‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
Alvarez pressed the service button by the side of the bed.The maid who entered, stared at them, her expression enigmatic.
‘My friend,’ Alvarez said, ‘has just had some bad news and needs a drink. Will you bring the same as before – one coñac with ice, one lager?’
She left.
‘I have to ask you something more,’ Alvarez said.
Russell did not respond.
‘When by the pool at Vista Bonita, did you accuse Picare of grooming Marta?’
Russell replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you threaten him?’
‘I said I’d make him suffer if he ever touched her.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Laughed.’
‘What did you mean by “suffer”?’
‘I … I was so distressed …’
‘In such an emotional state, it’s probable you said you’d kill him since that was shortly before he died.’
‘When I left, he was alive. I was so choked thinking about June, I went to a bar and drank myself stupid.’
‘Which bar?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Where is the bar?’
‘Somewhere in the port.’
‘Because of the circumstances, you have to remember the name if you’re to convince me you’re telling the truth.’
Russell stood, went over to the window, stared out. It was a couple of minutes before he said, ‘It seemed Italian …’
Alvarez waited.
‘Bar Venezia.’
There was a knock on the door, the maid returned and placed two glasses on the bedside table, picked up the old ones. ‘Who’s paying?’
‘I am,’ Alvarez replied.
‘Four euros.’
‘It’s Gran Duque dé Alba?’
‘Aren’t you used to paying for services?’ She waited for the money, left after a hard look at Russell.
Bar Venezia was on the front, towards the western end of the port. It was always advantageous when wishing to question the owner of a bar to ask for a drink and pay for it. When Alvarez had finished a generous coñac, he said, ‘I need to know if anything unusual happened here a few weeks ago.’
‘Why?’
‘Nothing you need worry about.’
‘I worry about everything, especially the illegal, immoral increase in rates when the banks have made such a mess of things, people can’t drink as they used to.’
‘Is there somewhere at the back where we can have a chat?’
The assistant was told to carry on, the owner, followed by Alvarez, went into a small office, its space made much smaller by table, computer, filing cabinets and several unopened cases of San Miguel. There was only one chair. The bar owner, after muttering Alvarez might as well sit on it, settled on the edge of the desk.
‘What is it you’re after?’ he asked.
‘To know if you can remember one of your customers. He’s English and was so concerned about something which had happened, he came in here and drank heavily one night a couple of weeks ago.’
‘It used to happen whenever a busload of tourists turned up.’
‘Late thirties, well-built, speaks a kind of broken Spanish. And while you’re remembering, I’ll have another coñac and maybe you’d like something?’
‘You buying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just joined the cuerpo?’
The bar owner shouted out the order. He said more quietly, ‘There was an Englishman who came in here and drank like alcohol was about to be made illegal. Can’t exactly remember what he looked like.’
‘Was he plastered in the end?’
‘Set in cement.’
‘What happened?’
‘We got him out before he collapsed.’
‘Threw him out?’
‘Called a taxi. Driver wasn’t keen, but he made the Englishman pay up double what the fare was going to be before they started.’
‘The Englishman was able to tell the driver where to go?’
‘In the end. And if I’d been him, I’d of used the money he spent on booze to move to a better hotel.’
‘D’you remember the name?’
‘Hotel Tamit.’
Traffico, after the traditional complaints, provided the number, make and colour of Frank Macrone’s car.
Alvarez left the post and walked along the shadowed side of the road, yet still felt as if every last drop of sweat was being wrung out of his body. His car did not have air-conditioning and the drive was equally debilitating. Since dehydration could be fatal, he stopped briefly at Bar Llueso.
Alvarez pressed the bell at the side of the front door of the bungalow below Vista Bonita. A woman, heavily made-up, opened the door. He introduced himself, began to explain who he was and why he was there.
She interrupted him. ‘You don’t look like a detective,’ she observed, her words thickly spoken.
‘I apologise,’ he said facetiously.
‘You’re here because of them up top?’ A nod of the head indicated Vista Bonita.
‘Yes.’
‘Best come in.’
The entrada was over-furnished. He followed her into the sitting room, equally overburdened, cooled by air-conditioning.
‘I was about to drink,’ she said. ‘What would you like?’
‘About’ was obviously a mistiming. ‘A coñac with ice, please.’
He watched her cross to a table at the side of one of the armchairs, pick up a glass, realise it wasn’t empty and drink was left in it. She left the room, walking with care. He was not, he accepted, going to learn anything from her, but at least she understood Spanish hospitality.
On her return, she handed him one glass then, to his surprise, sat at his side on the settee. ‘What d’you want to know?’ she asked.
‘I’d like a word with your husband as well as you, señora.’
‘He’s doing what he always bloody well does, playing golf.’
The coñac was of some quality, yet he couldn’t immediately name it. ‘Señora …’
‘Poppy.’
‘Tell me what you can remember about the morning of Thursday, the twelfth of July.’
‘Wouldn’t remember, but it’d be as boring as every other day.’
‘You can’t say if you were here?’
