It had been a brave attempt to turn the conversation away from dangerous subjects and Alvarez was sorry to have to cut it short. ‘Señor, will you tell me where you were last Monday night?’
‘I said, I didn’t kill him.’
‘I still need to know where you were.’
‘Here.’
‘Is there someone who can confirm that?’
‘I can,’ she said loudly.
‘And perhaps there is also someone else? Do you have a maid who lives in?’
‘We have a daily woman, that’s all.’
‘Did any friends call?’
They looked at each other; she answered. ‘There’s no one came to see us Monday night.’
CHAPTER 10
Palma was a city which was often denigrated, usually by people who had never visited the island on the grounds that their hairdressers went there every year. But for those who did not have to be seen by their friends to holiday in Pago Pago, it had much to offer and in parts was charmingly attractive.
Alvarez parked in a newly vacated space, climbed out of the car and stood on the pavement, admiring the setting. Behind him was a small green, ringed with palm trees, off which there led a broad road which provided a brief view of the boat-filled marina; ahead of him was a church, in parts nearly five hundred years old, which was simple yet graceful in style, but had sombre associations with the Inquisition; and to his right was Bistro Deux, a French restaurant whose reputation was excellent.
He crossed, walked past the church and down a side road that curved around rising land. He stopped at a block of flats, checked the names by the entryphone, pressed the third button down. A woman, her voice made tinny by the loudspeaker, answered. He identified himself. There was a sharp buzz and the door sprang open. He went in and crossed to the lift.
When Raquel Oliver opened the door, he was immediately reminded of Jaume’s contemptuous certainty that Roig’s women were far from innocent; undoubtedly, she was. Strikingly attractive, she made the mistake of being too obvious; hair very blonde, make-up very heavy, shirt and jeans very tight, and air of hard calculation unmistakable.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘d’you reckon you’ll know me the next time?’
‘I am sorry, señorita, I was just . . .’ He became silent, deeming it imprudent to explain that he had just unflatteringly summed up her character.
She accepted that his regard had been wholly lecherous. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
It was a small flat, built for a single person or a newly-wed couple. She had furnished it with a striking and artistic recourse to colours, many of which when apart might have been thought to clash, but when placed together astonishingly didn’t.
‘D’you want a drink?’
‘If I might have a coñac, with just ice?’
He watched her go over to a small sideboard. An islander, probably from the western end to judge by the accent with which she spoke Mallorquin. Had she been born forty years before, her life would have been a very different one. Forced to work in the fields from an early age, by now her looks would have disappeared; married to a man who probably offered her little or no overt affection; facing a future, as hard as the past, in which pleasure was a privilege restricted to the wealthy . . . Who but the severest of moralists could regret the change for her?
‘I’ll tell you one thing, you’re no chatterbox!’
‘I was thinking about the past, señorita.’
‘That’s a complete waste of time.’ She handed him a glass, went over to the second easy chair whose cover was a shocking pink, and sat. ‘I suppose you’re here because of Pablo?’
‘I believe you visited him quite often at his house, Casa Gran?’
‘And if I did?’
‘Then you can tell me about him.’
‘What about him?’
‘To begin with, what was he like?’
‘Like any other middle-aged man who imagines he’s Don Juan,’ she said, making it clear that she was not going to apologize to anyone, least of all to a middle-aged inspector, for the kind of life she led. She’d met Roig at an exhibition to which she’d gone because she knew the artist. She’d recognized his type on sight and so wasn’t in the least surprised when he’d made a point of talking to her. And she’d been sardonically amused to note how he’d preened himself, believing that his sophisticated air, hundred thousand peseta suit, and hand-made shoes, would bowl her over. Naturally, she’d played hard to get. She’d made him spend and spend on her and for a long time had offered absolutely nothing in return . . . She could not quite hide the fact that his mature charm had held an attraction for her.
‘Were you distressed to learn of his death?’
‘Of course. No more dinners at the Casino.’
He ignored the comment. ‘How did you learn of his death?’
‘I read about it in the paper. Bit of a surprise, really. To think that suddenly he’d . . .’ Just for a moment, her air of hard sophistication was dropped.
‘You’d no idea what had happened until then?’
‘How could I have?’ Her concern was sharp. ‘Here, you’re not thinking I had anything to do with that?’
‘I’m here to find out.’
‘Then you find out bloody quickly. If you think I could ever have stuck a knife into him, you’re crazy . . . I mean, why the hell should I kill him?’
‘You might have had a very bitter argument.’
‘D’you think I murder people I argue with? . . . In any case, when we went to his place, it wasn’t to argue.’
‘Or you might have learned he’d found another friend?’
‘He wasn’t looking at anyone else while I was around, that was for sure.’
‘When did you last see him?’
She thought back. ‘On the Friday.’
‘Have you any idea who might have killed him?’
‘No.’ She drained her glass, stood. ‘D’you want another?’
