Reluctantly, he jerked his thoughts back to the present and for a while he considered all the work he should be doing. Then he rang the Institute of Forensic Anatomy and spoke to Professor Fortunato’s secretary. Were the results of the post mortem on Señor Steven Taylor yet to hand? Frostily, she replied that since the exhumation had taken place as recently as the previous Saturday morning, they were hardly likely to be.
He telephoned Detective-Sergeant Wallace at Divisional HQ in Brackleigh. Was Yabra Consolidated the name of shares and, if it was, what were they worth?
‘You must have a funny idea of the kind of money we make, Enrique, to ask me! The only thing I can tell you about shares is, they’re dangerous. A mate of mine decided to go for British Telecom and when they started to rise his wife persuaded him to sell because she wanted a new settee.
After he’d sold ‘em they continued to rise and she went for him all ends up for losing so much money by selling. Nearly caused a divorce, that did!’
‘But you perhaps know someone who can tell me the answers?’
‘Sure. A mate works for a stockbroker in the City and his bonus each year almost makes my entire salary look silly. I’ll chat him up and then get back on to you. By the way, what’s the weather like?’
‘Sunny and much too hot.’
‘It’s stair-rodding here and bloody cold. Can’t you dig up a case that needs me along to give a hand?’
After saying goodbye, Alvarez slumped back in the chair. Apart from sending the capsules he had brought back from Corleon to Palma for testing, there really was nothing more he could do. Nothing more, that was, other than to make a start on clearing up the backlog of work on his desk . . .
‘You’re looking tired,’ said Dolores, as she looked across the luncheon table at Alvarez.
‘And old,’ said Juan. Isabel giggled.
She swung round. ‘How dare you say such a thing!’
‘But he’s becoming bald.’
‘Another word from you and I’ll wash your mouth out with kitchen soap.’
Juan felt aggrieved because he had only spoken the truth, and all his life he’d been instructed to do that, but he knew better than to argue with his mother when her voice held that sharp tone.
‘You can go outside and play,’ she said.
He reluctantly stood—he was certain the grown-ups were going to talk about something interesting—and left, followed by his sister.
‘You’re looking tired,’ said Dolores, for the second time.
Alvarez ran his forefinger along the line of his hair and persuaded himself that it had not receded.
‘You need a really good siesta.’
Jaime passed the bottle of brandy across. This’ll help you sleep.’
Dolores pursed her lips, but for once kept quiet. After all, her husband might just be right.
Alvarez drank the last of the coffee, checked the time. ‘I’d better be moving.’
Dolores, already beginning to prepare the supper, looked up from the chopping-board. ‘Be back on time. I’m making frito Mallorquin.’
‘I’ll be back before time,’ he promised. Her frito Mallorquin was the best on the island. Not a trace of greasiness.
He left the house, drove to the main square, and was lucky enough to find a newly vacated parking space against the central, raised portion. Practically all the tables set out in front of the two cafes were occupied. The tourists would be paying one price for their drinks, the foreign residents less, and Mallorquins, if any, less still. Which was just. Let the visitors pay for at least some of the damage they caused . . .
He walked down one of the narrow roads and reached the guardia building, went up to his room and sat, waiting to phone until he’d regained his breath.
Wallace spoke with cheerful surprise. ‘You’ve pulled a right one out of the bag this time, Enrique!’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’
‘Then pin back your ears and prepare to listen to a modern fairy story . . . When you first mentioned Yabra Consolidated, the name seemed to ring a bell, but I was damned if I could think why. Then this pal of mine who works in a stockbroker’s office told me what’s what and I remembered all the press hullabaloo. Yabra Consolidated is the name of an Australian mining company. The Australians are great gamblers and one of the things which really attracts the punters is stocks and shares. Not surprisingly,
this brings the worms out of the woodwork and they set up very doubtful, or downright bogus, companies, flog the shares and get rich, leave the punters to become poor. The mining sector’s the worst. There’ve been three companies in the past twelve months who’ve been caught salting land or faking assays to promote a good launch of shares.
‘Yabra Consolidated was formed five years ago to prospect for gold, uranium, and diamonds. As my pal said, that combination of aims would have taxed even a large and established company and so it ought to have warned the punters, but it didn’t. The shares were fully subscribed at a dollar each. A year ago, they stood at two cents and that, apparently, was an overvaluation.
‘Then, recently, the impossible happened. Gold was discovered on land over which the company has mineral rights and the shares shot up and up until right now they’re standing at five dollars.’
‘But that’s . . .’ Alvarez stopped.
‘Yeah, I know. Backside about face.’
‘I was sure Taylor had persuaded people to pay money for shares he knew to be worthless. Instead of which . . .’
‘Instead of which, it sounds as if he was hoist with his own petard.’ Wallace chuckled. ‘Can you imagine his feelings when he discovered that instead of swindling his victims, he’d made them rich?’
‘But from all accounts, he had made a great deal of money for himself shortly before he died.’
