‘I didn’t kill her,’ said Erington violently. ‘I was in London all the time. Can’t you understand, I was in London.’
‘I have spoken by phone to the immigration officials at Mahon airport, to the clerk who was on duty at the Hertz desk, to the firm which chartered the yacht. There are many men who will be able to identify you as Brown.’
‘I was in London,’ he shouted, as if to reiterate the lie more and more forcibly would be to turn it into the truth.
‘Then together we must go to Menorca to discover what all these people say. You will please not travel further on this island than the village until we have been to Menorca and you will now bring me your passport. Should you consider leaving under the name of Brown, using the passport you have used before, I must warn you that all officials on this island have been alerted to that possibility.’
Erington stood slowly, scared that his legs would no longer support him.
*
Alvarez awoke, stared up at the ceiling, and thought that when he telephoned Superior Chief Salas he would try to display due humility when he announced that events had proved him right after all.
The phone downstairs rang. There was a shout from Dolores that the call was for him.
He put on a thin cotton dressing-gown over his pyjama trousers and went downstairs. ‘Enrique, guardia post here. You’d better get along to Ca Na Nadana bloody quick. There’s another corpse.’
CHAPTER 21
Alvarez parked in the drive of Ca Na Nadana, crossed to the front door, and was about to ring the bell when the door was opened by Ana. Her face was white and drawn and she was trembling. ‘It’s ghastly … Mother of God, it’s ghastly …’
He put a comforting arm around her shoulders, as a father would have done, and led her into the sitting-room, still in half dark because all the shutters were closed and curtains drawn, made her sit down. He saw the cocktail cabinet and went over and poured out a brandy. ‘Get this down you,’ he said, as he handed her the glass. ‘I’m just going upstairs for a moment.’
He went up and along to Erington’s room. The door was three parts open and he could see, in the half dark, that Erington lay sprawled diagonally across the bed on his back, his head nearest to the door. Alvarez went in. There was already a smell of death: in the heat, this quickly formed. Erington’s eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open so that his front teeth were just visible: ironically, his lips seemed to be smiling. There was a small wound on his forehead from which blood had flowed down the left-hand side of his scalp. By the corner of the bed, on the carpet, lay an automatic with so short a barrel that at first glance it seemed almost to be without one.
There was a sudden yap, which startled him so much he swore, and Lulu waddled into the room, stopping when just inside the doorway. Her bulging eyes seemed to be begging him to explain what was going on. He patted her head, fondled her ears, then called her out as he left.
Downstairs, he found that Ana had drunk half the brandy and was looking slightly less shocked. He sat beside her. ‘Are you well enough now to tell me exactly what happened this morning, señorita?’
She nodded.
‘Then as soon as you’ve told me, you must go to your home so that you can be with your family.’
A little colour had begun to creep into her thin cheeks and her trembling had slackened. ‘I arrived here at eight,’ she said, then stopped.
‘Why were you arriving? Didn’t you sleep here last night?’
‘Yesterday, after you’d gone, he seemed all … all strange. Told me to go home, even though today wasn’t my day off, because really he didn’t need me … It just wasn’t like him to be thoughtful and kind … I arrived here, like I said. Lulu was making a terrible noise upstairs, yapping. I went through to the kitchen to get things ready, but Lulu went on and on so I decided to find out what was up. She was in his room. I knocked, but there wasn’t any answer, so I knocked again. Lulu began to howl and I opened the door just a little to let her out and called to ask him what he wanted for breakfast. There wasn’t a sound, except that the air-conditioning was on and that was unusual because he always switched it off before he went to sleep. Then Lulu, she’d run to the stairs, came back and started howling once more and I suddenly thought … Well, I wondered if he’d suddenly been taken badly ill. So I pushed the door more open and looked inside …’ She made a sound that was half moan, half a cry of horror.
‘Did you go into the bedroom, señorita?’
‘Go inside? … When he was there, sprawled all over the bed …’
He thought for a moment, then said: ‘What doors have you unlocked and what shutters have you opened up since you’ve been here this morning?’
‘I came into the house through the kitchen door.’
‘Was it locked?’
‘Of course it was.’ She stared uneasily at him, as if he had asked a ridiculous question.
‘And then?’
‘I opened the shutters of the kitchen windows. I got the butter out of the fridge, because otherwise it’s too solid to spread, prepared the coffee-machine, and then on account of Lulu yapping I went upstairs …’
‘So the only shutters you’ve touched are the kitchen ones, and the only doors the kitchen and the front door, when you let me in. Was the front door locked?’
She nodded.
‘Right. Now, would you like me to run you home or will you go back on whatever you came on?’
She hesitated, fiddled with a button on her dress, then said she’d return on her Mobylette.
After she had left, he checked the downstairs shutters and doors, accompanied most of the time by Lulu who seemed about to have hysterics. It suddenly occurred to him that she might want to go out and he opened the front door for her. He had been correct.
