The Spanish Hotel

by Gary Philpott

  “So what happened? What is the problem?”

  “Your country became involved when we pointed the finger of suspicion at a member of your government. After that, local involvement in the investigation was suspended. CENCI became involved, and that was it for the likes of me. I am not high level but you will understand my local knowledge was extremely useful..”

  “Who did you say became involved?”

  “CENCI. That is our International Communications Centre. International investigations are channelled through them.”

  Stuart paused as a flute-shaped glass containing ice and lemon was placed in front of him. He watched as the waitress poured bubbly water over the ice. It was a perfect pour; the foam rose to the rim of the glass, but there was no spillage.

  “Thank you.”

  The waitress nodded without speaking.

  “Juan, my boss, a chap called George Collins, always says keep it chronological. I am starting to understand why now.”

  “Chronological? Am I correct to think that means start at the beginning?”

  “Yes. Start at the beginning and work to the end.”

  “Okay. It is a long story.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “We were first aware of Rosita Ortega’s death when her handyman made his monthly visit to check on the place. Part of his job is to check the automatic filtration system on the pool is still functioning, top up the chemical reservoirs, skim the surface of the water. That’s when he realised something was wrong. He saw an elbow under one of the two airbeds floating on the water. Rosita had been tied to the airbed with tape.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Drowning.”

  “So she was alive when she was taped to this airbed?”

  “Yes, but there was no sign of a struggle. Blood tests showed low levels of a benzodiazepine called Loprazolam.”

  “I think that’s short acting, isn’t it?”

  “Very impressive DI Doyle. Yes. It has a half-life of about nine hours.”

  “You said low levels? How low?”

  “I am told blood levels equivalent to a two milligram dose. Again, I am told that is not unusual. We must remember though; with such a half-life, she may have taken significantly more than the recommended dose.”

  “Or she may have been given them but left alive long enough for most of the drug to pass out of her system.”

  “It is a theory.”

  “Were they her pills?”

  “We did not find any other sleeping pills, or even an empty packet in the villa. We also know she was not prescribed anything other than blood pressure tablets. At first we thought that was significant, but she had a party, so it is possible that she was given the pills by a guest. Sorry, I forget, chronological.”

  “First reports said that Rosita Ortega had been in that pool for at least two weeks. Two weeks before she was found, her English lover was seen in the village. This is a man who stayed at the villa with Rosita on occasions. We checked CCTV videos from the junction eighteen kilometres down the hill. There was a hire car that came on the Thursday and left on the Friday. It was hired in Madrid by an Englishman, a member of your government.”

  “Are you saying he is an MP, a Member of Parliament?”

  “Yes, that is correct. He is an MP. A junior business minister, only he is not so junior looking.”

  “No, he wouldn’t be. Junior means outside the cabinet, but still high level.”

  “We had to go through CENCI. Twelve hours later the official river of information stopped flowing.”

  “The official river…?”

  “They cannot conduct such an investigation without some local involvement. Not at my level you understand. But my family have lived here for many generations. My family have married into many other local families, who have also lived here for many generations. I know a lot of people.” He smiled and sipped his wine.

  “This junior minister is named Douglas Phillips. He admitted being at the villa. He tried to explain away Rosita not being at the villa, even though her car was, by saying he had a note from her. A note he could not produce. He claimed he had thrown it away because it was evidence of his relationship with Rosita.”

  “This MP, is he married?”

  “Estranged is what I was told. I had to look it up. Even in your country, the man has a reputation.”

  “A womaniser?”

  “Yes, a womaniser.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “It seems he tried to confuse things by two times visiting a hotel in Madrid and asking for her. He claimed the note he no longer had asked him to meet her there.”

  “Does he have a motive?”

  “There are rumours that he had helped her company get some English government contracts. These are only rumours. Unless Rosita was blackmailing him, that would not be motive. From what I hear of the man, it is more likely that it would be he who was blackmailing Rosita. That would not be a motive.”

  “A flip scenario sometimes plays out. He could have been blackmailing her. She calls his bluff and threatens to come clean. He gets nervous and comes up with a solution.”

  “Possibly, but the idea that it was he that murdered Rosita did not, I think you say, hold water.”

  “Why did it not hold water?”

  “The glasses and dishes from a party Rosita had two weeks prior to his visit were not washed and tidied. If Rosita had been alive during the previous week she would have done that. If she was too busy, she would have asked Jessinia. Jessinia is Pepé’s older sister, the oldest of the six children. You met Pepé.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Jessinia always went to Rosita’s parties. She was often asked to go down and help restore order afterwards. Señora Ortega always paid well. Though I think an invite to the party was enough payment in Jessinia’s view.”

  “Well, you’ve narrowed it down to a window of a week maximum, sometime between the party and Phillips’ arrival at the villa. Presumably pathology reports concur with that?”

  “Yes they do. The later tests suggested it was more likely the beginning of that week.”

