An Air of Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Carlos is going to create hell with me for not being at work again,’ Beltrán complained.

  ‘Tell him to come and complain to me.’

  He hesitated, then said: ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Alvarez answered.

  ‘You don’t mind if I do?’

  ‘Why should I, so long as you remain reasonably coherent.’

  Beltrán hurried out of the room, returned with a glass of red wine. He sat. ‘I don’t know anything . . .’

  ‘I won’t know what you do know until I find out what you don’t.’

  As he looked uneasily at Alvarez, his hand shook sufficiently to cause ripples in the wine.

  ‘Think back to the weekend and tell me whether Francisco went out Saturday, Sunday, and Monday nights.’

  After a long drink, Beltrán said: ‘Didn’t go out Saturday. Bit odd that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He usually went off because there were more people around.’

  ‘What about Sunday night?’

  ‘He was out then.’

  ‘And Monday?’

  ‘He wasn’t here.’

  ‘Not even in the morning?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So when was the last time you saw him on Sunday?’

  ‘After me and the blonde had come back. She asked why Francisco was alone and I said he was shy, so she said, why didn’t he join in our fun? I told him what she suggested – he hardly spoke English – but he said he had to go out. Came over all nervous, more like.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘Maybe ten.’

  ‘So he was going out to peep?’

  ‘I don’t reckon he was.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He never took his binoculars,’ .

  ‘How can you be so certain if you were busy?’

  ‘They’re still in his room, that’s how.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Beltrán drained his glass, stood, led the way through to a small bedroom; the bed was unmade, clothes were strewn over a chair, several pornographic magazines were on the floor, two drawers in the built-in cupboard were open, their contents in chaos. He pointed at the battered bamboo table on which was a leather case.

  Alvarez opened the case, brought out the strangely shaped binoculars. Had Jiminez just been escaping a situation which embarrassed him? If peeping was his pleasure, after such an invitation why hadn’t he welcomed the chance to stay, even if he lacked the courage to take part? . . . Then he had met someone and had been murdered, probably not because he had been peeping – confirmed by the fact he had been battered to death with a branch of an almond tree, something unlikely to be found on a beach, his natural peeping ground. Yet if peeping had not been the motive for his murder, what had? . . . Memory supplied a possible answer.

  ‘I can’t tell you no more,’ Beltrán said, worried by Alvarez’s continuing silence.

  ‘When I was last here, I saw a brochure for a BMW Z4. Are you thinking of buying one?’

  ‘You think I’m as daft as Francisco? It’s him brought the brochure back from Palma.’

  ‘Did he reckon he’d buy one?’

  ‘Wanted to know what I thought was the best colour, which engine to have, where could he keep it when there’s no garage and if it was parked in the street some kid might run a coin along the paintwork.’

  ‘If he was serious, he must have been highly paid.’

  ‘Him? All he was good for was lumping things around. Get him to lay a line of tiles and it ended up a zig-zag.’

  ‘Then how was he going to pay for a car like that?’

  ‘He wasn’t, was he? He talked more balls than a politician.’

  ‘Had he recently been spending a great deal of money?’

  ‘Wasn’t easy to get him to meet the rent after he’d paid up on the bank loan he needed to buy the binoculars.’

  ‘Did you notice any other signs of his seeming to think he’d have plenty of money in the future?’

  ‘Yeah, but like I said, he was full of talk. Me and him would go on a cruise and meet some wonderful birds – wouldn’t have done him much good! He’d buy a villa and we’d live like foreigners.’

  ‘Did he explain where the money would come from?’

  ‘I asked him once when I was totally freaked out with all his talk, and he just grinned his stupid grin . . . Ain’t going to grin no more. Can’t stop thinking about him in the morgue . . .’ He stood, picked up his glass and left the room.

  With bitter annoyance, Alvarez realised he should have remembered that the only real certainty in this world was uncertainty. It seemed he would have to tell Salas that there was after all the possibility of a connection between Dora Coates’s death and Jiminez’s.

