A Question of Motive

by Roderic Jeffries

  Alvarez replaced the receiver. He wondered how he could have stupidly thought he might receive even muted praise for his work.

  TWELVE

  Alvarez looked through the open window at the sunshine-covered walls on the other side of the narrow road. After fourteen phone calls, to fourteen Pearsons, he had learned nothing. None of those to whom he had spoken had known Robin Gill, and only one had heard of him.

  Did Miranda live on the island? Mary had suggested she probably did. Was she not on the phone and therefore not listed in the directory? Yet now that it was easier to be connected, provided one didn’t live in the back of beyond . . . He was thinking as he would have done years before. Mobiles allowed almost everyone to be on line. He had to call the communications centre and ask them to name the Pearsons they had on their lists.

  The speaker at the communications centre was well trained. They were too busy at the moment, their computer had crashed, the law of privacy had to be respected, if he rang another day . . . Persistence and some rudeness gained the unwelcome news that no Pearson was listed as feminine. He would have to make further phone calls. But not when he was exhausted.

  There was time before he could return home for lunch. So did he question Muritano? All that was known about him was, he had worked for a firm which had closed. But he was a friend of Santos.

  Santos was on the far side of the fencing on Barca, making Alvarez wonder how any man could hold his life so cheaply. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m planting a vineyard,’ Santos replied as, kneeling, he very carefully removed several newly surfaced weeds around Ophrys balerica.

  ‘You’re continuing to fuss over that thing? If it was mine . . .’

  ‘It would be long since dead since you wouldn’t come within a dozen metres of it. What are you after this time?’ He stood.

  ‘To ask where you were on Friday the fourth?’

  ‘In Madrid, having grub at the Ritz.’

  ‘Don’t get too smart or I’ll have you in on suspicion.’

  ‘No sense of fun? I was here, of course.’

  ‘Until when?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘You didn’t leave early?’

  Santos hesitated. ‘Maybe I was away a little quick. The old woman wasn’t too fit.’

  ‘No doubt she’d recovered and had cooked your lunch by the time you arrived back?’

  He crossed to the fencing and climbed over it.

  ‘Then you weren’t here when the señor filmed or examined his beloved plant?’

  ‘Are you going to ask all the same old questions?’

  ‘I can’t remember what your answers were.’

  ‘Doubt you can give your own name without being reminded.’

  ‘Will your wife corroborate the time you returned that day?’

  ‘Why not ask her?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell her to help you up the front steps into the house. They’re a bit high and could upset you.’

  ‘You’re so smart I’m beginning to think you didn’t go home to lunch that day, but were here when the señor looked at his plant and you helped him over the side because he’d left you a little something in his will.’

  ‘You’re breeding more feathers between your ears by the minute.’

  ‘There’s no knowing what the friend of a fraudster will do.’

  ‘You . . .’ The Mallorquin was brief, but obscene.

  ‘Then Benito Muritano isn’t a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not since he made me look as twisted as him.’

  ‘I want a word with him.’

  ‘About that painting job?’

  ‘He must have been furious when his attempted fraud was exposed and he was paid half the estimate.’

  ‘I suppose now you’re going to suggest he got his own back? By pushing the señor over the edge. Ever seen a chicken attack a Giant Schnauzer? He’s good for swindling, that’s all.’

  ‘I have to check him out.’

  ‘My word’s not good enough? You lot wouldn’t believe a saint.’

  ‘Since I’m not a saint yet, that’s all right by me. Where does he live?’

  ‘The village.’

  ‘You expect me to call at each house to find out which one?’

  ‘Wouldn’t do you any harm around the belly. Sixteen, Carrer Loreto. And tell him that after dropping me in the pozo negro with the señor, I hope he ends up inside.’

  Alvarez thankfully turned his back on the edge of the cliff. He crossed to the house. Luisa opened the door.

  ‘If you want the señorita, Inspector, Pablo’s just taken her into Llueso. He drives her because he says it’s better until she’s over the death of the señor. Always ready to help. He’s a good husband.’

  ‘There aren’t many of those around these days. I’ll return some other time.’

  ‘She’ll be glad to see you. Told me yesterday how much you’ve helped her.’

  He was glad his help was appreciated.

  Carrer Loreto was one-way. Alvarez passed the no-entry sign to face an oncoming car. He braked heavily and contemptuously ignored the other motorist’s obvious signs of anger as he eased his way past; probably a foreigner who did not understand the local form of driving. He came to a halt in front of number sixteen. Like all other houses in the short road, it was stone built and dated from the nineteenth century.

  He left the car, stepped into the entrada, and was unsurprised to find a degree of comfort that contradicted the impression of bleakness the outer stone wall gave. He called out.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Inspector Alvarez, cuerpo.’

  ‘Wait.’

  He waited.

  When Muritano’s wife finally came downstairs, he guessed she had been brightening her appearance.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ she uneasily asked.

  ‘I need a word with your husband.’

  ‘What’s Benito been up to?’

  ‘Nothing to cause any worry. Do you know where he is right now?’

  ‘Working. Is it trouble with the Susana woman?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Where is he working?’

