An Artistic Way to Go Read online

  He stepped through the bead curtain into the front room, furnished to receive visitors, and called out. After a moment, Teresa came through from inside. She studied him briefly and said, her voice muffled because she did not have her teeth in her mouth: ‘You’re Enrique, Dolores’s cousin.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I saw her last week and she said…’

  He listened patiently. For people of Teresa’s generation, gossip, not television, was the staff of life. Eventually, however, he had the chance to ask her where Jorge was. ‘In the Bar Iberia,’ she answered, surprised he should need to ask.

  Amoros was seated at the far table in the bar, talking to a man whom Alvarez recognized, yet could not immediately identify. He ordered a brandy, paid, said to the owner: ‘Who’s that with Jorge? Know the face, but can’t place the name.’

  ‘Eduardo Serra.’

  ‘Of course! His brother was Narcis.’

  ‘That silly sod!’ was the other’s sour comment.

  Alvarez carried his glass across to the table. Amoros and Serra stared up at him with the blank, mindless expression with which they would face any situation until they had judged it. ‘Have you time for a word?’ he said.

  They hesitated. ‘With me?’ Serra finally asked.

  ‘With Jorge.’

  Amoros drained his glass. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded with the antagonism towards authority, common to most islanders, that he could now express without fear of the consequences.

  ‘To hear about life at Ca’n Oliver.’

  Serra stood. ‘The señor’s still missing, then? Bloody good riddance.’ He eased his way out from the table and left, not bothering to say goodbye.

  Alvarez sat. ‘What’s made him more bitter than an unripe persimmon?’

  Amoros peered into his glass.

  ‘How about another?’

  He pushed his glass across. ‘And tell that bastard behind the bar to pour a proper sized coñac this time.’

  Alvarez went to the bar, returned, passed a glass across, sat. ‘I’ve been up at Ca’n Oliver a couple of times. There can’t be a better garden this side of Palma and maybe not the other side, either.’

  The praise had the desired effect. Amoros’s initial antagonism melted, its final disappearance helped along by another brandy. Alvarez brought Serra back into the conversation.

  ‘’Course, he doesn’t like the señor.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought he’d have much to do with him.’

  ‘Call yourself a detective? Don’t know much about anything, do you? When the father died, the land was left to the two of ’em. Narcis, being a stupid bastard, gambled his half away and a German bought the land and had a palace built. All the time the building was going on there was no garden, so there wasn’t any need for water apart from mixing the cement and concrete. Eduardo diverted the German’s share down his channel. After the house was finished, he forgot to change things.’ Amoros sniggered.

  ‘And when the owner moved in?’

  ‘He was a German, so money meant nothing. When there was no water arriving, he told me to buy. Three lorryloads a week at this time of the summer; fifteen thousand pesetas and he never worried! When God made foreigners, he made ’em dafter’n women.’

  ‘Then Eduardo continued to enjoy all the water?’

  ‘And went around boasting how smart he was and how he grew the best fruit and vegetables on the island. Everyone knew it was only because of the extra water. Then the German sold the house and the Englishman bought it.’

  ‘Things changed?’

  Amoros studied his empty glass. Alvarez took it and his own to the bar and had them refilled.

  ‘The English señor is different. Rich, but if he’d a flock of sheep, he’d go round plucking the wool off the brambles to make certain he didn’t lose a strand. Like when I plant out bulbs, he counts how many come up to see none have gone missing. Came up one day and asked why I was buying water when the land was entitled to it from the aqueduct. I tried to explain things, but he’s difficult. Called in some smart abogado from Palma who said the land was entitled to the water and if Eduardo didn’t stop pinching it, he’d find himself in court. ’Course, Eduardo said I was to tell the señor I was switching the water, but to continue to let it run through to his estanque. But the señor’s such a suspicious bastard, he checked up and when he found it wasn’t running, made me alter the baffles … So now most times Eduardo only gets the water that’s rightly his. People are laughing.’

  Only a peasant, Alvarez thought, could fully appreciate the measure of humiliation Serra would be suffering. To be outwitted by a foreigner was bad enough; to be jeered at by his fellows was worse. His sense of bitter, angry resentment might well have reached the point where the need to gain revenge far outstripped all sense of proportion or logic. Unexpectedly, a new possibility had opened up … Alvarez changed the subject. ‘I met Señora Cooper yesterday. She’s very lovely.’

  ‘If you like ’em like that.’

  ‘You’re dead if you don’t. I heard she’s a bit of a handful?’

  ‘The likes of you won’t never get the chance to find out.’

  ‘But some lucky lad did one Sunday?’

  ‘If he didn’t, he must be slower than a blind mule.’

  ‘What exactly did you see?’

  ‘She was showing her tits. Then she climbed out of the pool and showed all the rest.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She and the bloke lay down on towels and sunbathed.’

  ‘Have you any idea who he is?’

  ‘Can’t name him, but I’ve seen him around.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down in the port, working on boats.’

