Alvarez braked to a halt, checked there was no oncoming traffic, turned on to the road. Lewis had been blackmailing her, her husband, or both of them. So what had Lewis known that was so dangerous to them that it had been worthwhile paying him a million pesetas to buy his temporary silence, then to kill him to ensure this became permanent; later, to kill Sheard, who must have learned enough to be in a position to have continued the blackmail?
Was he right to judge from her reactions that she had had no reason to believe Lewis had been murdered?
* * *
Dolores had just served the sopes Mallorquines when the phone rang. She did not ask if the two men were deaf, but immediately moved her chair back from the table and left. Jaime watched her, a look of worry on his face.
When she returned, she said: ‘It’s the post.’
‘Don’t they ever relax,’ Alvarez muttered with annoyance. He helped himself to another spoonful of the soup – more a stew, with cabbage, tomatoes, garlic, onions, olive oil, seasoning, and brown sopes bread – went through to the phone.
‘I’ve had a foreigner ringing in. Couldn’t understand a word, so in the end he got his maid to talk. She said he wanted to speak to you and it wouldn’t be to tell you what a nice guy you are. I told her that being a lazy bastard, you were at home, guzzling. The next thing, he’s demanding your home number. I refused. When would you be back at work? Just before it was time to pack up for the day and go home, I told her … So this is just to warn you that he’ll be ringing in some time and, from the sound of things, you’ll need to brace yourself.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘My old woman always says my good nature makes a fool of me.’
It was only after replacing the receiver that Alvarez realized the duty cabo had failed to name the caller. Still, that had been unnecessary. Clough, accepting that the best defence was attack, had made his first move.
He returned to the dining-room.
‘Is it trouble?’ Dolores asked solicitously.
‘Work’s always trouble,’ he answered as he refilled his glass with wine.
* * *
The expected phone call was made at half past six.
‘Would you be kind enough to tell me exactly what is going on, Inspector?’
The degree of a Mallorquin’s temper could be gauged by the range and explosiveness of his expletives, but an Englishman often offered no guide other than the increased iciness of his politeness.
‘If you are referring to my visit this morning to your home, as I explained to the señora, it has been established that Señor Lewis was murdered. It has therefore become necessary to conduct a more detailed and even more urgent investigation.’
‘That is supposed to be an explanation for accusing my wife of being a criminal?’
‘I certainly did not do that.’
‘You asked if either of us had been subjected to blackmail and then went on to say that these days it almost always follows a crime which has been committed by the person blackmailed. You would not agree that the inference is quite unmistakable?’
‘What I was trying to do was not to accuse the señora of anything, but merely to assure her that had either of you been subjected to blackmail at the hands of Lewis, it would be very much in your interests to admit that fact because authority will always offer as much sympathy as is possible … I am afraid it is sometimes very difficult to express oneself accurately in a foreign language.’
‘Your sole aim was to be helpful?’
‘Indeed, señor.’
‘Then would you care to explain why you thought such help to be necessary?’
Which question, Alvarez thought, brought them back to the beginning.
‘Inspector, I was under the impression that when you were here several days ago I fully answered all the points you raised – and answered them to your satisfaction. Yet it seems, to put it bluntly, that you believe me to have been lying.’
‘That is not so.’
‘If you believed me, you would not have bothered to explain to my wife the benefits of admitting to a criminal action and then to ask to see the two dresses which had been made for her.’
‘Señor, you are overlooking something. When I first spoke to you and the señora, Señor Lewis was missing and I was trying to establish whether he was, in fact, dead. Now that I know he was murdered, I have to conduct a much more detailed investigation and that means it becomes necessary to re-examine some of the earlier evidence.’
‘It perhaps has not occurred to you that a man in my position is unlikely to have given anyone cause for blackmail?’
‘Señor, surely the quickest and simplest way of clearing up any misunderstanding is to give me the name and address of the lady who made your wife’s dresses? The moment she confirms all you have told me, there can be no question that you gave the million pesetas to Lewis.’
‘I explained why I’m not prepared to do that.’
‘The circumstances now are very different.’
‘However changed, they cannot concern me. I gave my word to the lady.’
What did one call a man who claimed to place honour above self-preservation? A hypocrite or a dinosaur?
‘While naturally willing to do all I can to assist, that does not mean I am prepared meekly to suffer harassment. I hope this is clear?’
‘Yes, señor.’
He said a polite goodbye, rang off.
Alvarez settled back in his chair. However smart he might once have been in the business world, Clough had just shown he was ham-fisted outside it. Believing he was dealing with a slow-witted peasant who would bow to a show of authority, he had set out to choke off any further investigation. Had he understood the peasant mentality, he would have known that even while bowing, the peasant was mentally sticking up two fingers.
How to take the investigation forward, when there were so few facts, so much supposition?… Before he had come to the island, Lewis had been on the Peninsula. Obviously, he’d been in funds. Money he had been paid for carrying out the criminal act, the commission of which had placed him in a position to blackmail Clough? In the top pocket of Lewis’s jacket hanging in the hotel cupboard had been a used rail ticket from Bitges to Barcelona …
CHAPTER 15
‘I should like permission to travel to Bitges, señor,’ Alvarez said over the phone.
