The Spanish Hotel

by Gary Philpott

  “Tell me Alfonso. Did you look through your telescope for Señora Ortega later that day?”

  “Yes. After my siesta, about three o’clock.”

  “But you did not see her?”

  “No. The two water beds were floating in the pool.”

  “Can I have another look through your telescope?”

  Alfonso suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Por que?”

  “I just want to check on something?”

  “Five minutes. Sit please.” Alfonso got up and left the room.

  “What are you thinking Stuart?” asked Gomez.

  “I am just wondering what he has gone to hide.”

  “Magazines, DVDs. It will be something like that. Why do you want to look through his telescope?”

  “Well, if Señora Ortega was taped to a blue lilo with blue tape, would you notice it if she was under the water at the time?”

  “The answer is clear. No. More than one person will have looked at that airbed floating in the pool. None of them spotted anything suspicious, otherwise we would have found the body earlier.”

  “Good point. It would only be a fleeting glimpse though wouldn’t it,” stated Doyle. “Why look closely at an empty lilo?”

  “What is to be gained from looking through Alfonso’s telescope?”

  “Probably nothing. But there’s nothing to lose either. Can I backtrack a little? You checked out everyone Ortega danced with or socialised with that Thursday night?”

  “Yes, it was not hard, I know them all personally. There was no conflict between any of their statements.”

  “Were there any strangers in the bar that night?”

  “It is a hotel, there are always strangers.” He blew a sharp blast of air out through his nose and shrugged. “There are few alternatives in a village like this. All five guests, two couples and a single woman, were in the bar that night. All five had left the village before the murder.”

  “Assuming the murder was when?”

  “After the Monday morning.”

  The door to the sitting room opened. “I am ready for you now,” said Alfonso.

  The two police officers stood up and followed him into his bedroom.

  Doyle looked through the telescope first. Police tape was still surrounding Ortega’s property. He could just about focus on the blue and white stripes. He lifted up his head and said: “Have a look at the stripes on the tape. What do you think?”

  Gomez looked down into the eyepiece. “Just about noticeable, if you look closely.”

  “And if you didn’t look closely?”

  “You would assume it was white and blue, but… I don’t know. As I say no one noticed, this does not tell us anything we do not know already.”

  “It confirms Ortega could have been dead before three in the afternoon on that first Monday. If she were alive on Monday morning, her killer was at that villa on Monday.”

  “The autopsy has yet to confirm the time of death.”

  “I don’t think we need the autopsy.”

  “Explain.”

  “Later, in private.” He looked at Alfonso.

  “I leave?”

  “No. Take me down and show me your guest book.”

  “If you insist.”

  On the way down the stairs Doyle said: “Alfonso, do you remember the man that was here with Alice Evans last year? If you remember, his name was Hasem.”

  “Yes. I remember him.”

  “Have you seen him again?”

  “No.”

  “So as far as you know, he has not been back to the village?”

  “There is nowhere else for him to stay. I would know.”

  “He could have stayed in town, or even in Malaga.”

  “Granada is closer,” injected Gomez.

  Alfonso opened the door to the bar for them. “A small beer maybe?”

  “Yes please,” said Gomez.

  Doyle took the guest register a glum-looking Alfonso was holding up for him. He laid it on the bar and turned to the pages for early April. There were three rooms occupied that first weekend.

  “There are no passport numbers here,” stated Doyle.

  “All guests were Spanish.”

  Doyle looked at Gomez. “Do you know if all these people were checked?”

  “None of them were traceable as far as I know. Maybe they have done so by now, but not to my knowledge. I will check on that.”

  “This is bloody affairs again, isn’t it?”

  Alfonso pursed his lips and nodded apologetically.

  “I think these two couples were together.” Gomez pointed at the names next to rooms twenty-one and twenty-two. “They left at the same time on the Sunday afternoon. We got no further than a quick computer check before we were taken off the case. The computer drew a blank for the addresses given.”

  “And these two?”

  “The man did not arrive. The woman left early Monday morning.”

  Alfonso put their beers down on the bar. “She enjoyed herself without her man.”

  “By enjoy herself, do you mean she had a lot of sex?”

  “Oh yes,” smiled Alfonso. “Pepé, people at the party. I think even I could have had her if I had wanted to.”

  “How about the checks on her Juan?”

  “Another blank.” Gomez picked up his beer. “Martinez is a very common Spanish name. Almost as common as mine,” he grinned.

  “Maybe Moroccan,” said Alfonso.

  To Doyle the word Moroccan conjured up images of dope. “What about Moroccan?”

  “La Señorita, she may have been Moroccan.”

  “You said they were all Spanish.”

  “Señor Martinez Spanish. Señora Martinez no speak Spanish. We speak English. I think she was Moroccan with a Spanish husband.”

  “I am starting to doubt she even had a husband.” Doyle sighed and took two gulps from his glass. “Good old Pepé is the man to talk to about her is he?”

  “I have him lined up for seven at La Bodega,” said Gomez. “His sister is coming with him.”

  “Good. Did we not get any car registration numbers for these people?”

