‘It is my job to question everyone, however unnecessary that may appear to be.’
‘A diplomatically untruthful answer … Yes, there is someone who can vouch for my every movement from midday Saturday onwards.’
‘May I have the name, please?’
‘No.’
Alvarez waited patiently.
‘Perhaps I’d better try to explain a little … Look, there are some situations which can rather embarrass a bloke …’ He stopped, tapped the ash from his cigarette, then said: ‘If I promise you that who I was with can have absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Dolly, will you accept that assurance?’
‘I am afraid that I must have the person’s name.’
‘But … Hell! If the news got around, the local gossips would have a field day.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘You would the moment you knew the name of the lady.’
‘You spent that time with a lady?’
Erington stared out across the garden. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? When you’re young, you’re taught that if ever you do anything wrong, you’ll inevitably be found out. Then you start to grow up and discover that that is a load of cod’s, broadcast by long-suffering adults who want some peace and quiet. Finally, you finish growing up and you learn that it’s so often true …’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I was with Samantha Waite. Her maiden name was Lund. She’s Dolly Lund’s daughter.’
*
Alvarez entered his office, switched on the fan, crossed to the chair behind the desk and slumped down on to it. The heat, even with closed shutters and the fan on, was stifling. Eventually, sweating from the effort, he reached out to the telephone and dialled Superior Chief Salas’s number. Señor Salas, reported his superior secretary, was out. Hardly believing his luck, he explained what he wanted. Erington claimed that from Saturday afternoon to Monday morning he had been staying with Samantha Waite, daughter of Señora Lund: her address, Flat 3a, Pemsbury Road, Hanwell, London. Could a request be forwarded to the English police to question Señora Waite about his alibi? And could this request be accompanied by a note that it seemed certain Erington had returned to Mallorca over Saturday night and early Sunday morning?
He rang the immigration department in Palma. It was necessary for every immigration card, handed in between 0000 hours Saturday morning and 2400 hours Sunday night to be checked and for a list of all men who had not been travelling with a family to be drawn up.
Finally, he telephoned Palma CID. He wanted all car hire firms in Palma to be interviewed and a list made of men who had hired a car between 0000 hours Saturday and 2400 hours Sunday.
He replaced the receiver, relaxed, and closed his eyes. It was pleasant to contemplate the lot of all the people who were going to have to work on his behalf in the stifling heat …
*
Victoriana walked out to the pool and spoke to Erington, who lay sunbathing. ‘Can me and Ana still have a swim?’
‘Of course you can. Any time, just so long as there aren’t any guests around.’
‘Then maybe I’ll have one now. I’m so hot.’ She giggled. ‘I’ve bought a new costume, but I don’t know whether I dare wear it.’
‘Scared of suffering from exposure?’
‘There truly is so little of it. And the bits come undone so easily …’
‘Bring me a nail file in case one of ’em sticks.’
He watched her return into the house. She didn’t realize it yet, but she was going to be right out of luck. He wasn’t wasting everything he’d gained on a village girl who in ten years’ time would look as sexy as a sixty-five-year-old grandmother from Bootle.
She returned, clothed in two minute scraps of coloured cloth, precariously held together by tapes. She looked nervously out at the surrounding land, fearful one of the neighbours would see her and report her shame to her parents, in Inca. She went down the steps into the pool and splashed around, occasionally reaching up to make certain everything was still in place. ‘I’ve brought my nail file,’ she called out.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’ He turned over on to his back and then brought the edge of the towel over his eyes to protect them from the sun. That visit from the local detective had shaken him more than he cared to admit. After all, it was little more than two days since Dolly had been found dead and yet already he was obviously suspected. Thank God he’d not been stupid enough to believe he could never be suspected and so had planned how to prevent that suspicion turning into certainty.
There was more splashing from the pool, reminding him that she was waiting for him to join her. He’d have to get rid of her. He was no good at resisting temptation.
*
At dawn on Wednesday there were some clouds, the first for days, and a hint of mist which clung to the slopes of the hills and mountains and blurred their outlines. Then the sun rose to dismiss the clouds and burn away the mist, exposing both hills and mountains in all their starkness.
The heat increased, stifling the land. Those Mallorquins who had to be out in the sun covered themselves up and moved slowly and carefully: the tourists who had paid to be out in it stripped off and sunbathed without heed to their burning skins.
The phone-call from Superior Chief Salas’s office came through at a quarter to twelve, as Alvarez sat in his office and thought how worn out he felt. ‘We’ve heard from England. Señora Waite says she first met Erington last year. She liked him then and saw quite a bit of him. She knew he was her mother’s gigolo, but she’s broad-minded. She kept having rows with her mother, because of her independent attitude, and these became worse when her husband deserted her and she needed financial help. Her mother refused to help directly, so she wrote to Erington, begging him to do what he could for her. He tried to talk her mother round and then invented his own mother’s illness as the excuse to fly back to England to see her. He told her that for the moment there was no chance her mother would relent and help her financially, but he was certain that given time and if she kept a low profile and he did all he could on her behalf, eventually Señora Lund would rally round.
