‘What will you drink?’ Alvarez asked him, once he was seated in the nearest, very comfortable, armchair.
‘Nothing, thanks. I never have anything when I’m working.’
‘But it is the custom to have a drink when one welcomes a friend into the house. Surely you will take something?’
In fact, he realized, he was quite thirsty. ‘I’d hate to break a custom! Could I have a very small gin and tonic, please?’
He was handed an embarrassingly large gin and tonic.
They talked—it was not nearly the labour he’d expected, considering everything had to be translated—and after a while he sneaked a look at his watch and was uneasy when he realized how much time had already been wasted, especially in view of the fact that Dolores hadn’t yet even left to start preparing lunch. Alvarez misunderstood the cause of his concern and after apologizing for such a lapse of hospitality, refilled his glass.
Dolores never cooked better than when she thought she might be severely judged. The gazpacho, made early that morning, was served with chopped onion, tomato, cucumber, sweet pepper, and croutons. Jaime offered white wine and Cullon, who liked wine but seldom could afford to drink it, said he would like just a little. To his amazement, the tumbler in front of him was filled almost to the brim.
The soup was followed by lechona. The spiced crackling of the sucking-pig was as crisp as newly made buttersnaps and the meat as tender as a virgin’s kiss. Jaime said he’d have some red wine, of course, and he could not resist: just a little. His tumbler was filled. Later, it was refilled.
Strawberry spongecake, buried beneath an avalanche of whipped cream. The slice he was given would have fed both Tina and himself. A little white wine to help it down?
They returned to the front room and sat, except for Jaime who went over to the long, low, ornately panelled sideboard, where he opened the right-hand door. He spoke and Alvarez translated. ‘Will you have coñac, Cointreau, Benedictine, apricot brandy, or chocolate liqueur?’
‘Nothing more: I just couldn’t,’ he answered, aware that he was not enunciating his words as clearly as he would have liked.
‘You must have a coñac. Nothing is so good for the digestion.’
They drank a toast to England and one to Mallorca: one to the world-famous Scotland Yard (impossible to explain the difference between the Metropolitan Police and a county force) and one to the Mallorquin Cuerpo General de Policia: one to good wives and bad women . . .
Cullon awoke. Something was odd—apart from the taste in his mouth—and he tried to work out what. Then he opened his eyes and found he was sprawled out in an armchair and that on the table to his right was a glass half full of brandy. My God, he thought, with the horror which another man might suffer on discovering his wife was dining at the same restaurant as he and his mistress, he’d fallen asleep after lunch!
Alvarez entered the room, a welcoming smile on his broad face.
Cullon struggled to his feet. ‘I’m most terribly sorry,’ he said thickly.
‘Sorry for what?’
‘I’m afraid I fell asleep.’
‘But of course.’
‘I’ve never done such a thing before, not in working hours.’
‘Surely you always have a siesta?’
‘Never.’
‘Then what do you do after each lunch?’
‘I work, of course.’
Alvarez shook his head in perplexity. ‘Soon, we will go along to your hotel and make certain all is well. But first, perhaps, you would like some coffee?’
He would like some coffee very much.
His hotel room was on the top floor, obviating the common problem in tourist hotels of someone overhead deciding to dance the Charleston at three in the morning. The assistant manager, who showed them to the room, assured Cullon in fluent English that if the slightest thing was wrong, or if he wanted anything, he had only to speak.
After the assistant manager had left, Alvarez said:
‘Evaristo will make very certain you are completely comfortable. He knows that I know that he’s building a house without the proper permissions.’
Cullon, not quite as shocked as he might have been a few hours earlier, wondered what Detective-Inspector Rifle would say concerning the undoubted advantages of misprison.
Alvarez, who had a plastic carrier bag in his right hand, walked out on to the small balcony and stared down at the flat calm sea. ‘Shall we change into our costumes?’
‘But I’m afraid I haven’t brought one with me. I reckoned there’d be no time for swimming.’
