‘Only the obvious – that she fell on to her head.’ He smoked, drawing on the cigarette with nervous frequency.
‘Can you judge how long she’s been dead?’
‘In this heat, it’s impossible to say any more than probably between three and six weeks.’
‘There’s been only one report of a missing woman in that time … Señora Ogden.’
‘There’s no wedding or engagement ring, but her left arm was under her and the skin has survived sufficiently well to show she normally wore rings on her third finger.’
‘They would have been taken off for the same reason she was stripped of her clothes – the murderer hoped that this was such an isolated spot that either she would never be found, or not until her body was in such a state that there would be no identification unless there was probable certainty as to who she might be … Until now, there’s been every reason for accepting that Señora Ogden left the island at the beginning of July.’
They heard the sounds of approaching people; led by Coll, five men appeared. Alvarez spoke to the photographer, who owned a shop in Llueso and was under contract to work for the police, and explained what shots he wanted. When these had been taken, the dead woman was put in the body bag which was placed on a stretcher and carried away.
After the doctor left, Alvarez went over to the crushed bushes, dead weeds, and grass which marked where the body had lain. He pulled on a pair of stout rubber gloves and began to search, inch by inch, for anything which might be of some significance.
Coll’s dog appeared and started growling; Coll stepped into sight. ‘It won’t hurt you.’
‘Have you told it that?’ Alvarez said, as he straightened up.
Coll sniggered, but finally shouted at the dog, who slunk away, its tail down. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Searching.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then how will you tell when you’ve found it?’
Alvarez resumed his search.
CHAPTER 15
Ogden stared at Alvarez. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘It can’t be. I won’t believe it.’ He ran out of the sitting-room.
Alvarez sat in one of the armchairs and stared through the window at the tree-covered hills. The hardest task for a policeman was to have to carry grief to someone. Ogden’s reactions suggested he had been overwhelmed by grief. Or was he a good actor? Time would probably tell which was the truth.
Eventually, Ogden returned, red-eyed, slightly unsteady on his feet. He slumped down on a chair. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘I sincerely hope so. But you’ve not heard from her since the Sunday, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Then since I have to do what I can to identify the dead woman, and very sadly it seems possible…’
‘Sabrina’s car was at the airport. The last time you were here, you went on and on that she’d flown from the island.’
‘Yes, I know, but…’
‘You and Maitland were accusing me of being a crook, trying to say my beloved Belinda hadn’t really died, even though I had the death certificate…’ He seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying and for a moment he stared vaguely at Alvarez. Then he cried wildly: ‘It can’t be her.’
‘As I have said, señor, I hope it is not, and the quickest way of making certain is to find her fingerprints somewhere in this house and compare them with those of the dead woman.’
Ogden mumbled: ‘I need a drink,’ and began to stand, caught his right foot on something and tumbled back on to the chair.
‘It will help us both if you do not have another drink for a while.’
‘If I want one, I’ll have one.’ Despite his belligerent words, he remained seated.
‘I need something which the señora will have handled, but will probably not have been cleaned since she disappeared. Does she have a toilet-set – a brush, a hand mirror?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would Concha clean them regularly?’
Ogden did not answer, and Alvarez repeated the question.
‘My wife keeps them in a drawer of her dressing-table because they’re silver backed.’ There was a pause. ‘Can’t be too careful with servants around.’
Alvarez knew brief, contemptuous anger. Concha might be a fool of a woman when it came to men, but one could leave her alone in a roomful of ten-thousand-peseta notes and not one would ever be taken. ‘Will you show me, please?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I wish to find if they might have the señora’s prints on them.’
‘Why?’
Alvarez explained in simple terms, much as he would have done if speaking to a child, and eventually Ogden took him through to a large bedroom that was furnished in very feminine style. The kidney-shaped dressing-table had three drawers and Ogden pulled open the centre one and was about to reach inside when Alvarez stopped him. ‘Please leave it to me, señor.’
‘I thought you wanted to see the mirror?’
‘If you’ll move…’ Holding the hand mirror by the edges, Alvarez lifted it out; luckily, from his point of view, it was of modern style and had a plain silver handle and back. In the small case he’d brought with him were a bottle of dusting powder, a brush, a roll of low-adhesive tape, several squares of clean white card, and a newspaper. He opened out the newspaper on the top of the dressing-table, placed the mirror on its front in the centre of this. He repeatedly dipped the brush into the powder and drew it across the back of the mirror, and a jumble of prints became visible. He laid a strip of tape across one section of the back, then placed the tape, adhesive side down, on a white card; he repeated this until he’d covered the whole area. That done, he carried out the exercise on the handle.
Ogden, who’d been silent, suddenly said violently: ‘You’ll find it’s not her.’
‘I hope so,’ Alvarez replied yet again. He carefully packed everything in the case. ‘What jewellery was your wife wearing on the Sunday she disappeared?’
