A Question of Motive Read online

  ‘There is a large house on the flat land. The original one was built by a colonel, but this was unfortunately burned down, some said . . .’

  ‘The history may be of interest to anyone who has the time to listen to it, I do not.’

  ‘It’s my guess that the victim is someone from the house, unaware of, or oblivious to, the danger of getting too close to the edge of the cliff.’

  ‘You would not expect that the circumstances would have been reported long before the unknown man discovered the body? And why have you not taken the trouble to determine whether, in fact, the victim is from the house?’

  ‘I will be doing so when I finish my report, señor.’

  ‘I presume you have failed to consider suicide?’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘But since you have not yet troubled to identify the victim, any judgement – including that of accident – is without credibility.’

  ‘There was no note of intended suicide on the victim.’

  ‘You disregard the possibility that such a note was left in the house.’

  ‘In my experience . . .’

  ‘We will stick with facts. You will ascertain what these are and then report to me. And since I have important work to complete, I shall be here, in my office, until late tonight and for much of tomorrow. I do not, therefore, expect to be informed on Monday morning that you were unable to contact me.’

  Alvarez replaced the receiver. He had hoped to leave the investigation to the policia local, but initially, at any rate, he was going to have to conduct it.

  He opened the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and brought out a half-full bottle of 504 and a glass, was about to pour a drink when he remembered his promise to reduce his drinking. He hesitated. The promise was to reduce, not prohibit.

  Fifteen minutes later, he left the post and walked to Club Llueso for his delayed merienda.

  Without being asked, Roca, the bartender, poured out a brandy and a café cortado, and brought them to the end of the bar.

  Alvarez raised the glass and studied the depth of brandy. ‘Short measure again.’

  ‘So give me the glass and I’ll pour you a standard measure.’

  He drank.

  FOUR

  The drive up to the top of Barca was relatively short, but for Alvarez, an altophobe, it was panic-inducing. The road, a minor example of the Spanish ability to overcome ‘impossible’ terrain, climbed the side of the rock face with two sharp bends which had no safety barrier on the outside. A car could fall over the side far too easily – an unintended twitch of the wheel would be sufficient. His hands had seemed constantly about to twitch.

  Previously, he had only seen the house – more accurately, parts of it – from below and he had been unable to appreciate it possessed a graceful form which could suggest an Italian architect. Externally attractive houses were not a common sight on the island; old ones had been built for permanence, modern ones were often a clutter of different roof levels and inharmonious lines. It complemented its site. Its height provided it with a sweeping view of pine trees, farmland, Port Llueso, the bay with its travel-poster-blue waters, the backdrop of mountains, the nature reserve to the east . . .

  ‘Do you want something?’

  To Alvarez, the speaker’s tone had suggested he thought the visitor might be trying to sell something. Alvarez turned. Standing in the doorway was a man in his early thirties, carefully handsome, dressed in a spotless, uncreased white shirt and black, sharply creased trousers.

  ‘To speak to the owner of the house.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  ‘Oh! . . . I’m sorry, Inspector, but I didn’t realize who you were.’

  ‘Perhaps because we’ve never met. The owner’s name?’

  ‘Señor Gill.’

  ‘He is here?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is away, Inspector. Is something wrong?’

  He ignored the question. ‘Is there any member of the family here?’

  ‘Señorita Farren, the señor’s niece.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Luisa, my wife, and Eva, the maid. Santos is the gardener.’

  ‘Your name is?’

  ‘Parra.’

  ‘You work around the house?’ Alvarez asked, convinced Parra would prefer to be thought of as the butler.

  ‘I am lucky enough to do so, yes.’

  There was no need to be fulsome. A Mallorquin was the equal of anyone, even if he swept the streets. ‘I’ll speak to her.’

  ‘Will you please come this way, Inspector?’

  He entered a spacious hall and waited as Parra opened a door, stepped inside and said: ‘Inspector Alvarez wishes to speak to you, señorita, if it is convenient.’

  ‘Please ask him to come in, Pablo.’

  Mary Farren was dressed with the casual elegance money could provide. Her rich, auburn hair held a natural wave, her eyes were dark blue, her nose graceful, her lips firmly shaped. But on the left-hand side of her jaw, harmony was lost in heavy scarring and a slight, but noticeable, misshapen line.

  ‘Please sit,’ she said in heavily accented Spanish.

  ‘Thank you, señorita,’ he answered in English. The chair cosseted him with expensive luxury.

  ‘Before we go any further, may I offer you coffee or a drink?’

  ‘A drink would be very welcome.’

  ‘Will you tell Pablo what you would like?’

  Parra had remained just inside the doorway.

  ‘A coñac with just ice, please,’ he said in Mallorquin.

  ‘And I will have a Dubonnet.’

  Parra left and closed the door.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ she asked.

  It seemed from the lack of any suggestion of alarm, any understanding of why he might be there, they had not heard about the dead body at the foot of Barca. He had to try to learn the facts without alarming her unless, or until, that became necessary. ‘I understand you employ Parra, his wife, a maid and a gardener?’

