Layers of Deceit (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 9)

by Roderic Jeffries

  Alan Cullom said belligerently: ‘D’you still think Steve was murdered and didn’t just fall?’

  ‘It has yet to be finally confirmed by the forensic evidence, but there is no doubt that he was murdered.’

  ‘Why should anyone have killed him?’

  ‘He was very wealthy … You realized, naturally, that your brother was very wealthy?’

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Alan Cullom sarcastically.

  ‘His total estate is probably as much as eight hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds … You are not surprised?’

  ‘No. Steve was the kind of person who let you know … But what the hell’s it matter what kind of person he was? Now he’s dead, let the poor sod rest in peace.’

  ‘Is that not a strange way in which to refer to your brother?’

  ‘Not if you’re English. Don’t you know, we conceal our affections?’

  Susan returned. She handed Alvarez a glass, then set out two earthenware cazuelas, one containing fried almonds and the other crisps. ‘What’s the trouble now, Inspector?’

  Alan Cullom said: ‘They’re convinced Steve was murdered. And I’d say right now they’re wondering if I murdered him. Am I right?’

  ‘I have naturally had to consider such a possibility,’ replied Alvarez

  ‘But that’s being utterly ridiculous,’ she said heatedly. She faced Alvarez. ‘Don’t you understand, they were brothers.’

  Alan Cullom said: ‘The Inspector will reply that fratricide has a long history, the most notable example being Cain.’

  ‘For God’s sake, stop talking like that. It’s stupid. It sounds so nasty to anyone who doesn’t realize how upset you really are … Inspector, you mustn’t think he didn’t like Steve. They weren’t really close, as my sister and I used to be before she was married, but they were more than friends, they were brothers.’

  Again and again, Alvarez thought, that phrase was repeated. They were brothers. But, as Alan Cullom had just said, brother sometimes murdered brother, often because when such a relationship turned sour emotions would be more extreme than would otherwise have been the case. ‘Did you know the contents of your brother’s wills?’

  ‘He once said that he’d made me his main beneficiary.’

  ‘Have you read either his Spanish or his English will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even though they were among his papers in the desk in the study?’

  ‘Look, I may be many things, but I don’t go through other people’s papers.’

  ‘You knew that your brother was contemplating marriage?’

  ‘I knew he had that crazy idea, yes.’

  ‘Why d’you call it crazy?’

  ‘Because if he’d tried, he couldn’t have found anyone less suitable.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Lady Molton comes from a totally different background and Steve worried himself sick about backgrounds. On top of that, she’d only one interest in life, horses. After a month, she and Steve wouldn’t have been on speaking terms.’

  ‘Did you realize that if he married he’d change his wills?’

  ‘Of course I goddamn well did. People who marry usually do.’

  ‘Alan,’ she said pleadingly.

  ‘All right, I’ll keep it cool. But being asked a load of irrelevant questions … ’

  ‘Perhaps, señor, their relevance will soon become more obvious … Under his new, draft wills, your brother intended to leave you just fifty thousand pounds.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You knew that?’

  ‘He’d said at some time or other that if ever he got married again he’d make certain I’d still get something.’

  ‘Did your brother recently threaten to cut you out altogether?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘María says she heard him say this.’

  ‘She heard us arguing. Her English isn’t good enough to know the details.’

  ‘But you agree there was an argument?’

  ‘Steve had a quick temper.’

  ‘Why was he in a temper on this occasion?’

  ‘I can’t remember; he’d blow his top over almost anything.’

  ‘Was it because of the señorita?’

  ‘You can stop making bloody insinuations … ’

  She said: ‘Inspector, it wasn’t Alan’s fault. Steve thought … ’

  Alan Cullom interrupted her. ‘It’s none of his business what Steve thought.’

  ‘Can’t you realize it is, until he can understand that you couldn’t ever have killed your own brother? Oh God, why are you being so blind?’

  ‘I don’t like the family’s dirty washing being laundered in public.’

  ‘Isn’t it better to launder it now, when it’s not really public?’ She faced Alvarez, her chin held high. ‘Steve met me in Menorca and invited me here because he thought I’d jump into bed with him. I came because I was feeling miserable and was naïve enough to believe his motive had been kindness. When I refused to cooperate, he became annoyed. Then Alan arrived and was unwise enough to tell him he was making a fool of himself. That made him absolutely furious.’

  ‘Thank you, señorita … So, señor, that is why he decided to cut you out of his wills?’

  ‘I don’t believe he did.’

  ‘Shortly before he died he spoke to Lady Molton over the telephone and told her that that was what he intended to do.’

  Susan said urgently: ‘It doesn’t mean he really meant it. Alan’s told you, he had a very quick temper. But he’d get over it just as quickly.’

  She remained a fighter, Alvarez thought, even when the fight became more and more hopeless. ‘Señor, did you know that your brother had had an affair with a Mallorquin girl?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Alan Cullom tried to direct his mind to this new line of questioning. Alvarez repeated the question. ‘He once mentioned something about it.’

  ‘Did he name her?’

  ‘I don’t remember anything except that he said she was wonderfully simple.’

