‘Then why the fuss to find her address?’
‘Didn’t you hear me say she may be able to help me at work?’
‘That was just to keep her quiet, wasn’t it?’ Jaime indicated the kitchen. ‘Come on, there’s no secrecy between friends.’
‘She’s more beautiful than any woman you’ve ever seen and she makes all the suggestions you’re too bashful to propose.’
Jaime drank. ‘There’s times I feel like life’s passed me by,’ he said, louder than intended.
‘It doesn’t have to move quickly to do that,’ Dolores called out from the kitchen.
FIFTEEN
Ca Na Sophie – misnamed since it should by tradition had been a nickname – was high in the urbanizacíon which climbed up the lower slopes of Puig Acro. From the house, there was a wide view across the flat land to Port Llueso, Llueso Bay and a slice of Palma Neuva. To any local, the property was proof that foreigners came to the island and were bewitched. Why else would one pay so much more for a home merely because it had a view and was without a garden in which could be grown food in times of trouble?
Alvarez braked to a halt and looked down the steep drive to the double garage. Motor down and there would be trouble turning, so he would have to reverse up to the road. When he was forced to reverse, the steering became traitorous and the car showed an eagerness to crunch into whatever was on either side. He turned off the engine, withdrew the keys, climbed out, used the remote to lock the doors. Slowly, he walked down, making use of the rope handrail to keep his balance.
By the side of the panelled front door was a brass plate reading MONSIEUR ET MADAME DOUSTE. He rang the bell, turned and looked up. The new road which was being cut out of the rock was still going to take many weeks to finish. Because of the cost of that work, because the mountain above increased in gradient, houses built along it would cost even more than those on the level on which he now was. Any downturn in the sale of properties to wealthy foreigners and the promoting firm would find themselves in debt with only a useless rock road as their asset.
‘Yes?’
He turned to face a middle-aged woman whose appearance and dress marked her a local. ‘Is Señora Douste here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to speak to her – and to Señor Douste.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo.’
‘Come to cause trouble?’
‘I hope not.’
‘I parked for five minutes in the village yesterday afternoon and received a fine of forty euros.’
‘Blame the policia, not me.’
‘You’re all the same.’
Her manner marked female ignorance, not a declaration of Mallorquin independence.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ll explain to them.’
She sniffed loudly.‘Come in. They’re through that room.’ She pointed, walked away.
He crossed the hall, entered a sitting room furnished with taste and expense, and went out through the open French windows on to the patio. To the right, a sun blind was out and in its shade, lying on a patio recliner, was a sleeping man, whose noticeable stomach rippled to his breathing. To his left was a swimming pool, necessarily long and thin, in which a woman swam lazily, her long blonde hair trailing into a wedge shape.
She stopped swimming, stood, the water up to her waist. She wore a minimal bikini. ‘You want something?’ she asked in Spanish.
She was mocking him because she could judge he did not look at her and wonder what were her housekeeping abilities. ‘Señora Douste?’
‘No one else.’
‘I am Inspector Alvarez of the Cuerpo General de Policia.’
‘I’ve never met an inspector before.’
‘The sign of a well spent life, señora.’
‘You are very important?’
‘Titles can be misleading.’ She had a very shapely body, at least down to the water level, and despite the interruption of the water, he judged the perfection to continue. Her eyes were very blue, her nose chuckled, her lips were an invitation, her neck was graceful, yet the truth was, one saw greater beauty on the screen. But to accept that was to deny her the extra something. An erotic charm which could leave no man uninterested and, probably, no woman happy.
‘You cannot answer what it is you want?’
‘I should like to speak to Señor Douste.’
‘But not to me?’
‘I may wish also to ask you some questions.’
‘Intimate ones?’
There was the sound of movement. Douste struggled into a sitting position. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded in French.
‘A very important inspector,’ she answered in the same language.
‘What’s he want? . . . Go inside and cover up.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for that, sweetie? And I’m sure the inspector is uninterested in what I look like.’ She reverted to Spanish. ‘You are uninterested, aren’t you, Inspector?’
‘On duty, señora, I concentrate solely on my job.’
‘How terribly boring for you. But perhaps your concentration sometimes wanders?’
‘Only when there’s reason for it to do so.’
‘And there’s no reason here?’ she asked waspishly.
‘What are you walking about?’ Douste demanded.
‘We’re discussing what a detective needs to look at.’
‘Never mind all that. Why is he here?’
‘He hasn’t said.’
‘Just causing a damned nuisance like all the Spaniards.’
Alvarez said in French: ‘I assure you, señor, I would not be troubling you unless there was good reason.’
Douste was annoyed by his mistake in assuming Alvarez could not speak French. He was a typical Parisian: ‘I can’t understand what you’re trying to say.’
‘Sweetie, you’re making it seem you need a hearing aid.’
