An Artistic Way to Go Page 15

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who were you with?’

  ‘Her name’s Helen.’

  ‘And her surname?’

  ‘How would I know? You think we flash visiting cards?’

  ‘I shall have to speak to her, so perhaps you can help me identify her further?’

  ‘Room seven-one-two.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Suppose I say I hate polite foreign cops so much my right arm’s twitching?’

  ‘Then perhaps I should point out that although some Spanish jails are quite salubrious these days, others have not changed.’

  ‘I want my goddamn passport back.’

  ‘As soon as I have heard from America, perhaps it will be possible for me to return it to you.’

  ‘I’ve told the consul in Palma to get on to the ambassador in Madrid.’

  ‘Then no doubt I shall be hearing from my superior chief belong long, but I think that for once he will agree with me and say that until we have heard from America, it must remain in our possession.’ As he stood, he was convinced that although White’s expression remained coolly blank, an inner anger was – as he had suggested earlier – urging him to violent action.

  Once in the foyer, Alvarez crossed to the reception desk and asked for the name of the occupant of room 712. The clerk checked, said: ‘Señorita Helen Hamill.’

  ‘Would you page her, please? I’ll be in the lounge.’

  The lounge was as empty as it had been on previous occasions. A waiter asked him if he wanted anything. Despite the fact that he judged it wiser not to expect the hotel to pay yet again, he could not resist ordering a brandy.

  A tall woman in her early twenties, with an open, attractive face, wearing a modestly cut, colourful cotton dress, stepped into the lounge and looked about her. Alvarez stood and said: ‘Señorita Hamill?’ She crossed the short distance to his table, moving with the easy rhythm of an athlete. Laughter, warmth, and honest friendship, he thought. Small wonder that White had not remained her companion.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, with the directness he had expected. She spoke English with the accent of windy moors.

  He introduced himself. As they sat, the waiter returned. He asked if she’d like a drink, she shook her head.

  ‘Why do you want to question me?’ she asked, curious rather than apprehensive.

  ‘Señorita, I need to ask you questions concerning another guest at this hotel. Please understand that this doesn’t mean there is reason to believe he has done anything wrong, it is merely that I need to substantiate what he has told me.’

  ‘Are you referring to Ernest?’

  ‘Señor White, yes. He has told me that he was dancing with you on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you say from when to when?’

  ‘The dance was after dinner. I don’t know exactly, but I imagine it started about half past ten. Madge and I were at our table and soon after the music started, Ernest came across and asked me to dance.’

  ‘Madge is a friend?’

  ‘We’re on holiday together. We’re friends of old and coincidentally we’d both reason to get away from it all…’ Her gaze became unfocused.

  He wondered if emotional problems were the reason?

  She jerked her attention back to the present. ‘Anyway, as I’ve said, he asked me to dance. Someone else spoke to Madge and we formed a foursome for the rest of the evening.’

  ‘Roughly when did that finish?’

  ‘It was around two o’clock.’

  ‘And just to confirm things, from ten thirty until two, Señor White was with you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Thank you, señorita.’

  She faced him, her blue eyes fixed on his. She said, with typical directness: ‘I don’t believe you’ve asked those questions just to check what he told you, so why have you?’

  ‘I can assure you that that is the truth.’

  ‘But not the whole truth. And it has to be because of something important.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A man has been killed and I am trying to discover who killed him. I now know that it cannot have been Señor White.’

  ‘I see.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘Are you surprised?’

  He didn’t know how to answer that.

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked, should I? Only…’

  ‘Yes, señorita?’

  ‘You won’t tell him, will you, but there’s something about him … He was very amusing and very attentive; it was a great evening and I forgot all my worries. But afterwards he made it clear he was looking for further entertainment and when I put the stopper on that idea, he became all cold and angry. I suddenly had the feeling that he could be dangerous when he didn’t get what he wanted.’

