Layers of Deceit (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 9) Page 8

  ‘Not if you use your eyes.’

  They walked up the inclined drive to the line of oleander bushes and past them to the gateway. Alvarez turned and studied the land. The garden, in the strict sense of the word, didn’t start until the other side of the oleanders, but here the rough grass had been kept cut. Dotted around were trees — he identified mimosa, acacia, jacaranda, and Judas — and over in the far corner, beyond a well, was a thicket of large bamboo.

  They began their search and soon Alvarez was sweating so freely that he had to keep mopping his forehead and face. He reached the bamboo. The base of the thicket on the outskirts, where there was plenty of light, was a tangle of brambles, weeds, and grass. He walked down the outside. Three-quarters of the way along, where the bamboos grew less thickly together, he could see perhaps a third of the way through. A square of yellow caught his attention. He hesitated, then stepped inside, easing his way between a couple of very tall and thick bamboos. His right hand caught on a bramble trail and instinctively he flinched to his left; the side shoot of a bamboo which had at some time been broken off dug into his shoulder.

  Scratched, breathless, and sweating more than ever, he reached the yellow plastic shopping-bag. Inside it was a small, colourless plastic bag which bore rusty-red traces on the inside and a strip, torn off a till roll, which recorded the purchase of one item at a cost of ninety-five pesetas; below the total were the words, ‘Thank you for your custom. Toni, Calle Pescador.’ He thought that the stains in the clear plastic bag were possibly those of sobrasada.

  A little further in from where he now stood the bamboo grew more thinly and it was clear that the ground tangle of bramble, weeds, and grass, had recently been disturbed. He hung the yellow bag on a bamboo side shoot, continued towards the disturbed area. Because of the patchwork of sunshine and shadow, he was very close to the dog before he realized it was there. It lay, as it had been thrown down, on its side.

  A quick search of the area, difficult and painful, uncovered nothing of significance. He returned for the yellow bag and then pushed his way through to the outside of the thicket. He cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted. Artich stumped his way over. ‘I’ve found the dog — in there.’

  Artich looked at the bamboo.

  ‘It’ll be one hell of a job to get it out. I don’t know if between us we can manage …’

  ‘I reckon if you give a hand we bloody won’t. Whereabouts is it?’

  When Artich came out of the bamboo he was carrying the heavy body of the dog by its four legs. He dropped it down on the ground. ‘Cut its throat.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said, its throat’s been cut. Can’t you see what’s in front of your eyes?’

  It was far from obvious as the dog lay, but the moment Alvarez moved the head he saw the wound. ‘Why the hell do that? … Or was … There’ll have to be a post mortem to find out exactly what killed it.’

  Artich stared at him. ‘I’ve met some stupid buggers in my time, but if you don’t know that cutting a dog’s throat kills it … ’ He hawked and spat.

  ‘Can you find a large sack to put it in?’

  Artich, with one last look of contempt, left. He returned five minutes later with a fifty-kilo plastic bag which had contained artificial fertilizer. They tipped the dog into this. ‘D’you know if Señor Alan Cullom’s in the house?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘He ain’t. Went out earlier with the señorita.’ He laughed salaciously. ‘She’s lost one of ’em, but she’s keeping herself busy with t’other.’

  ‘Hold your filthy tongue.’

  ‘A detective from Llueso! And you don’t bloody know what kills a dog or makes a woman happy!’

  *

  Alvarez rang the front doorbell and María opened the door. He stepped inside. ‘I’ve found the dog. I’m afraid it’s dead.’

  ‘That’s not surprising, seeing as it didn’t know about traffic.’

  ‘It wasn’t killed by a car. It was among the bamboos, up beyond the old well.’

  ‘What was it doing there?’

  ‘Someone killed it and then tried to hide the body.’

  She looked bewildered.

  ‘Can we have a bit of a chat?’

  ‘You’d best come into the kitchen. And I suppose you’ll want a coñac?’

  ‘I’ll not say no.’

  ‘Never met a man who would.’ They entered the kitchen and she crossed to one of the cupboards and brought out of it a bottle. She half filled a glass, replaced the bottle, got ice out of the refrigerator and tipped three large cubes into the brandy before passing him the glass.

  He drank, put the glass down on the table. ‘D’you remember the last time we talked? You told me the two señors had had an argument?’

  She did not answer and her expression became stubborn.

  ‘Tell me a bit more about that argument.’

  ‘What business of yours is it?’

  ‘The dog was killed. That means that probably the señor was as well.’

  She stared at him with growing horror. ‘Sweet Mary!’

  ‘Could you understand the brothers when they were arguing?’

  ‘When people talk English quickly, I don’t really know what they’re saying.’

  ‘But you probably have an idea of what it’s all about, even if you don’t understand every word?’

  She did not deny that.

  ‘So what d’you think they were arguing about?’

  She picked up a cloth and began to dry a saucepan that had already drip-dried on the draining-board. ‘The señor was always having women to stay here. Women without the shame to care that when I went upstairs I had only one bed to make. Then Señorita Susan came and I had two beds to make. The señor was angry because he could not understand a woman with pride and self-respect who was not for sale; he was like a child who’s refused a new toy and loses his temper. Señor Alan knew very soon what kind of a woman the señorita is. And he told the señor to leave her alone and not to try to force his way into her bedroom. And the señor was furious.’

