Murdered by Nature Page 8

  ‘It seemed better to have a word with you here rather than disturb your work. My cousin says that a minute’s inattention can ruin hours of work.’

  ‘She is right.’

  He watched her fry garlic in hot lard. ‘I’ll try not to interrupt you at a vital moment.’

  ‘You are not already doing so?’

  ‘Hopefully, not to any great extent.’

  ‘Move.’

  He moved away from the central table on which lamb, cut into cubes, was on a chopping board. She picked that up, carefully dropped the lamb into the garlic, adjusted the height of the gas flame, stirred with a wooden spoon.

  ‘As Manuel must have told you—’

  ‘The salt.’

  An open jar of sea salt was on the table. He passed it to her, and she extracted a pinch, scattered this over the meat.

  ‘I’ve been trying to find out if Kerr, the man who died in the bay, ever came here. That seems possible because he had noted the address in a notebook and—’

  ‘Onions.’

  Chopped onions were on a plate, which he gave her. She added these to the contents of the frying pan, then a couple of spoonfuls of flour, covered the mixture with red wine and water.

  ‘When Manuel can’t respond to the front door bell for some reason, I gather Inés does.’

  ‘If I cannot.’

  ‘She is reluctant to do so?’

  ‘She is very nervous and uneasy in the presence of strangers. She suffers an unfortunate experience.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you.’ She stirred the contents of the frying pan, added a little more flour, some leaves of mint.

  ‘It seems Señor Ashton was a good employer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Easy-going?’

  ‘When someone knew his job.’

  ‘Generous?’

  ‘If needed, very generous.’

  ‘You’re thinking of García’s daughter?’

  ‘That and of many other occasions.’

  ‘Did he smoke?’

  ‘No.’ She turned down the gas, covered the frying pan.

  ‘Were you ever aware of a lingering smell in the house which was not like ordinary cigarette smoke?’

  ‘No. Are you finished? I have to prepare Amargos for the señora. They were her favourite sweet before the señor died, and I hope they will help to refresh her appetite. You have any more questions?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then you can clear out of my kitchen.’

  He left. It was an article in every cook’s faith that it was ‘her kitchen’. In a palace, no doubt the chef worked in ‘his’ kitchen.

  He drove back to Llueso and Carrer Joan Rives, had to park well away from home. The air was cooling quickly, yet he found the walk enervating.

  Jaime sat at the table in the sitting/dining room, glass, a bottle of Soberano and an ice bucket in front of himself. He indicated the glass in front of Alvarez’s seat, pushed the bottle across the table. Alvarez sat, poured himself a drink, added ice.

  ‘You’re late,’ Jaime said.

  ‘I’ve had to work flat out.’

  There was a call from the kitchen. ‘A position in which your work no doubt is frequently performed.’

  Jaime spoke in a low voice. ‘When I got back, I told her I was overwhelmed with all the work, and all she could say was that if I did what she has to do here in running the house, I wouldn’t last half the morning.’

  ‘Female self-deception.’

  ‘And what are you now deceiving yourself about?’ Dolores asked as she came through the bead curtain.

  Alvarez had spoken a fraction too loudly; she would hear a dewdrop fall on cotton wool. ‘That I reckon my work is of consequence because it is concerned with maintaining law and order.’

  ‘Which is why Susana’s car was broken into and the radio stolen along with all the shopping.’ She returned into the kitchen.

  Alvarez poured himself another drink.

  The telephone rang first thing on Thursday. ‘Juan here, forensic laboratory. Re Colin Kerr, deceased. We have identified the poison. Hydrocyanic acid.’

  ‘Prussic acid?’

  ‘In a nutshell.’

  ‘I’ve read it’s very powerful stuff.’

  ‘Start a drink and you likely won’t finish it. You will collapse, frantically gasp for breath as you seem to be in the grip of convulsions. Seconds for you will be as hours to another, each hour gripped in an agony for which no torturer could provide its equal.’

