Confessional

by Anthony Masters

  ‘But Eduardo did.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But why did he want to go?’

  ‘He didn’t, particularly,’ said Jacinto. ‘AH he wanted to do was to get away from the island, and us. He wanted to be special. And he succeeded.’ Jacinto smiled.

  ‘Did Blasco hate you both?’

  ‘He was always so irritatingly good – even then. But I’m sure he did underneath. And of course when we grew up Blasco had other reasons for loathing Eduardo. Like Anita, for instance.’

  ‘And do you think Eduardo remained manipulative?’

  ‘He became a politician, didn’t he?’ There was a sneer in Jacinto’s voice.

  ‘How would you assess his character – as a man?’ asked Larche casually.

  ‘He was constrained. Like he was in a cage of correctness. What he really wanted, increasingly wanted, lay outside. By employing Lorenzo I believe Eduardo reached out for what he wanted.’

  I wonder how relevant all this has been, thought Larche wryly. We seem to have wandered right away from the main point. ‘I can understand that family life was pretty good hell, but do you have any theories about the connection between these killings?’

  ‘No.’ Jacinto was very positive. ‘I can’t see who could have carried out all this butchery.’

  ‘Lorenzo?’

  ‘Not clever enough.’

  ‘The Church?’

  ‘I’d give you the same answer. When Blasco was alive I had my suspicions, but now he’s dead I’m sure it’s much more likely to be a political assassination.’

  ‘Eduardo – yes. But Blasco? He wasn’t political.’

  ‘Maybe he knew something he shouldn’t have done – who wrote those poisonous letters, for instance.’

  ‘That means the assassin’s on the island,’ said Larche sharply.

  ‘Or was – I wouldn’t rely too heavily on Calvino’s security system.’

  Larche tried another tack. ‘What about Sebastia? Did that mean something to you when you were a child?’

  ‘It meant a lot to all of us – in different ways.’ Jacinto eagerly grasped the opportunity for more analysis of his childhood. ‘To me it was freedom. Of course, at that stage it was very run down, but there were a few boats left, a few families. We were forbidden to play with the children there, but I did have a friend – Pedro – a secret friend because my parents and Gabriel would have been very angry if they knew Pedro and I played together.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing much. Swim. Stroll around. Gawp at girls. What do other adolescent boys do? There were a few pinball machines in the bar but I didn’t dare go in there in case I was recognized and taken home. We used to dive and fish off the rocks – it’s a beautiful cove. Sebastia was very important to me; it represented a freedom that I never had – not until I went to Valencia, anyway. When I take groups of people diving off the rocks now I often remember those days with Pedro.’

  ‘Do you still see him?’

  ‘We’ve lost touch. He went to the mainland looking for work and he’s probably moved a long way away now. I liked him though – he was a bird-watcher too.’ Jacinto’s whole face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. ‘We used to watch the gulls and cormorants and Pedro taught me to identify all the different species. In the end I bought a pair of binoculars and we’d share them, watch the gulls soaring. God, how I envied them. I was trapped on Molino – so damn trapped. This house, the buildings, a mile or so of rocky coast – that’s all we had. The occasional trip, a visit abroad, always with a tutor and servants. You’ve no idea what a suffocating life it was – and how endless it seemed.’

  ‘Why were you so cut off? Surely your parents realized how bad all this was for you?’

  Jacinto shrugged. ‘We were the ruling classes, weren’t we? We were being trained for public duty. Eduardo was the only success. I became a playboy, Blasco a monk –’

  ‘You’re not a playboy,’ said Larche. ‘You’re a marine archaeologist.’

  ‘Much good may it do me.’

  Larche was silent, aware of the renewed bitterness in Jacinto’s voice. What kind of people had the Tomas parents been? Didn’t they realize that by imprisoning their children they had done such appalling psychological damage to them? ‘What was Eduardo’s reaction to Sebastia?’ he said evenly. ‘Did he yearn for the freedom it represented – just like you did?’