  “There you go. Her death is probably connected to that party in some way. Why hasn’t the investigation bounced back your way?”

  “Officially? The answer is continuity.”

  “But…?”

  “I think they are worried about us conducting the investigation and uncovering more about this Englishman, Douglas Phillips. Would he get re-elected if it were known he came here and what he came for? Would any disclosure to the newspapers affect relations between our two countries?”

  Stuart laughed. “Oh we have plenty of scandals. We’re not quite as liberal our French neighbours. I believe affairs are a badge of honour over the channel. No, what we do is send the culprit on gardening leave for a year or two and pull them back on board when the detail of the incident has been forgotten. If it’s serious misconduct, they set up an independent review that takes five years to report back.”

  “You sound cynical about your government, DI Doyle. Ah, here is dinner. No more talk until after we have eaten.” He waited for the waitress to place the sizzling large black dish in the middle of the table. “Otra botella de vino, por favor.”

  Gomez looked towards Doyle. “They say you should have white with seafood, but I think red is a lot nicer. I can get you a bottle of white if you want one.”

  “Red is fine by me. I wasn’t going to drink alcohol tonight, but why not?”

  Gomez pointed to the serving spoon and gestured for Doyle to go first.

  The wine bottle was empty by the time they picked up the conversation about the investigation.

  “Am I sensing you want to investigate this unofficially?” asked Doyle.

  “Where are they? They are not here asking questions.”

  “I see.”

  “Are they talking to you?”

  “I think you know the answer to that one.”

  “I do not
care to bring down an English politician. If a man can do his job well, then he can screw whom he wishes in his own time. I am not sexist. The same should be said for a woman. All I want is justice for Rosita. I am going to help you with your enquiries into the death of your English woman. In return you may help me find the person who killed Rosita Ortega.”

  “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Suits me. And I will be surprised if both victims were not killed by the same person.”

  “You must understand though, if the Nationals turn up here to investigate, you are just a tourist.”

  “An English policeman on holiday, alone and in the middle of nowhere. They might see through that one.”

  “Where does it say on your passport that you are a policeman? Nowhere.”

  “They could check.”

  “They will not, not if you leave and stay in Granada until I call you.”

  “I think you’ve have had a lot longer to think about this than I have. What have you done so far?”

  “Nothing since I was put back on normal duties. The people we need to interview have already been interviewed once at least. It would not have been good for me to interview them, and then for you interview them a day or two later. No, we are a team, we work together.”

  Doyle leant forward and held out his hand. The two men shook hands for the second time that evening. “ We are a team,” he said, with a look of optimism on his face.

  The next morning DI Doyle was sitting on the end of his bed in room twenty-four. His mobile was pressed to his ear.

  “Hi George. How are things your end?”

  “Suspicious.”

  “Explain.”

  “No, you go first,” said Collins.

  “Well, the Englishman who was involved in the case over here is a junior minister called Douglas Phillips. The investigation got moved well up from a local level and as we know the shutters came down. I happen to know the evidence proved him to be an innocent man who came here to drop his trousers.”

  “You happen to know. Don’t play games Stuart.”

  “I’m not sir. My guy is talking to me but it is not official.”

  “What else?”

  “Not a lot really. The murder victim here was drowned in her own swimming pool, taped to the wrong side of a large lilo. Best estimates now suggest she was under the chlorinated water for between two and three weeks. Probably nearer to three.”

  “I guess she was a bit wrinkly when they pulled her out,” chortled Collins.

  “The other thing I can tell you is that the woman had a party close to the time she died. It seems it was what one might call an open-minded party.”

  “I knew sex would be entwined in this somewhere. Give me a good old fashioned bank robbery any day.”

  Not that old gripe again, thought Doyle. “So, that’s it at this end for now. I’ll email you later when I’ve turned over a few Spanish stones.”

  “No, phone my mobile again. More secure.”

  “They haven’t pulled the shutters down back there have they?”

  “No, but I think they might if they knew what you were up to. The thing is, when I went to pull the files, they were not there. They’re back now, but someone’s been copying them without going through the usual channels. There’s more to this than meets the eye. Keep turning those Spanish steps and I’ll do some digging this end.”

  “Stones, George.”

  “God, where did steps come from? Anyway, keep looking into those Spanish eyes and I’ll start by having a sniff at this politician. What did you say his name was? Douglas Phillips?”

  “That’s right. I can tell you he is an estranged womaniser.” Doyle knew he was setting Collins up for one of his stupid comments.

  “Estranged womaniser,” he chuckled, “sounds painful.”

  “Tread carefully George.”

  “I always do when I am in a minefield. Speak to you later.”

