The Ambiguity of Murder Page 14

  Bailey fiddled with his glass. ‘This isn’t the sort of thing one likes to drag one’s friends into.’

  ‘Señor, if she can confirm that the phone call was made within a certain time period, I will know you could not have been at Son Fuyell when Señor Zavala died.’

  ‘Despite the very strong motive and your belief it was my car which was seen?’

  ‘No one can be in two places at once.’

  ‘It’s fortunate that our lives aren’t governed by quantum mechanics since then supposedly that would be possible … Wendy Easton, and she lives in the urbanizacíon halfway down to the puerto … What’s the name of her place?’

  ‘Casa Blanca,’ Fenella replied.

  ‘Typical!’

  * * *

  Alvarez did not understand Bailey’s comment until he saw that the house was painted pink. It was a small bungalow and at the foot of the hill so that it lacked any view. Wendy was a generously proportioned woman who suffered the social disadvantage of saying what she thought.

  ‘Why?’ she demanded as she stood in the doorway.

  A woman of her size, Alvarez thought, really should have the tact not to wear trousers. ‘I am carrying out an investigation…’

  ‘So you said. What I’m asking is, how can you be so confused as to imagine Harry knows anything?’

  ‘I have to investigate the possibility even if I think it unlikely.’

  ‘Chasing shadows. I suppose you want a drink?’

  The abrupt change of conversation, and the aggressive manner in which the question had been put, confused him.

  ‘Do you or don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not necessary…’

  ‘A Mallorquin who has to have his arm twisted before he has a drink? What’s the next miracle? A plumber who turns up in less than a month?… Are you going to go on standing there?’

  Bewildered, he moved forward and she stepped aside there would not have been room for him to enter had she not done so.

  ‘In there.’

  It had been more command than direction. The sitting room was overcrowded with furniture and on one wall was the framed photograph of a man standing by a pony, a polo stick in his hand. Her husband? Army? Had the troops had more cause to beware of her than him?

  ‘What d’you drink? If I haven’t got it, you can’t have it.’

  He asked for a brandy.

  She left, to return with a tray on which were bottles, glasses, and a bowl of ice cubes. He watched her pour out two very generous brandies. Most people had their good points to counter their bad ones.

  ‘D’you want soda or ginger with it?’

  ‘If I may, just ice.’

  ‘It’s freedom hall.’ She dropped four ice cubes into one glass, handed him this, gave herself ginger and ice. She sat.

  ‘Señora, I understand you telephoned Señor and Señora Bailey on the second of this month, in the evening.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I was hoping you would.’

  ‘Hopes come cheaply.’

  ‘You asked him what he thought of a cocktail party you’d both been to.’

  She drank. ‘That’s right! Dolly’s. A silly woman, all lipstick and scent. At her age, she should have grown out of such things.’

  ‘You spoke to Señor Bailey?’

  ‘That sounds logical, since he answered the phone. Fenella was gardening. Can’t think why they don’t employ someone to do that. Not, of course, that any of the locals know what a proper garden is.’

  ‘Did you discuss anything else?’

  ‘I asked him why he’d left early – was he or Fenella ill?’

  ‘What did he answer?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Some waffle or other. He’s far too tactful to tell the truth. I’ll swear the smoked salmon was off. Probably kept from the last party. Dolly’s as rich as Croesus and behaves like Scrooge.’ She belched. When she saw his expression, she said: ‘Better out than in, whether you’re a duchess or a lavatory attendant.’ She opened a heavily carved wooden box, picked out a cheroot. ‘Do you use these?’

  ‘I prefer cigarettes.’

  ‘I’m not going to offer you one because I don’t have any.’

  He lit a cigarette as she lit her cheroot. ‘Señora, can you say what the time was when you phoned Señor Bailey?’

  ‘Good God, you think I can be bothered to watch a clock?’

  ‘You have no idea when you made the call?’

