‘Why?’ Larche had the feeling that Morrison was now spilling out information rather than calculatedly proffering it as he had when he initiated the interview. Did he have him rattled?
‘Because Eduardo allowed him to run Sebastia as he liked – as callously and insensitively as he liked.’
‘Is there a connection?’
‘What do you mean?’ Morrison stared at him and Larche felt another surge of irritation.
‘Between Eduardo and Lorenzo. A sexual one? Is that why Eduardo let Lorenzo do as he liked?’
‘There could have been. Look – you’re not going to tell Anita what I’ve been telling you, are you?’
He was definitely rattled now. Larche smiled, knowing Morrison would realize why he was smiling. The professional artist, the portrait painter who no doubt specialized in flattering his subjects, was getting insecure, wondering if his confidences were going to rebound on him. How could he even for one wild moment have wondered if this vain aspiring socialite was an international assassin? ‘Anything you say to me is in complete confidence,’ Larche reassured him with some satisfaction. Clearly his tactics were working.
‘Anita loved Eduardo very deeply – more deeply than perhaps you realize.’ Morrison looked away. ‘Anyway, the point is she seems to think he’s some kind of saint, so I’m sure she doesn’t suspect anything about his … other sexual desires. This painting of him in the house – it’s all she’s hanging on to. Don’t you see – it’s as if I can re-create him.’
‘And can you?’
Morrison scrabbled in his paint-stained overalls and produced a crumpled colour photograph. ‘This is a photograph of the portrait that’s being flown over from London. Judge for yourself.’
Larche took the photograph and despite himself was immediately impressed. It was not just a good likeness; the spirit of the man he had known, his elegance, his suavity, his dominance, his sense of his own importance, his distinction – all were there. It had soul. This was more than any official portrait of the official Eduardo.
‘That’s good,’ replied Larche reluctantly as he returned the photograph.
‘Thank you.’ Morrison was watching him with some amusement, conscious he had scored a point.
‘And you intend to replicate that – here on Molino?’
‘Not replicate. But it’ll be another likeness.’
‘Where will you paint him?’
‘In Sebastia.’
Larche paused. ‘I see.’
‘After all, he had produced a small economic miracle on his own patch,’ Morrison continued. ‘Maybe Anita considers this is how she would like to remember him – rather than for the work of more national importance he has achieved for Spain.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Larche spoke softly.
‘Nothing more. I’m simply savouring a possible irony.’
‘Let’s be very clear about your allegations.’
‘Not allegations, monsieur. Just observations. But I am trying to assist the police with their enquiries – as we say in England. And in the light of a double killing …’ His voice petered out but Larche detected a return to his old confidence.
‘Very well – you think that a gay Eduardo had a sexual relationship with the unpopular Lorenzo and placed him in a position of power which he abuses.’
‘Possibly.’
‘So what are you suggesting? A disgruntled fisherman outwitted his bodyguards, hired an epileptic whore to create a diversion, shot Eduardo and Miguel – and then a few days later managed to avoid the security here and make another double killing?’ Larche still couldn’t bring himself to mention her name. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?’ he said savagely.
‘I’m not saying that.’
‘Well, what are you saying?’
‘Just that Eduardo was very proud of what he had done – and that’s why Anita wants me to paint him there.’
‘Did he talk about Lorenzo during your sessions?’
‘He talked about why he had hired him,’ said Morrison quietly.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. He had heard about what a driving force the man was on the mainland. How determined and relentless – and ruthless he was.’
Larche thought about Lorenzo. He hadn’t exactly come across that way to him, but then he had been in shock. ‘What was his occupation?’
‘He had a boatyard at Rosas. Specialising in servicing and upgrading motor cruisers and yachts. Apparently he had some very rich clients.’
‘So he’s not a simple fisherman?’ said Larche.
‘Not exactly. And there’s something else even more significant that Anita told me.’
‘Well?’
‘Lorenzo was going to be sacked.’
