An Air of Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I hope I do not have to bother you again.’

  She continued to ignore him.

  He made his way through the house and as he reached the hall, Filipe appeared through a side doorway. ‘Not arresting her?’ Filipe asked.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I can suggest a dozen reasons.’

  Ten

  ON SATURDAYS – BARRING AN EMERGENCY – ALVAREZ FINISHED work at lunch time, which should have meant, with only an hour to waste before he could leave the office, that his world was bright and pleasant, but an unwanted problem was threatening to upset his peace. He wanted to do his duty, but there was no point in troubling to draw up a report if Salas was not in his office to receive it. Salas very seldom worked on a Saturday; but might this not be the one when he had decided to do a little work? And if Salas somehow learned he had questioned Lady Gerrard the previous day, but had not bothered to try to report on the meeting . . .

  He spent time jotting down the points he wished to make, then dialled.

  ‘The superior chief has had to leave the office,’ said his secretary.

  Relief made him light-tongued. ‘To play in a foursome?’

  ‘You mistake insolence for humour.’

  Salas could not have improved on that. He thanked her for the information, explained why he’d called, rang off.

  He walked into the dining/sitting-room, sat down at the table opposite Jaime, brought a glass out of the sideboard and poured himself a brandy, added four cubes of ice. Jaime leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. ‘She’s been singing.

  Dolores’s songs expressed both her pleasure and her displeasure; they foretold a meal of ambrosia or meal of badly cooked chickpeas. ‘Was it the song about the man who deserts his childhood sweetheart for a tart in Madrid?’

  ‘No. Haven’t heard this one before. Seemed to be about love resembling two nightingales. Real daft! Like two nightingales!’

  Alvarez decided it would lead to too many complications to try to explain to Jaime that probably the words were loosely based on the nineteenth-century poem by Canellas in which nightingales were compared with true love because they paired for life and their songs sweetened ail those who heard them. He drank. Since Dolores seemed to be in a good mood, she might be preparing Guattleras amb figes. He could almost taste the quail cooked with herbs, onions, white wine, bitter chocolate, and figs.

  Dolores came through the bead curtain. ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘I haven’t seen ’em,’ Jaime replied.

  ‘Then will you find them and say lunch will be in fifteen minutes and they’re not to be late or the meal will be ruined.’ She returned to the kitchen.

  ‘D’you get that?’ Jaime asked excitedly. ‘Never went at me for not knowing where they are!’ He drained his glass, refilled it. ‘Maybe some relative has died and left her a fortune.’

  ‘Has she one likely to leave anything but debts?’

  Jaime drank. ‘Gilberto, who went out to Chile, always had a soft spot for her and I’ve been told he’s done very well for himself.’

  ‘He’ll have married.’

  ‘She could have died first.’

  ‘There’ll be children.’

  ‘Maybe she couldn’t have any.’

  ‘It’s an empty purse that’s filled with other people’s money.’

  ‘Sometimes you talk real daft! Why suddenly go on about empty purses?’

  ‘Have you forgotten she asked you to find Isabel and Juan?’

  ‘So why’s she on at me like that? A man sits down to rest after working real hard and all the wife can say is, do this, do that.’ He drained his glass. ‘Have you seen ’em recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to go out and look for ’em.’

  ‘You’re right, I wouldn’t.’

  There was a call from the kitchen. ‘Are the children in?’

  ‘Jaime’s gone looking for them,’ Alvarez replied, as Jaime came to his feet and hurriedly left the room.

  Dolores came through the bead curtain. ‘I told them not to go far away as I didn’t want the meal to spoil. But children will be children, won’t they?’

  ‘So people say,’ Alvarez replied.

  ‘And where would we be without them? How much richer life is when one has children.’

  His impression was, one’s life became much poorer since children were so demanding.

  ‘To see them grow and succeed in life is the finest gift a person can have.’ She returned to the kitchen.

  He wondered uneasily what had caused her to talk in such terms.

