The phone rang.
It was a time of the morning when people frequently tried to pass on their troubles …
The phone ceased ringing. As the old adage said, Forget trouble and trouble will forget you.
Except that some troubles were too serious to be forgotten. Neither he nor Jaime had said anything to Dolores that could have offended – they had long since learned to keen their opinions of women’s strange foibles to themselves. Isabel and Juan had recently been unusually well-behaved …
The phone resumed ringing. Trouble may forget you, but never for long enough. It could, of course, be the superior chief – a typically suspicious Madrileño – checking he was hard at work … He answered the call.
‘Are you the inspector?’ a woman asked, her speech hurried. ‘The doctor says you’re to come right away.’
When a man became a doctor, he often thought himself ennobled. ‘What gives him that idea?’
‘What idea?’
‘That he can order me around.’
There was a long pause. ‘The señor’s dead.’
The speaker’s distressed confusion was clear and his tone became more friendly. ‘Tell me his name.’
‘Señor Zavala.’
‘And the doctor who’s examined him believes there is cause for doubting he died a natural death?’
Another silence. ‘All I know is, he told me to ring the Cuerpo.’
‘Are you speaking from the señor’s house?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where is it and what’s its name?’
‘Son Fuyell. It’s in Cardona Valley.’
‘That lies outside my area,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘If you ring Inspector Catany…’
‘But I did. He said to get in touch with you because you’d deal with things.’
Catany was one of those men who was forever trying to avoid doing his duty. ‘The best thing to do is to get back on to him and explain that Cardona Valley lies within his area.’
‘He said this was your responsibility because the house is on the east side of the valley.’
He’d forgotten that the line dividing the fiefs ran along the centre of the valley. ‘What’s the doctor’s name?’ he asked, his tone expressing his annoyance.
‘I … I’ve forgotten. I mean, it’s all been such a shock. There was me and Susana doing the work as usual and Lorenzo comes in and says the señor’s dead. I thought it was just one of his nasty jokes and –’
He interrupted the breathless flow of words. ‘Tell the doctor I’ll be along as soon as possible.’
He replaced the receiver, looked at his watch. Merienda time. He made his way downstairs, where he spoke to the duty cabo. ‘If anyone wants me, tell ’em I’ve been called out.’
‘To the nearest bar?’
Cabos were not only becoming younger, they were growing ever more insolent.
In the Club Llueso, the barman, without being asked, poured out a brandy and passed the glass across, then clamped a measure of coffee on to the espresso machine.
Alvarez crossed to a window table and sat. He lit a cigarette and stared at the tourists who were making their way up or down the steps which joined the two levels of the square. Two attractive young women, wearing bikini tops and very short shorts, came down the steps. He could remember the time when it had been exciting to gain a flashing glimpse of the flesh above the knee. Little more than twenty years before, girlie magazines brought into the country by tourists had been forfeited by the airport guardia (who had enjoyed the photographs), yet now one could go into many newsagents and openly buy magazines and videos that amazed one’s imagination …
The barman put a cup of coffee on the table. ‘You look like you’ve lost something.’
‘My youth.’
‘If you ever find it, let us know how to do the same.’
Alvarez poured the remaining brandy into the coffee. ‘You can fill this up again.’ He held out the glass.
‘That won’t help you get any younger.’
‘But it’ll make getting older seem less painful.’
* * *
The range of mountains which stretched from west to east was often referred to as the backbone of the island; accepting that description, then Cardona Valley, whose mouth was almost a kilometre from the village of Cardona, lay between two of the ribs (which numbered very many more than twelve). The valley ended at the base of a nine-hundred-metre mountain and so offered access to nowhere; the soil was poor and mostly rocky and there were few farms. It was a place of solitude and there could be few greater contrasts than between there and the concrete jungles which engulfed much of the coast.
Alvarez drove into the valley, past rocks which had been striated by the weather and had the surfaces of a washboard. He slowed, enjoying the nearly empty land and the stark mountain faces. Here was a land and a way of life that had been lost elsewhere.
The narrow, dusty road hugged the eastern side of the valley and the few farms he passed were to his left. His sense of peace became disturbed as he wondered if Inspector Catany had pulled a fast one on him? If so …
An elaborate gateway with wrought-iron gates – barbarically anomalous in such surroundings – appeared to his right and on each gatepost was the name Son Fuyell. At this point in the valley, the east side was lower and far less precipitous than the west side and the dirt track from the gateway passed a small copse of trees before it climbed fairly easily up to a plateau, in the centre of which was a very large house. He parked behind another car and climbed out on to the drive. If he were called on to design heaven, this would be how it would look. To the west, mountains, their jagged crests cutting into the sky; to the north, more mountains, each slightly higher than the one in front, so that they resembled a child’s drawing; to the east, hills that flowed away; to the south, a view of the central plain and, if one had imagination, the distant sea. And if such natural beauty were not enough, there was a breeze, so slight it hardly ruffled the hairs on his head, yet sufficient to lessen the worst of the heat.