‘Then either he talked himself into keeping some of the shares or else he heard they’d unexpectedly come good and he was in time to buy them back before the news became general.’
And that, thought Alvarez, would be quite enough to make a seller think of murder. He started to thank the other, when Wallace checked him.
‘Hang on. There’s another piece of news which should interest you. One of my blokes has told me that not very long ago he had a private detective try to pump him about Steven Taylor.’
‘In what connection?’
‘It wasn’t all that clear, but it seemed as if this man had been employed to discover if Taylor had any sort of a record.’
‘Why should he have been suspected?’
‘I can’t answer. If you’re interested, I’ll find out as much as I can.’
‘Will you? And especially the client’s name.’
‘Leave it with me . . . By the way, how’s the weather now?’
‘Still too hot.’
‘We haven’t seen the sun in days. Why in hell can’t you be having rain just once when I’m talking to you?’
The chemist shop was in the same narrow road as the guardia post, but nearer to the square. A married couple, both of whom were qualified pharmacists, ran it and Alvarez went through and spoke to the husband who was checking stock in the room beyond the shop.
‘So how are things with you?’ asked the husband.
‘I can’t complain.’
‘Then you’re the only one who can’t, with IVA doubling prices . . . Francisca saw Dolores the other day and said she thought Dolores wasn’t looking too fit; could that be right?’
For a while, they spoke about general matters of interest. Although about ten thousand people lived in and around Llueso, so few of them or their ancestors had ever lived anywhere else that relationships were extensive and complex. It was relatively rare for two locals to meet and not to have at least one distant cousin in common. Finally, Alvarez brought the conversation round to the reason for his present visit. He produced the medicine bottle Charlotte had given him. ‘What can you tell me about the contents?’
‘Is this an official question?’
&n
bsp; ‘At the moment it’s unofficial, but it’s likely to go official very soon.’
‘Have you any idea what the capsules are for?’
‘They’re said to be for an impending migraine attack.’
The husband crossed to a small desk, brought down three fat books from a shelf, searched through these, frequently referring back to the capsules. At the end of five minutes, he said: ‘As far as I can tell, they’re what the label says they are. Of course, it’ll take an analysis to be certain, but on visual identification these capsules contain a drug that is put out for migraine sufferers to help ward off attacks.’
‘How long would one take to work after swallowing?’
‘I don’t know that I’d like to say—you’ll have to ask the manufacturer. All that’s certain is that they’ll be fairly fast because if they’re to stop an attack consolidating, they’ve got to be.’
‘Something like a quarter of an hour?’
‘I doubt it’s that quick, but as I said, you’ll have to ask the manufacturer.’
Taylor had taken one capsule earlier in the morning and then a second one just before—or was it with?—the meal at the restaurant because the first one hadn’t worked. It looked, then, as if it was probably the earlier one which had contained the poison. ‘Would it be difficult to substitute a foreign substance for the drug in one of the capsules?’
‘Nothing easier. They’re made in halves. All you’d have to do would be to separate the two, empty out the contents and put in whatever you wanted . . . Are you saying that that’s what was done?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘So then what happened?’
‘The driver of a car crashed and was killed.’
The husband whistled.
CHAPTER 16
El Granero was a part of the island which Alvarez seldom visited. First, it lay to the west of Palma, near concrete-jungle land, secondly, it was a development unashamedly pitched at the rich, thirdly and most importantly, Granero meant granary, a name which reached back to the time when one half of the island’s grain had been grown there, and the contrast between past and present was too bitter.
He drove past houses set in large gardens which raised his scorn for so much wasted land, came in sight of Ca’n Grande and suddenly all scorn was gone and he knew only a wistful wonder that anyone could be so lucky as to own and live in anywhere so beautiful. The rock, suddenly breaking out of the rich soil, stretched out into the small bay and the house seemed to flow upwards from the rock, as if built by nature, not man.
It grew in size as he approached, not simply because he was nearer to it, but because the graceful lines helped to conceal until the last moment exactly how large it was. He parked, by the side of a bed filled with magnificent roses in full bloom, and walked up to the heavy wooden door which had the deep rich patina which came only from regular hard polishing. He rang the bell and the maid answered it, then led him through a hall and a wide passage out on to the patio. She said she’d call the señora.
He looked out at the sea, spread below, and he thought that here was somewhere which rivalled even his beloved Llueso bay . . .
‘You wish to speak to me?’
He turned and saw a woman who almost managed to conceal her age with elegance; her expression and tone of voice denoted bored indifference. ‘Yes, señora.’
‘In what connection?’
‘Señor Taylor.’
‘I fail to see that the subject of my late husband can be of any concern to you.’
‘Not even,’ he said, choosing to be objectionable, ‘when he died twice?’
She walked over to the swing chair and settled in the shade of the awning.
He moved a chair and sat. ‘Your husband was supposed to have died three years ago, in England, but in fact he died here, on this island, almost three weeks ago.’
She gave no indication that she had heard him.
