Alvarez stolidly persevered with the questioning. ‘What did you say to Señora Ogden that so disturbed her?’
‘As I’ve indicated, I’ve no recollection of any such incident.’
‘Even though it caused such offence that it brought an end to the friendship?’
‘There was no friendship, merely an acquaintanceship.’
‘It’s difficult to believe you can’t begin to remember what it was you said.’
‘Even more difficult to persuade you that the whole incident is almost certainly imaginary.’
Cora said hurriedly: ‘You’ve got to understand, Inspector, that my husband can upset people even though that’s the last thing he wants to do. It’s just that he’s trying…’ She stopped.
‘Yes, señora?’
‘To be clever.’
Keane spoke with heavy irony. ‘Your character reference has much in common with a gift from the Greeks.’
‘But he must understand that if you did say something to upset her, it wasn’t … You weren’t trying to … to seduce her.’
‘Seduction suggests temptation has to be employed: it’s doubtful that, where she was concerned, there was ever any need for this.’
‘Why d’you keep talking like that?’ she demanded wildly.
‘Such unconcern proves my conscience is whiter than the driven snow.’
Alvarez finished his drink. ‘Señor, I have just one more question. Where were you on the afternoon and evening of Sunday, the sixth, and all day Monday?’
Keane shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have no idea.’
‘It’s important to have an answer since Señora Ogden disappeared that Sunday afternoon.’
Cora said wildly: ‘Oh, God, you can’t really think…’ She came so clumsily to her feet that her chair fell over. ‘I’ll find out what we were doing.’ She hurried into the house.
Keane leaned over and righted the chair, then said: ‘Let me refill your glass.’ He stood, picked up Alvarez’s glass, went indoors.
Alvarez stared at the distant hills and mountains and watched the shadow of a solitary small puffball of cloud slide along their sides. A couple of dragonflies performed an elaborate dance above the pool. A hummingbird hawk moth, its wings a blur, hovered in front of a lantana bush in flower. A lazy spasm of breeze briefly brought the sounds of the bells of a flock of sheep.
They returned; Cora sat immediately, Keane after he had handed the glass to Alvarez.
Cora said: ‘We were in this house the whole weekend.’
‘How can you be so certain, señora?’
‘It’s in my diary.’
‘In which,’ Keane said, ‘the uneventful as well as the eventful is recorded because my wife is a true diarist.’
‘May I see that?’
Keane answered. ‘As does any lady of an artistic, sensitive nature, my wife records her thoughts and emotions as well as the daily passage of life and therefore all the entries are intensely personal.’
‘I only wish to read what is written for those two days.’
‘But what thoughts and emotions may my wife have enjoyed or suffered? They are not for sharing with anyone – not even with me.’
‘The entries could confirm what your wife has said and then whatever your relationship with Señora Ogden, I would be certain this has no bearing on my investigation.’
‘The price of my innocence is the betrayal of her private self? I’m afraid that the cost is too high.’
Alvarez finished his drink, stood and said goodbye. This time, neither of them accompanied him through the house. Was there, in truth, a diary? Did Keane need protection, except from his own tongue? Did his manner indicate merely arrogance, or was it employed as a cloak? Had he pursued Sabrina, only to be scornfully rejected? Did his wife so urgently try to back him up because she wanted to hide from herself the probable truth?
He climbed into the Ibiza and heaved the driving door shut with unnecessary force, his anger sustained by his inability to answer any of those questions either.
CHAPTER 19
Carrer Gabriel Font was in the centre of an area which had been developed over the past few years and thereby done much to destroy the character of the port which had once been its main attraction. Number 15 was a five-storey block of flats, ugly, but not really any uglier than others. The name tag listed Wilms on the third floor. Alvarez pressed the call button of the entryphone. He identified himself and the door lock buzzed.
The lift took him smoothly to the third floor and he stepped out on to a small landing which ran round the central stair shaft and was illuminated by light coming through the cupola above the fifth floor. He crossed to the right-hand door, rang the bell.
Wilms was short, squarely built, and clearly careless of personal cleanliness. ‘So what is the problem?’ he asked in slow, careful Spanish.
‘I’m making inquiries regarding the death of Señora Ogden.’
Wilms finally stepped to one side. The entrance hall was unfurnished except for a large, unframed painting in garish colours whose subject might have been anything or nothing; the sitting-room had paperbacks, magazines, newspapers, and empty cans littered everywhere, while on the table were the remains of at least one meal. Alvarez sat on the chair which looked the least filthy of the three. Wilms lit a cigarette.
‘Señor Ruffolo often comes here with a woman, doesn’t he?’
‘Is that against the law?’
‘No. But not declaring the rent that he pays you is,’ Alvarez replied, shamelessly forgetting what he’d said to Ruffolo. ‘So it’ll be in your interests to be helpful.’
Wilms stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, even though it was hardly smoked.
‘What do you do when he brings a woman here?’
‘Leave. If I’m not here, he lets himself in,’ he answered sullenly.
‘Have a look at this.’ Alvarez passed across the photograph of Sabrina. ‘Do you recognize her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why d’you think?’