‘Why?’ demanded Salas.
‘Before coming to the island, Señor Lewis stayed in Bitges. I know that because he ate in a restaurant two days before catching a train from there to Barcelona.’
There was a short pause. ‘It astonishes me the frequency with which you try to produce cause to travel around the world.’
‘Bitges is in the province of Gerona…’
‘Don’t be insolent. Naturally, I know where it is.’
‘I’m sorry, señor, but the way you put things did seem to suggest…’
‘I suggested nothing … Why would there be the slightest relevance to Lewis’s stay in Bitges?’
‘It’s such an odd place for him to be. It’s fifty kilometres from the coast and very few foreigners go there, let alone stay there, so why did he when he was unable to speak any Castilian, let alone Catalan? The coast would have been a far more logical place for him to be. I can think of only one reason – he was brought over from England to do something illegal and he carefully based himself away from the scene of operations. Whatever that something was, he did it and was paid. A spendthrift, the money ran out and he set about finding more through blackmailing the person for whom he’d committed the criminal act – Clough. By visiting Bitges, I may be able to find out if I’m right. If I am, then there’s a chance of uncovering evidence which will prove Clough was responsible for both Lewis’s and Sheard’s murders.’
‘Put a request through to Bitges for inquiries to be made.’
‘Señor, speed has to be of the essence if we are to discover the truth before it becomes too hidden ever to be revealed. If we ask Bitges to ha
ndle the inquiries, they’ll merely shunt our request to one side since it is not a matter that directly concerns them…’
‘You have no authority for making so damning an accusation.’
‘When we receive a request from the Peninsula –’
‘It is dealt with as a matter of priority.’
‘Of course. But I have been told by many how unusual this is and how efficiently the department must be run.’
After a slight pause, Salas said: ‘You will conduct as brief an inquiry as possible and on your return submit a detailed list of your expenses, verified by receipts.’ He rang off.
Alvarez replaced the receiver. When a man heard words of honey, he seldom wondered why they’d been spoken.
* * *
Two brandies had been insufficient to anaesthetize him to the dangers of the half-hour flight and after arrival at Barcelona airport he felt the need of another at one of the bars before catching the shuttle to Sants station. There, he bought a ticket for the talgo to Bitges.
On a clear day, the Pyrenees could be seen from Bitges and frequently in May, or even early June, their snow-clad peaks provided a sharp visual contrast to the hot, dusty town. Known for its textiles, it was also the home of numerous small businesses, many of which manufactured swords and knives. To the east of the town were the few stretches of Roman wall which previous generations had not dismantled to use the stone to build houses; to the north and half a kilometre outside, built around a natural hollow, were the remains of a Roman theatre. According to most Spaniards, the inhabitants were typical Catalans, dour rather than lively, suspicious of outsiders, and so sharp in money matters that they’d pursue a single peseta to hell; as seen by themselves, they were slow to make friends but the best of friends, honest, industrious businessmen, and far more generous in spirit than the selfish bastards of Madrid, Seville, Valladolid, or Bilbao.
Alvarez paid the taxi and crossed the pavement to enter the square building that had mullioned windows and heavily overhanging eaves which were peculiar to the area. He spoke to the duty receptionist, had to wait less than five minutes before being directed up to the third floor and Comisario Robles’s office.
Robles was short, thin, nervously active and abrupt of speech. ‘You’re from Llueso? A lovely spot. I had a holiday there a few years ago with the family … Sit down. D’you smoke?’
‘Regrettably, señor.’
‘My father has smoked forty cigarettes a day since he was a youngster and never has as much as a cold.’ He offered a pack, accepted a light, returned to his seat behind the desk on which were several neatly stacked files. ‘So?’
Alvarez gave him a brief résumé of the facts and interpretations he placed on them.
‘It’s a tall order to hope you’ll find out what’s been going on when so much is guesswork.’
‘I know, señor, but I’m banking on the belief that Lewis’s base was here, though he spent considerable time elsewhere, probably the coast – that would mean he almost certainly hired a car. The garage may be able to give us some indication as to where he went and then the police records for that area can be checked to identify a crime in which he may well have been involved.’
‘I trust you are an optimist.’
* * *
It proved to be a long weekend. Alvarez sat at many cafés, ate several meals in restaurants; he wandered through the large street market; he visited the museum which contained a wide selection of early textiles and textile machinery, ceremonial swords and daggers, and Roman artefacts; he even paid five hundred pesetas to see an exhibition of paintings by a local painter who had died in the forties and whose work was described in the catalogue as that of an unacknowledged genius – his considered opinion was that the lack of acknowledgment suggested the general public possessed more common sense than it was generally accorded.
On Monday morning he received a phone call from the comisario’s secretary. Both the hotel at which Señor Lewis had stayed and the garage from which he’d hired a car had been identified and it was suggested that Inspector Alvarez meet Inspector Calvo at Garaje Fiol Roca in half an hour’s time.