‘No matter. I’ll telephone Evaristo and tell him you need a pair of trunks immediately. He will find you some.’
The sun warmed the whole of Cullon’s body as he lay on the towel and with a gesture that went straight back to childhood he scooped up sand with his toes which stretched out beyond the towel. There were the sounds of approaching people and he opened his eyes. Three young ladies, one blonde, two brunette, spread out towels and sat a couple of metres from him. They removed the tops of their bikinis.
A policeman’s life was different in Mallorca.
CHAPTER 15
On Monday morning, Cullon awoke at 7.10. Eager to make up for all those wasted hours the previous day, he climbed out of bed, crossed to the window, drew the curtains, opened the shutters, and stepped out on to the balcony. The bay was backed by bleak mountains which rose steeply out of the intensely blue water, making the scene a memorable one. He was tempted to continue to enjoy it, but overcame such weakness and returned inside to wash and dress.
Breakfast was served, at the guest’s option, either in the bedroom or by the pool. After a quick shower, he went down to the ground floor and out to the poolside. A yawning waiter reluctantly said he’d check if it were possible to serve breakfast yet and left. A quarter of an hour later, he returned with a tray on which were two ensaimadas, apricot jam, butter, coffee, sugar, and milk.
For once, Cullon ate slowly, enjoying the novelty of breakfasting out of doors, by a pool and the sea. He was surprised to discover, after finishing his second cup of coffee, that the time was already 8.20. He hurried inside to the reception desk and asked if Inspector Alvarez had been looking for him? The gravely courteous receptionist replied that the inspector had not yet arrived. Cullon, as he often did when irritated, jingled the coins in his trouser pocket.
‘Sir,’ said the receptionist, ‘please sit down outside and rest. When the inspector is here, we will tell you.’
He hesitated but, since there seemed to be no reasonable alternative, finally accepted the advice. He crossed the road to the sea patio, built up a couple of metres above sea level, and sat at one of the tables.
Nine o’clock. He stood and stared across the road at the hotel. Had Alvarez forgotten their arrangement for the morning? Surely, even here, that wasn’t really possible? Or was it? Perhaps he ought to phone . . . It occurred to him that he didn’t know the telephone number, the address, or even Dolores’s and Jaime’s surname . . . After a while, he settled back in the chair and watched a yacht ghost along with a spinnaker which kept threatening to spill. His eyelids became heavy . . .
‘Good morning, Tim. I hope you had a pleasant night?’
Cullon came hurriedly to his feet. ‘Haven’t slept so soundly in years.’
‘Excellent!’ beamed Alvarez, as he sat. He waved his arm. ‘This is still a most beautiful bay. Yet I can remember it when there were just a few fishermen’s huts and if you looked around yourself you could believe the world was still just starting. Now, though . . .’ He indicated a number of small, ugly houses, built on a precipitous stretch of rockface on the far side of the bay. ‘Now there is building everywhere. Yet they make many people rich. Are the rich happy? Certainly, the poor seldom are . . . I am a fool to talk like this when you are on holiday and trying to enjoy yourself.’
‘Hardly on holiday,’ corrected Cullon.
Alvarez called a waiter over. ‘Two coffees.’ He turned to Cullo
n. ‘And you will have a coñac with your coffee?’
‘Not this early in the morning, thanks.’
‘But it is an old Mallorquin custom which helps a man prepare himself for the day.’ Alvarez ordered two Soberanos.
Cullon checked the time yet again. 9.34 and they still hadn’t even begun work. He looked at the sea, the mountains, the limitless sky, and suddenly thought: What the hell?
When they were seated in his car, Alvarez said: ‘We will question señor West, of course, but first I thought that perhaps you might like to look in señorita Dean’s house?’ ‘That would be an idea. Apart from anything else, it’ll give me a direct picture of the background.’ Cullon sounded enthusiastic. He’d been wondering how on earth to engineer a visit to the house without making it seem that he had absolutely no faith in the other’s ability to carry out a proper search.
