An Enigmatic Disappearance

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Is it not so obvious that even you can understand?’

  He felt the need of a drink, but his glass was empty and this clearly was not the moment to refill it.

  ‘My cousin,’ she said with deep satisfaction, ‘has opened his eyes.’

  Jaime was relieved to discover that he was not involved in whatever was going on.

  ‘He has learned that when a man is old, his stomach proclaims his love of excess, and his hair disappears, he becomes a clown when he lusts after young women.’

  ‘I am not old…’ Alvarez began indignantly.

  ‘Very soon, middle age will no longer be a stranger.’

  ‘My stomach is almost flat…’

  ‘If you were a woman, this house would be shamed.’

  ‘My hair’s thick…’

  ‘No thicker than the leaves on a shade tree in a winter storm.’

  ‘And I do not lust after young women…’

  ‘Let a twenty-year-old foreigner so much as smile at you and your wits vanish.’ She turned and swept back into the kitchen.

  Alvarez morosely finished his drink, poured himself another. Since Adam, it had been the fate of man to be misunderstood by woman.

  * * *

  The heat, more intense than ever, was not conducive to work. Even though he’d enjoyed a siesta, Alvarez’s eyelids were heavy as he finally reached the office. He sat, mopped his face and neck with a handkerchief, relaxed …

  The phone woke him.

  ‘My name is Señora Shaw,’ said a woman, speaking laboured, heavily accented Spanish. ‘Señor Ogden says why you have not spoken to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ he replied in English.

  ‘Why not?’ she snapped in Spanish.

  He pictured her as skinny, beak-nosed, and critical of everything Spanish. He continued to speak in English, happy to be as pig-headed as she. ‘I am not certain why he should expect me to be in touch with him until there is something to report.’

  ‘Do you say that … that…’ She struggled to find the words in Spanish.

  ‘Perhaps if you said it in English, señora?’

  Her tone was bitter. ‘Have you not learned anything about Señora Ogden’s whereabouts?’

  ‘I fear not. But you may rest assured that everything possible is being done. Are you a friend of the señor and señora?’

  ‘I am acquainted with them.’

  ‘Then you may be able to help me.’

  ‘Most unlikely.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I should like to meet and speak to you.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t understood me.’

  ‘Señora, you may think you cannot help, but it is possible you possess knowledge the significance of which you cannot appreciate since you do not have all the facts. Will it be possible for me to visit your house in half an hour’s time?’

  ‘If you must,’ she answered bad-temperedly.

  ‘May I have your address?’

  That call completed, he rang Traffic and asked them to check the records to find out what was the registration number of the green BMW belonging to Señora Sabrina Ogden, who lived at Ca’n Nou, Cami de Polso, Llueso. His request caused much resentment. The computer system was set up to identify the owner of a car from the registration number, not vice versa, and it would take endless time and trouble to do as he was asking …

  As he replaced the receiver, he thought with scorn that the staff in Traffic were a bunch of layabouts.

  CHAPTER 5

  Alvarez eventually found parking space for his car, then walked, through a drifting swirl of tourists, to the block of flats, built only a few years before, that fronted the pedestrian path which skirted the bay’s edge. He checked the list of names by the entryphone, pressed the button for Mrs N. Shaw.

  ‘Yes?’

  The small speaker had made her sound even more autocratic and crabby than had the phone. ‘Inspector Alvarez, señora,’ he said despondently. The door lock buzzed.

  The foyer was marble lined with one wall made of looking glass so that the area appeared to be double its real size; there was a small collection of cacti in the recess under the stairs. The lift was panelled and thickly carpeted. It was all a far cry from the fisherman’s cottage which had previously occupied the site.

  The door of flat 4a was opened by a woman who bore little physical resemblance to his mental picture of her. She was not thin, but well formed, her face was fine boned and attractive, and her dress casually smart. But he had not been so wrong as to her character. After thanking her for her kindness in agreeing to speak to him, she said, ‘A sheer waste of time,’ with arrogant certainty.

  ‘I hope…’

  ‘Don’t just stand there; come on in.’

  The large sitting-room was expensively furnished in the impeccable but icy taste of a glossy magazine. Most of the bay was visible through the large picture window, and he came to a stop in the centre of the Chinese carpet. ‘Isn’t it a wonderful view! And at night, when the moon’s out and reflected on the water, it’s magical!’ His enthusiasm made him speak quickly.

  ‘It’s quite attractive if one hasn’t travelled extensively.’

  Why was it that life so often bestowed its gifts on those who hadn’t the wit to enjoy them, whilst denying those who had?

  She sat. ‘Please be as quick as possible.’

  It seemed that she expected him to remain standing – cap in hand, had he been wearing one. He sat. She was from the past. Before the tourist invasion, the English who had visited or lived on the island had almost all been from relatively wealthy backgrounds. They had been polite, but seldom bothered to hide their sense of social and intellectual superiority. Yet this attitude had not aroused a tithe of the resentment that their successors had amassed. More than most, Spaniards respected honour and the foreigners’ honour could never be impugned because it rested on their superiority. It was from such period had come the expression, still occasionally spoken by an older man when he wanted to impress the sanctity of his promise, ‘On the word of an Englishman’ …

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  He hurriedly brought his mind back to the present. ‘Señora, since it was you whom Señor Ogden asked to phone me, you must know him and his wife very well?’

