Layers of Deceit (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 9)

by Roderic Jeffries

He went over to a chair, picked up a dressing-gown and put this on, carefully tied the cord. ‘Come in,’ he said in English. He’d made not the slightest effort to learn Spanish. It was not a gentleman’s language.

  Ana, looking tired and harassed, carrying a tray, entered and wished them good morning. Only Margaret responded. She crossed to one of the small tables and put the tray down, picked up a second table and set that between the beds. She moved the tray to the second table.

  ‘You were twenty-three minutes late,’ he said. ‘Why weren’t you here at nine sharp?’

  She looked inquiringly at Margaret. Her English was poor and when the señor addressed her he spoke quickly and loudly, to add to her confusion.

  Margaret, who was careless about tenses, genders, and cases, and who didn’t care if she said something amusingly incorrect, asked in her approximate Spanish if one of Ana’s family was ill?

  Ana explained that during the night her husband had had another of his turns and the smallest one had had a bad attack of the croup … And, because of all her troubles, would it be all right if she left early to go back to help her mother look after her husband and her smallest one?

  Margaret, certain that her husband would have no idea what it was she was agreeing to, said that would be quite all right. Ana left.

  He withdrew a piece of toast from the toast-rack and prodded it with a knife. ‘The damned woman simply has no idea how to make toast.’

  ‘The trouble is, out here they don’t know toast as we know it.’

  ‘They don’t know anything as we know it. Far too primitive.’

  ‘Who’s primitive — us or them?’

  ‘What an extraordinary question!’

  ‘I was only joking.’

  ‘I do wish you’d understand and remember that there are some things one simply does not joke about. And that reminds me, when we’re at the Roscoes’ don’t bring up the subject of birth control as you did at the Traynors’. The Roscoes will not enjoy that kind of discussion.’

  ‘From the look of them, they wouldn’t know what it was all about.’

  ‘I … I really can’t understand you this morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry. A bit of a headache.’ She returned to her ‘little girl voice’. ‘You aren’t angry with me, are you? Margaret can’t live when Ray is angry with her.’

  ‘As long as you remember.’

  ‘Be nice to Margaret, because she’s so unhappy when Ray’s nasty to her.’

  He buttered the piece of toast and added marmalade.

  ‘Does Ray love his little Maggie?’

  He nodded.

  ‘A mountainful?’

  He did not think it wise to encourage her to that extent. He bit off a mouthful of toast.

  She resumed her normal voice. ‘Would you like to be a real sweetie to someone?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking … It’s just that Steven knows so few people and he’s lonely and it would be really kind of you to have him to our party.’

  ‘Steven who?’

  ‘Steve Cullom.’

  He’d been about to take another bite of toast. He stared at her across the slice; a glob of marmalade slithered down the side and fell on to his dressing-gown.

  ‘He is so lonely … ’

  ‘Haven’t I made it abundantly clear that I have no intention of entertaining so vulgar a man in my house?’

  ‘But … ’

  ‘That is quite enough.’

  ‘You’re being so stuffy. What if he does chuck his money around a bit? You know why people don’t like him, don’t you? They’re jealous because he’s so rich; it’s nothing to do with his manners.’

  ‘We will drop the subject,’ he said coldly. Then, unaware of any contradiction with what he’d just said, he added: ‘Why do you keep talking about him? Why should you be in the least concerned about whether he is or isn’t lonely?’

  She saw that his mouth had set in mean lines. In a very short time he could get really nasty. ‘For heaven’s sake, I do believe you’re jealous!’ She giggled.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You think Steve and me have been romping around in the hay. All right, I confess. He’s a demon lover and he turns my limbs to water. One look from his piercing eyes and I can’t stop him wreaking his every passion on my quivering body … ’

  ‘You’re being very absurd.’ But the lines around his mouth had relaxed. He finally took a mouthful of toast. He chewed a couple of times, then said through his mouthful: ‘This toast is like concrete.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Alan Cullom walked out of the house and crossed the pool patio to the glass-topped bamboo table which had been set for breakfast. He sat and relaxed and enjoyed the warmth of the sun …

  María arrived with a tray which she put down on the table. ‘My baker finished his holiday yesterday so I was able to get some ensaimadas for you.’