  ‘I assure you that we pay all the appropriate taxes.’

  ‘I would not doubt that, señorita. Is there anyone else who works here?’

  ‘Eloisa, but only when we have a party. She comes in and helps out.’

  ‘Have you any guests staying at the moment?’

  ‘No, why are you asking these questions?’

  ‘I will explain in a moment. Do the servants live in their own quarters?’

  ‘Yes. That is, except for Santos. He owns a finca between Llueso and Port Llueso, so he doesn’t need accommodation.’ She stopped. After a moment, she continued: ‘Last year he did think it would be a good idea if the family moved into the two empty staff rooms because he wouldn’t be tired out by travelling to and fro and he could work longer.’

  He was unable to resist the comment: ‘An unusual wish!’

  She smiled. ‘We imagined he was hoping to have the chance to let his finca to tourists during the summer. But for us, three children under eight would have destroyed all peace.’

  Parra returned, a silver salver in his hand. He crossed to where she sat, placed a glass on the piecrust table by her side, added a small bowl. ‘The cheese sticks you like.’

  ‘Well remembered! Will you see if the inspector would like some?’

  Parra put a glass and the bowl down for Alvarez. ‘Is that all, señorita?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He left.

  She raised her glass. ‘Your health.’

  They drank. Alvarez had been hoping for a good brandy and was not disappointed. Carlos III?

  ‘Inspector, you were going to explain the reason for your questions.’

  ‘Please allow me to ask a few more, señorita, before I do so. Parra told me Señor Gill is not here. That is so?’

  ‘Yes. Have you tried the cheese straws?’

  ‘Not yet, I fear.’ He picked out two, held them in his left hand, carried the bowl over to h
er. She thanked him as he returned to his seat. ‘Can you say where he is?’

  ‘Probably. Why do you want to know that? And please don’t say you’ll explain later on. You’re making me very worried that he’s in some sort of trouble.’

  Did he prevaricate further? If he did, her fear could be exacerbated rather than held in check. ‘Clearly, señorita, you have not learned that the body of a man was found below Barca this morning.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘If I know where Señor Gill is, I can speak to him.’

  ‘But he doesn’t . . . You can’t think it may be he.’

  She had spoken with certainty, not alarm. ‘I have no knowledge who is the unfortunate man. Therefore, I have to consider he may have come from your house. When did you last see your uncle?’

  ‘When I left to go to Palma yesterday morning.’

  ‘You have not seen him today?’ Her answers confused him. ‘Were you aware he was not here this morning?’

  ‘When he didn’t come down to breakfast, I went up to his room and saw his bed had not been slept in.’

  ‘That must have worried you?’

  After a long silence, she said in a low voice: ‘No, it didn’t.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because he had obviously gone to see a friend and stayed the night.’

  ‘He often does so?’

  ‘When . . .’

  ‘Yes, señorita?’

  ‘Do you have to know?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘It’s so complicated.’

  He waited.

  ‘Robin’s wife died some years ago. Then last year we were invited to a party at which we met the Oakleys. He . . . he became friendly with Virginia.’

  ‘And is with her now?’

  ‘He’d have let me know if he wasn’t. You see . . . He must know I can guess how the relationship is, but if it’s not put into words . . .’

  ‘You can speak to Señora Oakley and ask if he is there?’

  ‘I suppose so . . . But it will embarrass both of them. And me.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I think I must ask you to get in touch.’

  She hesitated, finally stood, crossed to the telephone which stood on a rosewood card table. She lifted the receiver, dialled, listened, replaced the receiver. He assumed she had dialled the wrong number.

  ‘He . . . he’s not there.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘Paul answered.’

  ‘He is the husband?’

  ‘Robin must have gone to stay with friends in Andraitx. He’s repeatedly said he hadn’t seen them for a long time and must do so.’ She spoke intently. ‘That’s where he must be.’

  ‘Would you please ring them.’

  She might not have heard him. He watched her changing expressions and was convinced he could correctly interpret them because he had known a time when logic said one thing, the heart another. When he had been told Juana-María had been crushed against a wall by a drunken French driver, he had driven at a reckless speed to the hospital, knowing her injuries must be very serious, praying that she was not badly hurt because the car had been moving slowly, she would smile at him and the doctor would say she would be fit and well in a short time. She had died minutes after he reached her in intensive care. ‘Please, señorita, speak to them.’

  She stood, crossed to the card table, picked up a small tabulated notebook. She opened this at the wrong page, finally found what she wanted, went to dial, but stopped. ‘I . . . I can’t.’ Her voice shook. ‘You’ll have to.’

  He walked over and took the notebook from her. ‘Which name is it?’

  ‘Green.’

  He dialled.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I speak to Señor Gill, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’

  ‘I am sorry to have troubled you.’ He replaced the receiver before he could be asked why he was phoning. ‘He’s not with them, señorita.’

  ‘Then he’s with the Yates. Or the Keens,’ she said wildly.

  ‘Before I speak to them, I must have a word with Parra.’

