‘Presumably,’ said Bishop Carlos softly.
‘But what is the link? If it’s the Tomas family, then you’re all in danger. And what about the death threats?’
‘Loose ends,’ muttered Anita dismissively.
‘Too many, wouldn’t you say?’ returned Larche, wondering why she was suddenly so accepting. Was it just a result she had been wanting – any result? Larche found it hard to believe. Surely she was too astute for that?
‘The mere fact that this man was hiding here is bad enough,’ Anita said brusquely, rearranging some ceramics on a side-table with irritable exactitude. ‘Every section of this island should have been combed – and it obviously wasn’t. I shall be taking legal action against the police.’
‘What will happen now?’ asked Bishop Carlos, trying to spike her anger, but Larche didn’t reply. He noticed that the atmosphere had completely changed; they were no longer rebellious about being penned up, no longer anxious that the case should be rather unsatisfactorily closed. They were afraid – all of them, in varying degrees. It was clear to him that the corpse on the beach was no more than a distraction.
‘I’m sure Señor Calvino will be talking to you and giving you all the details,’ he said, conscious of their expectant eyes. ‘And at the risk of being tedious, I must repeat that Señor Calvino and his team have been very thorough in their investigations so far.’ Larche was determined that Calvino should not be pilloried.
‘I’m afraid I must disagree with you.’ Anita’s voice was cold and flat. ‘But I see no point in arguing about it.’ She stared at him challengingly but he didn’t reply. ‘I have to press on with the funeral arrangements,’ she said at last. ‘It gives me something to think about – occupied. I need to be kept occupied.’ Anita’s words were too emphatic, her tension obvious, but she was quick to regain control. ‘He’s going to be buried at Empuries,’ she said aggressively to Larche, as if defying him to bureaucratically suggest otherwise. ‘The King has given permission.’
Larche nodded, knowing that she was trying to deflect any more questions, to wrest a breathing space from him. Well – he had successfully wound them all up. Now he could let them off the hook for a while, give everyone a false sense of security. In Larche’s experience this often resulted in someone tripping up. Empuries, he thought: someone had already told him before that Eduardo would be buried there and he had always liked the place – a magnificent Graeco-Roman archaeological site bordering the Mediterranean, the original harbour still intact. ‘I don’t think anyone has ever been buried there before,’ he said quietly.
‘No.’ She glanced at him with angry pride. ‘It’s a first. Eduardo once told me he’d like to be buried near warm Roman stone – and he’ll have his wish. The tomb is to overlook the sea under the shade of some cypress trees.’
‘A singular honour,’ murmured Bishop Carlos.
‘A beautiful resting place.’ Bernard Morrison would always sound false to Larche now and this time was no exception.
Larche nodded. ‘That will be wonderful,’ he said. ‘Are you going to Empuries on your own?’ he asked gently. He wanted to talk to her again – and to be off the island would be a good opportunity.
‘I’m never alone. I shall have my security staff – headed by Señor Mendes here, in whom I have very great confidence.’
The man made her a little sheepish bow but Larche gave him no opportunity to speak. ‘Of course. I was just wondering – if I could accompany you,’ he said persuasively.
‘Why would you want to do that?’ She sounded more curious than anything else.
‘I should like to see Eduardo’s resting place – and perhaps talk some more with you. But I shall quite understand if you would prefer that I didn’t.’
There was a short pause and then Anita said easily, ‘You must come if you wish.’ She stood up abruptly and turned to Mendes, Descartes and Alba. ‘I would like to thank you now – although I will thank you again formally – for your loyalty and devotion to my husband over the years you’ve worked for him. I am deeply grateful – as I know he was.’
The three rose to their feet, muttering deprecating platitudes. Loyal servants, Larche thought, suitably and pleasantly rewarded. No doubt financial recompense would follow.
Anita was solicitous. ‘Marius – you must rest. You look exhausted.’
‘I shall take a siesta,’ he assented.
‘And then come here for dinner tonight. There’ll just be Bishop Carlos and myself.’
‘What about Mr Morrison?’
‘I want to be alone, as I believe Greta Garbo once said.’ Morrison smiled lazily up at Larche, putting away his sketchbook in the pocket of his overalls. ‘I’ll be painting tomorrow – and I’d like to have an early night.’
‘So it will just be the three of us – if you’d like to come.’
‘Yes, I’d be delighted. Thank you.’
‘About ten.’ She paused. ‘Marius – I pray this discovery must be the end of it all, at least here on the island. I need Molino to be a sanctuary again.’
Larche saw the entreaty in her eyes. ‘The question is,’ he repeated, ‘if that man was the assassin, then who in God’s name employed him?’
Anita nodded. ‘The investigation will take months, years – and might still end inconclusively.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps I’ve been naive. I was hoping for a quick solution; now I have to accept an inconclusive one.’
‘There is no solution,’ replied Larche. ‘Not yet.’
His remark seemed to throw them all into uproar – except for Anita who remained both cool and detached. A battery of questions began and he could see the fear in their eyes quite clearly now. They had expected a lull, but were now being plunged back into uncertainty.
