The finca was almost halfway between Cardona and the coast. The unrestored farmhouse – a rarity after the invasion of the foreigners – was surrounded by open farmland. He stepped out of his car and enjoyed the breadth of space, watching a hovering kestrel that suddenly glided away and out of sight, listening to the distant clanging of sheep bells. It obviously was not the best land – the soil was a light grey, stony, and at irregular intervals great slabs of rock reached up out of it – but he would have traded almost all he possessed for the chance to be able to walk into the centre of one of the fields and know it was his …
A man sidled around the corner of the house, his expression vacuous. He was silent. What wasn’t said, couldn’t harm.
‘Are you Lorenzo Frau?’ Alvarez asked.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Enrique Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’
Frau cleared his throat.
‘I phoned Son Fuyell and they told me that although you work mornings there, you didn’t turn up today.’
‘Damaged me leg last night.’ Frau hurriedly massaged his right thigh. ‘Otherwise I’d have been up there, doing the garden, even if there’s no saying who’ll be paying.’
A dog appeared, long tail held low because it was uncertain how it would be received. It hesitated, then barked at Alvarez.
‘Shut up,’ Frau shouted, glad to be able to vent his uneasiness.
The dog backed away and began to pant.
Silence returned. Frau, realizing he was faced by someone as stubborn as he, became more uneasy by the second. Finally, he said hoarsely: ‘What are you after?’
Even now, after he’d forced the other off balance, Alvarez knew that to approach the reason for his visit too abruptly would be to learn nothing. ‘You’ve a nice place here.’
‘The land’s so poor it ain’t worth a peseta a hectare.’
‘There’s many a German would pay you much more than one peseta.’
‘I ain’t selling.’
‘How many hectares are there?’
The question raised in Frau’s mind the frightening possibility that he was about to be questioned over the amount of income he declared to the tax authorities. ‘I don’t know.’
‘So many you’ve never found the energy to count them?’
‘There’s just under seven, that’s all.’ Only after speaking did he realize he’d been tricked into making nonsense of his previous denial. Momentarily, his expression of blank stupidity faltered.
Satisfied he’d gained the psychological high ground, Alvarez said: ‘It’s too hot out here in the sun. Suppose we move before you tell me what I want to hear?’
‘I don’t know nothing about anything,’ was Frau’s weak riposte. Very reluctantly, he led the way into the house.
The front room had no glass in the window – only a wooden shutter – and the floor was hard-packed earth. Hanging on the walls were several faded, framed photographs of stern-faced men and women wearing Sunday suits and traditional dresses; against the walls were half a dozen chairs, no two of which were of the same pattern; in the centre was a polished brass cauldron in which was a large aspidistra. The lack of any comfort or grace could have been taken as a sign of poverty; Alvarez knew it identified Frau as someone who remembered that to live richly was to die poor.
Frau struggled to work out whether he’d anything to gain by offering hospitality. He came to the conclusion he’d nothing to lose. ‘Juana,’ he shouted.
A woman, dressed in nondescript, heavily worn, but very clean clothes, her skin darkened and leathered by the hours spent in the fields, came through the inner doorway. ‘Get some wine,’ he ordered. She turned and left.
The dog appeared in the outside doorway, then vanished when Frau cursed it and made as if to throw something. They waited, letting time slide past.
The woman returned with an earthenware jug of wine and two glasses which she put down on the ground by Frau’s chair, left, again without speaking.
‘Have you been working long at Son Fuyell?’ Alvarez asked.
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Were you there when the previous owner was alive?’
‘Couldn’t say.’
‘It’ll be easy enough to find out.’
Frau said hoarsely: ‘Why are you asking?’
‘To find out if you’ve known Señor Zavala long enough to tell me what kind of man he was.’
Frau worked on his lower lip with his four remaining front teeth. ‘Is that what you’re after? Because of him dying in the pool?’
‘Why else would I be here?’
That was a question he certainly was not going to answer. But his relief was made clear by the alacrity with which he filled the two glasses and even stood to pass one to Alvarez.
The wine was very rough, had an earthy taste, and would have made a connoisseur spit immediately. Alvarez drank it with pleasure because it reminded him of the past when his parents had been alive and life had been so hard that even a glass of wine had been counted a luxury. ‘What did you think of the señor?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘What kind of man did you think him?’
Frau was very willing to list someone else’s faults, even if he found it difficult to put into words exactly what he wanted to say. Zavala had been arrogant, rude, and incredibly ill-mannered; a gypsy from Andalucia would have behaved with more dignity. He’d been stupid – thought he spoke good Castilian when it was South American argot. He’d treated the staff as if they were slaves, demanding they work themselves into their graves for a mere pittance. When he’d been asked for a new hedge-cutter to replace the one that was always breaking down, he’d said that he couldn’t afford it. ‘They’re all the same, the richer, the meaner.’
‘Maybe that’s because they’ve more to lose.’
‘And temper! Do something he didn’t like and he was shouting himself red in the face. Like the time Santiago and him were going on at each other. It got so as I thought maybe only one of ’em would be eating supper.’
‘Who’s Santiago?’