  ‘They fought?’

  ‘Fought?’ Her tone became sarcastic. ‘Since when does a man like the señor fight if he knows he cannot win?’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘How should I know what happened?’

  He finished the brandy. ‘On Thursday, Señor Steven Cullom went to a party in the morning. How was he when he returned?’

  She looked curiously at him. ‘How would you expect? The same as before.’

  He said patiently: ‘What I really meant was, what kind of a mood was he in?’

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Was this to do with the señorita?’

  ‘How can I say?’

  ‘Had she gone to the party?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where it was?’

  ‘In Llueso or Puerto Llueso.’

  ‘Whose house was it at?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ Then she added, ‘But perhaps it’s written down.’

  They went through to the hall and she showed him the appointments calendar on the small telephone table. There was an entry for Thursday which read: 12.30. Piersons.

  He opened the drawer of the table and brought out the telephone directory. Under Llueso, there was no Pierson listed. He turned to Puerto Llueso. Pierson, Ca’n Blanch, s/n, Calle Juan Villemont.

  He looked at his watch. If he left now, he would be at Llueso just before lunch-time. A visit to the Piersons would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Piersons had been in the diplomatic service (his wife had, naturally, assumed his rank) and so although life in retirement had, force majeure, taught them some facts of life, it had not yet persuaded them to speak, especially to a native, without a touch of righteous condescension.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we have no idea,’ said Pierson, a tall, lean man, with clipped speech and moustache, and definite opinions on everything, especially those subjects about which he knew little o
r nothing.

  Alvarez, who had not been asked to sit, said: ‘You did not see or hear anything which would account for Señor Steven Cullom being so upset?’

  ‘I believe I have already said not.’

  ‘Who did he talk to?’

  ‘You really cannot expect me to be able to answer that. As the host, I was exceedingly busy.’

  ‘Surely, señor, you noticed him talking to someone?’

  ‘You should realize something,’ said Clara, a woman who prided herself on always speaking her mind. ‘We’re sorry to learn that Steven Cullom has suffered a fatal accident, but that does not alter the fact that he was not one of our friends.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ confirmed her husband, as he brushed his moustache with crooked forefinger.

  ‘Yet you invited him to your party?’

  Pierson was amused by the naïve suggestion that one asked only one’s friends to a cocktail-party. His wife said coldly: ‘His cousin wanted us to invite him because he knows so few people on the island.’

  ‘One could hardly mention to her,’ murmured Pierson, ‘that however many people he wished to know, few would wish to know him.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘The fellow was — how can I explain it to a foreigner? — unable to appreciate that a surfeit of money can never compensate for a lack of background.’

  ‘Was his cousin at your party?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clara answered.

  ‘Can you tell me where she lives?’

  ‘Not offhand, no.’

  ‘Would you be very kind and look up her address?’

  Somewhat piqued, she stood and left the room, unaware that with buttocks the shape and size of hers, a pair of tight-fitting slacks were far from flattering. When she returned, she said: ‘Ca’n Oñar,’ and sat.

  ‘I think I know that name. Who is the señora?’

  ‘If by that you mean what is her name, it’s Mrs Hart.’

  ‘And does she live in a wheelchair?’

  ‘She doesn’t “live” in a wheelchair, but she does make use of one whenever she wishes to be mobile,’ replied Pierson.

  Alvarez thanked them for their help and left. When he was out of earshot, Pierson remarked to his wife that it was no wonder crime in Spain was increasing at such a rate since the police didn’t wear ties.

  Alvarez drove along the main Palma road, circling Llueso, and then turned off to the left. When he reached Ca’n Onar, Amelia was handforking fertilizer into some large clay pots, set a metre up from the ground. He began to introduce himself, but she broke in to say that she remembered him from February. He said how sorry he was that her cousin had died.

  She stared out across the garden to a field of orange trees. ‘He was so very kind, letting us stay here, lending us the car … But I’m not a hypocrite so I’m not going to say that I’m really cut-up. We were cousins, but we really didn’t have much in common and although I always tried to be friendly, because basically he was so lonely, there were times when I’d have loved to tell him to pull himself together. And then there were the family stresses and strains.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s what my mother always said when I was young and she didn’t want me to understand what was going on. But I’m sure you don’t want to be bored by family history.’

  ‘On the contrary, señora, I would like to hear it.’

  She frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I think I will have to investigate the death of Señor Cullom more closely and it will help to know all I can about him.’

  ‘Oh! … Are you really saying it may not have been an ordinary accident?’

  ‘I’m afraid it probably wasn’t.’

  ‘That is a bit of a shaker.’ She put down the handfork. ‘I thought of having a cup of tea earlier on, but with Maurice down in the port I just couldn’t be bothered. As you’re here now, would you like some?’

  ‘Very much, señora.’

  ‘Good. Where would you like to be? Out here or inside?’

  ‘Outside, unless it is too hot for you.’

