Sun, Sea and Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

He pulled off another piece of ensaïmada. ‘What’s for lunch?’

  ‘I’m far too busy to worry about that now.’

  ‘Perhaps Estafado de buey?’ he suggested hopefully. When she cooked a pot roast of beef, carrots, turnips, bacon, onions, garlic and spices, in red wine, it was a dish in the gastronomic premier league.

  ‘As my mother used to say, “A woman works while a man dreams.”’

  Not for the first time, he wondered why her mother had so often expressed contempt for men. Her husband should have corrected her very early in their marriage.

  She stepped through the bead curtain across the kitchen doorway. ‘You do not intend to work today?’

  ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘Not for you, since you are incapable of rushing. But for me, having to look after a family and my tired cousin, I cannot enjoy the luxury of rest. I need to clear and polish the table, so you will move.’

  He picked up plate and mug, crossed to the nearest chair, sat.

  ‘Should I have apologized for not waiting until it was convenient for you to move out of the way?’

  He ate the last piece of ensaïmada. Carlos Dolivellas had written that woman was an enigma of unpredictability. Perhaps he had known a Dolores who spoke with a sharpened tongue. A pity a woman’s character was not more like a man’s.

  The Guardia Civil post was a reasonably short walk away. He might have considered undertaking it had not the day already been so burning hot. When a man sweated, he lost necessary salts. One should not risk the body’s suffering such deprivation. He drove to work.

  The duty cabo congratulated him on arriving at work so early; he ignored the puerile comment, crossed to the stairs and climbed them, not pausing to regain his breath until out of sight of the cabo. Once seated in his office, he toyed with the idea of eating, smoking and drinking less, as his doctor kept demanding.

  Four letters had been left on his desk. He regarded them with dislike and did not open them since they would contain unnecessary information or, in the case of the envelope with the insignia of the superior chief’s office, trouble.

  The phone rang. He waited for it to stop, which it eventually did. He settled back in the chair and thought about the suggestions now being made on how to teach youngsters to drink sensibly. Typical political stupidity. Didn’t they understand that to learn to drink sensibly, one first had to drink stupidly?

  The phone rang again and he accepted it would be an idea to answer it.

  ‘Inspector Alvarez?’

  The speaker did not identify herself, but there was no need to do so. Only Salas’s secretary spoke with such arrogant female superiority. ‘Yes, señorita.’

  ‘The superior chief will speak to you.’

  He waited, wondering what he had done and should not have; what he had not done and should have.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Salas finally demanded.

  ‘In my office in Llueso, señor.’

  ‘I would hardly expect you to be on the top of Puig Major.’

  ‘But you asked where was I . . .’

  ‘And received an idiotic answer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said it was.’

  ‘You are a poor judge of what you say.’

  ‘Your secretary said you wanted to speak to me . . .’

  ‘It would have been more accurate had she said that I unfortunately needed to speak to you.’

  ‘And so I expected there to be a pause.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Either the receiver is handed over or the call is routed through. Then the person speaks.’

  ‘You fail to understand that is what I expected?’

  ‘I mean at the other end.’

  ‘The other end to what?’

  ‘The person who is listening.’

  ‘Thus ensuring there is silence.’

  ‘Not if the person at the other end speaks.’

  ‘I had lunch the other day with a noted psychiatrist. Thinking he might be interested, I described your inability to speak coherently on any subject without introducing totally irrelevant and confusing circumstances. He wondered if you were suffering from some hitherto unknown mental problem. I expressed the likelihood that you were.’

  There was a silence. When it became prolonged, Alvarez said: ‘Are you there, señor?’

  ‘If you are trying to be amusing, you are confusing humour with insolence. What do you have to report?’

  ‘In respect of what, señor?’

  ‘My orders.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘They have not been delivered?’

  He looked across at the unopened letters and again noted the one from the superior chief’s office. ‘Perhaps it has been delayed.’

  ‘If you have not received it, that is obvious.’

  ‘Should it have reached me by now?’

