Mistakenly in Mallorca (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 1)

by Roderic Jeffries

  He finished the brandy and poured himself out a refill. He lit one cigarette from the stub of the first. He too stared out across the land. He saw the small garden, the orange grove, the land which should have been under cultivation but wasn’t. And he knew the primitive desire, that came from his parents and their parents, to own land, to let it trickle through his fingers, to work it and make it yield crops. Had he been this Englishman, faced with similar circumstances, he would have done the same thing, if more expertly. What man of the soil would have hesitated? To conceal a death for a few days was nothing, to own land everything.

  He remembered many facts, some of which he had not concerned himself with because they’d seemed unimportant, but which now slotted into place. The dead woman had been dressed in clothes for cold weather, not hot: it had been cold in the middle of the month. The gap between the death of the godfather and the apparent death of the señora had been so narrow because it had to be: had she been alive she would have flown to England for the funeral. Catalina had not seen the señora for days, but had accepted she was just on a picnic: yet the señora’s pyjamas had not been changed twice a week as they had always been previously. The deep-freeze had been locked for several days which normally never happened and the food had all been changed: some of the frozen food was of a kind neither the señora nor the Englishman liked. The señora had drawn no money after the fourteenth, although normally she must have done. The blow to the head had been caused by the bamboo on to which she had fallen head first. The chip of concrete had come from the patio …

  He drained his glass and stood up. ‘Show me where you found her,’ he ordered.

  Tatham showed him where the body of Elvina had lain. Alvarez squatted on his heels and examined the base of the concrete pillar, which was stepped in three folds: on the middle step, the concrete had weathered badly and had broken up into innumerable pieces, both small and large.

  Tatham had said he’d washed everything down very thoroughly, but a test would probably disclose the presence of blood. Alvarez moved his head, preparatory to rising to his feet, and he caught a minute flick of light: a detailed examination disclosed a single brown-grey hair which had become wedged under an edge of concrete. He very carefully withdrew it and placed it on his handkerchief. It was about the same shade as the dead woman’s hair had been and certainly was not the colour of Tatham’s hair.

  They went into the house and upstairs to the balcony where the repairs to the wooden rails were obvious when specifically looked for. It had been raining on the night she’d died. The balcony had an uneven surface and this would have allowed puddles to collect over pockets of dust and dirt. She had come out during a break in the rain to get a breath of fresh air, to look out at the bay, to enjoy the mountains when wet as their character changed so much, and she’d moved forward, her foot had slipped in one of the puddles, she’d grabbed the rails to catch herself as they, rotten, had given way. She’d fallen head first on to the bamboo and the concrete.

  ‘I want to see the deep-freeze,’ he said.

  Tatham silently led the way downstairs, through the sitting-room and kitchen, out to the wash-room.

  The deep-freeze was only a quarter full. Alvarez asked Tatham to empty it whilst he collected his suitcase of equipment from his car. On his return, he switched on the torch, leaned over, and shone it round the inside. The sides were quite heavily frosted, but the bottom was free and in one corner the beam of the torch picked out a small patch of ‘varnish’. He tested this with glass rod, filter paper, and reagent, and the filter paper turned green where the rod had touched it.

  ‘OK,’ said Alvarez, ‘let’s get the food back in.’ He repacked the suitcase before helping to replace the food.

  When everything was back in the cabinet, he said: ‘Will you take me out to where you threw the food?’

  Tatham led the way into the shed next door, which had once housed pigs, and through that into the scrubland beyond: land far too rocky to have been farmable even in the days when labour had been so cheap. Ironically, now the land was valuable for building purposes.

  They pushed past low, thorny shrubs, evergreen oaks, and the occasional pine tree, and came to an area where the largest boulders were over two metres high. ‘It was somewhere here,’ said Tatham, ‘but I was in such a hell of a state that I can’t remember exactly where.’