  ‘However near the truth you may be, señorita, what you have just told me makes it quite certain that he did not commit the murder.’

  * * *

  Burns’s greeting was no more welcoming than White’s had been. He shook hands with the man to whom he’d been talking, walked around the stern of a yacht on a cradle, and came to a halt squarely in front of Alvarez. ‘What the bloody hell is it this time? The Christian names of my great-grandparents?’

  ‘Where were you from eleven o’clock onwards on Wednesday night?’

  ‘It’s beginning to sound as if there’s been another Spanish cock-up.’

  ‘If you will answer.’

  Burns jammed his hands into the pockets of his stained overalls. ‘Rachael told you.’

  ‘She answered a different question.’

  ‘I drove Rachael to Muriel’s place.’

  ‘Did you enter the house?’

  ‘For once, Muriel was in a friendly, not a bitchy, mood – she’d been at the Crafters earlier on and they always lash out the booze to prove how generous they are, so I’ve been told.’

  ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘It was well after one.’

  ‘Did you return to your flat?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did anyone see you return?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Thank you, señor.’

  ‘So next time you appear out of the woodwork, what’ll it be; where was I this time last year?’

  There were similarities between Burns and White, though neither man would have welcomed the comparison.

  CHAPTER 21

  In the summer, the main road between the port and Llueso was one of the most dangerous on the island; much of it was dead straight, speeds were high, and drivers’ machismo flourished. But self-preservation was not the only reason for Alvarez’s eschewing it whenever possible; due to the planner’s belief that a straggling line of commercial premises made for attractive scenery, in many places the road was lined by ugly, sprawling complexes. In sharp contrast, the back roads went through countryside that remained countryside and open fields, crops, trees, and farm animals, provided the sense of continuity he was always seeking. There was no prior intention, then, to visit Field, but when he approached the lane which led down to the caseta, he slowed. It was still relatively early. If he continued on to the village, he would in all conscience have to return to the office. Who knew what work might be waiting there? He turned.

  As he continued along the twisting lane in second gear, ready to brake sharply if he met any oncoming vehicle, since for most of the time there was not the room for passing, he mentally reviewed the facts. Initially, he had considered Field an unlikely suspect, since not only did he lack motive (there were motiveless murders, but he was convinced this was not one of them), he had had a direct interest in Cooper’s continuing to live. When it had seemed that the watch marked the time of death, Field had been the only one without an alibi, but this still hadn’t been sufficient definitely to point the finger of guilt at him. Now it was known that death had occurred at least one hour and forty minutes after the time the watch had stopped. An attempt to provide
an alibi by setting the hands of the watch back and then smashing it? If so, Field was cleared. Only if the assault had taken place at 9.23 and death much later, did that conclusion break down. And the arguments against that theory were strong.

  He turned off the lane and drove to the caseta, parking by the side of the Seat 127. As he stepped out of his Ibiza, Field came round the corner of the building. ‘I congratulate you on the timing. I’ve just taken out the ice from the fridge to go with the brandy.’

  Politeness dictated that Alvarez dismiss the assumption that he should be offered a drink simply because he had arrived at an opportune moment: he considered hypocrisy to be one of the deadliest of sins. ‘Then I’m glad that I neither hurried nor lingered.’

  ‘Come on round. We’ll sit inside, if that’s all right with you? The mosquitoes are hungrier than ever and they’ve driven me inside every evening for days now.’

  They walked round and into the caseta. There was no ceiling, as such, only the underside of the sloping roof, but the wooden beams were in good order and had been stained and the flat under-tiles (which had replaced the original bamboo) had been plastered; the walls were smooth and painted white, the floor was attractively tiled. The furniture was Mallorquin, simple but practical in design. A pedestal fan was turning at full speed, making a low, slashing hum.

  ‘I’m afraid this place isn’t palatial,’ Field said, as he crossed to the television set and switched it off. ‘But I pride myself that it’s very much more in harmony with its surroundings than many of the houses that foreigners have had built. Carbuncles, one local builder calls them.’