He handed her his glass. ‘He never spoke about being threatened?’
‘That’s not the sort of talk he was interested in,’ she said, as she walked over to the sideboard.
‘It’s strange what does get said in pillow talk.’
‘Not when I’m sharing the pillow.’
‘I suppose you’ve met the maid at Casa Gran?’
‘Couldn’t very well miss that one.’ She walked back, handed him a glass, returned to her chair. ‘Every time I looked like getting too close so she might actually come into physical contact, she crossed herself.’
‘Did she ever talk to you about Roig?’
‘She didn’t talk to me about anyone or anything unless she absolutely had to.’
‘So I don’t suppose you’d know who he—how shall I put it?—entertained before?’
‘That’s right, I wouldn’t.’
‘Can you remember where you were on Monday evening, say between ten and midnight?’
She answered immediately. ‘Here, watching a film on telly.’
‘On your own.’
‘On my own, so you can cool your imagination.’
‘I have to ask the question, to learn if there is someone who will corroborate that you were here.’
‘Well, there isn’t, so you’ll just have to . . . Hang on. A friend did phone me during the film and as it was boring, we had a bit of a chat.’
‘Would you give me his or her name?’
‘Hers.’
He wrote down the name, telephone number, and address. He finished his drink, thanked her for her help, said goodbye, and left.
There was a pay-telephone in Bistro Deux and after giving his order—which called for a great deal of thought because the menu was full and promising and he did not want to regret his choice later—he telephoned the woman whose name he’d been given. She confirmed the telephone conversation and was able to place the time at around eleven.
Back in his seat, he poured himself out a glass of wine, sprinkled olive oil and salt on a slice of
bread, and ate and drank as he thought. Two things were clear: assuming the friend was not an accomplice, Raquel had a reasonably good alibi; and when Julia had railed against Roig for destroying innocence, she had not had Raquel in mind.
Roig’s town house in Palma had been built a couple of centuries before for an ancient, and near noble, Madrileño family who, in much state, had visited the island for holidays. The rooms, all large and with lofty ceilings, were built around an inner courtyard; with the heavy, studded outside doors shut, this courtyard had, before it had been paved to provide parking space, offered a touch of the countryside in the middle of the town.
Despite the heat, Elena Roig was dressed in full mourning, as had been customary until recently. She accepted Alvarez’s condolences and his apologies for worrying her at such a time and then cleared away any hurdle of embarrassment by saying: ‘I knew my husband owned this house in the country and that he entertained women there. But I don’t think he ever realized that I knew.’ She briefly touched a large mole on her right cheek. Age had softened her ugliness, and for that she was grateful, but it could not hide it; and for her, that unsightly mole had always epitomized her unfortunate appearance.
‘Did you by any chance meet any of these women, señora?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘So you obviously cannot give me any of their names?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Did you often meet his friends?’
‘If now you are referring to his male friends, only when he hoped they’d be able to persuade me.’
‘In what way?’
‘When I was very much younger, I inherited considerable land and some property. Part of that I immediately put in his hands as a sign of trust—one can be very naive when one is young—the rest I retained in my own name. The land especially has appreciated greatly in value and he was forever trying to make me agree to let him have some or all of it to sell. His friends, who were always in the business of developing, were introduced to me in order to lend weight to his pleas. My response was always the same and it always angered him.’ She spoke with such detachment that he might have been no more than the most casual of acquaintances. ‘The trouble was that he could never understand why I should turn down the chance of such enormous profits. But if I have enough money to live on, why should I allow even more land to be destroyed merely in order to become unnecessarily richer?’
‘I would that more people had thought like you over the past years, señora.’ As he finished speaking, she turned and looked directly at him and in the subdued light—the house still retained the original small windows—her large brown eyes were lustrous and he was suddenly struck by how beautiful they were and how at variance with the rest of her face.
‘You’re about the same age as me. Then you can also remember the island before the foreigners came. Everything was so beautiful then,’ she said sadly.
Indeed, the island had been very beautiful. But the people had known poverty and he could remember his mother crying because she could not give him a decent meal.
‘What are you thinking?’
He told her.
‘That’s true. Must it always, then, be either beauty with want or ugly prosperity?’
It was a question he had often asked himself and to which he had never found an answer.
‘Pablo could never think like that.’ Her tone had scarcely changed, but now there was no mistaking her contempt. ‘For him, beauty was success and money. And young women.’ She touched the mole.
‘Señora, have you ever met an Englishman called Gerald Oakley?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m reasonably certain he visited Casa Gran on Monday.’
‘It’s possible. On Sunday, Pablo once more tried to persuade me to let him have some of the land; he was even more insistent than usual. Perhaps the Englishman was interested in the development of it.’
‘But he didn’t actually mention Oakley’s name?’
‘No, he did not.’
‘Has he sold all the land you gave him?’
