In Search of Murder--An Inspector Alvarez Mallorcan Mystery

by Roderic Jeffries

  Alvarez showed him the necessary identification.

  ‘Very well.’ He handed the ID card back and in order to do so, his stomach came up against the edge of the desk.

  No abogado had ever died from starvation, Alvarez thought.

  ‘It would have saved trouble had you come straight here rather than first phoning.’

  ‘You meet many who falsely claim to be with the cuerpo?’

  ‘Protection of a client and his interests are paramount.’

  ‘Since he is dead, what would one be protecting him from?’

  ‘Do I understand correctly that your being here means my client did not die accidentally?’

  ‘That is what we are trying to determine.’

  ‘You believe the contents of his will may assist you in reaching a conclusion?’

  ‘My superior is of that impression.’

  ‘Then he should have been in touch with me. There is a form of procedure which should always be observed. Perhaps you will inform your superior of that.’

  ‘Perhaps’ was the correct word. ‘I will not forget, señor. If I may see the will?’

  Pereyra picked up one of three folders on his desk, opened it and carefully checked the contents, passed across six pages bound together, the initial one being stamped with the abogado’s warrant. ‘The will was originally drawn up in English, then the certified copy in Spanish.’

  The will had been drawn up and registered three years before. The property Vista Bonita, its contents and his capital were left to his wife, Cecily Mary, with the excpetion of legacies – relatively small – to the staff in his employment at the time of his death; and a gift of ten thousand pounds to James Russell.

  Attached to the will was a record of the latest value of his portfolio – large enough to allow a man to divert all the darts of fate except that of death. ‘Quite an estate!’

  ‘By some standards.’

  ‘You handle many greater ones?’

  ‘You would not expect me to answer that.’

  A second’s thought would have told him he shouldn’t.

  ‘Yes?’ Ángela Torres asked, staccato style.

  ‘Inspector Alvarez.’

  ‘The superior chief is not in his office at present.’

  ‘Still not back from his meal?’

  ‘You will not appreciate that for some, work is more important than self-gratification.’

  ‘I’ll ring again later.’

  ‘Six o’clock.’

  ‘I may not be able to phone that late since I am meeting a man who, hopefully, will be able to identify whoever is now smuggling two brands of whisky and one of gin.’

  ‘It is possible the superior chief will comment on the frequency with which you need to be away from the office very early in the evening in order to speak to a potential smuggler.’

  ‘If that has happened more than once before, it’s pure coincidence.’

  ‘Might not unlikely repetition be more accurate?’

  He leaned back into his chair. Women should never have been admitted to work for the cuerpo or any other police force since their minds were limited and twisted everything.

  He rang Palma.

  ‘Yes?’ Salas demanded.

  He identified himself.

  ‘Your reason for calling now?’

  ‘Because you weren’t there, señor.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where you are.’

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘I would never consider touching liquor when on duty, señor.’

  ‘Then you are unaware that the purpose of speech is to communicate.’

  ‘I thought you would understand that when I said where you are, that meant where you would have been, had you been there.’

  ‘You will not pursue the matter into total chaos. You will explain in the simplest possible manner why you are phoning me now.’

  ‘To report what I have learned so far.’

  ‘I will assume you are referring to the Picare case in order to prevent having to spend half an hour deciphering what you have said. Make your report.’

  Alvarez repeated what Rosalía had told him and what he had learned from the abogado.

  ‘A man of such unsavoury character as Picare should never have been allowed into Spain.’

  ‘I agree, señor.’

  ‘When I require your opinion, I will ask for it. What are the terms of the will?’

  ‘His property and capital, with the exception of bequests, go to his wife. The largest bequest is ten thousand pounds to a friend; the remainder are relatively small.’

  ‘His total assets?’

  ‘His investments were recently valued at two million five hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘Which is how much in euros?’

  He should have expected to be asked that question. ‘I haven’t yet received an official conversion figure.’ The truth could sometimes be a good defence. ‘Perhaps the exchange rate is in doubt.’

  ‘The value of the property?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty thousand euros. Values have dropped, but I would still have expected it to be worth considerably more since it has a position and views to die for.’

  ‘You can explain how one dies for a view?’

  ‘I suppose if one walks across the lawn to get as near the view as possible, one could fall over what is virtually a cliff …’

  ‘It amuses you to speak absurdly, but it suggests to me that you should be examined by a specialist. I have to wonder if you have appreciated that now there is a known motive for Picare’s death?’

  ‘I could not miss that fact, señor.’

  ‘You tend to overrate your abilities. Can you name others with motives?’

  ‘A cuckolded husband of which there are many.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘I cannot yet say.’

  ‘It has not occurred to you, it is necessary to identify them even, as to be expected, you perceive sex as providing a major motive?’

  ‘In many cases, that is the initial and primary cause.’

  ‘Unfortunately, sex does play a mistaken part in those who live ill-adjusted lives. Money, because it is important to everyone, therefore provides a far stronger motive. At present, you will consider Señora Picare to be the main suspect for the murder of her husband if he was murdered.’

