Confessional

by Anthony Masters

  The crowd was standing beside a rocky headland that was covered in coarse grass and salty, stunted little pine trees that were all bent by the prevailing wind, huddled protectively into thickets. Two Range Rovers, another small jeep, and three helicopters were parked very close together, and over fifty uniformed and plainclothes police and security men stood around, looking elated, smoking, talking, laughing – rather as if they had all won a much-awaited prize. Larche could feel the atmosphere of relief, the running down of tension. He half expected to see bottles being passed round, drunkenness beginning – maybe even a bit of wild singing and dancing. Calvino’s spirits, however, seemed diminished again as he moved through his triumphant forces like a disgraced general about to face a court martial.

  Calvino walked up a rough flinty path that smelt of thyme and Larche found himself looking down at the sea. The wind had dropped again and the Mediterranean had a sluggish, rather oily look to it, the waves slapping the rocks petulantly. A flotilla of yachts were almost stationary some hundred yards away behind a ring of protective buoys, but just beneath the headland, pulled up on a narrow strip of shingle beach, were a couple of motor boats, and anchored just off the rocks, riding up and down on the swell, was Lorenzo’s fishing boat.

  The body lay on the beach, covered with some sheeting, just as, a few hours ago, Alison and Blasco had lain in another cove. Half a dozen men stood around it, talking and looking out to sea. Lorenzo and a few fishermen occupied the other part of the beach. They sat on the rocks, watching the police with interest, as if they were expecting them to do something dramatic. The fact that they had clearly been doing nothing at all didn’t in any way diminish the fishermen’s interest.

  To Larche’s surprise, Salvador Tomas was standing beside Lorenzo.

  ‘Now what the hell’s he doing there?’ asked Larche of Calvino as they scrambled down the precipitous little path.

  ‘Yes, I’ve already reprimanded him,’ Calvino panted. ‘He said that he couldn’t stand being cooped up in the house and he’d just gone down to Sebastia for half an hour.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Larche disapprovingly.

  ‘Then the body was found.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The man was seen on the cliff by Lorenzo. Later, there was a shot – and he fell.’

  ‘And what was Lorenzo doing here?’

  ‘Cruising round the shore in his fishing boat.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Larche again.

  ‘The man had been there on the cliff for some time, according to Lorenzo,’ said Calvino rather shortly.

  ‘What was he up to?’ snapped Larche. ‘I mean – sunbathing? Bearing in mind a full-scale police hunt was on at the time?’

  ‘He must have been hiding – and then came out to give himself up.’ Catching Larche’s sceptical gaze he added quickly, ‘Presumably he thought better of it.’

  ‘You mean, he decided to kill himself?’

  ‘Or escape perhaps – until he realized he’d been spotted by Lorenzo.’

  ‘Why didn’t he wait until night?’ asked Larche waspishly. ‘To try and make an escape in broad daylight seems pitiful.’

  Calvino smiled. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to get off the island at night. I had the coast patrolled by those two motor boats with searchlights mounted on them. Last night we covered every inch of the island from the sea, right up until dawn. It was only when it got light that I called off the boats – and then there was this discovery. Lorenzo was certainly persistent,’ he added unwillingly.

  ‘You organized your land and sea search teams well,’ Larche said quickly, instinctively subscribing to Calvino’s conspiracy of convenience. ‘You’d have found him eventually.’ But all the time he was thinking: this isn’t right, it just isn’t.

  Calvino smiled at him gratefully, as if he needed his approbation. He’s becoming increasingly uneasy, thought Larche with some satisfaction. Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the body,’ He turned and led Larche towards the corpse. Calvino’s men drew back, relieved that something was happening at last, and the fishermen’s patient interest was finally rewarded. As Larche followed Calvino, he glanced across at Salvador Tomas. The boy immediately looked away but Lorenzo gave a half-wave and it was Larche’s turn to avert his eyes quickly. Then he wondered irritably why he had.

