‘Himself. How important he’d been when in the diplomatic service, what taste in modern art he possessed, the style he brought to living – in another fifteen minutes, I don’t doubt we’d have learned how he inspired his old friend Michael to paint the Sistine Chapel.’
‘Did you see him again after the party?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘That’s an odd question in view of what I’ve just said.’
‘Nevertheless, I should like an answer.’
‘Why? D’you really think that after leaving the party I’d immediately have rushed off to see someone I’d be happy never to meet again? If so, perhaps I’d better be more specific. We spoke to Guido Zavala for probably no more than ten minutes, but in that time both Fenella and I judged him to be someone we did not want to become friendly with – a judgement which I’m perfectly prepared to accept can reflect badly on us rather than on him. Does that answer you?’
‘A car was seen leaving his home that evening, soon after dark, and it was being driven very recklessly. This raises the possibility that the driver was under an emotional strain.’
‘You’re suggesting the driver was responsible for Zavala’s death?’
‘That has to be a possibility.’
‘And, since this has to be the point of your questioning, you think I was the driver…?’
‘That’s utterly absurd,’ Fenella said sharply.
Bailey spoke lightly. ‘After a policeman has been dealing with the public for even a short time, I suspect that the absurd becomes commonplace.’ He spoke to Alvarez. ‘Isn’t that so?’
‘I would have used the word “unusual” instead of absurd.’
‘Because it’s more diplomatic?’
Alvarez smiled. ‘The car has been identified as a new, dark-coloured Astra shooting brake, driven by a male. As shooting brakes are still relatively rare on this island – though rapidly becoming more popular – I have had a list drawn up of those which are owned in this area. You are one of only three foreign owners. You knew Señor Zavala.’
‘From little acorns, great oak trees truly do grow! Would you think me rude if I pointed out the fallacies in your conclusion?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But our glasses are empty, so first let me refill them.’ He stood, collected the glasses, and left.
Fenella, with a poise Alvarez admired, talked about the house they were renting and remarked, with resigned amusement, that some of the hot-water pipes had been taken around the outside of the house so that if they still lived there during the coming winter, a hot bath would be difficult …
Bailey returned, handed them their glasses, sat. ‘I hope this won’t sound too pompous, but had we wished to make further contact with Guido, I would not have felt the need to do so within only a few hours of first meeting him. According to himself, he was very rich, and such eagerness on our part would have aroused his deepest suspicions – the rich find it very difficult to separate themselves from their riches. The next point. Is it correct that he died in the evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you said that this car was seen after dark?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then any identification has to be very uncertain.’
‘It was seen by someone who is knowledgeable about cars and there was nearly a full moon.’
‘Moonlight is known to distort, as many a couple have discovered a few years into their marriage … Does the observer claim to be able to identify the driver?’
‘No.’
‘Is there any reason to be certain that the car did not come from another area of the island?’
‘No.’
‘Have you spoken to the other two foreign owners of similar cars?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So you can’t be certain whether, or not, they knew Guido … I think, Inspector, that you’ve been fishing.’
‘I’m no fisherman, señor, but I understand that one only fishes where there is reason to think there might be fish.’
‘Touché,’ said Fenella.
Bailey smiled. ‘But to show what a poor catch I represent, I wasn’t driving anywhere that night, I was here, with Fenella, watching television on an illegal card smuggled out from England – a confession made to convince you of my good faith and in the hopes that you will take no official action.’
‘On this island, smuggling has always been regarded as a legitimate occupation.’ Alvarez drained his glass. He stood. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘Which can’t have helped.’
‘A negative can be as useful as a positive.’
As, a few minutes later, he drove away from Ca’n Liodre, question jostled question. Had Bailey been trying to persuade his wife to leave the house before the questions began? Had she been equally determined to stay to judge the situation for herself? Had this disagreement led to tension? Had his explanation of their obvious dislike of Zavala been genuine? Why had he gone to such lengths to try to prove the car seen by Francisco could not have been correctly identified, when the normal reaction would surely have been a simple flat denial that it could have been his?… Yet if the Baileys had not met Zavala before the cocktail party, it had to be ridiculous to suppose that in the course of a meeting lasting roughly ten minutes, Bailey could find cause to murder.
Why did life always have to be so complicated? Alvarez wondered.
CHAPTER 12
Pons’s house was on the western side of Cardona, where the hills and mountains, arching northwards, formed a backdrop rather than being part of the land; the soil was light and grew peppers noted for their flavour – to tell a young woman she was as sweet as a Cardona pepper was to flatter her.
Alvarez parked his car, climbed out, and looked around him. There was a well-kept flower garden and a pond in which ornamental ducks were paddling; to the right of where he stood there was an ornate fountain, carved out of sandstone by someone with considerable skill and artistic ability; on the patio of the house were two small statues of fawns. That all this should belong to a Mallorquin was surprising since the centuries had taught the islanders what to value – a tomato plant that bore was valuable, a rose bush, no matter how many and magnificent its blooms, was not. He climbed the steps to the covered patio, crossed to the front door, opened this and stepped into a room that was furnished in a style only partly Mallorquin. Clearly, there was a foreign influence here. He called out.
