Larche walked slowly over to the cassette deck with the tape and paused. ‘What did you think of her?’ he asked softly.
‘Difficult to say what’s going on under all that reserve,’ said Alison slowly. ‘She seems obsessed by this local Lorenzo business without knowing much – if anything – about him.’
‘Intuition?’
‘Do we go on that?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you know what her relationship with Eduardo was like?’
‘He was devoted to her and she to him. Perhaps more so – I never had any doubts about that. They were often here together. There is one thing I remember Eduardo telling me a few years ago. He said that she’d been abused as a child – by her father, I think – and that she found it difficult to show emotion – except to him.’
‘That’s quite a confidence – even for old friends.’
‘Yes,’ Larche admitted, ‘it was. We were both pretty drunk when he told me.’
‘I see.’ She paused and then asked him, ‘You think he was telling the truth?’
‘There was no reason for him not to,’ replied Larche. ‘I didn’t tell you any of this before, as I wanted you to meet her first – form your own conclusions.’
She nodded, accepting what he had said. ‘You don’t think it’s odd that she’s got this painter man here – at a time like this?’
‘Not especially. I think it proves my point – that she loved Eduardo almost obsessively. Now she’s having him recreated, on canvas.’ There was a long pause and then Larche said, ‘I’m very happy you’re working on this case with me.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied with genuine pleasure. ‘The same applies to me, but I have to say I feel a bit of a fraud.’
‘Why?’
‘This Hooper business. I’m out here on a wild-goose chase. It’s obvious that he’s not here – not on Molino. It would be impossible with this massive police presence – despite the security risk of Sebastia. I should be making enquiries in Barcelona. I don’t even believe he had anything to do with this assassination.’
She was about to continue when Marius said, ‘Stay on the island at least for tonight.’
‘All right then – just tonight. But I really feel irrelevant.’
Marius Larche put the tape in the deck and they both steeled themselves.
‘You will die. You will die. You will die. You will die. You will die.’ The rasping metallic voice, horribly distorted, continued relentlessly. There was something else in the robot-like sound that for a while Larche couldn’t identify. Then he suddenly realized that it was as if something or someone was bubbling with electronic laughter. It was a terrifying sound, and to hear it so many times a day would have been appalling. Hurriedly he clicked the machine silent.
Alison shuddered. ‘God – that’s fiendish. It sounds like Bugs Bunny mixed up in an air compressor. And what’s more, there’s so much hatred in it – and a sort of sarcastic hatred. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ said Larche slowly and painfully, ‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s been deliberately – psychologically designed to torment. To torture.’ He took the tape out and put it in his attache case. ‘Filthy stuff,’ he said in disgust.
‘And unlikely to have been created by a local?’ Alison ventured.
‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
They heard her footsteps coming back and stood up, waiting awkwardly as if they were children caught out at a smutty game.
Anita Tomas was as composed as before. ‘You’ve heard the filth?’ she asked as automatically as if she was ordering a cocktail.
They nodded. ‘It’s terrible,’ Larche said simply.
‘Yes, particularly when it couldn’t be stopped. It nearly drove Eduardo insane.’ She paused. ‘We changed the number many times – but we couldn’t always have our calls intercepted. So it proves that it must have been someone who knew what was happening.’
‘And Calvino agrees?’ asked Larche.
‘Yes – even Calvino agrees,’ she replied with a wry smile.
‘Of course he wasn’t … very much on the island,’ said Alison.
‘Oh no – he wasn’t.’
‘Then …’
‘He got the letters and heard the tapes in Madrid – even in hotels – once at a house party.’
Larche was clearly shaken. ‘That means it’s got to be someone very close to him, surely?’
‘There are many people physically close to my husband, Marius; servants, secretaries, bodyguards, researchers – the list is very long. Many people knew his movements, his exact whereabouts.’
Larche started to say something and then stopped. Alison watched him curiously, sensing a tension in him that he was trying to disperse.