  ‘Must have been before nine. After nine, everyone’s too sloshed to talk sense.’

  Since she had already finished her drink, he thought that it was, at least in her case, a correct assumption.

  As if in response to his thoughts, she stood. ‘What’s the matter with the brandy? Not to your refined taste?’

  He drained his glass and handed it to her. ‘Can you be more exact about the time?’

  She crossed to the tray, on a small glass-topped table, and refilled the two glasses. As she handed him his, she said: ‘If I’m on my own, I always watch the news at eight.’ She returned to her chair and sat, so energetically that some of the drink slopped over the top of the glass and on to her hand. She transferred the glass to her left hand, licked her right one. ‘Waste not, want not … I’ll probably have rung during the first break for commercials. Bloody things! I make certain I never buy anything advertised on television.’

  ‘Roughly when would that break be?’

  ‘Didn’t I say, I don’t watch the clock?’

  ‘This was English television?’

  ‘You think I watch the Spanish news?’

  It would be easy to find out when the commercial breaks normally occurred on the English service, but it was reasonable to assume it would be around a quarter past the hour. Since Bailey had been at home at that time, he could not have been anywhere near Son Fuyell when Zavala died, and the green Astra shooting brake was an irrelevance. He was glad.

  CHAPTER 20

  When Alvarez climbed out of his car, a single puffball cloud, drifting eastwards, held him in its shade for almost a minute as he stood still. When once more in sharp sunlight, he crossed to the patio of Ca’n Ibron. As he climbed the steps, Pons came through the doorway. ‘Looking at you, I thought you’d died on your feet,’ was his greeting.

  ‘I was thinking how things change from light to dark and back again.’

  ‘Are you boozed out of your mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You talk like you are.’

  ‘Never judge a lamb by the way it bleats.’

  ‘It’s a long time since you were a lamb, that’s for bloody sure! What do you want now?’

  ‘I’ve some questions.’

  ‘You still think I did the bastard in?’

  ‘You’d certainly have enjoyed doing it.’

  ‘There’s a lot of things I’d enjoy doing, but ain’t done.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ Alvarez finally said.

  ‘Tired out after too long a siesta?’

  ‘I’ve been too busy working to sleep.’

  ‘More likely too busy sleeping to work.’

  Alvarez crossed to one of the patio chairs and sat.

  ‘Make yourself at home! And now I suppose you want some booze you’ve not had to pay for?’

  ‘That makes it taste better.’

  Pons went indoors and shouted, returned to sit on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘How are the olives looking?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘It’s going to be a poor crop.’

  Crops were always going to be poor – the gods of the harvest did not like boasters.

  ‘But there’ll be enough?’

  ‘Enough for what?’

  ‘There’s nothing to compare with the taste of the first pressing.’

  ‘Which’ll stay here, so don’t waste your time coming round at the end of the year to ask how I am.’

  ‘A sus
picious mind makes for a poor digestion.’

  ‘It makes certain it’s my digestion what’s poor and not yours.’

  Cristina came out of the house. Plainly nervous, she did not look at Alvarez as she greeted him before putting the tray down on the table.

  ‘He’s on the scrounge again,’ Pons said. ‘Wants some oil when it’s harvested.’

  ‘I was merely asking what sort of crop you’ll be likely to have,’ Alvarez protested.

  ‘Paid to sit on his backside and do nothing all day, and when he does move, it’s to come here scrounging.’

  ‘Don’t you think…’ she began, stopped when there was a sound from inside. ‘Is that Lucía … I must go.’ She hurried back inside.

  ‘She worries,’ Pons said. ‘Always expecting the kids to get into trouble.’

  ‘Like the adults?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That three jacks never were worth betting one’s shirt on.’

  ‘You’d dance on a man’s grave, given the chance.’ He poured out two brandies, pushed a glass across the table.