‘Despite all he said Señora Waite remained so depressed he had to cheer her up and one thing led to another and pretty soon they discovered they both liked bed. He stayed in her flat from Saturday afternoon to early Monday morning, when he left to get his plane back to this island … You know something? If anyone asks me, there’s a touch of incest about the relationship!’
The two further reports arrived within half an hour of each other, late the same afternoon. Immigration supplied a list of one hundred and seventy-three names — accompanying this was a bad-tempered note pointing out the work that had been involved. Palma CID supplied a list of forty-two names. Alvarez compared the two and after a long and boring task discovered that no one name appeared on both lists.
He stared at the shuttered window. Of course, Erington might have been travelling with a false passport in one name and a driving licence in another. But that would be to take an obvious risk because there was always the chance that a car hire firm would demand to see both passport and licence. The elaborate planning of this murder suggested someone who would never have taken an obvious risk … In any case, didn’t Señora Waite say he had been with her during the relevant time …
He leaned back in the chair, sweating, thirsty, tired, and defeated.
CHAPTER 18
Alvarez drove slowly through the narrow streets, many without pavements, so that pedestrians were a constant hazard, and parked in the square because there was no room closer to the guardia post. He climbed out, blinked at the harsh sunshine, and walked towards the road which led down to the post. His route — which could not by any stretch of the imagination be called direct — happened to bring him close to the main entrance of the Club Llueso. Gratefully he went into the bar, ordered a coffee and a brandy, and then sat at one of the window tables.
As he watched the people outside — many of them tourists who seemed in a perpetu
al hurry — he thought gloomily that it was an open and shut case in which everything opened and nothing shut. After all, who but Erington could repeatedly have forced the locks on the desk in the study and read the papers inside? Who else could so easily have procured a key to let himself into the house to murder while making the death appear an accident (which it would have done if only he hadn’t made the mistake of removing too many pills from a bottle which had obviously only just been opened)? Who else knew so certainly that Señora Lund would be too drunk to struggle, or even aware of what was going on, that only Victoriana would be in the house and that she could hear very little from her room …
Damnit, if there were no one else — there had been no suggestion of any motive other than the money — then he had to be right. Which meant that the mistake was not in naming Erington the murderer, but in accepting that the evidence proved he was not. So where was that mistake …
Erington was a cunning man: weak but cunning. He had planned the murder very carefully. So wouldn’t he have visualized the possibility of the death being identified as murder and have envisaged the need to give himself an alibi …
He poured the brandy into the coffee. If only he were clever, could think more clearly, then it would all become obvious. But his thoughts forever muddled into each other, cannoning off to disappear without trace … He swore. Wasn’t the solution obvious, even to a dolt, from the moment one accepted that Erington had to be the murderer and the mistake was in the evidence which proved he was not?
*
Alvarez spoke to Salas over the phone. ‘Señor, I am aware that England has reported that Señora Waite says that Erington was with her throughout Saturday night. But if one accepts that Erington must be the murderer, then she had to be lying.
‘A remark made to me on the relationship between Erington and Señora Waite has been troubling me. It was described as being like incest. Does that not suggest something?’
‘It suggests a diseased mind. What in the devil are you talking about?’
‘I find it very difficult to express my thoughts, señor. But this is what I am trying to say. Señora Waite knew that Erington was her mother’s gigolo. How would any daughter view such a relationship? With distaste. And in this particular case, wouldn’t this distaste be transferred into hatred because the daughter would seize the opportunity of blaming the gigolo for the estrangement between her mother and herself? She would never take the man she hated as her lover.’
‘Am I to congratulate you or Freud on so masterly a diagnosis?’
‘Señor, all I can say is, that is how a woman of the soil would think.’
‘I must, of necessity, take your word for that.’
‘But I am sure it is so.’
‘What if it is?’
‘Then I think that the Señora Waite who lives in the flat in London is not the real Señora Waite.’
‘The English police interviewed her — they would have made certain of her identity.’
‘To what extent? We didn’t ask them to verify that she was Señora Waite. We merely asked them to interview the Señora Waite who lived in the flat. And in England, I believe, people do not have to carry identity papers. Don’t you see, señor, that if Erington is as clever as I believe, he will have prepared for the need to have an alibi which can be verified.’
‘You are overlooking the fact that that raises the risk the police might easily have interviewed the true Señora Waite.’
‘Not easily. There unfortunately was very bad feeling between the mother and the daughter. There is in Ca Na Nadana part of the draft of a letter which Señora Lund wrote to her daughter. It makes a man tremble to think there can be such maternal wickedness …’
‘It will be very much quicker for both of us if you cut out the moralizing.’
‘Of course … Suppose the mother and daughter were on such bad terms that the daughter did not even know where her mother now lived: that she did not even care where she now lived and had sworn never again to try to get in touch with her? Then what are the chances of the real daughter’s present whereabouts accidentally coming to light?’
There was a short pause. ‘What do you propose?’
‘With your permission, I will ask England to check the identity of the woman in the flat. And for that I can supply them with a photograph of Señora Waite and a holographic letter, written by her recently … When it is obvious she is not Señora Waite, we will have the final proof that Erington is the murderer.’