  Two green dragonflies swept past, wings and bodies sparkling in the sun; a small flock of non-feral pigeons wheeled overhead. From the urbanization on the mountain to the north-east came the echoing blast of two explosions as more foundation trenches were blasted out of the rock.

  ‘Can you smell something?’ said Alvarez, as he sniffed.

  ‘Only the wild herbs.’

  ‘I am smelling something very unlike herbs.’ Alvarez turned to his left and scaled a large boulder, sniffed again, checked the direction of the breeze and walked forward. ‘Here we are,’ he shouted.

  Tatham crossed a patch of open land, bent to get under the lowest branches of an oak, and picked up the smell of rotting as he stepped clear. He pushed past a stunted algar-roba tree to stand next to Alvarez. Heaped around several bushes were the remains of the food he had thrown out from the deep-freeze: much of it was maggotty, all of it was stinking.

  They returned to the old pig barn, went through and into the house, from there back out to the patio. Alvarez sat down and poured himself out a brandy. He stared out at the land.

  What now? wondered Tatham dully. A full statement, more questioning by other detectives, a further autopsy to test his latest story, a charge of obstructing justice? A letter to the British authorities to say an attempt had been made to falsify the date of Señora Woods’s death and that this had actually occurred on the sixteenth of April? Eight days before Maitland died.

  ‘Señor,’ said Alvarez slowly and carefully, ‘I believe you when you tell me what really happened. Because I feel you do not lie now. And because there was that hair on the pillar, the broken wooden rails above, the blood in the deepfreeze. But above all because why would you kill the señora before Señor Maitland died, knowing you would have to keep her death a secret? If you were going to kill her, it must surely have been some little time afterwards when her death would not be directly connected with Señor Maitland’s death and when an “accident” could be arranged and the body found without the dangerous need to store it in the deep-freeze. And if you are speaking all of the truth and she had told you she was going to leave you some or all of the money she inherited, why run the risk of killing her at all? No, señor, you did not murder her.’

  ‘I hope to God your seniors agree.’

  ‘My seniors.’ Alvarez ran the nail of his thumb across the stubble of his chin with a rasping sound. The sun slipped below the level of the vine to dazzle his eyes and he moved the chair to escape the direct rays. The Englishman had complained that justice had betrayed him and killed his fiancée. Justice so often did betray people. If there were real justice in the world, good people would not suffer. Yet Juana-Marie, who was only good, had been made to suffer.

  No, there was no real justice in the world.

  His superior chief in Palma would never understand about earth: that it could give a man a sensual thrill as it trickled through his fingers. His superior chief would order a full investigation and then send the finalized details to England so that ‘justice’ should be done. Justice here would mean the Englishman would be deprived of his farm and the money would go to people who were already rich enough and would spend this extra on such things as holiday villas which destroyed all beauty and dispossessed farmers.

  The sun dipped behind the mountain and the shadows raced across the land, covering fruit trees, crops, workers in the fields with bent backs, mules endlessly tilling the soil. ‘You have a telephone, señor?’

  ‘Yes. In the sitting-room.’

  ‘Wait here, please.’ Alvarez went through to the sitting-room. He lifted the receiver, asked the operator for Palma, and was put t
hrough inside five minutes. He spoke to Professor Goñi.

  The professor had conducted a further post-mortem examination, but had nothing more to report. The injuries were unusual, but since few people fell into water from such heights and were washed around for days it was not easy to judge the significance of the injuries by meaningful comparisons. The question of some of the injuries having occurred after death must be borne in mind, especially remembering the ear, but a body floating in the sea near to shore, especially when submerged before the gases took it to the surface, must frequently be pounded against rocks and it was very difficult indeed to judge the effect of this as opposed to injuries inflicted after death but before immersion.

  ‘The body showed no signs of having been subjected to some unusual process?’

  What was that supposed to mean? The body had been subjected to a very long — and skilful — examination and a full report had been given.