‘Where else? You think he’d leave me with the car when he needs it to go off and play golf?’
‘Would you have stayed here all morning?’
‘Must have done without the car.’
‘Can you think of anything which might mark that day?’
‘Like him spending the time with me?’
‘Do many cars usually pass here to drive on up to Vista Bonita?’
‘How would I know?’
If she often enjoyed as many drinks as she obviously had so far that day, she wouldn’t. ‘Might you have seen a brown Fiesta that Thursday?’
‘What’s that?’
‘A car. One of the Ford models.’
‘My father wouldn’t have a Ford; it was common. You need to drink up so as you can have another.’
If other occupants of the houses and bungalows were as mind-away as she, it was going to be a waste of time to question them.
She stood, had hurriedly to put a hand on his shoulder to regain her balance. She picked up her glass with some difficulty, left.
Her husband was ill-advised to leave her on her own. As the Mallorquin saying put it: A woman ignored was easily persuaded. The blonde hair was almost certainly naturally coloured, her lips were shaped to be of use, her body delightfully proportioned, her short skirt, when drawn up as she sat, had revealed a generous proportion of attractive legs.
She returned, sat more closely to him than before. ‘I only ever drink when someone else is here. I do it to be hospitable.’
As he only drank to be hospitabl
e. ‘Have you roughly any idea when your husband will return?’
‘When it’s too dark to see the ball.’ She leaned against him. ‘Do you play golf?’
‘I’m afraid not. I lead a very quiet life.’
She edged closer; he felt the swell of her breast on his forearm.
‘When you do play, what d’you like doing?’ He didn’t answer. ‘You don’t want to tell me because I’d be shocked? I wouldn’t, no matter what you told me. There’s no need to worry, Frank won’t be back for a long time.’
It was dangerous to rely on one person’s assurance as to what another would or would not do. He stood, she lurched sideways across the settee. Her skirt had risen higher, but she made no move to lower it.
‘Thank you for the drink, señora.’
‘Let’s be more comfortable and have the next one in the bedroom.’
He crossed to the entrada.
‘Are you one of them?’ she shouted angrily.
He left, walked to the next-door bungalow. A dog barked, but no one opened the door in answer to his knock. There was small point in wasting more of his time.
He drove down to the port and parked off-road by the middle of the bay. The beauty of the scene – deep-blue water, almost enclosed by mountains whose rugged slopes were sprinkled with shadows due to outcrops of rock, criss-crossed with the many colours of sails, soothed his mind and enabled him to accept that nothing was more futile than to regret refusing what had been offered.
‘I want to speak to the superior chief,’ Alvarez said.
‘You would like to speak to him,’ Ángela Torres sweetly corrected.
He waited.
‘Yes?’ was Salas’ greeting.
‘Inspector Alvarez reporting on his investigation into the unsolved death of Neil Picare, señor.’
‘Your flippant manner is unwelcome.’
He would always be in the wrong. ‘Following your orders, señor, I have spoken to those living in the properties at the foot of Vista Bonita.’ Since he had not specified ‘all’, he had not specifically lied. ‘Unfortunately, I have not been able to learn anything of consequence and as I remarked previously, because the amount of traffic up and down the road is considerable, it is bound to be very difficult to find anyone to provide that. One lady had to ask me what was a Fiesta. Another husband was playing golf and the wife had taken the opportunity to drink rather more than was reasonable, so she was not a reliable witness.’
‘Perhaps you were not a reliable questioner?’
‘Why would you say that, señor?’
‘You clearly did not question any of them as soon as you were ordered to do so.’
‘I deemed initially I should speak to Russell.’
‘As I ordered.’
‘I learned the cause of the row which Rosalía overheard. Russell has a daughter, June. The marriage was not a success and his wife and June left him, despite the close and happy relationship between him and his daughter. When his wife wrote him a letter, he learned her boyfriend was trying to mess around with June. He immediately wanted to get in touch with her and persuade them to return. She’d provided a telephone number, but the letter took so long to reach him that when he rang, it turned out she and June had left there without providing any forwarding information.
‘One day when at Vista Bonita, Marta proudly showed Russell a brooch which Picare had given her. He’d heard that Picare gave jewellery to any woman he was after and that made him certain he was after Marta. Russell went up to Vista Bonita, found Picare in the pool, threatened what would happen if Picare continued to try to bribe Marta into willing submission.’
‘He threatened to kill Picare?’
‘He did not detail his threat.’
‘We will accept that is what it was.’
‘Señor, if you believe that here is the motive for which we’ve been searching and which would identify the man who dragged Picare under the water—’
‘You challenge the obvious?’
‘Initially, I viewed the information as you do. But then I learned he’d left Vista Bonita so mentally disturbed, he went to a bar where he drank himself silly. I made further enquiries and can confirm he was incapable of returning to drown Picare.’
‘He is the last named suspect. Presume his innocence and we have to accept Picare died accidentally, perhaps due to entering the water with his head at the wrong angle and with too great a force. My instinct is, that cannot be right.’