CHAPTER 19
Detective-Constable Flynn braked the Escort to a stop. ‘Here we are, then: Pemsbury Road. A year or so back we picked up Shorty Mason in one of the houses further along this road.’
‘Who?’ asked PC Questead, recently attached to CID as an aide.
‘You don’t know Shorty? Where were you transferred from — Caithness?’
‘Kew.’
Flynn grinned. ‘From under the river, from the sound of it.’
They left the car, crossed the pavement, and climbed the six stone steps up to the front door of the large, ugly Victorian house. To the right of the door were a number of bell pushes, each tagged with a name, and a speaker unit. Questead pressed the button for flat 3a. A woman’s voice, rendered tinny by the speaker, said: ‘Who is it?’
‘Local CID, Mrs Waite. Could we have a word with you?’
‘Again?’
‘’Fraid so. Only it was someone else last time.’
‘I suppose you’d better come up.’
There was a quick buzz from the door and when they pushed, it opened.
‘Don’t forget,’ said Flynn, ‘if she’s half as snappy as the photo, leave me to do the talking.’
They entered the hall and climbed the uncarpeted stairs, their shoes thumping on the wooden treads. There were four flats on the third, and top, floor and 3a was nearest to the head of the stairs on the left. The door was opened by a blonde in her middle twenties. She had an oval face with high cheekbones, blue eyes, a pert nose, and a well curved mouth with full, moist lips. Plenty of sex appeal, not too discreetly handled. The top button on her flowered housecoat was undone. Flynn smiled his smoothest smile as they stepped into the bedsitting-room. ‘Sorry to bust in on you like this, Mrs Waite, only we have to check up on a couple of facts.’
She spoke petulantly. ‘I was about to get into the bath when you rang. I hope you won’t be long: I’m meeting someone for lunch.’
Flynn visualized what she was not wearing under the housecoat. ‘Won’t take any time at all. And in fact, our first question’s already answered.’
‘What are you on about?’
He took the photograph from his inside coat pocket. ‘We’re here to make certain you’re you, if you see what I mean.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘There couldn’t be two of you so alike: not both that beautiful.’
You’re overdoing it, thought Questead dispassionately.
‘Let’s have a look at that.’ She was handed the photograph. ‘Of course that’s me. It was taken just before Paul …’ She stopped, turned, and went over to a small table and picked up a pack of cigarettes. ‘Either of you smoke?’
‘Like a chimney,’ answered Flynn, accepting a cigarette.
‘Thanks all the same, but I don’t,’ said Questead.
‘Nuts on physical fitness and all that jazz,’ said Flynn, indicating the PC with a supercilious nod of his head. He struck a match for her and as she leaned forward to light her cigarette he looked down the front of her housecoat.
She straightened up, handed him back the photograph, then sat on one of the battered easy chairs.
‘Last thing is,’ said Flynn, ‘would you mind writing a bit for us?’
‘Yes, I would, unless you explain a bit more what all this is in aid of.’
‘It’s on account of Spain, Mrs Waite. You know what odd-balls foreigners are. They’ve asked us to make certain you really are Mrs Lund’s daughter.’
‘What’s it matter if I am or not? She didn’t giv
e a damn.’
‘Something to do with the will, maybe.’
‘She told me months and months ago she wouldn’t leave me anything. When I was so ill and asked her for help, she even refused …’ She became silent.
‘Sorry about all that, love. A bit of cash to leave, was there?’
‘Enough that if it had come to me I wouldn’t ever again have had to worry about paying the bills.’
‘Makes it extra rough … D’you think you could help us now and find a pen and paper?’
She shrugged her shoulders, stood, and walked out of the room. Flynn turned and winked at Questead, who merely nodded. Didn’t recognize a hot wicket when he met one, thought Flynn scornfully.
She returned with a ballpoint pen and a pad of note-paper. She sat, careful this time to smooth down the housecoat, rested the pad on her knees, and said: ‘What d’you want me to write, then?’
‘I’ll dictate a bit, if that’s all right with you.’ He took the facsimile of one of the letters from his coat pocket and slowly began to read out.
She stopped writing and looked up. ‘That’s from one of my letters, isn’t it?’ Her voice was tight.
‘It could be.’
‘What right have you to have it? Who said you could poke and pry into our private affairs?’
‘Sorry, love, but straight it’s nothing to do with us this end. We’re only carrying out what the Spanish police have asked us to.’
‘Oh God, why do I have to be dragged through all this after what’s happened?’
‘Just a little more,’ coaxed Flynn. He read out three short sentences. ‘That’s that. Let’s have what you’ve written, can I?’
She tore the page out of the pad and handed it to him.
‘Very many thanks for all your help, Mrs Waite.’
She did up the top button of her housecoat.
As they made their way downstairs, Questead said: ‘Was the handwriting the same?’
‘Exactly … Lovely bit of crackling, eh?’
‘But went a bit cold on you.’
Miserable bastard, thought Flynn.
Unseemly End (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 6) Page 14