Upstairs, he went into Erington’s room, shutting the door on Lulu. She marked her displeasure by giving brief yaps and scrabbling at the door. He unlatched the shutters of the nearest window and pushed them back until caught by the retaining clips. Sunlight speared into the room. It etched Erington’s death in the starkest terms, where the previous dim light had almost confused it with sleep.
He looked around the room and saw the envelope, carefully propped up against one of two silver-backed brushes on the dressing-table. On the envelope were typed two words, ‘The Police’, in English. The flap was not sealed. The typed message inside, on a sheet of notepaper, was short and to the point. ‘I can’t face any more. I killed Dolly because I wanted her money.’
He returned the note into the envelope, crossed to the bed, and stared down at the dead man. What had been his thoughts and emotions just before he pulled the trigger? Remorse, relief because by his own death he was making some restitution, curiosity, or merely confused fear?
He left the room, patted Lulu, and went downstairs. He telephoned Dr Rosselló and as he was out left a message with his wife: the undertaker, to tell him to be ready to remove the body and to keep it in cold storage until further notice: and Superior Chief Salas.
‘Señor, I am speaking from Ca Na Nadana, the house which belonged to Señora Lund.’
‘Well?’
‘It is now certain that I was correct in all that I surmised.’ He paused, so that Salas could say something suitable. Salas said nothing. ‘I spoke to Erington last night and confronted him with all the evidence I have collected: evidence which shows beyond doubt that he killed the señora and tried to set up an alibi by getting a woman to impersonate the señora’s daughter. You will perhaps remember …’
‘Could you try to be as brief as possible.’
‘Very well, señor. This morning, Ana, who still works here, rang the police to say that she had discovered Erington’s body in his bedroom. He was dead.’
‘If there is a body it is surely normal for that person to be dead?’
‘He had shot himself. He’s left a note saying he intended to commit suicide and admitting to murdering the señora.’
‘Then it would
seem that not even you can confuse the issue.’
‘Señor, I have said from the beginning that Erington …’
‘You’ll make a full report and send it to my office. And Alvarez …’
‘Señor?’
‘I want that report as soon as possible: not in six months’ time.’ He cut the connection.
A real man of Madrid, thought Alvarez with rare bitterness. Not a word of praise: not a hint of apology for ever having doubted: just arrogant indifference to anyone else’s feelings.
He walked slowly through to the kitchen and saw two ensaimadas which had been put out on a plate, with some butter, on a tray, ready for Erington’s breakfast. They decided him that he was hungry. The coffee-maker was on the stove: he lit the gas.
After eating the ensaimadas, shared with Lulu, and drinking two cups of coffee, he stacked the dirty plate and cup and saucer on the working surface near the washing-up machine and returned the butter to the fridge. The front doorbell rang.
Dr Rosselló proved to be in his usual hurry. ‘Where is he?’
‘Up in his bedroom, doctor: shot himself with an automatic. There’s a suicide note …’
‘Show me which room it is, please, and can’t you stop that beastly little dog making such a frightful row?’
They went upstairs and Alvarez led the way into the bedroom. Rosselló put his small black bag down on a chair, clasped his hands behind his back, and studied the dead man.
Just like a little bantam cock, Alvarez thought, as he watched Rosselló move round the bed. Rosselló bent down and examined Erington’s head more closely, at one point carefully parting the hair to reveal the scalp. ‘No exit wound so the bullet’s lodged somewhere inside.’ He straightened up. ‘Was he right-or left-handed?’
Alvarez thought. ‘Right-handed.’
He brushed his moustache with crooked forefinger. ‘Do you know what is meant by the classical sites of election in suicide by shooting?’
‘I think so.’
‘The right temple for right-handed people, left for left-handed, centre brow, roof of the mouth, and over the heart. This entry wound is on the left temple.’
‘But presumably …’
‘I am reasonably certain that this is not a contact wound and I would have expected more than just scattered tattooing.’
‘You’re not saying …’ began Alvarez, a note of despair in his voice.
‘I am saying nothing definite because only an expert can do that. But I am suggesting that this man did not shoot himself.’
CHAPTER 22
Alvarez seldom hated anyone, unless that person had inflicted physical or mental cruelty, because he was far too generous in his judgements, too ready to excuse, but as he watched Dr Rosselló drive away he hated the man. Before he had come to the house the case had been simple: now it was in danger of becoming desperately complicated.
He returned into the house. Perhaps, he thought with sudden hope, the experts would between them make nonsense of Rosselló’s findings. After all, why shouldn’t a right-handed man shoot himself in his left temple if he felt like it? … His hope dimmed. Rosselló was the kind of man who never spoke unless he was certain …
What was he going to say to Salas? he wondered as he entered the kitchen. He’d been so cocksure when he’d rung earlier that he hadn’t left himself any room for backtracking … He crossed to the cupboard in which Victoriana had kept the bottle of Soberano containing Carlos I brandy and to his great relief found that it was still there. He half filled a tumbler and drank. After a while, life began to brighten up a little. Surely he was worrying over nothing? Erington had murdered Dolly Lund. Then if he now had been murdered, then, unless one believed in incredible coincidences, his murder was directly connected with hers. But since he was the sole person to benefit from her death …
He finished the brandy. For once, he thought, now almost cheerful, the precise Dr Rosselló had to be imprecisely wrong.