‘God Almighty! You think I can remember that?’
‘Then you can’t be certain whether or not she was wearing engagement and wedding rings?’
‘She never took them off.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Was the wedding ring gold or platinum, did it bear any kind of dedication, was the engagement ring a diamond one?’
‘What’s all that matter?’
‘Since the dead woman had no rings on her fingers, though her skin showed she usually wore them, it seems every means was taken to make her identification impossible and so should…’ He stopped as Ogden ran out of the bedroom.
As he patiently waited, he heard the faint clink of glass against glass and wondered if Ogden were drinking from anguish or fear?
It was several minutes before Ogden returned, and as he entered the bedroom he suffered a moment of unsteadiness and had to grip the opened door to maintain his balance. ‘What d’you want now?’ he asked shrilly.
‘I am waiting for you to describe your wife’s rings.’
Ogden went over to the bed and sat heavily, stared at the floor, his mouth slightly open so that a dribble of spittle began to slip down his chin.
‘Is the señora’s jewellery insured?’ Alvarez asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have the insurance papers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you will get them for me?’
‘Why?’
‘They will describe the rings.’
Ogden seemed bewildered, but after a while he staggered to his feet and left the bedroom. Again there was the clink of glass before he returned. He lurched forward as he held out a folder, then collapsed on to the bed.
Alvarez checked through the papers in the folder, found the policy issued by a British company which covered jewellery. Listed amongst the pieces were a platinum wedding ring, a Victorian square emerald-and-diamond ring, and an Art-Deco sapphire-and-diamon
d ring, the last two both with an insured value of twelve thousand pounds. ‘Is the señora’s engagement ring the emerald or the sapphire one?’
It was a full minute before Ogden mumbled: ‘She wanted a sapphire because her mother had one for her wedding…’ He became silent.
Alvarez replaced the policy in the folder and held that out, but Ogden made no move to take it so he put it down on the bed. ‘Thank you for your help.’
There was no response.
Alvarez left. He climbed into the car, wondering how there could be those so blind to true value as to spend millions of pesetas on jewellery rather than on hectares of rich soil.
* * *
It was only when Alvarez checked in the telephone directory that he realized he had forgotten to ask Coll for Zafortega’s address in Palma, which meant that since there was no land phone to Son Brau, he could not readily identify which of the Zafortegas listed was the owner of the property. Acting on the principle that he’d live in one of the best areas, he dialled a likely number, only to be curtly informed that the speaker was not the owner. It was, he thought, odd how the wealthy so often distanced themselves with rudeness; perhaps they were scared that politeness would be mistaken for the suggestion of equality. His second call was luckier.
‘Yes?’ said a man. ‘What is it?’
He pictured the other as balding, pot-bellied, and scented with cigar smoke. ‘My name is Inspector Alvarez of the Cuerpo General de Policia. Are you the owner of Son Brau?’
‘And if I am?’
‘Then I regret to have to inform you that the body of a woman has been discovered on your estate.’
‘Indeed.’
He had sounded rather as if he had been informed that the pine trees were in flower in the autumn instead of the spring; odd, but not his concern. ‘It was roughly a kilometre from the house…’
‘Who is she?’
‘Her identity has not yet been established. Her body was lying at the foot of a natural wall of rock, roughly eight metres high, which backs a relatively flat area – perhaps you know where I’m talking about?’
‘I am not in the habit of tramping through the woods.’
Only a man blind and deaf to the true values of life could own such land and not walk every centimetre of it. Yet that morning he’d been praising Zafortega for reforming the house and so keeping the past alive. An example of the contradictions in every human mind, or proof that the true motivation for the reformation was the urge to display wealth?
‘What was she doing on my property?’
‘I don’t yet know. But it may help me to find out if you will tell me something. Do you know Señor and Señora Ogden?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘It is possible that Señora Ogden is the dead woman.’
‘A moment ago, you informed me that you did not know who she was.’
‘I think I said that her identity had not been established. Señora Ogden disappeared a month ago and although the evidence suggested she had left the island, lacking definite proof of that fact, one has to accept the possibility that she did not. No other woman has recently been reported missing, and although it is impossible to judge with any great accuracy how long the woman has been dead…’
‘I am far too busy to have the time to listen to irrelevances.’
‘I’m sorry, señor, but I was trying to explain why I asked if you knew the Ogdens.’
‘I have met them. My wife is very broad minded and receives the British.’
‘Would they have visited you at Son Brau?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then Señor Ogden may well have walked around the estate?’
‘When the English are not drinking, they often exercise. Is that all?’
‘I think so. May I thank you, señor…’ He stopped when the connection was cut.
He phoned Salas’s office and spoke to an assistant who told him that neither the superior chief nor his personal secretary was present; however, there was a number through which Salas could be contacted in an emergency. Since this started with 908, signifying it was a mobile, he wondered as he dialled if Salas was at the nineteenth hole …
‘Alfredo Salas speaking.’