  ‘Can one have a main suspect until one is certain a crime has been suspected, señor?’

  ‘You will find your life far less confusing if you refrain from considering matters beyond your understanding.’

  ‘There seems to be no reason for the señora to have wished to kill her husband. Their marriage was not blissfully happy, but after a few months, is any? There is no suspicion, no suggestion, of another man.’

  ‘She may have been in trouble, the nature of which has not yet surfaced.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Addiction to a narcotic.’

  ‘Very unlikely.’

  ‘What is doubtful to a closed mind will be accepted as very possible to an open mind. Further, when there is a motive for killing someone, the nature of whose death cannot be immediately determined, it is reasonable to consider murder. The person most likely to benefit financially from Picare’s death, in the absence of contrary evidence, must be deemed a possible murderer. You will question the señora despite any attempt by her to avoid this on the plea of shock and grief.’

  ‘Is the señora fully conscious?’ Alvarez asked Rosalía as he stood in the hall of Vista Bonita which was brilliantly lit by the sunlight coming through the rondel.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I must ask her a few questions.’

  ‘With her husband not yet buried? Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s necessary.’

  ‘Because you say so?’

  ‘Those are my orders.’

  ‘You lot don’t know the word “sympathy”.’

  Authority was a lot less respected than it had been
, as he often had cause to regret, but he admired her for challenging him even if, being a woman, she should have done so less forcefully. ‘Will you find out if she can speak to me?’

  ‘And if she says she can’t, you’ll drag her off to jail?’

  ‘You seem to think we lack all sympathy.’

  ‘You finally understand that?’ She turned and crossed the hall.

  He watched her climb the stairs, turn to the right and go out of sight.

  She returned. ‘She’s said she’ll try to speak to you, but only for a minute or two. She’s in bed, so I’ve made certain she’s decently covered.’

  ‘You think—’

  She interrupted him. ‘Up the stairs, second door on your right. I’ve told her to press the bell the moment you begin to worry her.’

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t want to be in the bedroom to see I don’t molest her in any way.’

  He climbed the stairs, entered the very large bedroom which faced the bay; elaborately over-furnished and without taste, was his verdict. Cecily Picare, a shawl over her shoulders, lay in a king-size bed; a single sheet was pulled up to the base of her neck. A chair had been placed well away from the bed. He introduced himself, apologised for the intrusion, sat.

  Her face was blowsy; whatever attraction it had once possessed was lost in the excess flesh that was veined and rough. The sheet outlined a body which possessed shape, but not one that a woman would welcome.

  He remembered her husband’s absurd claim to gentility. ‘I apologise deeply for disturbing you, Doña. I will be as brief as possible.’

  She looked past him.

  ‘I have to ask if you can help me understand why Don Picare so sadly and tragically drowned in the swimming pool.’

  ‘How can I?’ Her voice was shaky. She had closed her eyes.

  ‘Was he suffering from any complaint which might have caused him suddenly to be unable to swim?’

  ‘He must have had a heart attack.’

  ‘The medical evidence is against that possibility. Was he a strong swimmer?’

  ‘He … he’d never swum before we came here … So busy.’

  There was a pause before she continued and when she did, she seemed to have gained strength. ‘He wouldn’t have had a pool except it was here when we bought. I said he should learn to swim and have someone along to teach him, but he wouldn’t. He liked to get in when it was so hot, but always kept the water low so he was never out of his depth.’

  ‘Are the tiles on the bottom of the pool slippery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever slipped when in the pool?’

  ‘I suppose I may have. If one is having fun, splashing around, one forgets to be careful.’

  ‘Did he ever say he was worried about something; did he ever have a bitter row with someone?’

  She shook her head, reached under the bottom pillow and brought out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes.

  He was stamping on a grave. He apologised again, thanked her, left.

  SIX

  Dolores was in the kitchen, washing up the supper plates, knives and forks. In the dining room, Jaime drained his glass, refilled it, passed the bottle across to Alvarez before he noticed the other’s glass was still nearly full. ‘Are you all right?’

  Alvarez did not answer.

  Dolores looked through the bead curtain, concerned, as always, if it seemed a member of the family was not well or in trouble. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Enrique’s not normal,’ Jaime answered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s hardly said a word, stares at nothing, hasn’t smoked and hardly drunk anything.’

  ‘For you, normality is measured by the quantity of one’s eating, drinking and smoking?’ She stared at Alvarez. ‘But it is true he did not eat as much as I had expected, even though the albergínies farcides were delicious. Enrique, are you not well?’

  He looked up. ‘I’m fine. And the stuffed aubergines were a revelation straight from heaven.’

  ‘The why did you not eat more?’

  ‘The children were first to what was left.’

  ‘Did I not ask if you or Jaime wanted more before I allowed them to help themselves? And why are you not drinking?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to work something out.’ He picked up his glass, drained and refilled it. Jaime reached across the table for the bottle.

