Unseemly End (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 6)

by Roderic Jeffries

  Matas stood. He picked up the chair and put it just inside the house. They walked slowly up the road, careful to stay on the shadowed side because the sun was still very hot.

  *

  There was something about the air around Llueso which prompted infidelity, not just among the young but also among couples who had been married long enough for an observer to imagine that they would have come to prefer marital routine to marital rapine. James Wraight and Penelope Marston had been happily married when they arrived on the island, though not to each other: soon after meeting they deserted their respective spouses and lived together in a flat in Puerto Llueso where they had tremendous fun giving parties at which everyone drank too much. There was no social stigma attached to behaviour such as theirs: only if they had also been rather poor would they have been ostracized.

  Their sitting-room was packed with people and although doors and windows were open and two fans were running at fast speed, the air was thick with smoke and stiflingly hot.

  Rockford edged his way inside. He waved hullo to Penelope over the heads of some arguing, sweating people, and was handed a glass by Wraight who didn’t bother to find out what he would like.

  ‘Where’s Cynthia?’ asked Wraight, shouting to make himself heard.

  ‘Got a bit of a head,’ he shouted back. ‘Sends all her apologies.’

  ‘Of course she’s got a bit of a head,’ said Pam, a blonde standing next to him. She liked him and could never understand why he refused to behave naturally in response to her advances.

  ‘Why “of course”?’

  ‘We all know we’re a bit too ordinary down here in the Port for her taste: vino corriente instead of Rioja.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve been drinking vino-agre.’

  ‘Christ! Phil, I’m too boozed for that sort of thing.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘Tell me. What d’you think about Dolly?’

  ‘I think the news is a load of cod’s. She probably has a thick head this morning, called in the quack, and someone got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘You’re wrong, wonder-boy. She’s dead, all right. No more thick heads for her.’

  A plump woman, dressed in a pyjama suit whose seams were under considerable strain, thrust herself into the conversation. ‘Wasn’t that a just too disgusting scene at her party last night?’

  Pam spoke in a drawling, bitchy voice: ‘I thought it was the funniest thing I’ve seen in years.’

  ‘Funny? Boasting about how much money she’d made to poor old Kim when she must have known what happened to his family.’

  ‘Poor old Kim!’ she mimicked. ‘There’s only one thing wrong with him — he’s a supercilious bastard.’

  ‘Not one of your many friends, dear?’ asked the plump woman sweetly.

  A man, holding a glass in each hand and drinking from them alternately, joined them. He stared with bleary eyes at Rockford. ‘Hullo, shipmate. How’s the voyage going?’

  ‘Come alongside and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Better put your fender out,’ said Pam, irritated by this further interruption.

  ‘Suppose you put it out for him, eh?’ The man nudged her in the side: some of the drink in one of the glasses slopped over the rim.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘You nearly had that down my dress.’

  ‘Can’t blame me for trying, love.’ He drank. ‘Heard the latest about Dolly, I suppose?’

  ‘What about her?’ asked the plump woman.

  ‘The police have been called in. They’re saying she was murdered.’

  Pam laughed sarcastically.

  ‘Straight, it’s not just a rumour. I know for a fact that there’s been a detective in the house most of the day.’

  ‘But who on earth would murder her?’ asked the plump woman, knowing what the answer must be.

  ‘Mark,’ answered Pam immediately. ‘Not that I thought he had it in him.’

  ‘Steady on with that sort of talk,’ said Rockford. ‘There’s no rhyme or reason for naming him …’

  ‘Stop being so judicious. Of course it was him.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? He’s in England.’

  ‘Goddamn it, so he is!’

  ‘Then who on earth could it have been?’ asked the plump woman, for the second time.

  ‘Kim,’ said Pam, and she looked challengingly at Rockford.