Larche was puzzled. She had betrayed some emotion yesterday but would she really pour her heart out like this to Morrison? That was the strangest part of the affair so far. ‘Why was Lorenzo being dismissed?’
‘Anita had finally persuaded Eduardo that he had to go – that he was making the lives of the fishing community of Sebastia impossible. Apparently she had been so worried about him that she had asked Father Miguel to look into his background.’
‘What did she suspect?’
‘I don’t know, but I do know she also consulted Blasco.’
‘Why should these priests have something on him?’ asked Larche impatiently.
‘She told me Lorenzo was once a novice in Blasco’s community.’
‘How long for?’
‘As a youngster. Then he left.’
‘Under a cloud?’
‘No – unless you think losing your faith puts you under a cloud.’ Morrison shrugged. ‘I’ve only got the barest of details, but I suppose it’s possible Father Miguel called Eduardo to the Valley of the Fallen to tell him something he had discovered about Lorenzo.’
‘Couldn’t he have told him on the phone?’
‘Apparently not. There’s something else Anita told me.’
‘What?’
‘They were seen together.’
‘Miguel and Lorenzo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘In Sebastia.’
‘Get on with it,’ demanded Larche. He was petulantly angry now. Here was Morrison, arriving on Molino at the same time as he had, and gaining everything when he had gained nothing – if he was to be believed, that is. What else had Anita Tomas spilled out in her unlikely tete-a-tete? And why hadn’t she told him any of this?
‘Maybe Lorenzo was blackmailing him?’ Morrison suggested.
‘And what’s your opinion of Lorenzo?’
‘Oh – he’s just rough trade, that’s all,’ he replied dismissively.
‘For God’s sake –’ Larche began, but Morrison was suddenly indignant.
‘I’m trying to help you. Anita loved Eduardo as much as any woman could. She hated and despised Lorenzo for what he was,’ he concluded melodramatically.
‘What was he?’ snapped Larche.
‘A bully. A despot. Someone she knew spread misery.’
‘Maybe Lorenzo was just a good businessman, getting some lazy fishermen off their arses.’
‘I think he went further than that.’
‘But how much further?’
Morrison shrugged.
‘Are you telling me everything she’s told you?’ said Larche sharply. ‘Because if not you’ll be committing a serious offence.’
Morrison regarded Larche steadily. ‘I’m telling you everything she told me. I’m actually trying to be helpful – just in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘And she had no idea of the gay connection?’ said Larche irritably. ‘If indeed it exists.’
‘It exists all right.’ Morrison was indignant. ‘I can assure you of that. And if she did know she’s fooled me and I think I’m pretty perceptive – in that direction at least.’
‘One final point,’ said Larche abruptly.
‘Yes?’
‘Did she like B
lasco?’
‘I suspect not. I think she felt he knew things about Eduardo she didn’t want to know.’
‘So … so you have theories about why Blasco was killed?’ he asked, slightly contemptuously.
‘Maybe he knew too much.’
‘About Lorenzo?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m sure it was Blasco they were after. Your colleague must have witnessed something she shouldn’t, or someone.’
Larche rose to his feet. ‘Thank you.’ His voice was neutral. ‘Please keep our discussion to yourself, as I will – and I’ll be getting back to you.’ He paused. ‘From your conversations with Eduardo – and Anita – are you sure you have no other idea who this killer or killers could be?’
‘No. Anyway, surely a good deal of the information I’ve given you points to Lorenzo.’ He spoke very slowly, as if he was trying to end the interview on the note of the concerned citizen who was willingly sharing views with the police.
‘And does Anita feel that too?’
‘I don’t know, but I do know how much she despises and abhors him. You will, of course, be very discreet about what I’ve said to you?’ He sounded edgy again.
‘I’ve already told you that,’ replied Larche, looking at him with contempt.
As Larche walked across to the house, Calvino arrived, his air of authority considerably increased.
‘Have you found anybody?’ Larche’s voice was peremptory.