‘Anita – I need to know about the rest of the family. Are they all here on Molino?’
‘Yes, they’re here. No doubt you’ll want to speak to them.’
Larche pulled out a piece of paper from his attache case. ‘We’d like to talk to the family first, if we may. Your son Salvador …’
‘Is that necessary? He’s only fifteen.’ But her tone of voice was resigned, as if she was only making a token protest.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Very well, but please be gentle with him. He and his father were very close.’
‘We shall be gentle with everyone. Then I’d like to talk to Father Blasco Tomas. Is he here or at the monastery?’
‘He’s here,’ she replied flatly.
‘Jacinto and Maria?’
‘They are here too.’
‘And some members of his personal staff – Carlos Mendes, the bodyguard who was with him at the time of the assassination. Then there’s his secretary, Julia Descartes, and his research assistant, Damien Alba.’
She nodded. ‘They’re all on the island, being questioned by Calvino and his people.’ She smiled rather automatically. ‘I’m sure they won’t mind a second round – and we may be joined by Bishop Carlos later.’
‘Eduardo told me that Father Miguel had been an adviser to Franco and was now occupying a similar position with the King,’ said Larche.
‘Yes, but when you say adviser, you must mean spiritual adviser.’
‘Or an informant,’ said Larche bleakly.
‘Informant?’ Anita stared at him in some bewilderment. ‘What do you mean, informant?’
Larche’s voice took on a slightly lecturing note. ‘Surely in Franco’s time, the Church was a much more influential part of the state mechanism. It was powerful, it kept the people in order – so no doubt Father Miguel was able to pass on to Franco what was happening in the institution of the Catholic Church, the emotional temperature, the dissidence and so on. I believe he was doing something similar for the King, and I gather he was also keeping the Tomas family informed of what the Head of State was thinking. After all, you are one of the most powerful religious families in Spain. Eduardo’s father was a minister in Franco’s government, and he was a minister in the King’s.’
There was a short silence, during which Alison looked at Larche with renewed interest. His sudden authority, his firmness, his frankness considerably surprised her. Up until now she had seen him as slightly hesitant, very charming but rather lugubrious. Now he had suddenly revealed that there was substance under the urbanity. Glancing across at Anita Tomas she noticed that she too had been surprised and was now at a loss for words.
‘I feel the word “informant” is a little off-target,’ she said, recovering her poise after a fractional hesitation.
‘How would you describe him?’
‘As an old and trusted friend who had influence in high places,’ she replied quickly.
‘And received information from high places?’ Larche was relentless.
She smiled bleakly. ‘I don’t want to make any further comment.’
To Alison, frost seemed to hover in the warm Mediterranean air.
Larche nodded gravely, as if this was her right. ‘Who could I talk
to who knew Father Miguel well?’
‘Bishop Carlos.’
‘Isn’t he an old family friend too?’ asked Larche gently.
‘Yes, he is. But unlike Father Miguel he has no influence in high places. No doubt you will remember the Bishop had a disagreement with the Pope some years ago.’
‘Yes,’ replied Larche, ‘I remember.’
‘Carlos was the Bishop of this diocese for some twenty years; he is much respected. Of course he’s retired now. Like Blasco he was once a Benedictine – but he left when he defied the Pope.’
‘He lives on Fuego?’
‘He was born there.’
‘And Father Miguel?’
‘He, too, was a Benedictine – and was also born on Fuego.’
Larche nodded and then looked out towards the darkening sea. ‘We won’t bother you with any more questions now.’
‘I’ll arrange accommodation for you here – for as long as you need.’ Anita sounded brisk and formal. ‘There is a guest house in the small valley behind us.’ She paused. ‘I want this ghastly business cleared up. It has to be. I want you to have full access to everyone.’
‘I think we have that,’ said Larche. ‘Perhaps everyone could be available for interview tomorrow.’