‘A local builder.’
‘What was the row about?’
‘The work he’d been doing. The señor said it hadn’t been done properly. Bloody fool! Everyone knows Santiago is the best builder in the area.’
‘When was this – recently?’
‘The oranges was ripe ’cause I was picking ’em for the house and carrying ’em up when I heard ’em at it. Good oranges, only he said they wasn’t as sweet as they ought to have been. As if he’d know!’
‘Then it was in January or February?’
‘You think oranges ripen in July?’
Alvarez drained his glass. ‘This is really good.’
‘You’ve the looks of someone who finds other people’s wine is always good.’ Alcohol went quickly to Frau’s tongue and he had half forgotten the need for caution. He stood, picked up the jug, refilled both their glasses.
‘They tell me the señor was fond of the ladies,’ Alvarez observed.
‘Couldn’t live without ’em, lucky sod.’
‘And recently he’s been seeing a lot of one in particular?’
Frau sniggered. ‘I reckon I’ve seen near as much of her as he has.’
‘What’s that – wishful thinking?’
‘I know what I see. I was working down the south side of the property, clearing some land, and had to come back for a handbill. Know what I saw?’
‘Tell me.’
‘When I came past the pool, there was a lot of laughing, so I…’
‘Had a look to see what was going on?’
‘I wanted to see they wasn’t trespassers, using the señor’s pool without permission.’
‘Very commendable of you.’
‘They always say you lot from Llueso are sarcastic bastards.’
‘We need something to be in our favour. What did you see?’
‘Him and her and not so much as a handkerchief on ’em. Ho
w about that?’
‘People often strip off when they’re sunbathing and don’t expect anyone to be around.’
‘They wasn’t sunbathing.’
‘Are you saying they were active?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ Frau said reluctantly. ‘But they had been just before I got there.’
‘The vibes were still vibrating?’
‘I’ve eyes. And doesn’t a ram tup a ewe whenever it gets the chance?’ Frau finished his drink, poured what was left in the jug into his glass, drank.
‘You’re sure you’re not making all the better parts up?’ Alvarez asked.
‘You calling me a liar?’
‘Could be an optimist. It’s unusual for people to carry on like that if there’s a risk of being seen.’
‘Then they was unusual. But if you don’t believe me, ask her if she don’t have a funny-looking birthmark on her bum.’
‘A difficult question to put delicately.’
‘I’m telling you, she’s not keen on delicacy!’
‘Susana, or Inés, told me that when she’s gone to Son Fuyell, she’s been driven there by a man. Can’t be her husband, so who is he?’
‘How would I know? Tell you something, though. If he was lying by the pool with a dozen women starkers, none of ’em would get so much as tickled.’
‘How old would you say he is?’
‘Near enough her age.’
It was difficult to surmise what part in the triangle he could play.
Frau went to refill his glass, found the jug empty. ‘Juana,’ he shouted.
Alvarez settled back in the chair.
CHAPTER 9
Five photostat copies of residencias were faxed to Alvarez on Monday morning. Two of the women were in their seventies, two in their sixties; the fifth was in her twenties, and if one allowed for the poor quality of the reproduction it was clear she would quicken an anchorite’s heart. Someone in Palma had shown initiative and enclosed very brief biographical notes and from these he learned that Karen Robertson was married to a man of fifty-six. Even for a homely woman, a thirty-year difference in ages was likely to strain marriage loyalties; for a voluptuously attractive one, it could be all but guaranteed to snap them. He was confident he had identified Zavala’s companion by the swimming pool.
* * *
As Alvarez stepped out of his car in the turning circle in front of Son Fuyell and once again took the time to enjoy the view, a pleasure heightened by the slight breeze that always seemed to blow over high ground, he experienced a rare jealousy. Why should one man be granted so much?… Yet in truth Zavala had been granted an early, watery death. There were those who claimed that life was always fairer than it might at first appear to be.
Inés, no longer emotional, let him into the house. After telling him Susana had driven down to the village but would almost certainly be back soon, she suggested he might like some coffee. In the kitchen, she asked him if he knew what was going to happen to the house. Would she and Susana be asked to stay on? She hoped they would because she was saving for when she and Francisco married. Everywhere these days cost an absolute fortune. There was a house in the village, not far from her parents, and the owner was asking sixteen million for it. Sixteen million! Years ago, one could have bought the whole village for that! Maybe they’d have to rent somewhere to begin with, but rents were so very high …
He listened to her prattle, sadly certain that only unhappiness lay ahead of her – either Francisco would marry her or he wouldn’t.
The coffee machine hissed. She poured out two mugfuls, put milk and sugar on the table, and sat. Why were parents so stupid? Last night, she and Francisco had gone for a drive and returned a little latish and her father had worked himself into a temper and accused her of … Well, of misbehaving. She wasn’t that kind of a girl. She looked quickly at him.
He assured her that it was obvious she was not that kind of a girl.
They heard a car door slam. ‘That’ll be Susana.’ She left the kitchen.