‘No. We’re concentrating on interviewing people in Sebastia at the moment but I’ve got a squad combing the island. Who were you talking to?’ he asked curiously.
‘Morrison. He’s delighted to be in the thick of such a tragedy. Personally I find him revolting.’ Larche paused. ‘Have you heard his extraordinary allegations?’
‘Oh yes.’ Calvino looked at Larche unwaveringly as if he was testing him, wondering if his anger was going to make him too emotional. ‘What did you think of them?’
‘He’s a poseur with an eye to a quick buck, that’s all.’
‘Exactly my own conclusions.’ Calvino beamed at him.
‘But is there anything in it?’ asked Larche. ‘I’ve known Tomas for years and never noticed anything.’
‘There have been rumours – locally, that is. Nothing more. They were never picked up by the media.’ Calvino shrugged.
‘You can bet they will be now,’ said Larche cynically.
‘I’m not sure Morrison’ll have the guts to go through with it.’ Calvino looked doubtful.
‘Anyone who could ingratiate themselves into a household and then sell it out must be a bastard,’ Larche snapped with considerable feeling.
There was a short pause, broken eventually by Larche, this time more hesitantly. ‘He’s the only newcomer on the island, unless you find anyone in Sebastia. For a moment I wondered …’
‘If he was Hooper? We’ve checked his credentials all the way but you’re welcome to rerun the system –’
‘No. At least, not at the moment. Revolting as he is, Morrison’s an unlikely suspect. And he knows it – so that’s why he buttonholed me.’ Larche sighed, knowing he was becoming obsessed with his dislike for the predatory painter.
‘Señor – we’re going to move the bodies,’ said Calvino awkwardly.
‘Where to?’
‘A mortuary on the mainland. I wondered … I wondered if you would like to be with your colleague for the last time.’
Once you peel away the skins, thought Larche, there are quite a few layers of sensitivity to Calvino which it had taken the crisis to bring out. He had changed from a wary colleague to a much warmer companion.
‘Thank you. I would like that.’
‘I’ll ask my people to stand away.’
Larche nodded and followed Calvino back to the cove, feeling that he would barely be able to cope with seeing her again.
* * *
The sun was very high in the sky now and there was a white heat haze over the sea that, apart from a slight swell, was unruffled. A few uniformed Guardia Civil stood on the edge of the wiry grass above the sand but they withdrew as Marius Larche walked alone to the two black polythene covered humps on the beach. A police motor boat thundered past and above him, near to the sinewy cliffs, a helicopter chattered. Apart from their temporary intrusions, he was alone.
When he lifted the sheeting, he saw they had turned Alison Rowe over. Most of her forehead and one of her eyes had been blown away into a tangled, pulpy mess, but below that, the rest of her face was intact and completely unblemished. Looking around him to ensure he was unobserved, he bent over and kissed the dead lips. They were cold now, despite the heat of the sun, and they felt like cardboard. He knew that rigor mortis was setting in but when he took her hand, the skin was still soft and felt slightly moist.
‘Alison,’ he whispered.
He stayed with her for about ten minutes, kneeling on the hot sand and thinking over last night. Sometimes he stroked her wrist and once or twice he brought it to his lips. He didn’t care if he was being watched but guessed that Calvino had instructed his men to be discreet and that he was really alone, except for the gulls and cormorants and oyster catchers that either hovered in the air above him, or stood on the beach, watching him with beady eyes. The swell sighed on the sand, but there was no wind and the stillness was such that Larche felt as if he was completely cut off from any sensation or memory or human contact – other than that of Alison Rowe.
Did he get you in the end, he wondered, a dull rage seizing him. He’d kill the cunt with his bare hands if he found him. Then his anger transferred, not to Calvino but to the dullards who were actually conducting the search. There must be one careless fool – maybe more – who had missed Hooper, and even now he was no doubt hiding out somewhere, an animal not at bay but audaciously deriding them all. He remembered instances in his own career when a minion had slipped up, plunging him into disaster.