*
Alvarez crossed the square, ringed on two sides with plane trees whose leaves offered welcome shade, to the stall set in front of the church. He waited while a small boy was served with a strawberry cornet, then bought a cup of iced lemon. He sucked this through a couple of straws as he made his way slowly through the heat-sodden roads to the guardia post.
There was a message on his desk, telling him to ring the Institute of Forensic Anatomy.
‘First of all,’ said a cheerful-sounding man, ‘tests have been completed on the stomach contents of the deceased, Señora Lund. These confirm that she had taken no sleeping pills within twenty-four hours of her death.
‘Secondly, preliminary investigations into the death of Erington have shown that it was unlikely he shot himself, but that the possibility cannot be entirely ruled out. The site of the shooting is an unusual one for a right-handed person, but if the right hand is curled round the front of the head it is just possible to inflict such a wound. In this case, the maximum distance at which the gun could have been fired if taking note of the length of the deceased’s right arm is just within the minimum distance at which the gun was fired according to the powder tattooing on the skin. Tests have been carried out on the deceased’s hands for powder deposits, none has been found. Although this strongly suggests he had not fired the gun, once again the evidence is not conclusive: in some circumstances, these tests can fail to prove the negative, although they can always be accepted as proving the positive.’
‘In a nutshell, you think he didn’t commit suicide, but can’t prove it?’
‘That’s the score exactly.’
Alvarez thanked the other and rang off. What were the odds against murder? Despite the forensic evidence, surely they remained high? What could possibly be the motive for the murder? On the known facts, only revenge or money. Dolly Lund’s daughter might feel she had cause for revenge, but it seemed highly probable she didn’t even yet know her mother was dead, almost certain she didn’t know where her mother had been living or that she had been living with a gigolo. There’d hardly been time for Erington to double-cross the woman who’d played the part of Samantha Waite so why should she seek revenge? … Money? Had Erington made a will? Not that such a will would pass the money because no man was allowed to benefit from his own crime and therefore he could never have inherited Dolly’s fortune.
But beyond all this lay two very important facts. First, the house had been locked up and there’d not been the slightest sign of a forced entry, so any intruder must have had a key. Someone else, beside Erington, who had a key to the house? Surely not. Second, if it had not been suicide, someone had set the scene to make it appear so: someone who knew that the evidence against Erington had suddenly become overwhelming. Who else but Erington and himself had known that? He had told no one until after Erington was murdered (that call to Salas!). Erington was hardly likely to have passed on the news …
It had been suicide. But with a last piece of incompetence, Erington had killed himself in circumstances which suggested he could have been murdered. So further enquiries would have to be made. And sooner or later, Salas would have to be informed …
*
On Wednesday morning there was a sudden change of weather: the sky was cloudy and the wind, which had veered to the north, blew quite strongly. There were brief white caps to small waves in the bay and water-skiers had to keep within the lee of the spit of land on which the eastern lighthouse lay: sailing boats, instead of ghosting along with constantly slackening sails, surged through the creaming water with taut sheets.
Alvarez left the road and drove up the dirt track as far as the Cardells’ caseta, where he parked. Cardell was planting seedlings and his wife was irrigating, using a mattock to open up the channels between rows of plants. They both looked up briefly, then resumed working. This was no time for a break and if the matter was important, he would come and speak to them.
He said, when within earshot of Cardell: ‘You’ll have heard the Englishman at Ca Na Nadana was shot Monday ni
ght?’
Cardell nodded as he continued to work with the slow rhythm which he could maintain all day long. He reached the end of one row and started to plant up the next one.
‘D’you hear a shot that night?’
‘I didn’t.’ He jerked his head in the direction of his wife, who was fifty metres away. ‘She did.’
Alvarez went over to where she was working in bare feet.
He watched her lift out a mattockful of soil to allow the water to run up a channel, then said: ‘Simón says you heard a shot Monday night?’
The channel was full of water. She plugged up the entrance with earth, opened up the next one. ‘Aye.’
‘Not still being kept awake with the toothache, are you?’
She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect her face and neck from the sun and this bobbed up and down as she nodded.
‘Why don’t you go and see a dentist?’
She ignored the question. The flow of water, coming from the estanque, was very fast and because of his questions she had not concentrated as hard as she should on what she was doing and the channel was now overfull. She hastily plugged it, splashing them both as she did so. ‘Any idea what the time was when you heard the shot?’
‘Near enough eleven.’
Dr Rosselló had estimated the time of death as about eleven. ‘D’you have any idea in which direction the shot came from?’
She jerked her head to the north.
‘Was it far away?’
‘Can’t say. It sounded different.’
‘In what kind of way?’
‘Just different.’
‘Has there been much shooting around here recently?’ It was not the shooting season, but no true Mallorquin worried about details like that.
Unseemly End (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 6) Page 16