Layers of Deceit (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 9) Read online

  ‘Not necessarily. If you know what you’re doing, you can weaken the line to the point where it’ll carry on until you’re braking really hard, when it’s bound to give.’

  ‘You’re saying there was an attempt to kill them?’

  ‘I’m saying there might have been. Have a look for yourself and see what I mean about not being able to be certain.’

  Alvarez shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t mean anything to me.’ He rubbed his chin, stubbled because he had forgotten to shave that morning. ‘What have you said to ’em — I mean, the people who were in the car?’

  ‘I haven’t said anything. I reckoned you’d know what to do.’

  ‘It would be a lot easier if only you could be certain.’

  ‘Well, I can’t.’

  Alvarez sighed. ‘I’d better go and see them, then. I can’t just sit back and do nothing after you’ve told me this.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ replied Roselló, satisfied that the responsibility was now no longer his.

  *

  Ca’n Oñar lay beyond the rolling crest of a hill, to the south-east of the Palma road. In the fields about it were orange and lemon trees, laden with ripe fruit, almond trees curtained in white, or occasionally pink, blossom, and fig trees whose leafless branches, ending in numerous upturned twigs, looked like dead men’s fingers. Some fields were newly ploughed or cultivated, others were growing field beans or grass.

  As he climbed out of the car, Alvarez noted the small, stone-built building three hundred metres to the right of the house … Probably this housed a well which tapped a stream or underground lake and would never run dry, even in the hottest and longest of summers. Such a well, before the foreigners had forced prices sky high, had been worth almost as much as the house … The house was old — perhaps a couple of hundred years — and simple, built by people concerned only with the bare essentials of shelter. Yet for him it was far more attractive than any of the modern, luxurious houses which the foreigners had had built …

  The glass-panelled front door opened and a woman in a wheelchair propelled herself forward and then came to a stop in the middle of the patio, under the bare, pruned branches of two ancient vines which had been trained along wires three metres above the ground. ‘Good morning,’ she said in Spanish, as he walked across.

  He answered in English, introducing himself.

  ‘You’re a detective? How terribly interesting!’

  He responded to her friendliness and smiled briefly. ‘I’m glad of that, señora. Because if you had said, how worrying, I might have begun to wonder why.’

  ‘“Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.” … But come inside. The wind’s quite cold.’

  He wondered whether he should help her by pushing the wheelchair into the house, decided she would sooner manage on her own.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ she said.

  He started.

  ‘Whenever I meet people for the first time and Pat’s not here, they wonder whether they should give me a hand. It’s very kind of them, but I’d infinitely rather do everything for myself.’

  After she’d turned the wheelchair, he followed her into the house.

  ‘Will you have coffee or would you prefer a drink?’

  ‘A coñac would be very nice, señora.’

  ‘And I’ll have tea. I have to watch my weight, so I restrict myself to one drink a day and one glass of wine with each meal. It’s frustrating, living in a country where the drink’s so reasonable and not being able to indulge … Come on through to the other room.’

  Beyond the hall was the sitting-room, oblong and with a high, very simply beamed roof ceiling. The furniture was Spanish and serviceable rather than elegant, there was a gaily patterned carpet on the tiled floor, and four very colourful paintings of local scenes hung on the walls. The stove, in one corner, was wood-fired and logs were stacked to one side of it.

  ‘Do sit down. I won’t be a moment.’ She propelled the wheelchair to the two-way door at the far end of the sitting-room and used the chair to push it open. The door swung shut behind her.

  He was not surprised that Roselló, usually so critical of foreigners, had expressed admiration for her. Already, he was conscious of her bubbling sense of vitality and of a certainty that when she met someone she looked for the good qualities in that person rather than the bad.

  When she returned, a tray was balanced across the arms of the wheelchair. ‘It’s one-o-three. I hope you like that brand?’

  ‘Señora, I like all coñacs.’

