‘It ain’t nothing to do with me.’
‘Not if he reckoned you were netting thrushes.’
‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘The row you had with the señor made you very, very angry.’
‘I said, ain’t never met him.’
‘You aren’t helping yourself by lying. Do you know Juanito Santos?’
‘No.’
‘Does the garden at Aquila. He heard the row and recognized the two voices. Señor Gill’s and yours.’
‘He’s a liar.’
‘Or it’s a wrong vocal identification? I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t matter what you think. It wasn’t me. Never met the señor, and I ain’t ever gone after thrushes.’
‘Then where do you get the ones you sell?’
‘Don’t sell none.’
‘I’ve heard from several villagers that they’ve bought thrushes from you, even though you charge a fortune.’
‘They’re lying.’
‘Seems there’s a lot of liars around. Look, I don’t want to take you in, but go on like this and I’ll have to.’
‘Take me where?’
‘To one of the cells at the post.’
‘You can’t prove nothing.’
‘Then where do the thrushes you sell come from?’
‘I don’t sell any.’
‘Then you will have to come along with me.’
‘For catching thrushes when I ain’t?’
‘On suspicion of murdering Señor Gill.’
Velaquez suffered uncomprehending fear. ‘You can’t . . . I didn’t . . . I’ve never . . .’
‘If he was murdered, why? There’s no one else with any reason to do so. He caught you in the woods and aggressively accused you of illegal trapping. Likely said he was calling the policia local. You’ve been in trouble before,’ Alvarez guessed.
‘Not for anything serious. Never been in jail.’
‘Count yourself lucky. Only, your luck’s kind of running out. Trapping thrushes gets all those love-life people very angry. For a bloke like you, living free, being stuck in a cell for months couldn’t be worse. So to save yourself a living purgatory, tell me what did happen. You went up to Aquila—’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Maybe you originally thought you’d just apologize and ask him to be generous and forget what happened. He was at the end of Barca, tending his orchid. He wouldn’t listen to you, said he hoped you’d be jailed for years. In a desperate attempt to save yourself, you pushed him over the edge.’
‘That’s crazy. I’ve never been up there. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘You lied about selling thrushes, didn’t you?’
‘That don’t mean I killed him.’
‘You now admit you trapped thrushes there?’
After a while, Velaquez muttered an admission.
‘Then where were you at thirteen hundred hours on the fourth?’
‘How would I know? Don’t mean nothing to me what the time is, or the day.’
‘That is when the señor fell to his death. And you had reason to wish him dead.’
‘Kill a man just because . . . Here, wasn’t that a Friday?’
‘Days do suddenly mean something to you?’
‘I was in hospital having me shoulder X-rayed.’ Velaquez spoke with the breathless haste of someone seeking continued life when in sight of the gallows.
Alvarez phoned the hospital. As was to be expected, he had to flaunt the superior chief’s name before he could persuade someone to check the records. Lorenzo Velaquez had had his shoulder X-rayed at thirteen hundred hours on the fourth.
The sun had set behind the mountains, but the light was still reasonably good; there was a mauve tinge to the northern sky. Above the mountains, a black vulture circled the spot where food was put out for the few remaining birds to keep them fit and encourage them to breed.
Alvarez left his car. Parra opened the front door as he neared it.
‘You are becoming a frequent visitor, Inspector.’
‘No need to be alarmed.’
Parra smiled. ‘I am glad. Inspector, do you mind if I ask you something?’
‘I won’t know until you say what you want.’
‘The señorita sadly has been very disturbed, so when she told me you think the señor may not have suffered an accident, he may have committed suicide or been murdered, I wondered if she had become very confused.’
‘Murder is one possibility I am having to investigate.’
‘It is very difficult to believe that possible.’
‘Why?’
‘He was a kind man.’
‘Which left him more at risk.’
Mary was watching the television. She managed a brief smile of welcome. ‘Come and sit down, Enrique.’ She turned to Parra who was standing in the doorway. ‘Yes, Pablo?’
‘I thought you might like coffee or a drink, señorita.’
‘I imagine the inspector would like a drink. If I remember correctly, it is coñac with just ice. And I’ll have coffee.’
Parra left.
After Juana-María had died, he had experienced times of false acceptance. Would Mary find the return of sorrow as quick and as cruel as he had done?
‘Are you here to ask more questions?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Then let’s get it over and done with as soon as possible.’
‘Will you remind me of the name of the lady with whom your uncle was friendly.’
‘Virginia Oakley.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘In Port Xalon.’
‘Do you know her address?’
‘You . . . Are you going to speak to her?’
‘I have to talk to everyone who knew your uncle.’
‘Paul can’t have known about Robin and Virginia.’
‘I need to make certain of that.’
‘Must you?’
He did not answer.
‘Paul will learn.’
‘Only if it becomes absolutely essential he does.’
‘You’ll try to save her from all the beastly trouble there could be? You’re not at all like a detective.’
‘My superior chief would agree.’
‘He is not an understanding man?’
‘A very misunderstanding one.’