  ‘Where’s it likely to have come from?’

  ‘Maybe industry. It’s used in fumigation, photography, engraving, gold and silver processing. Not to forget bitter almonds; their oil contains up to ten per cent.’

  ‘As much as that?’

  ‘Eat too many and it’s goodbye. Of course, they’re not nearly so deadly as the raw acid, and there’ll be time to tell relatives how much you dislike them. Are you interested in the symptoms?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The throat contracts, mouth burns, retching and vomiting begin, violent pains grip the heart . . .’

  He ceased to listen until the list of possible symptoms concluded. So much better never to know what could happen to one’s defenceless body.

  ‘In this case, normally the provisional diagnosis would have been quickly given due to smell and appearance, but the relatively long immersion in water prevented that. Anything more you’d like to know?’

  ‘Not about prussic acid.’

  ‘Worried because there’s a bitter almond tree nearby? I don’t suppose you realize how much poison grows all around the place. For instance—’

  ‘I’d rather not know.’

  ‘Lily of the valley, meadow saffron, hemlock, oleander, datura and many more. Then there are the mushrooms – amanita phalloides, the Death Cap – which can be as deadly as a snake’s venom.’

  He liked mushrooms. Truita d’esclata-sangs was an omelette for which a gourmet might offer his soul. But since one seldom knew who had picked the mushrooms, how could one be certain that he – or, more likely, a she – had not made a mistake?

  ‘If that’s all you want, I’ll get back to checking some potatoes.’

  ‘Why are you looking at them?’

  ‘To find out if solanine poisoning was responsible for the grave illness of a five year old.’

  ‘Potatoes can’t be dangerous; they’re eaten by everyone all the time.’

  ‘The plant belongs to the family which includes Deadly Nightshades. The child saw some potatoes which were sprouting, thought the green shoots looked appetizing and unfortunately ate some.’

  ‘But . . . ordinary potatoes surely must be all right?’

  ‘So long as there aren’t any green areas which are eaten. If you have two or three spuds and suddenly become anxious, dizzy, suffer facial pallor, twitching of the limbs and hallucinate, you’ve eaten some green potato. But don’t panic. It’s unlikely to be fatal.’ The assistant laughed before he cut the connection.

  Dolores must surely cut off any green area of a potato, but would the cook in a restaurant where profit was more important than the life of a customer? One could pay eight euros for a menu del dia and not live to finish the third course . . . The laboratory assistant had not mentioned grapes. Because they had to be safe, or had he forgotten them? If they were sprayed too heavily against botrytis, could the wine and brandy become charged with a poison . . . ?

  The phone rang.

  ‘Inspector Alvarez? Hotel Clients’ ID shows that Charles Browyer is staying at Hotel Floris in Playa Nueva.’

  He forgot to thank the other because his mind could not lose the picture of a garden inhabited by skeletons.

  Playa Nueva’s reputation was due to clever publicists. The longest sandy beach, cleaned every day; hotels of luxury quality or for those on budgets; restaurants serving dishes for all tastes . . .

  Alvarez viewed it as a small fishing village which had been
ground underfoot by developers.

  He drove past a seemingly endless parade of tourist shops, cafés, restaurants, supermarkets, estate agents. Hotel Floris was on the inland side of the coast road and lay behind and in the shadow of a much larger hotel. Tourists would have read in the brochures that the sea was within five minutes’ walk; it was not mentioned that the main coast road had to be crossed, and with the constant, heavy flow of traffic, five could become ten, fifteen, or even more.

  The reception clerk’s manner belied the promise of the hotel welcoming tourists. ‘You want what?’

  ‘To know if Señor Browyer is in his room.’

  One of the four phones rang; the desk clerk answered the call, talked flirtatiously in Americanized English. Alvarez waited patiently until the clerk began to list the pleasures of lying on the beach in moonlight; he reached over and pressed down the stop bar.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ the desk clerk demanded in Mallorquin, adding a couple of expressive adjectives.

