‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Parra left.
Luisa moved a saucepan on to an unlit burner and switched off the gas. ‘The dead man may be the señor?’
‘Until I see a photo of him, I won’t know.’
‘But you think it is him?’
He did not answer her question directly. ‘Has he seemed very depressed recently?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Has he?’
‘Wouldn’t have said so.’
‘He was the same as usual?’
‘The little I saw of him.’
Parra returned to the kitchen and handed Alvarez a framed photograph of Gill and a woman.
‘Who is she?’
‘His late wife.’
Despite the injuries to the head of the dead man, there could be no doubt.
‘Is it him?’ Parra asked.
‘Yes.’
Luisa said something incomprehensible.
‘I must tell her,’ Parra said.
‘I will,’ Alvarez contradicted.
‘Wouldn’t it be kinder since she knows me?’
‘It is going to be cruel whoever tells her and it is my duty to do so.’
‘Please be gentle,’ Luisa said.
‘Of course. If you come with me, you will be able to offer her what I cannot.’
She spoke to her husband. ‘Watch the fabada.’
They went through to the sitting room. Mary stood by the right-hand picture window. She swung round, looked briefly at Luisa, then at Alvarez.
He spoke directly, convinced this was the kindest thing to do. ‘Señorita, I am very sorry to have to tell you it was your uncle who fell.’
Her lips trembled and her face contorted. ‘No. Please God, he can’t be dead.’
Luisa went forward and put her arms around Mary.
He returned to the kitchen. If Parra was keeping close watch on the cooking, this was not immediately apparent since he was seated at the table.
‘How did she . . .’ Parra stopped.
‘As one must expect. Your wife is consoling her. I need to know something concerning the señor.’
‘I know nothing about his private life.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to. What has his behaviour been like in the past few days? Has he been acting normally?’
‘Yes.’
‘He wasn’t depressed?’
‘I suppose he wasn’t as cheerful as most times and maybe a bit down and a shade short-tempered.’
‘Your wife thinks he was very normal.’
‘She doesn’t see him nearly as much as I do.’
‘Any idea why he could have been depressed?’
‘Might have been money.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘He complained to Luisa that housekeeping was becoming increasingly expensive and maybe there’d have to be cuts in things like lobster.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Well . . . I did happen to hear him speaking on the telephone because I was passing through the room. Couldn’t help hearing. You understand?’
‘You wouldn’t wish to be thought eavesdropping. Why is what he said of interest?’
‘It seemed he could have lost a lot of money in the financial crisis.’
‘Could or had?’
‘Wasn’t in the room long enough to hear.’
Alvarez asked further questions but learned nothing fresh. He left the house and noticed a man working on a flower bed. In contrast to the normal form of weeding – dragging, chopping, chipping the earth with a mattock, to the detriment of flowers as well as weeds – he was kneeling and using a hand-fork. He stood as Alvarez approached.
‘Are you Santos?’
‘And you’re from the cuerpo.’
Alvarez made a brief judgement. Moorish blood many generations back, a rugged face, broad mouth, strong shoulders, and a self-possessed manner which said he considered himself at least the equal of the next man. ‘You know what’s happened?’
‘Been told there’s a dead man below.’
‘I’m afraid it may be the señor.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Would go over the fencing to look at that bloody orchid. Said he wanted to record it for his friend. If it hadn’t been there, he’d never have been so daft.’
‘Did he often step over the fencing to look at it?’
‘Near every day.’
‘Did you see him on Saturday?’
‘No.’
‘When did you knock off work?’
‘Midday, same as ever.’
‘Will you show me where the orchid is.’
They walked across the lawn to the four-bar fencing, a metre high, uprights set in concrete, which imaged the curve of the rock, two metres back from it. When they came to a stop, Alvarez faced the edge of the cliff and the emptiness beyond. Although he could accept he was in no danger, already he was breathing more quickly than usual, there was tension in his stomach, objects seen in the corners of his eyes seemed to ripple, and soon he knew a sirens’ song would call on him to walk up to the edge and over.
‘Something wrong, you’re walking so slowly?’ Santos asked.
‘A touch of lumbago,’ he answered, unwilling to admit to his handicap. ‘Where is it?’
‘Straight in front of you.’
Over decades, the cleft in the rock face had become filled with dust, needle leaves and airborne debris, providing a small bed of ‘soil’. In the centre, grew the single Mosques blanques. Since it had caused so much interest, he had expected something large and brilliantly colourful. He saw a small, single green stem, three unopened lips and three opened ones which displayed tongues in shades of brown and blue and indeterminate white edges. ‘Doesn’t look worth all the effort,’ was his spoken judgement.
‘You need to look at it real close. Hop over the fence and get your head down and then see what you think.’
‘I’ll stay here.’
‘The señor must have got so busy with the photos, he momentarily forgot where he was and stepped too far back,’ Santos said.