  ‘Would I expect you to know what I have written if it should not have done so? When it reaches you, you will carry out my orders immediately and with very much more energy than you normally display.’

  ‘They concern what, señor?’

  ‘Homicide.’

  ‘In my area? But there’s been no report . . .’

  ‘In England.’

  ‘Then surely that hardly concerns us here?’

  ‘I doubt anything concerns you.’ The line went dead.

  As he replaced the receiver, Alvarez considered his earlier stupidity in telling Dolores he wasn’t in a rush, indicating he had little work in hand. The man who looked at a pregnant ewe and mentally added a lamb to his flock would inevitably suffer a stillborn. He picked up the offending envelope, opened it, brought out two sheets of computer-printed orders.

  The first paragraph was written in magniloquent terms. The request for the following enquiries to be carried out had been received from the English police. Every inspector will understand that his investigation is to be carried out with the greatest dedication. The noble traditions of the Cuerpo must be maintained so that the English could appreci­ate the enviable skill of those who served in this unequalled force . . .

  He skipped a few lines before reading to the end.

  He stared across his desk at nothing. Two young people whose lives had been brutally ended. Gather happiness while you can, cruel death is there a-waiting. Shadows clouded his mind as he remembered the day he had been told Juana-María had been killed by a drunken Frenchman driving wildly . . .

  He reached down to the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and brought out a glass and a half-full bottle of Soberano. Brandy quietened the sorrows of life.

  About to pour himself a second comforting drink, he realized it was time for his merienda. He returned bottle and glass to the drawer, made his way downstairs, out on to the narrow road, along to the old square thronged with tourists, and across to Club Llueso.

  Roca, the bartender, had poured out a brandy by the time he reached the bar. Roca put the glass down in front of him. ‘Your expression tells me you are your usual mournful self.’

  ‘Suppose you get me a coffee.’

  ‘It’s strange how Mallorquins seem unable to say please.’

  ‘Wouldn’t make the service any better when you’re providing it.’

  ‘So what’s your problem this time? Some woman walked out on you?’

  ‘You imagine I’ve time for women with all the work I have to do?’

  ‘I’d put it the other way round. Do I think you have time for work with so many women to please?’

  ‘Would you like me to make the coffee?’

  ‘And forgo the pleasure of serving the magnificent Don Enrique?’ Roca turned and crossed to the espresso machine.

  Alvarez drank, replaced the empty glass on the bar as Roca brought him a café cortado. ‘Make the next coñac a full measure.’

  ‘There’s not a glass big enough to hold your idea of a full measure.’

  He lit a cigarette after promising himself it would be his last that morning. Roca had sarcastically commented on his gloom
y mood. But how could a man be cheerful when ordered to find Cyril Tyler, whom it was believed had killed two pedestrians? He might be staying in a property he owned which was in or near to a port. Which of the dozens of ports, large and small? Not known. What did ‘near’ mean? Not known. The prospect was of unending work and failure.

  Roca handed him a refilled glass.

  ‘I really need that,’ Alvarez said.

  ‘Your liver doesn’t.’

  Back in his office, the thought of the monumental task of establishing whether a Cyril Leo Tyler owned property in the area so concerned him that it was some time before he accepted there might be a simple solution to the problem. He picked the telephone directory off the floor, turned to the Llueso section, looked through the names. It was typical of the life he suffered that there should be two C. Tylers listed.

  The urbanizacíon lay at the back of Port Llueso, a kilometre from the sea. On both flat land and the lower slopes of a hill, the chalets, villas and apartments were, except in the dictionary of an estate agent, modest in size and quality.

  Alvarez turned in to a side road along which were two completed houses and one under construction. Behind and beyond them was open land, covered with garriga – the Mediterranean bush of broom, heather, lavender, rosemary, rock roses, irises, gladioli, wild orchids, pine and wild olive trees. A large notice in Spanish, English, German and French announced that building plots were for sale. Fifty years before, one could have bought the whole area for a handful of pesetas; now one needed countless euros to purchase a single plot.