  By the end of the cocktail-party it was agreed — by those still capable of agreeing anything — that it had been Kim Covert who had murdered Dolly Lund.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dolores, strikingly handsome in a dark red frock which contrasted sharply with her raven black hair, rested her hands on her hips as she stood by the side of the diningroom table. ‘Perhaps you’ll just give me an idea of whether you’ll be in to lunch today? Of course, it won’t matter if you say one thing but change your mind and do another. No matter that I’ve spent hours slaving in the kitchen …’

  Alvarez hastily interrupted. ‘I tell you, I tried my damndest to get back yesterday, but just couldn’t. I had to wait hours for the doctor, then there was the maid to question, the house to search …’

  ‘And you ate hardly any supper.’

  He tried to follow the logic of her conversation and failed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘If you had not eaten any lunch at all, when you got back here you’d have eaten an enormous supper.’

  He was reminded of an old Mallorquin saying: ‘Beware of the landlord with a sharp wife, the lawyer with a sharp wit, and the woman with a sharp eye.’

  ‘I can’t blame you, of course. After all, what is my poor cooking compared to a meal in a grand house?’

  He spoke penitently. ‘Look, I did eat something. But only because the maid was in such a state and didn’t want to be left on her own. She gave me some meat which tasted as if it had died of old age and all the time I was chewing it I thought of your wonderful arroz brut which I was missing.’

  ‘I offered you what was left last night and you only ate enough to keep a flea alive.’

  ‘I know, but the meat had given me terrible indigestion: my guts were twisted up in knots.’

  She graciously accepted his explanation, but made him promise that this day he’d be back for lunch — for which she had already started to slave — no matter what state the maid was in. He asked her what she was cooking and then swore that nothing, not even grilled gambas, would prevent his returning for so Lucullan a feast.

  He left the house, unlocked the door of his battered Seat 600, and sat behind the wheel. There were usually ways and means of getting around the woman with a sharp eye, but the lawyer with a sharp wit …

  Vives had bought two flats and turned one into a set of offices. He was a man of medium height, with a face pock-marked by a bad attack of acne when young: his character was warm and his manner friendly. He shook hands, demanded to know why Alvarez hadn’t been along months before for a chat, then settled behind his desk, stacked with files and papers, and made it clear that although he was delighted by the meeting, he was a very busy man.

  ‘You drew up a will for Señora Lund … Is it good?’

  He smiled. ‘Everything I do is good.’

  ‘I mean, is it her last will?’

  ‘I imagine so. But if there’s any doubt, it’s easy enough to check with Madrid to find out.’

  ‘Will you do that for me?’

  ‘Sure.’ He made a note on a pad, then looked up. ‘What’s in the wind?’

  ‘You’ll have heard she’s dead. It’s possible she was murdered. I’m looking for the motive.’

  He leaned back in the chair and joined his fingertips together.

  ‘Did she often ask you to do her legal work?’

  ‘This was the first time.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She made an appointment and when I saw her she said she wanted her will drawn up. I checked if she’d made any other will in Spain and as sh
e had I explained that a new one would automatically render null and void that previous one.’

  ‘Did you advise her on the contents of the will?’

  ‘Did I have anything to do with the terms? No way. She knew exactly what she wanted and told me.’

  ‘Did you know she had a daughter?’

  ‘One minute. I think I’d better refresh my memory.’ He used the internal telephone to ask one of the secretaries to bring him Señora Lund’s file and when that was in front of him he quickly read through the papers inside. ‘According to my notes, she told me she hadn’t any close living relatives after I’d explained that under Spanish law a Spaniard — but not always a foreigner — had to leave a proportion of the estate — under normal conditions — to certain named relatives.’

  ‘You are quite sure she said she’d no daughter?’

  ‘I’ve a note to that effect here.’

  Alvarez scratched his forehead, at the point where his hair was receding rather quickly. ‘Did you know that Mark Erington was her gigolo?’

  ‘She naturally never said so, but I guessed as much.’

  ‘He stands to collect quite a fortune, doesn’t he?’

  ‘More money than either you or I will ever see.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about him?’