  The corpse wore loose cotton trousers and a singlet. His white skin was reddened by the sun and a small, cheap money belt was round his waist. He was totally unmarked up to his chest which had a ragged tear in it so deep that Larche could see the man’s lungs. But if this was not riveting enough, the fact that his head was partially shattered was far worse. Larche turned away for a moment, bile rising in his throat at the recollection of the earlier killings. Then he controlled himself and quickly turned back, staring down at the ripped, raw gouts of bloodied flesh – the obvious result of immense impact on the knife-sharp flinty rocks which pierced the shingle of the cove.

  ‘He has a passport – and an identity card.’

  ‘In the name of …’

  ‘Liam Mullen. Irish citizen.’

  ‘You won’t have had time to check him out –’

  ‘Oh, but I have.’ Calvino’s triumph was slightly childish but Larche didn’t grudge him his moment; he was sure that he wouldn’t have many more. ‘I made a phone call to the British police. Forgive me for not interrupting you earlier.’

  Larche nodded forgiveness.

  ‘That was the alias being used by the man the British secret service spotted at Gatwick. Their computer gave me the information in ten minutes. I was very impressed.’

  ‘Were you able to access Alison Rowe’s description? Does it tally with the body and the ID?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, it’s a very general description, and you can see the state of his face, but as far as it goes I think it fits him.’ He sounded slightly hesitant.

  ‘Do you have any doubts?’ asked Larche.

  ‘I shall have,’ replied Calvino. ‘I always do in the fullness of time. But who is this man if he is not the assassin?’ He pulled the sheeting back over the ravaged human remains.

  There was a long pause while Larche thought again of the three poor little rich boys trapped on their island paradise. Had the seeds of disaster been sown long ago, back in that privileged, arid past? Calvino was still begging the question: if this indeed was the assassin, had he also killed Eduardo and Father Miguel – and, above all, who had hired him? ‘Lorenzo,’ he said to Calvino. ‘Why was Lorenzo searching the coast? Why didn’t he leave it to the police – there are enough of them?’

  Summoned briskly by Calvino, Lorenzo moved slowly and gracefully over to them. His leathery features looked curiously young and Larche wondered just how old he really was. Mid-forties? Younger? Older? He was ageless and his movements were athletic, almost feline. Glancing across at Salvador, Larche could see that the boy was watching Lorenzo with a steady concentration. The heat was now intense – a shimmering wall that seemed to separate them from the sea.

  As Lorenzo began to speak, Larche listened intently, trying to find a loophole in what he was saying.

  ‘I was still patrolling up and down the coast with Juan, feeling shocked at what had happened to Blasco Tomas and your colleague.’ He turned to Larche for the first time. ‘I was sure as I could be that there was no one on the island and their assassin had somehow managed to escape. We had checked all the coves – all of them are shallow – and I went to take another look at this headland. I suddenly remembered that there was a small cave half-way up which was very inaccessible and I knew the police would have difficulty getting to it. I could have managed it if I hadn’t been worried about the El Santos. I regret it now, but I delegated the job to Juan.’

  ‘Surely he would have done what you told him?’ interrupted Larche brusquely.

  ‘Yes – but he was careless. The headland as you can see is very difficult to climb. If someone had been clever and lain very s
till, it’s likely that Juan would have failed to find him.’

  ‘You really think he was up there then?’ Larche’s tone was challenging, but Lorenzo continued very calmly.

  ‘I’m sure he was. We were motoring away from the headland when I looked back and saw a figure on the cliff. We turned about, and just as we reached the inlet I heard a shot and saw him falling to the beach.’

  ‘OK,’ said Calvino. ‘We know the rest.’

  ‘Can I see the documents?’ asked Larche impatiently.

  ‘Of course.’

  Lorenzo returned slowly to Salvador and the group of fishermen.

  Conscious that he had been rather patronizingly dismissed, Larche said, ‘Thank you,’ very distinctly, but Lorenzo didn’t seem to hear. One of Calvino’s aides produced a passport and identity card and Larche thumbed through them curiously. Both showed the same blurred photograph – of a man in his late thirties, with blond hair unfashionably long and a wide but indistinctive face. He could have been anyone – anyone who vaguely fitted Alison Rowe’s description.