‘I will make sure they are.’
‘And Calvino?’
‘What about him?’
‘Are you satisfied with the way he’s conducting this investigation?’
‘Yes. I am satisfied. But somehow, when someone is in a less obviously official capacity, people are inclined to open up more.’ She looked at Larche as if he was a favoured pupil.
‘Yes, I think that’s true.’ Larche turned to Alison. ‘Will you stay?’
‘Yes,’ she replied stiltedly.
‘Eduardo told me that you suffered your own personal tragedy last year,’ Anita said to Larche rather regally. ‘Your father …’
Larche nodded.
‘I am very sorry.’
He bowed acknowledgement.
‘I’ll have you shown to the guest house. Paco will look after you. Thank you for coming.’ She gave them a token smile.
The audience is over, thought Alison, and she largely ignored me – which is understandable enough. She obviously thinks, like me, that I’m on a total wild-goose chase. All Anita Tomas wants is Larche; he has the contacts and the authority to find out who killed the man that she loved with such intensity. Alison suppressed a shudder as she wondered what this obsessive woman would do to her husband’s killer if she ever confronted him.
‘There is something else,’ Larche was saying.
‘Yes?’
‘Your painter. Bernard Morrison. I would like to talk to him as well. He spent a large amount of time with Eduardo. They may have talked; something of interest might arise from those conversations if he can recall them.’
‘I’ll alert him,’ Anita said, walking towards the door where she pressed a bell. ‘I do hope you’ll be comfortable in the guest house,’ she added blandly, and this time the dismissal was unmistakable.
‘God, how she loved him,’ said Larche when they were out of earshot.
‘She frightens me,’ replied Alison.
Chapter 5
The guest house was a smaller replica of the main building, with its own pool and more sculptures that depicted mythical creatures – the unicorn, the centaur and the hydra. Twilight was now stealing over the island, the cicadas were insistent and there was no wind to break the stillness that embraced Molino. Even the waves made no sound.
‘Anyone else here?’ asked Larche of Paco, the old servant who had brought them across.
‘The painter fellow, but I doubt if you’ll see him. He’s spending the evening with Señora Tomas.’
‘Obviously the paintings will help her,’ said Alison.
‘Yes.’ Paco was clearly the most loyal of retainers. ‘Thank God for the paintings; it will keep her busy, absorbed, giving instructions. She was devoted to Señor Tomas, you know. Utterly devoted. I can’t think what she’ll do without him.’
He showed them the lavishly furnished rooms, each with a marble bath and gold taps, extravagant but stylish, with Dali prints on the walls, and then departed, walking slowly away, still clearly stunned by his employer’s murder.
When he had gone Larche said quietly, ‘He doesn’t know what’s hit him.’
‘Neither does anyone around here,’ replied Alison.
Marius Larche lay on his canopied bed, absently surveyed the room, and then rang Monique at Letoric and found her subdued and depressed. She made no attempt to conceal the reason and came to the point immediately.
‘I’ve seen some of your old sketches …’
‘Yes?’ He sounded puzzled.
‘Your pictures of Jean-Pierre.’
‘They’ve all been destroyed,’ he said sharply, a feeling of nausea sweeping over him. He rose to his feet and stood rigidly by the side of the bed.
‘No – there’re several of them here.’ Her voice was steady. Quiet.
‘God …’
‘It was Estelle – Estelle who found them.’
‘The bitch – she’s done this deliberately. They don’t mean anything – they’re from the past.’
Larche thought he heard her give a half-sob – or had it just been a quick intake of breath?
‘I’ll have to get rid of her,’ he said abruptly, knowing that he was blaming the servant for the master’s aberrations.
‘I wouldn’t.’ Her tone was dismissive now but he guessed what she was thinking and feeling. ‘Anyway, who else would you get to look after the place?’
Larche sighed, knowing she was right and that he was making the situation much worse. Confused feelings of guilt and self-doubt coursed through him.
