Bibiloni stood with studied elegance. He was dressed in lilac-coloured shirt and light green linen trousers. He was tall, slim, sleekly handsome, and very self-assured. ‘You’ve come about the car that crashed?’
‘That’s right.’ Alvarez’s reaction was as immediate as it was irrational—he disliked the man. ‘Did the hirer pay by credit card or cash?’
‘Cash.’
‘Why isn’t there any record of the hiring?’
‘There is.’
‘The person I spoke to yesterday . . .’
‘Dear Tania,’ said Bibiloni languidly. ‘A simply charming person, but so inclined to muddle. She failed to look in the right place.’
Ten to one, thought Alvarez uncharitably, there was some sort of fiddle going on; probably Bibiloni diverted cash into his own pocket. It wouldn’t be difficult, provided he’d got his hands on an extra supply of forms. If there were no queries, the cash stayed with him and there was no official record of the hiring; if there was, he simply ‘found’ the copy of the hiring contract and the money, carefully put on one side . . .
‘Is there anything more?’
Alvarez jerked his thoughts back to the present. ‘I’d like to have a look at it.’
‘Presumably, you’re referring to the copy of the hiring agreement?’ Bibiloni turned, crossed to the desk, took a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the drawers, brought out a folder from which he extracted two carbon copies, one of which he handed over.
Alvarez read. Steven Thompson. Address on the island, Hotel Verde, Gala Orana; passport number, C 229570 A; English driving licence number, 255038 ST16KD; date of hiring, 14th to 17th May. He looked up. ‘Do you remember this hiring?’
‘Of course.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had he flown from Britain?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘He didn’t mention where he’d come from?’
‘No. Only that it was warmer here.’
‘Which makes it sound as if he had come from Britain?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Did he mention why he was only going to be on the island for four days?’
‘No.’
‘What luggage did he have?’
‘A small suitcase and one of those executive briefcases.’
‘Then he might have been here on business?’
‘Why not?’
‘Did he speak Spanish well?’
‘Since I am fluent in English, that is what we spoke; it’s so much easier than listening to someone mispronouncing everything.’
Alvarez returned the copy of the hiring agreement. ‘Make certain this doesn’t disappear again until my inquiries are completed.’
Bibiloni shrugged his shoulders, but his expression was now watchful rather than supercilious.
Alvarez left and walked out through the west doors. The sky was cloudless and the sun was hot and by the time he reached his car he was sweating. Too much alcohol, too many cigarettes, and too much food; he must remember his resolution to cut back on all three, he thought, as he unlocked the driving door and sat, then hurriedly opened his window and turned on the fan because the interior of the ancient Seat 600 was like an oven. He picked up the pack of cigarettes on the front passenger seat and lit one, remembered his decision of only minutes before, decided that it would be a terrible waste to throw the cigarette away.
He drove on the autoroute until it came to an end, then continued along the Paseo Maritimo, the wide, elegant road which ringed the bay and gave a quick route to the west side of Palma and the succession of concrete jungles which had done so much to ruin what had once been one of the most beautiful bays in the Mediterranean.
Cala Orana had originally been a small bay with a wide, curving beach that was backed by land of such poor quality that it had supported only scrub trees and undergrowth on which a few goats and hollow-ribbed sheep had browsed. It had escaped the first wave of development which had swept the island because the land had been left to two minors who were therefore unable to sell, even thought the price then offered had been very good. Their immediate loss became their ultimate gain. By the time both had attained their majority, the land they owned was worth many times its previous value because it was now one of the very last stretches of coastline undeveloped. They’d sold to a company whose directors had had more imagination and taste, if no less greed, than most of their competitors and the company had promoted an up-market development, aimed at attracting people who wanted to live or holiday within easy reach of Palma, but who were not prepared to suffer the sardine-ugliness of a Magalluf. Only two hotels and two appartment blocks were built and none of these was more than four floors high; on the rest of the land were medium to large luxurious villas, each in a plot of at least two thousand square metres. And, as an added bonus, all sewage pipes discharged into the next bay.
Hotel Verde was on the east side of the bay. Designed by a Brazilian architect, it was sharply modernistic in appearance, yet a certain restraint had made certain that it remained just in taste for a traditionalist; even the exterior green tiling, which had provided the pedestrian name, complemented rather than exaggerated. It was surrounded on three sides by a well-tended garden and on the fourth by the sand and the sea.
Parking was to the right of the main entrance and Alvarez drew in alongside a Mercedes 190E on tourist plates. He left his car, stared at the Mercedes and then at his 600 and sighed, climbed the steps up on to the patio and went through swing doors into a large foyer, cool and comfortable.
The reception desk was manned by two men, dressed in black coats and ties. He introduced himself to the elder and explained what he wanted. The receptionist had a word with the assistant manager, then showed Alvarez into the office behind the reception desk.