  “Two white cars, a Peugeot and a Seat. The other car was a blue Opel. No numbers for any of them. We know the Opel and the Peugeot were used by the foursome while they were here, but we are not sure who was driving which car. The woman on her own drove the Seat. Hundreds of these type of cars are hired every day at Malaga airport, Alicanti airport, Murçia airport, Madrid…”

  “I get the picture,” Doyle could not disguise his anger. “Okay, let’s give ourselves some thinking time. Why don’t we finish these at a table?” he lifted up his glass.

  Gomez gave Doyle the five minutes thinking time he seemed to need. Then he asked, “Can I tell you what I think you are thinking?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If we assume Ortega was under the airbed and therefore dead when Douglas Phillips stayed at the villa, she died before the Thursday of the first week of April. She was alive on Monday morning. That reduces the window down to between Monday and Thursday of that week. Is that why you said we do not need an autopsy report to tell us the time of death?”

  “It is. I also think the washing up from the party still being in the kitchen narrows it down even more. You knew the woman, would she have left it there for days?”

  “No.”

  “Did she miss any meetings that week?”

  “I have been told that she did not miss anything important.”

  “But she never went to work on the Tuesday or Wednesday?”

  “I don’t think so, I can put that on my list of things to check.”

  “Sorry Juan. I am talking to you like you headed up the initial investigation.”

  “That is good. If you ask me something I do not know the answer to, I put it on my list.”

  “And you will ask a friend?”

  “Yes. I can ask. I may not get an answer, but I can ask.”

  “Well ask, why did her company
not report her absence from work? It was three weeks after all.”

  “I will add it to my list, but I think I know the answer. She was a very mobile lady. From what I, umm, how do you say it? Gather?”

  “Yes, gather.”

  “From what I gather, she only attended high-level, deal-clinching meetings. The rest of her work was done from numerous places by email or telephone.”

  “Ask the question anyway. It might throw up something.”

  “I will.”

  “The washing up? Do you think Pepé’s sister might shine some light on that?”

  “Jessinia? Possibly.”

  “Juan, let me give you another thing to put on your list. Motive. Without a possible motive, we are flapping in the wind here.”

  “Huh, I like your expressions. Flapping in the wind.”

  “Well, if we had a possible motive we might know where to focus our investigation. We have an approximate time of death. We know how she was killed. A motive might well point us in the right direction to find the killer. Motive, that’s our priority. Put it at the top of your list.”

  “Señora Ortega was a good woman. I can think of no reason why someone would murder her.”

  “But someone did. And it was not a heat of the moment thing. This was pre-meditated murder. There must have been a pretty strong motive. She upset someone big time.”

  “Yes, you are right.”

  Chapter 11

  It was five-fifteen when Armstrong placed a mug of tea down on the bedside table and shook his shoulder. Collins looked shocked as he stared up at her.

  “Bugger, did I nod off?”

  “About three hours ago.”

  “Crikey, we best be getting back to the station.”

  “I’ve taken the squad car back. That’s why I’m back in my police clobber. You looked like you were having nice dreams, so I left you here.”

  He sat up in the bed. “I didn’t go straight to sleep afterwards, did I?”

  “Almost, but you didn’t disappoint.”

  “Pleased to hear it. Is that tea for me?”

  “Who else would it be for, you old fool?”

  “Crikey, it must be getting late. What time is it in Spain?”

  “Just after six I think.”

  He was about to jump out of bed but the fact that he was naked made him think better of it. “Pass me my mobile would you? It’s in my jacket pocket, wherever my jacket is.”

  “I hung it over the back of my chairdrobe. Drink your tea and I’ll get your phone for you.”

  Collins nearly said there was no such thing as a chairdrobe, but he had other things to worry about.

  “There you go sir, one mobile phone.”

  “Don’t call me sir outside of work.”

  “Aaagh, don’t spoil it for me, I like calling you sir. You seemed to like it when I had my nurse’s outfit on.”

  “Mmm. Do I need the Spanish code if I’m calling an English mobile that happens to be in Spain?”

  “No sir. Well I don’t think so.”

  “Ah it’s ringing.”

  “Do you mind if I stay?” asked Armstrong.

  “No,” replied Collins, though he had not expected her to start taking her uniform off.

  “Hi George. I tried you earlier but I got no answer.”

  “Hi Stuart. I’ve been a bit busy this afternoon. Just so you know, I spoke with that Hasem chap earlier. It seems he was in England when the murder your end took place.”

  “I can add to that. He didn’t stay at the hotel here. Tell me, when you spoke to him, didn’t you even get a whiff of any involvement?”

  “No. Armstrong thinks it might be just a coincidence.” He looked her way. She was down to her underwear. Collins guessed it was not the usual underwear she wore under her uniform.

  “Armstrong? Who’s Armstrong?”

  “Ah, a WPC who drove me over to the LSE. She pointed out that you and I have probably been on holiday to a place prior to someone being murdered there. That doesn’t make us suspects.”

  “I don’t know about you George, but I don’t spy on people through a pair of binoculars for most of the week when I’m on holiday. And I’ve never been in a woman’s bed on the morning she was murdered.”

