‘The causative agent was not meat, or any other food for that matter.’
‘Then what was it?’
‘Cantharidin poisoning. The first case I’ve come across in twenty years.’
‘What exactly is that?’
‘The active principle of cantharides, which is the crushed bodies of beetles called…’ He swung his swivelling chair around until he could reach across and open the right-hand door of a glass-fronted bookcase. He brought out a book, put it on his desk and opened it. ‘Cantharis vesicatoria. I should have remembered, since it’s used as a vesicatory plaster.’
‘What kind of plaster?’
‘It raises blisters on the skin to treat inflammations by causing the body to take defensive measures.’
‘How on earth did the señor come to eat something like that?’
‘Cantharides has a second identity – Spanish fly.’
‘The aphrodisiac?’ Alvarez said, surprise raising his voice.
‘The so-called aphrodisiac. Further, it is not a fly, but a beetle, and is not peculiar to Spain but is found in many other countries. The name is an example of how some nationalities will stoop to any lengths to hide their own iniquities.’
‘Señor Ogden had been using that stuff?’
‘On his arrival, we had no idea what was the problem. He was suffering burning pains in the mouth, along the oesophagus, in the pit of the stomach and the remainder of the abdomen. He claimed he’d eaten something that was poisoning him and we tried, and failed, to identify what that could be. Further symptoms developed which made it clear that the poisoning was of a most unusual kind, but we made no progress until, in fear of death, he finally admitted he had taken cantharides. This enabled us to treat the symptoms, which we did with considerable success. He probably is too stupid to realize how fortunate he is not only to survive, but to do so suffering such little permanent damage.’
‘Why on earth did he take it?’
‘That is not obvious?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Alvarez answered, in some confusion. ‘What I meant was, why risk something so dangerous?’
‘I talked to his wife, who did not suffer the embarrassed reluctance to tell the truth which so nearly cost him his life, and she explained that there had been difficulties for some time. She tried to persuade him to seek medical advice, but he refused to do so. Inevitably, the situation deteriorated until in desperation he decided on a dangerous attempt to resolve the problem and bought some cantharides.
‘Learning about the purchase, she tried to persuade him not to take such a risk; when he insisted on doing so, she took the precaution of researching the subject as far as possible and learned that the fatal dose of the beetle substance is generally held to be between two and three grams; she warned him never to take anything approaching that amount.’ The doctor sat back, folded his arms across his chest. ‘Ironically, although medically speaking the substance is useless as an aphrodisiac, in his case it proved to be reasonably effective; belief can be the strongest of medicines.’
‘If he knew how much was dangerous, how come he overdosed?’
‘He maintained he never did. However, his wife told me that recently he has been drinking heavily and so it seems reasonable to accept that through inebriated carelessness, he made a serious mistake.’ He unfolded his arms.
‘What impression did you gain about their relationship?’
‘The marriage was clearly under very considerable strain and from some of the facts I learned from her, one could not have criticized her had she left him. That she stayed with him, helping him as far as she could, suggests a very strong sense of loyalty. One hopes he has enough sense to appreciate that.’
Alvarez thanked the doctor and left. He wondered if Ogden was as convinced of his wife’s loyalty?
* * *
Alvarez opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk and brought out a bottle of Soberano and a glass. He poured out a very generous amount of brandy. There were times when Dutch courage was essential.
He dialled Palma.
‘Superior Chief Salas’s office,’ said the plum-voiced secretary, as if announcing royalty.
‘Inspector Alvarez here. Can I have a word with him?’
As he waited, he drained the glass.
‘Has the woman turned up?’ Salas demanded.
‘No, señor.’
‘Have you found out if she left the island?’
‘I’m still waiting to hear from both the airline companies and the ferry people.’
‘Has the car been found?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not? Why does everything on this island take twice as long as anywhere else?’
Alvarez wondered why Madrileños were always in such a rush when the only effect of this was that they were for ever tripping up over their own feet? ‘Señor, I have visited the clinic where Señor Ogden was treated and have spoken to the doctor concerned. Although Señor Ogden told me he was poisoned by meat, this was not true, so that the fact he had eaten more than his wife was of no account…’
‘If it was of no account, there’s no need to waste my time mentioning the fact.’
‘He was poisoned by cantharides.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Crushed beetle. And this isn’t restricted to Spain, despite the name it’s commonly known by…’
‘Are you capable of reporting anything other than inconsequential negatives?’
‘The crushed beetle is often called Spanish fly.’
‘Possibly an entomologist would find that fact of interest. I do not.’
‘The name doesn’t mean anything to you?’
‘It does not.’
‘Well, it’s…’ His courage temporarily failed him. ‘It’s used to produce blisters on the skin. But it does have a secondary role.’
‘As what?’
‘It’s not strictly speaking a medical one…’
‘Goddamnit, man, can you never stop enumerating negatives?’
Alvarez took a deep breath. ‘It’s popularly, but apparently incorrectly, known as an aphrodisiac.’