  ‘He called on me for help because I speak Spanish.’

  He would have liked to disillusion her.

  ‘This is a small expatriate community and therefore inevitably one meets most members of it, whether or not one seeks to do so.’

  ‘When Señora Ogden failed to return home, her husband first thought she was visiting friends. Would you know if she did indeed do so?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Do they have many friends?’

  ‘That is a question for them, not me.’

  ‘If you were to describe their marriage, would you call it a happy one?’

  ‘I consider it a gross impertinence to concern oneself with other people’s relationships.’

  ‘Regretfully, a policeman frequently has no choice but to do just that. I need to understand the truth of their relationship if I am to discover whether something serious may have happened to the señora, or it is more probable that her disappearance is at her own wish. Señor Ogden showed me a photograph of her and this made it clear that she is very much younger than he. In such a marriage, there can be unusual stresses and strains.’ Dolores would have had something to say about that observation had she heard it! ‘Would you think the relationship between Señor Ogden and Señora Ogden had become troubled?’

  ‘I hoped I had made it perfectly clear that I do not concern myself with such questions.’

  ‘Perhaps for once you would, señora.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘From certain things Señor Ogden told me, it seemed the relationship between him and his wife might indeed have become difficult. If that is so, the fact is important since it might well explain what has happened. So if you would…’

  �
��There is no point in continuing.’

  ‘I do have one or two more questions.’

  ‘Please be kind enough to leave.’

  He left.

  * * *

  He poured himself another brandy. ‘Is there any ice left?’

  Jaime tilted the container until he could look inside. ‘Yeah.’ He pushed it across.

  Alvarez picked out three cubes and dropped them into his glass. ‘I’ve had one hell of a day!’

  ‘No worse than mine.’

  ‘Have you had to try to question a real dragon of a woman?’

  ‘You call that work?’ He finished his drink. ‘Shove the bottle over … Has the missing wife turned up yet?’

  ‘There’s no sign of her. And I reckon she won’t be surfacing in a hurry because she’s taken off with someone else.’ Alvarez’s tone became reflective. ‘You know, foreigners lead busy lives.’

  ‘You mean, lucky lives!’

  The bead curtains parted as Dolores swept through to come to a halt facing the table, hands on her hips. ‘Foreigners are lucky because they lead lives of disgrace? So! In his secret mind, my husband envies them and yearns for the chance to follow their example!’

  Jaime looked to Alvarez for help, failed to find it.

  CHAPTER 6

  Alvarez sat at his desk, searched amongst the litter of papers and files for the unopened letter on the back of which he’d written Ogden’s telephone number. He found it, dialled.

  ‘Have you found her?’ was Ogden’s immediate response.

  ‘I’m sorry, señor, no, I have not.’

  ‘Something terrible’s happened to her.’

  ‘You do not think she might have wished to disappear?’

  ‘For God’s sake, why would she do such a thing?’

  ‘There could be more than one reason.’

  ‘If she’d known what was going to happen, she’d have told me.’

  ‘It is my experience that when people are worried, or something unusual happens to them, they do not always do as one might expect … I need to talk to your friends to discover if any of them can tell me something that would help. Would you give me their names and addresses, especially those whom you believe to be close to the señora.’

  He wrote, frequently having to ask the other to spell out a name so that he could be certain he had noted it correctly.

  * * *

  Ca’n Ximor was an urbanizacíon, five kilometres inland from Llueso, set in an area of pine woods. Because this had been a noted area for a rare species of crossbills, an attempt had been made to block the proposed development but, as always, commercialism had overriden the demands of conservation. Because of the distance from the sea, it was not popular with people seeking holiday homes and many of the plots had yet to sell. The developers’ misfortune was the inhabitants’ fortune – there was an unusual sense of peace.

  Alvarez slowed and turned into the short drive which led to the garage of the bungalow at the end of the spur road. He stepped out of the car, crossed to the three steps which led down to the panelled wooden door, rang the bell. There was no immediate response and when, at the edge of his vision, he saw movement in the butano-coloured bougainvillaea to his right, he climbed back up the steps to try to identify what had moved. After a moment, he made out the green form of a praying mantis which had frozen into immobility.

  The front door was opened by Keane, who wore bathing trunks. ‘Hullo, there.’

  Alvarez returned down the steps.

  ‘I am Inspector Alvarez of the Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  ‘No doubt here in connection with the disappearance of Sabrina?’

  ‘You have heard about that?’

  ‘A never-to-be-repeated confidence is one that takes twenty-four hours to travel from east to west … Come along in.’ As Alvarez stepped into the small hall, he said: ‘Is it too early to offer you a drink?’

  ‘As we say, If it is too early to drink, the cock has not yet made its first crow.’

  ‘Small wonder we choose to live here! What will you have?’

  ‘A coñac with just ice, please.’

  ‘Carry on through to the patio.’ Keane pointed to an opened doorway.