  When all were at table, she served Coliflor al estilo de Badajoz. As delicious as were the florets of cauliflower fried in egg and breadcrumbs, Alvarez could not forget his imagined Guattleras amb flges . . .

  Dolores, helped by Isabel, cleared the plates and put on the table bananas and baked almonds. They ate, largely in silence, before Dolores said: ‘You’ll never guess who I met this morning.’

  Juan said: ‘Can we get down’ from table?’

  ‘Before most of us have finished eating?’

  ‘He wants to see Carolina,’ Isabel said spitefully.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You want to mush her again. You thought me and Ines couldn’t see, didn’t you?’

  ‘You . . .’ Juan used a fanciful Mallorquin expression. ‘How dare you!’ Dolores snapped.

  ‘But she and Ines were peeking.’

  ‘If I ever hear you speak such language again, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.’

  ‘Do you know what she called me yesterday?’

  ‘I am not interested.’

  ‘She called me a . . .’ Juan spoke a second and equally fanciful Mallorquin expression.

  ‘I did not,’ Isabel protested shrilly.

  ‘Get down from the table, both of you, before I send you up to your bedrooms,’ Dolores snapped.

  They hurriedly left.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, each word spoken with sharpened edges, ‘you understand why they speak such disgusting things. It is because they so often hear them in this house, they mistakenly believe them to be harmless.’

  ‘I’ve never said anything like that here,’ Jaime protested. Then he added: ‘Or in any other house.’

  She ate an almond with unnecessary vigour. ‘As my mother used to say, “A man will stand in the rain and swear it is sunny.” ’ After a moment, she asked: ‘What does “mush” mean?’

  ‘It’s just kids’ talk,’ Jaime answered.

  She ate some banana. ‘If I thought Juan and Carolina could be . . .’ She did not finish.

  ‘They’re not going to get up to fun and games at their age.’

  ‘How typical! Has there ever lived a man who has considered that his fun and games become a woman’s pain and misery? Of course not! A man considers only himself.’ She ate the last almond on her plate, stood. ‘I will clear the table since it would be a waste of breath to ask either of you to do that to save me a little work.’

  ‘No more singing,’ Jaime said in a low voice as she went into the kitchen.

  She came through the bead curtain and stopped by the table. ‘You can pour me a small coñac when you give yourselves one and I’ll drink it after I’ve cleared the table and before I wash up.’ She picked up the serving dish and two glasses, carried them through to the kitchen.

  Jaime opened the nearer sideboard door, but did not reach inside. ‘Do you reckon she’s all right?’

  ‘There’s nothing obviously wrong,’ Alvarez replied.

  ‘But it’s just not like her, saying we’ll all have a coñac instead of going on at us because that’s what we’re doing.’

  ‘Never question good fortune for fear it will leave more quickly than it arrived.’

  Jaime brought an unopened bottle of Fundador out of the sideboard, unscrewed the cap, poured out three brandies. After passing one glass to Alvare
z, pushing a second one across to Dolores’s place, he raised his and drank. He looked at the bead curtain and topped up his glass.

  Dolores returned and sat, warmed the glass in her hand. ‘I was going to tell you who I met this morning. Benito Ortega with Luisa and Ana. They were very friendly.’

  ‘Must have wanted to borrow something,’ Jaime said. ‘You talk absurdities. What should a man who has just bought Son Estar wish to borrow from me?’

  ‘The money to pay for it.’

  ‘As if I could give him enough for even a square metre of so grand a house! Luisa told me they were having the decoration and furnishing carried out by firms in Palma. What will that cost?’

  ‘Whatever it does, it’ll be paid for in fool’s money.’

  ‘She was wearing a dress that cost more than I spend on clothes in a year and her jewellery was not the same as the last time we met; she must have more jewels than the Queen.’ She drank. ‘I have asked them to a meal.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘You are surprised I should ask old friends here?’

