Confessional

by Anthony Masters

  ‘He knew Blasco as well as he knows the rest of the family; he could be very helpful.’

  ‘Could anyone have left the island?’ asked Larche abruptly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Calvino drew Larche aside and spoke to him quietly. ‘You know the problems I’m up against. We will work together – very closely. I’ve organized a detailed search of the island and I have reinforcements coming in by helicopter. In fact there will be over two hundred officers on Molino by lunchtime. I’ve also told all the remaining family you’ll want to see them and they’re going back to the house – including Bishop Carlos.’

  ‘I must talk to London,’ said Larche. ‘Lorenzo took me down the coast searching. I don’t know why I went – I should have been here on the phone.’

  ‘We all do things instantaneously in shock. Use the phone in the house all you like – it’s at your disposal …’ Calvino paused. ‘I ignored this damned assassin business. I was looking for links here on the island, or something political outside. I was sure we had the place well protected, although there seemed little chance of another killing. After all, it was Eduardo Tomas who was receiving the death threats. Now I discover we’ve let someone slip through, unless they were here already. But who on Molino would commit a crime of this magnitude?’

  Larche touched his shoulder. Calvino was being highly efficient but he couldn’t stand him talking any longer. ‘Look, you carry on with the hunt and I’ll conduct the interviews. I’d like to talk to this Lorenzo character as well, and then there’s the painter – Morrison. How many others are on the island?’

  ‘There’s twelve house staff. Police and security are all billeted in tents near Sebastia – originally forty-two in all – and then there are the fishing families. About a hundred, maybe more. Everyone has identity papers.’ Sweat poured down Calvino’s forehead as the heat intensified. ‘But I’ll run more checks. We’ve got an operation base in the canvas village. Forget about the mainland tonight and come over to me as soon as you’re through.’

  ‘I’m Morrison,’ said an untidy-looking middle-aged man as Larche walked up the beach towards the house. ‘You’re from Interpol, aren’t you?’

  Larche nodded irritably, not ready for him yet, but Morrison proffered his hand, almost socially, as if they were meeting at a drinks party and were wondering how long they would have to talk together.

  ‘I gather your colleague has been murdered – along with Blasco.’ He spoke slowly, his voice hesitant, almost as if he was fumbling for the right tone.

  ‘Yes.’ Larche was terse.

  ‘Do you want to speak to me now? Out here?’ His eyes were slightly bloodshot and his hair was tousled. ‘Feel a bit muzzy – I’ve only just got up,’ he said apologetically.

  Larche stared at him without replying and there was an awkward silence.

  ‘There’s a cool place, a little herb garden, over there. I found it the other night. Shall I lead the way?’

  ‘Very well.’ Larche recoiled slightly. Morrison’s breath reeked of stale alcohol, and as the painter shambled in front of him – a bear of a man, dishevelled and exuding body odour – Larche wondered how this untidy individual could possibly have spent so long with the elegant and fastidious Anita Tomas. Then Alison Rowe’s body swam into his mind again and he shivered feverishly, feeling inert, sure that he should be doing something else, like hunting down the assassin. But Larche knew that professionally he was not equipped for that kind of job and there were others who were. There was no alternative but to begin his questioning and routinely pursue his usual course like an automaton. But first he must get through to Heycroft. ‘Look,’ he told Morrison brusquely, ‘you go and settle yourself in your herb garden. I’ll join you in a few minutes when I’ve made some telephone calls from the guest house. I won’t be long.’

  On the way to the guest house Larche ran into Calvino again. This time he was accompanied by a couple of Spanish detectives who were giving urgent instructions into walkie-talkies.

  ‘I was looking for you.’ Calvino sounded reproachful.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m not functioning properly,’ admitted Larche. ‘I’ve got to phone Lyon and then London.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. I’m arranging to have all the people you need to interview gathered in the house. Will Tomas’s study be convenient?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ve arranged for the old servant, Paco, to bring you food.’

