Deadly Petard

by Roderic Jeffries

  He left the bedroom and went next door, into the studio, where he stood in front of the easel and studied the olive tree in the unfinished painting. Meade had been right. The tree had been executed with a power that simply was not present in the other three paintings. Surely something quite extraordinary must have happened to sharpen her artistic talents to such a degree? A fear, growing slowly, perhaps even subconsciously, suddenly accelerated when it was exposed by the letter from Pat’s sister?

  The spare bedroom and the bathroom provided nothing of interest and he went downstairs and searched the sitting-room, wash-house, and small cloakroom. Moving on to the kitchen, he looked for plastic bags and found several, in two different sizes, neither of which was the same as that of the bag which had been over the dead woman’s head . . . If a person were contemplating suicide by use of a bag, wouldn’t she obtain two or three of the right size just in case something initially went wrong? Logically, yes. But he’d already decided she could not have been in a logical frame of mind.

  He returned to the sitting-room and stood in the centre. He’d uncovered one or two facts (if they were facts?) which did raise questions, but this could well be only because he had been conditioned to look for trouble. What did he know for certain? . . . Did he now accept that the evidence was straightforward and so dismiss Meade’s allegations as nonsense, or did he concentrate on possible queries and follow these up as far as possible in order to make certain there was not any real significance in them? Reluctantly, he realized that he really must follow them up . . .

  Rigo, a solicitor, lived and worked in a large, rambling house, built around a square patio in which there was a very ornate fountain. His offices consisted of two rooms, the first both a waiting-room and where his clerk worked, amid a clutter of books, files, and papers, the second where he worked, in some considerable style. He was short, had bushy hair, a jaunty face, and the friendly and open manner of a born diplomat or confidence trickster.

  ‘There are one or two points in connection with the señorita’s death which have to be tidied up,’ said Alvarez, as he sat in front of the large and expensively inlaid and leathered desk. ‘I’ve come across a copy of her will.’ He passed it across. ‘Did you draw it up?’

  Rigo briefly checked it. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Any idea what she’s worth?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I remember she told me she’d investments in England, but she named no figures.’

  ‘Did she own the house she was living in, in Padre Vives?’

  ‘No. She rented it on an eleven month lease.’

  ‘Did you know she was intending to alter her will?’

  ‘She called in not very long ago and asked me how one went about altering a will in Spain. I explained it was sufficient to make a new one and have it registered in Madrid, but naturally it was much better if one specifically abrogated the earlier one.’

  ‘Did she consult you about drawing up a new will?’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’

  ‘Did she ever give you any indication of what sort of a relationship existed between herself and señor West?’

  ‘West?’ Rigo frowned.

  ‘She’s the man to whom she left everything in the will you’ve got there.’

  ‘Of course! I’m afraid I didn’t read it right through just now and I’ve forgotten the details . . . No, beyond naming him as the sole beneficiary, I can’t remember her as saying anything about him.’

  Alvarez hesitated, then stood. ‘Thanks for all your help.’

  ‘Is there some sort of trouble concerning West?’

  ‘At the moment, I just wouldn’t know.’

  Rigo, to whom the devious way was always to be preferred, accepted that as a tactical prevarication. He smiled his appreciation, showing three gold teeth.

  As the car rounded the left-hand turn in the dirt track, Ca’n Absel came into view above the orange trees. Money, Alvarez immediately thought. To buy or rent a large house like this in the Huerta, where it enjoyed privacy yet was under a kilometre from the village, called for a great deal of money. He could remember when the whole of the Huerta had been devoted to farming, as it should have been according to its name, and it had not been a haven for the rich foreigners who caused the good, rich soil to be overlaid with their gilded homes.

  He parked by the lean-to garage in which were a Mercedes and a Seat. He walked along the tiled patio, under the vines with their dozens of bunches of as-yet undeveloped grapes, and knocked on the front door. Francisca and he recognized each other on sight. ‘Francisca!’ he said warmly. ‘How’s Lucia? I heard she had to go into Palma for an operation?’