  ‘They were never friends, not with him always on the scrounge and her like month-old milk. The daughter will be even worse. They always are.’

  ‘You speak from personal experience?’ Dolores asked sharply. She finished her drink, stood. ‘The bottle can go back.’

  ‘I’ll do that in a minute,’ Jaime said.

  ‘Now!’

  She watched him return the bottle to the sideboard, then went into the kitchen.

  Could a chameleon begin to change its colours as quickly as a woman her moods? Alvarez wondered. Almost between sentences, Dolores’s mood had changed from sunny to stormy. Just for once, of course, he probably knew why. Married women saw it as their duty to find wives for unmarried men and she had decided Eva was to be his. Could she really think any fortune would compensate for marriage to the daughter of Luisa Ortega?

  Eleven

  WHEN THE UNIVERSE WAS CREATED, SO WERE CERTAINTIES.

  There could be ho light without darkness, good without evil, birth without death, Sundays not followed by Mondays. Alvarez sat at his desk and gloomily faced five and a half working days.

  He lit a cigarette before he remembered his resolution to cut back on his smoking. He stared at the unopened mail and, because of his sombre mood, became certain one of the five letters would call on him to take some action that was impossible, inadvisable, illogical, or disruptive.

  The door opened and a cabo entered. ‘Never seen a guy work as hard as you do.’

  ‘You want something?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘If I did, I wouldn’t waste time here . . . This has just come through.’ The cabo held out three sheets of paper.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Maybe you’ll find out if you can read.’ The cabo put the faxed message down on the desk, left.

  Alvarez read the report from the English police. Dora Anne Coates, aged 62, had lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of Tonbridge. No criminal record. She had retired from domestic service some years before. Neighbours described her as a withdrawn, largely friendless woman who lived a quiet life. She had made a will two years previously and this left a thousand pounds and the contents of her bungalow to her nephew, Colin John Short, and the remainder of her estate to Charles Chauncy Gerrard. At the time of her death, she had a bank account in which were seven hundred and fifty-two pounds and a building society account in which were eighty-one thousand, five hundred and twenty-one pounds; the bungalow was valued at one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.

  Alvarez leaned back in the chair. Her savings suggested she had had no need to lead a frugal life, but elderly persons often suffered unwarranted fears of poverty. Someone who came to the island with over two thousand euros in cash could hardly be described as holidaying frugally. He wondered if there were any significance in this contradiction, decided it was merely one more indication of human illogicality. Far more important was the fact that if Dora Coates had been murdered, money provided the possible motive and on only this basis, one person was brought sharply into focus – Gerrard – and one person could be virtually eliminated – Short – unless the contents of the bungalow were very valuable, which seemed unlikely as there had been no suggestion of this in the report.

  Two hundred thousand pounds was very roughly thirty-five million pesetas (he still could not judge comparative values in euros; probably never would be able to), which was a fortune. Many a murder was committed for much less. Yet despite the obvious evidence of a lack of money, he would judge Gerrard to be a man for whom no fortune would be sufficient to tempt him willingly to hurt an elderly woman. Could such judgement be so very wrong? Could money, and the lack of it, corrupt anyone?

  The Gerrards were not at home. Alvarez returned to his car and settled behind the wheel. He could stay where he was, in the hope they had not gone away for long – but the sun was hot and the interior of the car was becoming like a fired boiler despite the lowered windows. He could return to the office – but there, he was a hostage to trouble.

  A BMW, in which he recognised Heloise in the back, drove up. The driving door opened, Filipe stepped out and crossed to the Ibiza. ‘I said it was you, Inspector, only she insisted it wasn’t.’

  Then I can’t possibly be me.’

  ‘Is Señor Gerrard in the house?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem so.’

  ‘I‘ll tell her and likely be blamed for not knocking properly or ringing the wrong bell.’

  ‘She can always get out of the car and check for herself.’

  ‘You believe in miracles? Got to take her into Palma to a dress shop and she’ll be in there for hours. We could live like kings on what she spends on clothes.’

