An Artistic Way to Go Read online

  There was a long pause. ‘I would find my job considerably less wearing had you ever learned even the rudiments of logical reporting.’

  There were no further interruptions.

  ‘So I think,’ Alvarez concluded, ‘that we should ask Traffic to identify the registration number of the señor’s car and then ask all patrols to keep an eye out for it. Remembering that he was due to fly from the island this evening in order to go on an expensive cruise, I think one must assume that he has suffered seriously, perhaps fatally.’

  ‘Then I have no doubt that within the next forty-eight hours he will reappear, unharmed.’ Salas cut the connection.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘You’re late,’ Dolores snapped.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Alvarez replied humbly.

  ‘The meal is probably ruined.’

  ‘Never, with you doing the cooking.’

  ‘Only a man could say something so foolish.’ But the implied compliment was sufficient to prevent any further complaints. She returned into the kitchen.

  Alvarez sat at the dining-table, picked up one of the tumblers. ‘Shove the coñac over.’

  Jaime turned sideways to look at the kitchen doorway.

  Alvarez leaned across and picked up the bottle. ‘Is this all that’s left?’ he asked, as he stared at the few centimetres of brandy.

  Jaime turned back, reached under the table and brought up a second bottle of Soberano, three parts full.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘She’s on again about drinking.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Watching television and some bloody fool doctor says that half the family problems are caused by people who drink. Doesn’t add that the other half are caused by people who don’t drink. That’s started a donkey galloping about in her brain. Told me that from now on I’m not having more than one drink before a meal. So I leave the nearly empty bottle on the table and every time she looks in to see what’s what, there’s the same amount left.’ He winked. ‘There’s always a way if you’re smart enough to find it,’ he said boastfully.

  Alvarez poured himself a large brandy, passed the bottle back. Jaime hid it under the table.

  ‘Have you really been busy or was that just to shut her up?’ Jaime asked, as he straightened up.

  ‘A husband’s gone missing and I’ve been trying to find out what’s happened to him.’

  ‘A foreigner, I suppose? None of us would ever get away with it.’

  Alvarez dropped three ice cubes into the tumbler. ‘A rich Englishman.’

  ‘Then he’s found himself someone young and willing and forgotten how time flies when one’s enjoying oneself.’

  ‘With a wife like his, that seems unlikely.’

  ‘What’s so special about her?’

  ‘Ever imagined yourself in a Ferrari?’

  Jaime, his perplexity obvious, stared at him. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘How d’you feel when you realize you’ll never drive around in anything but a Fiesta?’

  ‘You’ve not been working late, you’ve been drinking early.’

  ‘She’s the woman of your dreams.’

  ‘You don’t know my dreams.’

  ‘Swims in the nude.’

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve seen her?’

  ‘Jorge Amoros, who does their garden, has.’

  Jaime shed his air of sophisticated indifference. ‘What’s he ever done to be so bloody lucky?’ he said bitterly.

  * * *

  Alvarez had not been sufficiently long in the office to prepare himself for work when the phone rang. The green BMW owned by Señor Cooper had been found two kilometres west of Contaix, at a point where the coast road ran within metres of the cliff face. The car had been searched. On the front passenger seat was a copy of The Times, open at page four. One of the two men in the patrol car was reasonably fluent in English and he said that the article in the middle of the page reported the suicide of a businessman who had thrown himself off a cliff in Wales after learning that his small engineering company had been bankrupted by the fraudulent actions of a trusted employee. In the glove box was a gold signet ring and a wallet containing just over forty thousand pesetas in notes, several credit cards, and an English driving licence. In the rear well was an empty bottle of Teacher’s Highland Cream whisky and three exhausted foil strips, of the kind used to hold medicinal pills.

  The sea came right up to the cliff face and there would only be traces of his having fallen if he had done so in too shallow an arc and struck the rock face during his descent; even then, it might be virtually impossible to detect these.

  What action was to be taken? He said the car was to be kept under guard until he had examined it.

  After the call was over, he settled back in the chair. Contaix was on the north coast, at a point where the jagged, stark cliffs were a hundred, or more, metres high. When oar or sail had been the only form of marine propulsion, ships had frequently been driven ashore by adverse winds, with the usual result that whole crews had been drowned. There were villagers who claimed that in a gale from the north, the cries of drowning men could clearly be heard above the howling wind. Because the village had once been all but isolated, the inhabitants were much more inward looking than most – it was said that they would always greet a stranger with a scowl rather than a smile and there was the expression, as bloody-minded as a Contaixian. It was a village, indeed an area, that he hardly knew, not so much because of the nature of the inhabitants, but because it was a land of heights and depths and both these terrified him.

  The drive to Contaix was one that would have confounded all those tourists who believed the island to consist of nothing but beaches, happy hours, lager louts, and concrete. The road wound its way up and down and around mountain after mountain, some bare rock, some covered with pine trees. Sometimes it seemed as if the walls of rock were about to fall and crush, sometimes there were distant views of great natural beauty. In a valley there would be a small village and cultivated land, beyond would be a wild fastness in which only the road itself gave evidence of human intervention.