  ‘She did. But I went to the clinic the day before yesterday and saw her and she’s had the operation and says she hasn’t felt so well in ages.’

  ‘What good news! Dolores will be delighted to hear it. Give Lucia our very best wishes.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is the señor in?’

  ‘Sure. D’you want a word with him? Come in and I’ll tell him.’

  She showed him into the sitting-room and left. Surrounded by luxurious furniture, cosseted by air-conditioning, looking out across a large swimming pool at the rich countryside, he decided that the old saw that money couldn’t buy everything must have been coined by the wealthy.

  West came through the inside doorway. ‘Good morning, señor,’ Alvarez said, briefly wondering what could have caused the scarring on the cheek. ‘I must apologize for troubling you.’

  ‘No trouble at all, just provided I can leave here in an hour’s time when I’ve an appointment,’ West replied easily. ‘Now, first things first, what can I get you to drink?’

  ‘Might I have a brandy, please?’

  ‘With soda and ice?’

  Just ice, thank you.’

  West crossed to a mobile cocktail cabinet, opened out the top flaps which automatically brought up a rack containing bottles and glasses, and poured out a brandy for Alvarez and a whisky for himself.

  Alvarez drank, then said: ‘I expect you have heard the sad news of señorita Dean’s death?’

  West nodded. ‘Came as one hell of a shock. In fact, when Tom told me, I wouldn’t believe it . . . Thing is, we’d been friends since we were kids together, so suddenly to be told she’d killed herself . . . I suppose that is true—she did commit suicide?’

  ‘I am afraid that it certainly appears to be so.’

  ‘To think she’d become so desperate . . .’

  His concern seemed genuine. ‘Señor, I am here, now, to try to understand a little more about the señorita.’

  ‘I take it there’ll have to be an inquest, or whatever the local equivalent is, and you’ll need evidence about her mental state?’

  ‘There will probably be that, yes. But my immediate reason for asking questions is because it has been suggested that the señorita did not, in fact, kill herself.’

  ‘Not? You’ve just said that she did.’

  ‘I believe I said that it appears she did. The circumstances surrounding the señorita’s death all suggest suicide, but a friend of hers, an Englishman, has said that it is quite impossible that she would ever have killed herself.’

  ‘He’s saying it was an accident, then?’

  ‘It could not have been an accident. The señorita had a plastic bag over her head: there was a note.’

  ‘But if it wasn’t suicide and couldn’t have been an accident . . . Are you claiming it was . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘Murder, señor.’

  ‘For God’s sake, who’d want to murder Gertie?’

  ‘I cannot answer. That is what I have to try to discover.’

  ‘Who’s this Englishman who’s been shouting the odds?’

  ‘Señor Meade.’

  ‘Him? He’s nothing but a beachcomber.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he was a friend of the señorita’s.’

  ‘And I’ll tell you why! He hasn’t two pesetas to rub together and so he made up to her so she’d supply
him and those two tarts of his with booze . . . You can forget anything and everything he’s said.’

  ‘He was quite certain that the señorita was not in any way depressed just before she died.’

  ‘How would he know one way or the other?’

  ‘She was at his house on the Sunday.’

  ‘So what does that signify, when he’ll have been too tight to judge whether she was laughing or crying. He doesn’t know any more about Gertie’s mental state than . . .’ He stopped, hesitated, then said, far more calmly: ‘I’m sorry, I’m shouting my head off. But it was one hell of a shock to hear you say she could have been murdered and then to discover you were going on something Meade had told you . . . The real truth is, Gertie’s always been mentally unstable: ever since she was a kid. You just never knew how to take her. She’d be laughing one moment and crying the next: she’d get in a rage over nothing and after calming down would indulge in an absolute orgy of repentence.’