But Larche’s anger was short-lived as he turned again to Alison, holding her hand for the last time, stroking it gently, tears welling into his eyes but being blinked back before they fell. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered and pulled the black sheeting over her shattered head. He walked away over the smooth sand without looking back. The rage returned as he went but this time it was like a hard, painful ball resting somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He’d get the bastard. Somehow. At the same time, he thought of Morrison and his publicity-hungry cravings. He’d get him too, if he could.
‘Do you want to see the others now?’ asked Calvino, meeting Larche on the path back to the house. He had his radio in his hand and had obviously been giving instructions to what Larche felt was a too laid-back-looking group of plainclothes policemen.
‘Yes.’
‘Who would you want to start with?’
‘Jacinto. But I’d like to check out Alison Rowe’s room first.’
‘We’ve already done that, but you’re welcome to take a look.’
‘I’m not suggesting that –’ began Larche.
‘I know you’re not,’ cut in Calvino, looking at him with a mixture of compassion and intelligent comprehension. ‘Do what you want to do – in your own time.’
‘You’re being very good to me.’
‘I want you to go on running your back-up system,’ said Calvino. ‘It’s invaluable – an asset I wouldn’t normally have.’
‘Thank you, again. Send Jacinto in, say, ten minutes?’
‘Of course.’
Larche strode on, that hard ball of rage and despair growing inside him.
* * *
Alison Rowe’s room revealed nothing. She had even made her own bed and there were no signs of undue hurry. Her few personal possessions – the new Margaret Drabble, a packet of boiled sweets – were neatly placed, and after a few minutes Larche realized that there was nothing here for him to see or discover.
Returning to his room and looking at his watch, Larche decided to lie on his bed and try to unwind a little, for he knew if he didn’t his temper w
ould very likely break out during the interviews. Trying to ease the tension was very difficult, for in his mind’s eye all he could see was the shattered head of Alison Rowe who had given him so much and who had been so summarily removed by – who? Hooper at last? Somehow it seemed very unlikely. There was still no hard evidence that Hooper was even in Barcelona. That left the field open to someone else – someone here on the island whose target was the Tomas family. Had they taken shelter in Sebastia? Well, it was up to Calvino and his new reinforced army to run them to earth. His own role was on a like-to-like basis. Perhaps he would only discover what Calvino had already uncovered, but there was always the chance that he might pick up a nuance here and there not recognizable to Calvino. Also there was a possibility that they would be more open with him. Then he remembered how much Anita had told Morrison – and felt instantly depressed. Like-to-like? What rubbish had he been thinking? People only confided because they wanted to.
These reflections eventually calmed him. At least Alison made me realize I had some kind of sexual identity, he thought. He tried to think of Monique’s body but could only see Alison Rowe’s. Gradually his rage began to smoulder again, until he felt choked, half stifled by the shock and pain.
As Larche rose from the bed he caught sight of the envelope. It was poking out from under the bureau and an electric charge of excitement filled him as he saw the unfamiliar handwriting. His stomach churning, he quickly scanned the contents. The letter was from Alison Rowe. She had probably pushed it under his door early that morning and it had slid on the bare boards until it was almost hidden under the bureau.
Dear Marius,
I wanted to thank you for what happened and what we did together. I don’t love you nor do you love me. I have Tom and you have Monique and they exist in a separate world to the one we inhabited a few hours ago. But we did something special – very special for me and I hope it was for you. I’m just going out for a walk. I’ll see you at breakfast.
With love and thanks, Alison
The tears flooded down Larche’s face as he put the letter into his wallet. While she was amongst the rocks and wild flowers, while she was talking to that gentle and civilized monk, someone had come and butchered them both. Was it the same person who had so skilfully assassinated Eduardo and Father Miguel, or was it someone else? And that person – those people … He beat at the wall with his fist in fury and deepest frustration – he had to find out the meaning of it all before they killed again. But what he really wanted to do was to hunt down this last assassin and kill him with his own bare hands.
Confessional Page 12