  ‘There was something else,’ said Calvino. He picked up the cellophane package from just behind the corpse. ‘The gun is a Smith & Wesson automatic. All ten bullets were fired.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And there were nine entry wounds in the bodies of Blasco Tomas and Alison Rowe – five in Tomas and four in Rowe. This man blew away his face with the last remaining bullet and dropped the gun as he fell. It landed on the beach some distance from the body.’

  ‘Lucky it didn’t fall into the sea,’ replied Larche and Calvino shrugged.

  There was another long silence and it seemed to Larche as if everything around him had stopped in a kind of freeze-frame. For seconds it appeared that the ocean, the sky, the figure on the beach were all in suspended animation. Then the surging of the waves filled his ears again and the fleecy clouds once more travelled across the face of the blinding sun.

  ‘I don’t think that there can be many doubts left, señor.’ Calvino sounded reproachful. ‘It’ll be just a question of clearing up the loose ends.’ His voice trembled slightly as if he was now completely exhausted.

  Larche felt deeply depressed. The end was neat, wrapped up and unsatisfactory. The press would be delighted that there had been such a dramatic conclusion to events, and for some days the coverage would be at a premium. Then the headlines would lessen, a few more facts would be relegated to the inside pages and on television and radio some small profiles might linger. But soon the Tomas story would be dead. Larche could see the whole scenario. And yet no motive for the killings had been established – only a probable assassin. The unanswerable questions ran through Larche’s mind again. Why were Eduardo and Father Miguel killed in Madrid and then Blasco and Alison on Molino? If this Liam Mullen had been set up to kill them, or some of them, weren’t the rest of the Tomas family in danger? And what about the letters and the telephone calls? Then, of course, there was the motive for the killings …

  ‘Just a few loose ends,’ agreed Larche. ‘Like who hired the assassin?’

  ‘I know that,’ said Calvino defensively. ‘There are many unanswered questions, but this man was on the run and hiding out. He killed himself when he knew the hunt was closing in and he has the right alias.’ Calvino stretched his arms out in a gesture of entreaty. ‘We have something to go on. Yes?’

  ‘We have something,’ agreed Larche. ‘But I wouldn’t want to go far on it.’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to my office,’ said Larche.

  ‘I’ll have you run back,’ said Calvino, signalling one of his men.

  ‘I’ll walk – if you don’t mind.’

  As he spoke, one of the radios crackled into life. Seconds later, Calvino said in a slightly injured tone, ‘Paco says there’s a call from Lyon for you at the house – from a man called Philippe Chalon.’

  ‘My number two. Tell him I’ll ring him back.’

  Larche walked away over the pebbles and up the steep little path, feeling considerable disquiet. It was true that this corpse vaguely fitted a description but he knew that this was not enough – could never be enough – to close an investigation, and that Calvino was only trying to ease off the pressure he’d been under. As he paced his way back to the house Larche passed a crumbling dry stone wall to which a lizard clung. He paused to look at its mottled skin and then hurried more briskly on.

  ‘We’ve checked out Morrison,’ said Chalon on the telephone in Eduardo’s study. ‘He’s absolutely bona fide and his housekeeper tells me he’s on Molino at Anita Tomas’s request. She described him in detail and I also checked with his secretary. Both descriptions tally exactly with the one you gave me. Any other questions?’

  ‘Events have moved rather fast here, Philippe.’ Briefly he outlined what had happened. ‘There’s no indication of who hired him – not at the moment anyway,’ he added quickly. ‘Nor am I convinced that he was the assassin.’

  ‘Then who is he?’ asked Chalon.

  Larche didn’t reply.

  ‘Look – I don’t work with a man for ten years without knowing him,’ Chalon persisted. ‘What’s really bothering you?’

  ‘Nothing specific. It’s just all too damned neat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Lucky.’

  ‘Lucky? What do you mean by lucky?’

  ‘It’s all so convenient, isn’t it? Lorenzo, the sighting of the man on the cliff, the shot, the fall – all such a coincidence.’

  ‘So do you think it’s a set-up?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Larche slowly. ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘Why does this Calvino character believe in it, then? Is he some kind of arsehole?’