  ‘Down in the port. Place that’s been bought by a foreigner who wants it decorated from top to bottom.’

  ‘Can you give me the address?’

  ‘You say I don’t need to worry, but what’s your interest?’

  ‘To ask him about some painting he’s done.’

  ‘Someone complaining? Can’t see why it should bother you.’

  He ignored the unasked question. ‘Which house in the port?’

  ‘Back of the school somewhere. Called Ca’n Felix.’

  He thanked her and left.

  Having driven down to the port, it took him fifteen frustrating minutes to find the modern bungalow in the centre of a small, slightly downmarket urbanizacíon.

  Muritano was short, stocky, unshaven, and aggressive. ‘So what d’you want?’ he demanded, as they stood in the empty room, the walls of which were half-changed from an ugly blue to light green. From next door came the sounds of another painter at work.

  ‘How many coats of paint make two?’

  ‘What you getting at?’

  ‘You are a friend of Juanito Santos.’

  ‘I was until he behaved like a stupid sod.’

  ‘He recommended you to Señor Gill to paint the outside of Aquila.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The contract called for two coats.’

  ‘Which is what the house got.’

  ‘Because he was a foreigner, you reckoned he could be taken for a fool. You said it was one coat taking the roller up and one coat bringing it down again.’

  ‘So what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘You want to make me laugh?’

  ‘Don’t look as if you know how.’

  ‘I’ve talked to an honest painter. Two coats means two coats applied at different times.’

  ‘Depends how you work.’

  ‘You k
now the señor’s dead?’

  ‘I can read.’

  ‘He was a foreigner, but he wasn’t stupid. He understood you were trying to swindle him, so paid you only half the agreed sum.’

  ‘Then he paid for the work done, and you can’t charge me with anything.’

  ‘How about murdering the señor?’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he shouted.

  Another man in paint-splattered overalls hurried into the room. ‘Something up, Benito?’

  ‘He’s calling me a murderer.’

  The newcomer spoke to Alvarez. ‘Best stop causing trouble and move out quick or we’ll help you out a lot quicker.’

  ‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  ‘You. It sounded like . . . I’d best get on with the work.’ He hurriedly left.

  Alvarez spoke to Muritano. ‘Señor Gill expressed his opinion of you and your manner of working. You became very angry.’

  ‘What d’you expect when he called me a thief. I ain’t never stolen anything.’

  ‘So angry that you determined to get your own back; after all, he’d turned the tables and made you look the fool. You went up to Aquila to bluff or bully him into paying the rest of the money. He refused, probably commenting again on your dishonesty. Then he went to the end of Barca to look at the special orchid growing there. You were in such a hell of a rage that, seeing him so close to the edge of the rock, you rushed forward, belted him in the stomach, and forced him over the edge.’

  ‘You . . . you’re crazy,’ he said again, now with fear, not anger.

  ‘Where were you at thirteen hundred hours on Friday the fourth?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Where?’

  Nervous panic caused confusion. ‘I can’t . . . can’t say.’

  ‘Unable to think up a feasible lie quickly enough?’

  He shouted, ‘Lorenzo!’

  Lorenzo hurried in to the room. ‘What now?’

  ‘Where were we working on the fourth, Friday?’

  ‘Wasn’t here.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, if you can’t remember, he’s going to arrest me.’

  ‘Reckon we were doing that apartment down at the port.’

  ‘You’re right! That’s where. Inspector, I was there.’

  ‘And drove back for lunch, decided on the way to tell Señor Gill what you thought of him.’

  ‘We don’t go anywhere; we have lunch on the job to save time.’

  ‘Who was with you on that job?’

  ‘There was Lorenzo and someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  Muritano began to speak, stopped, looked helpless.

  Alvarez turned to Lorenzo. ‘You were with him?’

  ‘He’s just said.’

  ‘You’ll swear to that on oath.’

  ‘You’re saying it’ll be in court?’

  ‘Could be, unless . . . Who was the other man?’

  ‘Adolfo.’

  ‘Why won’t you believe me?’ Muritano asked desperately.

  ‘Because it’s difficult to do so when you think one coat of paint is two coats.’

  Adolfo’s mother said he wasn’t working that day, resentfully added that he was likely spending all his money at a bar or on a woman and would soon be trying to borrow from her until the next pay day.

  ‘Does he have a favourite bar?’

  She named a couple she knew he frequently visited. He was not at the first one; at the second, a waiter identified Adolfo, sitting at an outside table with a woman.

  Glass in hand – it was only fair to offer custom when information had been given – Alvarez went out on to the pavement and over to the table at which a young man with long hair drawn into a ponytail was seated opposite a woman who lacked discretion in make-up and clothing.

  ‘Adolfo?’

  He looked up and stared at Alvarez with contemptuous indifference.

  ‘I’d like a word.’

  Adolfo picked up his glass and emptied it. He spoke to his companion. ‘Ready for another?’

  ‘Don’t think I should.’

  ‘That’s the time to have it.’

  She giggled.

  Alvarez asked, ‘Where were you at thirteen hundred hours on Friday the fourth?’