‘The point is,’ said Jacinto sharply, cutting through the noise, ‘are we expecting any more killings, monsieur?’
Before Larche could reply Maria Tomas spoke for the first time, her voice husky and uncertain, her face in shadow. ‘Is there another assassin?’ she breathed. ‘Is there someone still on the island?’
‘I think so.’
‘Someone who is one of us?’ asked Bishop Carlos, and there was a deep impenetrable silence.
‘I want you to stay together,’ replied Larche. ‘Don’t go anywhere alone.’
Larche walked back to the guest house, lay on his bed and reread Alison’s note. His emotions seemed to have been anaesthetized and he could feel nothing. Worse still, Larche could no longer see her face in his mind’s eye. Exhausted, he slept but woke an hour later, unrefreshed and tense. Trying to calm himself, he thought about the people he had interviewed. He had always found it useful during other investigations to sit back and quietly reassess each person he had spoken to, but here on Molino he was finding everyone difficult to discern.
There was Morrison – full of revelations but intent on personal gain. Was that all there was to the portrait painter? Anita, cool and remote and normally in control, now showing her emotions under the greatest stress. If only he could get closer to her, find out how she really felt. Had she always loved Eduardo so obsessively? Was she simply blind to his activities? Then there was Jacinto, full of bitterness with many rational explanations for his anger and sense of unfairness. What other thoughts did he harbour? How strong was his hatred? What about his wife?
Then of course there were the minions: servants and chauffeurs, bodyguards and secretaries. But Larche knew he would leave them to Calvino – look up his notes and rely on them for he was sure that he could. Besides, he couldn’t afford the time; Larche was intuitively certain that in some unidentified way it was running out on him.
The motive behind Eduardo’s murder could well be political, but was Blasco really murdered because he knew something? Couldn’t the motive here have been personal? His mind churned away at the possibilities. Somehow Larche had a gut feeling that the roots of the killings, both on political and personal levels, went back a long way and he tried to consider carefully who were the
main protagonists – both institutional and individual. On the one hand there was the government, the Church and the fishing industry; on the other there was Anita, Morrison, Bishop Carlos, Lorenzo, Jacinto or even Maria. It was quite a line-up from all points of view. And then there were the servants, unknown people from Sebastia – the range seemed to be infinite.
The surface of the pool, thought Larche, his mind turning over the confessions of the last few days, might be composed of the more predictable emotions that people for all their devious reasons wanted to show him. But underneath, in the primeval slime, were the real feelings that provided motive. That was where he needed to be.
Were the two sets of murders necessarily connected? Certainly it would be an enormous coincidence if they weren’t. But perhaps the one could have triggered off the other.
Again he slept, and this time dreamed that he and Alison Rowe were walking across the lavender fields in Provence, heading for the hills. It was evening and all they could hear were the crickets, and from somewhere in the valley there was the steady drone of a tractor. They came to a stream and walked across it over stepping stones, holding on to each other and laughing, almost but not quite falling in. Later they wandered up the rocky slopes until they came to a plateau where they made love.
Larche woke sweating. He could see her very clearly now, hear her voice in his mind, see her smile, feel her lips, explore her body. He got out of bed shaking, the erotic experience strong within him. Gradually his erection lessened and he went to the bathroom to splash water over his face. The shaking, however, continued and looking at his watch he saw that it was six. He turned the television on and watched the news, confident that the butchery would soon be faithfully recorded amidst massive speculation.
Part Three
Chapter 9
In fact there was far less speculation than Larche had imagined. A large part of the newscast was given over to the latest sensational developments in the Tomas tragedy. ‘We reported earlier that two more killings had taken place on the island home of Eduardo Tomas’s family – his brother Blasco, a monk from the community on the island of Fuego some miles up the coast, and a British police officer, Detective Superintendent Alison Rowe. Their brutal murders, closely following the assassination of Eduardo Tomas and Father Miguel Fernandez in the Basilica of El Val de los Caidos, have shocked the nation. But now a further dramatic development has occurred; another body has been discovered – this time of an Irish citizen. The head of the police investigation team, Inspector Emilio Calvino, made this statement to our reporter Carmina Mandri.’
Calvino’s figure, framed by the imposing frontage of the Tomas house, came sharply into focus as he spoke into the microphone. He looked calm, collected and entirely professional. Larche smiled. Good for him.
‘We have discovered the body of a man – an Irish citizen – on the island,’ said Calvino briskly.
‘Does this mean that you have the assassin?’ asked Carmina Mandri urgently. The camera came in for a close-up as Calvino said, ‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘So the major threat against the Tomas family is over?’
‘We are actively investigating the situation and directly we know something more positive I shall be holding another press conference.’
‘So the family is still under protection?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they safe?’
‘Of course they are,’ snapped Calvino authoritatively.
‘Can you tell us the identity of this corpse?’
‘I’ve told you, I can’t make any further comment at this time. There will be another statement made later.’
Larche switched the television off abruptly and, with anguish in his heart, rose from the bed and slowly and reluctantly began to dress for dinner.
Minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Larche opened it irritably to find Salvador Tomas standing on the threshold. He looked older in the dying light and there was a sallowness under his tan that marked his pristine beauty.
‘Yes?’ Larche was curt.
‘I want to speak with you, señor.’
‘Now?’
‘Please.’
‘Come in then.’
The boy was wearing jeans and a floppy shirt with a wide collar. He licked his lips, cleared his throat, licked his lips again and then looked away.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ asked Larche, rather grudgingly trying to put him at his ease. He felt exhausted as well as extremely depressed and Salvador was filling the space he needed for objective thought about the case.
‘No thanks.’
‘Take your time then.’
‘You are leaving Molino?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you still asking questions, señor?’
Larche smiled at him in weary encouragement. ‘Yes, I’m still asking questions. I was going to talk to you tomorrow – but if you have something urgent to tell me …’
‘I loved my father. He was a good man.’ Salvador’s voice shook. ‘How do we know that assassin is genuine? How do we know it’s not some kind of set-up?’
‘You mean that this Irishman was imported here – with the documentation and the gun and the neatly allocated missing bullets?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’
Yes, it was possible, thought Larche.
‘You should go to Sebastia,’ insisted Salvador. ‘Talk to people there. Talk to the women. They hate him and all he stands for – all he’s done.’
‘Hate who?’
‘Lorenzo Solana.’
‘Him again.’
‘He hated my father – knew he was going to sack him.’
‘I realize the circumstances, but we have no evidence to suggest Lorenzo was in any way involved,’ said Larche, deliberately dismissive.
‘Have you questioned him?’ Salvador spoke so childishly yet so fiercely that Larche could almost feel the force of his frustration.
‘Calvino is in charge of the case,’ replied Larche firmly. ‘I’m simply backing him up.’ He looked at Salvador speculatively, wondering if he would be able to push him into further angry confidences.
‘You were invited here to make enquiries by my father.’
‘This latest corpse has put a fresh complexion on everything,’ replied Larche calmly. Then he tried another tack. ‘By the way, I saw you with Lorenzo when you should have been waiting for me in the house. Why did you go off like that?’
‘I wanted to feel his hatred – know that it’s still burning.’
‘Aren’t you being rather melodramatic?’
‘No.’ Salvador was suddenly logical. ‘Lorenzo’s hatred for my father is as strong as my mother’s love for him. They are both powerful people.’
‘Yes.’ Larche nodded acquiescence. He was listening very carefully now.
‘Lorenzo could have set all this up to deflect attention away from himself.’
‘How would he do it?’
‘Find someone …’
‘An Irishman?’
‘Not necessarily. Anyone.’
‘That could be proven.’
‘Kill them and give them false papers. Supply the gun and fix the chambers.’
Larche nodded. ‘So you went to Lorenzo. What did you do? Challenge him?’
‘Nothing – I was too afraid,’ he admitted and paused, frowning, his assurance evaporating.
‘Why were you afraid?’ asked Larche.
‘He is still very angry.’
‘Because he knows he has to go.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your mother hasn’t mentioned that to me,’ replied Larche. He decided to turn on the heat a little, frighten the boy out of this rather childishly aggressive mood. ‘So let’s get this quite clear. You are saying Lorenzo hired an assassin who went to the Valley of the Fallen, set up the epileptic girl and, while she was rolling on the floor and suitably distracting attention, assassinated your father and the priest.’
‘It’s possible,’ Salva
dor replied doggedly, looking away from him.
‘Why send the assassin all that way?’
‘To kill Miguel too.’
‘I see. And why should he want to do that?’ Larche asked crisply.
‘Because Miguel knew a lot about Lorenzo. Wanted to tell my father what a conniving bastard he was.’
‘Didn’t he know that already?’
‘He blinded himself to it,’ said Salvador, and Larche could detect the forced surety in his voice. ‘Miguel was going to warn him again – tell him some of the terrible things Lorenzo’s been doing …’
‘Very well,’ Larche continued briskly. ‘So a few days later, Lorenzo then imports the assassin to Molino and this time he kills your uncle and my colleague. Why?’
‘Because Blasco also has information on Lorenzo – and your colleague happened to be in his company.’
‘A little too neat?’
‘Not if you’re desperate,’ said Salvador angrily.
‘Then this hired assassin conceals himself on an island full of policemen, evades a full-scale search, and eventually commits suicide.’
‘That’s the bit that’s too neat, but perhaps Lorenzo killed him. He and Juan are the only witnesses,’ Salvador continued blandly.
‘And now he’s ready to murder the rest of your family…’ Larche let the note of derision creep into his voice.
‘While he’s around I’m afraid for my mother.’
‘And you reckon Lorenzo has all this administrative ability, do you? You also believe that he could hire a sophisticated international assassin? He’s just a fisherman!’
‘He’s more than that!’
‘He used to run a boatyard. Not much more.’
‘It was a boatyard with a difference. He fixed up boats for the rich and famous,’ Salvador retorted quickly.
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