Death Trick

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I tell you, I’ve never seen the bloody place.’

  She belatedly realized that if she continued to insist that he had, she would either make herself look stupid or her husband a liar. ‘No, you’re right. I’ve just remembered, it’s John I went with because you weren’t feeling well. And he didn’t like Chinese food, but was too polite to tell me beforehand because I’d said I loved it. And when he didn’t finish his spring rolls . . .’ She came to a stop, realizing that she was sounding less and less convincing.

  Alvarez said: ‘Señor, have you heard of a firm, registered in the Cayman Islands, called Ashley Developments?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then now I have asked all the questions.’ He stood. ‘Except there is one more. Have you been able to remember someone who can vouch for the fact that on the night of the eighth you did not leave this house?’

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ she said, her tone now once more sharp, ‘I was here and he never moved.’

  ‘But have you managed to remember someone else?’

  ‘No,’ said Braddon pugnaciously, ‘but that doesn’t alter anything. I was bloody here and you can try as hard as you like and you won’t prove differently.’

  Hotel Rocador was just over a kilometre outside Porto Cristo and the natural harbour which made the port a haven for yachtsmen. Situated on top of a cliff, it had a superb view out to sea. It was family owned, and even though virtually all the guests came on package holidays, they were treated with respect and attention, with the result that many of them came year after year.

  The receptionist said that Vidal was off duty and suggested he might be in his digs in Porto Cristo. Alvarez drove back to the port. Camino S’on Perragut, at the western end, wound up a hill to a dead-end at the top. No. 41 was the last house on the right, remarkable for the shade of violet in which the shutters had been painted.

  An elderly woman led him through the house and into a small enclosed patio. She pointed to the two-floor building on the far side and said that Vidal lived in the bedroom on the top floor.

  He climbed the wooden stairs, past three cages containing canaries, and reached a small landing. From the room came the clash of rock music. He knocked on the door, but was hardly surprised when there Was no response. He opened the door and stepped inside. Vidal, wearing only boxer shorts, was lying on the bed; he had been reading a magazine. ‘What d’you want?’ he shouted.

  ‘Silence, to begin with.’

  He hesitated, then leaned over and switched off the tape-recorder.

  ‘Cuerpo general de policia.’ He was not surprised to see the wary, defensive response to this announcement; most people, even those who lived lives whiter than new-fallen snow, reacted initially in the same way. ‘Mind if I sit?’

  Vidal came to his feet in one swift, graceful movement, crossed to the only chair, picked up a pile of magazines and dropped them on to the floor, gestured with his right hand. ‘For you, señor.’

  Mockery, or extravagant courtesy? You never knew with an Andaluce, thought Alvarez. He sat and the chair creaked, making him wonder if it would collapse since it was obviously riddled with worm holes. ‘I’m making inquiries into the murder of Pablo Roig—you’ll have heard about it?’

  ‘Someone at the hotel did mention it.’

  ‘You don’t sound very concerned. But surely you knew him?’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘Are you saying that you never met him?’

  ‘No. Merely that I did not know him.’

  ‘So you’d agree that you saw him at his house, Casa Gran?’

  Vidal inclined his head.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Perhaps a month ago.’

  ‘Do you know Señorita Garcia, or have you merely met her?’

  If Vidal resented the form of the question, he did not show this. ‘I know her.’

  ‘Is this from some time back?’

  ‘It is from when we were both young.’

  ‘How would you describe the relationship between the two of you?’

  ‘To a stranger, I would not.’

  ‘Then think of me as a friend. Are you fond of her?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Were you in love with her before she met Roig?’

  He said, with haughty scorn: ‘That is a ridiculous question.’

  For once, Alvarez’s normally equable temper rose. This young man could now think of her only as damaged goods and a noble Andaluce demanded a woman of purity since only then could she be good enough to be his wife. ‘D’you mind getting off your high horse and telling me just why it’s so ridiculous?’

  He looked at Alvarez, surprised but not alarmed, by the harshness with which the question had been put. ‘Because she is my second cousin.’

  Alvarez had seldom felt such a fool.

  ‘Our great-grandparents lived in Bodon and my grandmother married a man from Posuna. They didn’t welcome the marriage since the people of Bodon have always regarded themselves as superior to those of Posuna. That is ridiculous, of course.’

  ‘You seem to a find that a lot in this world is ridiculous.’

  ‘I do.’

  It was only coincidence that Vidal had been looking directly at him as he spoke, Alvarez assured himself. ‘Let’s get back to Roig. You went to Casa Gran and saw him there, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten that Señora Monserrat let you into the house and took you out to the courtyard where he was?’

  He did not answer.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He was insolent.’

  ‘Which infuriated you?’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Did you visit the place again?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘To speak to him about what?’

  ‘To explain what he must do.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The matter is no concern of yours.’

  ‘On the contrary; I’m investigating his murder.’

  ‘My visit had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge.’

  He was silent.

  ‘Who was in the house this second time?’