  ‘The best on the island. As soft and sweet as a virgin’s kiss.’

  She chuckled. ‘And what would you know about them?’ Like most Mallorquins, she had an earthy sense of humour. She lifted the plate of ensaimadas, butter, apricot jam, coffee-pot, cup and saucer, sugar, and milk, off the tray and set them out. Then she waited.

  He tore off a piece of ensaimada, buttered it, added apricot jam, and ate. ‘Absolute perfection.’

  She beamed with satisfaction, as if it had been she who’d made the featherlight confection. ‘And d’you know what I’m preparing for lunch?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Pollo ajillo.’

  ‘I can’t wait for lunch!’

  ‘And I’m putting in a special lot of garlic for you.’

  ‘Don’t tell Steve that.’

  ‘He really likes it, even though he doesn’t know he does.’

  After she returned into the house, he resumed eating. Susan had talked about a moonlit night being heaven. For him, heaven was eating ensaimadas on a sunny morning by a swimming pool.

  Steven Cullom came out on to the patio and across to the table. ‘You’re good at making yourself at home.’

  Alan Cullom noted the tone of anger and knew that there was going to be row; for the moment, he’d no idea why. ‘I’ve always thought of your place as home — rightly or wrongly.’

  ‘Wrongly, when you start abusing the hospitality.’

  ‘All right. What’s the matter?’

  ‘What did you do last night after you’d said you were going to bed?’

  He finally realized the cause of his brother’s anger. ‘I decided I wasn’t tired enough to turn in and I came down, persuaded Karl into his kennel, and went for a stroll. Susan couldn’t sleep either and she found me and we had a chat. I suppose you saw us?’

  ‘That’s right. I saw you trying to muck around with my woman.’

  ‘Steve, cool your imagination. We didn’t even get around to holding hands.’

  ‘You’re a goddamn liar.’

  ‘And you’re all fired up because you’re up against someone who isn’t ready to flop on her back just for a taste of your money.’

  ‘If you — ’ began Steven, his voice thick with anger, then he cut short the words.

  ‘Surely by now you’ve understood what kind of a woman she is?’

  ‘I’ll behave as I like in my own goddamn house.’

  ‘For God’s sake … Don’t you understand that she’d never play anyone false and she’d see mucking around with me as playing you false?’

  ‘And just how can you be so certain of that?’

  ‘By knowing her.’

  ‘All this, from one chat in the dark?’

  ‘From seeing her over several days. And from having the wit to recognize someone special when I meet her.’

  ‘You’re a bloody liar. And you can leave here. Is that clear?’

  ‘You could hardly have made it clearer.’

  ‘And if you think you’re going to get anything out of me, you’re bloody mistaken.’ Steven stood abruptly, kic
ked the chair out of the way, and crossed the patio towards the sitting-room door.

  María, who’d come out a little earlier, wished him good morning and began to ask him what he’d like for breakfast. He ignored her and continued into the house, slamming the French window behind him and the glass, not being held by putty, rattled so heavily it seemed for a second as if it must shatter.

  María, her expression troubled, went up to Alan Cullom. ‘What is wrong with the señor?’

  ‘You could say, he’s suffering from frustration.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She waited, but when he said nothing more she shook her head. ‘It’s very sad when a family has an argument.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry. He’ll get over his present problems, one way or another.’

  She returned into the house.

  He finished the last ensaimada and poured himself a second cup of coffee. Ever since he could remember, Steven had been afraid of being made to look a fool. It was strange, now that he was so wealthy, that obviously this fear had remained with him. Wealth usually insulated a man from everything but the envy of others. But perhaps it couldn’t quite abolish the farcical humour inherent in being discovered outside a woman’s bedroom, being refused admission … How had Steve been thick enough to misread Susan’s character so completely? True, he’d done the same initially when he’d assumed she was sleeping with Steve, but almost immediately he’d realized his mistake … Life was endlessly complicated, unless you had nothing. Then your worries were reduced to the problem of where you were going to lay your head after you’d been thrown out of house and home.