  ‘There is no need for you to have any more,’ she said sharply. ‘There is nothing wrong with you.’

  ‘Enrique told you he was all right, but you encouraged him to have another coñac.’

  ‘He needs cheering up.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Then you can come and talk as you help me with the rest of the washing-up.’ She withdrew.

  ‘Alberto was right,’ Jaime muttered. ‘Drink your fill before you marry because afterwards you’ll always be thirsty … Exchange glasses. Then if she hears you filling yours again, she won’t object.’

  Alvarez did not move.

  ‘You’d stand and watch a blind man walk across the auto route. I suppose you’re thinking of women again?’

  ‘Only one.’

  ‘Can’t get her out of your head?’

  ‘It’s strange. At first meeting, she’s ordinary. At the second one, you begin to think there’s a fire underneath. The third time, you’re sure there is. It’s not the wrapping that matters, but what’s below.’

  ‘If things are so desperate, go along to the house with green shutters and gain some peace or you’ll have Dolores wondering and worrying.’

  ‘She’s a sleeping volcano.’

  ‘And you need dousing. Take things more calmly or it’ll all end in disaster. They always like to start off by being intriguing and making you think you’ve been optimistic. And are you sure you’re not asking for trouble, her being so young?’

  ‘She’s not young.’

  ‘But … who are you talking about?’

  ‘The cook.’

  ‘You could stop confusion if you would speak sensibly.’

  ‘You sound like the superior chief.’

  ‘And you sound like a seventy-year-old remembering his youth. Where is she?’

  ‘Probably at home.’

  ‘Not her, Dolores.’

  ‘Judging by the sounds, in the kitchen.’

  ‘Then pass the bottle over.’

  Jaime poured cautiously, returned the bottle to Alvarez’s side of the table. ‘You have the devil’s own luck. I meet someone and she’s yesterday’s leftover, you meet a woman and she’s the dish of the day.’

  ‘And what is the dish of the day?’ Dolores asked as she came through from the kitchen with a vase in which she had arranged some flowers.

  Alvarez answered before Jaime could unintentionally annoy her with an unlikely answer. ‘Your Verats fregits amb esclata-sangs, ram i magranes.’

  ‘Your choice is a good one. As soon as I can, I will buy some fresh mackerel.’

  ‘You cheer me up even more than would another coñac.’

  ‘Then there is no need for you to have another.’

  Jaime sniggered.

  ‘Yes?’ Salas said.

  ‘I have spoken to Señora Picare,’ Alvarez answered.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She is in a state of shock.’

  ‘As she would expect you to expect.’

  ‘I judged her emotion to be genuine.’

  ‘As she hoped you would.’

  ‘I asked her about the state of health of her late husband.’

  ‘Her reply?’

  ‘He was not a strong swimmer and the pool was kept shallow so that he would never be out of his depth. He suffered from no complaint, of which she was aware, that might suddenly have caused him to lose consciousness or the ability to save himself.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘The range of your questioning could well have been wider.’

  ‘She was under considerable
stress and every question which I asked and she answered increased that.’

  ‘In such circumstances, a witness is more likely to speak the truth, forgetting her intended lies.’

  ‘If Señor Picare was deliberately drowned by someone, his wife could have had no part in the murder.’

  ‘Do you have an acceptable reason for so firm a declaration of her innocence?’

  ‘While questioning her, she said that because he did not swim, she thought of having the pool filled in. Had she done so, he could not have drowned. That thought made her weep as if heaven had closed its gates.’

  ‘Someone of such limited literary ability as you should forgo fanciful similes for fear, as in this case, of saying the opposite of what was intended. Had heaven closed its gates, it would be because she was a murderess.’

  ‘Her tears were genuine.’

  ‘A woman uses tears as a camouflage. You will question her again, far more thoroughly; you will disregard a cataract of tears; you will abstain from introducing heaven into your report.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better, señor, considering all that has happened, if I wait a little …’

  ‘You will determine as quickly as possible if she was in great need of more money than her husband was likely to give her, if she was having an affair and her husband had discovered this and had promised to throw her out of home and disinherit her.’

  ‘Would he have done so when his own affairs were legion? The doctrine of equality of the sexes has thankfully not yet reached the stage where a woman has the right to claim a man’s infidelities automatically negate hers. I should make the point that there has not been a single suggestion she has committed adultery.’

  ‘You have questioned the staff as to that?’

  ‘Not directly, but they would inevitably have remarked about the possibility had there been any such suggestion.’

  ‘Your trust in the loyalty of an employee is today, sadly, unfounded. Have you spoken to friends and acquaintances, in particular female ones, who may have suspected such a relationship?’

  ‘There’s not been the time—’

  ‘The Englishman, Russell, might have used his past friendship with Picare to explain his frequent visits which were, perhaps, made in the hope of finding Picare absent.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Were you to think, you would remember Russell had lunch at Vista Bonita on the day Picare died. You will question him at the first opportunity.’