Parra returned, placed sugar, milk and cup of coffee on her table, and handed Alvarez a well-stocked glass. He left.
She added sugar and milk to the cup, drank, replaced the cup on its saucer. ‘You want her address. Ca’n Alzenar. I can’t tell you any more because I’ve never been there, but I do know it’s not far back from the sea front.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now can we talk about fun things.’
‘I still have to ask . . .’
‘I’m not going to answer any more questions. You’ll have to come back again. Have you seen the latest blockbuster film? Moira saw it and said it scared her silly, but she always goes over the top. Do you like musicals? I don’t know how many times I’ve watched My Fair Lady . . .’
He said little, merely encouraging her to continue telling him about fun things.
Port Xalon was on the south coast. Fifty years previously, there had been a small village inland, while on the sea front were huts in which the fishermen kept their gear and spent the nights before sailing off at daybreak. Eternal optimists, their hope was always for a catch which would sell for sufficient pesetas to enable them to return home to rest and buy their families wholesome and plentiful food. Now, it was a tourist centre which had escaped becoming a concrete jungle due to an enlightened council. In the marina, there were many boats, sail and power, which might go out to sea only a dozen times in a year; most had cost more than any fisherman had earned in several years.
Alvarez braked to a halt in front of the small bungalow in a two hundred square metre plot, at the end of a line of four similar houses. He climbed out of the car, loc
ked it with the remote, opened ornamental wrought-iron gates, walked up the chipped-rock path, knocked on the front door. This was opened by a woman in her mid thirties, contemporarily slim, neatly dressed and made-up, but not a potential catwalk beauty.
‘Señora Oakley?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am Inspector Alvarez of the Cuerpo General de Policia.’
‘You’re . . . a policeman?’
‘That is so.’
‘Has something happened to my husband; to Paul?’
‘Nothing has happened to him, señora. I merely wish to ask you a few questions.’
‘About what?’
‘I will explain. Perhaps I might enter your house to escape the sun while we talk?’
‘I . . . I suppose so.’
Entry was directly into a small sitting room, neatly but budget-furnished. On the far wall hung the painting of an island scene that was now seldom met – a tumble-down caseta, fronted by prickly pear cacti and an almond tree in blossom. Tumbledown fincas waiting to be reformed by foreigners were now as rare as traditional corner shops. She sat on the settee, he on a chair.
‘I’m afraid, señora, I do have unwelcome news. However, I hasten to add it does not concern your husband.’
‘Who then?’
‘Señor Gill.’
She looked away. ‘Who?’
‘He had a serious fall which unfortunately proved to be fatal.’
She no longer tried to suggest the name was unfamiliar. There was a brief moan; she brushed tears from her eyes with her forefinger, then had to use a handkerchief. Her shoulders shook, and she pressed her lips tightly together to try to stop them trembling.
‘I believe you were close friends.’
She shook her head.
‘I need to learn as much about him as I can. You may be able to help me.’
‘We were just . . . just casual friends, Robin and me. I’m sorry, but I have to go out so if you don’t mind leaving?’
‘I will not keep you for long if you can tell me whether Señor Gill seemed in any way disturbed in the past few weeks.’
‘We’ve only seen him a couple of times in months.’
‘Did he seem to be depressed?’
‘No.’
‘Did he mention any financial problems? That he had had money in one of the failed banks?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘There has to be the possibility he committed suicide.’
‘Never!’ she said loudly and forcefully.
‘You seem very certain.’
‘I am.’
‘Why?’
She hesitated. ‘I can’t say, but I know he would never do that.’
‘I understand he had friends in Andraitx.’
The sudden change in subject bemused her.
‘Their name is Green. Your husband frequently spends a day with them, but you seldom go with him. I should like to know why that is?’
‘I don’t get on with Prue.’
‘She is Señora Green?’
‘Yes.’
‘When your husband is with them, what do you do?’
‘It could be anything. How can I answer?’
‘By telling me the truth.’
‘I don’t see why I should say . . .’ Distress had given way to sharp concern.
‘Perhaps you met Señor Gill here?’
She flinched. Her voice rose. ‘What are you hinting at? You’ve no right to say such things.’
‘I have that right, señora, you have the duty to answer my questions. Did Señor Gill visit here when your husband was in Andraitx.’
‘Of course he didn’t. It’s a filthy suggestion. You’re trying to hint there was something between us.’
‘Was there?’
‘I’ve had enough of this. Please leave.’
‘I have more questions which need to be answered. I must remain here until they are. Do you agree you and Señor Gill had an affair?’
‘No! Of course not.’
‘Continue to deny this and I will have to continue questioning you when your husband has returned.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I must.’
‘You bastard!’ she shouted.
‘Tell me and since the señor is unfortunately dead, your husband will never know about the past unless you choose to tell him.’
She abruptly stood, crossed to the window, looked out. ‘It’s not true. But he might think . . . He’s so . . .’
‘The last thing I want is to bring trouble to your marriage.’
‘I tell you, it’s a horrible lie.’
‘Yet you are scared of my talking to you in front of your husband.’