  He passed through Contaix – untouched by tourism because it was seldom visited; a jig-saw of roads, mostly very narrow, lined by shuttered, stone-built houses with bleak exteriors – and a cutting that had had to be blasted out, to reach a short stretch of narrow, relatively flat land, halfway along which was a signposted viewing area which lay between the road and the cliff. The green BMW and a Guardia Renault were parked in the centre of the area. He turned off the road and braked to a halt behind the Renault, climbed out. Llueso had been swelteringly hot; here, it was merely pleasantly warm, thanks to the sea breeze.

  The driver of the Renault spoke through the opened window. ‘It’s taken you long enough to get here.’

  ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘So are we, but we’ve had to sit here and watch the seagulls.’

  ‘You must know old Marx’s motto – each according to his abilities. Anything more turned up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll check out the car, then.’

  ‘Tell you one thing. In this day and age, it’s a miracle that a car like that can be left standing around and not be stripped out.’

  Alvarez went forward to the BMW and searched it, surprised to discover that everything was as had been reported – the newspaper on the front passenger seat, the signet ring and wallet in the glove locker, the empty bottle of whisky and three silver-foil strips in the back well. In addition, three cigarette stubs were in the front ashtray and in the boot was an empty, scrumpled pack of Lucky Strike.

  He crossed to the recently erected Armco barrier – in the past, people had been left to decide how stupid they were – and with each step his fear grew. It was ridiculous and he always despised himself because of it; again and again, he’d promised himself that he would overcome it; but now he knew once more the terror that made him want to turn and run, the siren’s song that
tried to lure him on by turning his terrible fear into a terrible longing … He reached the Armco and leaned against it, sweating, his stomach churning. Before him was a dramatic scene of sudden, soaring depth and a deep blue sea, but he would rather have faced a king cobra. His torment was not yet at an end. Summoning his last reserve of inner strength, he leaned forward until he could look down the face of the cliff. Below – kilometres below – the sea washed against the rock to cause brief ripples of white foam. If a man … He tightened his grip still further … If a man fell accidentally, there had to be the possibility that on the way down he would slam into the cliff face; if he jumped, he would probably fall in a curve that would keep him clear of that. In the latter case, would the impact with the water knock him unconscious? Were there rocks just below the surface? If he retained consciousness and tried desperately to escape that which he had just courted, was it reasonable to accept that he could have swum along the coast until he found somewhere to land? All questions that might need answering. All questions that he was not going to answer because there was nothing on this earth that would persuade him to descend on a rope to search the cliff face for signs of contact …

  He released his grip, turned, and walked slowly because the two cabos were watching him. He came to a stop by the driving door of the Renault.

  The driver stared up at him, squinting because of the sun. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Because you look bloody awful; like you died yesterday.’

  ‘Then you can start showing some respect for the dead. Was the BMW locked?’

  ‘Yeah, and no sign of the key. But there are brains in our outfit, so we got in touch with the distributors and they provided another key.’

  ‘Where’s that now?’

  The second cabo slapped the breast pocket of his grey-green shirt.

  ‘OK. You drive the car into Palma and leave it with Traffic for a detailed examination.’

  ‘I’m finished and off home in an hour.’

  ‘For the good officer,’ Alvarez said with hypocritical satisfaction, ‘duty always comes before pleasure.’

  CHAPTER 10

  When Alvarez drove up to Ca’n Oliver, a battered grey Seat 127 was parked in the turning circle. He climbed out of the Ibiza, crossed to the front door, rang the bell.

  Rosa opened the door. ‘Is there any news?’

  He prevaricated. ‘Nothing definite.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep properly last night, thinking of what could have happened to him.’

  That, he was certain, had not been said for effect. It was in the Mallorquin character to be concerned by another’s misfortune, even when there was little enough reason to like that person. ‘I’ve come to have a word with the señora.’

  ‘Then you’re out of luck. She left here after breakfast and hasn’t been back.’

  Conducting her own search? Or…?

  ‘Did she tell you how to get hold of her if that was necessary?’

  ‘No.’

  If searching, wouldn’t she have done so?

  ‘But maybe Señor Field knows where she is.’

  ‘Is he the owner of the Seat outside?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s a friend of the family.’

  ‘Then I’ll have a word with him.’

  As he entered the hall, she said: ‘Last time I saw him, he was in the sitting-room. You know the way.’

  He was amused that she was not going to be bothered to announce him. When the shepherd was out of sight, the sheep strayed. In any case, no Mallorquin saw merit in unnecessary formality.

  He entered the sitting-room to see an elderly man by the French windows. ‘Señor Field?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Field answered in Castilian. ‘And you are?’

  It was very unusual to meet an Englishman who not only chose to speak Castilian, but did so with a degree of fluency. ‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ Field said with risible formality.