  ‘Roig and a woman.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘A whore.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘I am neither blind nor deaf,’ he said scornfully.

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘I tried.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘He refused to listen to what I had to say or to promise to do what I asked him to do.’

  ‘Did he admit to having known Señorita Garcia?’

  ‘He merely called me a naive bumpkin who knew nothing about the world. The whore laughed.’

  ‘So what did you do or say?’

  ‘I left.’

  ‘But not before having one hell of a row?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want me to believe that you didn’t tell him what you thought of him and his previous ten generations? With all your overdeveloped pride, you didn’t threaten to push his head through his fundament for treating you like that in front of a woman?’

  ‘One does not demean oneself by arguing with a peasant.’

  Reluctantly, Alvarez had to admire the spirit of a man who, himself poor, could mean it when he referred to an extremely rich man as a peasant. ‘When did you next visit Casa Gran?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Weren’t you there on the night of the eighth?’

  ‘If I didn’t return, I can’t have been.’

  ‘Surely you wanted to revenge yourself on someone who’d insulted your pride and made a woman laugh at you, even if you weren’t prepared to argue with him?’

  ‘A man can only be insulted by his equals or his betters.’

  ‘Then you seldom feel insulted?’

  He disdained to answer.

  ‘Can you prove where you were on the night of the eighth?’

&nbs
p; He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I advise you at least to try.’

  He thought for quite a time. ‘I came off duty at seven.’

  ‘So what did you do after then?’

  ‘I probably came back here; perhaps after having a drink at a bar.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can vouch for seeing you during the evening?’

  ‘Why should they bother?’

  ‘To prove you’re telling the truth when you say you didn’t go to Casa Gran.’

  ‘I do not lie.’

  If he’d been wearing a sword, thought Alvarez, he’d have touched the hilt with an unmistakable gesture. Andalucia now had an autonomous government. It was a pity they had not seen fit to ban emigration.

  Alvarez arrived downstairs the following morning at nine o’clock and Dolores called out from the front room, where she had been polishing the furniture, that she had been out while he had been snoring and had bought him a couple of ensaimadas; they were on the kitchen table and for his chocolate all he had to do was put a light under the saucepan and warm it up. Admirable woman, he thought, as he lit the gas. He sat at the table and ate the ensaimadas with butter and apricot jam and drank two cupfuls of hot chocolate. An excellent way of starting the day—perhaps a slightly late start, as he was reminded when the clock in the dining-room chimed the half-hour. In view of this fact, it seemed wiser not to go straight to the post, but to do something which could reasonably be brought forward as a valid excuse for not having been in the office at eight, if challenged on that point, What? Now that he knew that any specific reference either to Andreu y Soler or Ashley Developments was important, surely a second and much more careful examination of all the papers in Oakley’s house was necessary?

  He drove out of Llueso on to the Puerto Llueso road and down that to the dirt track which gave access to Ca’n Tardich.

  The house and its setting were looking exceedingly attractive in the morning sunshine and as he left the car he experienced a rare sense of optimism. Perhaps luck was finally about to reward him and he’d be able to buy a property such as this one? Happy the man who, before he died, could run his fingers through rich soil and know it was his . . .

  Beatriz opened the front door.

  ”Morning,’ he said, with unusual cheerfulness. ‘I’ve just come along to have another look through the house.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ she answered uncertainly.

  ‘With the señor back, I don’t think I ought to let you in without him saying it’s all right and he’s out at the moment.’

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘What?’ shouted Salas.

  Alvarez stared gloomily at the top of his desk. ‘It seems, señor, that he is, after all, alive.’

  There was a very long pause. ‘I just do not believe this can be happening to me.’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to question him yet, because he was out when I went to his house. But the maid says that he’s reported his car as stolen from the airport car park, so perhaps we ought to tell Traffic . . .’

  ‘How long is it since you assured me he had been murdered?’

  ‘I know, only . . .’

  ‘Yet now you tell me he has not been murdered.’

  ‘Señor, it has been very difficult. If you could look at things from my point of view . . .’

  ‘Only by standing on my head.’

  ‘All the evidence did point to the fact . . .’

  ‘You’re surely not suggesting that at any time in this case you have bothered about anything so mundane as the evidence?’

  ‘Señor . . .’

  ‘First you tell me he is a suspect in the murder of Roig.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘And without once pausing to make certain you have considered all the relevant facts, you contact England and ask them to conduct a search for him.’

  ‘That’s not exactly right. It was you who . . .’

  ‘Having done that, you decided he had not murdered Roig and fled the island, but had been murdered. So you had to get in touch with England and admit your mistake, making everyone here, and in particular yourself, look foolish. But that’s not the end of the matter. Things had become confused by most people’s standards, but not by yours and you are only happy when surrounded by total confusion. So you now announce to me that he wasn’t murdered, he’s alive and well. Which means you’re going to have to ring England yet again and explain that the man you said was alive, then dead, is alive again . . .’

  Alvarez reached down with his free hand and pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk. To his consternation, he saw that it contained only a glass and a couple of dusty files. He’d forgotten to replace the bottle of brandy.