And a shot or two of Viagra, Alvarez silently added. It was difficult to judge the age difference, but it had to be considerable. While she enjoyed a body that was all smooth sweetness, Douste’s resembled a badly shaped blancmange.
‘Stop speaking Spanish so I can understand what’s going on.’
‘It’s a compliment to him to speak his language.’
Doust’s expression said to hell with compliments.
She climbed out of the pool, crossed to where Alvarez stood, continued to speak in Spanish. ‘Do sit down.’
He settled on one of the patio chairs.
‘Is there anything you would like which I can offer you?’
Standing there, beads of water sliding down her shapely figure, that was a question capable of being misunderstood.
‘A drink, perhaps?’
‘That would be very welcome, Señora.’
‘What would you like? I can offer you most things, provided your taste is not too exotic.’
‘I have simple tastes. A coñac with just ice.’
‘Almost missionary.’
‘Now what are you on about?’ Douste demanded.
‘I’m asking him what he would like to drink.’
‘There was no need to do that.’
‘You surely wouldn’t want him to think you inhospitable?’
‘I don’t give a damn what he thinks.’
‘You are in a mood, sweetie! We’ll have to get you out of it.’ She walked past Alvarez and across to a bell-push on the wall at the side of the French windows.
He tried not to watch her, but good intentions were like snow in the sunshine. She moved with the grace of a leopard.
The maid stepped out on to the patio.
‘Irene, would you bring a coñac with ice for the inspector and champagne for the señor and me?’ Sophie asked.
Irene returned indoors.
Sophie sat next to Alvarez. ‘You mustn’t judge my dear husband by his behaviour today. Unfortunately, he has just received a telephone call to say he unexpectedly has to return to Paris tomorro
w for several days. It has annoyed him.’
‘Who would not be annoyed in this weather?’
‘Who indeed? Inspector – it’s so boring to keep calling you that. What is your Christian name?’
‘Enrique.’
‘Are you going to go on speaking Spanish?’ Douste demanded roughly in French.
‘It’s so much easier for the inspector and for you, since you say you cannot understand his French.’ She turned. ‘I’m becoming a little worried by you, Enrique.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Every time you look at me, I see you wondering.’
He had hoped he hadn’t been that obvious. ‘I assure you, you are mistaken.’
‘You look at me and wonder what sins I have committed and whether you will take me into captivity.’
‘A sin is not a crime.’
‘So I can sin and there’s no need to worry what you will do to me?’
He did not answer.
Irene returned with a tray on which were two flutes, one glass, and a bottle of Bollinger in an ice bucket. She put the tray down on the table. Douste, with some puffing and blowing and a surge of his stomach, stood. He pulled the foil off the neck of the bottle, undid the wiring, gripped the cork with one hand, the base of the bottle with the other, and turned the bottle around the cork. He half filled the flutes, waited for the heads to subside, filled them, sat. Irene handed around the glasses, returned indoors.
Douste drank. He put the flute down on the table. ‘Well?’
‘Well what, sweetie?’ she asked.
‘Has he said why the hell he’s here?’
Alvarez answered the question in French. ‘Señor, you will have heard or read—’
‘You think you can tell me what I have heard or read?’
‘My apologies. Do you know about the murder of an Englishman, Señor Tyler, which occurred a week ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am in charge of the investigation and so am trying to find out as much about him as I can.’
‘That fails to explain why you are here.’
‘You may be able to help me.’
‘You suggest I had any part in his murder?’
‘No.’
‘For your information, I was in Paris. So you are wasting your time and, more importantly, mine.’
‘You knew Señor Tyler—’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘You were not at parties he gave at Es Teneres?’
‘One. We left as soon as was socially acceptable.’
‘Why was that?’
‘The reason has nothing to do with you.’
‘It may have.’
‘If you continue to harass me, I shall write a letter of complaint to your superior.’
‘Since I must continue asking questions and you seem to view this as harassment, would you like me to give you his name and address?’
She laughed. Douste muttered something.
‘Perhaps, señor, you would tell me why you found his company objectionable?’
‘I have no intention of doing so.’
‘Sweetie,’ she said, ‘there’s no point in making a mystery of it.’ She continued in French when she spoke to Alvarez. ‘At the one party we went to, my jealous husband thought Cyril was trying to inveigle me into seeing his etchings.’
Douste spoke angrily. ‘His behaviour was outrageous.’
‘Juvenile, but amusing.’
‘Humiliating.’
‘Why? He never made physical contact.’
‘If he had, I’d have knocked him down.’
To visualize Douste’s knocking a fit man down was difficult.
‘Haven’t I told you time and again, he was just joshing? Making amusing cocktail party conversation?’
Alvarez asked: ‘You resented his behaviour, señor?’
‘As any husband would.’
‘Did you tell him so?’
‘I made certain there was no further intercourse between my wife and him.’
‘Very understandable, señor.’ He was certain her blue eyes were laughing. ‘You had spoken to him since then?’