‘Can you tell me what he was doing on this island?’
‘No, I cannot.’
‘Then full inquiries into his supposed death will have to be made in England; how he faked it, whom he bribed, and where the money for that bribe came from.’
‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’
‘Señora, I am a member of the Cuerpo General de Policia.’
‘What’s the significance of that? You’re asking twice as much?’
‘The suggestion is insulting.’
The lift of her eyebrows suggested that she was surprised he believed himself capable of being insulted.
He struggled to keep his temper in check as he thought that it was small wonder the British had been booted out of their Empire. ‘Did you see your husband three weeks ago?’
‘I did not.’
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘I am not in the habit of lying. Or, I might add, of being called a liar.’
‘Can you explain why your name and address were written down in one of his business files?’
‘I wouldn’t bother to try.’
‘I believe it was because in the last few months he sold you certain shares.’
‘If you can believe that, you can believe anything.’
‘Did you buy shares from him?’
‘I have already indicated that I most certainly did not.’
‘Did he offer to sell you some?’
‘He was not that much of a fool.’
The maid stepped out on to the patio. ‘Señor Wheeldon, señora.’
‘You can ask him to come through.’ She turned back to Alvarez. ‘Is there anything more before you go?’
‘Yes, señora.’
‘How very boring.’ She looked towards the house and as Wheeldon appeared, she called out: ‘Archie, will you tell Catalina to bring out the drinks trolley?’
Wheeldon briefly returned into the house, then crossed the patio. “Morning, Muriel.’ He looked at Alvarez as he waited for the introduction.
‘He’s from the police.’
‘The police, eh?’ Wheeldon looked round for a patio chair, brought one across. He grinned as he sat. ‘What have you been up to, old girl? Robbing a bank?’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’
‘Here, I was only having a little joke.’
‘That’s all I need to make my day!’
‘You mean something really is wrong?’
‘Señor,’ said Alvarez, ‘I am investigating the circumstances of Señor Steven Taylor’s death.’
‘But he died three years back, in England. What’s that to do with you now?’
‘Señor Taylor died three weeks ago, on this island.’
Wheeldon said to Muriel: ‘I say, what the devil’s he getting at? You’ve told me yourself that your husband died before you came out here.’
She said, with cold fury: ‘He was Steven Thompson.’
He stared at her, slack-jawed. ‘But you said . . .’
‘Will you stop saying the same thing over and over again. The English police made a mistake in identification.’
‘But . . . but dammit, you must have discovered that he wasn’t really dead?’ Only after he’d finished speaking did he realize the implications of what he’d just said.
The maid, wheeling a cocktail trolley, came out on to the patio. She positioned it close to Muriel’s chair and checked that the brake was on. ‘Is some crisps, señora. ‘And . . .’
‘That’s all.’
The maid returned into the house.
‘I want a whisky,’ Muriel said.
Wheeldon stood, opened the two top flaps of the trolley and these, through a system of counterweights, brought up a shelf on which were several bottles, an insulated ice container, and half a dozen glasses. He poured out a whisky on the rocks and passed her the glass. He looked at Alvarez. ‘He doesn’t want anything,’ Muriel said. Innate courtesy made him ask Alvarez: ‘Are you quite certain you won’t have something?’
‘Thank you, I’d like a coñac, please, with ice but no soda.’
Wheeldon poured himself a pink gin, sat.
‘Señor,’ said Alvarez, ‘did you meet Señor Thompson, or Taylor, when he was on this island?’
Wheeldon cleared his throat. ‘As a matter of fact, I did, yes.’
‘Where did this happen?’
‘At some party or other; I can’t remember exactly which.’
‘And when was this?’
‘The first time? I suppose it was three or four months ago.’
‘You’ve seen him since then?’
‘I . . . Well, as a matter of fact, I have, yes.’
‘You saw him again?’ she said sharply.
‘Look, I’d no idea he was your husband. You never said anything.’
‘Of course I damn well didn’t.’
‘But why not?’
‘God Almighty, that has to be the year’s stupidest question.’
‘Señor,’ said Alvarez, ‘did you buy shares from him?’
She said, her voice filled with scorn: ‘Not even Archie could be that soft.’
Wheeldon spoke uneasily. ‘I . . . The thing is . . .’
‘Christ! You’re not trying to say you actually did?’
‘He made it sound so promising.’
‘Of course he did. And you believed him? It’s a wonder he didn’t sell you a slice of moon cheese at the same time.’
‘I’m not quite as thick as you seem to think.’
‘Impossible.’
‘I doubled my money.’
She laughed scornfully.
‘I’m telling you, I literally doubled my money. What’s more, if you like I can prove it.’ He stood, crossed to the cocktail trolley and poured himself a second pink gin.
‘How much did you pay for the shares, señor?’ Alvarez asked.
‘It was the equivalent of five cents, Australian,’ he answered, as he sat.
‘How many did you buy?’
‘Two hundred thousand.’
‘And what did you sell them for?’
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