  Alvarez helped himself to three cubes of ice. The fountain was casting a shadow that, with only a little imagination, formed the profile of a very old man with a crooked nose. A quick movement on the patio roof was a gecko, which ‘froze’ when he looked up at it. A small blue butterfly settled briefly on a nearby rose bush. An overflying aeroplane left a trail in the sky, the four streams merging into two, the two into one, the one gradually disappearing. A kestrel appeared, hovered, swept away to the right. A dog barked, several others responded, all became silent. Swallows performed aerial acrobatics … ‘If this were my place, I’d do anything to keep hold of it.’

  ‘It ain’t yours.’

  ‘If you’d decided to kill Zavala, how would you have gone about that?’

  ‘With an axe.’

  ‘That’s what I reckoned.’

  They drank.

  ‘If I tell you Zavala died at around eight o’clock that night, where would you have been at the time?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Not drinking in one of the bars to forget?’

  ‘Any more suggestions and I’ll see where my axe is.’

  ‘It just seems odd for someone like you to be at home in the evening.’

  Pons drained his glass. ‘Can’t you get this into your rock-solid head? When I had to tell Cristina what had happened, I swore to her I wouldn’t act stupid again. And I ain’t. I’ve been at home every night.’

  ‘But you can’t prove to me that you were here the night Zavala died?’

  Pons turned round to face the front door and shouted. Seconds later, Cristina hurried out of the house. ‘It’s all right,’ she said as she came to a stop by the table. ‘Lucía banged her arm, but she’s not really hurt.’

  Despite his present, pressing concerns, Pons said: ‘Are you sure she’s not broken anything?’

  ‘There’s hardly a bruise.’ She looked quickly at Alvarez, then away. ‘All she did was tumble over a toy that was left lying around … D’you want something to eat?’

  ‘I’m not feeding the lazy sod as well as boozing him.’

  She drew in her breath with an audible hiss. ‘You mustn’t talk like that.’

  ‘It’s the only language he understands.’

  ‘But he’s a policeman.’

  ‘Wasn’t up to anything else.’

  ‘Santi, please…’ She did not finish.

  Alvarez smiled. ‘Between friends, rudeness becomes affection.’

  ‘Not with me it don’t,’ Pons said. ‘Not when I keep telling him I’ve been here every evening and couldn’t have done the bastard in and he won’t believe me.’

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ Alvarez asked. ‘I’d like a word.’

  ‘I do the asking in my house,’ Pons shouted.

  ‘But it takes you time to remember?’

  Pons used a few of the expressions which made Mallorquin so rewarding a language in which to swear.

  Cristina hastily sat.

  Alvarez quietly asked her: ‘Can you remember Tuesday, the second of this month?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was so obviously a lie. She would lie to the devil, he thought admiringly, if that would help her family. ‘How can you be so certain of the date?’

  ‘I just am.’

  ‘One evening’s very much like another, especially when one’s talking about almost a month ago.’

  ‘What are you after?’ Pons demanded. ‘Ask her a question and she answers it and then you try to tell her she can’t know what she’s talking about.’

  ‘I have to try to confirm everything.’

  ‘Then confirm this. She remembers I was here that evening.’

  ‘I haven’t heard her say that.’

  ‘Bloody deaf as well as thick?’ Pons spoke to his wife. ‘I was here all that evening, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered.

  ‘Why can you place that evening for certain?’ Alvarez asked.

  Pons, finding action easier than words, slammed a thick fist down on the table, making the glasses jump and the little ice left in them jingle against their sides.

  She spoke very quickly. ‘He hasn’t gone out any evening since he told me about losing all that money. I swear that’s the truth. You must believe me. Why won’t you?’

  ‘A good wife always supports her husband, whatever the truth.’

  ‘You think I’m lying?’

  ‘Regretfully, I have to consider the possibility.’

  ‘Then I suppose you believe we’ll have taught the children to lie as well?’

  ‘The children?’