He crossed to the front door, set under an elegant porch, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a young woman whose red eyes and strained expression testified to a disturbed emotional state. She said nothing, just stared at him. He introduced himself, stepped inside. The large hall, cool thanks to air-conditioning, was remarkable for four large, framed paintings which to him were such a meaningless jumble of shapes and colours that he felt certain they were by some highly regarded artist. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a nasty shock,’ he said comfortingly.
It had been a terrible shock. There’d been no sight of the señor, but neither she nor Susana had thought anything of that; then Lorenzo had arrived at the house to say the señor was at the bottom of the pool … She began to cry.
Alvarez consoled her as best he could, and when she’d regained some self-control, he asked her where the doctor was. She did not know. ‘Perhaps he’s by the pool. What’s my best way of getting there?’
To the south of the house, the land sloped gently for a couple of hundred metres before it dived away, and the swimming pool, backed by a considerable complex on one side, was several metres lower. As he crossed the lawn, he could look down and see that a man, dressed in a light-coloured linen suit, was seated in the shade of the main area of the complex. When the other turned, he recognized him. Definitely not his lucky day!
‘You’ve finally managed to get here?’ was Dr Sanz’s greeting.
‘I’m afraid I was delayed…’
‘I have been waiting more than an hour and a quarter.’
‘It was very important…’
‘My time is far too valuable to waste.’
Doctors, especially those like Sanz, considered their time to be more valuable than rubies. ‘Señor Zavala drowned in the pool?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘I haven’t yet had time to look…’
‘Time clearly has no priority for you.’
‘Why do you think this may not have been an accident?’
‘I have expressed no such thought.’
‘But since you’ve called me here…’
‘Because of the facts.’
‘What facts are those?’
‘Have you not spoken to the staff?’
‘Not yet. It seemed best to speak to you first so that you wouldn’t be held here any longer than absolutely necessary.’
Sanz looked at him with sharp dislike. ‘Yesterday evening, the younger maid saw a car drive down to the road at a speed that was obviously reckless. Since there may be considerable significance in that fact, I deemed it advisable for the Cuerpo to be present when the body is recovered and examined.’
Alvarez rubbed his chin and discovered that he had forgotten to shave that morning. ‘Where was she when she saw the car?’
‘It is not my job to question her.’
‘What sort of time was this?’
‘I can only repeat what I have just said in the hope that you will eventually understand.’
Alvarez took a pace forward towards the edge of the pool, came to a stop when Sanz said: ‘Do you see the chair, there?’ He pointed at the painted metal patio chair that lay on its side. ‘There’s a stain on it which is almost certainly dried blood.’
Alvarez crossed to the chair. Near the centre of the top of the back was a dull, rust-coloured, shapeless stain that continued round and out of sight where the chair was in contact with the tiled ground. Blood changed colour quickly in hot sun. ‘I’ll check if it is blood,’ he said, hoping that the doctor would resent this implied doubt.
He walked on to the edge of the pool. At the bottom of the deep end lay a man, dressed in sleeveless shirt and flannel trousers, face downwards, one arm outstretched, the other tucked under himself. His long brown hair was spread out and gave the disturbing impression of a halo. Alvarez mentally shivered. To look at death was to see one’s future … He spoke to Sanz who had left the shade and joined him. ‘I’ll call the guardia to come and retrieve the body, then you can make a preliminary examination.’
‘I can’t waste any more time here. Strip off and get it out.’
‘I would, but orders say that bodies not readily accessible have to be recovered by the special unit.’ There was no such bureaucratic regulation, but Alvarez was betting that Sanz would not know that.
CHAPTER 5
Photographs had been taken, the area had been searched – nothing of any significance had been found – and Sanz had completed his examination of the body.
‘There is every reason to believe he died from drowning, despite the wound to his head,’ Sanz said, having returned from washing his hands in the small bathroom to the right of the pool complex. ‘There’s the fine froth in the nostrils and mouth which I pointed out – a common mark of drowning.’
Death was unnerving, its marks even more so. Alvarez stared longingly at the many bottles on the shelf behind the bar.
‘Petechiae are absent, which again points to drowning. But to be certain as to the cause of death, naturally you will await the results of the PM.’
‘Can you give a time of death?’
‘Between seven and nine last night. A figure which I hope you can appreciate is little more than an educated estimate when the body has been immersed in water at a temperature of around thirty degrees.’
‘And you don’t think the head wound was serious?’
‘Kindly do not keep putting words into my mouth. I said that although the skin was torn and there had been generous bleeding, I did not believe the skull had been fractured or that he had been rendered unconscious. However, the effect or effects of injury sustained to the skull are virtually impossible to evaluate in the absence of a PM.’ Sanz paused. ‘Indeed, it is not long since I treated a man who’d fallen from a bicycle and seemed to be suffering from no more than a twisted ankle and slight bruising of the skull. There was no reason to suspect his injury was any more serious than that. No reason whatsoever.’