  ‘Sod off, old man.’

  Alvarez’s annoyance was immediate. He could no longer claim to be a young man, but he certainly wasn’t an old one. ‘Cuerpo.’

  ‘What . . . Why . . .?’

  ‘Been wondering if you’ve been peddling drugs and robbing tourists or dealing in smuggled booze and fags.’

  The woman stood. ‘I’ve got to rush.’

  ‘Hang on. He’s talking horse shit.’

  She hurried away.

  Alvarez settled on the seat she had vacated.

  Adolfo no longer spoke belligerently. ‘Look, I’ve never touched crack or—’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘What . . . what day did you say?’

  ‘Friday the fourth.’

  ‘I swear I wasn’t doing any of what you said.’

  ‘D’you sometimes work as a casual, doing painting?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘For whom?’

  He named four men, the third of whom was Muritano.

  ‘When and where did you last work for him?’

  ‘A short time back, doing some apartments down along the front.’

  ‘What was the work routine?’

  ‘He gave us the paint, brushes, and rollers . . .’

  ‘Where did you have lunch that day?’

  ‘In the apartment we was working in. Always the same with him. Sandwiches and a drink and he’s shouting back to work. A bloody slave-driver . . .’

  Before he left, Alvarez was tempted to tell Alfonso to be a man and have a haircut.

  Alvarez picked a banana out of the earthenware bowl in the centre of the dining-room table. ‘I’ve had a frustrating time, working hard and getting nowhere.’

  ‘Her boyfriend turned up?’ Jaime suggested.

  ‘Why would that upset uncle?’ Juan asked.

  ‘Your father,’ Dolores said, ‘has a nonsensical tongue after many glasses of wine. You and Isabel have finished your meals, so you can leave.’

  ‘I want to stay.’

  ‘You will need to be very much older before you can do as you wish, regardless of other people.’

  The children left.

  Alvarez peeled the banana. ‘Hours on the telephone, speaking to hundreds of people, and not one of them the person I want.’

  ‘Who are you trying to get hold of?’ Dolores asked.

  ‘Any young female who can’t run faster than him,’ Jaime said.

  She sighed.

  ‘Miranda Pearson,’ Alvarez answered.

  ‘Why can’t you look her up in the directory?’ Jaime asked.

  ‘What do you think I’ve been doing?’

  ‘No knowing where you’re concerned.’

  ‘I’ve tried all the Pearsons in the book and with mobiles.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t live on the island any longer; maybe, she doesn’t really exist.’

  ‘A non-existent isn’t left ten thousand pounds in a will.’

  ‘Ten thousand! No wonder you’re in a hurry. Find her before anyone else and you’ve the chance of a share.’

  ‘Is she married?’ Dolores asked.

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Then you may have her maiden name.’

  ‘And the will was made before she married? Takes a genius to think of that,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘You must think we’ve nothing to do all day,’ the under-director at the records office said.

  He did. But he needed their goodwill. ‘I’ve been told you’re having to work harder than ever with the alteration in the form of residencias.’

  ‘And does anyone thank us for all the overtime we have to do?’

  ‘Not if it’s like our outfit. Not a moment for a chat and work twenty-four hours a day and y
ou’re told you should work longer.’

  ‘If some of us don’t break down from stress, it’ll be a miracle.’

  ‘Get a doctor to say you must have a break.’

  ‘They won’t play until one’s a hospital case.’

  ‘But if one of them has a cold, it’s an emergency?’

  ‘Them and us. The whole outfit is them and us. When my decimo comes up, I’ll be out of this office like I was running the hundred metres.’

  ‘And when mine does, I’ll buy fifty hectares of land and grow . . .’

  ‘Dreams. Keep a man willing to live . . . Did you say you wanted something?’

  ‘Have you done as I ordered?’ Salas asked at 1700 hours.

  ‘It has all been very difficult,’ Alvarez answered.

  ‘Is there any task simple enough not to cause you trouble?’

  ‘I tried to identify Miranda Pearson, who is the legatee in Señor Gill’s will and has been left . . .’

  ‘Try to accept that I am conversant with the facts.’

  ‘I understood you always wanted to be told what and whom a report concerns before that report is made.’

  ‘It escapes you that such order only concerns reports which require identification?’

  ‘I don’t think I understand the difference.’

  ‘I lack sufficient time to explain in simple terms. Have you made any progress?’

  ‘I phoned dozens, perhaps hundreds of Pearsons listed in the directory. None of them knew, or had met, Señor Gill. I asked mobile to give me a list of all the Pearsons on their books. The result was similar.’

  ‘You have failed your task? Not unusual.’

  ‘I realized the will might have been written before she was married and Señor Gill had not known her name had changed, or had not thought to alter his will.’

  ‘A probability which should have occurred to you far sooner.’

  ‘I asked records to carry out a search of maiden names since a foreign woman has to give that when applying for a residencia.’

  ‘Are you about to inform me that a week has seven days and there are sixty minutes in an hour?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because you seem determined to waste my time by informing me of facts of which I am fully cognisant.’