Alvarez drank and his mind wandered in the past. In June – or had it been July? – Juana-María had said she’d wanted to go on a picnic. Her parents, who had never understood her liking for new experiences, had been bewildered by the wish because it was not something they, or any of their friends, had ever done, but in the end they’d agreed – naturally, provided a duenna accompanied them. It had been a day of sunshine, laughter, and happiness; he could still recall his exalted certainty that the world had nothing more wonderful to offer. He should have realized that to believe one had reached a peak was to accept that the only way forward was down. It hadn’t been long afterwards that Juana-María had died, pinned against a wall by a car driven by a drunken Frenchman …
Inés returned, accompanied by Susana who poured out for herself what coffee remained. He produced the photocopy of Karen’s residencia and passed it across. ‘Do you recognize her?’ he asked Susana.
She held it well away from her face, then opened her handbag and brought out a case from which she took a pair of spectacles. She put them on and examined the photograph a second time. ‘That’s her. She’s married, isn’t she?’
‘She is.’
‘But not to the man who drove her here?’
‘No.’
‘So who’s he?’
‘I don’t yet know, but I expect I’ll find out.’
Susana finished her coffee. ‘You reckon the señor definitely didn’t drown accidentally, don’t you?’
‘I don’t yet know whether he did or not.’
She turned to Inés. ‘If that’s the case, you’d better tell him about the glass.’
‘He won’t want to hear about that,’ she said scathingly. ‘Her friend drives one of those lovely BMWs. Francisco says it’ll do two hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. Just imagine!’
‘It’s ridiculous to go so fast.’
Inés giggled. ‘Lorenzo says you drive so slowly that you don’t even do sixty downhill.’
‘I think of other people.’
Alvarez intervened in what appeared to be a long-running argument. ‘What is there to tell me about a glass?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Inés answered. ‘You wouldn’t be interested.’
‘Until I hear what this is about, I won’t know if that’s right.’
‘It’s just that one went missing.’
‘A glass?’
‘Yes.’
‘From where and when?’
‘I went down Friday to tidy up around the pool ’cause Susana said to do it – I couldn’t think why since the señor wasn’t there to fuss any more…’
‘Show some respect,’ Susana snapped.
Alvarez said peacefully: ‘And what happened when you tidied things up?’
‘Like always, I checked the glass cupboard and there was two glasses missing. You’d said you’d taken one to look at it, or something, but there wasn’t no sign of the other. That’s all. Like as not, the señor had dropped it and broke it before he died.’
‘Then he’d have told us to clear up the mess,’ Susana said. ‘And even if for once he’d done something for himself, where was all the broken glass?’
‘How sure are you that there’s one unaccounted for?’ he asked.
‘Positive,’ Inés answered.
‘When was the last time you knew all the glasses were there?’
‘I don’t know. The last time I looked, I suppose.’
‘When would that have been?’
‘The day he died. I had to clean and tidy the poolhouse every morning, even if he didn’t have visitors. Never met anyone so fussy.’
‘And every morning, you checked the contents of the glass cupboard?’
‘If something wasn’t in its right place, he’d start shouting. He’d a terrible temper and he could become real nasty.’
‘You shouldn’t speak like that of someone who’s died,’ Susana said.
‘I speak as I find.’
Alvarez wondered how muc
h of Inés’s sharp criticism had its roots in the incident in the library.
Inés said: ‘It don’t signify, does it? Just a missing glass.’
‘I’m not so certain.’ He saw Susana’s quick smile of satisfaction at his answer … Inés could be mistaken and one glass had been missing for some time and despite all her certainty, she’d not noticed that fact; it was there, but not in its right place; she might have broken it and was using the present story to cover that fact; she might have the times mixed up and it had not gone missing after Tuesday morning … But if she was correct then there had to be the possibility that a second person had been drinking with Zavala and that he had removed his glass, on which would be prints, to hide the fact that anyone else had been present. Yet if a murderer could think that clearly and had been calm enough to wait until dark to drive away, why had he appeared to be in a panic? Because a man could suddenly, inexplicably, be overcome by a fear so great that he virtually lost all self-control? He broke a silence which, he realized from their expressions, had lasted a considerable time. ‘Inés, I’d like you to come down to the poolhouse to make certain that one glass is missing and not just misplaced.’
‘I’ve told you, haven’t I?’ she said resentfully.
He smiled. ‘In my job, everything has to be checked a dozen times. I even have to look in the mirror each morning to make certain it’s me.’ She did not find that amusing and on brief reflection, he agreed with her.
Inés had too butterfly a nature to harbour casual resentment and by the time she and Alvarez reached the pool, she was once more chatting cheerfully.
When he examined the glass cupboard, at the back of the main area in the poolhouse, he accepted that it was obvious if a glass were missing – the different types were in regimented blocks, each carefully separated from the next. On the top shelf were a number of shapely tumblers, of the same pattern as the one he’d taken away. The front row lacked two. ‘They were all here the last time you checked before the señor died and that was Tuesday morning?’
She sighed. ‘Isn’t that what I keep saying?’
He thanked her for her help and suggested she returned to the house. Rather reluctantly, she did so.
The Ambiguity of Murder Page 6
