‘Only if the two women are the same person.’
‘If they aren’t, the coincidences…’
‘Have you still not learned that coincidences can never be a substitute for the truth? Have you not stopped to consider the consequence of accepting this Englishman’s contention regarding the two señoras?’
‘Of course I have, but…’
‘You find it easy to believe a Spaniard would betray the authority invested in him?’
‘It would be very unusual, of course. But it could happen…’
‘Only in the mind of a Mallorquin.’
‘Then I am to make no inquiries into the validity of the death certificate, even though Señor Maitland is convinced it has to be false and no doubt will be telling the British police that?’
There was a long silence. ‘There are times,’ said Salas bitterly, ‘when regretfully one has to humour ignorance.’
‘I am to check it out?’
‘No doubt you are now about to suggest you should travel to wherever the certificate was issued in order to make inquiries. You will travel nowhere. The inquiries will be made by a local inspector, thus ensuring they are carried out far more quickly and efficiently. Do you have a copy of the certificate?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘You will fax it to me right away.’ Salas cut the connection.
Alvarez replaced the receiver. He searched amongst the jumble of papers and files on his desk and eventually found the copy of Belinda Ogden’s death certificate which Maitland had given him the previous day. She had died in Las Macaulas from multiple injuries following a fall at Son Jordi; the doctor’s signature was an indecipherable scrawl. Son Jordi was in the Pyrenees, some thirty kilometres inland, and the trip would have provided a pleasant break …
* * *
He climbed out of his car and the sounds of splashing water made him, as absurd as this might be, feel cooler. He crossed to the front door of Ca Na Ada and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in maid’s uniform. ‘Is Señor Ruffolo in?’ he asked.
‘No, he’s not.’
There was a call. ‘Who is it, Marta?’
She turned and spoke to the open doorway of the sitting-room in fractured English to say she didn’t know.
Alvarez had recognized the voice. ‘Señorita Heron, it is me.’
‘And who the hell’s me?’ Ada, as inappropriately dressed as ever, stepped into the hall. ‘So me’s you. After more booze?’
About to deny the insulting suggestion, he checked the words, convinced that an earnest denial on his part would merely provoke her contempt. ‘Provided it’s from a good bodega.’
She laughed. ‘You’re an insolent bastard!… Marta, champagne, brandy, and ice.’
He followed her through the sitting-room to the pool complex. She slumped down on the swing chair which had been set up since he was last there. ‘If it gets any hotter, I’ll dissolve.’
He wondered why she didn’t remain indoors and enjoy the air conditioning? The English seemed afraid of comfort. Perhaps they believed discomfort fortified the soul.
‘So what do you want?’ she demanded.
‘I wish to speak to Señor Ruffolo.’
‘Do you now? Why?’
‘To ask him some questions.’
Marta, a tray in her hands, came out of the house. She put the tray down on the table by the swing seat, left.
‘Pour,’ Ada commanded.
He went over to the table, lifted the bottle of Veuve Clicquot out of the cooler, eased out the cork, filled the flute and passed this to her. As he dropped three cubes of ice into the glass and poured over them a generous amount of Carlos I, he thought how much more acceptable were the crumbs from a rich man’s table than the slices of bread from a poor man’s. He returned to his seat.
‘So now you can tell me what you want to ask Rino,’ she said.
‘I think it would be best if…’
‘In my house, it’s what I think is best that’s best.’
‘I’m afraid that cannot always be true.’
‘You’ve a hell of a gall for a little country detective.’
‘It’s all I have, so I guard it carefully.’
‘Do you now! Arrive uninvited, hang out your tongue, and then try to tell me you can do as you like in my house!’
There had been no anger in her voice, only amusement. He congratulated himself on correctly judging her character.
She picked up the bottle of champagne and refilled her glass. ‘Are you still daft enough to think he knows something about Sabrina Ogden’s disappearance?’
‘It seems possible.’
‘It’s impossible.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘He’s here because he amuses me and I give him a life of luxury. But I’ve known what it is to be hard up and looked down on by almost everyone, so I always want a quid’s worth for every quid I spend. Are you with me?’
‘I think I understand.’
‘I’m telling you he knows that if he started to mess around with another woman, I’d kick him out.’
‘Can you be sure he understands that? In my job, I meet people who could know the truth, but don’t because they don’t wish to. Even if he should be certain how you would react to his engaging in such a friendship, he might be able to hide that certainty from himself.’
‘His mind doesn’t have that sort of a kink.’ She drained her glass, refilled it. ‘People laugh at me. But even the worst of the local snobs can’t call me a fool. Someone like him can have the women swarming, so I’ve always kept both eyes wide open. I’m telling you, that whenever the two meet, he doesn’t respond.’
‘You are suggesting that Señora Ogden finds him attractive?’
‘Married to Bevis, any red-blooded man would seem attractive.’
‘He’s never responded? Many men would, since she is beautiful.’
‘If their women are stupid enough to trust ’em out of sight.’
‘Do you know of any man who has been paying her unusual attention?’
