In Search of Murder--An Inspector Alvarez Mallorcan Mystery Read online

  ‘How can I when you’ve got my passport?’

  ‘With money and the right contact, it would not be difficult to buy another. Alternately, you might tell the British Consul your passport has been stolen and would he issue you with a replacement.’

  ‘When you’ll have made certain he knows mine had been legally taken from me, not lost.’

  ‘You have experience in such problems?’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Señor …’ Alvarez suddenly stopped mid-flow to put down the receiver and reach across the desk to pick up the burning cigarette which had fallen from the ashtray on to some paper.

  ‘What is it?’

  Salas had spoken sufficiently sharply for Alvarez to guess what had been said even though the receiver still lay on the desk. He hurriedly picked it up. ‘I’m sorry, I had to retrieve the notes I made on my interview.’

  ‘They should have been ready before you began to phone.’

  ‘Señor Russell has admitted he went to Vista Bonita on the day Señor Picare drowned and it is clear that he did so in order to ask for money. He was invited to lunch. Although the meal would have been delicious – as you will know, Lomo con Col cooked well is a revelation when the meat is tender and the cabbage leaves are neither too crisp or sloppy—’

  ‘I find it difficult to decide whether you are more interested in food or, regrettably, matters of a sexual nature. I am interested in neither. Why was he asked to lunch?’

  ‘He is, I understand, some vague relation. Also, the señora was out for the day and it must have been pleasant for Picare to have someone new to talk to. After the meal, the señor said he was going for a swim and Russell should join him. Russell did not because he believed it dangerous to swim too soon after a meal.’

  ‘Quite correct.’

  ‘I believe that proposition is now largely held to be incorrect.’

  ‘You speak with medical knowledge?’

  ‘No, señor.’

  ‘Repeating a comment then from some ill-informed person.’

  ‘Russell thanked the señor for the meal when they were by the pool, drove away. This contradicts Marta’s evidence. It becomes necessary to decide who is the more likely to be remembering accurately or, perhaps, lying.’

  ‘Your judgment?’

  ‘Marta is correct.’

  ‘Your reason?’

  ‘She has nothing to gain whether believed or disbelieved; on the contrary, Russell has much to lose if disbelieved. I have shown that Marta was unlikely to have heard what was said by the pool.’

  ‘Do I correctly understand your suggestion of how events proceeded? Russell undressed, got into the pool, suddenly and violently dragged Señor Picare underwater, made certain he was dead, left the pool, quickly dried, rapidly dressed, drove away. Why does Marta say she could hear what they said when your judgment is that she could not.’

  ‘It would be incorrect to say her mind has flown—’

  ‘It would be absurd. Can you not describe what you believe the state of her mind to have been in intelligent terms?’

  ‘There is no reason to accept that what she says is totally wrong. Had she detailed a longer and more involved conversation, I would wonder is she was making out she had heard more than she did.’

  ‘Why would she?’

  ‘She knows, or guesses, her information is very important. Because she is something of a lost soul …’

  ‘You are reporting to your commanding officer, not writing a novel for love-sick maidens.’

  ‘She may be using imagination to gain our attention.’

  ‘Very unlikely. Question her again.’

  ‘Her mother may well not allow that.’

  ‘You will demand to speak to her.’

  ‘And when the mother complains to the media, tells them the cuerpo has reverted to the past and ignores the rights of those who live in a democracy and condemns without justification?’

  ‘Your imagination surpasses imagination. Do you intend to arrest Russell?’

  ‘Not on the strength of such evidence as we have. Looking at it from your point of view, señor, what if it is finally decided no progress could have been made because Señor Picare’s death was an accident? To dismiss an officer from his case because he fails to solve a crime which was not committed might be considered over-reacting.’

  ‘Have you yet questioned Giselle Dunkling, the Lynette woman and Debra Crane?’

  ‘Not all of them, señor. I would have done had you not demanded that I re-question Russell.’

  ‘When you are called to Hades, Alvarez, will you seek dismissal on the grounds that all your sins were the faults of others?’

  He had assumed he would be able to find the address in the telephone book. He turned to the Llueso section, looked down the As without success. If she had a residencia, he could ask Palma to name the address, but those who worked in that office always resented being asked to do anything. Perhaps Rosalía could help.

  Marta opened the front door of Vista Bonita. He asked how she was.

  ‘All right,’ was her only answer. From her apparent tenseness, the way she looked at him, away, at him again, he guessed she wanted to say something. He stepped inside, said quietly. ‘Is something bothering you, Marta?’

  She looked around the hall, making certain she could not be overheard, yet remained silent.

  ‘Where is the señora?’ he asked.

  ‘Upstairs. She’s not well and can hardly eat anything.’

  ‘Then let’s invite ourselves into the staff sitting room.’

  ‘But if she wants me …’

  ‘Rosalía will find out why.’

  She reluctantly followed him into the small room. He shut the door, took a pace towards a chair when the door was flung back. Rosalía entered. ‘What’s going on? Why have you brought her in here?’ she demanded.

