*
Ignoring the tranquil beauty of the bay, almost ethereal because the air was still and the water mirror-flat, reflecting the moon in an unbroken shaft of luminosity, Mayans reached the shop as the bells of the church in the square struck midnight. He unlocked the door to the side of the shop entrance, shut it, and very carefully climbed the stairs.
Marie was in bed but not, as he had hoped, asleep. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.
‘Don’t shout,’ he said. ‘You’ll wake up the old grandmother next door.’
‘Wake her? When she died months ago …? But you’re drunk,’ she said, in obvious surprise.
He stared stupidly at her. ‘What did you think I was …? Anyway, I’m not drunk.’
‘I thought …’ She stopped. A wise wife did not say she thought he’d found himself a ripe, passionate woman. But a wise wife did remain on the attack. ‘How dare you get drunk again, you filthy sot! You lied to me when you said you were only going out to …’
‘Shut up, just for a minute.’
‘Don’t you talk to me like that. I’m not going to be told to shut up in my house.’
‘But I’ve some news.’ He smiled at her, then sat down on the bed. She was wearing a nightdress and he ran his hand up her arm: she snatched it away. ‘Good news. I heard it at the club.’
‘So that’s where you’ve been guzzling all my money.’
‘Can’t you ever calm down? They say that Señora Woods is missing.’
She relaxed back against the pillows and stared at him, wondering whether this was some drunken fantasy.
‘Suppose she is dead? Eh? Suppose the old she-devil is dead?’
Marie remained silent.
‘The lease is finished. It’s over and done with.’ He began to undress. His actions were all clumsy, but still under some control. ‘We can get twelve or thirteen thousand a month. Maybe fourteen thousand.’ He leaned forward. ‘Get a stupid foreigner who says yes to everything and it could be as high as fifteen thousand.’
Her eyes were bright.
‘So maybe I can sell that field to the Dutchman?’
She didn’t say he couldn’t.
He climbed into bed in his vest and long pants. He lay back and although the world went round for a while, it finally settled. He’d make half a million on the field. And the next letting of the house would line his pockets further. The ignorant peasants at the club weren’t going to be able to laugh at him any longer.
*
Judy and Tatham were listening to the final ecstatic trio from Der Rosenkavalier when Ingham entered the music-room. He waved a quick good-evening at Tatham, sat down in one of the rather battered armchairs, and listened with them. The opera came to an end.
‘When I need to reassure myself that I have a soul,’ Ingham said, ‘I play that record. Which I suppose is ironic, considering the earthiness of the story.’
‘It’s as if Strauss were for a while inspired beyond this world,’ said Tatham.
‘But to listen to some condescending critics, you’d think he was nothing but a third-rate composer who was lucky enough to produce a few catchy tunes. Who was it said: “Save me from my poor relations and all art critics”?’
‘Some disgruntled old boor,’ said Judy. ‘Shaw, probably.’
‘Sheer profanity, dear stepdaughter,’ said Ingham lightly. He turned to Tatham. ‘She refuses to recognize GBS possessed even the slightest ability on the good critical grounds that he was Irish, a Fabian, and a vegetarian.’
‘You know very well it’s because hardly any of his women could ever have really lived,’ said Judy. Her tone of voice subtly changed. ‘Larry, John’s come with some rather disturbing news.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the trouble? Can we help?’
Tatham said: ‘Elvina’s missing. She didn’t return home last night after going out not long before dark to look for a plant. I’m afraid something must have happened to her.’
‘Surely not? Knowing Elvina, I expect someone told her the flower she’s chasing is up on the top of Puig Major and she’s camped up there, trying to keep out of sight of the American army.’
‘She was due to fly home this morning to get back to her godfather’s funeral and she never turned up at the plane.’
‘Oh! That does sound serious. I’m sorry I seemed to be treating it as a joke. What have you done?’
‘I reported her disappearance to the police this morning, but although a detective came and saw me at the house, I’ve heard nothing since then. I came round here to see if you or Judy can suggest anything more I can do?’