  ‘Are you speaking about when she was a child?’

  ‘In a way. But all that happened when she grew up was that the moods didn’t come quite so often, but when they did they were that much more intense.’

  ‘And on this island she had such moods?’

  ‘I can’t really answer that—I’ve seen so little of her because she lived at the back of beyond. But you can take it from me that that’s how she was before she moved out here . . . Have you any idea why she committed suicide?’

  ‘She left this note in which she said she believed she had cancer. A friend of hers died recently after many months of pain and the señorita wrote that she could not face such agony.’

  ‘She always was a bit of a hypochondriac’

  ‘Her friend who died was called Pat. Do you know who this could be?’

  ‘Pat? . . . I’ve never heard Gertie refer to anyone by that name.’

  Alvarez thought for a moment, then drained his glass and stood. ‘Señor, you have been most kind and helpful.’

  ‘Just before you go, satisfy my curiosity, will you? Who told you we’d known each other practically all our lives?’

  ‘Until you told me, I was not aware of this.’

  ‘Then what brought you here?’

  ‘In the señorita’s will, she leaves everything she possesses to you. That suggested you must know her quite well and would be able to help me.’

  ‘She’s left everything to me? . . . Good God!’

  He appeared to be genuinely surprised, Alvarez thought.

  In his office, Alvarez sat behind the desk and tried to sort out the evidence. If the señorita had not committed suicide, she had been murdered: if she had been murdered, there had to be a motive. In her will, West was named sole heir, but her notes made it clear she’d intended to cut him out of her second will. On the face of things, then, here was a motive. But West’s surprise on learning about the contents of the will had appeared genuine and was it reasonable to suppose that a man as obviously wealthy as he would murder for the relatively little that he stood to lose if the will were changed? Had any other possible motive come to light? No. Then surely it was clear the señorita had committed suicide? He’d learned that she’d always been mentally rather unstable . . . Yet Meade had sworn she was not in the slightest depressed—just the opposite—and there were one or two small discrepancies or queries. Added to which, some months ago they’d had that request from England for information, following the death of West’s wife in suspicious circumstances. So, for the second time, West was—possibly—connected with a woman who might not have committed suicide as at first sight seemed likely . . .

  He must have fuller details of what had happened in England. Yet any request for those must go through Superior Chief Salas’s office. And it was not long since Salas had been assured that this was a clear case of suicide.

  He leaned down to open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk . . .

  CHAPTER 13

  The bedside digital clock rang the alarm. It was an infuriating sound, being so subdued and polite: discreet, apologetic bleeps. Their old alarm clock had gone off with a rude, raucous clatter which seemed so much more appropriate to an early morning call.

  Cullon reached over and turned off the alarm.‘I could sleep for another twelve hours,’ he muttered thickly.

  ‘Then why in the hell don’t you?’ said Tina, visible only to the extent of her curly, dark brown hair.

  He yawned. ‘Because if I don’t turn up on time, the D.I. will have my guts for garters.’

  She pulled the sheets and blankets down far enough to reveal a small, round, snub-nosed face, touched with elfin humour.‘I think Mr Rifle wants putting down.’

  Then she yawned, propped herself up on one elbow, and looked beyond his right shoulder at the clock. ‘Hey! It’s only a quarter to seven. You’ve gone and set the blasted thing half an hour too early. I could get a divorce for that.’

  He sat up and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. ‘I told you last night, love, I’ve got to be at the station early.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me anything of the sort.’

  ‘When I got back last night . . .’

  ‘You were so exhausted you collapsed in the chair and went to sleep. I woke you up and you managed to eat supper, then you snored your way through the ballet on telly. And when we came to bed, you fell asleep just as I was getting ready to say a very loving good-night.’

  He grinned.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she shouted.

  ‘Of course not,’ he assured her. ‘As a matter of fact, I suppose I was a bit tired . . .’