  ‘He used the word “wonderfully”?’

  Susan, who’d been watching Alvarez’s expression, said: ‘Do … do you know the girl?’

  ‘She is a cousin.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alan said. ‘But you can’t blame me for what happened.’

  ‘It is important to know if you were aware of the relationship.’

  ‘Why?’

  Alvarez gave no answer.

  ‘Did it … Did it upset her very much,’ Susan asked.

  ‘She was young.’ He would not now say anything more. ‘Señor, may I have your permission to search your bedroom?’

  ‘You bloody well may not.’

  ‘Alan,’ she said, ‘neither of us has anything to hide. Wouldn’t it be infinitely better if the Inspector searched both our rooms and found that out for himself?’

  He hesitated. ‘All right,’ he said finally.

  They left the patio and went upstairs. ‘My room’s there.’ Susan pointed.

  ‘I have no need to go into your room, señorita.’

  ‘I’d much prefer it if you did.’

  He searched her room, hating this unnecessary intrusion into her privacy but understanding the feelings which had prompted her to demand that he did.

  ‘D’you enjoy looking through women’s underclothes?’ Alan Cullom asked crudely, as Alvarez closed the bottom drawer of the bottom commode with elaborate marquetry.

  She gripped Alan Cullom’s right arm. ‘Please,’ she said, a note of despair in her voice.

  They crossed the landing and entered Alan Cullom’s bedroom.

  ‘What exactly are you looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘Among other things, señorita, the draft English will.’

  Alan Cullom said scornfully: ‘And you think I pinched it and it’s hidden in here?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Then the best of bloody British luck to you.’

  Alvarez checked the few clothes
hanging in the built-in cupboards, the contents of drawers, and the battered, empty holdall.

  ‘Finally satisfied?’

  ‘Are there any of your possessions anywhere else in the house, señor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, there are,’ she corrected him, determined that nothing should be overlooked. ‘Your shoes which I keep meaning to try and mend.’

  ‘I’d forgotten them. Very, very important!’

  ‘I’d like to see them, señor.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. Maybe the missing draft will is in one of the toes.’

  They went downstairs and through the kitchen to the utility room beyond. Along one wall was a deep shelf and on this, beyond a tool box, was a pair of battered yachting shoes, the uppers of which had begun to part from the soles.

  ‘Don’t forget to look all round inside,’jeered Alan Cullom.

  Alvarez turned them over. The soles consisted of countless small rounds of rubber, giving grip on a wet deck, and these allowed small objects to become impacted between them. On the corner of one sole was some soil which had been stained. He remembered the slight impression near the dead man’s head in the bloodstained soil.

  *

  He drove slowly to Santa Victoria. The shoes must be sent to the forensic laboratory, together with the soil samples he’d just secured. He had no doubt that the results of tests would show that the two soils were similar and that the stains would prove to be of human blood, of the same group as that of the dead man’s. He wondered about the draft will. Had Alan Cullom destroyed it, hoping that this would prevent its existence becoming known? But weren’t the odds against that? The Spanish solicitor had drafted a fresh will and therefore it would be reasonable to suppose that the English solicitors had done the same. No, surely he would have decided to hold on to the draft because it might provide him with ‘an alibi of motive’. Initially, he’d set the scene to look like accidental death. He’d hoped the authorities would accept it as that, but he’d been clever enough to realize that they might not and then they’d indentify persons with a motive for committing murder. He’d drawn Amadeo and Félix to the area; they had reason for wishing Steven Cullom dead. But then he’d been realistic as well as clever and had gone on to accept that even with two prime suspects, the police would still be very much aware of the fact that he had an equally strong motive. So he needed something to ease the pressure if ever it became at all dangerous. The draft will showed that he was still to inherit fifty thousand pounds, a large enough sum to negate his motive … He wasn’t to know that his brother would tell Lady Molton that he was going to cut him right out …

  The draft will had not been in the study or the bedroom. If it were hidden anywhere else in the house, there’d always be the chance that someone would accidentally find it: and once found it would have to be disclosed to the police immediately and not be held back for the right psychological moment … Where could Alan Cullom have hidden the draft so that he could be certain it was secure and yet be available the moment he wanted it? …

  The post office was in a side street, tucked anonymously and contiguously between two houses. Inside was a small public area, with very well worn tiles, and at the far end of this were two counters, the left-hand one of which was always kept closed because the staff did not like to be rushed.

  Alvarez identified himself. The post office worker behind the counter regarded him with a wary dislike.

  ‘I’m looking for a letter. I don’t know what size it is, who it’s addressed to, or when it was posted.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything else you don’t know about it?’

  ‘I can probably think of something if you’d like? … Will you go through all the mail in hand?’

  ‘And find a letter which you won’t know when you see it? … You’d better come through and start looking. I’m not going to waste my time. Too much else to do.’

  Alvarez went through a doorway and round behind the counter. Fixed to the wall were a series of cubbyholes, designated by the letters of the alphabet.

  It was ten minutes after he’d started work, when he’d reached the E cubbyhole, that he picked up a long white envelope of a size which would, he judged, accommodate a document like the English will he had seen. He checked the typewritten name and address; Alan Ernest, Lista de correos, Santa Victoria.