‘I’m asking the questions and if they don’t get answered, they’ll become a whole lot more personal.’
‘He used to bring her here.’
‘Why d’you say, used to?’
‘It’s some time since she was around.’
‘Have you any idea why?’
‘He said they’d decided to call an end to it because the husband was becoming suspicious. With a piece like her, the husband was crazy not to keep his eyes wider open.’
‘Perhaps he made the mistake of trusting her. When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Quite a few weeks ago; ten, twelve, something like that. Soon after he started bringing the other one along.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Carol. Much too nice for the likes of him.’
‘Has he brought other women here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How many?’
‘I was only taught to count up to ten. He pulls the birds more easily than I eat breakfasts.’
Alvarez left. As he waited for the lift, he dispiritedly remembered how he had been so certain he had uncovered a second and very valid motive for Sabrina’s murder. Under the spur of jealousy, so strong it had deprived her of all common sense, Sabrina had threatened Ruffolo that if he didn’t give up Carol, she’d tell Ada about the affair, certain that Ada would respond by throwing him out of her life, not only for his betrayal, but also because he would have made her a laughing stock amongst the expatriate community who must welcome the chance to pour scorn over her. Faced with returning to the poverty of Naples, where his extraordinary attraction for women would almost certainly never regain for him the luxurious life to which he’d become accustomed, he had murdered Sabrina to ensure her silence … An ingenious theory which suffered only one drawback, it was based on error. The affair had come to an end when Sabrina had regained a measure of common sense and therefore jealousy would never spur her on to revealing something that would a
lmost certainly destroy her own marriage and way of life.
The lift arrived, the door slid open, and Alvarez stepped inside. As he pressed the ground-floor button, he sadly reflected that there was no bigger fool than the man who prided himself on his own cleverness.
* * *
One of Professor Fortunato’s assistants phoned him from the Institute of Forensic Anatomy on Wednesday morning.
‘We have completed our examination of the body of Señora Ogden. Decomposition was very considerable, as was to be expected, and in consequence our task has been difficult. The cause of death was extensive injuries to the head which resulted in massive brain damage, consistent with a fall from eight metres on to rock. There are no signs of disease, especially any which might upset balance. There are marks on the back in the region of the shoulder blades which could suggest a blow, but these are too indistinct and too corrupted for any definite opinion to be given.
‘Sorry to be so negative, but that’s the way it is.’
Alvarez replaced the receiver. Experts were meant to resolve questions, but so often they seemed merely to raise further ones. He tapped on the desk with his fingers, thought of many reasons for not ringing Palma, finally accepted that they were all products of his own cowardice. He dialled. The secretary with the plum-filled voice told him to wait.
‘What is it?’ Salas finally demanded.
‘The Institute has just rung me, señor, to say…’
‘I have already heard from them.’
‘This report means we have no confirmation of murder, despite the possible signs of a blow to the back.’
‘The fact that she was stripped of her clothes and jewellery means nothing?’
‘It is very strong evidence, of course, but it is possible to imagine two alternative explanations.’
‘Which are?’
‘She met her husband in the woods, knowing the odds were a thousand to one against their being seen there, to discuss how the proposed insurance fraud was progressing. Through carelessness, or ignorance, she fell over the edge. Since the success of the plan depended on her having left the island at the beginning of July, he stripped her body of clothes and jewellery in the hopes that if eventually it were found, it would be in such a state that no great effort would be made to identify it. That, of course, presupposes that if he had heard rumours of her infidelities, he refused to believe them.’
‘The second explanation?’
‘Perhaps she was naked before she fell and…’
‘Why should she be?’
‘If she had met a man and they were making love…’
‘Your mind is a sewer.’
‘Señor, that is a possibility which fits the known facts.’
‘Most regrettably, you seem capable of making even the most innocent of facts fit possibilities that the rest of us are grateful never to envisage.’
There was a short silence, broken by Salas. ‘Have you found the time to curb your imagination and pursue more normal investigations?’
‘Yes, señor. I have been checking whether there might be an alternative motive to Ogden’s for the murder of the señora.’
‘Well?’
‘I thought I had identified one, but have now discovered this was not so.’
‘In other words, a useless exercise.’
‘Not really. After all, the absence of something can be as important as its presence.’
‘As in the case of intelligence … Only Ogden has a motive for the murder of his wife?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘Do you intend to arrest him?’
‘There is still not the firm evidence that he defrauded the insurance company over Señora Belinda Ogden’s death and in my judgement it will be necessary to have that before we arrest him because it will play so vital a part in proving his motive for the death of Señora Sabrina Ogden.’
‘Then what are you doing about establishing that proof?’
‘Nothing, señor.’
‘It does not occur to you that cheerfully making such an admission underlines your inability to do your job?’
‘But señor, some time ago you told me not to get in touch with the authorities on the Peninsula, to ask them to investigate the supposed death of Señora Belinda Ogden, you would do that. There’s nothing I can do until I hear from them.’
Salas cut the connection.
