A Question of Motive

by Roderic Jeffries

  He finally phoned.

  ‘Yes?’ Angela Torres said with her usual brusqueness.

  ‘Good afternoon, señorita. Can I speak to the superior chief?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Dammit, isn’t anyone there?’ Salas demanded.

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Inspector Alvarez.’

  ‘Then why in the devil didn’t you tell my secretary who you were? Someone wanted to speak to me, she said, but had not identified himself. Am I supposed to guess who is calling?’

  ‘She always knows who I am.’

  ‘If that were so, she would not have referred to you as an unknown man. What do you want?’

  ‘To make a report, señor.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you doing so?’

  ‘I have questioned . . .’

  ‘A report on what? Am I to guess that as well?’

  ‘My investigation into the death of Señor Gill. I can be confident he did not commit suicide and Velaquez had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Your grounds for so assertive a conclusion?’

  ‘Velaquez was in hospital at the time of the señor’s death and, having reviewed the known and unknown facts, I questioned Señora Oakley.’

  ‘Would it be too onerous for you to tell me who she is?’

  ‘The wife of Señor Oakley.’

  ‘Not a coincidence in names, then?’

  ‘I don’t understand, señor.’

  ‘You have not explained who Mr and Mrs Oakley are, how they have any bearing on the case, and why it was important to question her.’

  ‘I have mentioned her to you before, señor.’

  ‘That precludes your making a full and proper report now? You take no account of the possibility I might have forgotten you had done so.’

  ‘I presumed that was impossible.’

  ‘Your presumption is unwelcome since I am trying once more to make you understand that when reporting . . . Perhaps I was being unrealistically ambitious. You will place the lady in context.’

  ‘From what I learned, I believed Señora Oakley was having an affair with Señor Gill. I questioned her as to that. At first, she angrily denied the possibility, but finally I managed to make her admit it was true. I then questioned her closely to learn whether her husband could have suspected the relationship. She answered that was impossible since if he had believed it likely, or even possible, he would have thrown her out of the house.’

  ‘It is unusual to hear of an Englishman who is ready to act honourably.’

  ‘Hardly honourably, señor. She would then be without home or money.’

  ‘An adulterous woman can expect nothing more.’

  ‘But when she has . . .’

  ‘You believe a husband should welcome his wife’s adultery?’

  ‘Señora Oakley has kept house for many years for a man you would not wish to marry under any circumstance.’

  ‘You are amused to suggest I could consider marrying a man?’

  ‘When I said “you”, I did not mean you.’

  ‘Were ambiguity to be welcomed, you would have made a success of your career.’

  ‘I meant “you” was the average person.’

  ‘One does not become superior chief by being average.’

  ‘Of course not, señor.’

  ‘There is no need to confirm the obvious.’

  ‘Her evidence makes it impossible her husband had the slightest indication of what was going on which means, therefore, he had no reason to kill the dead man.’

  ‘I find it extraordinary that I need constantly to remind you that one cannot kill a dead man.’

  ‘I was using the term to identify Señor Gill.’

  ‘Might not his name have done that more efficiently?’

  ‘There is another point worth considering. If he had been responsible for Señor Gill’s death, she would at least have suspected he was guilty. Then her contempt for him must have turned to hatred.’

  ‘Would she have shown her hatred if she was terrified of being thrown out of the house?’

  ‘She would have done so when speaking to me.’

  ‘She would have attacked him in front of you?’

  ‘Why do you suggest that?’

  ‘How else could she have shown her anger as opposed to expressing it?’

  ‘I . . . I questioned her concerning the señor’s behaviour prior to his death to judge the possibility he was severely depressed despite what I had previously been told by others. She said he had behaved completely normally.’

  ‘Who else has mentioned his behaviour?’

  ‘The señorita, Parra and Luisa, the cook. The gardener suggested he might have been depressed, but my judgement of him is that he likes to twist things.’

  ‘Hardly a useful trait for a gardener. You have made no mention of this before. You hold Gill did not commit suicide, and Oakley had no reason to murder him.’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘You do not allow that Oakley might have concealed his suspicions and Gill his depression?’

  ‘That’s unlikely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In each case, après-ski would likely have resulted in their giving at least a hint of their true feelings.’

  ‘Both men went skiing with the woman?’

  ‘Hardly possible on this island.’

  ‘You recognize that fact?’

  ‘Après-ski is an expression.’

  ‘Quite. Having completed their absurd pastime, the women parade, each one hoping her clothes are clearly more expensive than those of others.’

  ‘It means something different to that.’

  ‘You can explain what?’

  ‘The time after. When one is completely relaxed and one often speaks without thought. Gill would admit to being depressed and his fears of the future. If suspicious, Oakley would persuade the señora to make damaging admissions.’

  ‘The time after what?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘On the contrary. I do not know, which is why I ask. Alvarez, do you remember my mentioning a friend, a noted psychiatrist who has become interested in your case. I need to speak again to him about you.’

  ‘Señor, in this context, après-ski means . . .’ Alvarez stopped. How to explain to someone who believed the primary purpose of a double bed was to sleep on it?