  ‘I shan’t need any,’ Larche snapped. How could the man be so damned insensitive? He would have liked a drink, though.

  ‘You may later,’ Calvino fussed. ‘And of course if there’s anything else you need –’

  ‘I’ll ask Paco.’

  ‘You have been through a dreadful experience, señor. Are you sure you wouldn’t wish to rest before –’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Larche cut in savagely and Calvino quickly consulted a scrap of scribbled paper.

  ‘You may wish to see Señora Tomas again; then there’s Jacinto and Maria Tomas, Salvador Tomas – the immediate family. Bishop Carlos, of course, and then Eduardo’s personal staff – his bodyguard Carlos Mendes, his researcher Damien Alba and his secretary Julia Descartes.’

  And they’re all locked up together, thought Larche – just like the Agatha Christie house-party that he had been joking about with Alison Rowe as the police boat had taken them towards Molino. The powerful and the lowly people – all penned up together by a panicky Calvino. Alison Rowe – he had known her for well under twenty-four hours but felt he had known her for ever, and the fact that she was dead, butchered, was unbelievable. Their love-making last night had been the most special, the most erotic, the most memorable he had ever experienced in his life. Alison had unfettered Larche from his strait-jacket of control and had given him a new and all too brief sensation of complete liberation. Now it was over.

  ‘What about Lorenzo?’ Larche remembered, conscious that Calvino was staring at him expectantly.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten. I thought we’d both go over to Sebastia when you’ve finished. Unless you’d rather go alone, of course.’

  ‘No,’ replied Larche. ‘We’ll go together.’

  * * *

  He managed to get through to Heycroft, although it was an extremely bad line, full of static and echo.

  ‘What did you say about Alison?’ His voice was incredulous.

  ‘She’s been shot.’

  ‘Shot? What are the extent of her injuries and who –’

  ‘She’s dead,’ he said flatly.

  ‘God …’ Heycroft couldn’t assimilate the fact for some time and even after Larche had repeated the information he still asked, amidst the crackle, ‘Look – are you sure about this?’

  ‘Yes – I’ve seen her,’ Larche yelled down the telephone.

  ‘This is dreadful. Dreadful. How the hell did it happen? Who did it?’ The static cleared slightly.

  Larche sought for control. ‘I don’t know who did it. She was found in a cove on the island of Molino – along with another member of the Tomas family. A monk. Blasco Tomas. He’s dead too.’

  ‘Hooper?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ shouted Heycroft furiously.

  ‘There’s a rigorous search going on here. No one’s allowed on or off the island.’

  ‘If it is Hooper, then he’s still on the damned island.’

  ‘Certainly no one has been allowed to leave,’ Larche repeated. But as he was trying to communicate with Heycroft, he suddenly remembered Lorenzo and his fishing boat. If that was motoring round the coast of Molino some time after the killings then there must have been many others around the harbour of Sebastia. Had the assassin escaped that way? Would Calvino have realized this? Surely he must have done. And what about Bishop Carlos? Who had brought him to Molino? With an effort, Larche switched his attention back to Heycroft.

  ‘I’ll have to get on to her father
,’ Heycroft was saying. ‘And there’s a boy-friend – a lawyer.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Larche.

  ‘A dreadful tragedy,’ floundered Heycroft, clearly not anxious to end the call. ‘I never imagined for a moment he would actually come for her like this.’

  ‘We don’t know that he did,’ said Larche drily. ‘There are many other possibilities in this case. They’re all being investigated.’

  ‘It’s incredible.’ His voice shook. ‘Two deaths in the Tomas family in days. And now Alison.’ He continued in similar vein for another few minutes and only rang off after he had enquired about her corpse and its removal. Larche promised to ring him again later that day, keeping him posted with developments, but as he put the phone down, he wasn’t sure that he was going to have time to give Heycroft the luxury of communication.

  Larche then dialled Monique’s number in Lyon. It rang and rang until he almost gave up, but just as he was about to put the phone down, she answered blearily.

  ‘Monique.’