‘What a refined way of asking if some randy bastard has been after her goodies!’ she sneered.
‘I have heard that Señor Keane was friendly with her.’
‘It’s possible, seeing the mouse of a wife he’s got. But I don’t know and I don’t care. What other people get up to is their shout and good luck to ’em if they get away with it.’
‘Señorita, I need to ask you where Señor Ruffolo was on Sunday afternoon, the sixth – which is when the señora disappeared – and all the following Monday?’
‘Where d’you think he was? Here, with me.’
‘You did not enjoy a siesta on either day?’
‘No.’
‘Was that not unusual?’
‘Why d’you keep on asking bloody stupid questions? Is it your weaselly way of saying what you think of me having a boyfriend young enough to be my son?’
‘The relationship is no concern of mine. But were I to consider it, I would say that since it obviously gives you pleasure, you are to be envied, not criticized.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing, that’s a different way of looking at things! The local expats look down their noses at anyone who so much as drops an aitch, so they reckon I’m dirt. Of course, that doesn’t stop ’em coming here and eating my grub and drinking my booze because it’s better than anything they can afford at home. There’s no bigger freeloader than the upmarket Brit.’
‘I am a peasant; peasants accept the world as it is.’
She refilled her glass yet again, looked across. ‘Why aren’t you drinking? The brandy’s not good enough for a peasant?’
He drained his glass, picked up the bottle of Carlos I.
* * *
Despite an urbanizacíon of small, boxy houses along one side of the easterly inlet in the bay, which suggested architects and planners were blind as well as artistically insensitive, Cala Roig remained attractive thanks to sandy beaches, clear
water, and a backdrop of stark mountains which plunged down into the sea.
Alvarez parked in front of the Hotel Azul and climbed the stairs to the main entrance, to be met by Maitland in the foyer. They walked through to the terrace, built sufficiently high that the road below was not readily visible and the view was of sky, sea, and mountains.
Once seated, Maitland gestured with his hand. ‘Can you find anywhere more beautiful than this?’
‘Before…’ Alvarez stopped.
‘You were going to say?’
‘It was even more beautiful when there were no hotels or houses for tourists, and only fishermen walked the sand. But perhaps to speak like that is to speak stupidly. In the past, those who lived here worked the fishing boats and so knew too much hardship to lift their eyes to the beauty and so it could be true to say there was none.’
‘It has to be appreciated to exist?… Was life that hard?’
‘For most. So maybe it is the ugly hotels and the even uglier houses which have banished poverty which are truly beautiful.’
Maitland smiled. ‘That’s a novel way of looking at things!’
A waiter came to their table and took their order.
Maitland said: ‘Have you heard from Son Jordi?’
‘From where?’
‘Isn’t that where Belinda Ogden supposedly died?’
‘I’m sorry, my mind was still in the past … No, there’s been no word yet.’ There was hardly likely to be. It was only the previous day that Salas would have asked for inquiries to be made; with the weekend approaching, no one was going to rush to carry out a request from another province …
‘I guess it’s bound to take time to identify the people concerned.’
‘There can always be problems.’
The waiter brought them their drinks, spiked the bill, left.
Maitland raised his glass. ‘Health, wealth and happiness.’ He drank. ‘Would you agree that as far as the problem of the missing Sabrina is concerned, for the moment we’re at a standstill?’
‘I think that has to be accepted.’
‘Ogden will continue to deny anything and everything; without the physical presence of Sabrina, we cannot prove she is also Belinda; until the death certificate has been confirmed as false, officially we have to accept it as true … It all adds up to the unwelcome fact that I can’t justify staying on here and must make for home. There, I’ll do what further checking I can, but Ogden will have covered every contingency he could think of.’ Maitland paused, then spoke more cheerfully. ‘Still, even if it can never be legally proved that Belinda’s death was a sham, at least we’ll have spiked Ogden’s guns – now, he’ll never dare try to claim under Sabrina’s life policy.’
CHAPTER 14
The second day of the Llueso festival was proceeding as planned. The Moors had suffered their heaviest defeat for many years and three were in hospital while only one Christian had suffered a wound needing medical attention. That evening there would be a display of Mallorquin dancing and, for those of strong disposition, a competition for Mallorquin bagpipes. Finally, there would be dancing in the square to the music of a pop group which would ensure that only those inhabitants who lived on the outskirts of the village could hope to enjoy any sleep.
Traffic had been barred from the old square and there was no parking in the roads leading up to it. After driving around for ten minutes, Alvarez finally accepted that he was going to have to park well away from the post. Swearing, he left his car and made his way through the narrow, twisting streets, keeping to the shade wherever possible.
Once in his office, he slumped down in the chair, stared at the closed shutters, and wondered why life was pain. Then, gradually, as he regained his breath, ceased to sweat, and the relative coolness and peace worked their charms, he relaxed and accepted that life did still have pleasures to offer. Because it was a Saturday, work finished at lunchtime; because it was the fiesta, Dolores would be cooking something special and lunch might well be one of those meals which warmed a man’s memory for years after the event …
The phone rang and it was in a carefree spirit that he reached for the receiver. Which went to prove that a man was most likely to fall into a hole when he was looking up at the stars.