  Eighteen

  LAURA OPENED THE FRONT DOOR OF CA’N DENTO. ‘GOOD evening, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have some more questions to ask, Señora.’ Then you’d better come in.’

  As he stepped inside, he was once more aware of how attractive she was, an attraction which had much less to do with physical appearance than warmth of character.

  ‘We’re outside, enjoying sundowners. I hope you’ll join us?’

  ‘As we say, “The man who refuses a copa is tired of life.” ’ She led the way through to the small, vine-covered patio. Gerrard stood. ‘A pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘You’re very kind to say that, Señor.’

  ‘More insurance than kindness.’

  ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘just for once, curb the humour.’

  ‘Like a good husband, to hear is to obey . . . Sit down, Inspector, and tell me what I can get you to drink?’

  ‘May I have a coñac, with just ice,’ Alvarez answered as he sat.

  ‘I’ll bring out some more crisps.’ Gerrard picked up an empty earthenware bowl, went indoors.

  ‘Have you . . . ?’ Laura began, then stopped.

  ‘Have I discovered the circumstances in which Señorita Coates died? No, Señora, I’m afraid I have not.’

  ‘Then you’re here because you still think . . . You must understand. Charles couldn’t ever do anything so terrible as commit murder, however desperately hard up he was. And he really had no idea Dora would leave him anything.’ She was silent for a few seconds, then said, her tone now despondent: ‘But, of course, you’d expect me to say all that.’

  ‘Not with such conviction.’

  ‘That . . . that’s a strange thing to say.’ She turned her head to stare straight at him. ‘Are you silently laughing at me?’

  ‘Why should I do such a thing?’

  ‘Because I probably sounded incredibly naive.’

  ‘I think the truth is often naive.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Does the Inspector what?’ Gerrard asked, as he returned to the patio, a tray in his hand.

  ‘Think truth is often naive.’

  He put the tray on the table, straightened up. ‘Not a line of conversation often heard in social chit-chat. What prompted the question?’

  ‘I was telling the Inspector you would never hurt Dora and you’d no idea she would leave you anything in her will.’

  ‘Regretfully, the Inspector probably will not turn his views around and accept naivety often is truth.’

  ‘One day . . .’

  ‘One day, I’ll learn the value of silence?’ he said. He passed a glass to her and one to Alvarez, sat. ‘You wouldn’t be here, Inspector, unless you still thought I might in some way be implicated.’

  ‘Proving a negative can be as important as proving a positive, Señor.’

  ‘What negative are you seeking to prove?’

  ‘That you were not in Port Llueso on Tuesday evening, the twentieth.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be smart, but aren’t you slightly mixed up? Your goal surely is to prove I was down there.’

  ‘Were that so, it would not be a negative.’

  ‘You realise you’re in danger of
suggesting you don’t believe I had anything to do with her death?’

  ‘That I hope you didn’t.’

  Gerrard drank. ‘An odd thing for a detective to say to a suspect.’

  ‘The truth is often odd as well as naive. When I last spoke to you, I asked if you could provide corroborative evidence to prove you were at home all that evening, but you were unable to do so. Since then, have you remembered anything which might help to do so?’

  ‘We were here, on our own.’

  ‘No one phoned before or after eleven o’clock?’

  Gerrard looked at Laura.

  ‘I don’t remember anyone calling us,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t phone anyone?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I wish to God I could say one of us had, but it wouldn’t be the truth.’

  ‘Señor, I must ask you for a photograph of yourself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I will show this to people in the port to find out if they can remember seeing you that night.’

  ‘When the port’s full of people whose memories of nighttimes are often poor since some of the bars still have happy hours, I’d have thought searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack would be likely to be more productive. And if no one claims to have seen me, that’s no better than an unproven negative.’

  ‘It is my superior who demands I do this, despite the problems.’