‘I don’t think she wants the place changed, or even anyone else to live in it since your mother went into the home. She certainly doesn’t want me around.’
‘Those pictures …’ began Larche again. He knew there was nothing he could say, but he didn’t want to let the subject drop.
‘It’s all right.’ She was having to reassure him now.
‘Obviously it’s not. Please destroy them and we must talk about it all when I get home. It’s a conversation that’s very long overdue.’
‘Marius,’ she insisted, ‘I understand. It’s all in the past.’
‘Surely you expect it to happen again?’ he said, unable to keep melodrama out of his voice.
‘No, you know I don’t. I trust you, Marius. I trust you. Please don’t let’s talk about this any more. It’s my fault – I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just not important. How are you getting on? This dreadful assassination is all over the media here.’
Larche knew how childishly he had been behaving and replied rather grumpily, ‘It’s very confusing –’ Then he stopped himself. ‘Look, I love you. I love you so much.’
‘I love you, Marius. Stop worrying. We can sort all this out.’
The call ended unsatisfactorily; both realised how frightened and defensive they had been, but neither was really prepared to openly admit as much.
Larche returned to the bed, but he couldn’t relax and restlessly got up again and went to the window. The front of the house was in shadow. There was a smooth lawn on which a hose was playing; mosquitoes swarmed in a cloud at one end, while the lights of the Tomas house illuminated a small strip at the other. Dimly he could hear the sound of a cello. The music permeated the twilight, its full, mournful notes reaching out to him, filling his mind with a feeling of space – a clarity he had not experienced for a long time.
Larche moved away from the open window and lay back amidst the vastness of his bed. The clarity remained, and he felt that as long as the cello played his thoughts about Monique and himself were spare and concise – not clouded as they had been before by guilt and evasion.
He knew how profoundly he loved her but he also knew how afraid she was, afraid that he would be unfaithful to her �
� with a man. Over the first year of his marriage he had felt little temptation and his sexual life with Monique had been rich and tender and fulfilling, but there was always that unspoken danger lying under the surface: in his own case the possibility of temptation; in hers the uncertainty of never being sure if her love was enough for him.
His mind shied away from his obsessive problem, and he began to take a mental inventory of his surroundings. The room was furnished as lavishly as the sitting-room of the main house. Natural wood had been used; he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it gave off a slightly sweet aroma that was satisfying. Rugs were scattered over the tiled floor, and the room was dominated by the magnificent four-poster bed, its damask hangings depicting sea-serpents in a jade sea.
Larche’s thoughts turned to Alison Rowe. He admired her assertiveness and guessed that she must have fought hard to attain her present position. His experience of high-ranking British policemen had not been good; compared with their more civilized French counterparts he had found them brutish and manipulative and he was well aware of their sexist attitude to women.
She must be made of good stuff, he thought. There was something else about her that appealed to him; was it her single-mindedness, her obvious vulnerability, the fact that he was sure she had driven herself too hard and too long? Perhaps this ill-defined hunt for her assassin would be a catharsis. Larche closed his eyes against another much more buried thought that was tunnelling its way up from deep in his subconscious: there was something about Alison that attracted him – not only mentally but physically as well. The idea shocked him but it refused to go away.
Alison Rowe had gone for a walk to watch the night creep over the Mediterranean from a small beach that she had discovered to the west of the house. The sea was very calm, the dark sky clear and a pale crescent moon hung over the island. Alison felt much less troubled, although she knew it was probably only a temporary reprieve, and she was surprised to find she was able to think about Hooper with a new objectivity. For years she had buried the obscenity of what he had done to her, trying to enclose him in a sealed compartment in her mind. What did she really think about him, now that she was forced to confront his shadowy image? Was there hatred in her? Alison doubted that. Was there bitterness? Not really that either. The effect he had on her was so deeply degrading that even now she was quite unable to admit it, even to herself.
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