  *

  Alan Cullom said: ‘What the hell is it this time?’

  ‘First,’ replied Alvarez, ‘I need to know whether you have another Christian name?’

  ‘What if I have?’

  ‘Alan,’ said Susan in a low voice.

  He jammed his hands in the pockets of the shorts he was now wearing and he stared bitterly at Alvarez across the air-conditioned sitting-room. ‘We’re on our way out for a meal.’

  ‘I shan’t keep you long.’

  ‘Anything to prove you right … My second name’s Ernest.’

  ‘There is, I remember, a typewriter in the study. I intend to use it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need a sample of its type.’

  ‘At the risk of becoming monotonous, why?’

  ‘I have just recovered from the post office in Santa Victoria a letter addressed to Alan Ernest. Inside the envelope was the draft English will of your brother.’

  Alan Cullom’s expression was shocked; Susan’s was one of growing despair.

  Alvarez left the sitting-room and crossed the hall to go into the study. The typewriter stood on a small table behind and to the right of the desk. He removed the cover, fed in a plain sheet of paper, and typed. He removed the paper and compared the typeface with that on the envelope. Superficially, they were similar. He didn’t doubt that an expert examination would show they were identical. He replaced the typewriter cover.

  Back in the sitting-room Susan, her face flushed, was standing by the side of Alan Cullom’s chair.

  Alvarez said: ‘Will you please give me your passport. And understand that you are not to leave this island until you are given permission to do so.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Steve,’ said Alan Cullom hoarsely.

  ‘Your passport?’

  ‘You bloody fool,’ he shouted, ‘you don’t begin to understand a thing.’ He stood, so suddenly that Susan’s hand was jerked upwards before she had time to release her grip. He left the room. Susan stared at Alvarez and seemed to be about to say something, then she too hurried out.

  Alan Cullom returned, alone, and handed over his passport. ‘I did not kill him,’ he said violently.

  Alvarez had left the house and was just about to climb into his car when the sound of his name checked him. He turned to see Susan. She hurried over to where he stood. ‘You’ve got to listen to me,’ she said desperately.

  ‘Señorita, there is nothing I can do because I cannot change the facts.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have mattered what happened, he couldn’t have done anything to hurt Steven.’

  He wished the sight of her distress did not squeeze his emotions. ‘Someone killed his brother.’

  ‘But it wasn’t Alan. Please, please believe me.’

  ‘I have to judge the facts … ’

  ‘Oh God, you won’t understand a word I’m saying.’ Her face worked as if she were crying, but there were as yet no tears. ‘It doesn’t matter what anyone says, Alan couldn’t have killed Steven.’

  ‘But the evidence … ’

  ‘Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘Señorita, the evidence is too definite.’

  Tears finally spilled down her cheeks. Desperation and grief made her appear almost ugly. She turned and ran into the house.

  CHAPTER 20

  The forensic laboratory telephoned on Friday morning. An assistant reported that the two samples of earth were similar in all respects, that the on-site sample contained traces of human blood, and that the blood had been typed and was the same as that of the dead man’s.

  Alvarez replaced the receiver. He stared at the shaft of brilliant sunshin
e coming through the opened window in which a myriad dust particles danced. That was near-conclusive proof. The final, conclusive proof lay in the top left-hand drawer of the desk. He opened the drawer and stared at the envelope which contained the draft English will. Then he slammed the drawer shut.

  He reached down to the bottom right-hand drawer and brought out of it the brandy and the glass.

  *

  Kitchen work was a woman’s job and although Dolores often complained that she had to slave from morning to night, she accepted as natural the fact that while she was doing the washing-up, the men should be doing nothing more strenuous than drinking; indeed, in a strange way, she would have been quite indignant had they tried to help her, judging this to be an implied slur on her capabilities as a good housewife … and also on their standing as men. So when, as she stood at the sink, she heard someone enter the kitchen after lunch, she snapped: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I … ’

  She turned to see Alvarez. ‘Well?’

  He came right inside.

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then maybe you’ll say what you’ve got to say and leave me to do the work.’ She turned back, lifted a glass out of the soapy water, and put it in the rinsing water.

  He crossed to the centre table and began to play with a knife, spinning it round on a plate.

  ‘I can manage without you carrying on like that.’

  ‘Dolores … ’

  His tone finally alerted her. She once more faced him. ‘Enrique, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m in one hell of a situation. I know what I ought to do, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.’

  ‘This has to do with those women?’

  ‘In a way. But you must understand, it’s not like you think.’

  ‘Are you certain you’re not making a fool of yourself?’

  ‘Why won’t you recognize that a man can just admire a woman?’

  ‘Because I’ve never met one who stopped at that.’ The moment she’d finished speaking, she swore at herself for letting her tongue run unchecked. She said hastily: ‘Enrique, tell me what the trouble is.’

  ‘I had a phone call from Palma this morning.’ He began to fidget with the knife again. ‘It virtually confirms the fact that the man she loves murdered his brother. I’ve held back one further piece of evidence which quite definitely does confirm it.’