The assistant manager was tall for a Mallorquin, pale-faced, suggesting he seldom went out in the sun, and clearly somewhat harassed. He picked up a pencil and fiddled with it. ‘You’re trying to find out something about the unfortunate Señor Thompson? I’ll see if I can trace his booking.’ He swivelled his chair round to face a small desk-top computer and VDU. He tapped out a command on the keyboard and a string of names and dates, in vertical order, appeared on the screen. He leaned forward slightly to read, suggesting he needed glasses. ‘He stayed here on the fourteenth, just for the one night.’
‘How did he book?’
He deleted that list, entered another command and a second one appeared. He frowned. I wish the damned thing wouldn’t get so muddled up.’ He cleared the screen and summoned up a third list. ‘Booked by telephone. There was no confirmatory letter, but then the call was only two days prior to the booking.’
‘Have you any idea where he telephoned from?’
‘None.’
‘Did you meet him?’
‘I didn’t, no. In my job, I really only meet guests if they’re complaining about something and the desk can’t cool them down. Which is far too often.’
‘Would it be possible to have a word with whoever booked him in and also to see the register?’
The assistant manager stood and went to the doorway and called in the younger receptionist, who brought with him a large cloth-bound book. This, opened, he passed over. Alvarez read the penultimate entry. Steven Thompson, British passport number C 229570 A, registered from the 14th to the 15th. ‘Haven’t you had more than one other guest since he was here?’ he asked curiously.
‘Good heavens, yes! That’s the register for the independents; we naturally keep a separate one for the packages.’ His tone said far more than his words. They would have chosen to cater solely for the independent traveller, but the world had changed and now even the luxury hotels had to accept bookings from package holiday operators. But those which were staffed by persons who still appreciated the difference between quality and quantity maintained what standards they could.
Alvarez spoke to the receptionist, handing back the register as he did so. ‘D
o you remember Señor Thompson?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t really. You see, it was change-over day and there’s always trouble then.’
‘D’you think any of the other staff would be likely to remember him?’
The assistant manager answered. ‘The porter would have carried his bags . . . Who was on duty then?’
‘Servero, I think,’ said the receptionist.
‘See if you can find him, will you, and ask him to come in here. But before you go . . . Inspector, would you like a drink?’
‘A coñac would go down very well.’
‘And I’ll have my usual.’
The receptionist left and there was a short wait, then the porter, dressed in traditional waistcoat, entered the office, a tray in his hand. ‘I was told to bring this along in a hurry,’ he said, as he put the tray down on the desk. He was in his late fifties and had learned to perfection the art of insolent servility as found in most British hotels.
The assistant manager picked up the balloon glass of brandy and leaned across to pass it to Alvarez. ‘The Inspector wants to ask you a few questions,’ he said, just before he drank from the glass of still orangeade.
The porter’s expression became wary.
‘Do you remember Señor Thompson?’ Alvarez said. ‘He was here Monday night.’
‘He was an independent,’ said the assistant manager.
‘Ah! You must be talking about the gentleman who arrived in a white Ford Fiesta.’
‘He certainly was in a Fiesta,’ said Alvarez, ‘but I can’t say what the colour was.’
‘And his luggage was one small suitcase and a director’s case.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve a very good memory,’ said the porter complacently, apparently forgetting that initially he had appeared to be having difficulty in recalling the guest. ‘Beautiful quality luggage. Not like most of them who come here; plastic for them.’
‘You carried his luggage in?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Will you tell me exactly what happened from the moment you met him?’
The porter, intent on proving just how excellent his memory really was, spoke at length. He’d carried the luggage in and across to the desk. The señor, allocated Room 34, had registered. He’d taken the key and had led the way up to the third floor and along the right-hand corridor to the end room. He’d unlocked the door and ushered the señor inside. He’d casually remarked that this was the nicest room in the hotel. It always made a guest feel doubly welcome to be singled out for special attention; or to think he had been.
‘Was he talkative?’
‘Very friendly, not like some of the people we get here.’
‘Did you speak in Spanish or English?’
‘English.’
‘What did he talk about?’
‘This and that. I asked him if he’d been to the island before.’
‘Had he?’
‘Several times . . . D’you mind telling me a bit more of what this is all about? I mean, he was a real gent—you can’t mistake ‘em, not if you’ve been in the job as long as I have—so what’s the problem?’
‘Unfortunately, he’s been killed in a car crash and although we now know his name, we can’t find any reference that will enable us to contact his next-of-kin.’
‘There must be something written down in his papers.’
‘We don’t know for certain he was carrying any,’ said Alvarez patiently.
‘Then what d’you think was in his director’s case?’
‘We don’t know because we haven’t found it.’
‘Then what about his wallet?’
‘That was also missing . . . Did he comment on any of his previous visits? Did he suggest when they were or where he stayed?’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘D’you reckon he was deliberately avoiding any definite references?’
The porter, sharp but not particularly intelligent, was bewildered by the question and it had to be repeated in a different form before he answered: I wouldn’t have said he was.’
‘You learned nothing about his life?’
The porter scratched his neck. ‘Only how much he liked sailing.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘Because he talked about it and said as how it had been too squally for the past few days to take his boat out.’
