Having searched the area once, logically a second search would be a waste of time. An assumption very welcome in such heat. Yet, irritatingly, he found it impossible to strangle the thought that he should make one.
Because the skimming net was in full sunlight, which it had not been the previous Tuesday, he noticed that in it were several hairs, almost certainly human. There seemed to be too many for them to be part of the normal detritus one could expect to find in a pool and he visually examined them carefully. Some had their roots. Not shed naturally, but pulled out by force?…
He pictured Zavala, unbalanced by a blow to the throat, falling on to the patio chair and from there collapsing into the pool; the second man using the skimming net to entangle his head and hold it under the water until he drowned …
He collected up the hairs and, lacking anything else, put them in one of the glasses from the cupboard.
CHAPTER 10
Estart Caves, a kilometre to the east of the village, had been discovered many years before by a shepherd searching for a lost lamb. Initially, they’d been used for hiding contraband, but when the tourists started to arrive in ever increasing numbers, a villager who’d inherited his business acumen from his Catalan father, had realized their potential as an attraction and had bought the hill. He enlarged the entrance, provided rough footways that were relatively safe, and bribed tour operators and bus drivers to direct the tourists to them. They became reasonably popular, but reasonable profit could never satisfy a Catalan. Something had to be done to increase their popularity. He named several stalactites after angels and groups of stalagmites after noted biblical scenes, reasoning that people would experience what they were told they were experiencing, else why would studio audiences laugh at TV comedy shows? He was proved correct. The number of visitors rose and there were a few amongst them who swore they’d seen stalactites quiver.
Ca’n Jerome, sited on a low roll of land, overlooked at a distance the entrance to the caves, now marked by a large car and bus park, memento shop, café, and the vivid colours of the bougainvillaea which had been planted around the area. Alvarez climbed out of his car and stared across at the many parked vehicles. They represented the wealth brought by tourism, the rape of the island by the tourists. As the foreigner’s habit of calling houses by their own names represented a denial of island customs – houses had been called by nicknames, not Christian names, often critical or amusingly rude.
He crossed to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a woman, not yet thirty but whose features were already beginning to coarsen. ‘Are Señor and Señora Robertson here?’ he asked.
‘The señor is, but the señora is out,’ Dominica answered.
He introduced himself.
‘You’d best come in,’ she said uncertainly. Alvarez stepped into the hall and she closed the door. ‘The señor’s not very well this evening.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that – what’s the trouble?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
He followed her into the sitting room, cool thanks to the air-conditioning. Robertson was watching television and when he looked up, he did not try to hide his irritation. ‘What is it?’ he demanded in English.
She tried to answer, but he could not understand her.
‘Señor,’ Alvarez said, having to raise his voice to overcome the television, ‘I should like to speak with you.’
‘Who the devil are you?’
‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’
‘The police?’
‘That is correct.’
‘What d’you want with me?’
The English had a saying, Politeness costs nothing. Perhaps that was why some of them didn’t value it. ‘May I sit down and explain?’
‘If you must.’
As he sat, Dominica left. ‘I gather you’re not very well, señor. I hope you are not suffering from anything serious?’
‘God knows. The local doctors are incapable of finding out.’
‘Perhaps if you saw a specialist in Palma?’
‘Just as incompetent.’
There was clearly no point in any further sympathetic interest. ‘No doubt you have heard of the tragic death of Señor Zavala, who lived in Cardona?’
‘What about that?’
‘When such an incident occurs, it is of course necessary to try to find out why. That is what I’m doing.’
‘Then there’s no call to bother me.’
‘But I understand that you and your wife knew him.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Señor, do you think the television might go off?’
‘This is a wonderful country! A stranger comes in and tells you what to do in your own house!’
‘It would help us to hear each other more easily.’
Robertson muttered bad-temperedly as he used the remote control to switch off the television.
‘Thank you, señor … Did you and your wife know Señor Zavala?’
‘What if we did?’
‘Then you may be able to help me.’
Robertson opened a chased silver box and brought out a cigarette, lit this with a silver lighter embossed with a crest.
‘When did you last see Señor Zavala?’
‘A couple of weeks ago. He invited us to dinner. Typically, right over the top and too much of everything. You’d never think from his behaviour he’d been a diplomat, even if that was for a tin-pot country.’
‘In what capacity did he serve?’
‘No idea. Doorman, judging by the way he behaved, but to listen to him you’d think he ran the country.’
‘When did he retire?’
‘Couldn’t say.’
‘Perhaps you did not like him very much?’
‘We English observe standards. A gentleman does not try to impress.’
‘For fear of giving the wrong impression?’
‘What’s that? Are you trying to be smart?’
‘Of course not, señor.’
‘Then you’d better learn to speak better English.’ He stubbed out the cigarette, stood, crossed to the small bar that was a feature of the large sitting room and poured out a whisky, added soda, opened an ice container. ‘Not again!’ He reached over to the wall to press a bell and when Dominica entered, said: ‘Why the devil can’t you do your job properly? You’ve forgotten the ice.’