  ‘I don’t remember her doing so and certainly I’ve no notes referring to him apart from the fact that he was to get virtually everything.’

  ‘What about George Trent?’

  ‘The man who’s left the cigarette case?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I gather he lives locally, but that’s all I know about him.’

  ‘She didn’t say why she was leaving him a pewter cigarette case?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  Alvarez thought for a moment. ‘Do you get the feeling there’s something odd about the will?’

  ‘I don’t know that it’s any odder than others I’ve drawn up.’

  ‘You don’t get a suggestion … ’ He stopped, since it was clear that Vives failed to see any special, but as yet unidentified, significance in the terms. ‘I wonder why she cut her daughter right out?’

  ‘You’re sure there really is a daughter?’

  ‘There’s a framed photo of her on the señora’s dressing-table.’

  Vives began to drum on the desk with his fingers. ‘People who’ve had bitter rows don’t usually keep each other’s photos on view, do they? But if they were on good, or even reasonable terms, why did the señora deny she had a daughter?’

  ‘You can’t suggest the answers?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I was hoping,’ said Alvarez despondently.

  *

  Matas was sitting on a chair out on the road, wondering whether it had been wise to allow Rosa to go to the Institute to work for her bachillerato? — there were all those male students and since when had any male student had a thought higher than his loins? …

  ‘Hullo, old man,’ said Alvarez.

  He looked up, shielding his eyes with gnarled right hand. ‘So it’s you … Nothing wrong, is there?’ he asked with sudden and sharp concern, terrified that Rosa was in trouble — of one sort or another.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Alvarez leaned against the wall of the house. ‘Tell me something. How d’you spell puta?’

  Matas reached for his pipe, which was under the chair with a battered goatskin tobacco pouch, and began to pack the bowl with tobacco.

  ‘Come on, old’un.’

  ‘I don’t spell nothing. Can’t read, nor yet write.’

  ‘Rosa can.’

  ‘Aye, that she can,’ he said with pride.

  ‘So she’d tell you?’

  ‘D’you think I’d bloody well ask her to spell a word like that?’ he demanded indignantly.

  ‘No, I don’t. So I reckon that’s why you got it wrong.’

  Matas concentrated on lighting the pipe.

  ‘The word has only one T.’

  ‘What’s it to me whether it has one or a dozen?’

  ‘Because you spelled it with two on the lawn of Señora Lund.’

  ‘I didn’t do no such thing.’

  ‘Must’ve taken quite a bit of weed killer. Bought a lot recently?’

  He sucked at his pipe.

  ‘I’ll have to ask around and find out.’

  ‘The old bitch,’ said Matas violently. ‘Slung me, just on account of taking a few of me own tomatoes.’

  ‘When did you put the weedkiller down?’

  ‘I ain’t sayin’ I did any such thing.’

  ‘Some time ago? There’s been no rain to wash it in, only the dew and there’s precious little of that at this time of the year. You weren’t able to use the watering system because you could only be around after dark and if they’d heard the pressure pump working for any length of time they’d have wanted to know why. You hoped the grass would be dead by Saturday night when it was the big party, didn’t you?’

  A lorry rumbled past, its badly adjusted diesel engine briefly drowning out all speech and leaving behind it the acrid smell of the exhaust.

  ‘D’you work at Ca Na Nadana for long?’

  ‘Nigh on two year.’

  ‘Did you know she drank a lot?’

  ‘I’d’ve had to be blind and deaf not to know that.’

  ‘And she drank even more than usual when she had a party?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Did they ever give you a key to the house?’

  ‘’Course not.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have been much trouble to get a key cut, would it? Or even have taken one and left them to think it was lost so as they’d pay to have another cut if they didn’t change the lock.’

  ‘I ain’t never had no bleeding key.’

  ‘Don’t forget next time. Puta has only one T.’