‘Might have been like that. Only . . .’ Alvarez stopped.
‘What?’
‘There’s obviously no camera up here, and there wasn’t one down below.’
‘So you’re thinking?’ Santos demanded angrily.
Alvarez shrugged his shoulders.
‘Wondering if I pinched it, ain’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Likely don’t trust even yourself. Then have a think on this. He often went to look at the plant without photographing it. And if you think I’m lying, ask the others. They’ve seen him.’
‘I was merely remarking the fact.’
‘I could remark about you lot, only it’d take too long.’
‘You misjudge us.’
Santos expressed his opinion of that.
‘Calm down and have a smoke.’ Alvarez brought a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his trousers.
‘Giving something away? Must be wanting more than you’re offering,’ he said as he withdrew a cigarette.
Alvarez lit a match for them both. He stared out at the world below. ‘I call this a slice of heaven!’
‘It maybe for you seeing as you don’t have to work, but it ain’t for me.’
‘If I lived in Aguila . . .’
‘You wouldn’t be in the cuerpo, sticking your nose into other people’s lives.’
‘Did the señor own any of the land below?’
‘Fifty hectares.’
‘What did he do with it?’
‘Nothing. Said it was wonderful to be able to preserve the land as it’s been since ever. Daft. It would be worth millions of euros with building permission.’
‘Which wouldn’t be given.’
‘You’re in the cuerpo and never learned about brown envelopes?’
‘This far back from the coast, there wouldn’t be enough encouragement money to get
the politicians interested . . . Like I said, it’s perfect. You can see the sea, but you’re too far away to have the tourists causing trouble.’
‘You reckon? There was an article in some book or magazine mentioning the Barca and how it was supposed to happen, so now we have people coming to gawp. The señor didn’t worry – strange man, seemed to think it’d help them to learn to like nature, or something like that. Never said anything provided they wasn’t carving names on trees or leaving rubbish. Only thing that really pissed him off was the man he kept seeing who he was certain was poaching birds, after he found a bit of netting caught up on a tree. Tried to catch him at it. And maybe one day did. I was up here and could hear him below having a right row with someone; he spoke Spanish, the other bloke, Mallorquin. Doubt the señor understood what he was being called.’
‘The argument was heated?’
‘Bloody loud.’
‘He thought the poacher was after what – thrushes?’
‘Always plenty of ’em below.’
‘Who was the poacher?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Why not?’
‘Never seen him, that’s why.’
‘Yet you heard him. You didn’t recognize his voice?’
‘No.’
Santos spoke with such emphasis that Alvarez wondered if the poacher was a friend of his.
FIVE
Alvarez turned into Carrer Conte Rossi – renamed in honour of an Italian fascist; the consequences of the Civil War had long lingered – to find there was no space in front of No. 8. Years ago, no sensible person would have parked in front of a home known to be inhabited by a member of the cuerpo. Sadly, democracy diluted authority.
He walked slowly along the pavement since heat and exertion could be fatal. At No. 8, he stepped into the entrada which, as always, was in immaculate condition. Dust was unknown, the upright chairs with leather backs and seats of criss-crossed flax were geometrically placed, the table was covered with a newly ironed white embroidered linen cloth, patterned in blue flowers with wide petals, and the indoor plants had been wiped down.
In the sitting/dining room, Jaime was seated, morosely staring at the bare table.
‘Not drinking?’ Alvarez asked as he sat. ‘Decided to become TT?’
Jaime jerked his head in the direction of the bead curtain across the open kitchen doorway, where his wife was cooking.
‘She’s forgotten to buy some?’
‘Says we’re better without it.’
‘Is she . . .’ He stopped abruptly as Dolores came through the curtain.
‘I do not intend to spend all morning in a kitchen which is hotter than the devil’s breath because my husband will not mend the fan, cooking a meal when he and my cousin will have drunk so much that they cannot say whether they are eating pastel de pollo con jamón or pollo insipido.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand when a man finds it difficult to put a forkful of food into his mouth at the first attempt.’
‘I’ve had a hell of a morning,’ Alvarez said.
‘Then you are able to appreciate how every morning of every week is for me.’
‘I’m exhausted.’
‘You stopped at too many bars on your way here?’
‘I hurried straight back in order not to be late and upset your cooking.’
‘Would you also like me to believe you have seen fairies dancing in the old square?’
‘As a matter of fact, when I came through it yesterday, there were two men . . .’
‘Enough!’ She withdrew.
‘Get the coñac out,’ Alvarez said in a low voice.
Jaime stared uneasily at the bead curtain.
He should never have allowed Dolores to behave in so imperious a manner, Alvarez told himself. From the day of their marriage, Jaime had needed to make it very clear he was the jefe and he would decide when he would drink, she would not.
Jaime reached over and opened a door of the Mallorquin sideboard, brought out a bottle of Soberano and two glasses. Despite his unspoken advice to Jaime, Alvarez poured carefully and quietly, not wishing to alert Dolores.