She clearly had not understood him.
Alvarez said in Mallorquin: ‘He’s asking you if you’d be kind enough to get some ice, please.’
‘Yes? When he thinks himself such a hidalgo he wouldn’t say please to God?’ She left.
‘What was she saying?’ Robertson demanded.
‘She was apologizing for not having seen there was no ice.’
‘They’re all incompetent.’
She returned and put a second ice container on the bar, left. Robertson helped himself to two cubes of ice, crossed to his chair, sat.
No Mallorquin would ever drink in front of a fellow human without having asked what he would like; English manners were indeed different. ‘From what you said earlier, señor, you did not regard Señor Zavala as a close friend?’
‘I don’t see it’s any of your business how I regarded him.’
‘Whilst the drowning seems to have been accidental, it is possible it was not.’
‘You’re saying he may have been murdered? That’s why you’re asking impertinent questions? If you’re suggesting I could have had anything to do with his death, I’ll damned well sue you for slander.’
‘I’m asking questions to try to find out more about the man Señor Zavala was because if I can succeed, I may learn if there was someone who could have wished him dead.’
‘You go about things a bloody funny way! Still, that’s hardly surprising in this country.’
‘Do you know when the señora will return?’
‘Why’s that any concern of yours?’
‘I wish to speak with her.’
‘Ther
e’s no need for that.’
‘I’m afraid I must be the judge.’
‘Do I know I’m living in Spain! You burst into my house and try to order me around, then tell me you’ll decide what happens in it!’
Alvarez stood. ‘Will you please tell the señora that I will need to speak to her in the near future, so perhaps she will be kind enough to get in touch with me at the post in Llueso and say when would be most convenient to her.’
‘You obviously haven’t understood a word I’ve said.’
‘That is possible. But as Jaime Borras wrote, To misunderstand is the first step to understanding.’ He said a polite goodbye and was unsurprised when there was no response.
He made his way out of the cool of the house and settled behind the wheel of his car which, having been standing in the sun, was like an oven. As he drove on to the road, he tried to reach behind the ill-mannered, pompous xenophobia and judge whether he had spoken to the man or his mask.
* * *
Because he had arrived home late – so late there had been time for only one drink before Dolores served lunch – he had enjoyed a longer than usual siesta and it was nearly six before he returned to the office. Almost immediately, the phone rang. The caller, who worked in Vehicles, complained that he’d wasted the entire afternoon trying to get through. As Alvarez explained that work had kept him out of the building until then, he reflected that it was the tourists who had brought to the island an unwanted sense of urgency.
‘What’s more, your request has been a bloody nuisance! The computer wasn’t programmed to handle it and trying to make it cope caused it to crash…’
He listened, understanding perhaps one word in six. How much time and frustration would be saved if man relearned the art of keeping records with pen and paper?
Eventually, the caller said: ‘Anyway, thanks to my genius, I finally managed to persuade it to spit out a list of new, dark-coloured Astra shooting brakes; d’you want me to fax it?’
‘Are there many cars?’
‘Enough to keep you out of mischief for a while.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll also extract the names and addresses of any foreign owners and add them to the list before you fax it.’
‘You think I’ve nothing else to do?’
Alvarez said goodbye. There were some who were seldom eager to help others if this meant any inconvenience to themselves.
* * *
The list of cars was dauntingly long, proving how the popularity of shooting brakes had suddenly increased. However, only three were owned by foreigners who lived in the area. If the gods were kind, the driver of the car seen on the Tuesday would prove to be one of the three.
CHAPTER 11
As Alvarez drove carefully around the right-angled bend in the dirt track, Ca’n Liodre came in sight above the tops of the orange trees – the grove was on land a couple of metres lower. An old farmhouse, reformed for a Mallorquin owner, he judged – the windows had not been enlarged.
He parked in front of the lean-to garage in which was a dark-green Astra shooting brake, its numberplate showing it to be only months old. He left his car and walked across the badly laid concrete above which, on a rusty trellis, grew an ancient vine that was laden with bunches of grapes that would soon be ripe.
The original wooden door, grey and pitted with age, had been swung back against the stone wall; inset were two modern wooden and glass doors. He knocked and when there was no answer, knocked again. Finally, he stepped inside – something he would have done immediately if Mallorquins had been living there – and called out. As he waited, he looked around himself. Originally the main room of the house with a very large, cowled fireplace around which the family would have sat in the winter, now the area was a hall and contained no more than a couple of leather-backed chairs, three framed photographs of Llueso in the past century on one wall and a small, crudely fashioned hanging on another.
There were the sounds of shoes on bare tiles and then a man came through the doorway immediately to the side of the open staircase. Alvarez introduced himself.
‘Come on through.’
