‘Thank you.’ Alison shook hands with her. Despite the heat Anita’s palm was cool and dry. That’s how she seems as a person, Alison thought suddenly. Cool and dry and formidable. A hard person to know; probably equally hard to question. ‘I’ll liaise with Señor Calvino, but I would like to take a look at the copies.’
‘Who is your suspect?’ asked Anita crisply.
‘An assassin who I’ve … had an encounter with before.’
‘An English assassin?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you think this assassin could be implicated?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
The tears glistened for only seconds in Anita Tomas’s eyes and then began to roll down her dark cheeks. She made no attempt to brush them away and soon they were rivulets, seemingly unending. She made no sound at all.
I didn’t expect this, thought Alison. For a moment she wondered what Marius Larche was going to do. Would he embrace Anita again? Calvino had already disappeared, striding back out of the gate, no doubt relieved to be rid, even temporarily, of his charges. But Larche did nothing, standing calmly, watching her silent tears. Then after what seemed like an eternity, he reached out for her hand and took it gently.
‘I can’t live without him.’ The words were clipped, positive, almost authoritarian.
Larche said nothing, but went on holding her hand. Then the tears stopped as suddenly as they had started, and with all the dignity of Mediterranean grief, she released his hand and said, ‘You must both come in.’ Once again, Anita Tomas was her aloof, stylish self.
The room was cool and inviting, with a mixture of abstract and impressionist pictures on the walls. The furnishings were sparse – a few low-slung chairs and a sofa, a bar, a desk and a huge bookcase – on an enormous expanse of tiled floor.
‘You’ve changed the old layout,’ Larche observed.
‘Eduardo had it done last year. He said he wanted less clutter in his life.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I preferred the clutter. Please sit down. Will you have a drink?’
‘A pastis,’ said Larche.
‘I’ll just have something soft.’ Alison’s voice was tight with tension.
Anita poured the drinks herself and put them down on a glass-topped table. She brought nothing for herself.
‘The servants usually do all this,’ she said absently, ‘but I can’t stand them around me at the moment, so they’re sitting in their quarters with nothing to do.’ She laughed harshly. ‘Eduardo wouldn’t have liked that. He believed in using his labour force.’
There was a slight pause. Then Larche said, ‘Anita – I’m obviously conscious of overlapping with Calvino.’
‘Yes, I thought you would be.’ She offered no reassurances.
‘I expect he will have already asked you a lot of questions.’
‘Yes.’
‘I shall have to repeat them,’ said Larche stolidly.
‘Of course.’ She shrugged. Clearly he was not ruffling a single layer of her reserve.
‘Something puzzles me,’ Larche spoke slowly, almost hesitantly.
‘What?’
‘Every politician gets death threats. Why did he take these so seriously?’
‘That’s easy to answer. The person who wrote the letters knew his movements exactly. Do you want me to show them to you?’ She half rose to her feet.
‘No – not yet. I just want to talk to you.’
‘Very well.’ She was sitting in one of the armchairs but her whole body was stiff and erect, as if she was posing for a bad photograph.
Anita Tomas was a very formidable lady, thought Alison. There was a dignity to her that would clearly brook no argument, but there was something else too – a perception that was quiet but astute. She knows what’s going on all the time, Alison decided, and she’s used to control.
‘Detective Superintendent Rowe is investigating the presence – the possible presence – of a hit-man named Hooper in Barcelona. He may have no connection with the case at all.’
‘Does Calvino know about this?’
‘Yes,’ said Alison.
‘Detective Superintendent Rowe might be able to identify this suspect,’ said Larche, ‘so she has been asked to come out here and investigate a possible connection.’
‘May I ask how you will recognise him?’ asked Anita.
‘Yes – he shot me.’
For the first time, Anita Tomas was taken aback. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘I recovered – but my colleague didn’t.’
‘I see.’
‘He’s a very dangerous man.’
‘And what makes you think he’s mixed up in all this?’
‘We had a report that he flew to Barcelona, travelling on Irish papers,’ she said flatly.