‘And you might find something that I have missed.’ ‘No way. There’s no chance of that.’ Alvarez was so generously guileless that Cullon momentarily felt embarrassed by his own attitude.
They drove the back route to Caraitx, along lanes which wound their zigzag way through undulating countryside. In the village, Alvarez stopped at the municipal police station to collect the key to No. 15, after which they continued up to Calle Padre Vives.
Already the house smelled of disuse and—ironically, since there had been no rain for weeks—of damp. They went upstairs.
‘This was the señorita’s bedroom. Since her death, nothing has been altered except that I folded up the clothes there, on the chair, and I tidied the bedclothes. The suicide note and the bottle of sleeping tablets are on the table, together with the plastic bag which was taken off her head.’
Cullon went over to the bedside table and looked down at the typed note. After a while he reached out, only to stay his hand. ‘I presume the note’s been checked for prints?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Why ever . . .’ He cut the words short.
‘One could not be certain it was necessary,’ explained Alvarez.
By leaning over, Cullon could read the note without having to touch it. ‘Has anyone heard her recently complaining of pain?’
‘Señor Meade and his two friends agree she never once mentioned it. Señora Garcia, who used to work here, says the same. But señor West refers to her as a hypochondriac’
‘She mentions her friend, Pat, who died. Have you found the letter telling her about the death?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Or any letters from Pat?’
‘She has kept many letters, but there is not one from Pat.’
‘Interesting, point! . . . Any idea where her typewriter is?’
‘In the cupboard over there.’ Alvarez pointed. ‘The compartment nearest the window.’
‘Presumably you’ve checked that for prints and the type?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Perhaps . . .’ said Cullon, finding it more and more difficult to remain patiently tactful.
Alvarez went over to the cupboard and brought back the Olympia typewriter, which he put on the bed. He opened the case, then threaded a sheet of notepaper into the roller and used the blunt end of a ballpoint pen to tap out the first words of the suicide note. He pulled the notepaper free, looked at it briefly, handed it to Cullon.
Cullon lifted up the suicide note by holding the edges, dropped it on to the bed face uppermost: he spread out the second sheet of paper alongside it. ‘Two peas in a pod. First he murdered her, then he sat down and typed out the so-called suicide note. He’s a cool bastard, if he’s nothing else.’
He turned his attention to the plastic bag. ‘Presumably this hasn’t been checked out either?’
‘I’m afraid it hasn’t.’
It was like working with a probationary constable in his first week of duty. ‘D’you think it could be arranged for things to be checked?’
‘But of course.’
‘You don’t mind if now I just have a bit of a search?’
‘Whatever you wish.’
On the dressing-table Cullon saw the several different sized and shaped pieces of broken earthenware. ‘Any idea what this lot was?’
‘The pieces were on the floor when I first entered. I’m certain it was what we call a cazuela—they are dishes which come in many sizes and are used for cooking and other things. When one has tapas in a bar . . . That reminds me. I must take you to the new bar in Llueso. Even though the owner comes from Madrid, his tapas are excellent. I’ve certainly never tasted better. Kidneys in sherry, meat balls, squid, liver . . .’
‘That sounds great. From the look of the inside of these bits, there wasn’t anything in the dish when it got smashed. Could’ve been intended as an ashtray, I suppose. D’you know if she smoked?’
T am afraid I cannot say.’
‘I doubt it’s of any importance.’ Cullon moved on to the opened window and put his head outside. When he brought his head back in, he said: ‘Did the people next door hear anything at all?’
‘The mother sleeps at the back of the house and she went to bed early. The son was studying in the front bedroom and says he didn’t consciously hear any car stop here. I doubt he would have noticed anyway.’
‘So there’s no joy there. Did Miss Dean lock all outside doors at night?’
‘It is impossible to be certain now, but one must assume that she did. Ten years ago it would not have been necessary: then one did not need to lock anything. But things have become different.’ Alvarez sighed.