  ‘Darling – I’m sorry. I was asleep; it was a long journey, or it seemed one. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ She immediately detected a different tone to his voice.

  ‘Alison Rowe has been murdered – with another member of the Tomas family.’

  There was a silence before she could find the words to reply. ‘That’s just … just appalling. Is this assassin involved?’

  ‘No one knows. There’ll be a full investigation, of course, and it puts a completely different complexion on the other killings. I shouldn’t really be making this call, but I had to let you know I’ll probably be on the island for longer than we thought.’

  ‘That poor, poor girl. Are you safe?’

  ‘Of course. There’s a massive police presence here now; they’re bringing them in by the helicopter load. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll ring as soon as I can.’

  ‘Keep safe.’

  ‘I will. God bless you, my darling.’ Larche rang off and stood staring down at the phone. Morrison – the thought roared into his mind like a spring tide, flooding his consciousness, even dislodging Alison Rowe for a brief period. My God – had his mind been asleep all this time? Morrison was the only newcomer to the island. Could he be Hooper? Then Larche’s logic rebelled against the idea which must be – had to be utterly ludicrous. His credentials had been vouched for by the family and could be verified all the way down the line. The man was an eminent painter with an international reputation and it was doubtful that he could also be an assassin. How strange shock is, Larche thought. There’s almost an hallucinatory effect to it.

  The little herb garden was shaded by cypresses and redolent with the scent of rosemary, marjoram and thyme. A small fountain in the shape of the head of a cherub with the water spurting from its mouth gushed gently in the centre, flooding into a tiled pond with the spread wings of an angel at the bottom. Wisteria crept up the back balcony of the Palladian house and somewhere there was a bird singing.

  Morrison was sitting hunched on a wooden seat by the fountain, his hands stuck in the pockets of a paint-stained overall. His head was sunk on to his chest and his eyes were closed.

  ‘Monsieur Morrison.’

  He jerked awake, turning eyes of clear and lustrous grey on him. He must have been good-looking once, thought Larche, underneath all that flab and hair. He sat down heavily beside him, and there was a long silence.

  ‘I’m very sorry about your colleague,’ said Morrison uneasily.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not sure if the killer will still be on the island,’ he continued. ‘He’s probably long since gone, despite the security screen.’

  Larche wasn’t interested in the speculation. Instead he asked, ‘You spent some time with Eduardo Tomas. Did you know he was receiving death threats?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Morrison quietly. ‘He told me.’

  ‘Was he afraid?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘He took them absolutely seriously?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Did he talk about who might be responsible?’

  ‘No. But he told me some other things. Painting a portrait is as intimate a process as being held hostage; you get to know your subject very well. What is more, the subject will often tell you a good deal – will tell you about personal matters.’

  Another confessional, thought Larche – the air is thick with them. But he wasn’t so sure about Morrison’s high-flown images. Maybe having his portrait painted was more akin to a visit to the hairdresser for someone like Eduardo. ‘So what did you learn?’ he asked, trying not to sound patronizing.

  ‘Blasco made Eduardo very uncomfortable …’

  The unexpected comment took Larche by surprise.

  ‘What exactly does that mean?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Eduardo led me to believe he wasn’t a favourite brother.’

  ‘Go on.’ Larche was impatient. ‘What was the context?’

  ‘We were talking about marriage.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘His and Anita’s. Then he suddenly said that he had always been close to his brothers – perhaps too close – and that Jacinto was compatible but Blasco was not. He didn’t say why and then he changed the subject abruptly.’

  ‘How many sittings did you have with Eduardo?’

  ‘About six hours – broken up into three sessions.’

  ‘Is that long enough?’

  ‘It never is.’ He had a deep, rather pleasantly resonant voice which made him sound almost too confident. ‘But all my subjects are busy, distinguished people.’

  ‘Should I have heard of you?’ asked Larche, irritated by Morrison’s air of self-satisfaction.

  ‘Well, I like to think I’m well known, but there’s always the grim possibility of someone not recognizing my name.’