  ‘Did you mention what you saw to the señor?’

  ‘Take me for that much of a bloody fool? He’d have asked her if it was true and she’d have said I was a dirty-minded liar and he’d have believed her, not me, because it’s her what’s got him by the short and curlies. I’d have been sacked. In any case, what them lot get up to, doesn’t concern me.’

  ‘I reckon that’s fair enough.’ Alvarez drained his glass.

  ‘D’you know what’s happened to the señor?’

  ‘Right now, it looks like he may have committed suicide.’

  ‘Why’d he want to be that daft?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. D’you think he could have discovered the señora was planting horns on his head?’

  ‘He’s the great hidalgo. His kind take out their troubles on someone else, not themselves. Maybe his disappearing is something to do with the other man?’

  ‘What other man?’

  ‘The one what was watching the house through binoculars.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Something short of a week.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know about him if I hadn’t, would I?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Didn’t do nothing. He saw me looking at him and started moving the binoculars around as if he was one of those barmy foreigners what spend their time looking at birds. Like the one what asked me if I’d seen a black vulture recently and I told him I’d seen four that very afternoon.’ Amoros stared into the past. ‘That cheered him up so much he gave me a couple of coñacs from a bottle in his rucksack. If I’d’ve known four vultures would have got him that excited, I’d have made it a dozen.’

  ‘Perhaps this man you saw really was looking for birds?’

  ‘Until he saw me, he was looking at the house.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Taller than you and not nearly so fat.’

  ‘I am not fat,’ Alvarez said sharply. ‘What about colour of hair and eyes, shape of ears and nose?’

  ‘He was wearing some kind of a hat with a wide brim, and so what with the binoculars up to his eyes as well, I couldn’t see nothing but the scar.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘On his cheek.’ />
  ‘Right or left?’

  Amoros intently studied his empty glass.

  Alvarez decided that it was not worth the cost of another brandy to discover that Amoros probably couldn’t remember on which cheek the scar was.

  * * *

  He phoned Traffic from the office.

  ‘The car’s owned by Garaje Xima, in Cala Xima. And there’s a message from my jefe. The next time you submit the request on the proper form, countersigned, or you won’t get the information.’

  Alvarez settled back in the chair. Cala Xima. A place to be avoided whenever possible.

  He looked at his watch. Dolores would have started cooking supper. Small point, then, in starting anything fresh.

  CHAPTER 12

  In the brilliant sunshine, the bay was at its most beautiful, the water a dramatic blue, the mountains looking benign. It was Alvarez’s hope that when St Peter opened the gates and he walked through, he would find himself on the shores of Llueso Bay once more. (With all tourists having been consigned to the other place, of course.)

  The harbour had changed as greatly as had Port Llueso (the campaign to rename every place on the island with its Mallorquin form was being encouraged, to the confusion of everyone). When it had merely served the fishermen, it had consisted of two stone breakwaters, now it was a network of jetties at which were moored a bewildering variety of yachts and motor boats. Only a few years before, the water had been crystal clear, now it was virtually opaque and not even a starving Andaluz gitano would willingly eat any fish that came out of it.

  Alvarez walked along the main western arm, past a restaurant whose prices were such that even if someone else had been paying the bill he would not have enjoyed the meal, to reach a boatyard. Two men were cleaning the keel of a yacht with very high-pressure water hoses. He asked where Delgado was. Not bothering to turn off his hose, shouting to overcome the noise, one man said the other was in the office.

  Delgado was rich because he had the ability to impress a client with the belief that he put excellence before profit. That was why he dressed poorly, went to work in a rusting Panda and left the Mercedes at home, and frequently spoke of impending bankruptcy. Indeed, one yacht owner who boasted about the size of the debts he’d left in ports from Bridgetown to Suva, was so moved by the sad story that he’d paid his account on the day it was presented.

  When Alvarez walked into the small, cramped office, equipped with ancient battered equipment, Delgado was on the phone. After a moment, he replaced the receiver, leaned across the desk to shake hands. ‘It’s a difficult world,’ he observed mournfully.

  ‘Is the government increasing the wealth tax?’

  ‘Probably, since they’ve increased every other one until a man can’t afford to live, and can’t afford to die.’ He indicated the stained chair in front of the desk. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I’m looking for an Englishman.’

  ‘Sadly, there’s no lack of them.’

  ‘Do you employ any?’

  ‘Now that the rules have changed and it’s no longer necessary to fake the work permits, I’ve three. So many boat owners don’t speak Spanish that it’s useful to have someone who can communicate. None of ’em does a proper day’s work, of course.’

  ‘That’s fair enough, since you don’t pay ’em a proper wage.’

  ‘Always the humorist … What’s the name of the Englishman you’re looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Which is why I want you to call each one in turn in here so I can have a word with him.’

  ‘Who pays for the lost time?’

  ‘Charge it up to entertainment.’

  Delgado stood, left. He returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Bradley is out in the bay with a client, trying to find out why one of the engines is badly down on power, Hewitt and Burns are here. I’ve told ’em to come along one at a time, Hewitt first.’