  She laughed. ‘You sound like my husband. There is no such thing as a bad brandy, only one that is better than another.’ She moved closer to his chair and held out the glass.

  He took the glass from her. ‘Your health, señora.’

  ‘And I’ll drink to yours — that is, if you don’t mind being toasted in tea? At home, it’s supposed to be an insult to toast anyone in water.’

  ‘We don’t have such a custom here.’

  ‘That’s not surprising when there’s so little need to drink water.’ She moved the wheelchair slightly back, used a spoon to knead the slice of lemon in the tea.

  ‘Señora, is your husband here?’

  ‘He isn’t, no. Our car broke down and so we’ve been left without transport. Pat rang the garage this morning, but they said it still wasn’t repaired, so he decided to hire a car. Then he rang Steve — that’s my cousin who lent us the Panda — to tell him the situation and Steve said we could borrow another car until the Panda is fixed. So Pat’s gone to Santa Victoria by bus and I’m afraid I don’t know when he’ll be back. Presumably you wanted to speak to him?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘What’s he been up to?’

  He smiled. ‘Nothing serious, señora! It’s to do with your car. The owner of the garage called me this morning to say he’d examined it and was a little worried.’

  ‘In what way worried?’

  ‘The brakes failed because one of the lines had been damaged. He thinks it’s possible that the damage might have been done deliberately.’

  She frowned. ‘Are you suggesting that someone tried to make us crash? Impossible!’

  ‘There’s no one you can think of who might try and do a thing like that?’

  ‘Good God, no!’

  ‘You haven’t, perhaps, had a serious argument with anyone recently?’

  ‘I haven’t and I’m certain Pat hasn’t either. In any case, can you imagine an ex-colonial officer from Funafuti or a retired bank manager from Budleigh Salterton doing anything like that?’

  ‘Have you had any problems with staff?’

  ‘Our only staff is Lucia who normally comes five days a week to do the housework, but is usually ill once a week on whichever day her husband’s not working at the Parelona Hotel.’

  ‘Is the car normally kept here?’

  ‘In the garage.’

  ‘And is that locked at night?’

  ‘We didn’t bother at first because everything was so wonderfully quiet and peaceful, but friends told us that there were a lot of thefts these days and it was advisable to keep everything locked.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s true, señora. Ten years ago, you could have left the house unlocked for a month and nothing would have been touched. Now … ’

  ‘The tourists have brought you prosperity; but you’ve had to pay heavily for it.’

  He was warmed by her understanding. ‘Indeed we have.’

  ‘And you can’t turn the clock back.’

  He left ten minutes later and she accompanied him to the front door. Just before opening the door, he said: ‘Perhaps you would ask your husband to telephone me at the post — I will write the number down — to tell me if he can suggest anyone who might have sabotaged the car?’

  ‘Of course I’ll do that. But I can tell you the answer now — there’s no one.’

  *

  The telephone rang, jerking Alvarez awake. He opened his eyes and blearily stared r
esentfully at his watch. Half past three. What moron was telephoning during siesta time?

  ‘This is Patrick Hart. My wife said you wanted me to get in touch. As she told you, it’s quite impossible that anyone could have sabotaged the car.’

  ‘You’ve not recently had an argument with anyone, either a foreigner or a Mallorquin?’

  ‘Not the kind that would end up in attempted murder — because that’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘No, the brake failure was an accident: just one of those unfortunate things that can happen with a car.’

  ‘Then now I can be certain. Thank you for calling, señor.’

  Alvarez replaced the receiver. Despite Roselló’s reservations, the fracture in the brake line had been caused by a stone. He settled more comfortably in the chair. Dolores had managed to pull herself together and the meal had been as good as anticipation had suggested. Filled with contentment, he closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 3

  Alan Cullom drew level with the drystone wall, topped with a three-foot-high chain-link fence, which marked the boundary of Ca’n Cullom’s land. He dropped his holdall and sat on the edge of the wall, resting his back against the chain-link, even though there were now only a couple of hundred metres to the gates. He took a handkerchief from his jeans and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Late May and the temperatures were already in the mid-eighties. The bus had been packed, someone near him had not had a bath in days, and the heat, despite all the open windows, had been enervating. Then there’d been the long walk from the main road to Santa Victoria, built on and around a hill, and the longer walk out from there to Ca’n Cullom. (Castle Howard was named after the Howard family, so Steve had renamed his castle in the sun. Unfortunately, he hadn’t done this in a spirit of mocking fun.)

