A Maze of Murders

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I’ve made some coca for you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t start your chocolate until I heard you moving, but it’s nearly ready.’

  ‘There’s no rush. There’s very little work in hand and the superior chief is at a conference somewhere so he won’t be making a nuisance of himself for a while.’

  ‘Why is he always so difficult?’

  ‘He comes from Madrid.’

  ‘I had forgotten.’ She was an elegant woman with a presence that could become commanding; with her jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, strong features, and upright carriage, it seemed apposite to picture her with mantilla and gold inlaid tortoiseshell comb, side-saddle on a caparisoned horse almost as proud as she. In fact, she had not a trace of Andaluce blood in her. She stirred the heating chocolate with a wooden spoon.

  ‘I saw Diego last night,’ he said. ‘Asked to be remembered to you.’

  ‘The blackguard!’

  ‘I thought you had a soft spot for him?’

  ‘Doesn’t stop him being a blackguard.’

  ‘What’s he done to deserve that?’

  ‘Eulalia was so certain he would marry her that she crocheted a matrimonial bedspread, yet never once did he say or do anything that would allow her or her parents to demand he marry her. Then when Rosa appeared with many millions of pesetas – if one were evil-minded, one might ask how she earned them while she lived in Barcelona – he was after her as hard as he could run.’

  ‘He was always a realist.’

  ‘Only a man could say such a heartless thing!’ Yet she spoke regretfully and not, as would have been normal, aggressively. ‘Eulalia’s heart was broken and her trousseau, on which she’d worked since she could first hold a needle, for her became rags.’

  ‘Surely they came in handy when she married Narciso?’

  ‘You can believe it was the same thing?’

  He could, but clearly she couldn’t.

  She took the pan off the cooker, poured chocolate into a mug; she placed the mug, coca, and some membrilla on the table. ‘I hope the coca’s all right?’

  It was very unusual for her to be diffident about the quality of her cooking. He cut a slice, spread membrilla on it, ate.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s not a pasteleria between here and La Coruña could equal it.’

  She was satisfied. ‘I must go and do the shopping for lunch.’

  ‘Pollastre farcit amb magrana?’

  She shook her head.

  His disappointment was brief. Lunch would still be a feast.

  She picked up a shopping bag and her purse, and left. He finished the coca on his plate and reached out to cut another slice, checked himself. Recently, the doctor had told him to smoke, drink, and eat less if he wanted many more birthdays. In the face of so stern a warning, he had sworn to take the advice to heart. But this coca was as light as a thrush’s breast feather; and doctors always exaggerated in order to increase their self-importance.

  He had just finished both coca and rich chocolate when the phone rang. He left the kitchen, went through the sitting/dining-room and into the front room.

  ‘It’s the Policia Local down in the port. Is that Inspector Alvarez?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s about time! Talk about being one hell of a job to get hold of you – the post said you’d be at work at eight-thirty, but I’ve rung your office every quarter of an hour since then, trying to get hold of you. Finally, they gave me your home number.’

  ‘I was called out unexpectedly and have only just returned for my breakfast.’

  ‘There’s a spot of trouble here. A couple of English came in yesterday to report a friend was missing from a boat and they didn’t know what had happened to him; they’ve been in again this morning to say he still hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘Missing people are the Guardia’s job.’

  ‘But they say this isn’t their pigeon until it’s certain the man is missing and it’s up to you to ascertain that.’

  ‘They are a bunch of lazy bastards.’

  ‘Who’ll argue?’

  ‘Why aren’t they certain?’

  ‘There’s no body.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t since it’ll take time to float to the surface.’

  ‘Argue it out with them. I’m just the messenger. Señor Sheard, Señor Lewis, Señorita Fenn, and Señorita Glass sailed out from the port late on Thursday evening. They crossed the bay and anchored off the Hotel Parelona, had a drink, fell asleep. When they woke up, Señor Lewis wasn’t aboard and there’s been no sign of him since.’