‘Have you any idea whereabouts this plant was supposed to be that she went looking for?’
‘None at all. I don’t even know from whom she heard about it. We went on a picnic lunch to Soller and stopped at Valldemossa on the way back. She couldn’t be bothered to go round the monastery — said she’d done it much too often already and anyway it was nearly all pure fantasy about Chopin and Sand — so I left her at a café whilst I went round. I suppose she met someone there who told her. Anyway, when we got back she suddenly announced she was off and collected up her things. I tried to get her to leave the trip because she looked tired, but she wouldn’t because she was off to London today … And that’s the last I saw of her. I’ve no idea, even, in which direction she set off.’
‘But she left in her car?’
‘Yes. And of course that’s missing too, which is why I’ve had to hire one for a couple of days.’
‘Then the police will find the car quickly enough. And ten to one, she’ll have stayed at some hotel near where the flower is supposed to be. I like Elvina very much, John, but she does act very much on the spur of the moment.’
‘When she’s due to fly to London?’
‘Yes, of course. I keep forgetting.’ Ingham stood up. ‘There’s a quote which goes, roughly: “There’s no catastrophe so great, not even a prolonged visitation from one’s mother-in-law, which isn’t lightened by a judicious dram.” … Judy, your usual? John, what would you like?’
‘I think I’ll have a gin and it, please.’
Ingham left the music-room.
Judy spoke in a comforting tone. ‘I’m sure he’s right, John. Elvina’s just acted a little more casually than usual.’ She hesitated. ‘Even allowing for the flight.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ he answered.
CHAPTER XV
THE GUARDIA CIVIL had the task of maintaining law and order in all rural areas of Spain and their Mobile Reserves patrolled the state highways. (Traffic duties in urban areas were carried out by the Policia Armada y de Trafico.) Most members of the Guardia Civil, since they were from the Peninsula, disliked the Mallorquins as much as the Mallor-quins disliked them, on grounds equally ridiculously xenophobic. They were an efficient, courteous body of men, provided people were courteous to them, and totally unbribable. It was two members of the Guardia Civil who sighted the Fiat 128 on Sunday morning.
The sun was rising beyond Cape Parelona and bathing the calm sea with fire as two members of the Mobile Reserve — like two jackdaws who signalled bad luck, said the locals, they never rode alone — drove up the road from Puerto Llueso in the direction of Parelona. With little possibility of other traffic — the waiters who worked at the Hotel Parelona would not be driving over the mountains for their early-morning shift just yet — the two motor-cyclists were enjoying using as much throttle as they dared, taking the acute comers at high speeds. When they reached the top, they turned into the parking area intending to have a short break before tackling the more hazardous down section to Parelona.
They saw the Fiat 128 shooting-brake with the red-banded number plates denoting tourist plates, remembered the order to look out for 1 PM 4325, and identified this as the car that was sought. One of them used his radio to call HQ.
The telephone in Alvarez’s room, one of only two in the street, woke him. He yawned, saw the time was just after seven, remembered it was S
unday, and cursed. He lifted the receiver. ‘Yeah?’
‘Good morning. Good morning. It’s a lovely day,’ said the corporal.
‘So that makes you happy. It makes me want to cut my throat.’
‘I’m not stopping you … Listen, the Englishwoman’s car has been found and I knew you’d want to hear immediately.’
‘I couldn’t sleep for waiting. Where is it?’
‘In the car park by the viewing point on the road to Parelona. D’you know it?’
‘Never heard of it. Never been near it. Wouldn’t know it if I saw it.’
‘Great. You’ll have a gay bundle looking for it.’
The line went dead. Why, thought Alvarez bleakly, did things like this always happen on a Sunday? He ran his tongue round his mouth and wondered what in the name of Satan it tasted like — a possible answer didn’t make him feel any healthier. His head thumped. He’d drunk a hell of a lot of brandy the previous night. He shut his eyes. Couldn’t the bloody car wait? What if twenty Englishwomen went missing? Good riddance to the lot of’em.