  ‘To have a word with her.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘A word?’

  The idea was so absurd that he did not immediately understand the reason for her angry concern. When he did, he said, ‘You can think that?’

  ‘Easily.’

  ‘Then you need help. She wants to talk to me.’

  She spoke to Marta. ‘If you need help, call out.’ She left.

  ‘What does she mean?’ Marta asked. ‘Why should I need help?’

  ‘I doubt she understands any more than I do.’

  ‘You’re angry. Because of me?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep last night and that always makes me sound grouchy.’

  ‘I can’t sleep since …’ She stopped.

  ‘Have a word with your doctor and see if he can help.’

  ‘Perhaps yours could help you.’

  ‘I will ask him. Marta, when we were in the hall, it seemed you wanted to tell me something. Did you?’

  She looked down at the floor.

  ‘If you’re troubled, tell me why and I will do my very best to help you.’

  ‘Do you … Do you still think … that it was my fault—’

  He interrupted her halting question. ‘I have never believed that you were in any way implicated in the señor’s death. He knew no shame over his behaviour towards you, so he was not overcome by remorse and committed suicide.’ She needed reason to accept his words. ‘We now believe he may have been killed.’

  ‘No!’

  She failed to understand that he was removing any sense of guilt from her. ‘Someone may have murdered him.’

  ‘I … I’ve been so desperately worried.’

  ‘Without any cause.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘As if I had said it under oath.’

  ‘Then, I can stop thinking …?’ She darted forward and lightly kissed him on the cheek, hurried out of the room.

  The pleasure gained from the reassurance he had provided her was swept away by imaginative, unwanted possibilities. What if they never identified someone with both the motive and th
e guilt so that suicide seemed the inevitable conclusion. How would Marta react to his false assurance? A lie often had poisonous tentacles.

  He returned into the hall, walked across to the kitchen. Rosalía was seated at the table, drinking coffee.

  ‘You behaved like a bitch.’ he said roughly.

  ‘You’ll be used to that.’

  ‘How could you think I’d behave towards her as Picare did?’

  ‘Perhaps I was a bit hasty’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve been so worried about her becoming desperately depressed because she thinks she was responsible. Don’t you understand? I find the two of you in there with the door shut. D’you expect me to shrug my shoulders and walk on?’

  ‘To find out the truth before shouting at me for being a pervert.’

  ‘Really, you aren’t all that dissimilar from the señor. Your pleasures are mostly the same as his.’

  ‘Like hell they are!’

  ‘He was after any women who looked sweetly eager, you always show the same interest. His loyalty to his marriage is matched by yours to a virtuous bachelorhood. Now, would you like some coffee with the scent of coñac?’

  ‘Laced with arsenic?’

  ‘Only if no one can find out I gave it to you.’

  He sat. She poured out coffee and added a solid dash of brandy to each cup, carried cups and saucers to the table, sat opposite to him.

  He drank, appreciated the proportion of coñac to coffee. ‘Tell me something, Rosalía.’

  ‘The answer remains, ‘No.’

  ‘I want you to help me.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Señor Russell told me a woman named Lynette came here frequently. Did you ever come across her?’

  ‘Yes. Lynette Arcton.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Stony cottage – English countryside romanticism.’

  ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘On the first road below Puig Grog, in the urbanizacion.’

  ‘And do you know anything about a Giselle Dunkling?’

  ‘She is a physiotherapist and came here to help the señor’s back, but you make out she was having an affair with him.’

  ‘I did not. Your mind raced to that conclusion. Do you know anything more about her?’

  ‘No more than most, but it seems perhaps more than you.’

  ‘Why? What are you getting at?’

  ‘She partakes in a ménage à trois. There are three of them who live together and they claim that one is her half-brother, however I can assure you he is not. His introduction to society was to stem the opinion of those who feel it necessary to be outraged by others’ lives.’

  ‘How did you learn about the relationship?’

  ‘Why didn’t you know until I told you?’

  He stared at nothing, his mind trying to assess the consequences of what she had said. Two men sharing one woman was a situation unlikely to lead to domestic unity. One of the two men was bound to feel short-changed.

  ‘You look as if you have no experience of such relationships,’ she said.

  ‘True.’

  ‘And I’ve been thinking of you as a man of the world. Perhaps your air of confidence is a shield to hide uncertainty and nervousness? Would you like to finish your coffee and leave because I have to prepare lunch for the señora who now wishes to eat.’

  ‘She has become reconciled to the death of the señor?’

  ‘You judge by the time it would take you to overcome grief at your wife’s death?’

  He stood, walked to the doorway, stopped. ‘What’s the menu?’

  ‘Fillets of turbot.’

  ‘The same pleasure for you?’

  ‘Being on my own.’

  He walked up to the rock-built house, modern to judge from the number of windows and their sizes. The front door was panelled and oiled. He sounded the bell.

  A woman opened the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Señora Arcton? I am Inspector Alvarez. I should be grateful if I might speak to you.’