Rosa came through a doorway, stopped, and stared at him, her brown eyes filled with curiosity.
He smiled at her. ‘Hullo. I’m Enrique. Who are you?’
‘Rosa.’
‘That’s a pretty name.’
‘I know it is.’
‘Is your father here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you tell him I’m here and would like a word with him.’
She left. He moved to stare at a large framed photograph, hanging on the wall, of a young girl, sufficiently like Rosa to identify her as a sister, who was taking part in the Festa de L’Estendard and was dressed in white with the carefully modelled body of a heavily caparisoned horse around her waist. It did a man’s heart good to know that the old traditions were being continued, despite the tourists … Or was it, in truth, because of the tourists? Was it their malign money which kept them going…?
‘Who are you?’
He’d been so deep in thought that he had not heard Pons’s approach. He introduced himself to a man who carried tradition on his shoulders – short, stocky, face roughened and lined, shoulders broad, manner of speech coarse and abrupt, like every peasant, challenging life even whilst knowing he must die and therefore lose the fight.
‘What d’you want here?’ His Mallorquin had the guttural accent that was peculiar to those who lived in, or near, Cardona.
‘I’m making inquiries following the death of Señor Zavala.’
‘So?’
‘He drowned in his swimmi
ng pool.’
‘And if he did?’
‘There’s the question, did he do so accidentally or because someone pushed him under.’
‘Why come asking me?’
‘If he was murdered, someone didn’t like him.’
‘Must take a lot of learning to be smart enough to work that out.’
Alvarez continued to speak with the same good humour, accepting the other’s bloody-minded attitude as a natural defence against authority. ‘I’m wondering if you can suggest who might have disliked him?’
‘Why should I be able to?’
‘You did work for him.’
‘Who says?’
‘Are you denying you did?’
There was no answer. More people had been hanged by their tongues than their hands.
‘I was told you’re the best builder in the area, so he employed you since he always wanted the best.’
‘But didn’t bloody well want to pay for it!’ Pons said with sudden, sharp bitterness.
‘He owed you money?’
Pons cursed himself.
‘Did he?’
‘You think I give credit?’
‘Not voluntarily.’
There was a long silence.
Alvarez finally said: ‘I reckon the biggest bastards are the foreigners who come here and take advantage of us. They get us to do work, knowing that if things turn wrong they needn’t pay what they owe because all they have to do is slip back to their own country and it’ll either be impossible or not worth the effort to trace ’em. But Señor Zavala didn’t time things right, so you can get the estate to settle. I’ll be looking around, so if I find proof that you did work for which he never paid, I’ll let you have it.’
‘He’s dead. There’s the end to his debts.’
‘That’s how it used to be when debts were small and there was a widow who needed every peseta she could touch, but it’s a different world now. You think anyone’s going to stand out for a foreigner against one of us?’
‘He said he wasn’t paying because the work wasn’t good enough.’ Pons was almost shouting. ‘All his money and he talked that crap!’ He stumped his way out on to the patio, slumped down on one of the chairs that were set around a large wooden table.
Alvarez joined him. ‘What work did you do?’
Zavala had wanted a bedroom, a sitting room, and a bathroom, added to a house already so large that half an army could camp in it. He’d asked for an estimate, rejected it on the grounds that the total was far too large. As if even a million pesetas made any difference to the likes of him. And, for a foreigner, it had been an honest estimate. Times weren’t good. In the end, the estimate had been reduced and resubmitted and finally, after quibbling about this, that, and the other, he’d accepted it. Then, when it was time for the first payment, he’d said he’d settle when the job was completed. He – Pons – had worked along with his men and twice as hard as they from dawn to dusk; he’d worked until his hands had blistered – hands roughened by a lifetime’s labour. With the job done, he’d asked for settlement. Zavala had refused to pay on the grounds that the work wasn’t up to the standard promised. That had been balls! The work was first class. The bastard had been holding on to the money, like the miser he was. In desperation, he’d been asked for half the total, the rest to be paid when full agreement was reached. He’d refused; he’d said that if the company was in trouble because money had had to be paid to third parties, that was none of his concern. In desperation, an abogado had been called in to help. As much use as an empty well, but he’d wanted paying; unlike builders, lawyers were paid for being incompetent … Pons became silent, overcome by the iniquities of an unfair world.
Rosa came out on to the patio and said Mummy wanted to know if they’d like something to drink? Pons hesitated, but his previous antagonism towards Alvarez had been swallowed up by his hatred of the dead Zavala; he asked Alvarez what he wanted. He told Rosa to bring out a bottle of brandy and some ice.
Both men were silent. One of the ducks on the pond quacked and was answered by others; cicadas began to shrill; the ghost of a breeze stirred the bell-like flowers of a datura; a flock of pigeons swept overhead in a wide arc.