‘But you are not sure?’
‘No.’
‘Surely – he would have changed his appearance?’
‘We suspect he’s been involved in a number of recent assassinations of political figures.’
‘May I ask who?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’
‘Did anyone come here?’ asked Larche. ‘A few days before Eduardo died? Has anyone come here since?’
‘Only Bernard Morrison – the artist who was painting my husband’s portrait. His credentials are impeccable.’
‘When did he go?’
‘He’s here now,’ she said calmly. ‘He came today.’
‘Now?’ Larche looked shocked. ‘Did Calvino allow him on the island?’
‘Yes, Marius, he did. Because I asked him to. Like I asked him to allow you – and you allowed Miss Rowe.’ She looked at him challengingly, her autocratic little frame stiff with indignation. ‘This is my home – still my home. I realize the police and the security people have to do their job – and I appreciate the enormity of what has happened. I loved Eduardo, Marius, and he was very precious to me. His portrait – is more important to me than ever. I’m also used to getting my way – as you know – so I overruled everyone.’ She smiled self-deprecatingly, as if defying him to argue with her. ‘It’s not difficult to do that in my position, I’m afraid. I’m used to having my own way. The finished portrait is being shipped over, but he brought photographs. You’ll understand I needed them at this time – rather desperately. Oddly, I commissioned the portrait and my husband sat for it when he was in London last year.’
‘So you never met Mr Morrison until now?’
‘We’ve corresponded. He’s written some wonderful letters about Eduardo. They obviously struck up quite a strong relationship during those hours of sitting.’
‘You mean you corresponded before Eduardo’s death?’
‘There hasn’t been very much time afterwards, has there?’ Her voice was icy but Larche carried on unabashed.
‘How did you find Mr Morrison?’
‘He was recommended by Sir Evan Taylor at the Royal Academy; one of England’s most distinguished portrait painters.’
Larche turned to Alison. ‘Have you heard of him?’
‘The name’s familiar.’
‘Surely he could have sent you the photographs – rather than arriving here in person?’
‘Yes, he could have done, but we’d made the arrangement for him to come and I saw no reason to break it.’ She paused, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m giving him a new commission,’ she added.
‘To do what?’ asked Larche.
‘I want him to paint Eduardo here in the house – paint what he looked like here.’ She turned away from them for the first time, fiddling with a bracelet. ‘You must think me very foolish,’ she said, but Alison thought that she sounded more angry than defensive.
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t think that at all.’
‘Well, I am foolish, trying to perpetuate his memory in any way I can. I mean …’ She hesitated and then quickly recovered herself. ‘I’m quite able to watch him on video, or to listen to him on audio tape. It’s not p
ainful – in fact, it’s very necessary. I do it all the time.’ She pressed a button on the table and part of the wall slid back to reveal a huge screen. Anita then turned a switch and Eduardo came into view, looking as confident and as charismatic as ever. He was being interviewed on a chat show but Anita quickly pressed another button and the screen went dead again.
They’re the same, Alison thought; the one dead and the other alive. Both special people in powerful worlds, supremely confident of themselves – until a couple of bullets put paid to everything.
‘Did Eduardo have any personal enemies?’ asked Larche.
‘Not in the course of his career; he was a very popular man. I know the police and the security believe this to be a political assassination – perhaps ETTA or the Separatists. No one’s claimed responsibility yet.’
‘Isn’t that very odd?’ asked Alison. ‘Surely they’d be only too pleased to benefit from the publicity. I mean, that would be the point of the assassination, wouldn’t it?’
Anita shrugged. ‘It is strange.’ She paused again. ‘Have the police briefed you?’
‘We know the basics,’ said Larche.
‘But your Interpol presence is official?’
‘Yes.’
‘Marius – I wanted you to come here and I’m happy that Detective Superintendent Rowe will be working with you. I’ll do anything I can to help.’
‘Did you have any idea what Father Miguel was going to tell Eduardo?’ asked Larche.