  Alan stood, picked up the holdall, and carried on to the large and elaborately designed wrought-iron gates, which were shut. On each gate was a notice, featuring a snarling dog’s head and the message, in English and in Spanish, that at night the house and grounds were guarded by a fierce dog. Karl Marx. One man’s visible ego …

  He opened the right-hand gate and went in: the gate shut with a ringing sound. He began to walk up the loose-chip drive towards the line of oleander bushes which marked the brow of the hill. A woman’s voice, muffled, reached him. ‘Come here. Karl. Sit. Will you come back … ’ She whistled.

  He stopped and waited. A large, black, wavy-haired dog appeared, bounding over the grass. As it neared him, it slowed to a walk and began to growl and its lips drew back to show a vicious set of fangs.

  ‘Whoever you are, just stand still. He won’t hurt you,’ shouted the woman.

  ‘You hear that, you stupid black bastard?’ said Alan.

  The dog came to a halt. Hair practically obscured its eyes, nevertheless it did seem as if there were now an expression of indecision on its broad face. It stopped snarling.

  ‘Are you so thick you’ve completely forgotten me?’

  The dog wagged its stump of a tail, but did not move.

  ‘Karl, Karl,’ the woman called out desperately.

  Alan Cullom said to the dog: ‘And according to Steve, you’re totally obedient … Come and say hullo.’ He patted his leg. The dog took two steps forward, stopped. ‘You poor old sod — you don’t know whether to greet me or to eat me, do you?’ The dog again wagged its stumpy tail. ‘Silly bastard!’ he said, meaning his brother. The first time he’d come here after Karl Marx had been imported from England, Steven had told him about the superbly trained, incredibly fierce guard dog he’d just bought; at one word of command, it would corner any intruder; it treated every stranger as hostile until ordered to do otherwise … They’d gone round to the kennels to see this canine wonder, but not before Steven had warned him not to get too close to the chained dog or he’d be savagely attacked … He’d always had a sympathetic understanding with dogs. It had, therefore, seemed a perfectly natural thing to do to walk straight up to the dog, despite Steven’s panicky shout to get back, and let it sniff him and, the introductions over, make friends. Karl had begun to make friends. And Steven, who’d always lacked any sense of humour when he’d thought he might have been made to look a bit of a fool, had been furious … From then on, Steven had tried to set Karl against him and now the bewildered dog didn’t know whether to obey his instincts or his training …

  The woman came running up. ‘I’m terribly sorry … Are you all right?’

  ‘Quite intact.’

  Sweating heavily, breathing quickly, she came to a halt. She stared at him, then at Karl, and her expression became more perplexed than worried. ‘He hasn’t gone for you at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When I heard the gate and he took off, I ran as fast as I could. I kept shouting to him to come back.’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘I was terrified he’d attack you.’

  ‘Karl has rightly retained a sneaking sympathy for the lumpen proletariat.’

  ‘How d’you know his name? Who are you?’

  ‘I suppose I could put the same question to you.’

  She used her hand to brush a shallow curl of hair away from her forehead. ‘Will you please tell me who you are?’ She looked very different, he thought, from the woman who’d been here six months back. That one had been tarted right up and so certain that she was going to become mistress of the house that she’d begun to understudy the part. Steven had got rid of her efficiently and with a minimum of fuss. But this woman wasn’t in the least obvious. Her jeans weren’t so tight that imagination became unnecessary and it had been fairly obvious, when she’d been running, that she was wearing a brassière under her cotton shirt. Slightly older than Steven normally liked, she had an open face, a snub nose, whimsical eyebrows, and curly, corn-coloured hair now in some disarray. ‘My name’s Alan,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a bed.’

