Layers of Deceit (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 9)

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘You knew him well, didn’t you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m quite certain that you did.’

  ‘I … I swear I didn’t.’

  They watched the passing traffic, the scavenging gulls, the yachts ghosting along in the very light breeze, and the ferry leaving port on its way to Menorca. The waiter brought the coffee.

  He spoke quietly. ‘I have talked to someone who said more than he meant to. He told me that once he saw you and Señor Steven Cullom together in a hotel in Palma.’

  She clenched her right hand until her knuckles whitened.

  ‘Your husband does not know about the señor and the hotel?’

  She turned to look directly at him, her expression one of complete despair. ‘D’you think I’d still be living in his house if he did? He’d kick me out so quickly I wouldn’t have time to pack a bag. Don’t you understand, he’d go crazy if he had to believe that someone else was enjoying what he’d paid for?’

  She’d spoken with a bitterness he’d seldom heard equalled. She’d suffered, he thought. By definition, a woman who betrayed her husband was a good-for-nothing bitch — but was there not occasionally a wife who would have to be a saint not to betray him? And was anyone a saint before she died, when all temptation was left behind? … ‘Señora, will you come for a short drive with me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have just learned that I made a stupid mistake when I asked you to meet me here.’ He drained his glass.

  Between Playa Nueva and Cala Bastón, lying back from the coastline, was a marshy area, very well known to ornithologists for the wide variety of birds to be seen there. There had, of course, been grandiose schemes to drain and develop it, but by some miracle of self-restraint on the part of the authorities this had not yet happened. There were a number of tracks, especially where there had once been salt pans, and if one knew the route one could drive almost to the centre and find a solitude, more rewarding to those who liked their world to be round and soft rather than sharp and hard, than that to be found in the mountains.

  They sat on weed grass. From beyond a belt of reeds there came a croaking birdcall, with two notes criss-crossing; an osprey flew overhead.

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’ he asked.

  She lay back and closed her eyes. The sunlight, reaching through reeds, created a patchwork of light and shade on her face. She looked younger, less knowing, more vulnerable. ‘I was introduced to him at a cocktail-party several months back. I knew what kind of a man he really was. After all, I’d had enough to do with his kind before I married Ray.

  ‘It’s funny how life goes. You swear you’ll do something and nothing will ever change that and you really mean it; then you meet someone and you forget all your wonderful resolutions … I promised myself I’d never let Ray down. I owed him that, even if he was the kind of man he is. He’d given me the chance to break loose from the mess that was my life and that was the least I could do to repay him … The trouble was, it became so bloody boring. I began to feel as if I’d been trapped into old age. I tried to make him understand, but he couldn’t … or maybe wouldn’t. And there was something else … I’m still young enough to be keen. Know what I mean?’

  He nodded.

  ‘He tried hard, but sometimes it wouldn’t work and he’d get furious and blame me. And the next time he’d be in a state so it wouldn’t work again and I’d be blamed even worse … I met Steve and he didn’t know what that sort of trouble was. I went in with my eyes open, all right — the trouble was, my bloody mind closed up. His kind want kiss and run, especially with other men’s wives; the freedom of the bed, but no risk. So when I started getting fond of him, he back-pedalled. That made me try harder to hold on to him, so he back-pedalled even faster and soon he was out of sight … ’

  ‘What happened at the cocktail-party?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen him for ages and I was desperate. I made him go into the house with me. I begged him to fix a date … He told me it was all over, like yesterday’s news. He was so goddamn callous about it; I hated him for not even trying to wrap it up and make it look nice and give me something to remember … Christ, how I hated him then! And yet … And yet when I heard he’d died … ’ Tears welled out of her closed eyes and slid down the sides of her cheeks.

  ‘Did your husband realize you’d spoken to him at the party?’

  ‘All he saw was us coming out of the house together.’

  ‘Did that annoy him?’

  ‘He thought about it and decided it didn’t,’ she answered with sudden, fierce scorn. ‘After all, we might have met only a moment before and have been discussing nothing more exciting than the weather. So if he became angry it made it obvious he thought something was going on, and if he thought that he was admitting by inference that I might be two-timing him because he wasn’t the great big husband he liked to think himself.’

  ‘Suppose he’d decided that you and the señor had discussed more than the weather — would he have been very annoyed?’

  ‘Are you serious? He’d have gone mad from jealousy and shattered dignity.’

  ‘Mad enough to do something about it?’

  ‘He’d have gone for me, if that’s what you mean?’

  ‘And for Señor Steven Cullom?’

  ‘Where would he have found the guts to do anything like that?’

  ‘Might he not have wanted to hurt Señor Steven Cullom as a warning or to get his own back?’

  ‘You’re not thinking … She sat up. ‘You’re not thinking he could have had anything to do with Steve’s death?’

  ‘Someone killed him.’

  ‘Ray wouldn’t have had the courage even to think about that.’

  ‘It might not need too much courage to think of finding someone to act for him.’

  ‘And leave him with the possibility of the bloke being found out and talking? Not in a thousand years.’