  ‘I tell you, he has to be with one of them.’

  ‘Please believe me, it will be best if I talk to Parra first.’

  She mumbled something. Fear raised lines in her face.

  He crossed to her chair and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Courage, señorita . . .’

  She jerked his hand off with a quick shrug. ‘Don’t,’ she cried shrilly.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Don’t touch me.’

  He was bewildered. ‘I was trying to offer you comfort. We Mallorquins often touch each other as a mark of comfort, sympathy, friendship. I fear I had forgotten that many do not regard this in the same way.’

  She made a sound like a strangled cry, stood, walked to the window and stared out. When she spoke, her voice was strained. ‘I . . . I couldn’t help myself because . . .’

  ‘There is no need to explain.’

  ‘I must.’

  About to repeat what he had just said, he checked the words. Why, was difficult to explain, but he was certain that by explaining the reason for her apparent gauche action, she would in some way lessen the panicky fear which gripped her. He could remember how, as he drove into the grounds of the hospital where Juana-María lay, he had promised himself he would forgo much if she recovered. It had been as if he had believed his self-sacrifice could help her.

  ‘Three years ago . . . Three years ago, I was returning from work in the City. I left the tube at Ealing and walked up the road, as I did every evening. There was a house on a corner which was empty and for sale. The front garden had a hedge around it. I was passing the gate when a man came out from the garden, put an arm around my throat, and dragged me inside. I fought, chewed his hand and made him let me go, screamed for help. He cursed me, threw me to the ground, kicked me in the face and side, and ran. I kept screaming and a couple found me and called for help.

  ‘I was six weeks in hospital. When I came out, I was terrified if a man I didn’t know very well tried to touch me. I’ve tried and tried to cure myself and failed. I simply couldn’t stop myself shouting at you even though it was absurdly rude.’

  ‘It is kind of you to have explained.’

  ‘You looked so dismayed.’

  And now he would have to ask more questions which would possibly bring her fresh tragedy. ‘As I mentioned, I need to have a word with Parra.’

  She looked at him with sharp worry.

  He left the sitting room, searched for and found the kitchen. Parra stood by the central table. Luisa Parra, as he presumed she must be, was stirring a pot on one of the gas rings set on top of an electric oven.

  She stopped stirring and turned. ‘You’re the inspector?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Older than Parra, she possessed none of her husband’s sleek looks. Her figure said that she enjoyed much of her own cooking.

  Cooks demanded praise. Alvarez said: ‘What you’re preparing smells delicious.’

  ‘Fabada Asturiana as it should be made.’

  ‘A dish for the gods!’ He turned to Parra. ‘Can you say when you last saw the señor?’

  ‘Yesterday morning before we left for our day off.’ He spoke to his wife. ‘Was it around ten o’clock?’

  ‘A quarter past.’

  ‘You spoke to him then?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘Only to say we were leaving,’ Parra answered.

  ‘Did you know he was going out?’

  ‘He had said he wouldn’t be here for lunch so there was no need to leave him a meal.’

  ‘And the señorita was not eating here?’

  ‘She was going to Palma to do some shopping and might eat there or return to one of the local restaurants.’

  ‘Is the señor’s car in the garage?’

  ‘I imagine not.’

  ‘Will you find out, please?’

  ‘You think he may have been in some sort of accident?’
/>   ‘At the moment, I don’t think anything for certain.’

  Parra left and quickly returned. ‘His car is still there. Someone must have picked him up.’

  ‘I want a photograph of him. Find one if you can.’

  ‘I’ll ask the señorita . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘It will be best if she does not learn I have asked. Obviously, neither of you has heard a man was found dead at the foot of Barca, having fallen from the top.’

  She turned, holding a wooden spoon, and stared at Alvarez. ‘Sweet Mary!’

  ‘It might be the señor?’ Parra asked.

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  Parra spoke to his wife. ‘Didn’t I tell him?’

  ‘More than once,’ she answered.

  ‘And he was annoyed and told me he was capable of managing his own life without my assistance?’

  ‘I heard him say that.’

  ‘What did you tell him which so annoyed him?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘That when he warned everyone not to go beyond the fencing, it was stupid of him to do so. Not, of course, that I used the word “stupid”.’

  ‘You have seen him step over the fencing?’

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Happens several times a week.’

  ‘Why would he take such a risk?’

  ‘To check or photograph the orchid.’

  ‘Orchid?’

  ‘It’s growing between the fencing and the edge of the cliff.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought anything would grow on the rock.’

  ‘It’s in a gully filled with muck. Some time back a friend was staying here and noticed it. He said it was rare and had never been seen before so far away from its natural habitat or in so inhospitable a place. It was such a rarity, the señor had to do everything he could to protect it. It was called Mosques . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘Mosques blanques,’ she said.

  ‘He was very interested in flowers?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘Used to be that he just liked them in the garden.’

  ‘Funny thing to get interested in.’

  ‘I suppose it’s because it’s so rare. And he said it was so beautiful.’

  Beauty was a personal judgement. ‘Perhaps you’d find a photo of him?’