  * * *

  The row of single-storey terrace houses along Carer Joan Sitjar (until recently, Calle General Ortega) had originally been fishermen’s cottages, offering only minimum shelter; however, each had had a garden at the back where vegetables and fruit could be grown, pigs and chickens kept. The rising tide of prosperity, fuelled by the tourist trade, had ensured that now they were in good repair and modernized to offer a considerable degree of comfort, but, since progress was always double-edged, owners were now forbidden to keep pigs or chickens in the gardens.

  Alvarez braked to a halt in front of No. 14, whose walls were painted a light pink and doors and shutters green. He brought a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his face; the day was burning hot. He left the car, crossed the pavement, stepped through the bead curtain into the immaculately maintained front room. He called out.

  A middle-aged woman, wearing an apron, hurried through the inner doorway. She studied him. ‘Enrique!’

  He knew her face but couldn’t place her name.

  ‘I saw Dolores only last week, up in the village where I go to buy vegetables because they’re so much better than here where people only bother about selling to the foreigners. She said that…’

  As he listened, he searched his memory and finally remembered who she was. When she paused, he said: ‘How’s Joaquin?’

  There was another flood of words. Her husband had had the bad fall when building a house for a German. What a house! More than forty million pesetas! Her father had bought his house for six hundred! Joaquin was much better and would be back to work very soon. She would be glad when he was. To have a man around the house all the time could drive a woman crazy. It was lucky they’d let the room to the Englishman – with no children of their own, because God had not been generous, they had an extra bedroom and it was stupid not to have someone sleeping in it who was willing to pay good pesetas. The Englishman played chess and for some of the time he kept Joaquin out of her way …

  ‘The reason I’m here is to have a word with Señor Sheard.’

  Sweet Mary, but one could never be certain when one arose in the morning that one would be alive to go to bed in the evening. To think that only a few days before, the Englishman had been sleeping in her house and now he was dead …

  ‘But surely Señor Sheard is still alive?’

  ‘What a question! Did I not give him breakfast before he left early this morning?’

  ‘Then why did you say he was dead?’

  ‘Didn’t Dolores say to me, no man ever listens? Perhaps a fortnight ago, Bert came to me…’

  ‘Who’s Bert?’

  ‘Who do you think? Señor Sheard. Foreigners have Christian names, even if they sound so ugly that no saint would have them.’ She spoke more quickly, raising her voice as one did when talking to someone slightly slow-witted. Bert met a friend who’d nowhere to stay and had asked if he might share the room. Naturally, she’d been about to refuse – some things happened in the world that a decent woman did not wish to know about – when Bert had added that his friend would naturally pay the same rent as he did. Whatever one thought about such things, only a complete fool spat on a peseta. So she’d said yes. Regretfully, after a few days the friend had left to stay at the Hotel Vista Bella. Now he was dead! Aiee, life was but death delayed!

  ‘We don’t yet know he is dead.’

  ‘Four people go to sleep in a boat in the
bay and in the morning there are only three. You think he sprouted wings and flew?’

  He thought that women made lousy detectives.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Hotel Alhambra, one road back from the front, catered for the lower range package holiday trade; rooms were small, the en-suite shower rooms a tight fit for one person, meals were poor and served buffet-style, and the staff were less than willing because guests seemed to think that a hundred-peseta tip was generous.

  Alvarez walked around a mound of luggage belonging to a departing group of guests and up to the reception desk, manned by a young man. ‘Are Señoritas Fenn and Glass in the hotel?’

  ‘How would I know?’ replied the receptionist, his attention on a young woman in a bikini who was crossing the foyer to go out to the beach.

  ‘By checking.’

  ‘Too busy.’

  ‘Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  He reluctantly looked at the register, then up at the key board. ‘Their key’s not there, so they’ll be around somewhere.’

  ‘Then ask someone to find out where.’

  The receptionist muttered sullenly to himself, opened a door to the rear of the counter, and shouted. A teenager appeared and was given the order.

  ‘Is there a lounge where I can have a word with them?’ Alvarez asked.

  The receptionist pointed.