  Larche deliberately let another long silence develop. Eventually, Morrison was discomforted enough to break it.

  ‘Did you know that Anita Tomas has commissioned me again?’

  ‘Yes. Did Eduardo strike you as a loving husband?’

  ‘He wasn’t in the same league as Anita,’ said Morrison slowly. ‘She’s obsessed with him and goes on about him endlessly – to me, at least. He’s become an icon. I think that’s why she commissioned me again, so she could talk while I paint.’ He grinned. ‘I’m the real painter therapist.’

  Larche looked at him with considerable distaste. ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘He struck me as a philanderer.’ Morrison smiled, quietly conscious of what appeared to be a calculated time-bomb, almost pleased to have made the detonation.

  ‘How did you make that out?’ Larche said evenly, determined not to seem surprised. Gradually he was becoming more and more aware of the impression Morrison liked to give – that of confidant to the rich and famous. Delighted to be mixed up in such a ritzy murder case, he was already planning how he was going to sell his account to the nearest tabloid. He’s a bastard, thought Larche, and a manipulative one at that.

  ‘Eduardo Tomas was gay,’ said Morrison.

  Larche felt a surge of fury, and registered fleetingly that this time the shock was not masked by any hallucinatory qualities. So this was the kind of gossip Morrison was going to spread. To Larche, Eduardo had been the epitome of Spanish macho heterosexuality; no vibrations of homosexuality had ever reached him. Surely he would have known.

  ‘How can you be so certain of this?’ he asked him, annoyed that he was clearly displaying his dislike.

  Morrison sighed. ‘In my studio I have a sculpture of a shepherd boy which was made by Richard Crakey. It’s sensuous, beautiful, delightful – Eduardo couldn’t keep his eyes off it.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Larche was scathing.

  ‘No – but it was enough for me at the time. I thought I’d prove it to myself a little more, however.’ He paused reflectively. ‘I’ve a very attractive model who’s gay. On
the second session I got him to drop by.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To satisfy my curiosity – which it certainly did.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What other motive would I have?’

  ‘You didn’t by any chance want to blackmail Eduardo Tomas?’

  ‘That’s outrageous,’ said Morrison calmly. He didn’t seem thrown in the least.

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m asking you if that was in your mind,’ Larche persisted.

  ‘No.’ For the first time Larche detected a spark of anger. ‘I had no intention of that kind, and unless you withdraw the imputation I’ll have to phone my lawyer.’

  Larche’s anger increased; he could almost have hit Morrison for his smug pomposity. Then he pulled himself together. It was essential to find out why Morrison was telling him all this. ‘I withdraw it,’ he said briefly and rubbed a stem of rosemary through his fingers. ‘Was he escorted by a bodyguard when he came to your studio?’ he added, trying another tack.

  ‘Yes – a guy called Mendes.’

  ‘He was with you all the time?’

  ‘Yes, and there were a couple of others outside. He was well looked after.’

  Larche could see the Mediterranean from the herb garden. On the horizon there was a dark cluster of fishing vessels and a solitary boat further inshore, cruising up and down the coast. It could have been Lorenzo, still searching. Then, like the black specks of seabirds, came more helicopters from the mainland. Larche’s gaze returned to Morrison.

  ‘Monsieur, your allegations about Eduardo Tomas are very serious.’

  ‘I realize that,’ replied Morrison quietly. He seemed to be rather downcast now, as if he had been caught out showing off.

  ‘Suppose you were right – would Anita know?’ said Larche, testing the supposition, hoping to catch Morrison off-guard again.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I told you, she’s besotted with Eduardo – talks about him all the time as a lover, friend, counsellor. They’re both from up-market families and they met quite young. Now she’s in her fifties. If she did have any suspicions, she would have blotted them out years ago, don’t you think? Like Eduardo – because of Eduardo – Anita Tomas has spoken to me very frankly. I’m sure she’s usually much more reserved. During dinner last night she even told me how much she disliked that Lorenzo character – the one with the boat.’