‘Señor, it was not I who rang off . . .’
‘Make your report!’
M mutes later, Alvarez replaced the receiver, picked up the glass, and drank. He looked at his watch and decided he could soon return home for lunch since Salas was hardly likely to ring a third time. He wondered what Dolores would have cooked. Espinagada? A pastry filled with fresh eel, garlic, onions, hot pepper, and he knew not what else. Of course, this was the traditional dish for the feast of Saint Anthony, when it was eaten in the warmth of bonfires in the streets whilst insolent songs, accompanied by ximbombas, were sung, but that was no reason for not serving it at other times and Dolores knew how much he liked it.
Six
IN THE PAST FORTY YEARS, PORT LLUESO HAD IN MANY WAYS changed more than in the previous four hundred. Once a small fishing village, now it was a tourist resort with a large marina, and although there was a ban on high apartment blocks or hotels so that it was no concrete jungle, anyone who could remember its past sleepy charm was saddened by its present ambience.
Alvarez left the police station and climbed into his car. Hotel Monterray was not far away, but it was only common sense not to exert oneself unnecessarily when the temperature was high. He drove up to the small roundabout by the eastern harbour mole, past a No Entry sign, and along the pedestrianised front road, to the obvious annoyance of several foreigners. He parked and once out of the car, stared at the beach. Hotel and restaurant owners were complaining that the number of tourists was down and they were spending little, but to judge from all those sunbathing, swimming, or sitting at the outside cafe tables, the complaints had more to do with tax returns than facts.
Hotel Monterray, one of the oldest hotels in the port, had been greatly enlarged twenty years before, yet much of its previous character had been maintained; package-holiday brochures referred to it as a quiet family hotel and for once were not guilty of lying. The lobby was well proportioned, the few pieces of furniture of good quality; the reception counter was made from a rich, dark wood and kept well polished, while The clerk, or clerks (two were usually on duty when a busload of tourists was expected), wore ties, however hot the day, and were always respectfully polite no matter what the provocation to which they were subjected.
Alvarez spoke to the clerk behind the reception desk. ‘Evening, Diego.’
‘Not seen you for some time. Been on holiday?’
‘Working.’
‘There’s a difference? . . . Something you want?’
‘A word with Señor Short.’
‘There’s a reason?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘It’s just the Cuerpo doesn’t usually bother with accidental deaths.’
‘Foreigners confuse everything.’
‘So true. Who else goes swimming in the dark and after drinking a skinful?’
‘How tight did she appear to be?’
‘You’ll have to ask Gaspar that – he’s on night shift. From what he told me, her nephew was trying hard to dissuade her from swimming, but she wasn’t listening.’
‘Then I’ll need a word with Gaspar as well. When does he come on duty?’
‘Should be six, always it’s some time past. I’ll win the lottery before he relieves me on time.’
Alvarez looked up at the electric clock on the wall behind the reception desk. ‘He’ll be here before long, then, but I’ve time for a word with Señor Short, if he’s around?’
Diego studied the key board. ‘Seems he’s up in his room. Could be grieving, but that seems unlikely.’
‘Hardly a Christian remark.’
‘She was pure vinegar. Never a smile and if she had to speak to one of us, it was giving orders rather than a friendly request. Of course, it was likely the booze speaking.’
Then you can confirm she was a heavy drinker much of the time?’
‘Elena – serves at the tables when it’s not a buffet meal – says it was always her, not him, who ordered another bottle of wine and like as not, finished most of it, talking louder and louder. Didn’t make her popular with the other guests; you’d see ’em move away smartly if she came in sight . . . Shouldn’t be talking like this, not now she’s dead.’
‘I’ve never known death turn black into white . . . Just check he is in his room, will you; might save me a wasted journey.’
Diego spoke briefly in English over the internal telephone, put the palm of his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Wants to know if you’ll go up or he’s to come downstairs?’
‘Down here will be best to begin with. Is there somewhere we can be on our own?’
‘Use the office. There’s no one working in there at the moment.’
After passing the message to Short and replacing the receiver, Diego lifted the flap at the end of the counter to allow Alvarez to pass through and into the office, a small room made even less commodious by two desks, filing cabinets, and a large bookcase.
‘What would you say if management offered you a complimentary drink?’ Diego asked.
‘That I was taught it was bad manners to refuse a gift.’
Diego returned outside, closing the door behind himself. Alvarez sat. There was the sound of conversation, then the door was opened. ‘Señor Short,’ Diego said.
‘My name is Inspector Alvarez, of the Cuerpo General de Policia,’ he said, as he stood and held out his hand. ‘I’m very sorry to trouble you at so sad a time, but I fear it is necessary.’
They both sat. Years ago, Alvarez thought, he would have judged Short a potential trouble-maker, always fighting authority simply because it was authority – long hair, tied in a pony-tail, one earring, designer stubble, rough clothing, and an aggressive expression would have branded him. But in the modern world, the only challenge of so many whose appearance matched his was against good taste. ‘What I should like you to do, Señor, is to tell me what happened yesterday evening.’