If her car was up there on the mountain, he thought as he lay back, it was only reasonable to suppose that she was dead. No other explanation seemed possible. She’d gone to search for some flowers — queer that an Englishwoman should be bothered to enjoy the countryside sufficiently to search it for flowers she didn’t always pick, but just identified — and had taken a tumble over the edge. Up there, nothing was simpler than falling.
He opened his eyes again, groaned, sat up, groaned again, then finally climbed out of bed. He put on trousers and went along to the bathroom. Downstairs, he took from the refrigerator a bowl of soup and warmed a cupful into which he crumbled a couple of slices of pan Mallorquin. The soup finished, he had a brandy, then, feeling slightly more healthy, he went out to his rusting Seat parked in the street. Several children were playing in the road. He looked briefly at them and thought with real pleasure how well fed they obviously were: he could remember thin faces, paunchy bellies, rickets, kids without the energy to play at anything much.
The drive up to the viewing point in the mountains took him half an hour; the Seat 600 laboured up the steeper sections of road and almost came to a stop at the tightest right-hander. He turned into the car park and drew up alongside the Fiat. When he climbed out of his car, he stared out to sea. It was glassy and the heat had not yet built up enough to confuse the horizon so there was a sharply etched line between the two blues of sea and sky. A fishing-boat chugged slowly along, leaving behind a short wake. It was a beautiful place in which to die, he decided.
He opened the passenger door of the Fiat. On the seat were some plastic boxes, a book, a battered handbag, a camera in a case, and a torch — it was a wonder no thieving tourist had stolen some of the items. The book was open at a page which detailed plants peculiar to Mallorca. Scutellaria balearica, in the text, was underlined and there was a question mark in the margin. He’d never heard of it. Presumably that was the plant she’d been seeking. He replaced the book on the seat, opened the handbag and shuffled through the contents. There was the flight ticket and the telegram. He went round to the back of the car and lifted up the tailgate. On the black flooring was a four-centimetre length of rough woollen thread, coloured a bright yellow, reddish circles from the base of butano bottles, and nothing else. He carried on round and sat down in the driving seat. Great to be a foreigner, raping the country with money, buying a car like this and not having to pay the luxury tax on it. Some difference from his Seat 600. He took a driving position and found the seat was too far back for him to be able to work the pedals with any degree of assurance. This caused him to notice that he could also not gain a reasonable view in the rear-view mirror. Elderly Englishwomen came two metres tall, thin, juiceless.
He left the Fiat and walked to the edge of the cliff, looked down, seemed to sway, and very hastily stepped back. He’d no head for heights and a drop like this one made him mentally collapse.
If the señora had been searching here for that plant she could have fallen at any point and the fall might or might not leave traces. There were bare patches of rock, pockets of shallow earth, clumps of spiny grass, dwarf fan palms (once used for making poufs), prickly ground creeper, and the debris of the thousands of tourists who’d visited the place. He didn’t expect to find any trace of a fall, yet to the left he came across a scraping mark through a pocket of earth and a smear of black (from a shoe?) on rock. Taking his life in his hands, or stomach, he lay down and looked over the edge. There was an outcrop of rock not far below and then the stomach-churning drop down to the sea.
He returned to his Seat, sat down behind the wheel, and lit a cigarette. There really wasn’t anything more to be done. She’d fallen over the edge while looking for a plant. Maybe her body would be washed up, maybe it wouldn’t. The Englishman had better come and collect the car, else some foreigner would pinch it. He removed the camera, book, handbag, and torch, locked up, and pocketed the key. He drove back down to the Puerto and Llueso.
*
Judy manoeuvred the Seat as close to the Fiat as she could get. ‘I hope it isn’t too awful for you?’ she asked, in her most direct manner, yet with unmistakable concern.
He looked at her and wondered how she could have the capacity to be both so considerate and yet so contemptuously indifferent towards others. ‘No, it isn’t. I liked Elvina a lot, but there isn’t the bitter sorrow there would be if she’d been a close relative or I’d known her for years. Can you understand what I mean?’