  ‘And like most seniors, problems are for solving by others?’

  Alvarez briefly smiled. ‘There is another matter which has to be considered. Did you know Francisco Jiminez?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘His body was found on Tuesday; he had been murdered.’

  ‘You’re surely to God not now thinking Charles also had anything to do with his death?’ Laura said, her voice high.

  ‘Señora, as I have said before, I have to consider all possibilities, however improbable they seem . . . Señor, do you know Le Vail d’en Fangat?’

  ‘I don’t have any idea where it is.’

  ‘Then you didn’t drive to the valley last Sunday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you Sunday night?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘No, we weren’t,’ she said. ‘We had the royal invitation.’

  ‘So we did! Dinner with my sister-in-law. I had forgotten. The meal was excellent because Ana is a queen among cooks – although Heloise can do nothing but criticise her – the ambience somewhat different, a fact which, since you know quite a lot about our relations with our relation, will not surprise you.’

  ‘She asked us because she wanted to enjoy the pleasure of reminding us we still hadn’t paid the first tranche of rent and the satisfaction of providing a meal which she knew we could not have afforded,’ Laura said.

  ‘I wonder if she’s really capable of such subtlety?’ Gerrard said.

  ‘Because you mistake the form for the substance.’

  ‘When did you leave her house?’ Alvarez asked. ‘Frankly, I’ve no idea what the time was when Laura said we should leave because I had become too talkative. The blame for which lies squarely on the Vega Sicilia.’

  ‘On you for drinking most of the bottle,’ Laura said. ‘What is a man to do when he is repeatedly offered nectar by a butler who understands the male priorities?’

  ‘Depends if he has any self-control . . . You asked what the time was, Inspector. We were home by half eleven.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Went to bed, of course.’

  Alvarez spoke to Gerrard. ‘You did not drive anywhere?’

  ‘Inspector,’ she said, ‘if he had set off to drive to the village, he would not have arrived.’

  Alvarez drained his glass. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘That was the last question?’ Gerrard asked.

  ‘Yes, Señor.’

  ‘Then before I get the refills, you can answer one question from me. What makes you believe it possible I could have murdered a man I have never met?’

  ‘Perhaps I am again intent on deciding you could not.’

  ‘Another negative?’ He waited, but when Alvarez said nothing, stood, collected the tray and three empty glasses, went into the house.

  He must remember to ask for the photograph, Alvarez told himself.

  He parked in front of Ca’n Jerome, crossed to the portico, rang the bell. Filipe opened the door. ‘Is the señora in?’ he asked.

  ‘Regrettably.’

  He followed Filipe through the house and out to the swimming pool. Heloise, wearing a bikini, was lying on a patio chaise longue, the lower half of her body in sunshine, the upper half in the shade of the sun umbrella set in the centre of a small circular table; on the table was an ice bucket in which was a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, an empty glass, and a plate on which were several small squares of smoked salmon and brown bread.

  She berated Filipe for again not finding out whether or not she was at home before introducing a visitor, then faced Alvarez. ‘What do you want this time?’

  ‘A word with you, Señora,’ Alvarez answered.

  ‘Lady Gerrard,’ she sharply corrected. ‘None of you seems to have any memory whatsoever. I am not going to have my evening interrupted, so if you must, you can come back some other time.’

  ‘I am making inquiries info a murder.’

  ‘So you’ve said often enough. And I’ve answered all your ridiculous questions.’

  ‘This does not concern the death of Señora Coates, but of Francisco Jiminez.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him. Filipe, show this man out.’

  ‘I not think that good,’ Filipe said uneasily.

  ‘You are not paid to give opinions.’

  ‘Lady Gerrard, if you will answer my questions . . .’ Alvarez began.

  ‘I have no intention of doing so.’

  ‘Then I must arrange for you to be brought down to the post so that I can question you there.’

  ‘Are you daring to threaten me?’