  ‘Not in the same way. Not as a child. As I told you, Sebastia was forbidden fruit. I think he was frightened. Anyway, he never ventured in.’

  ‘And Blasco?’

  ‘It was against his principles.’ Jacinto laughed.

  ‘His religious principles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t a brothel in the Tomas back yard as people like to imply, but it was a village of looser morals than Blasco, a good Catholic, would like – as many other villages are. So he gave it a wide berth, and stayed within the safety of his cage.’

  ‘Do you think Eduardo loved either of you?’

  For a long time Jacinto said nothing, then he spoke slowly. ‘Do you love your fellow prisoners? Did three lonely little rich boys, waiting to do their duty in high places, love each other?’ He was silent again. Then he said impatiently, ‘Why ask me? How would I know? I love my wife, and I’ll love my children if we ever get round to having them, but I won’t have them here – not on Molino. I want us all to be together where I feel free too.’

  Larche nodded.

  ‘I know every rock, every stone, every blade of grass on this island. Maybe I even counted the gulls.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Do you need me any more?’

  ‘Do you have any idea who killed your brothers? If so, you must tell me. And if you’re still withholding information …’

  Jacinto shrugged. ‘I told you – it must have been an outsider. There’s no one capable of killing them here.’

  Larche decided not to take him up on this; he needed to complete all the interviews first and then analyse the results. Also, Jacinto’s image of the three lonely boys who tormented each other had made Eduardo’s study oppressive. ‘Very well – that’ll be enough for now.’ Jacinto walked towards the door. ‘Oh, by the way …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What happened to Gabriel?’

  ‘He’s back in Boston – in his sixties now and teaching in a private school. We exchange greetings. Occasionally.’ He hovered by the door. ‘Am I free to leave the island?’

  Larche shook his head. ‘No. Incidentally, do you have an opinion on the telephone calls Eduardo received? And the letters?’

  ‘Political terrorism.’ He spoke with considerable authority and Larche believed that his conviction was genuine. ‘You have to follow that line, monsieur.’

  ‘And Blasco knew who it was?’

  ‘He knew something.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to hazard a guess as to what he told Father Miguel?’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘Blasco didn’t expect to die,’ mused Larche. ‘He didn’t strike me as someone who felt he was in danger because of what he knew.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’ asked Jacinto reasonably.

  ‘Experience. Experience and … intuition.’

  ‘I didn’t think policemen were allowed to have that.’ There was a hint of a sneer in the smooth voice. ‘So, I’m trapped on the island again, am I? Unable to leave until given permission. Do you think I killed them, monsieur? Is it me you are wondering about?’ Jacinto smiled. ‘Have I made myself a prime suspect?’

  Larche met his eyes and then looked away, for he could see the yearning of the prisoner there. ‘Everyone is a suspect here,’ he replied formally.

  Before Larche left the confinement of Eduardo Tomas’s study he dialled a number in Lyon and spoke to Chalon, his second-in-command there.

  ‘Philippe –’

  ‘How goes it?’ The voice on the other end sounded relieved, as if Larche had been out of contact
too long.

  ‘It’s a nightmare.’

  ‘Any progress?’

  ‘Everyone here is anxious to confess, but not to the killing. They’re convinced we’re dealing with an assassin. My point is: maybe, but in that case, who hired him?’

  ‘This Hooper the British are obsessed with? But where is he? Do you reckon he’s got off the island?’

  ‘I’m not convinced he was on it – yet,’ said Larche, and realized that he was having difficulty feeling convinced about anything at the moment. It was good to talk to Philippe though. Good to reach a friend on the outside.

  ‘What kind of show are the Spanish putting up?’

  ‘Formidable. They’ve come in by the helicopter load, and there were plenty here before that.’

  ‘But not enough of them to prevent a double murder.’

  ‘Clearly not. Calvino is shit scared.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s good, but understandably nervous. Anita Tomas is trying to get rid of him. I like his style though; he’s thorough and he doesn’t flap.’