Alvarez thought that this emphasis might well indicate a mistaken diagnosis. Even Homer nodded.
There was a long pause before Sanz, a note of annoyance in his voice, confirmed Alvarez’s suspicions. ‘Later, while working, he collapsed and died. The autopsy showed a large clot of blood had accumulated beneath the skull at the site of the bruise. Naturally, you will appreciate that there was absolutely no way of predetermining the possibility.’
Alvarez uneasily remembered a stumble on the stairs he had suffered a week previously. Although his head had hit the wall, it had not done so with sufficient force even to raise a small bump. But clearly there were dangers to the slightest blow. How long did the threat of a blood clot continue?
‘Have you made arrangements for the body to be transported to the Institute?’ Sanz asked curtly, annoyed by Alvarez’s gaucherie in not expressing a certainty that there could not possibly have been the slightest lack of professional skill.
‘They should be here any minute.’
‘Then finally I can leave.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind telling me something?’
‘Which is?’
‘Your judgement of what might have happened.’
‘I never speculate.’ Sanz picked up his medical bag and left.
Alvarez stared at the fallen chair. If Zavala had fallen on to it, as seemed likely, what had caused him to trip? The doctor doubted he’d been knocked unconscious, but he might have been dazed and staggered across the patio to tumble into the pool. But on a level with the chair, the water was no deeper than one metre twenty. However dazed, surely an instinctive self-preservation would have made certain he stood up?
* * *
Two men bundled the dead man into a body bag. The younger looked up the gently sloping land. ‘We ought to have brought the van down here.’
‘Take life more quietly at night and you’d have some energy for the morning,’ said the elder man. ‘Come on, get moving.’
They picked up the bag and left. Alvarez envied them their lack of reverential fear for death.
He made his way up to the front door and arrived in time to see the van drive off. The front door was unlocked and he opened it, stepped into the hall, and called out. Susana, a middle-aged woman, came through the doorway to the right. Initially, her manner was constrained – she had a typical islander’s distrust of authority – but Alvarez’s easy, friendly manner, and the fact that his accent marked him as a local, quickly gained her confidence.
‘You’d best come into the kitchen so as I can make some coffee.’
He followed her through a doorway, along a short passage, and into a kitchen, notable for its size and wealth of domestic machines. He sat in the small eating area and, as she prepared the coffee machine, listened with the endless patience of a peasant as she repeatedly told him how shocked she and Inés had been when Lorenzo had rushed into the house and told them the señor was at the bottom of the swimming pool. At first, they’d thought he was joking. He had a cruel sense of humour. There was the time he’d told Inés he’d taken a photo of her and sent it to a magazine. Why was that cruel? The señor had been away, the day had been hotter than ever and Inés had decided to go for a swim. Being of the younger generation, lacking both a sense of shame and a costume, she’d stripped off and swum naked. Lorenzo, who never missed a thing, had seen her when he’d returned from the other end of the property where he was mending a fence. He was certain the magazine would pay heavily for such delightful snaps. Inés had called him many names before he finally admitted he was joking and said he hadn’t realized she wasn’t just swimming topless like so many did. But one had only to have seen the gleam in his eyes to know that he’d seen more than he was now admitting …
Susana opened a tin and put some biscuits on a plate, carried the plate over to where Alvarez sat. ‘I made these yesterday for the señor, but he won’t be eating them now, God rest his soul.’
The coffee machine hissed and she lifted it off t
he stove, poured the contents into two mugs. After putting milk and sugar on the table, she sat opposite him.
He asked her why it was that neither she nor Inés had been surprised not to have seen Zavala in the morning, since it was quite late before his body had been discovered.
‘It’s like this. I live in the staff house that’s out of sight on the other side of the hill – I reckon it was built there so as no one could tell what was going on here. Inés is with her parents in the village and Lorenzo has his own finca. So I’m around early in the morning, but the señor used to get up at all times and he might want breakfast, he might not. We never knew when to expect to see him. Didn’t think anything when there was no sign of him. And to think he was at the bottom of the pool!’ She sucked in her breath in a gesture of shocked surprise.
‘What kind of a man was he to work for?’
‘Same as most,’ she answered carefully.
He smiled. ‘Difficult?’
‘I’ve never met one that wasn’t some of the time. But I suppose he wasn’t too bad for a foreigner, if one takes everything into account.’
‘He wasn’t Spanish?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I’ve not had the chance to find out things yet. Where was he from?’
‘South America. Couldn’t miss it when he spoke.’ Her tone was critical. Like distant relations, South Americans were condemned for faults that could seldom be specified.
‘Which country?’
‘Bolivia.’
‘How long has he lived here?’
‘A year, maybe a little more. He bought the place from the family of a German who had it built and then died suddenly. Not a lucky house.’
The Ambiguity of Murder Page 3