  “Aye, all that is true. All I am saying is that we should not jump to conclusions. Have you anything to report?”

  As Doyle answered, Armstrong stood at the end of her bed and whispered, “Should I keep going?”

  “Yes,” whispered Collins.

  “Sorry George. Yes?”

  “Can you say that again? The signal broke up.”

  “I was saying that I think this Spanish woman was murdered on the first Monday in April, but I may know more later.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “There are a few hotel guests to keep in the frame, particularly a woman who was here on her own. Though, it seems they were all here for sex in one form or another.”

  “Sex has got a lot to answer for.” He smiled at Armstrong.

  She threw her bra at him.

  “I’m just about to go and interview a brother and sister who get involved in the smutty stuff here. Oh, I didn’t tell you that. The murdered woman was at it as well. She hosted a sex party the weekend before she was killed. What I’m struggling to come up with is any form of motive. I’m starting to wonder if it’s corporate related. She was a high flyer in electrical component sales, the big stuff; power stations and the like. That may be how she got involved with our junior minister, Douglas Phillips. He may not have murdered her himself, but I haven’t totally ruled him out yet. He could have some involvement.”

  “That could explain why the files took a walk to the photocopier.”

  “Maybe, I’ll ask around. See if this Phillips guy has been here a lot.”

  “Stuart, if you’ve not got much more to tell me, I best save the taxpayer the cost of an international call.”

  “It sounds like you’ve been working too hard as usual. Make sure you get to bed early tonight, and I’ll phone you tomorrow.”

  “I will, bye.”

  “Bye.” Doyle pressed the red button on his phone. “Alfonso may be the man to ask. Don’t forget Doyley, don’t forget to ask him.”

  Chapter 12

  The three Spaniards were already at La Bodega when Doyle arrived. As he approached them the waitress skipped in front of him and pulled out the one remaining empty chair.

  “Thank you,” he said, as he dropped down into the chair and she moved it a few inches forward. “Good evening.” Doyle circled his eyes round the table, nodding to all three Spaniards in turn. Gomez and Pepé replied in English, Jessinia responded in Spanish.

  “I hope red meets with your approval,” said Gomez cheerily.

  “Thank you.” He raised the glass to Gomez and then took a sip of his wine. “Very nice. Is this the same as we had last night?”

  “It is from the same vineyard but a better year.”

  “Mmm, that is nice.” Doyle put the glass down.

  “I have suggested we discuss business before ordering dinner. That way we can enjoy our meal. Is that okay with you Stuart?”

  “Fine. Is English okay for everyone?”

  “I may need to translate odd bits for Jessinia,” said Pepé. “But that will be easier than keep translating our Spanish to English.”

  Doyle chuckled. “I think you’re right about that one.”

  “Would you like to kick things off Stuart?” Gomez lifted his glass to his lips.

  “Okay then. I would like to start by talking to you, Jessinia, about the party.”

  Jessinia smiled apprehensively and nodded.

  “After that I would like to focus on this woman you took to the party, Pepé.”

  “Kamela?”

  “Yes, Kamela. Jessinia, start by telling me about how these parties worked, who gets an invite, that sort of thing.”

  “Rosita telephones people. She telephoned me six weeks before the party. She also invite Pepé. R
osita always invites us.”

  “How frequent are these parties?”

  Jessinia looked blank.

  “How many parties are there in a year?”

  Pepé was about to answer for her but Jessinia beat him to it. “Last year, four. This party was the first this year.”

  “Am I right in thinking she waits for the beginnings of good weather?”

  “Yes. Between abril and septiembre.”

  “Were there strangers at the party? People you had not seen before?”

  “Half. There are always regulars. There are always new people.”

  “Did anyone behave badly?”

  Jessinia turned to Pepé for help. When he finished they both laughed and spoke in Spanish.

  “Jessinia said that is why people go to Señora Ortega’s party,” he smirked. “ To behave badly.”

  Doyle breathed out heavily. “But did anyone seem annoyed, or even slightly agitated?”

  “No. Everyone was having a good time,” said Pepé.

  Jessinia nodded her agreement.

  “What time did you leave Jessinia?”

  “Before four. Possibly three-thirty.”

  “Did you say goodbye to Señora Ortega.”

  “She was busy.” Another apprehensive smile crossed her face. She dropped her eyes to the table. “Having sex.”

  Doyle looked at Pepé. “What time did you leave?”

  “I left with Jessinia and two other girls. I always see Jessinia safely home. I also walked Ivette and Bonita home. Bonita lives on the road up the hill and Ivette not too far from us.”

  “And Señora Ortega was having sex?”

  “Yes. An older gentleman was doing her doggie on the sofa. Kamela was also involved.”

  “Kamela?”

  “Yes. She was sitting on the sofa with a man’s face between her legs. Kamela was groping Rosita while the other man fucked her.”

  The waitress glanced over.

  “All willing participants?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I will come back to this Kamela woman later. But Jessinia, am I right in thinking you often helped Señora tidy up after a party?”

  Pepé translated the question.

  “Yes. Usually late on Sunday. She pay me well, I like to help.”

  “Did you help this time?”

  “No. Rosita did not telephone. I did not go.”