughter who gets the estate and she won’t try to charge twenty per cent.’

  He wondered. A chip off the old block could very accurately describe some family relationships.

  ‘She won’t even know about the twenty per cent … if you don’t tell her.’

  That was true. Unless Dolly had made a note of the final agreement. Not that that would have any legal validity. But then there never had been any legal validity …

  ‘You know exactly what you meant and that’s what you’ll stick to. How can you possibly be more honest to yourself than that?’

  He turned to look at her and saw all the determination in the tight line of her mouth. Her conviction convinced him. She had to be right. Never mind what false assumptions Dolly had made … Yet he was no sooner certain than he began once more to doubt. An honourable man surely didn’t let subsequent circumstances alter his position? If Dolly really had believed …

  She could judge how his thoughts were running. She said, her voice hard: ‘I’m sorry, but now she’s dead you just aren’t going to do any more than pay back the capital, less what you’ve already given her, to her executors.’

  He wished he could see everything as clearly as she did. But he could feel himself once more giving in to her and he was grateful to her for being so strong that he was certain that this time his surrender could be made with honour.

  *

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’ said Carol, as she put her towel down on the hot sand.

  ‘Heard what?’ asked Trent, as he pulled off his shirt.

  ‘About Dolly.’

  ‘What’s the old bag been up to now?’

  ‘She died last night.’

  He undid his shorts and stepped out of them: he was wearing a pair of multi-coloured swimming trunks. ‘She’s actually done the decent thing for once?’

  ‘I don’t like people saying things like that.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, sat on his towel. He reached across to his shorts and brought out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  ‘Why d’you hate her so?’ she asked, as she settled on the towel. ‘She couldn’t help being the kind of person she was.’

  ‘Stop believing in the old-fashioned kind of fairies.’

  She stared at him, the sunshine cutting across her face. ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘It means it’s time you scrapped your rose-tinted spectacles. Dolly was a bitch.’

  ‘I know she was a bit of a snob, but some snobs are really quite nice people if you bother to get to know them.’

  ‘In your book, Dracula was quite a nice person once one became used to his odd drinking habits.’

  ‘I hate looking for the worst in people.’

  ‘You can be so blind you don’t see it even when you come face to face with it.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I think you’re quite a nice person, even when you’re in a foul mood?’ She took off her clothes to reveal a bikini. She sat with her legs raised and her hands clasped in front of them. There was something about his dislike of Dolly which she didn’t understand and which frightened her.

  A power boat, a hundred metres off shore, had been waiting for a water skier to give the OK signal. Suddenly the engine accelerated with a bellow of sound and the bows knifed through the water, bringing the skier to a standing position. For a brief moment it looked as if he might lose his balance, then he regained it to flash across the water at thirty knots.

  ‘I wonder what Dolly’s daughter’s like?’ she said.

  ‘Quite a nice person, really.�
�

  She laughed. At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humour.

  *

  Matas sat on a chair in the road immediately outside his front door and smoked a pipe. He saw his daughter, Rosa, walking towards him with her current boyfriend and he watched the young man with very sharp eyes to make certain there was no undue familiarity. When they reached him, the young man said good evening, then they both went inside to watch television. That was all right. His wife would make certain there was no hanky-panky.

  Life had changed all right, but not always for the better. When he’d been young, there’d been no chance of respectable daughters getting into trouble, but these days they’d been given so much freedom that there was every chance. But Rosa wasn’t going to end up with a little bastard.

  Two men, of roughly his age, one of them using a stick because he still suffered from the leg he had broken months before when working on a house, walked up the road. They stopped by his chair, but for a while said nothing as they allowed time to wash slowly over them. Finally, the elder of the two said: ‘What’s the name of the foreign señora you used to work for?’

  He took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Señora Lund.’ He hawked and spat.

  ‘I thought that was it. She’s dead.’

  Matas returned the pipe to his mouth and smoked.

  ‘Found cold in bed this morning.’

  He thought about the tomatoes and knew a fresh surge of anger that she should have sacked him for taking his own tomatoes.

  ‘Been ill, has she?’

  ‘Only when she’s been on the booze,’ he answered contemptuously.

  ‘Did she have a party there last night?’

  ‘I wasn’t there, was I, so I can’t say.’

  ‘Old Juan says there was.’

  ‘Then you know more’n I do.’ There’d been a row after each one of her previous parties. She’d wanted him to return the next day to clean up the garden and he’d stubbornly refused to work on a Sunday.

  ‘There ain’t no funeral tonight.’

  He finally, if briefly, showed some surprise. ‘No funeral?’

  ‘They say as the doc called in the police.’

  There was a silence, broken by the passing of a couple of badly silenced motor-bikes, then by the elder of the two. ‘Feel like a glass?’