  Alvarez thanked the professor, who seemed to suspect his professional competency had been put in doubt, rang off, and returned outside to the patio.

  Tatham looked up. He spoke in a hopeless voice. ‘Do you want me to come into Llueso now? May I get in touch with the British consul first and explain what’s happened?’

  ‘I think,’ said Alvarez quietly, as he sat down, ‘the best thing you can do is not to say anything to anybody. Do you mind if I have another small brandy?’ He poured himself out a very large one.

  Tatham stared at him and wondered whether he understood what had really been said?

  CHAPTER XXI

  ALVAREZ SAT in his office, elbows resting on the cluttered desk, and read with interest the relevant passage in G. P. Ross’s book, Forensic Medicine for the Layman, translated from the original English nine years before. ‘Some loss of detail of body cells’ structure should be apparent on microscopic examination after a body has been completely frozen and has then been thawed out (it must be remembered, as was stated in chapter seven, that a temperature well below — 18° C, or 0° F, is needed if a body is to be preserved for any length of time). But this loss of detail is easily missed, especially if there be any accompanying gross physical damage, unless the investigator has been informed that freezing, or its possibility, took place. The only other indication is the too rapid decomposition which is sometimes occasioned. If the time between death and the finding of the body is known exactly and the state of decomposition is advanced well beyond that normally to be expected, a previous state of freezing may be suspected. But it must again be emphasized that the degree of decomposition is at all times so variable that this on its own must not be taken as a reliable guide.’

  He closed the text-book with a snap. Soon, he would telephone the superior chief’s office and report that his investigations now confirmed the accident had taken place as originally reported so that permission for the funeral could be given. There would be a few sharp words over the waste of funds occasioned by the unnecessary post-mortem, but it would eventually blow over. And surely anyone so incompetent as to make a mystery of a perfectly ordinary accident was fit only for leaving in a backwater where nothing of real importance ever happened and his incompetence could do no harm?

  He let the chair fall back until it rested against the wall and put his feet up on the desk. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt and scratched his hairy chest where it tickled. He closed his eyes. He’d never seen a large dairy farm in England, or anywhere else for that matter, but he thought he could visualize it with reasonable accuracy … Except for the grass which reputedly grew as high as a house because it rained almost every day of the year …

  When Tatham arrived at Ca’n Xema, Judy opened the front door. ‘Hallo, John. Come on in. Larry’s on the phone, but he’ll be with us soon.’ She studied him. ‘You look like … almost as if you’d just seen a ghost.’

  ‘Maybe I did.’ His voice was gay: he was feeling lightheaded from relief. ‘But if I did, it turned out to be a friendly ghost.’

  ‘Whatever that might really mean, I prescribe a further dose of spirits. Come on into the sitting-room.’

  As they entered, Ingham joined them from the study. ‘You’re just in time, John.’

  ‘In time for what?’

  ‘To celebrate.’

  ‘I usually manage to time my entrances well. It’s my exits which get the bird.’

  Judy’s expression was momentarily perplexed because of the way he spoke, but she turned and said to Ingham: ‘Why the celebration? Have you just heard something definite from the Nauperts?’

  ‘Contracts are to be drawn up by our respective lawyers and signed as soon as possible. Naupert can’t wait to move in. Such a charming house! Such a lovely setting! Exactly what’s wanted!’

  She fidgeted with her fingers. ‘So he couldn’t resist … Where do we move to?’

  ‘Ca’na Aloya.’ He stared curiously at her. ‘You sound as though you’ll be sorry to leave here?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes, I shall be,’ she said finally, and it was clear to Tatham that that was not what she’d been worrying about.

  Ingham had not noticed her hesitation. ‘I must admit I shall be, as well. This represents the house I’d live in if I could afford to. But beggars can’t be choosers, they always tell us. Isn’t that right, John?’

  ‘That’s the way it goes.’