  He reached out and picked a stalk of rough grass and began to run his finger and thumb along it. Provided the murdered never talked — and was he likely to? — was there really much of a risk? After all, he’d arranged for the murder to appear to be an accident, so the police would not be looking for a murderer …

  ‘He couldn’t have done anything like that,’ she cried wildly.

  That would be the final, crushing blow, he thought. To discover that the man she’d loved had been killed by the husband she despised … ‘Did you know that Señor Steven Cullom was intending to get married?’

  Her expression changed and it became bitterly scornful. ‘You can call it a marriage if you like. I’d call it something else.’

  ‘When did you first learn about it?’

  ‘He told me to help make it very clear he’d finished with me. I laughed in his face. It’s the only time I managed to get through to hurt him.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘Lady Molton. And d’you know why he was hoping to marry her? Not because there was a song in his heart. Because he reckoned that then people would have to accept him. He never realized they still wouldn’t, not in a thousand bloody years.’

  Love and hate, two sides of the same coin. ‘Have you ever met her?’

  ‘Several times. She’s a great friend of the Bigsetts and they, according to some, sit on the right hand of God.’

  ‘What kind of a woman is she?’

  ‘She lives for horses and if you don’t know a fetlock from a forelock, you’re dead ignorant and uninteresting.’

  ‘But she’s very attractive?’

  She laughed wildly. ‘Attractive? If she’d a slightly longer nose, you’d mistake her for a Welsh pony.’

  ‘Does she live on the island?’

  ‘No; on Menorca.’

  ‘And she was intending to marry him?’

  ‘How the hell can I know what anyone else intends?’ As the barred sunlight rippled across her cheeks, she began to cry again.

  CHAPTER 17

  Alvarez spoke to
Superior Chief Salas over the phone, detailing the course of the case. At the conclusion, Salas said: ‘I suppose I should not, by now, be surprised that you’ve succeeded in confusing the issue to the extent that you have. Nevertheless, I have to confess that I am.’

  ‘Señor, it has not been easy. If you look at things … ’

  ‘If I look at things, I do so logically. Was Steven Cullom murdered or did he die accidently?’

  ‘It is virtually certain he was murdered.’

  ‘Was he wealthy?’

  ‘He was very wealthy.’

  ‘Who inherits his money?’

  ‘That depends on whether his second wills were executed. I don’t think either of them was. In that case, except for half a dozen small legacies, his brother inherits everything.’

  ‘Then it is obvious — to anyone of a controllable imagination — that his brother must be the main suspect.’

  ‘Yes, but … ’

  ‘And therefore all facts need to be viewed in the light of this premise to see if they fit. The more they do, the more probable it becomes that such a solution is the correct one.’

  ‘The Bennassar brothers also had both motive and opportunity.’

  ‘Their motive arose only when they learned the identity of the man who’d seduced their sister. How did they learn that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They haven’t yet gone as far as to admit they were anywhere near Ca’n Cullom on the Thursday.’

  ‘Have you not challenged the younger brother with the evidence of the farmer who identified him from the photograph?’

  ‘I haven’t had time … ’

  ‘An efficient detective makes time. I have not the slightest doubt that they will tell you they received an anonymous telephone call giving them Cullom’s name, the purpose of which, clearly, was to draw them to the area to be seen. In that way, if the attempt to make the death appear accidental failed, they would come under suspicion of the murder … ’

  ‘But señor, that’s what I suggested earlier and you said I was merely complicating everything … ’

  ‘Kindly don’t interrupt me. And I’d be grateful if you could try and learn the difference between carelessly complicating an issue and, with clear logic, elucidating it.’

  ‘Señor, how do you logically explain the reason why the dog’s throat was cut?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Alvarez repeated the question.

  ‘What the devil are you trying to get at now?’

  ‘If it had just been doped, then left to wake up naturally, who would have known it had been doped? That way, there was a better chance that Steven Cullom’s death would be accepted as accidental.’

  ‘Well — what is your explanation?’

  ‘The only one I can think of is … You may have a little trouble in following what I’m trying to say. Steven Cullom was very proud of how fierce the dog was, as a weak man often tries to hide behind strength. When Alan Cullom first met the dog, he began to make friends with it and that annoyed Steven Cullom who then deliberately tried to make it dislike and challenge his brother.

  ‘Now, suppose Alan Cullom didn’t fully realize the part his brother played in the dog’s antagonism. From his point of view, he kept trying to be friendly, the dog wouldn’t reciprocate. When that happens, some people can be small-minded enough to start disliking the dog. If he murdered his brother for the money, then one must agree that he has a perverted character. In this case, might he not have been more concerned in gaining his revenge on the dog, by cutting its throat while unconscious, than remembering it would be infinitely better for him and his plan to let it regain consciousness?’

  There was a silence. ‘You were quite right,’ said Salas, breaking this. ‘I do have trouble in following what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘I’m sorry, señor. It is, perhaps, not completely clear in my own mind.’

  ‘Very likely. However, as far as I understand you, the fact that the dog’s throat was cut supports the probability that Alan Cullom murdered his brother?’