  ‘Are you expected?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then … ’ She stopped, became confused. ‘You don’t mean you’re Steve’s brother?’

  ‘Don’t you see any family likeness?’

  ‘But you’re so much younger.’

  ‘My father’s second marriage was late, but enthusiastic.’

  ‘You could have said who you were at the beginning and saved me making a bit of a fool of myself.’

  ‘I apologize humbly.’

  She looked at him, uncertain, worried.

  ‘Is it all right if we carry on to the house? I’ve been dreaming of a very cold, very long gin and tonic for the past hour and a quarter and I don’t think I can stand much more frustration, even in the name of good manners.’

  ‘There’s no need … I was only trying to prevent you being hurt.’

  ‘And for that, I thank you.’ He began to walk. Karl watched him for a few seconds, then followed, keeping on the grass, obviously still unable to decide whether to be friendly, or not.

  When he reached the line of oleanders, the view and the house came into sight. The land sloped away, except for a level area on which the house stood, and the whole of the central plain of the island was visible together with Playa Nueva Bay, the mountains which backed it, and the sea beyond. The land was not yet dried up and there were endless shades of green to contrast the blues of the sea and sky. A couple of restored windmills were just visible, their coloured wooden sails turning lazily in the slight breeze as they pumped water. A man of imagination saw Don Quixote advancing to do battle … Steven had little imagination. He’d not bought the house because of its setting, but because it was of such a size and quality that it was obvious only a rich man could ever have afforded it.

  He spoke to her. ‘D’you realize you haven’t yet told me your name?’

  She didn’t answer immediately and he thought she was going to ignore him, but then she said: ‘Susan. Susan Pride.’

  ‘And where’s Steve? Stretched out by the pool, carefully cultivating that bronzed jet-set look?’
>
  ‘He’s in Palma.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  They reached the house. He opened the right-hand panelled front door, with its small inspection port protected by a grille, and stood aside to let her enter first. Then he said to Karl: ‘Well, how about you?’

  ‘Steve doesn’t like him in the house,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he answered, as he dropped the holdall and finally shut the door when it was clear Karl was not entering. ‘According to the experts, dogs carry around with them all sorts of horrible diseases which they sometimes pass on to humans and Steve has only to read about a disease to suffer from it.’

  ‘Do you … ’ She stopped.

  ‘Do I what?’

  She lifted her head slightly, making it more evident that her chin was a determined one. ‘Are you always so sarcastic about the people who try to help you?’

  ‘To be helped is to be resentful. And in any case, when Steve helps his motive isn’t all that altruistic; it makes him feel very righteous to give a crust of bread to his beachcombing brother.’

  ‘That’s a pretty cheap thing to say.’

  ‘I’m cut-price by nature … I now require one gin and tonic as a life-saver, one as a restorative, and one for pleasure. Joining me?’

  ‘You’ll be beastly about him, but drink his gin?’

  ‘In my state of thirst, I’ll drink anybody’s gin.’

  She crossed the hall to the stairs and went up them to the half-landing, continued up and out of sight. He entered the sitting-room, very large, with picture windows along the south wall giving the view across to the sea. It could have been an attractive room, but Steven had brought together too much furniture and furnishings that were ostentatiously good; it looked like an exhibition room, badly mounted and without taste.

  The mobile cocktail cabinet was against the far wall and a quick check showed that the ice-bucket was empty. He carried this through to the kitchen. A small, plump woman with a noticeable scar on her right cheek was peeling potatoes. When she saw him, she gave a cry of delight, dropped potato and peeler, and hurried to embrace him. He grinned. It was a pity Steven wasn’t there to see this. Steven did not believe in familiarity between employer and employee. That was one of the reasons why many Mallorquins regarded him with amusement.