  Chalon laughed unfeelingly. ‘So it’s all power and influence stuff. I told you it would be like that. What about the Tomas family? Any chinks in the armour?’

  ‘Their armour’s shot through and through. Full of old jealousies and repressions. Jacinto Tomas gave a pretty graphic description of a hellish childhood, but it didn’t get me much further. Still – they’re telling me more than they told poor old Calvino. That’s because of the last two killings,’ he added quickly. He liked Calvino and didn’t want to put him down.

  ‘Isn’t Jacinto a golden person? He’s always in Hola magazine.’ Chalon was clearly intrigued.

  ‘Yes, I suppose he is a golden person, but he also struck me as bitter but possibly honest. I rather liked him.’

  ‘And did you like her? Anita?’

  ‘Yes. There’s something magnificent about her complete adoration of Eduardo.’

  ‘And was it reciprocated?’

  ‘In a way – but it looks as if he could have been a closet gay with some local outlets.’

  Chalon whistled. ‘Does that have any bearing?’

  ‘I don’t know. The assassin theory’s still big.’

  ‘I suppose because it’s convenient.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Larche was fond of Chalon. He had been his number two for nearly ten years now and they had always got on well. Chalon was an antiques expert and quite often, while working on a case, they would unwind by trawling antique shops whilst still meditating upon clues and solutions, debating this and that suspect. Chalon was a brutal cynic, mentally much tougher than Larche, married with two grown-up daughters whom he adored. Predictably he considered they had married badly and was always complaining about their husbands. But then Chalon would complain about anyone his beloved daughters married.

  ‘I’ve also been talking to Bernard Morrison,’ said Larche.

  ‘The British portrait painter?’

  ‘I confess I hadn’t heard of him. What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s very good.’

  They both laughed. Then Larche broke it to him. ‘He’s here – on the island.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Did you know he was painting Eduardo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought you read Hola magazine.’

  ‘Not cover to cover.’

  ‘Anyway, Anita Tomas has asked Morrison to stay on – and paint Eduardo at home. Posthumously.’

  ‘I see. That sounds understandable. I suppose the widow’s hanging on to every shred of comfort and if Morrison can bring her husband back to life on canvas in his own home …’ His voice trailed away and then picked up again. ‘I’m sure it’s the kind of crazy stunt my Isobelle would pull if anything happened to me. And what would Monique do?’

  ‘Hopefully not have me nailed up on the wall.’

  ‘What’s Morrison like?’

  ‘He’s a conniving bastard.’ Larche relished the sentence.

  ‘Is he now? In what way?’

  ‘He’s obviously delighted to be so close to the horrors – and I reckon he’ll sell the story to the tabloids as soon as he possibly can.’

  ‘Sounds a delightful character.’

  ‘I’d like you to check him out again – just for luck.’

  ‘Are you saying you suspect him of being the assassin?’

  ‘I realize it’s a long shot …’

  ‘I should say so,’ replied Chalon with feeling.

  ‘I just want to check that the man on this island who says he’s Bernard Morrison really is Bernard Morrison.’

  ‘Give me his description then.’

  Larche gave him a very detailed one, deliberately ignoring his unspoken amusement.

  ‘I’ll get back to you. Give me the number you’re on now.’ Larche gave him the number and then Chalon said, ‘What are you expecting next?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If the assassin’s on the island – do you expect more carnage?’

  ‘Please God, no,’ said Larche.

  When he had hung up Marius Larche continued sitting quietly, letting ideas run through his mind. There was no doubt that the Tomas family were split – had been split and festering for years. If only he could see through it all, get a definite lead, for there seemed plenty of motives. All he needed was intuition – a quality that he normally relied on but which seemed to have been shocked out of his psyche by the killings. He remembered the Demarche case where, strolling through an antique market with Chalon, he had simply recalled the look on the grandmother’s face as she gazed down at her poisoned daughter’s body. He had subconsciously recognized satisfaction, not grief, in those eyes. Larche shared the intuitive recognition with his colleague and weeks later, after an intensive enquiry, the grandmother was arrested.