  *

  Alvarez slowly climbed the stairs to his office, conscious of the fact that if he were in reasonable physical condition he would not be nearly so out of breath. Too much drink, too much food, too many cigarettes, too little exercise. All it needed was enough will power to cut out alcohol and cigarettes, to refuse second helpings, and to walk to the guardia post each day instead of using the car.

  He entered his room, darkened because the shutters were closed, and slumped down in the chair behind the desk. There were times when sadness overwhelmed a man and gnawed like a rat at his mind. Suppose he were to die suddenly, now, here, in the chair? Who would there be to mourn him? Dolores and Jaime, and the two children, Juan and Isabel, certainly. But their grief would be brief because the relationship was, in fact, more distant than cousin and despite all their wonderful kindnesses to him, kindness was never quite the same thing as love born of close consanguinity. Apart from them — no one. So he was an island — which could disappear without leaving a ripple in the sea of indifference … He leaned down and pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk to bring out a bottle of brandy and a glass. Undoubtedly there were times when just a little alcohol was a man’s best friend … His only friend …

  He rang Palma, spoke to Superior Chief Salas’s superior secretary, and after a long wait was put through to the great man. He explained very carefully that a wealthy foreigner had died and the circumstances of her death were such that although on the face of things it had been accidental, it was possible she had, in fact, been murdered.

  Salas spoke with weary annoyance. ‘Why?’ he asked, repeating the word after a slight pause, ‘why is it that of all my officers it is you, Inspector Alvarez, who never knows anything for certain?’

  ‘Señor, in this case …’

  ‘If someone is sought, you know only that he may be here or he may be there: if someone is certainly missing, you know only that he may be alive or he may be dead: if someone is dead, you know only that he may have died from natural causes, from accidental causes, or from being murdered.’

  ‘Señor, until the post mortem has confirmed the doctor’s findings it is impossible for anyone to be certain.�
�

  ‘I have not the slightest doubt that even then you will successfully discover an ocean of ambiguity.’

  After the call was over, Alvarez finished the brandy. He sighed as he put the now empty glass on the desk. The phone buzzed. He ignored it. It buzzed again and with an expression of annoyance he lifted the receiver. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Victoriana here, señor. You know, Ca Na Nadana. There’s been a telephone call from the airport and I just didn’t know what to say and …’

  ‘A call from who, señorita?’

  ‘From Señor Erington. He wanted to speak to the señora. I was so bewildered and upset that … I couldn’t think what …’

  ‘Did you say she was dead?’

  ‘I didn’t. I kept wondering what to say and in the end he rang off. I think he thought I’d been drinking.’

  ‘As far as you know, is he driving straight to the house from the airport?’

  ‘I think so, señor.’

  ‘I’ll be over to be there when he arrives.’

  *

  Alvarez crossed the lawn of Ca Na Nadana to the westfacing covered patio. From behind him came the rattle of stones being unloaded into a wheelbarrow. As Victoriana had said, repeatedly, old Angel Matas might sometimes be difficult, but at least he was a Lluesian: in sharp and unwelcome contrast, Ripoli — unmistakably a man of Mestara — was young, cocky, a know-all, and, since he came from that village, untrustworthy. Unfortunately, while Alvarez would willingly have disbelieved what he’d just been told, Ripoli’s sly grin had been full of scornful confidence. He had, he’d said, spent the weekend, together with his family, with his wife’s parents (‘Very full of money!’). So he knew absolutely nothing about what had happened in Ca Na Nadana. And if Alvarez didn’t believe him — people from Llueso were notoriously suspicious — all he had to do was to speak to his wife’s parents (‘She was their only child. With all that wealth!’) and they’d confirm every word he said …

  Alvarez entered the house and as he did so Victoriana called out: ‘There’s a car just driven in.’ He went through to the hall, opened the front door.

  A red Seat 124 Sport, hood down, had just parked in front of the double garage and Erington, dressed in open-neck safari shirt, linen trousers, and sandals, was opening the boot of the car. He saw Alvarez and straightened up. ‘Who are you? Where’s Victoriana?’