  Almost as Delgado finished speaking, a man in a heavily dirt-and-sweat stained boiler suit entered.

  ‘You want something?’ Hewitt asked, in inaccurate but recognizable Spanish, as he faced Delgado.

  Alvarez said in English: ‘In fact, señor, it is I who wish to speak to you.’

  He turned. ‘Yeah?’ His thick features held sullen lines.

  ‘I have a message for you from Señora Rachael.’

  ‘Who? Don’t know any bird of that name. And I never mess with marrieds. Not worth the aggro.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, there seems to have been a mistake.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, squire. And if this Rachael has a younger sister who’s not married, tell her I’m free between eight and nine tonight.’ He swaggered out, a plebeian Don Juan.

  ‘What was he saying?’ Delgado asked. ‘I couldn’t understand much of it.’

  ‘He could spare an hour this evening in which to pleasure a young lady.’

  ‘Are you in the poncing business?’

  ‘Would I be poor if I were?’

  ‘Perhaps, since in this day and age few are willing to pay for what is freely available.’ Delgado’s tone became reflective. ‘We have seen life change, you and me. When we were young, if we looked at a woman twice we became her novio and her mother was always there to make certain life was not full of pleasure. So it had to be the caseta with green shutters on the edge of the village when we could get a few pesetas together. But now the beaches are filled with women who flaunt what before was secret, their mothers are nowhere to be seen, and a man has no need to visit the caseta with green shutters. The young of today are luckier than rats in an almond tree.’

  ‘Remember what the local priest used to tell us? Happiness lies through denial.’

  ‘Can you ever remember his kind finding out if that were true?’

  The door opened and a second man entered. Tall, broad shouldered, Marlboro-country handsome, he carried the air of a man who would respect authority only for as long as he agreed with it. He came to a stop by the side of Alvarez, faced Delgado.

  ‘Señor Burns?’ Alvarez said.

  He half turned.

  ‘I have a message for you from Señora Rachael.’

  He showed his surprise. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Señor Cooper has disappeared.’

  Despite his chunky features, he had an expressive face. It was not difficult to judge the point at which his puzzlement turned into suspicion. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  ‘When did she give you the message?’

  ‘Perhaps I should confess that the señora gave me no message. My little stratagem was to discover if you know her.’

  ‘Your little stratagem is crap! What concern of yours is it if I do know her?’

  ‘Perhaps you have not yet learned that the señor’s car has been found and the circumstances suggest that he has committed suicide? It has become my task to try to find out why he should have had cause to take his own life.’

  ‘Why should I be able to tell you anything about that?’

  ‘You are a friend of the señora.’

  ‘A casual friend.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘If we happen to meet, we have a coffee and a drink at one of the cafés. That’s all.’

  ‘You do not visit her at her house?’

  ‘I went there once because her husband was thinking of buying a boat and needed advice.’

  ‘That’s the only time you’ve been there?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’ve just said?’

  ‘Then it was not you who was swimming there when the señor was away and the staff were not present and only the señora was there?’

  He tried, but failed, to hide his consternation.

  ‘I have been told that both the señora and you were without costumes.’

  ‘Whoever it was told you that is a bloody liar.’

  ‘Why should anyone lie about such things?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? Maybe that’s how they get their
kicks. And even if we’d been updating the Kamasutra, what business is it of yours?’

  ‘As I said earlier, my job is to try to discover why the señor might have committed suicide. If he had discovered that his wife and you were cuckolding him, that would be good cause.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You are quite certain he did not discover the truth?’

  ‘It’s not the truth. It’s something thought up by a goddamn pervert. Why can’t you understand what I’m telling you?’

  ‘I understand, but I have to consider whether I can believe it, because if the señor did not commit suicide, then…’

  ‘You’ve just said he did.’

  ‘I said that the circumstances suggest that he did. But circumstances can be carefully arranged.’

  ‘What are you trying to suggest now?’

  ‘That until I can be certain of the facts, I cannot uncover the truth. And that when a person lies, I have to wonder what can be his motive for doing so … Señor, let me ask you once more – did you visit Ca’n Oliver one Sunday when the señora was on her own and did she and you swim in the nude?’

  ‘No.’

  Was he lying merely to protect Rachael? ‘Thank you for your help.’

  Burns seemed to be about to speak, but then he turned and left the office.

  ‘You talked too fast for me to understand anything,’ Delgado complained. ‘What was it all about?’

  ‘Just a routine matter,’ Alvarez replied.

  ‘Since when would a man like him become so concerned over something that is routine? You were on about Señora Rachael, who is the wife of the man who has disappeared. What’s Neil been up to – humping her when he gets the chance?’

  ‘You’ve got a one-track mind.’

  ‘Show me the man who hasn’t.’

  ‘What’s Burns’s address?’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask him for that?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Like hell! You just didn’t want to let on that you were interested. You’re a cunning bastard.’