  ‘Just for once, though, let’s prove the old tag wrong. What’ll you choose? Any drink you care to name, or a bottle of Moët et Chandon I smuggled in last trip for just such an occasion as this?’

  ‘Nothing but the best for this beggar. The champagne.’

  Ingham left the room.

  Judy sat down. She stared at the Renoir for a time, then made a conscious effort to forget her own troubled thoughts. ‘Have you heard anything more about the funeral, John?’

  ‘Yes. Permission has just been granted.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’

  He looked at her, suddenly wondering if she’d suspected anything. ‘Why d’you say that?’

  She spoke with her usual frankness. ‘People were talking more and more. They all love a malicious gossip and when the funeral kept being put off, they had a field day.’

  ‘What were they saying?’

  ‘That Elvina had been informing, telling the Bank of England man about who’d got illegal money out here — as if she’d ever have been an informer. That she’d come into a fortune and so you’d something to do with her death … Forget ’em. The people haven’t anything more intelligent to do. Do you know where to go to make all the arrangements?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. The detective told me.’

  ‘I suppose you realize the English Community will expect to attend in force? To show the flag, they call it.’

  ‘They can go show it somewhere else. This is going to be a very private funeral.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said simply.

  Ingham returned to the room with a bottle of champagne that, having come up from the cellar, was already beginning to frost. He crossed to the bar, opened the door, and went inside.

  ‘John says permission for the funeral has been given,’ Judy called out. ‘He’s keeping it very private.’

  Ingham came out with three tulip-shaped glasses and the bottle on a silver tray. ‘D’you ever discover, John, why there was all this delay?’

  ‘Not really. All I gathered was, it had to do with the nature of the accident.’

  ‘I’d guess it wasn’t anything so definite. If there are two ways of doing a thing out here, they choose the more roundabout one.’ He edged the cork out. ‘Look at property. They put a tax on a new house which varies according to its value. The owner naturally declares his house is worth only half its real value, the local official levies twice the declared tax, the money paid out and in is right, but everyone feels good because he thinks he’s gained one up on the opposition. Can you imagine that attitude prevailing in England?’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit like that with us and income tax?’

  ‘Now
there’s a really dirty word which is never used in polite society out here. In any case, every Englishman is the soul of honour. There isn’t one of us who can’t put his hand on his heart and swear he’s never told a lie to the tax man.’

  ‘But,’ said Judy, in a sharp voice, ‘could you also swear to having told the whole truth?’

  Ingham stared at her briefly and with quick annoyance. But when he spoke, his voice remained light. ‘There’s a world of subtle difference between the two.’ He filled the glasses. He handed her one. ‘Stepdaughter, you surprise and sadden me. Haven’t you learned that complete morality comes far too expensive for mere mortals? If everyone told all the truth, however, would any business ever be done?’ He passed a second glass to Tatham.

  ‘There was a play once, wasn’t there, in which everyone did tell the whole truth? What was the ending?’

  ‘I can’t remember, but I’m quite sure the entire cast were either murdered or they committed suicide.’ Ingham sat down and raised his glass. ‘I give you a toast. To the value of silence.’

  Looking more sullen than he had ever seen her look before, Judy made no move to drink. But he raised his own glass. For him, too, it was a toast with significant meaning.

  CHAPTER XXII

  WHEN TATHAM collected the mail from the post office in Llueso on Tuesday, the sixth, there were two letters for him: one from Elvina’s solicitors and the other from his mother. The solicitors said that as he was the main beneficiary under his great-aunt’s will and as there was every possibility of the inheritance being a fairly considerable one due to the earlier death of her godfather, would he be kind enough to let them know if he would be able to visit their office in the near future in order to begin discussions? His mother wrote that she was sorry to hear Elvina had died in an accident because she’d always found Elvina very amusing and down-to-earth. Also, she’d heard that Knotts Farm, in Letchington, might be coming up for renting next Michaelmas and did he want her to find out more about it: acreage, conditions, terms, etc.?