  ‘Because of Neil?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  The entrada was barely furnished. She was of an appearance that wasn’t obviously eye-catching. A woman might criticise her – too large a mouth, long neck, poor hair style, make-up too generous – but a man would note the indications of a passionate nature.

  In the sitting room was a display cabinet in which were several model World War II aircraft. He recognised a Spitfire, a Me 109, and a Lancaster; others had familiar shapes, but he could not name them.

  She noticed his interest. ‘My grandfather was in the RAF. He made them.’

  ‘They are wonderfully well done, señora.’

  ‘He could make wood and metal do as he wanted.’

  ‘In my hands a piece of wood becomes splinters.’

  She smiled.

  Her dark brown hair was generously fashioned, her eyes were possessed of a depth of blue which engaged poets, her nose could have been modelled by an artist. ‘Señora, I believe you knew Señor Picare?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Would you refer to him as a close friend?’

  ‘How close is that?’

  ‘You frequently visited him at Vista Bonita.’

  ‘How frequent is frequent?’

  ‘Perhaps it will make things easier if I explain that I am trying to find out as much about the señor’s life as possible.’

  ‘Then it is not just a rumour that it may not have been an accident?’

  ‘I will be frank. We still cannot be certain whether or not his unfortunate death was accidental. As a consequence, we are speaking to those who knew him in order to learn if he suffered from depression or a mental illness, was known to have argued bitterly with others, expressed a fear of someone, hinted he might be in danger.’

  ‘He argued, but when I heard him, it was never angrily. I imagine he annoyed many people.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘If the tittle-tattle is correct, he was a small-time farmer who sold land for development which enabled him able to retire wealthy. There are still two or three wives of retired higher-ranking officers in the armed forces who are living on reduced circumstances because of inflation and increased taxation; they refer to him as the jumped-up cowman. Naturally, their contempt doesn’t prevent their attending his parties and enjoying the fruits of his unearned success.’

  ‘You sound as if your resentment was for their attitude?’

  ‘Cynical amusement rather than resentment.’

  ‘You are unwilling to say how frequently you went to Vista Bonita?’

  ‘Too difficult to remember.’

  ‘Was Señora Picare happy to meet you.’

  ‘Happiness seems to have escaped her a long time ago.’

  ‘Was she always at Vista Bonita when you were?’

  ‘Seldom. Inspector, would you like a drink? If so, what would you choose?’

  ‘Thank you. May I have a coñac with just ice?’

  She stood. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  After she left, he studied the three framed photographs on the top shelf of the simple bookcase, filled with hardcover and paperback books. In each photograph she was with the same smiling man.

  She returned, handed him a glass, sat. ‘Salud, inspector.’

  It was a pleasant coñac, not far short of a good one. He held the glass in his hand, enjoying the coolness of the glass. ‘I asked you if Señora Picare was always there when you visited Vista Bonita and I think you said not. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she ever there?’

  ‘I don’t remember her being so.’

  ‘Perhaps you made certain she would not be?’

  ‘You need me to answer?’

  ‘It’s just that …’ He stopped.

  ‘People are even more hypocritical over sex than wealth. Inspector, my marriage was happy and fun and when I remember Sam it’s lik
e rejoining a dream. Sam was a “let’s do it now because tomorrow we may not be able to” person. He had a good income, spent more. When he died, bank accounts were overdrawn, payments on the mortgage were in arrears, creditors became very noisy. By the time things were sorted out, his estate was virtually nil. I had some savings, but they were well short of comfortable. I came out here and rented a flat, knowing it was stupid because I would return to England virtually penniless. But I had to find a way to accept Sam’s death and was certain the change in surroundings might help to do that.’

  She looked across. ‘Your glass is empty. May I refill it?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They both stood, she to take his glass, he to hand it to her. Her brief expression of surprise indicated she had expected him, as a Mallorquin, to remain seated whilst she fetched and carried. Seen close to, her ear lobes were unusually large. An indication of emotional vulnerability. He returned to his seat, she carried out the glasses, soon returned with them refilled.

  Having handed him his glass, she walked over to the window and stared out. ‘I fell in love with the port, the background, the beautiful bay, never more so than when occasionally there is a sea fret and the far mountains pierce it. I believe it’s hell to do business with anyone here, but it did the trick for me. I became at peace, never forgetting him, but no longer cursing the young driver of the other car which skidded because of speed. Sam was gone, but he had given me times to be treasured.’ She drank, put the glass down, stared into space.

  Her thoughts must have been similar to his when Juana María had died. Why had it happened to her? Why had she not checked the last step so that the car missed her? Why did God suffer drunken drivers rather than the innocent?

  Lynette Arcton resumed speaking. ‘I had to wake up in the real world and understand my life was going to have to be pretty basic. No more treats to relieve a bad day, wine at meals, a drink or two in the evening. I was faced with the problem all ex-pats do when they consider returning home. Where would I live? Property here has become difficult to sell and its value has fallen more than the equivalent would have in England. How would I gain a mortgage when one has to put down an ever-larger deposit, I was a widow, had none of the skills needed to get a well-paid job?