  “Right you are. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Chapter 9

  Collins had spent the previous evening going through the files connected with Alice Evans’ fall from her apartment. He was convinced Hasem was the man. He was there in her flat the morning she went over the balcony. He spied on someone from the hotel room in Spain. It took little extrapolation to conclude that it was Rosita Ortega he was observing. He set DS Harrington the task of checking if Hasem was in Spain at the beginning of April.

  His next job was to phone down to Sergeant Foster.

  “DCI Collins here. Is WPC Armstrong on an early shift by any chance?”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you already know the answer to that one?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?”

  “There’s no point debating the issue,” said a resigned-sounding Foster. “When do you want her?”

  “Nine. That way we will avoid the rush hour traffic and give Harrington time to find a few things out for me.”

  “Nine it is. Anything else?”

  “No puke on the seats would be good,” chuckled Collins.

  “As long as you don’t mind a drop or two of blood, it shouldn’t be a problem.” Foster quickly hung up.

  “If you’re not careful, it’ll be your blood,” said Collins, knowing he could not be heard. He leant back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “Still, that was a job well done.” A satisfied smile broke out across his face.

  Collins was going through Hasem’s original statement one more time when Harrington knocked on the door.

  “Come in Chas.”

  “Ah. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Spit it out.”

  “No luck sir. If Hasem went to Spain, he flew under the radar.”

  “Bugger. I was convinced he would have been out there when this Ortega woman copped it. Had he been anywhere else out of the country?”

  “No.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll see what he has to say later.”

  “Are you pulling him in then?”

  “No, I am going to surprise him when he walks out of his ten o’clock lecture at eleven. Make sure we’ve got a cell free would you. Tell the custody sergeant to transfer someone if he has to.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “It’s got to be him hasn’t it? Proving it might be a problem, but it’s him alright. If not, he knows who did it. One way or another, we will need an empty cell.”

  Armstrong was sitting in the car with the engine running when Collins arrived in the yard at nine o’clock on the dot.

  “Good morning WPC Armstrong, good to see you again.”

  “Good morning sir. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so sir, you look like a man who hasn’t had much sleep.”

  “If I sleep I only end up dreaming about the case, and then I can’t separate reality from surreality.”

  “Is that a real word?”

  “Of course reality is a real word.”

  “I give up, where to?”

  “The LSE. I’m going to have another word with that lecturer. Do you remember him?”

  “Hasem. I remember sir. I keep a diary.” She manoeuvred the car out of the yard gates. “Not much else to do other than household chores when I get home, so I write up my diary.”

  “You don’t write confidential stuff in it, do you?”

  “I’m not daft, I have thought of the fact that a burglar could nick it.”

  “Good.” He stroked his chin. “Good.”

  “What time do we need to get you there by?”

  “Oh, we don’t need the blues if that’s what you mean. I would like to be inside the building by a quarter-to-eleven.”

  “Ah well, we should have time to pop down to their cafeteria and get you a bite of breakfast. I assume you’ve survived on coffee alone this morning?”

  “Tea, I’m more of a tea man.”

  “But you haven’t eaten?” She flicked her eyes his way
and then back to the road.

  “No. No, I haven’t.”

  “Promise me you’ll at least have a bacon roll, or some toast.”

  “I promise…” He had nearly added ‘mum’ to the end of the sentence but pulled himself back just in time.

  Armstrong curled her tongue over her bottom lip and decided to not speak again unless she was spoken to.

  The next time Collins did speak to her it was to say: “What was wrong with that space?”

  “It says pro-vice-chancellor on the wall.”

  “Sod this for a game of soldiers. Go park in his space. It’s April, he will have started his summer holiday by now.”

  “There you go again sir, sexism. It could be a woman.”

  “I’ll wager a breakfast roll on it, we’ll check when we get inside.”

  “No sir, you’re probably right. Just try to look like a pro-vice-chancellor when you get out of the car.”

  “I can look down my nose at people as well as the next man can.”

  “There you go sir, we’ve landed. Am I coming with you?”

  “No point you sitting out here. And besides, I would like you there when we arrest the bastard.”

  “It’s a good job I shined my cuffs up then.”

  “Come on. It’s time to be serious. And you’re right, I do need a bit of breakfast inside me if I’m going to be on the ball. If you can say one thing about this Hasem guy, he’s a clever chap, that’s for sure.”

  “You’ll match him all the way, don’t worry.”

  “Oh I don’t worry. I don’t usually balls things up, but when it happens, you just have to dust yourself down again. If they had someone better than me to do this job, then they would be the one walking into this building on a gloomy April morning, not me. People used to moan about Tim Henman, but he was by far the best tennis player we had at the time, as simple as that. Ignoring Canadians that is. But even then…”

  “I think I get your drift sir. After you.”

  “Sorry, was I rambling?”

  “A bit.”

  Collins insisted on paying for both bacon rolls and both hot drinks. Armstrong allowed him to do so with minimal protest.

  After they had finished their breakfast, Armstrong bought them both a glass of orange juice while Collins was out using the loo.