Short hesitated, then said: ‘Is something wrong?’
‘When there is a fatal accident, there has to be a brief investigation to determine all the details – one of the reasons for which is that the information may lead to better safety measures and prevent a repetition.’
‘Yeah, I can see that. It’s just I thought that with you being a detective, there must be a problem.’
‘Have you any reason to think there might be one?’
‘No way.’
There was a knock on the door, which was opened, and a waiter, carrying a tray, entered. ‘Who’s the coñac for?’
‘Me,’ Alvarez answered.
The waiter handed him the smaller glass, the larger one to Short.
The brandy proved to be of a good quality, showing that despite a certain facetiousness, Diego had a proper respect for the Cuerpo. ‘After you have told me what you can, Señor, I will need to search the señorita’s room, then I should not need to trouble you again.’
‘Search her room?’
‘It is always necessary when a foreigner dies for the possessions to be assembled and held until instructions are given as to what to do with them.’
‘I suppose.’
‘You and your aunt arrived here when?’
‘Thursday.’
‘You were very friendly with her, coming away on holiday together?’
‘It’s like this. She and my dad didn’t get on and I never saw much of her until he died and she came to the funeral. I made a bit of a point of looking after her – how one does – and that must have gone down well because afterwards she was often in touch. But to tell the truth, it was still a surprise when she said she was having a holiday and she’d like me to come along for someone to talk to. She knew I’d been made redundant months before and so I wondered if she was just being kind rather than needing company. Or maybe trying to kind of make up for some of the things Dad told me she’d said to him.’
‘Was she a wealthy lady?’
‘She had enough, but she wasn’t rolling in it.’
‘Why did she come to Port Llues
o for a holiday?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Perhaps she had been here before or had read about it in the paper?’
‘Could be.’
‘But she never said so?’
‘That’s right, she didn’t.’
‘She was a keen swimmer?’
‘Liked it, all right, but wasn’t much of a one; more a paddler.’
‘Yet she went swimming after dark when it had to be unlikely someone would notice if she got into trouble?’
‘I tried to stop her. Fact is, we had a bit of a row about it, but she wouldn’t listen because . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t like saying this. She used to drink and by the time she said she wanted to swim, she wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘Which you think is why she refused to listen to you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Had she always been a heavy drinker?’
‘It was about the only thing my dad never accused her of, so maybe she wasn’t when she was younger. But after his funeral the people came back for a drink and a bite and she had rather more than she could handle. I can remember thinking, if Dad was looking down at what was going on, he’d have told anyone who’d listen that he wasn’t surprised.’
‘Your aunt drank quite heavily and insisted on going swimming, despite the fact it was night-time and you advised her not to?’
‘That’s how it went.’
‘You didn’t go with her to make certain she was all right?’
‘No . . . And you think I don’t keep saying to myself I ought to have done because then she’d have been OK? Only I stayed in the hotel and had a drink at the bar with blokes I’d met because she became nasty when I kept on trying to persuade her not to go and I got to think that if that’s how she wanted things, that’s how she could have ’em. Couldn’t have been more bloody stupid, could I? If I’d ignored the things she was saying, she’d be alive now. And I knew it wasn’t her talking, it was the booze.’
‘You had a drink at the bar. Was it just one?’
‘Two, three maybe. Then I started to worry because I hadn’t seen her come back; had a word with the receptionist and he hadn’t see her either, so I went out to the beach. Found her towel, but there wasn’t no sign of her.’
‘What did you do next?’
Went along the beach both ways, shouting, walked into the water, ran back to the hotel and said she must be in trouble and I needed a torch, went on searching. In the end I came back and said they must Call the police.’
‘You were convinced she had drowned?’
‘What else could I think?’
‘Thank you for telling me all this, Señor. Now, if you will accompany me to her room?’
They left the office and after Diego had given Alvarez the key, took the lift up to the first floor – climbing stairs was acknowledged to be a stressful exercise.
No. 15 was a large room with two single beds and an outside balcony, furnished in good hotel style. On one of the two chairs were clothes, neatly folded – clearly those she had been wearing before she went swimming. There were three frocks and two pairs of shoes in the cupboard, blouses, tights, and underclothes in the two top drawers of the chest-of-drawers; in the bottom drawer was a very good-quality handbag. He opened it, brought out a bundle of hundred-euro notes and a few travellers’ cheques. He counted the amounts. ‘There are a hundred and fifty euros in cheques and two thousand, two hundred and fifty euros in notes.’
‘Yeah?’
‘That’s a large amount in cash.’
‘More than I’ve seen a for a long time, that’s for sure.’
‘From a safety point, when travelling it’s unusual to carry so much in cash and so little in cheques. Do you know why she chose to have so much in cash?’
‘No idea. If she’d asked, I’d have said it was barmy because one never knows if some little toe-rag will nick it.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Dad always said she was two years younger than him which would make her sixty-eight.’
‘Did she still work?’
‘Stopped some time back.’
‘What work did she do?’
‘She was in domestic service. Started off as a lady’s maid and retired as a housekeeper. Leastwise, that’s what she’d always tell you; Dad said she was just a general help but liked the grander name.’