  *

  The Piersons owned a large house in a new urbanización near the port. When it had been sold to them by the builder, it had been claimed that it had a view of the sea. This was true, provided one stood on the roof.

  Amelia Hart moved around the open patio in her wheelchair and wherever she went there was laughter. She had a sharp mind and a lively wit and often took advantage of the fact that because of her infirmity she could say things which, if said by others, might cause some offence. But she was never malicious and her humour was of the ironic, not the banana-skin variety. Frequently, the point of her stories was against herself.

  She came up to where Palmer stood and said: ‘Ray, you don’t know Maurice, do you?’

  Palmer looked briefly at the tall, thin man. ‘No, we haven’t met.’

  ‘Maurice is my cousin.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘I know, it does become a bit much. And if poor old Basil hadn’t been killed in a car crash last year it would have become overwhelming,’ said Maurice Ackroyd. ‘But since, basically, it’s our grandparents who should be blamed, I always plead diminished responsibility.’

  ‘Humph!’ said Palmer, who couldn’t decide whether Ackroyd was trying to be humorous or was making even more fatuous conversation than was normal at cocktail-parties.

  ‘Pat had to go back home, so he asked me to come out again to be with Amelia. Being of a highly altruistic nature, I came.’

  She chuckled. ‘Altruistic, my foot! What brought you back was the local wine. I’m the excuse, not the cause … There’s Maureen. I must have a word with her. She said she’d give me an easy recipe for turron and as the gardener’s just given me half a sackful of almonds I want to try and make some.’

  They watched her wheel herself across to speak to a large well-dressed woman who was standing by the elaborately built well-head, complete with pulley, chain, and bucket, which was bogus since underneath was a cistern and water was drawn from that by an electric pump.

  Palmer, feeling obligated to carry on a conversation, said: ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since Monday. I tried to wangle more than a week, but we’re short-staffed in the office at the moment so it was no go.’

  ‘What work do you do?’

  ‘Local government: housing.’

  Palmer was uninterested in local government.

  ‘I take it you live here?’ asked Ackroyd.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re very lucky.’

  It wasn’t luck which had brought him, it was business acumen and success. But perhaps it was not surprising that a local government official couldn’t appreciate that. Palmer looked at his Piaget watch. ‘I’d better leave as soon as I’ve found my wife.’

  ‘You’ve lost her?’

  Palmer said coldly, and pompously: ‘One does not lose one’s wife in that sense.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Ackroyd cheerfully. ‘Quite a lot of men seem to these days. Women’s lib demands an equal right to desert. I’ve always maintained that in such circumstances the only sensible thing to do is emulate Little Bo-Peep.’

  ‘Bo-Peep?’

  ‘Leave them alone and hope they’ll come home, leaving their tales behind them.’

  Palmer’s expression changed from bewilderment to dislike.

  Ackroyd, who was nearly four inches taller than Palmer, said: ‘Tell me what she’s wearing and I’ll look and see if I can see her.’

  ‘Thank you, but I am quite capable of finding my wife on my own.’ He nodded a curt goodbye and moved away. He had reached the well when his host, a bottle of champagne in one hand, said: ‘Where’s your glass, Ray?’

  ‘I’ve had enough, thank you, and we must be off. I have some papers to deal with. Have you seen Margaret?’

  ‘Yes, she was with … ’ He stopped.

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Bill and Carol, I think it was,’ he said, with sudden vagueness. ‘Come on, have another drink and leave the papers, along with everything else, for mañana. Those glasses on the tray are all clean.’

