Layers of Deceit (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 9)

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘And how are you?’ he asked Beatriz.

  Instinctively, she looked down first at her wrists, where the scars were still noticeable, then at her stomach.

  A woman came out of the inner room. Neat, precise, with the tight expression of someone who knew to the last peseta how much should be in the till, she studied him, noting the crumpled safari shirt, creased cotton trousers, and scuffed shoes. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A word or two with Beatriz.’

  ‘You ought to know better than to come here during working hours.’

  ‘Cuerpo General de Policía.’

  She looked startled, then defensive. ‘I’ve made no complaints.’

  ‘Quite. But like I said, I want a chat with Beatriz so you’ll have to run the shop on your own for a bit.’

  ‘Is anyone going to serve me?’ asked the Englishwoman in a loud voice.

  Like most Mallorquins, the owner put profit before pride. She hurried over and apologized profusely for the delay in broken English.

  Alvarez led the way out of the shop. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

  Beatriz shook her head.

  ‘Then let’s get away from here.’

  Once they were in the car, he made a U-turn to head up the sloping road and away from the sea. Even more than most, he hated the stretches of coast which had become concrete jungles because he could remember them as they had been — silent beaches, backed by fields wrapped in a soul-renewing loneliness.

  They left the built-up area and continued through the countryside until they reached a lay-by on a small rise, backed by scrub land which was littered with boulders. He switched off the engine and stared through the windscreen at the fields, so beautiful with their crops. Inwardly, he sighed. Always, one searched for beauty; so often one discovered ugliness. Always, one tried to bring happiness to others; so often one brought distress and pain … ‘Beatriz,’ he said, and he turned to look directly at her, ‘was his name Steven Cullom?’

  Her face seemed to freeze, as a face often did under shock.

  ‘I’m desperately sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s dead.’

  For a time she was kept in suspension by the shock, then she began to cry.

  Feeling clumsily useless, he put his arm around her to try to give some comfort.

  ‘Would you like to go home?’

  ‘They don’t know,’ she murmured brokenly. ‘They mustn’t know.’

  Forty years before, a Mallorquin woman who had an illegitimate baby would have been shunned: which was not to say that unmarried women never became pregnant. When they did become pregnant the father was almost invariably the woman’s novio and he married her. Then, when the tides of the permissive age washed over the island tragically to alter all standards, there were many more premature pregnancies and the father was not always a novio, ready to marry. But because standards had changed, understanding had broadened, so usually such women, together with their illegitimate children, were not banished from their homes. But still there remained one barrier which, among those Mallorquin families who held as far as possible to the past, no woman could breach and still remain of the family. She could not bear the bastard of a foreigner. Throughout history, every conquered people had reserved their most lasting hate for those among themselves who had transgressed the commandment, Thou shalt not love thy enemy …

  The world never stopped for grief and although Beatriz had learned that lesson once, she was going to have learn it again. But a mother’s love could make that learning a little less painful … Soon, he’d take her home. From her mother he’d learn where Amadeo worked …

  *

  Amadeo and Félix walked up to the bar in the small café in one of the side streets of Portals Nous. Félix said: ‘What the hell have you got us here for?’

  ‘Félix … ’ began Amadeo urgently.

  He ignored his brother. ‘The head waiter kicked up hell because I had to leave just as the tables needed setting. What d’you want?’

  Experience had taught Alvarez to recognize guilt. He sighed. ‘Tell me what you want to drink.’

  ‘I just bloody well want an answer,’ snapped Félix.

  Amadeo, worried by the effect his brother’s belligerence might have, begged him to calm down. Then he said they’d both like a coñac.

  Alvarez ordered the drinks from the small, facially scarred man behind the bar. ‘Let’s sit down.’

  ‘You’ve still not answered me,’ snapped Félix.

  Alvarez picked up his glass and walked over to a corner table by one of the windows. After a moment’s hesitation they followed him.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Félix, as soon as he was seated.

  Alvarez said: ‘I want to know where the two of you were last Thursday.’

  Amadeo’s shocked fear was immediate and apparent. Félix tried to hide his by blustering. ‘What’s it to do with you? We’ve a right to … ’

  ‘You can tell me now. Or you can wait until we’re down at the nearest guardia post.’

  The barman brought over two glasses of brandy, put them down on the table, and left. The two brothers drank quickly.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Where d’you think we were?’ asked Félix.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘I was at the hotel, of course.’

  ‘All day?’

  ‘The foreigners want their grub, don’t they?’

  ‘And you?’ Alvarez turned to Amadeo.

  ‘I was at the office.’

  ‘So if I question your bosses, they’ll confirm what you’ve just said?’

  They looked at each other, then away as they realized how closely they were being watched.

  ‘An Englishman died on Thursday night,’ Alvarez said. ‘He lived a few kilometres out from Santa Victoria. D’you read about him in the Diario de Mallorca?’

  ‘No,’ replied Amadeo hoarsely.

  ‘It was originally reported as an accident. In fact, it’s virtually certain he was murdered.’