‘So if West had to break in, as opposed to her letting him in, he either needed the key or the skill to force the lock.’
T don’t suppose the lock on the front door is very complicated.’
‘Are there any signs of it being forced?’
T have not had time to check that.’
Cullon was hardly surprised. ‘How about doing that before we leave?’
T think that perhaps I have a lock probe in the car,’
said Alvarez doubtfully.
Cullon left the window and resumed his search. He was very thorough. Alvarez watched him with endless patience.
‘That’s that, then,’ he said finally.
They went through to the studio where Cullon studied the three unframed paintings leaning against one wall. ‘These are all right—got lots of colour. Not like the ones she had in her place back home: they were all greys and blacks. But apparently people bought ‘em, which just goes to prove not everyone has the same taste.’
‘Señor Meade says that since she lived here, she has been happy. Perhaps that is why her paintings now have colour.’
‘Could be, I suppose.’
‘But then why should the painting on the easel be so . . . so tortured?’
‘How d’you mean?’ Cullon moved across the floor to study the unfinished painting on the easel. ‘It is a bit grim when you get down to it, isn’t it? She must have suddenly started feeling blue.’
‘Because she believed herself ill, perhaps?’
‘Now we’re moving outside my horizons! But I do know this much: if she was feeling grim it’s ten to one at least part of the trouble was that she’d finally realized .West was gunning for her.’
They moved into the spare bedroom, then from there to the bathroom. Downstairs, in the kitchen, Cullon checked the sizes of the plastic bags.
Five minutes later, the search was completed. ‘So all that’s left to do now,’ said Cullon, ‘is to check the front door lock to see if it was forced.’
They went out to the car and Alvarez searched through the jumble of things on the back seat, but failed to find the pencil-thin probe. Then, as a last resort, and only after a struggle, he lifted up the bench seat. The probe lay there, together with bits of paper, fluffs of dirt, and several lengths of string. He picked the probe up and switched it on and it failed to light. ‘I suppose the battery is finished,’ he said philosophically.
‘Surely you can get a new one in the town?’
&nb
sp; ‘I suppose so,’ he answered wearily.
They drove down the steep roads and finally found an electrical store: this had batteries of every size but the one they needed. Alvarez looked at Cullon, hesitated, then walked along the road to a small corner shop, dark inside and smelling of dried sardines, with open barrels of sugar, rice, flour, and beans. The woman inside took the battery Alvarez handed her, examined it closely, and then asked Alvarez if he came from Llueso. There followed a long discussion, which left Cullon more and more impatient. Finally, however, the woman disappeared through a bead curtain, to reappear a few minutes later with a broad grin of triumph on her face. She handed the old battery back to Alvarez, together with a new one. There was just one remaining problem. She’d no idea how much it cost. Alvarez suggested about fifty-five pesetas and she agreed that that sounded a very fair price.
They returned to Calle Padre Vives and there Alvarez, watched by two interested boys with crude imaginations who commented on what he was doing, inserted the probe into the keyhole of the front door lock and peered down through the lens at the interior mechanism. He slowly revolved the probe, then straightened up and switched off the light. ‘I can’t see any signs of scratching.’ He handed the probe over.
Once he’d focused his gaze, Cullon could see that where the mechanism was not touched by the key the grease and dirt were undisturbed, which made it virtually certain that there’d been no attempt to force the lock. He withdrew the probe, switched off the light, and straightened up. ‘If the back door’s the same, either he used a key or she let him in.’ His voice hardened. ‘The second woman to learn too late what kind of a bastard he really is.’
CHAPTER 16
For fifteen years, Quijano had worked in fishing boats, earning so little that there’d been times when he could not afford to buy enough food to feed his family. Then he’d been told that the foreigners, many of whom were now living in the area, were all so stupid that they’d pay ridiculous wages for a gardener. He’d become a gardener.
Deadly Petard Page 10