‘No. And I’m sure it was a mystery to Eduardo as well.’
‘But he went very willingly?’ asked Alison curiously. ‘Wasn’t that a bit odd? There he was, bombarded by death threats, and he went calmly off to Madrid with minimum security.’
‘He didn’t have minimum security,’ said Anita quickly. ‘His aircraft was covered and so was the drive to the Valley of the Fallen. There were security men in the Basilica …’
‘And yet he was killed.’ Alison’s voice was cool.
‘Yes,’ agreed Anita flatly.
‘And this girl – the one who had the convenient fit?’ asked Larche.
‘She’s being questioned. I don’t know whether she was in collusion with the assassin or not, but I believe someone paid good money to have Eduardo assassinated – and I’m not sure we need look so far afield.’ Anita sounded hesitant.
‘What are you driving at, Anita?’ said Larche softly.
‘I’m wondering – just wondering – if Eduardo’s assassination was not after all some kind of major political act – but a local one.’ She glanced rather sharply at Alison. ‘I realize it doesn’t fit in with your international hired assassin theory, but maybe that’s why Eduardo wanted you here, Marius. Perhaps he wanted you to investigate something delicate – maybe something that, like me, he was only a little suspicious of. Clearly we both underestimated the depth of feeling.’ She hesitated. ‘You see, he wanted to do his bit for Catalonia – for the coastline here. It’s been raped by tourism and the fishing industry has been practically wiped out, but Eduardo believed the industry could be revived. The old port, Sebastia, has been with us forever on the southern tip of the island, but it was ruined, derelict. Fifteen years ago Eduardo brought in a man called Lorenzo from the mainland to run the fleet. He was – still is – an odd character – very inward, even hostile – but he and Eduardo had one common concern: to start the fishing up again and make it economically viable.’
‘And is it?’ asked Larche.
‘There are thirty boats at Sebastia now – all of them making a profit.’
‘Has this revival spread to the mainland?’ asked Alison.
‘Not really. They still prefer to make money from the tourists; it’s easier to do that than take to the water at all times of the year, sometimes for a poor catch. But in Sebastia they feel differently; the fish are brought home every night, shipped to the mainland and taken to Barcelona in refrigerated trucks.’
‘Paid for by Eduardo?’
‘By the Tomas Trust – yes.’
‘Did Señor Tomas offer to help them restart fishing on the mainland?’ said Alison, pursuing her train of thought. ‘Perhaps they were jealous of Sebastia, felt they needed practical assistance, not just an example to follow.’
‘Certainly he did.’
‘And?’
‘All they did was sneer. They would accept nothing from him and they created slanderous rumours about Sebastia – that it was a brothel, that Lorenzo – and we as a family – were implicated and –’
‘So he was hated there,’ interrupted Larche. ‘Hated for starting a fishing industry.’
‘Hated more perhaps for employing Lorenzo.’ Anita was looking out of the window at the large swimming pool on the terrace behind them.
‘Why?’
‘I’ve never been sure. He had some kind of reputation – or had done something bad over there.’
‘Did Eduardo know?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But you were close …’
‘Yes. Not about Lorenzo, though. I didn’t want to speak about him to Eduardo.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just didn’t like him. He had his business arrangements with my husband – and for some reason this caused the most dreadful outrage on the mainland. I never got to the bottom of it because I didn’t want to. Neither did I think it was particularly important at the time. Now I can see that I was mistaken and that’s why it’s very fortuitous that you have arrived here, Marius.’
‘Couldn’t Calvino –’
‘He won’t take me seriously. He’s got to get quick results, you see, and he doesn’t think all this is relevant.’
Larche’s heart sank. Anita had always been so detached, so coolly independent. He realized she was deeply distressed, but even so he’d never thought she would lean on him to this extent.
Chapter 4
The sighing of the ocean below, the rhythmic sound of the cicadas and the faint early evening light produced an atmosphere of presentiment in the big, airy, slightly bleak room.