Rosa returned, concentrating very hard on the tray in her hands. She put this down on the table, lifted off the bottle of Soberano, the ice container, and the two tumblers. ‘There you are!’ She beamed with pleasure at her success.
Pons hugged her, his expression one of deep love. When he released her, she skipped back into the house. He poured brandy into one glass, pushed the bottle across.
Alvarez helped himself to brandy and ice, said casually: ‘The building trade’s not doing too well according to what you’ve been saying.’
‘I ain’t said nothing.’
‘You revised the estimate downwards. No one willingly cuts his own throat.’
‘The Germans have all but stopped buying,’ Pons muttered.
‘And the English?’
‘They guard the pesetas. And not many of ’em think of settling in this part of the island.’
‘What’s up with the Germans?’
‘How the hell would I know? Last year they wanted palaces, this year not so much as a barn.’
‘So money’s really tight?’
‘Ain’t it always?’
‘But there must be some work, even if maybe not so much as there was?’
‘Are you a builder? Stick to what you bloody know.’
‘Won’t the banks help?’
‘Ever known ’em to help someone what really needs helping? They only lend to them what’s got money and wants more.’ Pons finished his drink, poured himself another.
‘Things can’t be all black.’
‘You think working for nothing is good?’
‘Seeing you’re the best builder around, you’ve had plenty of work in the past. And the bills for the foreigners will have been generous. So where’s all that gone? Maybe you and Pablo have the same story to tell.’
‘What Pablo?’
‘Comes from my village. Pablo Ramis. Started a carpenter’s shop with money borrowed from his aunt, married and had to borrow more to pay his half of the wedding feast because his mother couldn’t. Then the foreigners arrived and wanted houses and flats and soon he was employing a dozen men and turning away work. Typically, that’s when the trouble started; the time when things finally go right is when they start to go wrong.’
‘You’re a miserable sod!’
‘He was measuring for window frames in a house being built when the Englishman’s wife came to the island on her own to see how things were progressing, and according to him – although he’s a bit of a liar – she was so eager she had him rolling on the floor before he could close his measurer. From then on, he was like a man who’s been hit on the head by a flying cow. They do say he spent twenty million on her, buying jewellery…’
Pons thumped the table with his thick fist. ‘Are you suggesting I’ve been spending money on women?’
‘I thought…’
‘If you could think, you wouldn’t be in the Cuerpo. I ain’t looked at another woman since I married. And what’s more, I never will.’
‘Would that there were more husbands like you.’
‘You don’t bloody believe me?’
‘Of course I do,’ Alvarez answered, sounding insincere.
‘I’ll tell you where my money went and why I needed that job so bad I dropped the price even if the bastard could have paid twice as much. Some time back…’
Alvarez listened and thought how typical of the irony of life that a good deed was not only unrewarded, but it laid the foundations for trouble. For the sake of his parents, Santiago Pons had bailed out his brother, which had left him financially exposed; through valuing three of a kind too highly, exposure had become disaster. Now, although he’d managed to keep afloat, each tomorrow could be the day when he sank …
Cristina came out on to the patio. As Pons watched her approach, h
is love banished the suggestion of taciturn sullenness that his battered, chunky face often held in repose.
‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ she asked.
‘There’s nothing right when the likes of him are around,’ Pons replied.
She smiled uneasily. ‘You must be old friends to talk like that.’
‘I choose my friends.’
She hesitated, then sat. She faced Alvarez. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Carrying out inquiries following the death of Señor Zavala.’
She said to her husband: ‘You did work for him earlier in the year.’
‘Because I was a bloody fool.’
Lucía rushed on to the patio, tears tumbling down her cheeks.
‘Now what’s the matter?’ Cristina asked.
‘Rosa hit me.’
She cuddled Lucía. ‘Why did she hit you?’
‘She just did. She’s beastly.’
‘Let’s go inside and sort out the trouble.’ She stood, seemed about to speak to Alvarez, but did not, led Lucía inside.
If she were his wife, Alvarez thought, he would be as faithful as Pons claimed to be. She did not resemble Juana-María physically, but he was certain that they had much in common from a character point of view … He said to Pons: ‘I’ve a couple more questions.’
‘You’ve more questions than a priest has answers.’
‘What cars do you own?’
‘What’s it to you?’ Pons demanded, his previous antagonism returned.
‘You’ve a reason for not answering?’
‘I don’t like government bastards interfering in my life … A Renault and a Citroën van.’
* * *
In his office, Alvarez sweated, despite the fan running at full speed. Mallorca was often called the Island of Calm because of its climate. It was a description which also matched the character of the islanders for most of the time. But there were occasions when one of them suffered a sudden rage so violent that he lost all self-control. If Pons had returned to Son Fuyell to appeal once more to be paid the money owed, if Zavala had contemptuously refused, if Pons had seen disaster close even more tightly about himself and the family he loved put to still greater risk, his rage might easily have overwhelmed him. And who could blame him? The law lacked the heart to understand that occasionally legislated wrong was morally right, just as legislated right could be morally wrong. Alvarez sighed.
The Ambiguity of Murder Page 8