‘Sincere regrets, but no tears.’
‘That’s about it. If she did fall down somewhere here, it must surely have been quick. You can’t wish anyone much better than that.’
‘I suppose not. I do hope they … they find her. I’m being stupid, but I hate to think of her body never being found.’
‘Would it worry you, then, what happened to your body after you’re dead?’
‘That’s one of those unanswerable questions. If I have a soul, that’s all I need to worry about; if I haven’t, I won’t have the capacity to be worried afterwards.’
He opened his door and climbed out. He leaned down to say to her: ‘I’ll drive straight back to your house and we’ll go out to lunch at that place on the Creyola road you mentioned, shall we?’
‘That would be great.’
He left and went round half-a-dozen parked cars to the Fiat, unlocked it, and sat behind the wheel. As always, the engine was reluctant to start, but he finally got it to fire by pressing the accelerator on the floor. He blipped the throttle several times until the engine was responding cleanly, moved in the choke, engaged reverse, and backed out past the mobile ice-cream van which was doing a good trade because a coach had recently drawn into the car park and unloaded its passengers.
Unless Elvina’s body was soon discovered, he thought as he began the downhill drive, application would have to be made to the courts to presume her dead, as it would in England. Did one have to wait long before such presumption became absolute? In any case, he must leave the island before too long because his money wasn’t endless. And how long before he discovered whether Geoffrey Maitland had willed the bulk of his fortune to Elvina and Elvina had altered her will with all due care and formality proper to someone living in Spain?
*
The Hevia brothers lived in Cala Paraitx, in two small houses at the back of the hotel. Both in their late sixties, the elder was married, the younger not. All their working lives they had been fishermen. They could remember, as they’d tell anyone who’d listen, when Cala Paraitx, one of the scenic wonders of the island, had been inaccessible except by boat or fifteen-kilometre-long mule track, so that few people came to visit it. They could remember that twice torrential rain had persisted for so long the torrente, which normally flowed gently along the canyon which ran between gaunt brooding mountains inland to Creyola, had boiled with water to the extent that each time they had really believed the second Flood was under way. They could also
remember when the sea was so full of fish that their catch was always heavy, but now pollution and over-fishing had reduced their catches to the point where it sometimes seemed hardly worth while taking the few fish along to the hotel and there was nothing to send over the mountains to Creyola.
They boarded their boat, made in Puerto Llueso fifteen years before, at six-fifteen, Tuesday morning. Mario, the elder of the two and the mechanic, started the engine after fifteen minutes of hard swearing. Victor cast off and steered them out of the cove, with cliffs swooping down into the sea, automatically going to starboard of the patch of darker blue which marked a fang of rock that rose within half a metre of the surface.
They were using long lines, each with more than a hundred hooks that were baited with squid. When these were laid and buoyed, they stopped the engine and floated a kilometre off the rocky, dangerous coast, moving gently to the slight swell. They drank wine, ate thick slabs of bread with oil and salt on them, and talked about the past in the simplest of terms.
Victor saw the body: his eyesight had always been the keener of the two. He was watching a black-headed gull and wondering whether it might be over a shoal of fish when he saw floating under it a bundle of something. He pointed it out to Mario who swore there was nothing there, but who was finally persuaded to restart the engine.
When they found it was a badly battered body they were annoyed that it was nothing salvageable, but, being primitive philosophers, they shrugged their shoulders and returned to their yarning and their fishing. Later, they landed a better catch of fish than they had had for some time, so — almost in a spirit of thanks to the fates — Victor trudged along to the hotel and told the cook, an old friend of theirs, to telephone the Guardia Civil at Creyola.
*
The body was brought ashore at Cala Paraitx just before dark. A small crowd of tourists — ghoulish bastards, thought Alvarez — gathered round and watched.
Alvarez stared down at the sodden body. Dark blue woollen dress, woollen tights, thick black walking shoes … The old girl must have suffered from bad blood circulation. She was dressed for the winter, yet since Friday it had been warm, almost hot.
Mistakenly in Mallorca (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 1) Page 13