  He walked across the foyer and into a small room, depressingly decorated and furnished. If the declared aim of upgrading all hotels on the island was ever actually implemented, he thought, this one was a prime candidate for immediate attention. He sat on a shabby settee and waited with the endless patience of a peasant.

  A woman entered and looked uncertainly at him. ‘I am Inspector Alvarez,’ he said. She was hardly a model of discretion; her hair was too blonde, her make-up too generous, her dress too tight-fitting. ‘You are Señorita Glass or Señorita Fenn?’

  ‘Cara. I mean, Cara Fenn. Kirsty’s gone with Bert to speak to the police again. I couldn’t go because … because it’s all too emotional.’

  Couldn’t be bothered, he thought uncharitably. He waited until she was seated, then said: ‘I have to ask you some questions, but will be as brief as possible.’

  ‘Then you haven’t found Neil?’

  ‘I fear not.’

  ‘He … he’s dead?’

  ‘There still can be no certainty and that is why I am here now.’

  ‘But I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Of course not, but you may be able to help me ascertain where he might be if still alive … Have you known the señor for a long time?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘When did you first meet him?’

  ‘That night.’

  ‘You mean, Thursday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please tell me how you met him.’

  She and Kirsty had had supper – like always, funny tasting and not what they were used to at home – and had then left the hotel to go to the front. They’d strolled along until they’d stopped to watch a woman in a long white dress and with whitened face and gloved hands who had been imitating a statue and moving only when someone put money in the collecting box. Neil had set out to make the woman laugh and had drawn them into his attempt; he’d suggested drinks at one of the bars; after a while, he’d said it was such a lovely night they ought to go for a trip in his boat …

  ‘The boat belonged to him?’

  ‘Seemed like it did. I mean, he had the key to unlock the cabin and start the engine.’

  ‘You sailed across the bay?’

  She nodded. Then she said: ‘If only we’d stayed. Then it wouldn’t have happened. I can’t stop thinking that if only I’d said I didn’t want to go, he’d be alive.’

  He was satisfied she spoke only for effect. ‘Señorita, sadly one can never move back in time and it only makes things more painful to try and do so. What happened once you’d anchored?’

  ‘We had a drink.’

  ‘You’d taken this with you?’

  ‘There were a couple of bottles of whisky on the boat.’

  ‘Were they full bottles?’

  ‘One of ’em was, the other didn’t have much in it.’

  ‘Did you finish them both?’

  ‘Give over.’

  ‘Then how much did you all drink?’

  ‘Hardly had any out of the full bottle … Look, I’m not a lush.’

  ‘Of course not, señorita, but I need to understand what state you and your companions were in because that could be very important.’

  ‘I was cheerful, nothing more.’

  ‘And Señor Lewis?’

  ‘We was all the same.’

  ‘Did you do anything other than drink?’

  ‘What’s that matter?’

  ‘As I explained, I need to understand all the circumstances which surround the señor’s disappearance.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Señorita, you must tell me.’

  ‘I … We … You know how it goes.’

  ‘Not until you tell me.’

  ‘We started to have some fun,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘You mean, you had sexual intercourse?’

  ‘There’s no call to be crude … A girl’s entitled to a little fun.’

  ‘With one señor, or both?’

  ‘For God’s sake, what d’you take me for?’

  He was tempted to answer, but didn’t.

  ‘If you must know, nothing happened.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because it didn’t.’

  ‘The señor had drunk too much?’

  ‘If he’d been that tight, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with him. I can’t stand drunks.’

  ‘Yet if he wasn’t … Why did nothing happen?’

  ‘Because we both fell asleep,’ she said angrily, certain he must be laughing at her.

  Surprise, not contemptuous amusement, was his reaction. It seemed the English did not live up to their reputation. ‘Señorita, I have to tell you that what you’ve said suggests the señor had drunk very much more than you wish to admit.’

  ‘I’m not a liar.’

  ‘But it is very difficult to believe that if sober, he would have fallen asleep at such a moment.’

  ‘I don’t care how difficult, that’s how it went.’