  Amadeo lifted his glass to drink, found it was empty. Alvarez turned, caught the bartender’s eye, and held up three fingers. ‘You were both near the Englishman’s house on Thursday.’

  ‘No,’ said Félix violently.

  ‘You went there to find the man who’d seduced your sister.’

  ‘We don’t know who it was; she won’t tell us his name.’

  ‘Someone told you it was Steven Cullom.’

  ‘I swear we were at work all day … ’ began Amadeo.

  ‘All right. Then when we leave here we go and speak to your bosses.’

  It became obvious Félix had realized that, since cunning was needed and not a bull-headed approach, he should remain silent. It was Amadeo who said: ‘The truth … Look, we know two women and they had a free day and so we told our bosses we were ill. We were with them all the day.’

  ‘Their names and addresses?’

  ‘We … we can’t tell you that. They’re married.’

  Alvarez said to Félix: ‘Do you remember the last time we met? You swore you’d kill the man who’d seduced your sister.’

  Félix struggled to contain his panicky temper. ‘I was just talking wild.’

  ‘And on Thursday you acted wild.’

  The barman brought the three drinks to the table, picked up the three empty glasses, and left.

  ‘What happened at Ca’n Cullom?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘We’ve never been near the place,’ Amadeo answered.

  ‘Two strangers were seen in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘All right, but it wasn’t us.’

  ‘D’you know the Calle Pescador in Palma Nova?’

  The abrupt change of subject left them bewildered and uneasy. It was several seconds before Amadeo said: ‘Of course we know it. Why?’

  ‘D’you ever buy meat at Toni, the butcher’s?’

  They looked at each other, hoping one of them could understand the significance of the question.r />
  ‘Well. Have either of you?’

  ‘No,’ said Félix. Desperately worried as he was, he still spoke scornfully — domestic shopping was a woman’s job.

  ‘Then you’ve not recently bought any sobrasada in Toni’s?’

  ‘We’ve just told you.’

  Alvarez finished his drink. ‘I want your identity cards.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going to have the photographs copied. I’ll show the copies to the man who saw two strangers near Ca’n Cullom on Thursday.’

  ‘It wasn’t us,’ said Amadeo.

  ‘Then I’ll be able to sort out one question … Let’s have them.’

  Very reluctantly, they produced their identity cards and passed them over.

  ‘One last thing before we go off and find a copying place. Neither your sister nor your mother knows that you know who Steven Cullom was. Keep it like that.’ But for how much longer could they be protected from this further hurt? he wondered.

  CHAPTER 15

  Léroux’s grandfather had been a Frenchman who’d come to live in Mallorca because at that time there had been no extradition treaty between the two countries. Three years later he’d married a Mallorquin widow, somewhat ugly but possessed of good properties. Léroux’s father had been a quietly spoken, almost deferential man who, just before the outbreak of the Civil War, had had a charge of embezzlement laid against him. Luckily — and the Léroux were, on the whole, extremely lucky as well as sharp — his accuser had been of socialistic leanings and so when war broke out and Mallorca declared for the Right, he had been denounced — by someone unknown — and had disappeared. Blessed with such inherited talents, it was small wonder that Léroux had chosen to become a solicitor.

  He was a short, butterball of a man, with a jolly face, a ready smile, and a pleasantry for every occasion. He was a dandy in dress and even in midsummer he wore a linen suit. He owned a number of properties, in various names to avoid confusing the tax authorities, and he became very indignant if ever it was suggested that a couple of the most valuable, once belonging to foreigners, had come to him in any but the most straightforward ways. ‘In my profession,’ he often said, ‘there has to be trust, respect, and honesty.’ He meant, of course, on the part of the client.

  He waved Alvarez to a seat. ‘We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting before … In what way may I serve you, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m investigating the death of Señor Steven Cullom.’

  ‘A very sad case; a charming man.’ He rubbed the palm of his hand over his jet black hair. ‘You say you are “investigating” it — then it was not an accident?’

  ‘Almost certainly not. You handled his affairs, didn’t you?’

  ‘I certainly acted for him on occasions.’

  ‘Did he make a Spanish will?’

  ‘Indeed. I naturally advised him of the perils of dying intestate in Spain.’

  ‘I’d like to see a copy of it.’

  Léroux used the intercom to speak to a secretary. Then he rested his elbows on the desk and joined his fingertips together. ‘Presumably, you believe the contents of the will may be of some significance?’

  ‘They could be.’

  ‘And have you any idea yet who may have killed him?’

  ‘None at all.’

  A young woman, neatly dressed, a ring on her engagement finger, came into the room, smiled formally at Alvarez, put a blue folder down in front of Léroux, and left.

  Léroux opened the file and looked through the papers inside. He brought out two documents. ‘I have copies of the Spanish will, dealing with his property in this country, and an English will, dealing with his property there.’ He leaned forward and carefully placed the two sets of papers down on the far edge of the desk.

  Alvarez read through the Spanish will first. The house, grounds, and contents, were left to his brother. The English will was slightly more complicated and he found some initial difficulty in understanding the legal terms, but the import soon became clear; there were six bequests of five thousand pounds each to named charities and then the remainder of the estate went to his brother. ‘Have you any idea how much money he had in England?’