  ‘It is an apt description.’ Alvarez looked around him. On one wall hung a painting that was a burst of colour and swirling forms. ‘That is your work?’ he asked admiringly.

  ‘I painted it, but it’s another copy. Like Oliver, I’m prepared to accept a copy when I cannot have the original. I’ve always thought that when Van Gogh was in the asylums at Arles and S. Remy, madness touched his work with something even beyond genius. For me, it also has a hidden value. I painted that after Mary died and I couldn’t think of any reason for continuing to live; somehow it persuaded me I had a reason, even if I couldn’t identify what that was. I brought it out because it reminds me of the battle I fought and, I think, won.’

  ‘Then for you it must be more valuable than if it were the original.’

  ‘I’m not surprised you understand.’

  ‘Do you have any of your original paintings here?’

  ‘Only one and that’s damaged, which is why it’s here. All the others are in England, looking for buyers – and very unlikely to find them now that Oliver’s not around to push.’

  ‘His death has been a double loss to you.’

  ‘Yes, it has been. But I think it’s reconciled me to the fact that I’ll never become a second Grandma Moses. And by my age, ambition’s really a scorpion, not a siren. The only thing is, I’ll never justify Mary’s faith in me. But perhaps in an afterlife one can be completely happy to see people as they really are, however they are; if that’s so, she’ll understand and approve.’

  ‘I wonder if I might see the one painting of yours that you have?’

  ‘Curious to judge how badly a good copyist can paint?’

  Alvarez was sufficiently well acquainted with the English character to recognize the habit of self-deprecation when emotions were involved. ‘Since, as I told you, I am totally ignorant about art, I shall only know if I do or don’t like it.’

  Field chuckled. ‘The perfect critic for the amateur! And in the face of such perfection, I’m prepared to bare all.’ He crossed to the far room and went through, to return with a canvas which he unrolled. An olive tree, gnarled and twisted, stood to the right of an abandoned rock-built shed. Hills, ranging back to distant mountains with jagged crests, formed the backdrop, cut off at the right-hand corner where the canvas had been torn.

  It was an attractive painting, Alvarez thought, but offered no more than did dozens of other paintings he had seen in local exhibitions. But however ignorant of art, he did know enough about artists to understand that even when they asked for an honest opinion, that was the last thing they wanted. ‘I think that’s really good.’ Hypocrisy might be a sin, but sins were necessary in the real world.

  ‘For those sweet words, I’ll pour doubles.’ He rolled up the canvas, slipped it just inside the doorway of the far room. ‘I mentioned coñac, but if you’d rather, there’s gin, vodka, or wine?’

  ‘Coñac, thank you.’

  It was considerably later when Alvarez reluctantly brought the conversation round to the reason for his visit. ‘I’m afraid I have to ask more questions.’

  ‘No problem. But first, let me refill your glass.’

  His drink refreshed, Alvarez said: ‘We now know that the time of Señor Cooper’s death was after eleven on Wednesday evening, not earlier. So I have to ask people where they were then, to confirm that they could not have been responsible for his death.’

  ‘Or to confirm that they could … So where was I? Probably here, watching a film on satellite and wondering why so much money is wasted by so many people on so much bilge … Hang on. Late Wednesday evening? I was with the Calvo family, down the road.’

  ‘Francisco Calvo?’

  ‘You know him, then?’

  ‘His wife, Marta, is a very distant cousin.’

  ‘A wonderful old boy. Though I shouldn’t be calling him old. Sometimes when I hear the English criticizing the Mallorquins, I feel the urge to introduce them to Francisco. Never do, of course. They’d be careful not to recognize that he’s worth two of them any day of the week.’

  * * *

  Calvo stood in the doorway of his house. ‘I suppose you want a drink?’

  ‘I’ll not refuse one,’ Alvarez replied.