  ‘Was Señor Lewis a good swimmer?’

  ‘He said he was. Talked about winning medals when he was younger, but like as not that was flannel to try to impress us.’

  ‘When you and your friends awoke in the morning, you found his clothes were still aboard?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he have a bathing costume with him?’

  ‘I never saw one.’

  He was about to speak again when a young woman looked into the lounge, saw Cara, stepped inside. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it bloody well isn’t,’ Cara answered.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He’s trying to call me a liar.’

  The answer confused her.

  ‘Are you Señorita Glass?’ Alvarez asked.

  She nodded.

  Whenever two women went around together, it always seemed that one was more obviously attractive than the other. Even a Frenchman would not have described Kirsty as more than pleasant looking. ‘I am Inspector Alvarez.’

  Kirsty said: ‘We’ve just been to see the police again and they don’t know anything. Do you?’

  ‘I very much regret not, señorita. Which is why I am here to try and discover what might have happened to the señor.’

  ‘By asking bloody rude questions,’ Cara said resentfully.

  He turned. ‘I am sorry, señorita, if I have disturbed you, but there are times when a detective has to be rather like a doctor…’

  ‘And most of them are dirty old men!’

  Kirsty looked worried, afraid that Alvarez would take sharp offence.

  He said quietly: ‘Señorita Glass, pleas
e come and sit down so that I can discover if you can help me.’

  As Kirsty moved forward, Cara said: ‘I’ve told you all I know, so there’s no point in me staying.’

  ‘That is so. But first, how much longer are you staying here?’

  ‘A week.’ She hesitated, but when nothing more was said, she stood and left, hips swinging.

  He spoke to Kirsty: ‘Tell me as much as you can remember of Thursday night.’

  Her description of the evening was considerably more detailed than Cara’s had been and she showed no embarrassment when describing the more intimate moments.

  Her manner reminded him of the old saying, The fastest running torrente is not always the deepest. ‘Señorita, am I correct to believe you did not drink as much as the others?’

  ‘I’ve a bit of a funny tummy and it’s very easily upset, so I have to be careful.’

  ‘Yet perhaps you had drunk rather more than you think since you were ill on Friday morning?’

  ‘Not half as ill as the other two. And I do remember exactly how much I had.’

  ‘Then you must be surprised that you were so affected?’

  ‘In a way, I suppose so. But maybe booze is just grabbing me more than it used to.’

  ‘Are you certain that the first bottle of whisky was emptied before the second one was opened?’

  ‘Yes. Wouldn’t you expect it to be?’

  He nodded. ‘Was Señor Lewis drunk by the time he opened the second one?’

  ‘No way. He was full of himself, suggesting all sorts of things, but that seemed to be his style.’

  ‘His speech wasn’t slurred or his movements uncoordinated?’

  ‘If you ask me, at that stage they were very coordinated.’ She began to giggle, then stopped abruptly. ‘I shouldn’t say things like that, should I, in case he is dead?’

  ‘Señorita, it seems very likely he would prefer to be remembered with a laugh … Was Señor Sheard drunk?’

  ‘He was like Neil, still talking normal and all that sort of thing. Only he wasn’t able to…’

  Alvarez waited. Finally, he said: ‘Tell me again what happened after Señor Lewis opened the second bottle.’

  For a moment it seemed she might question the need for the repetition, then she spoke quickly and, as before, without any trace of embarrassment. Sheard had drunk his whisky quickly, she’d sipped hers. Cara and Lewis, on the starboard settee, had started to explore each other’s attractions and so they’d done the same. Sheard had yawned as he’d fondled her and become annoyed when she’d laughed. Then, as he took off his trousers and pants, he’d suddenly complained of dizziness; that was when she’d also first felt a bit dizzy. He’d tried to show further interest in her, but failed. To her surprise, and it had to be admitted annoyance, he’d fallen asleep. She’d looked across the cabin to see if the other two were laughing at her, but they were both asleep. Then she’d felt overwhelmingly tired and she’d fallen asleep.