Beyond the doorway was what had originally been a barn; the crudely beamed ceiling was five metres high at its apex and there was a small gallery. Thanks to the height, the very thick rock walls, and the single small window, the sitting room was cool – it was also so dimly lit that even in the height of summer, the overhead cluster of lights was switched on.
‘Take a seat.’ Bailey gestured with his hand in the general direction of three chairs and a settee, none of which was of matching design or covered in matching material – landlords had long since learned not to cosset foreign tenants. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
A different character from Robertson! ‘Thank you, señor. If I might have a coñac with only ice?’
Bailey went through a second doorway into the kitchen – as Alvarez was able to judge since the door was left open. Bailey returned with a tray on which were bottles, two glasses, ice, and a lemon. As he put the tray down, a woman entered through the first doorway. He quickly turned. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m joining you for a drink, of course … Are you going to introduce me?’
He hesitated, then said abruptly: ‘My wife, Fenella. Inspector Alvarez.’
No great beauty, Alvarez thought, but lucky possessor of something almost as quickly discernible and of far greater value – the quality of warmth. He was glad he had shaved and put on a clean shirt.
Bailey spoke to his wife. ‘You’re obviously forgetting you’re due at the coffee morning in aid of the local dogs’ home.’
‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘Today. So you’ll have to make your excuses and miss a drink.’
She hesitated, then left the room.
‘Women,’ Bailey said, ‘have a good sense of time, but not of dates.’
She returned, a small book in her hand. ‘And men should learn to look before they correct.’ She went up to where he stood and held the book open. ‘Tomorrow. A public mea culpa, please.’
Bailey, his expression annoyed, shrugged his shoulders.
‘If that’s not to be forthcoming, I’ll accept a G and T instead.’ She turned to Alvarez. ‘Harry says you’re a detective?’
‘Yes, I am, señora.’
‘Are you here because we have unwittingly done something terrible?’
‘I need to ask a few questions,’ he answered evasively.
‘About what?’
Bailey said: ‘There’s no need to worry –’
She interrupted him. ‘I’m not worrying, just curious.’
‘And you know what curiosity does.’
‘I hope you don’t equate me with a cat?’
‘Only in feline grace.’
‘Very laboured.’
‘But some marks for intention?… I’ll get another glass.’
A couple so at ease that they could be quite rude to each other, knowing their words would be accepted humorously? Alvarez wondered. Probably … And yet Bailey had sounded annoyed rather than surprised when she’d first appeared and it seemed that there was an undercurrent of tension to their lightly spoken words.
Bailey poured out drinks, handed glasses around, sat. ‘Now, what’s the problem and how can we help?’
‘Perhaps you have heard of the death of Señor Zavala?’ Alvarez said.
‘The bush telegraph has been working overtime. We were told about it almost as soon as it happened. Presumably, then, that’s why you’re here?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘There’s something about his drowning which raises a problem?’
‘It seems possible it was not an accident.’
‘Is that a euphemistic way of saying he may have been deliberately killed?’
‘There is reason for believing that that may be so.’
‘Good God!’
‘Which is, you’ll understand, why I have to ask questions of the people who may be able to help me to discover the
truth.’
‘Of course. But I can’t think you’ll find us of any use.’
‘But it is correct that you knew him?’
‘We met him once only, at a cocktail party.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ironically, on the day he died. It came as quite a shock to hear what had happened. At midday, full of life and, it has to be added, himself; that night, dead. Whoever it was said that life is more transitory than any of us dare acknowledge, knew what he was talking about.’
‘Presumably, this party was given by friends of yours?’
‘Friends of friends. We’re still newcomers to the island and the Achesons, who’ve been very kind, were invited by Dolly Selby and they asked if they could take us along because they reckoned we’d have the chance to meet some of the more interesting expats, as Dolly always serves good champagne.’
‘And you were introduced to Señor Zavala?’
‘Much to his annoyance.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He was in deep conversation with a very liberated redhead – judging by her lack of dress. Unfortunately for him, Dolly is the epitome of a cocktail party hostess and she has only to see a couple enjoying each other’s conversation to break up the tête-à-tête. She led the redhead away and poor Guido was left with us.’
‘And you talked with him for how long?’
‘Until we decided to ease his pain and move on, leaving him free to pursue the redhead.’
‘You would not have had time to learn anything about him, then?’
‘We learned more than enough,’ Fenella said.
Alvarez turned to face her. ‘From your tone, señora, it sounds as if you instinctively disliked him?’
‘I –’
Bailey interrupted her. ‘Nothing raises my wife’s hackles more quickly than a man who obviously thinks himself irresistible and lays on the charm with a trowel. Not that she would ever describe it as charm.’
‘And you, señor, how did you regard him?’
‘With amusement rather than dislike, since he wasn’t aiming his charm at me, and it amuses me to hear someone claiming the world wouldn’t turn without his assistance.’
‘What was he boasting about?’
The Ambiguity of Murder Page 7