  He braked to a stop in front of a small villa of formless design with a colourful garden. The garage doors were open and inside was a Seat with Spanish plates.

  He walked up the gravel path, rang the bell to the side of the plain wooden door. He heard a woman call out, then a man spoke as he opened the door. ‘You’re early . . .’ He stopped as he faced Alvarez. ‘I thought you were . . .’ He switched to kitchen Spanish, soon came to a stumbling halt.

  ‘You are Señor Cyril Tyler?’ Alvarez asked in English.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  Tyler’s expression became one of nervous uncertainty.

  ‘Who is it?’ a woman called out.

  ‘Someone from the police.’

  She hurried into the pocket-sized hall. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does he speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then haven’t you asked him what he wants?’

  ‘Not yet,’

  She spoke to Alvarez. ‘What is it?’

  She had the look as well as the manner of a sour, forceful woman.

  ‘I should like to ask the señor some questions.’

  ‘We are expecting friends.’

  ‘You are Señora Tyler?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she answered sharply. Her husband would never be given the chance of a little amusement.‘We’re not free this morning, so you’ll have to come back some other time.’

  ‘Libby,’ her husband said nervously, ‘don’t you think—’

  ‘I am not going to have my coffee morning ruined.’

  ‘Señora,’ Alvarez said, ‘I must ask your husband certain questions.’

  ‘I said, some other time.’

  ‘Now, señora, unless he would prefer to answer them at the Guardia post.’

  ‘Are you trying to threaten us? Don’t you understand, we are British.’

  ‘No one could doubt that, señora.’

  ‘Libby,’ Tyler said urgently, ‘you mustn’t . . . Let me tell him what he wishes to know. I’m sure he’ll be as quick as he can be, knowing you have guests coming.’

  ‘And what if they arrive to find he’s still here? Mabel will rush around telling everyone we’re in some sort of criminal trouble.’

  ‘If we go into the sitting room . . .’

  ‘I receive in there. Have him in the kitchen . . . Not a good idea. I have to make the coffee and prepare the petit fours and Anne always comes into the kitchen to look around and see what she can sweetly criticize. Still, maybe the only thing to do is for me to have everyone in the kitchen and to say you’re talking to a man who’s advising on redecorating.’

  Tyler said hurriedly: ‘Please come in, Inspector.’

  The sitting room was furnished in flat-pack style, the only extravagance a large television set.

  ‘I don’t want you smoking in here,’ she said to Alvarez.

  ‘I will remember that, señora.’

  The door bell rang. She hurriedly left the room.

  ‘That will be our friends,’ Tyler said. ‘Her friends, rather. I hope you didn’t think she was a little . . . little sharp?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Alvarez answered diplomatically.

  ‘I was afraid . . .’ There were the sounds of voices, the clatter of high heels on a tiled floor.

  ‘I hope . . .’ Tyler began, stopped. He tried again. ‘I hope I haven’t done anything wrong?’

  ‘I am here to confirm you haven’t, señor.’

  The answer confused Tyler.

  ‘Do you live here or do you come on holidays?’

  ‘We live here all the time.’

  ‘Do you own a house in England?’

  ‘We sold it in order to come out here. I . . . Frankly, I did wonder at the time if it was a sensible thing to do. I mean, everything is so different. But a couple of the wife’s friends had come out and said it was perfect. Funny thing is, the friends returned home soon after we arrived. But we now like it very much,’ he added, and sounded less than honest.

  ‘When were you last in England?’

  ‘Haven’t been for a couple of years. The wife was back last year but I didn’t go. She was staying with her brother and him and me don’t see things the same way.’

  ‘Relationships often unfortunately become difficult. Do you own a car?’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to be without one. It’s not all that far to the shops, but she likes to go every day and on to the beach and my old bones don’t like walking as they used to.’

  ‘Is that your Seat in the garage?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You bought it on the island?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Must be three years . . . You haven’t said why you want to know all that.’