  ‘And never will, until you’re dead. And then, like as not, you’ll sit up and open your mouth. You’d best come in.’

  Alvarez entered the kitchen. It was the largest room in the house, pebble-floored, and had a vast, cowled fireplace on either side of which were bench seats. The gas cooker was a candidate for a museum, the sink had been carved out of rock, the shelves were made from sandstone; several strings of small sobrasadas hung from the ceiling. A chicken wandered in through the open doorway, then departed in a squawking hurry as it just managed to escape a boot.

  Marta was preparing vegetables for the next day’s market in Playa Neuva, trimming off excess stalks and leaves. She acknowledged Alvarez with a brief, toothless smile, continued working. He sat at the wooden table, its surface rippled from years of being scrubbed down. Calvo served a smoky, earthy, home-made red wine and they spoke about the crops, the drought, the stupidity of the provincial government and the incompetence of the national one.

  Alvarez watched his glass tumbler as it was refilled. ‘There’s something you can tell me.’

  ‘There ain’t much I can’t.’ Calvo refilled his own glass, put down the earthenware jug on the table, turned and said to Marta: ‘Some more olives.’

  She slipped a rubber band over the very large lettuce in her hand, dropped the lettuce into a cane basket lined with sacking, stood slowly because her back was paining her more than usual. She crossed to one of the lower shelves beyond the sink and lifted down a jar of olives.

  ‘D’you remember Wednesday night?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘Who was here?’

  ‘Me and her.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘D’you think we invite the bloody town council?’

  Marta, who was ladling olives from the jar on to a dish, said: ‘Carolina was here.’

  ‘Of course she was.’

  ‘It was her birthday.’

  ‘He knows that, doesn’t he?’

  The foreigners had imported the idea of birthdays to be added to saints’ days. An importation welcomed by the young who now tended to receive two sets of presents. ‘Who’s Carolina?’ Alvarez
asked.

  ‘The granddaughter. Smart as they come!’ said Calvo proudly. ‘Last exams, she got sobresaliente in four subjects!’

  Alvarez expressed the expected surprise at such brilliance at school. ‘And she was the only other person here?’

  ‘Elena,’ said Marta, as she carried the jar back to the shelf. ‘Her Guillermo didn’t come until later on account of having to work. Arrived just before Carlos.’

  However long the journey, eventually one arrived. ‘Carlos Field was here?’

  ‘Didn’t I say it was Carolina’s birthday?’ Calvo was irritated by the other’s apparent stupidity.

  ‘Is he her godfather?’

  ‘Wasn’t on the island when she was born, so he couldn’t be. They didn’t make you detective because of your brains.’

  ‘It was because of my looks … Never have thought you’d have invited a foreigner along.’

  ‘Are you saying I can’t do as I like?’

  ‘Enrique’s not saying anything of the sort.’ Marta sat, picked up a fresh lettuce, stripped off the outer leaves.

  ‘Then what is he on about?’

  She didn’t answer her husband, but spoke to Alvarez: ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘What?’

  She stared into space. ‘She was here for the day. Loves the animals. To see her playing with a lamb…’

  ‘I told you she was missing,’ Calvo said, with sudden force. ‘I told you.’

  ‘You said she was playing in the shed.’

  ‘You old fool, I said nothing of the sort.’

  She might not have heard. ‘So I went and looked in the shed and she wasn’t there. And I was terrified she’d got lost up amongst the rocks or fallen down in the cave when he was meant to be watching her, but wasn’t.’ She jerked her thumb in her husband’s direction.

  ‘It was you was meant to be looking after her!’ he shouted.

  ‘She’d gone the other way. Fell into the torrente what was running because of all the heavy rain. She’d’ve drowned if Carlos hadn’t been walking along the road and heard her screaming. She’d not have had a birthday party, but for him.’

  ‘It was your fault,’ Calvo muttered. He lifted his glass and drained it, still frightened by the memory.