‘He talked about “his” boat?’
‘That’s what I’ve just said.’
‘Anything more?’
‘No.’
‘If you should remember anything, get in touch, will you?’
‘I’ve told you everything; I’ve a good memory.’
‘Then thanks for all your help.’
The porter went over to the door, opened it, turned. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. He was a real gentleman.’ He went out.
The assistant manager spoke drily. ‘Obviously, the señor tipped him generously.’
Alvarez looked at his empty glass and wondered if the hotel would prove equally generous.
CHAPTER 4
Clinica Bahia, the smallest of the state hospitals in Palma, was situated on the eastern boundary of the city. It was an ugly slab of a building and inside little attempt had been made to brighten its image so that the gloomy reception area correctly set the scene. Plans either to replace or to modernize it were regularly updated, but never exercised. Yet despite this, the staff were efficient and cheerful and they usually managed to uplift a patient’s morale.
Alvarez took the lift to the fourth floor and then walked along the right-hand corridor to the small recess in which was a desk for the nursing staff and, on either side of this, wash- and store-rooms. A young nurse was working at some papers and he explained what he wanted.
‘Señor Higham? He’s in Room 413.’
He spoke with sharp surprise. ‘Then you have managed to find out his name?’
‘I didn’t because I don’t speak any English and his Spanish sounds like Portuguese.’ She grinned. ‘But Dr Bauza did post-graduate work in America and so he can speak English; he discovered the señor had recovered his memory.’
‘Has it fully returned?’
‘I couldn’t say exactly, but I think it must have done because Dr Bauza said he’s making a good recovery and ought to be able to leave quite soon.’
That’s good . . . All right if I have a chat with him?’
‘I don’t see why not. But if he starts looking tired, you’ll have to stop immediately.’
Most of the rooms on the floor contained four beds, but 413 had only two and the second one was empty. Higham was sitting up reading a paperback. A man in his middle forties, he had a round, plump face. A small, neat moustache, the same light brown as his hair, was set above a wide, cheerful mouth. The only visible signs that he had been in a car accident were the plaster on his right cheek and a bruise which stretched across his right chin.
Alvarez introduced himself, then said how delighted he was to find the other better.
‘No more delighted than I am, I can assure you!’ His voice was warm and tuneful. ‘These last few days have been like . . . The nearest I can get to it is, it’s been like having a spider’s web throttling my brain. I’ve kept struggling to get my thoughts lined up straight, but they just wouldn’t. Been rather frightening, really; a bit of me could still think and keep wondering if I’d gone round the twist. But, thank God, that’s all over and done with and now I can think as straight as I ever could, which maybe isn’t as straight as it ought to be . . .’ He laughed, then became serious. ‘Look, maybe you can tell me something. How’s the other man, the driver? No one here seems to know. I’ve got this very hazy idea that he must have been badly hurt . . .’
‘I am afraid that he died in the crash.’
‘My God!’ He fiddled with his moustache as he stared into the distance. ‘I didn’t realize things were that bad . . . I was lucky, then?’
‘Very lucky. And almost certainly beca
use you were not wearing your seat-belt so that you were thrown clear.’
‘You never know, do you? Wear a belt and save your life; don’t wear it and save your life.’
‘Do you feel strong enough to answer a few questions?’
‘I’m fine.’
Alvarez settled on the spare bed. ‘We’ve had a bit of a problem because until this morning no one knew who either you or the driver was.’
‘I don’t follow. I mean, I wasn’t sparking on all four cylinders, I know, but you’ve got my passport. And Steve must have had papers on him.’
‘There were no papers of any sort on either of you.’
‘But there must have been.’
‘I’m afraid not. Where was your passport?’
‘Everything like that was in my backpack. It was far too hot to wear a coat and papers and money aren’t safe in a trouser pocket . . . You’re not saying my money’s gone as well?’
‘We didn’t find any.’
‘You looked in the backpack?’
‘It was thoroughly searched.’
‘Christ! That just caps everything.’
‘Was your money in cash?’
‘Not very much. Most of it was in travellers’ cheques . . . Then I did hear someone and it wasn’t imagination!’
‘How d’you mean?’
Higham shook his head, as if to clear it; he spoke quickly. ‘The worst part was seeing what was going to happen and not being able to stop it. I tried to grab the wheel and steer us away, but it was no good. As we went over, I can remember thinking: So this is what it’s like to crash. And then things got painful. And now they’re still confused even though everything else is back to normal. I’m pretty certain I shouted for help for a while; nothing happened, so I picked myself up and stumbled around, but I kept falling over things . . . And it was when I was lying on the ground, too weak to move any more, that I thought I heard voices. I called out, but they didn’t seem to hear me and in the end I kind of decided that the voices had only been in my mind. But if the money’s gone, there probably was someone, wasn’t there?’
‘It certainly seems so,’ he agreed, angered that there could be men who’d rob the dead and the injured and leave the injured to his fate. ‘Do you have any idea whether Señor Thompson had much money on him?’
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