  ‘You weren’t a bit tired, you were totally exhausted. Like you’ve been for weeks. You come home and can’t do anything but fall asleep. Our marriage has as much romance left in it as last week’s fish and chips.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that we’ve had a hell of a lot of work . . .’

  She was normally a cheerful, happy-go-lucky woman with a tremendous sense of fun, but worry was beginning to make her sharp. ‘And you let that blasted man pile most of it on to your shoulders.’

  ‘Someone’s got to cope,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Why’s that someone always have to be you?’

  ‘It isn’t. We’re all having to do more than usual.’

  ‘I can just imagine how Mac’s wearing himself out with work.’

  He could not, in all honesty, claim that Detective-Constable MacAllister was pulling his full weight.

  ‘You’re so damned conscientious. Why can’t you be more like him and regard everything as a bit of a joke?’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘I know, it’s just you.’ She reached over and hugged him. ‘And it’s just you I love. But I can’t bear seeing you wear yourself out. If you go on and on at this rate, you’re going to crack up.’

  ‘There’s no call to worry. I’m all right.’

  ‘No, you’re not, not when you shut your eyes and fall fast asleep as I’m putting on my sexiest nightie. Stop being so blasted conscientious. You can’t work miracles all on your own.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  ‘Always that but!’ She kissed him. ‘Suppose I just won’t let go of you now for a couple of hours?’

  ‘I’ll have a hell of a job explaining to the old man why I’m late.’

  ‘You could tell him the truth.’

  ‘He’d never accept the excuse that a wife could stop a husband doing anything.’

  Her sharp anger returned. ‘I was talking to his wife at the last social and she told me something that absolutely horrified me. Their last three holidays have been ruined because each time something’s turned up at the last moment and he’s refused to go away. How can any man be so damned selfish?’

  ‘I suppose he’s not very good at delegating the final responsibility in a serious case.’

  ‘He’s no good at knowing how to live.’

  She studied him as he climbed out of bed and she saw the signs of strain in his face.
‘Tim, dead serious for a minute. You’ve got to learn to take things more quietly.’

  ‘They’ll ease up when Cocky comes back from the course and Steve’s passed fit for duty again.’

  ‘You’re not really understanding a word I’m saying. It’s not just the quantity of work you do, it’s as much your attitude to it. You’ve got to learn to worry less.’

  ‘You’re right. But if I don’t get away from here very soon . . .’

  She picked up a book from the bedside table and hurled it at him. It missed.

  He chuckled. ‘We got called out last week to a woman who had a badly swollen eye and bruised cheeks. But when we wanted to charge the man, she wouldn’t give any evidence: said it was only when he beat her up that she could be certain he really loved her. Now I understand what she meant!’

  Divisional HQ consisted of a small central building, built sixty years before, to which had been added a number of extensions: since there had never been any overall coherent architectural plan, the complex now resembled a rabbit warren. Everyone agreed a new HQ should be built; no one was prepared to finance this.

  Rifle worked in a small, draughty room on the second floor of one of the oldest wings. He looked up from his battered, work-covered desk and saw Cullon yawn. ‘Overworked and tired?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear.’ He stared at a point deep in space, to the right of Cullon’s head. ‘Do you remember Gertrude Dean?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘The report’s come through that she’s just died. Apparently it was a case of suicide.’

  Cullon whistled. ‘Conscience! It finally caught up with her that she’d saved that bastard by giving him a false alibi.’

  ‘It happened in Mallorca, where she’s been living for some time now, as you know. Have you ever been to the island?’

  ‘Never had enough days off together to go anywhere.’

  Rifle smiled sardonically. He leaned back in his chair. ‘I went there for a week, a few years back. The weather was perfect and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky for a whole week. On the first day I got so badly sunburned I had to stay indoors for the rest of the stay. Still, the drink was incredibly cheap . . . The Spanish police report a problem. Did she in fact commit suicide or was she murdered?’