  Her tone was now challenging. ‘If they say Santiago has been at home every evening for weeks, will you tell them they’re liars?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  She stood, went over to the open doorway, and called. Rosa and Lucía came out on to the patio. Rosa said hullo to Alvarez, Lucía, far more shy, did not.

  ‘The inspector wants to ask you something,’ Cristina said. ‘You’re to tell him everything you can because we want to help him. Do you understand?’

  Rosa said she did, Lucía remained silent.

  Cristina faced Alvarez. ‘Well?’

  He wondered how to question them without upsetting, perhaps even frightening, them? He cleared his throat. He picked up his glass and drained it. He decided he’d rather talk to Salas than do what he was trying to do now …

  Cristina brought an end to his problem. ‘Where does Daddy go in the evenings?’

  ‘He’s here,’ Rosa answered.

  ‘What does he do when he’s here?’

  ‘Everything. He built the treehouse and Lucía tried to knock it down…’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Lucía protested.

  With a skill that Alvarez admired, Cristina gradually encouraged them to confirm what he had already been told. In the long past, Pons had seldom been at home in the evenings and very rarely had he kissed them good night; but for ages now he had played with them, built them the lovely treehouse, kissed them good night. Every night. Every, every night. Not one had been missed …

  She hugged them, said that they deserved a chocolate biscuit each for being so clever, and led them indoors.

  ‘Is that good enough for you?’ Pons asked aggressively.

  For children, yesterday was a long time ago, a month, an almost forgotten age. Yet they were sharply aware of unwelcome changes. So whilst it was certain they could not have picked out July the second and named anything specific which had happened on that day, they had become used to their father’s always being at home in the evenings and so had there been one when he had not been, it seemed probable they would have remembered that fact. Cristina had made not the slightest effort to prompt them; each had been certain that for weeks and weeks and weeks, their father had been at home all evening …

  ‘Are you going to call ’em liars like you’ve been calling me and Cristina?’ Pons demande
d.

  ‘I haven’t done that.’

  ‘You’re a bloody liar!’

  ‘Perhaps. They say one has to walk a long way to find a completely truthful man.’

  ‘A long way from where you’re standing, that’s for sure.’

  There was a silence. Finally, Alvarez said: ‘How are things at work?’

  ‘There’s a job or two around since the Germans are back.’

  He was glad to hear that. Since all Germans were known to be wealthy, Pons would inflate his estimates to add a hidden profit. Hopefully, the extra money would enable him to save his home and his business and good would follow a small malpractice. A moralist might condemn, a pragmatist would applaud.

  Alvarez fingered his glass to draw attention to the fact that it was empty.

  CHAPTER 21

  Dominica opened the front door of Ca’n Jerome. ‘You again!’ she said, in a friendly voice. ‘What’s it this time?’

  ‘I’d like a word with Señor Robertson,’ Alvarez answered as he stepped into the hall.

  ‘There won’t be many who’ll say that!’

  He smiled. ‘Is he in?’

  ‘He is, shouting for this and that, as if he’d no legs or arms. What he needs is a couple of slaves.’

  ‘And is the señora here?’

  ‘She’s out shopping with her boyfriend.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Only in a manner of speaking. With Señor Lockhart. Makes me laugh, he does. And the life he leads is his own affair. I don’t hold with the way the señor talks about him behind his back.’

  ‘Doesn’t like him?’

  ‘Doesn’t like anyone but himself, if you ask me.’

  ‘Where is he right now?’

  ‘By the pool, moaning and drinking.’

  Alvarez went through the sitting room and out on to the covered patio where Robertson sat in a luxurious pool chair by the side of a table on which were bottles, ice container, and one glass. ‘Good morning, señor.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I should like to ask a few questions.’

  ‘I’m too ill.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The doctors can’t find out what’s wrong.’

  ‘Sadly, it can be difficult.’

  ‘Impossible, when everyone’s incompetent.’