  ‘I am explaining the alternative to speaking to me now.’

  ‘You are quite incapable of understanding I will not be treated like some suburban housewife.’

  ‘I would speak to anyone else as I am speaking to you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that, since you lack any manners and all respect.’

  ‘We have a saying, “The duke and the pot-boy breathe the same air”.’

  ‘You will be much more conversant with the air the potboy breathes. Well, why are you still standing there?’

  ‘To learn whether you prefer to answer my questions here or at the post.’

  ‘I suppose one must make allowances for ignorance.’ She spoke sharply to Filipe. ‘Haven’t you any work to do?’ Filipe left.

  ‘What is it you want to know?’ she snapped.

  Alvarez moved a patio chair and sat.

  ‘Make yourself at home, won’t you?’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Gerrard.’

  Her anger increased, but his blank expression convinced her he lacked any social nous and so had not realised her words had been sarcastic. She lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket and filled her glass.

  ‘Is it correct Señor and Señora Gerrard came here to supper on Sunday?’ he asked.

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘They told me they were invited here.’

  ‘To dinner, not supper.’

  ‘Then did they come to dinner on Sunday?’

  She drank. ‘That is none of your concern.’

  ‘May I remind you I am conducting an investigation into the murder of Francisco Jiminez.’

  ‘Your unwelcome presence makes any reminder unnecessary. And it is an insult to suggest I could have any connection whatsoever with this man.’

  ‘Whether you did or did not is something I have to determine.’

  ‘Are you now daring to accuse me of murder? I’ve had enough of this. Tomorrow morning, I’ll complain about how appallingly I have been insulted.’

  ‘I do not think it
is insulting for a member of the Cuerpo to ask questions of someone who may be able to help in an important investigation.’

  ‘In England, the police have sufficient common sense not to imagine someone like me could begin to know anything.’

  ‘This is Spain.’

  She picked up a square of bread and salmon, ate. ‘Your uncouth manners,’ she said through her mouthful, ‘make it all too obvious this is Spain, not England.’

  ‘Did Señor and Señora Gerrard have dinner with you on Sunday night?’

  She emptied her glass, refilled it, drank. ‘Yes,’ she finally answered.

  ‘When did they leave here?’

  ‘Some good while after they should have done.’

  ‘If you would give me a time?’

  ‘It wasn’t until well after eleven. My brother-in-law drank far too much and I finally had to make it clear I considered they should leave.’

  ‘Would you describe him as being drunk?’

  ‘Not to you.’

  A sudden and unusual sense of family loyalty or a refusal to share such information with the likes of him? As he thanked her for her help, she picked up another square of bread and smoked salmon, ate.

  He left.

  Nineteen

  ALVAREZ DROVE SLOWLY AS HE MARSHALLED HIS THOUGHTS IN order to be able to present the facts clearly and concisely to Salas. He parked under the shade of a palm tree, left the car, and walked along the narrow street, constantly forced to move to one side or the other by the stream of advancing pedestrians. Such was the present rush of life, it was difficult to remember when the road had been unsurfaced and had known the clop of mules and the creak of carts, old women had set chairs outside their houses and gossiped, knife-grinder, bottle-buyer, fishmonger, or umbrella-mender had announced his presence with conch shell, bell, or shout, and had worked or sold in the street. But when one did recall such times, one also remembered there had been many who could not afford to eat wholesome food, send children to school, consult the doctor when ill, or die with dignity . . .

  He entered the post, passed the desk at which the duty cabo should have been sitting, climbed the stairs, entered his room, switched on the fan, slumped down in the chair, and used a handkerchief to mop the sweat from his neck and forehead. Before the tourists’ invasion, there had been little crime and that quickly dealt with because poor roads, lack of transport, and shared poverty made for isolated and enclosed communities in which everyone knew everyone else’s business; an inspector in the Cuerpo was not stressed all day, every day, trying to solve the insoluble . . .