‘My God! You really do rejoice in wallowing in the iniquities of mankind!’
Alvarez leaned forward and poured himself a second, and larger, drink.
CHAPTER 10
On Thursday morning, the main ferry company operating from the island rang Alvarez to say that since Sunday no Señora Ogden had been listed as a passenger. Within the next hour, three of the airlines reported that she was not on any of their lists. At twenty-five past one, as he was about to leave for home, the phone rang yet again.
‘With reference to the green BMW on which there’s a search-and-report. One of our units was called to the airport to sort out some bother and they saw the BMW in the car park. It’s locked and the only thing visible is a bit of crumpled-up paper in the front passenger well. What d’you want done about it?’
Little could be lost by delaying any search of the car, whilst much might be gained, since something Dolores had said earlier had suggested that she was preparing Bacalao a la Vizcaína for lunch. ‘I’ll drive in this afternoon after I’ve finished some very pressing work in hand. Can you have someone meet me there at five-thirty with a set of keys?’
‘Will do.’ After giving reference figures for the parking spot, the caller rang off.
Alvarez stared at the telephone. That the car had been left at the airport very strongly suggested that Sabrina had left the island by air. Then she had flown in a plane of one of the companies which had not yet reported in, she had flown under a false name – difficult if tickets were matched with passports at the check-in, but this only happened when someone could be bothered – or she had flown on a ticket issued to someone else and the seller had agreed to do the checking-in. Why would she have left the island without a word to her husband? Had the problems of the marriage and then his serious illness put her under such a strain that she had had to escape? Had she formed a relationship with ano
ther man so intense that it ruled her brain as well as her heart? Who was the lover? It was not Ruffolo, unless she had left on her own and he would be joining her later. Had she flown to the logical destination – Britain?… The questions seemed endless, but for once that was of small account. Since it seemed so logical to assume she had left the island voluntarily, the problem of her present whereabouts no longer concerned him. A satisfactory conclusion.
He left his office and went down and out to his car in the old square. He had forgotten to put on top of the dashboard an indication of when he’d parked, and under the windscreen-wiper blade was a ticket. He crumpled it up and dropped it on to the road. In the past, any member of the Policia Local would have recognized his car and not made a fool of himself by issuing a ticket. Efficiency was progress. Like hell it was!
* * *
It was small wonder that the BMW had been identified by chance rather than design – it was one of hundreds of cars which filled the parking area to overflowing. Alvarez walked round the car, then said to the cabo: ‘Can you open it now?’
‘I hope so, but this marque can be real sods!’ The cabo went over to the police Renault, parked without regard to the flow of traffic between the rows of cars, and collected from it several bunches of keys. Contrary to his prior pessimism, he succeeded in unlocking the driving door in a surprisingly short time.
‘Obviously your métier!’ Alvarez said.
‘Watch me after I retire. In a couple of years I’ll be so rich, even the Director-General salutes me.’
Alvarez opened the doors in turn, visually searching each inside area. That done, he picked up the crumpled piece of paper in the front passenger well and smoothed it out between his fingers. It was a receipt from the Supermarket Viranyo in Inca; it listed one item at nine thousand seven hundred pesetas and was dated the seventh. He put it in his hip pocket.
He found nothing else of the slightest consequence. ‘You can lock up again. I’ll let the husband know it’s here and he can collect it – always provided he finds the spare key.’
‘If he doesn’t, give him my name. I’ll only charge him fifteen thousand … How come the husband didn’t know where his wife’s car was?’
‘She left home Sunday afternoon and that’s the last he saw of her.’
‘Sounds as if she’s a foreigner?’
‘English.’
‘Never know where you are with them, do you?’
‘No, you don’t,’ Alvarez replied with considerable feeling.
* * *
The drive was an easy one, thanks to the via de centura and the autoroute, and in less than half an hour, he turned into the car park of Supermarket Viranyo, on the outskirts of Inca. Once inside the store, he spoke to one of the women at the checkouts and she directed him to the offices to the rear of the building.
The manager was young, sharp and aggressively efficient and, while he did not challenge Alvarez’s right to make inquiries, his manner made it rather too clear that he doubted the ability. ‘It’s straightforward,’ he said, as he looked up from the receipt.
‘Maybe to you, but not to me,’ Alvarez replied. ‘What was bought?’
‘A bottle of scent.’
‘You sell that sort of stuff?’
‘Several months ago, I suggested to the board in my monthly report that a small section of shelving should be devoted to ladies’ luxury toiletries. They were doubtful at first – they’re far too conservative – but I was quite right. Sales have been excellent and shelf profits higher.’
The manager did not doubt his own brilliance. ‘What kind of scent was it?’
‘I would have to check against the stocklists.’
‘Would you do that? And can you identify who was at the till?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’d like a word with her.’
‘Why?’
‘To ask her if she can remember who bought the perfume.’