  Larche was about to walk out into the herb garden to talk to Maria Tomas when Calvino appeared, looking slightly dazed. There was perspiration standing out on his forehead and a strange smile – a curious mixture of satisfaction and doubt – hovered on his lips. ‘It’s all over,’ he said. ‘We’ve got our assassin.’

  ‘What?’ Larche gazed at him uncomprehendingly. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Calvino was staring at him, gabbling slightly. ‘He’s Irish. You’d better come with me now.’

  ‘But where did you find him?’

  ‘In Sebastia.’

  ‘What has he said?’ Larche was incredulous.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Calvino. ‘He’s dead.’

  Chapter 8

  Calvino drove Larche the quarter of a mile to Sebastia in a small, rather battered jeep. As he drove, Calvino’s mood changed; the doubts and lack of confidence faded and he allowed his satisfaction at this unexpected turn of events to have full rein.

  ‘The affair could be over,’ he said. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘You say the man is dead?’ Larche spoke incredulously. ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘He shot himself in the head – and then fell from the cliff. At least, that’s the way it looks at the moment. He’s not recognizable.’

  ‘How convenient,’ muttered Larche. There was no doubt in his mind that this was all far too neat for comfort.

  ‘What did you say?’ Calvino yelled over the noisy engine.

  ‘Who found him?’ substituted Larche.

  ‘Lorenzo – and some of the local boys. They called my men immediately.’

  ‘And you say he’s Irish?’

  ‘There are papers on the body.’ The jeep bounced crazily over the rough track and the dust rose above them, sending a hazy film up to the gathering harshness of the midday sun.

  Larche’s scepticism immediately increased and he felt he couldn’t accept any of this. But what if he was wrong – and he was about to view Hooper’s body? Hypothetically, who would have hired him? A politician? A terrorist organization? Or someone much nearer to home? Someone – or some people connected with the fishin
g industry or the more nefarious activities in Sebastia? Someone in this too close, too privileged, too carefully groomed family? The Church? The last thought came as a shock. What did he mean – the Church? Was it pushing even his imagination too far to conjecture that the Catholic Church itself might have hired Hooper to arrange for Eduardo’s death? And Father Miguel’s? Later to use their assassin to eliminate anyone else with dangerous knowledge? It was an intriguing and terrifying thought – one that he should dismiss immediately as wholly ludicrous. And yet, given the scenario of one of Spain’s most powerful and influential Catholics, the Minister for Home Affairs himself, being exposed as a closet gay with his own home-made brothel on his doorstep, if such a scandal had broken the Catholic Church would have been deeply wounded – just as the government would have been. And now, what if the assassin really had been eliminated? What if Larche’s suspicions about convenience turned out to be unfounded? Could a neat job of self-protection have been perpetrated, leaving Molino, the decimated Tomas family, the Church and Spain to return relatively undamaged to normal? After all, a professional assassin could always be explained away as part of the contemporary tapestry of life, but the philanderings of the eldest son of a distinguished Spanish family could not. Eduardo had been a leader, a moral example, a media icon. If he could get away with perceived immorality, then why couldn’t the ordinary citizens of Spain?

  The jeep skidded to a halt and Calvino broke into Larche’s troubled thoughts. ‘I would like to thank you, señor.’

  ‘Thank me?’ Larche was thrown.

  ‘You have been most helpful.’

  ‘Oh that – I should be grateful to you. I’m very much the intruder.’

  ‘You are a friend of the family. You could have made life impossible for me.’

  Larche got out of the jeep shakily, all his misgivings about such a neat ending returning. As a man, he liked Calvino. He didn’t want to see him humiliated. ‘We’d better go and see if it is our man.’

  ‘My people are certain.’

  ‘Nevertheless …’

  But Calvino was not to be rattled by Larche, and his small, plump frame exuded forced confidence as he sprang out of the jeep.