  ‘The equivalent of about a hundred million pesetas.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A hundred million,’ repeated Léroux, a faraway look in his eyes.

  A hundred million pesetas, thought Alvarez. With that, a man could buy untold hectares of rich, irrigated land, and grow incalculable tonnes of wheat, barely, beans, tomatoes, peppers … He brought his thoughts back to reality. ‘What’s his house worth?’

  ‘He paid twenty-two million for it and prices have risen steeply since then — say fifty million. And then there’s his other house. I didn’t act over that, but from what he’s said about it, it must be worth at least another fifteen million.’

  ‘And the whole lot, virtually, goes to the brother?’

  ‘If he didn’t actually execute a new will, yes.’

  ‘Was he intending to, then?’

  Léroux brought a sheet of paper out of the file and read through his notes. He looked up. ‘He came here some little time ago to consult me about making a new will in view of his forthcoming marriage.’

  ‘His marriage?’

  ‘You didn’t know about it?’

  ‘No one’s mentioned it. Who was she?’

  ‘He never named her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Wasn’t that odd?’

  ‘He was a foreigner.’

  ‘Did he say what he wanted a new will to be like?’

  Léroux looked back at the sheet of paper. ‘Everything on this island was to go to his wife. He added to me that he was also leaving everything in England to his wife, except for some bequests to charity and something to his bother.’

  ‘Did he name an amount?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he never executed either second will?’

  ‘I gave him the draft of the Spanish one, but he never brought it back.’

  ‘He might have taken it to someone else to execute?’

  ‘Why should he have done that?’ asked Léroux in injured tones.

  ‘A check with Madrid would very quickly make certain?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And the existing British will — who drew that up?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You’ve never seen it?’

  ‘Never.’

  Alvarez thought.

  Léroux spoke softly. ‘There are a lot of people who’d commit murder for a hundred and sixty-five million!’

  Alvarez looked up and thought that he was probably staring at one of them.

  *

  Alvarez drove from Santa Victoria to Ca’n Cullom. María opened the front door and told him that Susan Pride and Alan Cullom had left an hour before and she didn’t know how long they’d be away. ‘It’s good to see them get out and forget all that’s happened.’

  ‘You think they’ll be able to do that?’

  ‘They’re young, aren’t they? When you’re young, you can forget anything.’

  ‘We couldn’t.’

  Just for a moment she was sad. When they’d been young there’d been the war and no one had been able to forget the hunger, the bitterness, and in particular the grubby little notes, often almost illegible, which arrived by post and said baldly that Juan or Bartolomé or Francisco had died fighting for God and Spain … She spoke robustly. ‘But what’s it matter how things were when we were young?’

  ‘Perhaps if they realized, they would sometimes think of others and not just of themselves.’

  ‘Would you think of anyone else if you were lucky enough to be like them?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Then let ’em be.’

  ‘All right. I need to look round the house.’

  She hesitated. ‘Hadn’t you better wait until they get back?’

  ‘I’ve not the t
ime.’

  ‘Then if you must, I suppose you must.’

  ‘Where did the señor keep all his papers?’

  ‘Like as not, in the study.’

  The study lay beyond the sitting-room. It was quite small and was lightly furnished, obviously without any attempt to impress, and was cheerfully, even attractively informal in character. At one end was a kneehole desk and the two bottom drawers, one on each side, proved to be locked. He unlocked them with an adjustable skeleton key confiscated from an elderly housebreaker. Both drawers contained loose papers and files.

  He found a photostat copy of Steven Cullom’s Spanish will, signed and registered, and a further copy of his English will. In addition, pinned to the English will with a paperclip, there was a letter from a firm of English solicitors to the effect that the original of the will was in their strong-room. He found neither the draft of a new Spanish will nor of a new English one. Nor was there any reference to the identity of his future wife.

  He made a note of the name and address of the English solicitors before replacing all the papers and files in the drawers. He returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Did Señor Steven Cullom ever talk to you much?’

  María shook her head. ‘It wasn’t easy because my English isn’t good … And in any case, he wasn’t the kind of man to be bothered to talk much to the likes of me.’

  ‘So he never mentioned about getting married?’

  ‘I can’t see him marrying, not all the time there’s more than enough sluts around willing to lie down for him.’

  Steven Cullom, he thought, had intended to make his wife his main beneficiary. To this end, he’d had a draft will drawn up. Yet he’d apparently never signed the new will and had it executed, nor even named the bride-to-be. Why not? More irritating, unanswered questions … ‘I’m going out to have a word with Reinaldo.’

  Artich was standing by the cultivated circle of earth around a lime tree on which the fruit had formed but had not yet begun to swell.

  ‘Care for a fag?’ asked Alvarez.

  They smoked and stared at the scene set out before them. Beyond the terraces, a flock of sheep had been turned into a field whose forage crop of barley and oats had been cut, sun dried, and collected.

  ‘D’you remember saying a couple of strangers had been seen around here last Thursday?’ Alvarez finally asked. ‘Who told you about ’em?’