Jaime brought a packet of Pall Mall out of his pocket, offered Alvarez a cigarette and struck a match for them both. ‘What’s gone so wrong with your morning?’
‘I had to identify a body by Barca.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Señor Gill.’
‘Never heard of him. He sounds foreign so why get bothered?’
‘I had to tell the niece what had happened. And she . . .’
‘Killed herself on a bonfire like they used to in India?’
‘Was very distressed.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve just said.’
‘But if he was just an uncle?’
‘At a guess, the relationship was more like father and daughter.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Early to mid twenties.’
‘Attractive?’
‘Apart from an old facial injury.’
‘All the right bits and bobs?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You didn’t notice?’
‘I was trying to console her, not size her up.’
‘How did the consoling go?’
Dolores stepped through the bead curtain. ‘Are you ready to eat, or would a meal be a hindrance to your drinking?’
‘I’ve hardly touched my glass,’ Jaime complained.
‘You also have seen fairies dancing in the square?’
Alvarez settled on his chair in the office. He picked up the receiver, replaced it, finally picked it up again and dialled.
‘Superior Chief Salas’ office,’ Angela Torres said, in tones of assumed authority.
‘I should like to speak to the superior chief, señorita.’
‘Who is calling?’
She knew very well. ‘Inspector Alvarez.’
‘Wait.’
He had met her once. One might have called her passably attractive in a mature sense were her features not so sharp. She was unmarried because there was ice inside her. There was warmth inside Mary Farren, but she was unmarried perhaps because of her appearance, probably from past emotional distress. Did either of them consider spinsterhood to be a misfortune? Dolores complained that a married woman’s misfortune was her husband.
The silence ceased when Salas said: ‘Well?’
‘Good afternoon, señor.’
‘I have been expecting to hear from you for a long time.’
‘There was difficulty in identifying the dead man.’
‘Which deceased man?’
‘Señor Gill.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He was found at the foot of Barca . . .’
‘Alvarez, did any of your ancestors live in Boeotia?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘The inhabitants of Central Greece were noted for their limited intelligence. When one reports to a senior officer, who is occupied by many cases, his burden is eased by initially identifying about what and whom the report concerns. Clearly, you have no wish to ease my burden, as great as you manage to make it.’
There was a silence.
‘You don’t understand what I have just said?’
‘I didn’t go into many details, señor, because I thought you would know what I have been doing.’
‘I am seldom given such opportunity.’
‘I received a report that a dead man was lying at the foot of Barca. That is the name given to a wedge of rock by a man of small understanding. Perhaps his father had been born in Boeotia.’
‘You consider that comment to be witty?’
‘No, señor.’
‘Then continue your report without unnecessary comments and repetitions.’
‘The dead man had fallen from above, so it seemed reasonable to think he had been living, or had been staying, in Aquila, the house on top.’
‘The home of Prometheus.’
‘No
. Señor Gill.’
‘Why did he fall?’
‘It could be because he was looking at the orchid and in a moment of forgetfulness, stepped back too far.’
‘It pleases you to speak nonsense?’
‘The orchid apparently is of considerable importance. An expert said it was rare and needed to be carefully looked after. Señor Gill seems to have become fascinated by it and was often examining or photographing it. To do this, he had to climb over the fence and remain on a ledge of rock which is far from wide. It was a silly thing to do, however rare the orchid, and even though the señor obviously did not suffer from altophobia.’
‘You are referring to the so-called fear of heights?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘A lack of mental discipline.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘I did not request an opinion.’
‘But it’s beyond control. Even a small height can cause the phobia, however much one tells oneself one is not afraid; there is mind-numbing fear, yet one suffers the urge to approach the edge as if sirens are singing to draw one on . . .’
‘If the mind is numbed, it will not hear singing. Have you thought to confirm if he actually did ever step voluntarily over the guard barrier?’
‘The gardener, the cook and her husband, have seen him do so frequently.’
‘Then the facts indicate accident.’
‘I have learned the señor may have suffered financial problems.’
‘Far from unique. I bought shares in a company because a friend swore they were bound to appreciate and they have depreciated heavily.’
‘Señor Gill told Luisa . . .’
‘Who?’
‘The cook.’
‘What did she tell the señor?’
‘It’s the other way round.’
‘You sow confusion like a spinner. Would you explain who said what to whom.’
‘Luisa was to cut the cost of housekeeping. And Parra, her husband, overheard a telephone call which suggested the señor had lost money in the financial chaos.’
‘So has everyone else.’
‘But if he . . .’
‘Why couldn’t the damn fools have seen what was happening?’
‘I suppose, like everyone else . . .’
‘Everyone else has not bought shares which have fallen out of sight.’
There was silence.
‘You have nothing more to add?’ Salas asked.
‘Not before I speak to the señorita and try to find out how much capital the señor lost.’
A Question of Motive Page 3