Alvarez brought the rest of the contents out of the handbag – passport, air ticket, diary, lace-edged handkerchief, nail file, compact, folded-up piece of paper, and a very elegant heart-shaped gold locket with a small diamond under the inverted peak. He unfolded the square of paper. ‘Do you know Lady Gerrard?’
‘Who?’
He repeated the name.
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Then you can’t tell me why your aunt wrote down the name or even if the person lives here or in England?’
‘That’s right, I can’t.’
‘I’ll replace everything in the handbag and then take it downstairs to be held in the hotel safe until I learn what to do with the contents.’
‘Hang on. I . . . It’s like I don’t have any money.’
‘You were relying on your aunt to provide what you needed?’
‘Yes,’ he mumbled. Then more firmly: ‘Like I said, I’ve been having to live on the dole.’
‘In the circumstances, since your aunt would have provided you with money, while it may not be legally correct to do so, I will give you two hundred euros from your aunt’s money.’
‘Thank God for that! I was thinking I’d be stuck here without a quid to my name.’
‘I will need your receipt.’
‘Sure.’
Alvarez put two notes to one side, replaced everything else back in the handbag. ‘We’ll return below now.’
Downstairs, Diego gave Alvarez two sheets of headed notepaper. On the first, Alvarez’detailed the contents of the handbag, specifying the amount in cash and cheques; on the second, he wrote ‘Received from the cash found in Señorita Dora Coates’s handbag, the sum of two hundred euros for personal use.’ He and Short signed the first, Short the second. Diego was given the handbag to be put into the hotel’s safe.
‘Thank you, Señor,’ Alvarez said to Short.
‘That’s all?’
‘I may have to speak to you again, but for the moment I do not need to trouble you any more.’
Short said goodbye, crossed the foyer to leave the hotel. ‘So is there now a problem?’ Diego asked.
‘Why should there be?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You wouldn’t, but like all hotel staff, you have an insatiable interest in other people’s affairs . . . There’s something you can tell me.’
‘With pleasure. You’re goddamn rude.’
‘Do you know a Lady Gerrard?’
‘Me, a desk clerk, know an English aristocrat who bathes in asses’ milk?’
‘There is always the chance you’ve helped to provide the milk. You’ve not come across the name?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Idle curiosity.’
‘As if you could ever suffer energetic curiosity! No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it. Except it seems . . . Of course! Soon after they’d arrived, Señorita Coates came up and said Lady Gerrard lived locally, could I tell her where?’
‘Was Señor Short with her at the time?’
‘I think so.’ After further thought, he said: ‘Yes, he definitely was. I remember him saying they ought to phone her first.’
Were you able to tell her where Lady Gerrard lived?’
‘I said that if she was on the phone, the address would be in the telephone book.’
‘So now be kind enough to find out if it is.’
Diego reached under the counter and produced a directory, turned to the section covering Llueso. ‘Here we are. Ca’n Jerome. It’s sin numero, so it’s in the country.’
Alvarez thanked the other, looked u
p at the clock. ‘Your relief ought to be here very soon.’
‘But won’t be.’
Escobar arrived eleven minutes late and as he moved behind the counter, a stout woman, sufficiently ill-advised to wear shorts, her heavy face expressing angry determination, approached; Diego hastily left.
‘Can I help, Señora?’ Escobar asked in English as she came to a stop.
‘I don’t think you lot could help a blind beggar,’ was her strident answer.
‘What is the trouble, Señora?’
‘I’ll tell you. Me and Dad paid good money for this holiday and the brochure said as you was known for the quality of the grub. So what did you dish up today? Beans what didn’t have no tomato sauce and there was lumps of red, messy stuff what looked real nasty.’
‘I think that was chorizo. I can assure you it is delicious . . .’
‘Maybe the likes of you enjoy it, but that’s because you don’t know no better. But I’m not touching it. So you tell the cook that if he doesn’t dish up some decent grub the next meal, I’m making the travel rep move us somewhere else. If there is anywhere what knows what good grub is.’ She stalked off.
‘What has so upset her?’ Alvarez asked.
‘The new manager is full of strange ideas and said people coming on holiday to Spain should enjoy Spanish food, so once a week there’s a classic dish. At lunch it was Alubias con chorizo. The chefs a genius at making it.’
As great a genius as Dolores? Alvarez wondered. She could take butter beans, onions, garlic, olive oil, sweet paprika, parsley, and chorizo, and produce a dish that would make a man’s mouth water merely to think about it. ‘I need to ask you one or two questions about Señorita Coates. Perhaps we could sit down somewhere?’
‘Not with me having to be at the desk to explain to the guests they aren’t being poisoned.’
Then he’d have to continue to stand. ‘How did she and the nephew get on together?’
‘Bit difficult to answer. I mean, the two of them would argue, but who doesn’t?’
‘Did they argue often?’
‘She did, and most times it was him trying to calm her down. And if she’d been drinking, he didn’t get very far.’
An Air of Murder Page 5