  ‘Am I to be allowed to know what it means?’

  ‘The period immediately after sex.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Alvarez, is your mind constantly occupied with the subject?’

  ‘No, señor.’

  ‘Yet were you in truth capable of ignoring your carnal interests, you might have undertaken the need to examine Gill’s financial affairs.’

  ‘I thought it best first to learn the truth from Señora Oakley.’

  ‘Regrettably, that is now understandable. What is not, is your inability, before making this report, to tell me whether Señor Gill has lost large sums of money. Had he done so, the question of suicide must remain despite the opinion of others.’

  ‘It was my intention to go to Aquila as soon as I finished reporting to you.’

  ‘But now it is not?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Had the intention remained, you would have used the present tense, not the imperfect. Why have you delayed questioning Señorita Farren?’

  ‘As I have mentioned, it would be kinder not to worry her further for the moment.’

  ‘Is it your opinion she will be sufficiently calmed to be questioned before the end of the summer?’

  ‘If you had been with me . . .’

  ‘The case would have been handled efficiently.’

  ‘I will be speaking to her tomorrow.’

  ‘Unless you decide she is suffering from another crisis of nerves? You will observe the needs of the investigation, not the vapours of the lady who is the prime suspect and naturally taking full advantage of your weak n
aivety.’

  The call finished. Prime suspect? The superior chief lacked all justification for calling her that. But how to prove this?

  Alvarez said, as he reached across the dining-room table and picked up the bottle of Soberano, ‘It’s the weekend, yet I am having to work from dawn to long after dusk.’

  Dolores came through the bead curtain. ‘You demand sympathy?’

  He poured out less brandy than he had intended for fear she would remind him that during the previous evening’s television, a doctor had claimed that even a small amount of alcohol was dangerous to one’s health. ‘The seventh day is made for rest.’

  ‘This is the sixth day.’

  ‘But I’ve only just returned from work.’

  ‘Work should cease midday Saturday and not resume until Monday morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A decision I will observe. Each weekend, I will leave the house in the disorder in which I find it and I will do no cooking.’

  ‘You . . . you can’t,’ Jaime spluttered.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What about us eating?’

  ‘There is a stove in the kitchen and food to cook on it.’

  ‘I don’t know how to cook.’

  ‘You will have a day and a half each weekend in which to learn.’ She returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Life wouldn’t be so bloody difficult for everyone if people kept their big mouths shut,’ Jaime said.

  Had it not been a Sunday, Alvarez would have marked it a fine day at Aquila since there was a light breeze, giving the impression of less heat than below.

  Parra opened the front door as he left the car. ‘Good morning, Inspector. I hope all is well with you?’

  ‘An impossibility. Is the señorita in?’

  ‘I will find out if she is at home.’

  Alvarez let his impatience surface. ‘Forget the crap. Is she or isn’t she here?’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to come inside?’

  That Parra was imitating the subservient servant of ancient times to annoy him, he accepted; and would have gained satisfaction from having just succeeded. In future, he would dent the other’s malice by appearing to be friendly.

  ‘You look grim,’ Mary said, by way of greeting as he entered the sitting room. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I was wishing I was not here.’

  ‘That . . . that’s not a very nice thing to say.’

  ‘I would have been smiling broadly if my second reason for being here was not to ask more questions.’

  ‘That’s a relief and an irritation.’

  He sat.

  ‘Now you’re here, I think you must redeem your promise.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘To have a Chinese meal with me.’

  ‘I’m afraid my cousin is expecting me back to lunch,’ he said hastily.

  ‘Would it upset her very much to ask if she minds your staying here?’

  There had been no indication of what Dolores was preparing for lunch. Sundays were often times at which she excelled herself. It was quite a while since she had cooked chuletas empapeladas, accompanied by a sauce devised by the gods. On the other hand, judging by her threats, she might be cooking something very ordinary, or even nothing.

  ‘Forget it.’

  Her disappointment was obvious and it might be the precursor to renewed depression. And Dolores, knowing his reason for being friendly with Mary, would understand his absence and not be annoyed by it. ‘I was trying to remember whether my cousin will be home yet. Perhaps I could ring and find out?’

  ‘There’s a phone on the table.’ She pointed to his right.

  He picked up the cordless receiver, sat, dialled.

  ‘Yes?’ Dolores said.

  ‘It’s Enrique.’

  ‘I am in the middle of cooking.’

  ‘What work’s that?’

  ‘True! Cooking is work; cooking for men who think only of themselves is thankless work.’

  With typical female blindness, she had failed to realize he had been trying to find out what she was cooking. The direct question in the hearing of Mary would be inadvisable since she might guess the reason. He would have to gamble. ‘I wondered if you’d mind my not returning for lunch?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t.’

  He was about to express his gratitude when she continued speaking.

  ‘Why should it upset me that I have been slaving all morning in a furnace-hot kitchen in order to cook a meal which you do not want? If you have been offered dishes far superior to any I can prepare, of course you should enjoy them. What is not eaten here can be fed to the dog at the end of the road who might consider it edible.’ She rang off.

  ‘Is it all right?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Dolores doesn’t mind.’