  Alvarez walked through the comfortably furnished sitting-room and out on to the covered patio. He sat on one of the chairs grouped around a table, stared at the pool, the rough garden, the pine trees, and the not-so-distant hills.

  Keane came out, a tray in his hands. He put two glasses on the table, sat, picked up the nearer glass. ‘Here’s wishing you health, wealth, and cocks that always crow well before dawn.’ He drank. ‘I presume from the fact that you’re here now, Sabrina has not reappeared?’

  ‘She hasn’t, no.’

  ‘My wife’s shopping in Llueso and she said she’d try and call in at their place to see if there’s anything she can do to help. Inevitably, of course, the offer’s of little real practical value. What can one do except utter the usual vapid hopes with all the sincerity one can muster?’

  ‘Can you suggest where Señora Ogden might be?’

  Keane held the glass in his right hand and jiggled it so that the ice began to revolve, repeatedly bumping into the sides. ‘Any suggestion from me would be wild speculation.’

  ‘How well do you know Señor and Señora Ogden?’

  ‘An impossible question to answer. Can one ever really know another person well? Even a close friend can suddenly do or say something totally unexpected.’

  ‘Perhaps, though, you can judge whether there might be difficulties in their relationship?’

  ‘Show me a relationship that’s free of them.’

  ‘When speaking to Señor Ogden, I gained the impression that it’s possible all may not be well between his wife and him.’

  ‘Impressions have a habit of being very misleading.’

  ‘You have heard no rumours to that effect?’

  ‘I try never to listen to rumours. They’re so inclined to arouse expectations which aren’t fulfilled.’

  ‘Señor, you seem to be careful not to answer my questions directly.’

  ‘As a detective, surely that’s a familiar problem?’

  ‘My inquiries are solely directed to discovering whether anything unfortunate has happened to the señora. If it becomes clear she has disappeared of her own free will, then I am no longer concerned and everything I have learned will be forgotten.’

  ‘An admirable sense of discretion.’

  ‘Have there been rumours concerning Señor and Señora Ogden?’

  ‘Rumours are like miracles. You have to believe in them before you believe in them.’

  ‘You still have not answered me.’

  ‘You are a man of persistence!’ Keane drank, replaced the glass on the table. ‘And I am a man who acknowledges that there are times when one has to accede to the demands of public duty … Some time ago – around the beginning of February, at a guess – an inveterate rumourmonger, best described as a rough diamond since he doesn’t sparkle until he’s well cut, was full of the story that Sabrina had become very friendly with a man of approximately her own age.’

  ‘Was the man named?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Rino Ruffolo.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I have met him at parties.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘In Parelona.’

  ‘He is a wealthy man?’

  ‘He was plucked off the back streets of Naples by Ada, who took a fancy to him.’

  ‘Are you suggesting he is a gigolo?’

  ‘The term originally meant a professional dancing partner and I credit Ada with just enough sense not to have taken to the floor in years. Toy boy is the modern expression.’

  ‘Is he younger than this lady?’

  ‘It would be ungallant to compute the difference.’

  ‘Do you think there is truth in the rumour?’

  ‘Life shows that when a man is very
much older than his wife, he must possess great charm, unusual power, or considerable wealth to retain her affection. Whether Bevis’s wealth is sufficient, I rather doubt.’

  CHAPTER 7

  The sky was cloudless, the sea a millpond; as the road twisted and turned, views, some dramatic, some softer edged, opened up and disappeared; the trees and undergrowth offered an infinite range of greens and browns. Enraptured by so much beauty, Alvarez forgot to be terrified by the dangerous drops that repeatedly edged the road.

  He caught a brief glimpse of the long, low, white building that was the Parelona Hotel, the epitome of quiet luxury. He could not remember its being built, but there were a few in the village who could. Then, there had been no road and all men and materials had had to be transported either by boat or mule. On the opening night, a fleet of boats had been hired to take invited guests there and to return those who were not staying. For years afterwards, that event had been remembered with awe by the villagers because briefly they had been touched by the world of riches.

  It was now the age of the common man, but the area remained one of privilege, although in one respect this was qualified. Because the land around the hotel and on the surrounding hills was very expensive, and the cost of building was much greater than elsewhere, only the wealthy could afford to own the property; unfortunately, the Spanish law did not allow private beaches, and so during the summer buses and ferries brought tourists to the long crescent of sand and the crystal-clear water and they, naturally lacking the mannered restraint which wealth induced, tended to be noisy and often indecorous in their behaviour. However, such hoi polloi stayed in the kind of hotel where one could not eat when one chose, but had to do so at times dictated, and so by early evening they would all have departed. Then, the residents could once more enjoy the exclusivity for which they had paid so dearly.

  Ca Na Ada was a very large, ranch-style villa, set in a garden filled with colour. As he climbed out of the car, Alvarez heard the tinkling of water and he looked to his right and saw, beyond a palm tree, a stone fountain with a metre-high jet. Since most of the water had to be piped from the port, it was expensive; a fountain eventually lost a considerable proportion of the water that passed through it … He shook his head. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand the foreigners’ stupidity in failing to realize that a peseta not spent was a peseta in the pocket.