  ‘Saving a young lady’s virtue.’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Cuerpo.’

  The desk clerk attempted to show the contempt for authority which had become a mark of democracy. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to muck up my call.’

  ‘It allows me not to have my work held up by some panting youth from Laraix.’

  Annoyance became uneasiness. ‘How d’you know where I’m from?’

  To a Lluesean, the Laraix accent was easily recognized, and, for a reason few remembered, the inhabitants of the two villages viewed each other with dislike and contempt. Alvarez did not answer the question.

  ‘What . . . What d’you want?’

  ‘As I said, to know if Señor Browyer is in his room.’

  ‘He’ll more likely be eating.’

  ‘A late breakfast?’

  ‘Lunch.’

  ‘This early?’

  ‘Some of ’em would like it even earlier, being so hungry-gutted.’

  ‘Get on to his room.’

  The clerk checked numbers, dialled. There was no answer.

  ‘See if he is in the dining room.’ He might have to wait for Browyer to finish his meal. ‘What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Fish soup, then cold meats or beef stew, salad, chips, and a sweet.’

  A half-formed suggestion was abandoned. He would not eat there however long he had to wait. Fish soup could come out of a tin, cold meats be yesterday’s leftovers, beef tough and tasteless even in a stew, olive oil from a fourth pressing, chips from green potatoes. ‘I’ll wait to talk to him. Will you organize a coñac with ice only?’

  The clerk hesitated, then spoke over an internal telephone.

  Six minutes later, a waiter entered the foyer, a frosting glass in his hand. He looked at the desk clerk, correctly interpreted the nod, crossed to Alvarez and handed him the glass.

  ‘How much?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘I understood it was on the house.’

  Almost certainly a misunderstanding. The brandy was of very medium quality, but drinkable. He was considering whether hotel hospitality would support a second one when people began to leave the dining room. He walked over to the reception desk. ‘Do you know Señor Browyer?’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘Call out his name.’

  Browyer was the last to leave. He came through the doorway, laughing at something he had said to the man beside him who looked bored, not amused. When he heard his name, he stopped, uncertain and uneasy. He walked slowly to the reception desk. ‘What’s the problem?’ With blustering bonhomie, he said: ‘Have I won the lottery or has Miss World phoned?’

  ‘Inspector Alvarez wants to talk to you,’ the desk clerk answered.

  ‘An inspector in what?’

  ‘The Cuerpo.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The detective division of the police force.’

  ‘What . . . ? They’ve already found out I robbed the bank?’ He laughed, sounding like the neighing of a horse.

  ‘I don’t think any bank has recently been robbed,’ Alvarez said.

  ‘Just a funny. I mean, I wouldn’t know how to begin.’

  ‘As you have been told, I wish to have a word with you.’

  ‘But about what?’

  ‘That will become clear.’

  ‘Then I suppose we’d better go into what they call the lounge.’

  ‘In order to have privacy, it will be best to go up to your room.’

  ‘You’re . . .’ He stopped.

  A lift, initially hesitant and then vibrating, took them to the fourth floor. Room 414, a single, faced the much larger hotel and would enjoy sunshine for only a small part of the day. The bed had not yet been made, and a pair of pyjamas with a tricoloured pattern trailed across the pillows. A half-empty bottle of Gordon’s and a dirty glass were on the small chest-of-drawers. On the bedside table was a paperback, the multicoloured cover of which featured two men sunbathing on a sandy beach.

  ‘Is there some kind of trouble?’ Browyer weakly asked.

  Alvarez sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m investigating the death of Colin Kerr.’

  ‘Isn’t . . . isn’t that the name of the man who drowned?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The door opened, and a maid entered, came to a sudden stop. She looked at them, left, shut the door behind herself. Alvarez briefly considered hurrying out and explaining the true situation to her.