‘You’d better come quick.’
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘The bloody dog went off and wouldn’t come back.’
If the speaker thought he was in the business of finding lost dogs … ‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcos.’
‘Your surname?’
‘Coll.’
‘Do you know the penalty for wantonly wasting the time of a member of the Cuerpo General de Policia?’
‘No, and I bloody well don’t care. And if you’re not interested in the body, who is?’
‘What body?’
‘Haven’t I been trying to tell you and all you can do is go on about wasting time? The dog went off and I could hear it barking, but it wouldn’t come back when I shouted. So I had to climb up through the woods to find out what was going on and there it was, barking at the body in the bushes.’
* * *
Sweating profusely, seriously short of breath and hoping that if a heart attack were imminent it would carry him off before he was aware of the fact, convinced that Coll, the older by many years, was deliberately setting a ridiculously fast pace as a derisive, two-finger gesture, Alvarez stumbled his way up through the pine trees.
The naked body was not visible until he was within a couple of metres of it because of the undergrowth. She lay, half curled up, one arm outstretched. Sabrina Ogden? It was impossible to be certain from looking at her, she had been so savaged by time, but if it was she then obviously the BMW at the airport, with the crumpled-up receipt in the well, had been a plant to make it seem she had left the island alive …
‘Been there quite some time,’ said Coll, interested but not shocked. He had lived in times when there were so many tragedies that only those which directly affected one were of any consequence.
Death, Alvarez thought sadly, became twice as obscene when it occurred in the midst of great natural beauty. Because they were at a height of roughly four hundred metres, they could look out and see almost the whole of the Llueso plain, the bay, the sea … ‘She’s likely to have been here close on a month.’
‘You know her, then?’
‘Probably a missing Englishwoman. Have you searched the area?’
‘What would I do that for?’
‘So when you were looking for your dog, you just walked up the way we did now?’
‘’Course I did. Ain’t stupid enough to go in circles.’
‘Do you often come up here?’
‘Ain’t no cause to.’
‘Would anyone else have reason?’
‘There ain’t no one else works on the estate but the wife, and she don’t.’
‘You’d better give me a hand making a quick search before I call the doctor.’
‘He’ll be a funny sort of doctor if he can do her any good.’
‘He’ll be acting as a pathologist.’
They found nothing of any significance in the open area, or on the pine-covered slopes which surrounded this. Alvarez unwillingly climbed up until he was above the sheer face of rock and then, showing a courage that only he or someone else suffering from altophobia could begin to appreciate, approached the edge to search the area from which it was reasonable to assume she had fallen. The rock could not record impressions, what earth there was was too hard to do so; only some dried, dead grass, torn from its roots and blown up against brambles, suggested where she might have stood and then, as she began to fall, scrabbled desperately with her feet to try to regain her balance.
He carefully made his way down to where Coll waited, his dog, a poor example of an Ibicenco hound, now at his side. ‘Is there a phone in the house?’
‘No. But the señor made me have a mobile. Bloody thing! If I had a peseta for every time he’s on it
to find out what I’m doing and how I’m doing it, I’d be a rich man.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In my car.’
‘Let’s get down there.’
Son Brau was a manorial house, a survivor from the past when a few families had possessed considerable wealth and had employed many people to run their estates. Alvarez stared up at the front where recent and extensive repairs could immediately be identified by the different-coloured stone. ‘They’re working on it, then?’
‘The builder says the reformation’s cost sixty million so far and there’s a long way to go.’
‘Is it still the Zafortega family?’
‘A cousin to them what did own it.’
‘He must be a wealthy man.’
‘He’s a deeper pocket than you or me, that’s for sure.’
‘Doesn’t live here from what you were saying?’
‘He’s a huge place in Palma – one of them palaces. Comes out weekends in the summer with the family and gives parties which has the wife working herself into the ground because he won’t employ anyone else for the day. They always say that the meanest sod is the richest.’
‘Still, he is looking after the place. It’s good to know there are people willing to spend to preserve the past.’
Coll shrugged his shoulders. Neither the past nor the future concerned him, only the present.
‘Where’s your car?’
He led the way round the side of the house to where outbuildings, in a state of disrepair, formed a rough square. He brought out a mobile phone from the Suzuki parked there and handed it across.
After speaking to the local doctor, who was licensed to carry out forensic work, the undertakers, and the photographer, Alvarez phoned Dolores to tell her what had happened and to explain that he would strain every sinew to return in time for lunch, but should he be unavoidably detained, would she make certain a meal was set aside for him.
* * *
The doctor walked back to where Alvarez stood. He hesitated, then said: ‘Wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you? I’m supposed to have given ’em up, but after a job like that…’
Alvarez brought a pack out of his pocket, lit a match for both of them. ‘Have you learned anything?’ he asked, as he dropped the spent match on to the ground and then stamped on it to make certain there could be no chance of setting fire to the tinder-dry undergrowth.
An Enigmatic Disappearance Page 9