‘Are you serious? With the business we do, that’s impossible. Sheer waste of time.’
‘Nevertheless, I’d like to ask her.’
‘It’ll be very inconvenient.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to arrange matters,’ Alvarez said smoothly.
The manager, his expression one of annoyance, left. Alvarez stared at the large photograph of the head and shoulders of a man in a very ornate, golden frame, which hung on the wall opposite the desk. There was a nameplate and, curious to see who was so honoured, he crossed the floor to read this. Antonio Viranyo, founder of Viranyo S.A. He wondered why the successful and rich so often looked as if they were constipated.
The manager returned and sat before saying: ‘The name of the scent is Feux d’Amour.’
‘Sounds like hot stuff!’
He was not amused.
‘Have you found out who sold it?’
‘Ana Ortiz, who is working at number three checkout. I have asked her to close her till and come here as soon as she can. I trust you will take up as little of her time as possible.’
Alvarez tried to make conversation, but the manager was so clearly uninterested in anything he had to say that he soon retired into silence. On the island, the gulf between the young and their elders was wider and deeper than in most places. The young had always known the world beyond the borders of Spain, their elders had not, and this fact was reflected in outlook and the appreciation and resentment of both the pleasures and the pains of life …
A woman, in her late teens, wearing a pinafore with the company’s logo printed over her dress, came into the office.
‘He’s from the Cuerpo General de Policia,’ said the manager, much as if introducing someone caught shoplifting.
She faced Alvarez. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked challengingly, yet also defensively.
‘Nothing, señorita,’ he answered with a smile. ‘I merely need to ask if you can remember who bought a bottle of scent called Feux d’Amour on Monday.’
She shook her head. ‘There’s no way.’
‘But I don’t suppose you sell a lot of bottles which cost nine thousand seven hundred pesetas?’
‘You’d be surprised!’
‘I have tried to explain to the inspector how successful the new toiletry section has been,’ said the manager.
‘Do you think you sold more than one bottle of that scent on Monday?’ Alvarez asked.
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ she finally replied.
‘The purchase doesn’t stick in your mind since it was just the one, expensive item?’
The question perplexed her.
‘Surely most people buy lots of things in a supermarket, not just one?’
‘Not always. We get ’em in for just a loaf of bread because it’s cooked three times a day.’
He accepted that she could remember nothing about the purchaser. ‘Thank you, señorita.’
As she left the office, the manager said: ‘Is that all?’
‘Everything,’ Alvarez replied, ‘except to thank you for your willing help.’
He returned to his car, but did not immediately drive off. The facts now suggested that Sabrina had spent Sunday night somewhere to the east of Inca; on Monday, she had set off to drive to the airport; en route, she had decided to stop at the supermarket to buy a bottle of scent. To a male mind, it seemed odd that having geared up her mind to fleeing her husband, she should break the journey for so trivial a reason, but to a female mind, perhaps it was perfectly logical …
He started the engine and drove out of the car park on to the road.
* * *
As Ogden stood in the doorway of his house, he said wildly: ‘Why haven’t you found her?’
‘Señor,’ Alvarez replied quietly, ‘I am here now because I have learned certain facts which I need to discuss with you.’
‘What?’
‘I think it would be best if we went inside.’
Ogden hesitated, then stepped back. He led the way through to the patio. On the table was a bottle of whisky,
a soda syphon, an ice container, and a glass; he picked up the glass and drained it. About to pour himself another drink, he checked his movements. ‘I suppose you want something?’
‘I would certainly enjoy a small coñac.’
Ogden returned into the house. Alvarez sat on one of the chairs set around the table. This was his favourite time of the day – the world had stilled, the cloudless sky had become tinged with violet to mark approaching darkness, and the temperature was almost bearable. Sounds were travelling long distances, yet for once there was not a single dog which broke the peace with its aimless barking. By listening carefully, he could just catch the distant clanging of bells that marked a herd of sheep on the move, searching for anything edible in fields scorched brown …
Ogden returned, put a glass down on the table in front of Alvarez, sat. ‘Shall I tell you something,’ he said with renewed belligerence. ‘I don’t think you’re really trying to find her.’
‘Señor, I am here because I have been making many inquiries and I need to know whether the señora uses scent?’
‘Does what? Jesus! You try to make out you’re doing something and then ask that?’
‘The answer may be very important.’
‘How?’
‘You will soon understand. Does she use scent?’
‘Of course she does.’
‘Has she a favourite brand?’
‘You expect me to know that when I’m living a nightmare, thinking of her lying somewhere, slowly dying.’
‘I don’t think you need fear such a tragedy.’
‘You don’t? You’ve no idea where she is or what has happened to her, yet you sit there and give me smug assurances that aren’t worth a bloody farthing.’
‘Please try and answer me.’
‘I don’t know and I don’t give a damn.’
‘Might there be a bottle of scent in the bathroom or bedroom that would tell you the kind she liked?’
An Enigmatic Disappearance Page 6