  The rear window of the BMW slid down. ‘What are you doing?’ Heloise demanded.

  ‘I speak Inspector.’

  ‘Are they or aren’t they at home?’

  ‘You pardon?’

  ‘Why the hell do I put up with someone so stupid? Is Mr Gerrard in the house?’

  Alvarez answered her. ‘Neither Mr nor Mrs Gerrard is at home, Lady Gerrard.’

  ‘I don’t remember asking you.’ The window rose.

  ‘What did you say to annoy her?’ Filipe asked.

  ‘Just tried to help.’

  Heloise’s shrill voice interrupted their conversation. ‘Will you kindly take me to Palma instead of wasting time.’

  ‘I do.’ Filipe returned to the BMW, drove off.

  Since she would be in Palma, Alvarez decided it would be a good moment to speak to Ana. He drove the short, looped route to Ca’n Jerome.

  Ana, not young but still a useful way away from middle age, opened the front door. He introduced himself, said he’d just spoken to Filipe, and explained he would like a word with her; noticing her uneasiness, he added that there was absolutely no need for her to be worried, it was simply that she might be able to help him in his inquiry into the drowning. Of course he realised she had never met Señorita Coates and so couldn’t in any way be connected with the tragedy, but . . . He could project a warm charm which quickly put at ease a nervous person. Only minutes after first speaking to her, she offered him coffee.

  He sat in the small alcove in the kitchen and as she prepared the coffee, surveyed the electrical equipment. Wealth allowed one to buy all manner of labour-saving machines; great wealth, the ability to hire labour to work those machines. The espresso machine hissed and two cups filled with coffee; she put these on the table, together with a small jug of milk and a bowl of brown sugar. ‘Maybe you’d like a coñac with the coffee?’

  ‘Just for once, I think I would.’

  ‘The señora – that’s what I like to call her when she can’t hear me – gives us a bottle now and then.’

  ‘And so she should.’ Remembering Heloise’s character, it seemed unlikely she was so generous, but if Filipe and Ana helped themselves – and their guests – from time to time, what harm was done?

  Ana put
a bottle of Hors d’age on the table together with one glass. As good as that brandy was, he knew a moment’s disappointment that she had not chosen Bisquit Dubouche. ‘Aren’t you having a drink?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t really like it.’ She spooned sugar into her cup, stirred with nervous energy. ‘I still don’t understand why you think I can help?’

  ‘To tell the truth, it’s likely you can’t, but there is just the chance you can tell me something useful . . . Is it right that Señorita Coates came twice to the house?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Was Lady Gerrard pleased to see her?’

  ‘Not according to Filipe. Each time, he reckoned she’d have liked to have had them thrown out. And that first time, after they’d gone, she was in a really bad mood. Told me the meal I’d cooked was terrible. It wasn’t. I’d taken a lot of trouble preparing it and it was really tasty.’

  ‘What had you cooked? Ternasco asado?’ Who could accurately describe the pleasure of roast baby lamb cooked with white wine, lemon, garlic . . .

  ‘She won’t touch any Spanish dishes; everything has to be like it is in England.’

  ‘That’s probably why she’s so sour.’

  She smiled briefly. He drank some brandy, poured what was left into the coffee. ‘So it looked like their turning up got her into a really bad mood?’

  ‘Could have been that; could have been anything. She’ll start shouting at us if something goes wrong, even if it’s her own fault.’

  ‘So neither you nor Filipe had any idea what really upset her?’

  ‘Not that time.’

  ‘You maybe did when they came the second time?’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Filipe heard them shouting at each other. He knows English better than he speaks it, but they were talking real fast so he only understood some of the words, but he was certain the señora and the man were threatening each other.’

  ‘Did he gather what the threats were about?’

  ‘No. But he told me he’d never heard the señora sounding so bitchy and that’s saying something, I can tell you!’

  ‘You’re being very helpful.’