  Batwing ears, a hairline that was receding asymmetrically, bushy eyebrows, slightly lopsided mouth, and a very pointed jaw, combined to suggest to Alvarez that he was speaking to a man who could see the humour in life because he had experienced the pain. ‘I hoped to speak to Señora Cooper, but Rosa tells me she is not here. Have you any idea where she might be?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Or when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Not really, except obviously … At least, I’m sure … I’m not making any sense, am I? But I was so surprised and upset to learn what’s happened … Won’t you sit down and I’ll try to explain a little more rationally.’ Once they were both seated, Field continued: ‘I’m an old friend; known Oliver for more years than I care to remember. So when they go away, which they do quite often, he gets me to come round and check that everything’s running smoothly.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘Oliver finds it difficult to accept that the staff are more than capable. So when I turned up here this morning, I expected them to be in London or aboard the ship … I suppose Rachael has gone out to ask anyone and everyone if they’ve seen Oliver … Have you any news?’

  ‘The señor’s car has been found on the north coast. There is no sign of him and I’m afraid it seems possible because of the circumstances that he may have committed suicide by throwing himself over the cliff.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Field was embarrassed. ‘I … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that the idea is impossible because if ever he wanted to commit suicide, throwing himself off a cliff is the one way he would never choose, however desperate.’

  ‘Can you be quite so certain?’

  ‘Positive. He’s terrified of heights. Even a staircase around an open well makes him hug the wall side. I don’t suppose you find it easy to understand?’

  ‘On the contrary. Regrettably, I also suffer from altophobia.’

  ‘That’s very bad luck … Jumping over a cliff is something he just couldn’t do.’

  ‘Probably not. But I do wonder if there is not the possibility that since a person’s mind surely has to be very upset to contemplate suicide, might he not choose the method which he fears most to render the act even more traumatic for both himself and others?’

  ‘You lose me on that one! All I can say is, the last time I saw him, his mind seemed as clear as ever.’

  ‘And that was when?’

  ‘Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Since you are an old friend of the señor’s, I suppose you know him very well?’

  ‘Probably as well as one person can know another.’

  ‘Would you say he is happy living on the island?’

  ‘Far happier than in England.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘The climate, the people, the way of life.’

  ‘What particular aspect of the way of life so appeals to him?’

  ‘Well, the fact that…’ He came to a stop.

  ‘Yes, señor?’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult to explain without sounding rather disloyal.’

  ‘I need your help in order to try to understand what kind of a person Señor Cooper is because if I can learn that, I may be able more accurately to understand what has happened to him. What you tell me may enable me to recognize as important something I would otherwise dismiss as unimportant. That is not disloyalty.’

  Field rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger, trying to make up his mind. He looked up, and directly at Alvarez. ‘If I’m to explain things, it’ll be something of a long story.’

  ‘We have the saying, Time is made for man, not man for time.’

  ‘Which explains why most people here live to a ripe old age … I first met Oliver through carrying out work for him – I’m a picture restorer, or rather, was before I retired. That was soon after he’d married Davina. It was never the happiest of marriages; she had no natural interest in art and couldn’t b
e bothered to develop any, and so didn’t appreciate his success in his chosen sector of the art world, while he had little or no sympathy for her social aspirations. It was her money that started the gallery and bought the house and she’d determined where they lived – with typical misjudgement, in the heart of senile suburbia. She blamed him when they remained outsiders. But there was never any chance it could be otherwise. He hadn’t been to a good school and was making a success of life despite his background. He was clever and he was in art. Added to which, Davina’s money was new money and she wasn’t the kind of person to hide that fact successfully.

  ‘Ironically, his professional life which should have been so very much happier than his social one, wasn’t. I’ve told Oliver more than once that his biggest problem was not that he was right, but that he made other people aware that they were wrong. Soon after he bought the gallery, he publicly and unsubtly doubted the attribution of a painting which had recently been authenticated by a couple of the best known experts. That he was proved right naturally increased the resentment of the two and as they carried a great deal of influence, they made certain he was never received into the art world’s establishment. He had been proved absolutely justified in his championing of Poperen, but because of enmity and jealousy, it took years longer than it should have done to establish that fact.’

  ‘Then it was his unhappiness in both his marriage and his work that brought him to this island?’

  ‘Yes and no. The recession hit the art world hard and it looked as if the gallery would be forced to close. But then he managed to sell two Poperens privately for record prices and finances looked considerably healthier. That’s when Davina died.

  ‘Rachael had been working for him and it wasn’t long after Davina’s death before he told me he was marrying her. Frankly, I congratulated him, thinking that he was making as big a mistake as when he married Davina – he was still shocked and she was only half his age. Which proves that friends’ judgements should always be ignored. She persuaded him to leave England and come out here to live and that turned out to be the best thing he could have done. The expatriates’ community is not a very large one, but it is widely based, most people take the trouble to get on with their fellows, and there are a surprising number who are ready to go to a lot of trouble to help others. Of course, since most are English, society is stratified – we may have invented the theory of democracy, but the practice always panics us. One stratum is defined solely by money – if you’re rich, you’re in, however stupid or boring you are. Oliver was wealthy enough to qualify and the fact that he was highly intelligent in artistic matters was not held against him. Having bought an expensive house and car, he was received into the full social whirl.’