‘When we met in the village, as unfortunately happened, I took care to make him understand there would be no further contact. I will not acknowledge a man who lacks any notion of honourable behaviour.’
‘He found dishonourable behaviour more fun,’ she said.
‘I wish you would not speak in that manner. A lady does not consider such a suggestion.’
‘I wonder if Enrique would agree with you?’
‘Who is Enrique?’
‘The inspector.’
‘I was not aware I had introduced him to you.’
‘I decided there was no need for formality.’
‘Not a decision for you to make. As you know, I do not agree with the casual use of Christian names.’
‘Of course you don’t, sweetie. You live in the nineteenth century.’
‘I am happy to do so if that means I observe the manners of a gentleman.’
She turned to Alvarez. ‘He doesn’t appreciate the manners of a generation in the past. Droit du seigneur and all that.’
‘A right for which there is little evidence.’
‘It’s a myth?’
‘So it seems.’
‘A young lady can no longer enjoy the thrill of wondering how she would have behaved?’
‘Had there been recent contact between you and Tyler?’
‘I wonder in what form you are using “contact”? Will it surprise you if I say there was?’
‘No.’
‘Speak French,’ Douste demanded.
‘It’s so much quicker if I continue in Spanish and then if necessary tell you what he’s saying. Otherwise he might be here so long I should have to offer him a bed.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Douste refilled his glass, ignored her empty one.
‘Then we’ll stick to Spanish.’ She asked Alvarez: ‘Do you know why I continued to see Cyril?’
‘There could be many reasons.’
‘What a cautious man. I always thought that girl whom Cyril employed was too interested and talkative.’
‘She has told me nothing.’
‘So was it the cook? Disapprovingly Desiccated, I’ve always called her.’
‘She has never mentioned you.’
‘You’re not a very convincing liar, Enrique.’
‘I have been told that before.’
‘You didn’t come here just to ask questions, did you?’
‘What other reason could there be?’
‘I think I’m beginning to dislike you.’
‘Why?’
‘For being so ungallant.’
‘Why did you see Tyler when your husband made it obvious he disliked the man?’
‘Because he forbade me to have anything to do with him.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Some time ago.’
‘You haven’t spoken to him recently?’
‘He phoned not long before he died.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To see me again.’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Even though your husband was away?’
‘I became convinced that although the staff had taken my money to keep their silence, one of them was talking and caution became necessary. Then I heard from a very objectionable friend . . . Of no moment.’
‘I would prefer to judge that.’
‘I doubt your judgements. I suppose you are wondering if my husband learned the truth about my fun with Cyril and became so jealous, he shot him? Haven’t you asked yourself if a lamb attacks a lion? . . . It was a pity. By refusing to meet Cyril, I lost the pleasure of disobeying my husband’s specific edict. You know all about that kind of pleasure, don’t you?’
‘As a serving officer, I obey the rules.’
‘Which I hope you make up to suit yourself?’
‘What the de
vil is it all about now?’ Douste asked angrily. He refilled his glass, again ignored hers.
‘I’m asking him why he asks so many questions,’ she answered, ‘and he’s explaining that the police need to know everything. But as I said, a lady can’t tell all her little secrets and lose the pleasure they provide.’
‘How much longer is this going to go on?’
She switched to Spanish. ‘Well?’
‘I’ll leave when you tell me how well you knew Señor Howes,’ Alvarez answered.
‘I’m not certain.’
‘It does seem unlikely you could ever have bothered to know him, but I believe you visited his house more than once when his wife was in England.’
She laughed.
‘Is that an admission?’
‘Make of it what you will, sweet Enrique.’
He stood.
‘You’re going?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because my husband has said you must?’
Because he was fed up with being auditioned by a woman whom, he was certain, would eventually reject him with scornful amusement. He spoke to Douste. ‘I should like to thank you for your kind patience.’ He walked toward the French doors.
‘You may not be a good liar, Enrique, but you are an accomplished hypocrite,’ she called out.
Jaime pushed across the bottle of Soberano. Alvarez poured himself a generous measure, added three cubes of ice.
‘What kind of a day has it been for you?’ Jaime asked casually.
‘Interesting, but frustrating.’
‘Are you on about work or women?’
‘Not much difference in this case.’
‘You’ve some funny ideas.’
‘You have to work hard to get anywhere with either.’
‘Wouldn’t know these days.’
‘What wouldn’t you know?’ came the call from the kitchen.
‘What day it is,’ Jaime replied, surprising Alvarez with his quickness of thought.
‘What does it matter what day it is?’ Dolores appeared through the bead curtain.
‘Just wondering.’
‘Perhaps you were thinking when you would mend the fan in the kitchen?’
‘There won’t be time before grub tonight . . .’
‘Grub! Grub? You consider that is what I serve after working for hours in a kitchen which is hotter than the racks on which saints were roasted because my husband will not mend the fan? Then there is no reason for me to continue to cook.’
Sun, Sea and Murder Page 14