  ‘I am trying to identify someone who may have witnessed a fatal road accident in England and there was the possibility it might have been you.’

  Tyler said hurriedly: ‘Like I said, I haven’t been back for ages. When I was there, I never saw any accident.’

  ‘Señor, I am satisfied you know nothing about it. The only reason I had for questioning you was the person who might have seen this accident has the same name as you.’

  ‘You mean, Cyril Leo Tyler?’

  ‘I cannot yet say. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes.’ After a pause, he added: ‘But if you asked him if he knew me, he’d say he didn’t.’

  ‘Why should that be?’

  ‘He doesn’t get friendly with people like the wife and me. He’s a snob, if you know what that means?’

  ‘I have had cause to understand, more than once.’

  ‘Soon after we moved here, we were invited to the same party as him. The wife . . . she thought it would be nice to meet someone we’d heard a lot about. I tried to get a conversation going by mentioning we had the same initial Christian and surnames. He said, “Really?” and walked away. I was blamed for being socially inept, but he’d have reacted like that whatever I said.’

  It was easy to visualize the scene. Cyril Tyler diffidently trying to strike an acquaintance with someone scornful of lesser tribes. ‘Presumably, he is wealthy?’

  ‘Got more money than manners, that’s for certain.’

  ‘Is he on the island now?’

  ‘So someone said. I wouldn’t know.’

&nbs
p; ‘I understand he lives up Val de Teneres.’

  ‘If that’s what it’s called. We went to look at his place. An old possessío. Big enough to house an army.’

  ‘Perhaps he has a large house in England as well?’

  ‘Betty, who knows him well – too well according to some . . . Shouldn’t have said that. If the wife ever hears . . .’

  ‘She will not do so from me. Your friend Betty has been to his house in England?’

  ‘So she says often enough. He owns an estate. Easy to imagine him strutting around, entertaining local nobs, shooting pheasants. The English country gentleman.’

  Alvarez stood. ‘You have helped me, señor, for which my thanks. I don’t expect to have to trouble you again. Please apologize to the señora from me for disturbing her party.’

  ‘The only thing that would disturb their chattering would be an H bomb.’

  As he left the house, Alvarez looked at his watch. Val de Teneres was some way away and it would take time to reach it.

  THREE

  The one drawback of a siesta was that it had to end. Newly awakened, Alvarez stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom and watched the reflected sunlight, in broad beams because of the shutters, dance to the heat of the granite window sill. If he were as rich as Cyril Leo Tyler must be, there would be no need for him to get up until he wished to, no superior chief to harass him day and night, no growing body of work which should have been completed days before.

  Fantasy had to give way to reality. He must arise and question Cyril Leo Tyler. Descriptions marked him as arrogantly certain; wealth raised him above the common herd, so indifferent to others that he could drive into two young people and hurl them to the ground, continue, careless of the fact that immediate medical treatment might save one or both their lives. If he were the guilty man – and there seemed little room for doubt even if there was as yet no proof – it would be more than justice to arrest him, it would be a pleasure.

  As Alvarez drove along the old road of many twists and turns, his mind was more in the past than the present. Es Teneres was a possessío and in the past, when distances were measured by walking or riding, the owner of such a home and surrounding land was in some respects monarch of all he surveyed. A few such land owners arrogated further rights to themselves which the law did not recognize, but when the law was far distant and there was much poverty, these were seldom challenged. Amongst those who were still remembered for their harsh disregard for others, Santiago Garcia’s name was the most reviled. None had so wantonly embraced the devil’s creed. Any young woman working in the fields might attract him. Should she resist his advances, he would threaten to throw her and her family off his land, leaving them to find work elsewhere at a time when the chances of succeeding were slight. There were some who sacrificed their honour to save their families; others could not face the shame and fled with their fam­ilies to face poverty, even starvation . . . The world never had been, and never would be, free of Santiago Garcias, Alvarez thought despondently.