  Palmer hesitated, then picked up one of the glasses and held it out to be filled. As Pierson moved away, Lionel and Sylvia Bovis came up to him. Sylvia, a striking, well-formed woman, who made-up and dressed in uninhibited style, hugged him. ‘I’ve been looking for you, my grand amour, all evening. Where’ve you been hiding?’

  He never knew how to respond to her ridiculous manner. ‘I haven’t been hiding anywhere,’ he said testily.

  ‘I believe you’ve been betraying me with some young lady.’

  ‘Don’t be so absurd.’

  She struck him lightly on the chest. ‘There you are — as good as admitting it.’

  ‘I’m admitting nothing.’

  ‘Bloody sensible,’ said Bovis, slurring the second word. ‘Half the trouble in the world comes from admitting.’

  She turned. ‘And the other half from drinking anything to hand.’ She turned back. ‘Ray, my love, I want you both to have dinner with us. Are you free on Saturday week?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. And I’ll ask the Tippets. You are on speaking terms with them at the moment, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘It’s just that one never knows. She can be such a bitch.’

  ‘I think she’s a sweetie,’ said her husband.

  ‘There’s no need to tell us that. You can’t keep your eyes off her.’

  ‘It’s not my eyes you need to worry about.’

  ‘I don’t worry. And in any case, it’s no good getting grown-up ideas where she’s concerned. Diana likes her men red and raw. It’s the primitive in her … Ray, where’s Maggie. I want a word with her.’

  ‘I am not certain where Margaret is right now,’ he replied.

  Bovis leaned forward and spoke in a low, confidential voice. ‘You ought to keep a closer watch.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Don’t forget … ’ He swayed slightly and had to shuffle his feet to keep his balance. ‘Confucius, he say, old man with young wife need four eyes … ’

  ‘Lionel’s tight again,’ she said loudly and unnecessarily.

  ‘So? In vino veritas.’ He concentrated his gaze on something beyond his wife and Palmer.

  They turned. They saw Margaret, closely followed by Steven Cullom, stepping
out of the house. Her face was flushed and his expression was one of anger.

  ‘Very, very veritas.’

  ‘My God, you’re a bloody fool,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Probably. But not blind as well.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Alvarez turned off the road and drove through the open gateway, up over the brow of the hill, and down to Ca’n Cullom. He parked by the front door and climbed out of the car as a man in working clothes came round the far side of the garage. He introduced himself.

  ‘You’re not local?’

  ‘I’m from Llueso. Been called out because it’s a foreigner.’ He spoke with resignation. He’d been cast in the role of troubleshooter in any case which concerned a foreigner, even though Superior Chief Salas seldom hesitated to criticize his methods and results. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Reinaldo Artich, the gardener.’

  ‘You’re the bloke who found him, then. Where is he?’

  ‘In the garden, of course. D’you think, seeing as I’m the gardener, I’d be finding him in his bed?’

  Alvarez studied the short, wizened man, his face leathered by countless summers of blazing sun. ‘All right, suppose you show me where he is. You’re quite certain he’s dead?’

  ‘Ever seen a bloke with half his head caved in get up and talk?’

  They walked past the garage and round the house, then along the path which crossed the lawn to the terraced slopes. Alvarez said: ‘My God, there’s some work here!’ He stared down at the trees, shrubs, and plants which provided a riot of colour and many of which he’d never seen before.

  ‘And you can’t eat one of ’em,’ said Artich scornfully. ‘The foreigners are bloody fools when it comes to money. D’you see those palms there?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘They were put in with a crane. Each one of ’em cost a hundred thousand. A hundred thousand pesetas, each one! How many cuaterades could you plant with melons and tomatoes for a hundred thousand?’

  Anyone who could spend such a fortune on each of those six-metre-high palms, thought Alverez, had lost all sense of reality. Foreigners were fools. But there folly was dangerous. The young Mallorquins were becoming tainted by such stupidity. They demanded cars, newer and bigger, instead of being content with mopeds — forgetting that twenty years before they wouldn’t even have been able to afford one of them …