‘A long time ago. And for very much less than it would be worth now, as I frequently pointed out, much to his annoyance.’
‘Was he ever concerned in the actual developments?’
‘I can’t say. He never discussed money or business with me, unless he wanted something; and even then, like any husband, he’d speak as if I were a fool.’
Few Mallorquins, Alvarez knew, had yet come to terms either with the proposition that a marriage was a partnership rather than a takeover or that women could be as intelligently capable of dealing with financial matters as they.
He stood, apologized once more for having troubled her, and said goodbye. As he stepped out of the cool interior of the house into the hot, dusty street, he thought that it was like returning to the present.
On Monday, Alvarez drove again to Palma and parked under the Plaza Major. From there, he walked to Roig’s office, on the first floor of a building in Rey Jaime III.
The reception area was large, close-carpeted, and hung with several attractive coloured prints; the single desk was kidney-shaped. Marta had been working at a large electronic typewriter and she immediately began to moan. ‘I just don’t know what to do. I mean, who’s employing me? There’s a lot of work needs doing, but who’s going to pay me for doing it? And the phone’s been going all the time with questions I can’t answer.’
As if on cue, the telephone rang. She told the caller that just for the moment she couldn’t say definitely what was happening, but that the delay wouldn’t affect the case; she promised to get in touch the moment something certain was known.
She replaced the receiver. ‘I’ve tried asking the señora, but I don’t think she can be bothered. Between you and me, she and the señor didn’t get on very well together.’
‘I gather he was fond of the ladies?’
‘All I know is, he’d wandering hands.’
‘D’you remember the Braddons?’
‘Not likely to forget ‘em.’
‘Why not?’
‘If you’d been here the last time, you wouldn’t ask.’
He did not immediately pursue what she’d said. ‘Were they frequent callers?’
‘Never stopped.’
‘They were trying to make Señor Roig expedite their action over the house they bought, weren’t they?’
‘That’s right.’
‘D’you have any idea why he didn’t press their claim harder?’
‘Because he was stringing ‘em along until it was all but too late for them to sue.’
‘You knew he was doing that?’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘Then why didn’t you warn them?’
‘I was working for him, not them; besides, they’re foreigners.’
‘Going back to their last visit here, what happened?’
‘There was a row like no other I’ve heard in this office; leastwise, the English señor was shouting his head off.’
‘What was it all about?’
‘It must have been to do with the letter I’d typed out a couple of days before, saying the señor wouldn’t be able to act for them any longer.’
‘Could you understand what Señor Braddon was saying?’
‘Not really. He was shouting too fast and a lot of the words I didn’t know.’
‘So you wouldn’t be able to say if he’d made any threats?’
‘It sounded as if it was nothing but threats.’
‘But you can’t be certain?’
‘No,’ she said reluctantly.
‘I’ve been chatting to various people and it seems Señor Roig was interested in property as well as doing his job here. D’you know for sure if that’s correct?’
‘It’s dead right.’
‘Presumably, it was only in a small way?’
‘Would you call La Portaña small?’
He whistled. ‘I certainly would not. How deep was he in that?’
‘I can’t say. I mean, I never had anything really to do with that kind of work. But sometimes there’d be a telephone call and I’d hear . . .’ She stopped. ‘Well, I’d hear something before I could put the receiver down after switching the call through.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Alvarez sounded as if he accepted that anything she’d overheard had been done so inadvertently. ‘So you heard La Portaña mentioned—can you remember what was said?’
‘Only roughly, because they were talking in English and although I’m all right when people speak slowly and don’t get too complicated, I can get lost—like I was with Señor Braddon that time . . . The person on the other end of the line was saying something about the banks becoming worried over the money they’d lent on La Portaña and he couldn’t understand.’
‘Couldn’t understand what?’
‘I don’t really know. He began to speak really quickly. But it was something to do with where money had got to. And then Señor Roig said he’d have to get a folder and that meant his coming through here.’
Alvarez pictured her hurriedly replacing the receiver before she was caught eavesdropping. ‘Do you know who the caller was?’
‘He didn’t give me his name; just said he wanted to speak to Señor Roig.’
‘And when he was put through, he didn’t identify himself?’
‘Yes, he did, but I don’t remember what he said; it wasn’t a name I’d heard before.’
‘Think back hard.’
After a moment, she shook her head. ‘It’s no good. I mean, foreigners have such difficult names . . .’ She stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘Isn’t that odd? It’s funny how one’s mind works.’
‘You have remembered?’
‘Not exactly, but it was something like . . .’ It took her three attempts to say, ‘Gerry.’
CHAPTER 11
The telephone rang and Alvarez lifted the receiver.
‘Forensic here, Inspector. Thought you’d like a preliminary report on the autopsy. The deceased was killed by a stab wound delivered by knife—not that there was ever any doubt on that score. Although we can never be certain, death was probably virtually instantaneous.
Death Trick Page 6