  ‘It’s never too hot for me, especially when I remember that we’re going to have to return to the sad English climate … So sit down while I get it.’

  He sat and imagined himself the owner of this finca and he thought how full his heart would be as he ran his fingers through the rich soil …

  She returned, a tray balanced on the arms of the wheelchair. ‘Will you be mother?’

  He was startled.

  ‘You obviously don’t have the expression out here! It means, will you pour out the tea.’

  He lifted the tray from the wheelchair and set it on the table.

  ‘No milk for me, thanks. I have it with a slice of lemon and try to forget how much nicer it would be if I dared to have sugar and milk. But I can’t stand saccharine in tea and sugar’s so quick to put on the pounds.’

  He handed her the filled cup in which there’d been a slice of lemon. ‘You want to know about the family Cullom,’ she said. ‘It’s an odd family, but perhaps no odder than others. Grandfather Cullom had four children and for some reason I’ve never been able to fathom they disliked each other. To such a ridiculous extent that every time one of their children did well at something, there was a fearful crowing … Inevitably, the pointless antagonisms were passed on. People can be incredibly silly.

  ‘Anyway, Mark Cullom married twice and had Steven by the first marriage and, much later on, Alan by the second. Steven didn’t do well at school, got a poor job, and married Agnes — at the point of a shotgun, the rest of the family claimed — a no doubt worthy but exceedingly dull woman. After his marriage there were scandals concerning other women, at least one of which threatened to become serious. My mother and Aunt Prudence, the only surviving parents by then, were delighted by all this and when Alan turned out to be a wanderer who wouldn’t, or couldn’t, settle down to a respectable life, their cup was overflowing.’ She chuckled. ‘Unfortunately, their cup turned out to be cracked.

  ‘When Agnes’s mother had died, she’d left Agnes a little money and some shares, presumed to be almost worthless. Out of the blue, the shares turned out to be worth a fortune.

  ‘Agnes’s sudden wealth changed her completely. From being meek and mild and ready to put up with most things, she became quite aggressive and she told Steven that if he didn’t stop chasing other women she’d make certain he didn’t enjoy another penny of her money. That brought him to heel. Then, quite unexpectedly, she became seriously ill and died within a month. In her will, she left everything to Steven. Both my mother and Aunt Pru died within a year of her. I’ve always thought that their resentment at seeing their black sheep of a nephew inherit so much was at least partially responsible for their deaths.

  ‘As regards us cousins and how I thought of Steve … If I’m honest, I have to say that I was envious of him, in the way that one normally is envious of people who are so much better off.’ For a moment she paused and it was not difficult to judge that she was thinking of all those who were better off than she, not in financial terms but in physical ones. ‘But the traditional family dislikes hadn’t rubbed off on me, nor was I bitter because he was the black sheep and his iniquities had been rewarded … So you can see, I’m sad he’s dead, but not shocked as one is when someone close and dear dies. I don’t know whether you can understand what I’m trying to say?’

  ‘Indeed, señora.’

  She looked at him. ‘I’ve always thought detectives must become very hard people, not allowing themselves to appreciate emotions, because they have to deal with so much sadness and brutality and becoming hard is the only way in which they can protect themselves, but you haven’t, have you? Do you get hurt often?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Yes, you do. And I should never have asked so impertinent a question. My mother once told me I ought regularly to wash my mouth out with vinegar, but I never understood why vinegar should stop me asking questions.’ She finished her t
ea. ‘Has any of that helped you at all?’

  ‘I think now I know a little more about what kind of a man the señor was.’

  ‘Earlier on, you said that you might have to investigate Steve’s death more closely because it wasn’t an ordinary accident. That must mean you think someone may have killed him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why should anyone have done that?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Then you came here to try and find a motive?’

  ‘Señora, I am sure you cannot possibly answer that question directly, but everything you tell me builds a little of the picture and therefore you may be able to help me indirectly.’

  ‘What a bloody world it can be!’

  He waited a moment, then said: ‘Did you see much of him?’

  ‘In England, before he moved out here, no, not very much. Apart from anything else, we lived over a hundred miles apart. But since he first lent us this place, which he bought before his present one, we’ve naturally seen quite a lot more of him. As I said earlier, basically he was a very lonely man. He needn’t have been. Out here, most people are prepared to be friendly and they’ll cross social boundaries which they’d run away from at home. But Steve saw boundaries which weren’t there and he thought he could breach them by flaunting his money. The result, of course, was to build them.’ She moved the wheelchair three or four metres to her right, then returned; as someone not crippled might begin to pace, gaining a measure of satisfaction or relief from the movement. ‘I think he came here to see me. Pat was always friendly, of course, but he did feel that anyone with that much money who behaved as Steve did was stupid, and that sort of attitude usually shows, however much one tries to hide it. I didn’t see things like that. I think people behave as they do because that’s how they’re conditioned. When Pat said Steve was a fool for trying to use his money to buy friendship, Pat was making an objective criticism. But I’m sure Steven really couldn’t help acting as he did. And maybe my sympathy showed … And there’s probably another reason why he came. Being chairbound made me different and he came to think of me as an agony aunt.’