‘He . . . he can be irrational.’
‘And would be less sceptical than you’d want?’
They heard the slam of a car door. ‘It’s him,’ she cried.
Alvarez silently swore.
‘Please. I beg you, don’t say anything.’
He had hoped the threat to do so would have already forced her to speak the truth.
They heard Oakley enter the hall; the front door was slammed shut. There was the call: ‘Virginia.’
She looked at Alvarez, frightened, fearful, desperate, silently pleading.
‘Virginia.’
‘In here,’ she finally called out.
Oakley entered the room and came to a stop as he stared at Alvarez. ‘Hullo, hullo, my wife entertaining a strange man whilst I’m away?’
There were times when the past was the present. Alvarez introduced himself.
‘I confess, Inspector. I did rob the bank.’ Oakley raised his hands in surrender. ‘I didn’t mean to shoot the manager, he just got in the way of me shooting the cashier.’ He laughed and lowered his hands.
Alvarez understood why she had had an affair. Oakley enjoyed childish humour, possessed a beer belly which bulged over the top of his shorts and was partially visible through an unbuttoned shirt; he had little head hair, a plump, round face with small eyes and thick, rolling lips.
‘The inspector . . .’ she began, her voice uneven.
Alvarez hurriedly interrupted to prevent her trying to explain his presence. ‘I’m here, señor, to ask what is the registration number of your car?’
‘You speak-a da Eenglish!’
‘I try to.’
‘That’s always good for a laugh. Had a waiter ask me if I wanted cut coffee. I said I’d have it in slices. Couldn’t understand me . . . You want the number of my ancient Seat, Old Groaner. Can’t remember the numbers, only the letters. They’re a hoot. PIS. A man with a sense of humour handed them out, eh?’
‘They mean nothing in Spanish.’
‘Not much does. What’s your name?’
‘Inspector Alvarez.’
‘You told me that. Not your surname, your Christian name.’
There was a silence.
‘Wouldn’t it be nice to offer the inspector a drink?’ she asked.
‘Drinking with the enemy! Not done, old girl, unless he’s fought bravely.’ He spoke to Alvarez. ‘So what name will you answer to? Tony? What’ll you drink, Tony? Arsenic with a touch of strychnine to add flavour?’
‘Coñac with just ice, if I may?’
‘This is freedom house and you take what you want in it.’
‘Very generous.’
‘I’d share the last penny in my pocket so long as I’d a few thousand quid in the bank.’
‘I’d like a Cinzano,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think there’s any left.’
‘Trust a woman to ask for something she can’t have, eh, Tony?’
‘Will you be a sweetie and go out and get me some?’
‘There’s sherry in the cupboard.’
‘Just for once, can’t you do as I ask?’ She had spoken sharply when she had intended to speak sweetly.
‘You’ll have Tony thinking I never listen to you when in fact I spend all day rushing around, answering your every wish. It was me who should have
vowed to honour and obey. I’ll obey. Off to the corner shop for a bottle of Cinzano.’ He left the room.
They heard a car door slam, an engine starting, the car driving away.
‘Please, please don’t tell him,’ she pleaded. ‘You’ve seen what he’s like.’
‘Did you have an affair with Señor Gill?’
‘Yes,’ she finally muttered. She looked at Alvarez to try to judge what impression her admission had made. ‘Robin was so, so completely different. We met at a party. Paul had too much to drink, as always, and was being stupid, trying to impress Robin, laughing at his own jokes. Robin had the tact not to show his feelings . . .’
‘Señora, we cannot have much time. Does your husband suspect you had an affair with Señor Gill?’
‘Of course he doesn’t.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘He’s so fond of himself, he could hardly believe there was anyone I’d prefer to him. If he had become suspicious, he’d have been so humiliated, he’d have ordered me out of the house to live on charity since I wouldn’t get a penny from him.’
They heard the car return.
‘Please,’ she pleaded.
Oakley entered, a plastic shopping bag in his hand. ‘Bought a cream cake at the baker and told him the cream had better be fresh or I’d wash his face in it. Now, what was your order, Tony?’
‘A coñac with just ice.’
‘Service with a smile.’ He crossed to the doorway, stopped, turned. ‘You wanted to know the numbers of my car?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Eight five three three. Can’t think why you want to know?’
‘There’s been a road accident on the autoroute caused by a car doing well over a hundred and fifty. The passenger in the second car was not badly hurt and managed to take the registration number of the overtaking vehicle which drove off, but couldn’t be certain of the last two numbers to identify them satisfactorily. We’re questioning owners of cars to find out who it was.’
‘Not guilty, m’lud. And if you don’t believe me, go out and look at Old Groaner. If it could do a hundred and fifty, I’m the manager of Manchester United. And while you’re looking, I’ll pour a drink. A good stiff one, as the lady said to the barman.’
Alvarez was surprised Virginia had not found it preferable to live on charity.
NINE
Alvarez poured himself a drink. Alcohol calmed nerves, sharpened the mind, relaxed tension.
A Question of Motive Page 7