‘It’s Inspector Alvarez…’
There was an immediate change of tone. ‘Who gave you this number?’
‘Your office, señor, when I explained that I needed to contact you because the body of a woman has been found and you had to be informed immediately…’
‘Found where?’
‘On an estate called Son Brau which belongs to Señor Zafortega…’
‘Claudio Zafortega?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know his Christian name.’
‘Naturally, since that is important! If the person in question is Señor Claudio Zafortega he is a man of very great importance and I should have been informed the moment the whereabouts of the body was reported so that I could take charge of the investigation, thereby avoiding the confusion that inevitably follows any that you conduct.’
* * *
On Monday morning, an assistant at the Laboratory of Forensic Sciences made an initial report over the telephone. ‘We were able to raise prints, with the help of someone from Forensic Anatomy, and these show a sufficient number of matching characteristics with the comparison prints you provided to make identification certain; the dead woman is Sabrina Ogden.’
After ringing off, Alvarez considered the significance of what he had just learned. Sabrina had not flown from the island, although considerable ingenuity had been used to make it seem that she had. Had she been murdered? In view of the missing clothes and rings, that might seem a ridiculous question. But, remembering all the circumstances, it was within the realms of possibility that she had had an assignation – with a lover, with an accomplice – and had suffered an accident; that then she had been stripped and her rings had been removed in an effort to ensure that if her body were found, she would not be identified so it would continue to be assumed that she had left the island.
Motive was a keystone to a planned murder, its presence as significant as its apparent absence. Half a million pounds provided a strong motive, jealousy, likewise. Put the two together …
Had Ogden good reason to be jealous?
CHAPTER 16
Alvarez drove to Ca’n Nou, and, as he stepped out of his car, Ogden hurried out of the house. ‘Have you found out?’ he shouted. ‘It’s not her, is it?’
‘I have just heard from Palma, señor. Very sadly, the fingerprints I recovered here the other day confirm that the dead woman is your wife.’
Ogden stared at him for several seconds, then began to shout incoherently; he turned and ran into the house. Concha appeared in the front doorway. ‘What is it now?’ she demanded angrily. ‘What have you been saying to him?’
‘That it is certain the dead woman up in the mountains was his wife.’
She crossed herself. ‘No wonder he is crazed.’
He turned and walked to his car. Throughout the drive to Parelona he tried, and failed, to decide whether Ogden had been overwhelmed by grief or fear.
The front door of Ca Na Ada was opened by a young woman, in maid’s uniform, whom he had not met before. Ripely attractive, she had not yet begun to gain weight, the fate so many Mallorquin women suffered in the middle or late twenties. ‘Is Señor Ruffolo at home?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Is Señorita Heron?’
‘They’re both away. Spending the night in France because of some exhibition or other and won’t be back until tomorrow, midday.’
‘I’m Inspector Alvarez. And you are?’
‘Inés. You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Marta said something was up.’
He did not answer the unasked question. ‘Would you have time for a chat?’
‘I’ve finished all the cleaning, so there’s nothing much else to do. You’d best come in.’
He stepped into the hall.
‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I would.’
‘Then come on through to the kitchen.’
Nothing could more starkly epitomize the difference between the past and the present than a comparison between the kitchen in which his mother had cooked and this one. She had had an open fire, a charcoal cooker, and a sink which lacked running water; here, there was a double electric oven, a ceramic hob, a double sink with hot and cold running water, a refrigerator large enough to serve several families, a deep freeze, and an array of electrical equipment that would not have disgraced a show window.
‘How about a coñac?’
‘An excellent idea!’
She smiled, prepared a coffee machine.
‘This is the life when you’ve won El Gordo!’
‘It’s all right, I suppose.’
‘But not what you’d choose?’
‘I’d go somewhere where there’s some life; there’s none out here.’
‘Don’t they still have dances at the hotel?’
‘Not for the likes of me.’
‘If you had the money, they’d be for the likes of you. There’s not much that money can’t do for one. I guess Ruffolo knows all about that?’
‘Him!’ She switched on the coffee maker, crossed to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Soberano and a glass, put both on the table. ‘Help yourself.’
He poured himself a drink. ‘Is there any ice?’
‘More than you’ll want.’ She opened the left-hand door of the refrigerator and brought out a container of ice cubes which she put down on the table.
He dropped three cubes into the brandy. ‘Ruffolo’s a lucky man.’
She made no comment.
‘Do I get the impression you don’t like him?’
‘Doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t, does it?’
‘Just interested. I reckon to be able to judge a person fairly accurately and I’d say he can be a bit of a bastard.’
She was obviously surprised by that comment. ‘He likes himself, that’s for sure.’
An Enigmatic Disappearance Page 10