  ‘You can’t think . . . I never met the man.’ Browyer’s blustering had given way to uneasiness. ‘I swear it was nothing to do with me. It can’t be, I didn’t know him.’

  ‘You are a nephew of the late Señor Ashton?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Are you here because you had hoped to borrow more money from him?’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Cows don’t shed their horns. Do you expect to benefit under your uncle’s will?’

  ‘He disinherited me. Just because . . . He was living like it was seventy years ago.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘He thought . . . thought it was a sin. I tried to explain. But she wouldn’t let him understand. She hates me.’

  ‘You are referring to Señora Ashton?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘You believe she dislikes you because of your sexuality?’

  ‘Because I know how it went.’

  ‘What went?’

  He poured himself a drink of neat gin. ‘She made eyes at him in the hospital so he had her as a day nurse at home. There, she hotted him up until he married her. If the old fool had had any sense, he’d have got what he wanted for a few quid.’

  ‘I have met the señora. For her, initially the relationship rested solely on sympathy.’

  ‘Believe that and you know sod-all about women. He’d lost his wife, but Laura stroked his brow and had him wriggling like a fifteen year old.’

  ‘Those who knew them before the señor died have repeatedly said they had a great affection for each other.’

  ‘I’m his nephew, but he leaves me nothing, and she gets everything.’

  ‘The will is not yet public. How do you know you have been disinherited?’

  ‘What’s that matter?’

  ‘You have a reason for not answering?’

  ‘A bloke told me.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A clerk in a lawyer’s office.’

  ‘Señor Ramírez’s office in Palma?

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Where did you meet the clerk?’

  After a long pause, Browyer answered: ‘At the office.’

  ‘Whose name you have forgotten. Why did he tell you?’

  ‘We . . . saw each other a couple of times and . . .’ He drank eagerly.

  ‘Did you often ask your uncle for money?’

  ‘I’d got nothing, and he was bloody rich. The house here, properties in other countries, luxury car, y
acht, and God knows what else.’

  ‘You resented his wealth?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have hurt him to pass something on.’

  ‘When you came to the island, did you stay at Son Dragó?’

  ‘Until he suggested it would be more convenient for everyone if I stayed in a hotel. The staff were always complaining about me. They couldn’t understand they were just servants.’

  ‘That didn’t stop you coming to the island since you hoped your frequent requests for money would eventually bear fruit.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘How was it, then?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Were you ever aware that the señor smoked reefers?’

  ‘Did what? He’d as soon have been caught in a massage parlour as smoking dope.’

  ‘You’ll know what smoked cannabis smells like.’

  ‘If you’re saying . . . If someone had smoked it, it would have been her.’

  ‘No doubt there are another dozen faults of which you’d like to accuse her, but I’ve not the time or wish to listen.’

  He left. It had been time wasted in the company of an insecure, jealous, frustrated man.

  Jaime’s greeting as he entered the dining room was: ‘You’re so late, the kids have eaten everything.’

  ‘You had twice what I did,’ Juan, a half-peeled apple in his hand, protested.

  ‘That’s why he’s got so big a tummy,’ Isabel observed.

  ‘How many times do I need to tell you two that it is rude to make personal remarks?’ Dolores asked sharply.

  ‘You told Daddy he’d get even fatter if he had any more.’

  ‘That was a reminder, not a personal comment. Enrique, your meal is in the oven. It will be all right, but not as good as had you returned on time.’

  ‘I had to talk to people in Playa Nueva.’

  ‘That prevented you phoning to tell me you would be late home?’

  He went into the kitchen, brought out of the oven a well-filled plateful of Estofat de bou. He briefly, superficially, felt sorry for the tourists at Hotel Floris who had been condemned to a meal of cold tinned soup, leathery beef stew, and a tasteless sponge covered with a cream mixture from a spray can. He returned to the dining room.

  Juan stared at Alvarez’s plate. ‘If you eat all that, you’ll burst.’