Alison Rowe spoke softly and cautiously. ‘So could we be thinking about a personal vendetta, something small-scale?’
Anita nodded her head impatiently. ‘For some months now, Eduardo has been pushing through a programme for more Catalan independence. He wanted to construct local government, create Catalonian autonomy, give more grants to local culture.’
‘And that’s enough to provoke an assassination?’ asked Larche unbelievingly.
‘You have to appreciate that Catalan identity was totally suppressed by Franco and many people still feel that Catalonia should be kept in its place. I know there was … well, suspicion, that Eduardo had long-term plans for some kind of home rule. So you can see there are three broad strands: the far-flung political assassination theory that the police favour, and the two I’ve offered you – the seemingly incomprehensible mainland hatred and those who are against Catalan nationalism.’
‘And which do you favour?’ asked Alison.
‘It’s hard for me to say this because I have no evidence whatsoever, but I’ve always been worried about Lorenzo and the power he exerts in Sebastia. The men are afraid of him there – and I don’t know why. It’s an aura, a feeling – nothing more – and I realize you cannot investigate feelings, Marius.’
‘The letters – the threatening letters. Were there many of them?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes. They came almost every day.’
‘And the calls?’
‘Two or three times a day.’
‘My God – Eduardo never told me they were this prolific.’ Larche turned to Alison Rowe in concern.
‘No, I don’t suppose Eduardo wanted to admit the scale of it, even to himself. He was so depressed; thought they’d never stop. And of course I’m often away performing.’ She paused. ‘They, whoever it was, always seemed to know exactly where he was – in Madrid, or here, or wherever.’
‘But what did he do about it?’ asked Larche.
&n
bsp; ‘Took them to the Cesid – and to the police – but they couldn’t trace them. They were posted in different places; there seemed to be no pattern. Girona, Barcelona, Port Bou, Palamos – dozens of different towns. The letters were typed on different machines, sometimes typewriters, sometimes word processors.’
‘And the calls?’
‘They were even worse, of course.’
‘The voice?’
‘It was distorted – obviously a tape recording.’ She shuddered, her calm temporarily broken again. ‘Horrible – like a mechanical voice but with hate and loathing in it.’
‘Were the calls recorded?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have the tapes?’
‘Yes.’ For a moment she didn’t move. ‘I’ll go and get them.’
She walked quickly and elegantly to the desk, her small body totally controlled in its movements. Alison watched her in fascination. She had several of Anita Tomas’s CDs at home. She played like an angel.
Anita returned with a pile of papers and a tape and threw them on to the floor as if she couldn’t bear to touch them. They fanned out untidily and were of varying sizes, composed of no more than one line. Larche went down on his knees, skimming the papers and handing a few up to Alison to read.
WE’RE GOING TO KILL YOU
YOU’LL DIE
SOON YOU’LL DIE
IT WON’T BE LONG NOW
DEATH WILL BE A RELIEF
YOU’LL NEVER KNOW WHEN YOUR DEATH IS COMING
IT’S GOING TO BE VIOLENT
DAYS NOT WEEKS
They went on and on, neatly typed, almost childish in their melodrama. But to get them so regularly every day must have been very hard, thought Alison. A grinding regularity, relentlessly threatening with every post.
‘Can we hear the tape?’ asked Larche.
‘Yes.’ Anita handed it to him abruptly. ‘But if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go into another room for a few minutes. I can’t bear to listen to it.’
‘Of course. Would you rather I took it away somewhere?’
‘When you’ve finished. Yes.’ She looked at him expressionlessly. ‘I’m just going to have a word with Bernard Morrison. He gives me … at least some temporary comfort. I shan’t be long.’ Anita Tomas walked hurriedly out of the room, her dark silk dress rustling slightly, and leaving behind a faint trace of delicately scented herbal cologne. What’s under that frosted exterior, wondered Alison. Does she have any fire in her? Alison suspected she did – but had kept it all for Eduardo. She glanced across at Larche, wondering if he was thinking the same way. Alison decided that he was.
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