  ‘Only if he is of that perverted a nature.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘I haven’t yet been able to judge.’

  ‘Why in the devil, then, aren’t you judging that now?’

  ‘There have been other possibilities to explore.’

  ‘Suppose you restrict yourself merely to investigating them? It might lead to less circuitous routes.’

  Alvarez sighed. ‘Señor, there is also the question, was Palmer aware of his wife’s affair and if he was, was he sufficiently jealous to kill the lover or to have him killed?’

  ‘Well, was he? Or is that one more question which still requires “exploring”?’

  ‘I cannot be certain. But from all his wife has said I believe he’s the kind of man who deliberately turns a blind eye to what’s going on because to do otherwise would be to puncture his self-esteem; but, if he can no longer do so, his emotions are all the more violent for having been suppressed.’

  ‘Alvarez, do you positively enjoy complicating the simplest issue?’

  ‘No, señor, but … ’

  ‘Have you ever stopped to remember that when you were being trained — always assuming you were — you were told many times that a simple explanation is more likely to be correct than a complicated one?’

  ‘In Señor Palmer’s case … ’

  ‘The obvious, and simplest, explanation is that his wife has managed to hide the affair from him, which is why he’s never taken her to task over it. In which case, of course, he had no motive for the murder.’

  ‘But surely one has to remember the possibility that he did have a motive?’

  ‘I don’t doubt that you will.’

  ‘Señor, I feel I should have a word with Lady Molton to discover if she can help.’

  ‘Very well. You can fly to Menorca tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I was thinking of taking the ferry … ’

  ‘Why waste so much time?’

  ‘I don’t really like flying.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ snapped Salas, before he replaced the receiver.

  *

  The Baleares were often described as if they were a group of islands with one identity. This was right in the broad sense and wrong in the narrow one. Geography was responsible for some of the differences between Mallorca and Menorca, history for others. Although Menorca lay only slightly to the east, this brought it more frequently within the consequential effects of the fierce weather which swept down from the Pyrenees; as there was no west to east range of mountains to form a barrier to winds, these swept over the whole of the island and often visitors’ overriding memory of their stay was of banging shutters, lifting tiles, and permanently leaning trees. Nelson’s fleet had used the ports and the British had left behind the art of making good gin, sash windows, tea-time pastries, blue eyes, and blonde hair. In the Civil War, the soldiers on Menorca had risen before the officers could act and so Menorca had declared for the Left while Mallorca was for the Right; many landowners and businessmen, rather than peasants, had disappeared. After the Civil War, there was the resentment of the vanquished and a fiercer sense of independence than in Mallorca; long before Franco’s death, after which it became legal to print and teach in Menorquin, the Menorquins would often speak only Menorquin to visitors, even refusing to understand Castilian. And because of this stubborn, resentful independence, Menorca had not succumbed to the tourist invasion to the same extent as had Mallorca and their coastline and beaches were still, relatively speaking, uncrowded and beautiful.

  ‘It’s a hell of a long way,’ muttered the traffic sergeant who was driving the ancient, rattling Seat 124.

  ‘Not really … ’ began Alvarez

  ‘It is when you were supposed to be getting home early.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve messed things up for you.’

  ‘I suppose it’s not really your fault,’ replied the sergeant grudgingly
.

  Alvarez stared through the window at the fields whose crops were noticeably lighter than those grown around Llueso. Not a patch on home, he thought, with comforting certainty. They breasted a rolling rise, to the right of which was a talaiot, and the sergeant slowed the car. ‘According to what I was told, the place is somewhere round here … We’ll ask that bloke.’

  A mule cart was plodding along ahead of them, the driver half asleep. The car drew alongside and the sergeant shouted to ask where Ca’n Jennet was? The muleteer summed up sufficient energy to point to a dirt track a couple of hundred metres ahead to the right, then slumped back.

  Half a kilometre down the bumpy dirt track, they came in sight of a small finca, beyond which were two rows of loose boxes, enclosing a yard, and half a dozen paddocks, with post and rail fencing; there were horses in three of the paddocks.

  The driver braked to a halt. ‘Horses! Can’t stand the bloody things.’

  ‘Dangerous at both ends,’ said Alvarez. He opened his door. ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘No.’ The driver settled deeper into the seat and closed his eyes.

  Alvarez walked across the stone-chip surface clumped with weeds, and came up to the wooden front door that was grey and cracked from lack of oiling. The brass knocker, dull and dirty, was in the shape of a horse. He used it twice. It was over a minute before the door was opened.

  She was taller than he and very much thinner. Her face was long and high cheekbones made it angular. Her hair, of nondescript colour, was unstyled and cut short. Her hands were large and strong, with roughened skin. He introduced himself and she studied him for quite some time before she jerked her head in the direction of the interior of the house. ‘You’d better come on inside.’ Her voice was deep, her manner abrupt.

  They went into a room that was sparsely furnished, although on the mantelpiece over the large open fireplace there were a number of a cups and medals, all polished, and on the walls hung more than a dozen framed photographs of horses. In the far corner was a desk; the lid was down to form a working surface which appeared to be a chaos of papers and books.