For once, he was glad to resume work. A short taxi ride took him to a modern building with large showrooms in the main shopping area. As he paid the taxi, a younger man, sleekly handsome but with an expression of humour to suggest he never took himself too seriously, came forward. ‘Alvarez?… I’m Emiliano Calvo.’ He shook hands energetically as the taxi drove off. ‘I gather you’re from Mallorca, which means Salas is the superior chief. Your bad luck is everyone else’s good luck!’
Alvarez warmed to the other. ‘You obviously know him.’
‘Served under him before he moved to the island. I started each day by calling on the Almighty to arrange a little accident for him – nothing serious, just sufficient to incapacitate him permanently. It never happened, of course. The more urgent the plea, the less it’s listened to … Let’s get out of the sun and I’ll give you the facts.’
They moved into the shade of an overhead awning. Calvo brought a notebook out of his trouser pocket, opened it. ‘Lewis booked in at the Hotel Gandia on the twenty-ninth of May; he came here on the thirtieth and hired a Renault 19. He left the hotel on the eighth of June and returned the car the same day … I suggested coming here first because it’s nearer our place and there’s a small café around the corner which serves the best coffee in town.’
They entered the building, walked between two gleaming saloons and a small sports car and into a glass-walled office in which a middle-aged man and a young woman worked at desks.
Calvo shook hands and introduced Alvarez.
‘What’s the problem this time?’ asked the manager, harassed and hoping they would not bother him for long.
‘I believe you hired a car to Señor Lewis in May,’ Alvarez said. ‘Can you remember him?’
‘Only very vaguely. I’d only know him if he started speaking.’
‘How’s that?’
Neither he nor Teresa, his secretary, had been able to understand a word of what he’d been saying. In desperation, they’d called in one of the mechanics who’d always claimed to be fluent in English. That had turned out to be a gross exaggeration, but with his help they had finally managed to understand that the Englishman wanted to hire a car for nine days. They’d provided a blue Renault 19. At the end of a week he’d returned and – again with the aid of the mechanic – reported a slight fault which had easily been rectified.
‘Did he talk about what he was doing?’
‘You’d better ask Teresa. She’d more time to try and understand at least something of what he said,’ the manager answered.
Alvarez turned. ‘Did he, señorita?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Did he mention why he was staying in Bitges and why he wanted a car?’
‘We never got round to talking about things like that.’
‘Did he ever mention anywhere he’d been?’
‘He didn’t say anything he didn’t have to; leastwise, if he did, I didn’t understand it.’
‘How many kilometres had the car covered when he returned it?’
She looked at the manager. He nodded. She tapped out instructions on the keyboard of the PC, studied the VDU. ‘It was just over one thousand four hundred kilometres.’
Alvarez mentally considered the figures. The distance to the coast was roughly fifty kilometres, so had Lewis driven down there and back each day, he’d have covered nine hundred kilometres; that left five hundred for shorter journeys …
Alvarez thanked them for their help.
* * *
The Hotel Gandia was new, without any particular character, and run with cold efficiency. The assistant manager, possessing the belligerence of an undersized, slightly rat-faced man determined to assert his importance to the world, tried to object to the staff’s being questioned and it was only after Calvo had applied a degree of pressure that he reluctantly agreed.
A
waiter, middle-aged and pot-bellied, certainly remembered the Englishman because it had been so difficult to understand what he’d wanted on the few occasions he’d eaten in the restaurant. Still, he had proved to be more generous than some …
A chambermaid, in her late twenties, with a face sadly disfigured by a broad scar across her right cheek that lifted the corner of her mouth, was more helpful. ‘If he saw me, he always had a chat.’
‘Then you speak English, señorita?’ Alvarez said.
‘I’ve been learning because one day I want to travel and see some of the world and the only way I can do that is if I get work. English is so important…’
Alvarez was sure there was heartache behind her words. Without her facial disfigurement, she would have been pleasant-looking. She would have married and had a family, still the average Spanish woman’s ambition. But because young men seldom bothered to look for inner beauty, she saw little hope of marriage. ‘Did the señor ever tell you why he was staying in Bitges?’
‘Never said anything about that.’
‘This is important, so see if you can remember. Did he ever mention where he was going or where he’d been locally?’
Time passed. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Did he ask you where any place was?’
She shook her head.
He thought for a moment, then said: ‘D’you think he went swimming?’
‘He must have done. Quite often his costume would be hanging up to dry out on the balcony.’
‘Is there a swimming pool in the town?’
Calvo answered. ‘There’s one at the sports centre.’
‘So he might have gone swimming there or down at the coast.’ Alvarez spoke to her once more. ‘Let’s suppose he went to the coast to swim. You can’t think of anything to suggest where that might have been?’
She hesitated.
‘You might be able to help us?’
‘If Señor Pons hears about it…’
‘The assistant manager will learn nothing from us.’
‘He’s so stupid about it. Saying he’s to be told immediately so he can order the guest to leave. I mean, he knows that in any hotel men take women to their rooms. But the way he goes on … To be honest, I reckon he has a kinky interest in it.’
A Maze of Murders Page 10