CHAPTER 20
Alvarez could not have explained why, but the moment he stepped into the house he feared trouble. When he entered the dining-room, his fears were confirmed. Jaime sat at the table, staring disconsolately at an empty bottle of Soberano, Juan was slumped in a chair, Isabel was smirking, and from the kitchen there came the clash of pots and pans.
He sat opposite Jaime, pointed at the bottle, then at the cupboard. Jaime shook his head. ‘What’s up?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Bloody chaos!’
‘Why?’
‘Ask him.’ He indicated Juan.
Alvarez was about to speak to Juan when the bead curtains were imperiously parted and Dolores appeared, head held high, dark-brown eyes glinting, mouth very straight. ‘So you’re back.’
He uneasily wondered what that remark presaged.
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Unlike my husband, do you know why I have a son who is a cheat and a liar?’
‘I’m not,’ muttered Juan.
‘Yes, you are,’ jeered Isabel.
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’ Alvarez understood one thing. Supper was not going to be a memorable feast.
‘So! Because neither his father nor his uncle can look away from a bottle long enough to make certain he learns to behave respectably, he is a cheat and a liar.’
‘I’m not,’ Juan said, even less forcefully than before.
She faced him. ‘Were you not sent back from repaso with a note to your father which I read? Did this not say that it would be impossible for you to reach the necessary standard to go up to the next form in the new term if all you did was fool around and then copy someone else’s work? Did it not also say that when you were accused of cheating, you denied this many times, yet the mistakes you made were exactly the same as those made by the girl whose work you were seen to copy?… Aiee! What sin have I committed that I have borne a son who will not even finish school, let alone progress to the Institute and university? He will become a beggar. He will end his life in prison, disgracing those who loved him.’ She turned on her heels and swept back through the bead curtain.
Jaime looked even gloomier; Isabel’s smirk increased; Juan scraped the heels of his shoes across the carpet since he knew this would have annoyed his mother had she been present to observe him.
‘What’s all this about?’ Alvarez asked Juan.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘He can’t help being stupid,’ said Isabel gleefully.
‘Did you copy from someone else?’ Alvarez asked.
Juan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe.’
‘Why?’
‘Because arithmetic bores me.’
‘A ridiculous reason. You’re doing repaso because if you don’t pass the special exams at the end of the holidays, you won’t stay with your own age group.’
‘I always copy arithmetic from Blanca and she always copies my Spanish grammar. And she’s a rotten old cow for telling.’
Alvarez, conscious that Dolores might well be listening to every word, said: ‘You must never speak about a lady in such terms.’
‘She deliberately made the mistakes so she could laugh at me when I was found out.’
‘If you hadn’t copied her work, she wouldn’t have had that chance.’
‘But we agreed to do it like that. Aren’t people supposed to do what they promise?’
It was clear to Alvarez that he was not getting the message across and he shifted tack. ‘Whatever else happened, you should have told the master the truth.’
‘Mother says all men are liar
s and I’m a man, so why shouldn’t I lie?’
Alvarez gave up trying to instil a sense of moral correctness in Juan’s mind. He looked at the empty Soberano bottle, thought to hell with it and reached across to open the right-hand door of the sideboard. There was no brandy there. He said in an undertone: ‘There’s more outside, isn’t there?’
‘Sure. But are you going to go and fetch it when she’s in the mood she is right now?’
* * *
Salas’s secretary rang at ten-twenty-five on Thursday morning. ‘On the orders of the superior chief, you are to proceed to Son Jordi, in the province of Gerona, and there carry out inquiries into the circumstances surrounding the death of Señora Belinda Ogden.’
‘I thought –’ Alvarez began.
She interrupted him. ‘Expenses will be kept to a minimum and every claim must be accompanied by a matching receipt. Is that clear?’
‘Not really. I understood from the superior chief that he would be requesting the local Cuerpo to conduct the inquiries. Haven’t they done that?’
‘Would you be given these instructions if they had?’ she said with chilling hauteur before cutting the connection.
The superior chief, Alvarez thought with deep satisfaction, had obviously forgotten at the time to pass on the request; further, the cowardly way in which he had made his secretary give the order now showed that he feared this fact must be obvious.
* * *
He took the train from Barcelona to Figueras, there hired a car. He drove along the autoroute towards the border, then turned off and climbed the zigzag road which led, through cork forests, up one of the southerly mountains to Son Jordi, situated on the crown.
It was a village from the past. Obligatory parking was in an open area on the approach. Every house was time-worn and most contained different levels because of the sloping land; the roads were cobbled and so narrow that even mule carts could only traverse them with care; the two shops he passed were the front rooms of houses and sold only the necessaries of life. Then, puffing because walking was hard work, he rounded a corner to come in sight of a group of eight people who could only be tourists because they were dressed with such little regard to decorum. He silently swore. Was not even a hidden corner of Spain to be left unsullied? But as he drew nearer he could hear they were speaking French and his thoughts lightened. With the border so close, it was probable they were in Spain just for the day; they would never have bothered to drive up to a village that boasted no architectural gem or modern tourist attraction unless there was reason; being French, there was a good chance this was a restaurant that offered excellent food.
An Enigmatic Disappearance Page 13