  ‘I was only having cold meat and salad, so I’ll tell Luisa there’s a change of plan and we’ll have Chinese takeaway. But first, which would you prefer – fried mice or pickled rat tails?’ She laughed. ‘If you could see your expression! You really thought that was a genuine choice, didn’t you?’

  He was glad temporarily to have afforded her some amusement, but did not regard the incident with the hilarity she did.

  They had coffee, and he a cognac, in the library on the north side of the house, from which there was a view of the Tramuntana, lower than to the west, down to the port and beyond. One of the walls was lined with a bookcase, the shelves holding reference books, classic novels, and modern hardcovers in English and Spanish. To the right of the open fireplace hung two framed nonsense sketches by Heath Robinson, to the left was a large photograph of Aquila and Barca taken from the air. The kneehole desk was English, the two wooden and leather chairs and the carpet on the marble floor had been made locally. The bronze bust of a young woman was French. A pleasing meld of style.

  ‘What exactly is it you want to know?’ she asked, after Parra had collected the empty cups, saucers, and glasses.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to learn what was your uncle’s financial position. That means looking through his accounts, bank balances, and so on. I’ll also need to read his will.’

  ‘You still think he might have committed suicide?’

  ‘I accept your judgement that that is impossible, but others won’t until I can show it is too unlikely to be considered.’

  ‘How he’d hate . . .’

  He waited.

  ‘Hate having anyone else look through all his papers. But I know you wouldn’t unless you had to.’

  ‘Your uncle was a very secretive man?’

  ‘I don’t know I’d call him that.’ She stared into the past. ‘He didn’t want people to know what he owned, what he did, or what he really thought, but that was more maintaining his own self rather than being secretive. As far as I was concerned, from the moment I arrived here, he treated me as his daughter and answered whatever I wanted to know. But because I understood there were questions he disliked, such as any about his late wife, there were those I never asked.’

  ‘Do you know the details of his will?’

  ‘No. But he did say after I’d been here a while that he was glad I liked the place as much as he did, because one day it would be mine. It may still be so. I’m sure he’ll have granted legacies to the servants. Beyond that, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘There is a safe?’

  ‘Behind the bookcase over there.’ She pointed. ‘Part of the bookcase is false.’

  ‘Do you know where he kept the keys?’

  ‘In one of the drawers of the desk.’

  ‘I am going to have to look through the contents of the safe. If you can trust me on my own then . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ she said fiercely. ‘I trust you completely.’

  ‘Thank you. I was asking because it might be kinder for you not to be in here. Afterwards, I will show you anything you wish or need to see.’

  She stood. ‘You’re right. I would start remembering . . . Call me if you need help.’ She left.


  There were two keys in the top right-hand drawer of the desk. The fake books in the bookcase were realistic until one studied them closely, knowing they were somewhere along the shelves. The safe was English and a small brass plaque claimed it to be both burglar and fireproof. Safe makers had to be optimistic. The keys turned the locks, and the thick, heavy door swung open. There was one shelf halfway up and on this was a wallet, several different-sized velvet covered boxes, passports for Gill and Mary, the new single-sheet residencias for them both, and various papers; there were more papers and several folders on the bottom of the safe. The wallet contained seven hundred euros in fifty-euro notes. The boxes contained many pieces of jewellery which, as far as his knowledge allowed him to judge, were very valuable. He returned the jewellery and wallet to the shelf, brought out the contents, placed them on the desk.

  Gill’s paperwork had been left in good order. There were folders marked investments, credits, outgoings. There were statements from banks in Mallorca, England, and Liechtenstein, all showing healthy credits. There was an IOU, signed by Timothy Kiernan, for 10,000 pounds. Gill’s will, in Spanish and English, was in one folder. His estate was left to Mary Farren, subject to payments of legacies. These were 1500 pounds to Parra, Luisa, and Santos, 1000 pounds to Eva, and 10,000 pounds to Miranda Pearson.

  Using the calculator on the desk, he made a quick estimate of the worth of the estate. Roughly thirty thousand in the banks. The latest investment report totalled 1,876,000. The property? A million.

  He leaned back and gazed into a life of millions of euros. A farm, around a hundred hectares. Considerably larger than usual in the area, but not impossible. A finca, to let to tourists, not to live in – there was not wealth sufficient to forgo Dolores’ cooking. A large flock of red sheep, now not quite so close to extinction since the government had seen the wisdom of granting subsidies to promote their breeding. Many pigs. No animal was the equal of a pig in the kitchen. Chorizo, sobresada, botifarró; chops, legs, trotters, tongue; ham and hamon serano. Cows? Fresh milk was a different liquid from that which one bought in cartons and which was fortified, skimmed, pasteurized, and heaven knew what else. But cows had to be milked twice a day. Hire a cowman.

  Regretfully, he returned to the world he lived in. He collected things together, returned them to the safe, locked that, swung the section of false bookcase back into position. In the last investment analysis, his account executive had written that markets had been volatile and Gill’s holdings had inevitably suffered, but the losses had been less than those of the general market. The outlook was uncertain, but there was good reason to think that in relative terms, the investments would remain firm.