  ‘No, he’s a good man under pressure. He just wants a breathing space.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Stay on.’

  ‘You haven’t finished your interviews?’

  ‘There are just two more people I’d like to talk to – Maria Tomas and Salvador, Eduardo’s son. And perhaps I’ll talk to Anita again.’

  ‘Keep in touch then. And by the way …’ Chalon paused.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Take care of yourself.’

  Larche had just finished explaining the situation to Monique when there was a tap on the library door.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ he said softly into the phone. ‘I’m sorry – someone’s here.’

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ll phone later if I get the chance.’ He put the receiver down with some relief and turned to the door. ‘Come in.’ He was exhausted by his conversation with her, finding it impossible to be natural, to pretend that nothing had happened. It could only be guilt, he thought desperately. He couldn’t be in love with Alison Rowe. How could he? A woman he had known for a few hours. But she had given him something so precious. Now he found himself gazing irresolutely at the old servant who was standing on the threshold like a grey shadow. ‘Yes?’

  ‘They are asking –’

  ‘Who are?’ snapped Larche, unnecessarily abrasive.

  ‘Bishop Carlos – Señora Tomas. They are wondering if you still wish to speak to them – in the light of recent events?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Thank you, señor. They are getting a little restless.’

  The scene that met his eyes when Larche walked through into the long, elegant main room of the house resembled prison conditions with revolt about to surface. Outwardly, there was however a certain brooding restraint.

  Bishop Carlos was thumbing through some papers, Anita Tomas was reading El Pais, Julia Descartes and Carlos Mendes were playing cards, Maria Tomas was pouring herself a drink and Damien Alba was seemingly immersed in a detective story, sitting uncomfortably on a rigid-looking ultra-modern chair. Bernard Morrison, who seemed to be sketching the assembled company, looked up immediately. Jacinto and Salvador were disinterestedly watching the flickering images of the muted television set.

  ‘You’ve
heard what happened?’ Larche asked.

  ‘Calvino phoned,’ Anita replied abruptly. As she spoke, the Bishop looked up and regarded Larche thoughtfully whilst Maria switched off the TV. Expectancy took over amongst the nervous company. ‘So they’ve got the assassin – at last,’ said Anita. For the first time she was human in her strange mixture of relief and anger. Her usual cold detachment seemed to have been temporarily jettisoned. ‘I find it utterly incredible that there should have been such an enormous police presence – and he could have hidden in a cave all the while, waiting his opportunity. I shall be taking this up at the highest level. I’ve never been happy with Calvino,’ she ended viciously.

  ‘He penned us up here together like criminals,’ Morrison muttered. ‘What’s going on?’ His face was more apprehensive now and Larche felt a glow of pleasure.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He spoke the words softly, watching the tense hostility towards him steal slowly over all their faces. ‘Calvino has only been doing what he thinks is right. I consider he’s handled the affair as well as anyone could –’

  ‘I must disagree,’ snapped Anita.

  ‘But I’m not at all happy with the situation,’ continued Larche.

  ‘You mean you don’t think he is the assassin?’ asked Morrison.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Larche replied quickly. ‘They’ve found a gun and the right number of bullets has been fired from it, but there are too many loose ends.’ He paused, watching his words spread the unease he had predicted. ‘Far too many.’

  The Bishop nodded somewhat absently, as if he was too confused to be anything else but slightly dismissive. Then he stood up. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘The police approach has been thoroughly amateur.’

  ‘In my opinion Calvino and his team have been as thorough as they could be,’ Larche retorted, determined to avoid the obvious scapegoating, ‘but there are a large number of unanswered questions which I’m sure they’re investigating.’

  ‘Perhaps you could enumerate them for us?’ asked Anita frostily.

  ‘Very well.’ Larche paused and then began to speak slowly and reflectively. ‘The evidence does seem to suggest that this man might be Blasco and Alison’s killer, but this brings us to the unanswered questions. For instance – what was the motive? Did this man also kill Eduardo and Father Miguel? Are the two sets of killings linked?’