‘You have frequently told me, señor, that instinct is not to be trusted.’
‘Its value, or lack of same, depends on the person concerned. You have failed to identify any meaningful discrepancy or contradiction in a suspect’s evidence and will, therefore, question each one again, searching for what you may have previously negligently overlooked.’
‘But—’
‘You have your orders.’
‘I’ve had a tempest of a day,’ Jaime said, as Alvarez sat at the table.
‘A mere zephyr compared to mine.’
‘Do this, do that, why have you, why haven’t you. Been on my feet the whole time.’
There was a call from the kitchen. ‘Your zephyrs and tempests are but breezes for someone who has to run a house and is on her feet all morning, afternoon and evening. But being a woman, of course, she does not complain.’
‘Just moans,’ Jaime said, in a low voice.
Alvarez refilled his glass. ‘I was propositioned again.’
‘If I believed you, I’d want to know why in the hell you’re complaining.’
‘You think I’m lying?’
‘Suffering from wishful imagination.’
‘She didn’t sit hard alongside me on the settee and ask what I’d most like to enjoy; suggest we went into a bedroom to be more comfortable?’
‘You think I’m going to believe that?’
‘Don’t give a damn whether you do or don’t.’
Jaime betrayed his disbelief was false. ‘Why the hell does it always happen to you and never to me?’
‘I’m good looking.’
‘You’d make Dracula look friendly.’ Jaime picked up his glass and emptied it. ‘Admit you make it up to annoy me.’
There was a rustle from the string beads as Dolores put her head through. ‘What’s Enrique done to annoy you?’
Alvarez hurriedly responded to prevent Jaime’s answering. ‘I was telling him about a man I know who’s won over a million on the lottery. It’s always annoying to be told about other people’s good fortunes.’
‘For either of you to win a quarter of a million would be a catastrophe since you’d be dead within six months from a pickled liver.’ She withdrew her head and, for a few seconds, the strings of beads knocked against each other.
Jaime drained his glass, checked Dolores had not reappeared, refilled it. ‘Why tell her I didn’t like hearing about other people’s good luck? She’ll hold that’s selfish thinking and likely now won’t concentrate on the cooking as she should. You’ve put her in one of her moods. Next thing, she’ll be telling me we all get what we deserve. If that were true, I’d get five times the salary I do.’
‘Is the table laid?’ she called out.
‘Women should do women’s jobs, not expect men to do them.’ Jaime straightened the tablecloth.
Alvarez drove slowly. His thoughts were resentful. He was to ask the occupants of all the houses below Vista Bonita – never mind if he had already questioned the occupants of any of them – and ask if he or she remembered seeing a brown Ford Fiesta during a named interval of time on the twelfth of July. If Salas possessed the normal appreciation of what was reasonable and what was not, he would have accepted that the odds of gaining any worthwhile information were so low, the task was not viable.
He slowed as he approached the first bungalow, regretfully accepted that only a fool would take the risk, stopped outside the second property, an undistinguished looking house.
A Señor Cartwright answered the front door bell, listened
to Alvarez’s introduction of himself, suggested they went into the sitting room.
‘You want to know that?’ he asked, surprise raising his tone.
‘Naturally, I realise the practical difficulties.’
‘Frankly, and no offence intended, I’d call them impossibilities. I mean, there aren’t that many cars that go up or down which might seem to make it easier, but trying to remember a brown Fiesta some good time afterwards, when I normally don’t take any notice of who goes by – there’s no reason since I doubt we and the deceased have any friends in common – makes it, like I said, really impossible.’
Alvarez agreed. The problem was going to be how to explain to Salas why he did not bother to question those in the other homes.
TWENTY
Alvarez drove to Ca’n Porta. As he climbed out of the car, Eva Amengual opened the front door, watched him approach. He wished her good morning.
‘How’s Marta now?’ he asked.
‘Learning to live again.’
He gave the traditional response to that traditional remark. ‘May she learn well and quickly. Is your husband here?’
‘You think him a tourist with nothing to do?’
‘He’s in the fields? I’ll find him and have a word.’
‘What about?’
‘I have to ask him more questions.’
‘You told him you were certain he had dragged that piece of shit under the water. You want to insult me as well by saying I once worked in a house with green shutters?’
‘I could never suggest anything so monstrously impossible. I accused him of nothing, just asked him if he had been in the pool with Picare.’
‘Only someone like you could think that possible.’
‘I am now certain he had no part in Picare’s death.’
‘Anyone but you would have known that from the beginning.’
‘I need to find out if he knows something which he does not know he knows.’
‘If there’s someone who understands what you say, it’s not me.’
‘Whereabouts will I find him?’
‘We have so many tens of hectares, I need to direct you to save you the trouble of looking. He’ll likely be with the peppers.’
He walked along the rough path to the field in which Amengual was using a mattock to weed between rows. Amengual looked up. ‘You again? Then you can do some work.’ He indicated his mattock.
In Search of Murder--An Inspector Alvarez Mallorcan Mystery Page 16