  He parked on one side of the gnarled olive tree in front of Ca’n Tardich; on the other side was a Seat Panda, it’s right-hand rear window displaying the forms which marked it as a hire car. He crossed to the front door and rang the bell.

  Oakley was taller than he, but considerably thinner—a man who either exercised regularly or took care not to eat too generously. He had a round face, with eyes set high, full cheeks, and a generous mouth that looked as if about to break into a grin; his hair was a medium brown, held a very slight curl at the front, and was clearly thinning on top. He wore a safari shirt and cotton trousers, both well pressed, and his leather sandals were well polished. ‘Good morning,’ he said in Spanish.

  Alvarez introduced himself in English.

  Oakley smiled. ‘Then this must be the quickest slice of action the island’s ever seen!’

  ‘I’m sorry, señor, I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s no time at all since I reported my car had been stolen from the airport.’

  ‘I haven’t come about that.’

  ‘Not?’

  ‘Your car is in Palma, with the Traffic department. It is quite undamaged and was never stolen. I ordered Traffic to drive it from the airport to their workshops to examine it.’

  ‘Why on earth do that?’

  ‘Hasn’t Beatriz explained to you what has been happening?’

  ‘She did try to tell me something after she’d got over treating me as a ghost, but I was in a hurry so I’m afraid I cut her short. So what’s been going on which seems to have excited so many people?’

  ‘We believed you to be dead.’

  ‘I’m happy to echo Twain and say that the reports were exaggerated . . . Why did anyone think that?’

  ‘It’s quite a long story.’

  ‘Then let’s go through and sit and have a drink while you tell it; I find that long stories heard standing up and dry tend to become tedious.’

  They went through the house and out on to the vine-covered patio. ‘What would you like?’ asked Oakley. ‘I can offer all the usual drinks, plus one or two minor exotics.’

  ‘May I have a coñac, please, with ice.’

  When Oakley returned, he passed one glass across, sat, raised his own. ‘The first today, but not the last, if God grants me a fine repast. A toast which suggests a touch of gluttony, but for my money that’s by far the least of the deadly sins . . . Now, that long story—edited, perhaps?’

  Alvarez gave him a resume of the facts.

  ‘It seems life on the island isn’t as sleepy as I’ve always assumed it to be. Poor old Pablo!’

  ‘You didn’t know he’d been murdered?’

  ‘How could I? I’ve not read a local paper since the day I left and, with all due respect to Pablo’s memory, his death isn’t an international event. Obviously, this was what Bea-triz was trying to tell me—she rather tends to wallow in disasters.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, señor, but you don’t sound very upset by his murder.’

  ‘I’m surprised, in a sense shocked, but not emotionally upset, if that answers you?’

  ‘Are you saying that you didn’t like him?’

  ‘To be honest, I neither liked nor disliked him.’

  ‘Your relationship, then, was purely
a business one?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know who murdered him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then presumably you’re now trying to decide whether I might have done?’

  ‘I naturally have to examine all possibilities.’

  ‘And, to pin you down, I am a possibility?’

  ‘Señor, until I know all the facts, I have to accept that any one of several people might have killed him.’

  ‘What brings me within this uncharmed circle? Simply the fact that we did business together? I don’t think so, because if you included his legal work, that qualification unqualified would provide you with an embarrassment of suspects. When was he murdered?’

  ‘On the night of the eighth.’

  ‘That’s Monday of last week, isn’t it? The day I went over and saw him in his country place. So presumably that’s the real reason why I’ve become a suspect?’

  ‘I understand that while you were there, you had a heated row with him?’

  ‘Overheard by his daily? In fact, that’s not a strictly accurate description. He became heated, but I remained cool.’

  ‘What was the row about?’

  ‘You will keep everything I tell you confidential?’

  ‘Unless the needs of the case demand otherwise.’

  ‘Is that a polite way of saying, unless you decide to charge me with the murder? Since I didn’t kill him, I hope there’s no fear of that. I represent an investment company . . .’

  ‘Ashley Developments, registered in the Cayman Islands?’

  Oakley whistled. ‘You’ve been doing your homework to some purpose! Yes, that’s right. Well, cutting things short, I decided some little time ago that there was still scope for a good investment in an up-market development close to Palma. So we formed a Spanish company to buy the land and appointed Roig as the legal adviser. Between you and me, I knew enough about him to reckon that if anyone could get planning permission, he would. He did. So the development was started and it proved convenient to channel much of the early financing through him.

  ‘Then, things started to go wrong and the banks, who’d been brought in as investors, began to make unpleasant noises. I hurried back here and checked things and found that although costs had risen beyond our estimates—don’t they always?—and sales were not as good as we’d forecast, the financial shortfall couldn’t be explained unless someone was screwing the company. Some hard lucubration identified who that someone probably was and so I had a chat with Roig and hinted at what I suspected, in the hope that he’d see the advantages to himself of keeping things quiet and so would refund the money.