‘Have you any idea whose car it was?’
‘Señor Field’s,’ she answered immediately.
‘I gather he’s a good friend of the señor?’
‘A lot better friend to both of ’em than they are to him. Leastwise, the señora. She sometimes treats him like … Well, like one of us.’
‘Have you any idea what the time was when he was here?’
‘Not really.’
‘Was he driving very quickly?’
She considered the question for some time. ‘He never drives fast. If you ask me, that wouldn’t be safe in his car.’
‘Have you any idea when Señor Cooper returned here?’
‘How could I have?’ she asked, suddenly once more alarmed.
‘I just thought you might have heard the car, that’s all.’
She shook her head.
‘When did you leave here last evening and go to the staff house?’
‘Just after half past eight.’
‘And apart from Señor Field’s car, you neither saw nor heard anything or anybody?’
‘That’s right.’ She stared into space. ‘Who … who’d want to do so terrible a thing?’
‘You can’t think of anyone who might?’
Her expression became blank.
He wondered of whom she was thinking? Rachael and Burns; White; Serra? Did she realize the significance of her evidence concerning Field’s visit? It was impossible to guess, let alone judge.
* * *
Farmhouses and casetas had normally been built on the boundaries of the properties in order to ‘waste’ as little land as possible. Since no building on a boundary was allowed to have a window that overlooked adjoining land, one side had to be blank. Ca Na Ia, reached by a dirt track, stood on the edge of a field. Originally a rock-built caseta offering the minimum accommodation and no comfort – one bedroom, one main room, one kitchen, and a long drop – it had been enlarged and modernized, but this had been done with such sympathetic care that that fact was not immediately apparent. It was surrounded on three sides by a narrow garden that consisted neither of the Mallorquin haphazard mixture of flowers and vegetables, nor the regimented flower beds of the suburban expatriates.
Field came round the corner of the building as Alvarez climbed out of his Ibiza, parked alongside the Seat 127. ‘Good morning,’ he said in Spanish.
Once again, Alvarez was impressed that here was a man who took the trouble to speak Castilian. ‘I’m sorry about the death of your friend,’ he said, as he shook hands.
‘Thank you … Is the rumour that he was murdered true?’
‘I fear so.’
‘I was hoping…’ Field stared at the nearest fig tree. ‘Emotion can make one very illogical. Why should suicide seem less horrible than murder?’
‘Because one can hope that suicide brings the relief that was being sought?’
‘Perhaps … Let’s get out of the sun.’ He led the way around the side of the caseta. In the centre of the small lawn there was a palm tree and a chair had been set out in its shade.
‘Do sit down. I’ll get another chair from inside. And what can I offer you to drink?’
‘May I have a coñac?’
‘With soda or ginger ale?’
‘With just ice, please.’
Field went inside. Alvarez settled in the chair. A sparrow landed on the sawn-off stub of one of last year’s fronds and dabbed its beak, searching for food; another landed further down and was immediately chased away. There was probably more than enough food for them both, but in nature the strong usually denied the weak …
Field brought out a small table and folding chair and set them down, returned inside for a tray on which were two glasses and a plateful of olives. He passed a glass to Alvarez, sat. ‘Help yourself to olives – I bought them in the market on Sunday and they’ve still got their stones in, so beware teeth.’
The pleasure of the iced brandy, tart olives, and the shade, were such that it needed a conscious effort on Alvarez’s part to remember that this was not a social occasion. ‘I fear I have to ask you some questions.’
‘Of course. But first, may I put one? How did Oliver die?’
‘All I can be certain of at the moment is that he was killed with a blunt instrument.’
‘At least that’s in the tradition.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m sorry, I was being very English and covering up emotion with facetiousness. In England, people are murdered with blunt instruments, never hammers, iron bars, or coshes … I’m talking nonsense even before I’ve finished my first drink. The fact is, it’s all been one hell of a shock. When he disappeared, I presumed that despite the evidence there’d been some sort of problem that would be sorted out – that’s what I wanted to believe. Then I learned that he was dead … He’s been the kind of friend not everyone’s lucky enough to find. From the moment Mary – my wife – was taken ill, he couldn’t have done more to help. There were money problems because I’d used up all my savings … To find the bloodsuckers of today, one doesn’t have to look any further than the medical profession. The only people who can knowingly overcharge because they’re guaranteed an endless succession of customers … As you’ll gather, I’ve a warped opinion of them all.’ He drank.
‘I think you’ve said that you knew Señor Cooper well?’
‘Probably as well as it is possible. I’ve always held that everyone has a corner of his being which he never releases – perhaps even to himself.’
‘Were you, in truth, aware that Señora Cooper was having an affair?’
Field said nothing.
‘Did you know that Señora Cooper was very friendly with Señor Burns?’
‘I heard you the first time but, ostrich-like, hoped that if I didn’t answer, the question would go away. There’s been a rumour. I’ve taken care not to try to find out if there’s any justification for it.’
‘Even though you were such a friend of the señor’s, you didn’t think you should tell him?’
‘That dangerous myth, it’s always best for truth to out. What was to be gained by telling him? If the rumour was false I’d be needlessly causing him great mental pain. If it was true, but he was in total and happy ignorance of the fact, why force him to face it before there was no other option? By their very nature, affairs tend to be temporary and so he might never have learned of his own accord. It’s the knowing of the truth that hurts, not the truth itself.’ He drained his glass, stood. ‘Are you ready for a recharge?’ He took Alvarez’s glass, went inside.
When he returned, he handed one glass across, sat.
‘Do you know Señor Burns?’ Alvarez asked.
‘I’ve never met him. Rachael has probably made certain of that, knowing how I feel about loyalty, marriage, and all those old-fashioned standards which so amuse the young of today. She was probably worried I’d say what I think. She needn’t have worried. I suffer in full the Englishman’s inability to be openly rude due to the dread of a scene.’
‘Did you visit Ca’n Oliver yesterday?’
‘I was there in the evening.’
‘For any particular reason?’
‘A flush of self-satisfied do-gooding. I thought Rachael might like company to help take her mind off the world for a while. But she wasn’t in and so I left after checking the pool to make certain Jorge was keeping it clean. Neither of them has enough Spanish to deal with the staff.’
‘Did you go into the house?’
‘No.’
‘Could you have done?’
‘Not without getting a key from Rosa or Clara. Oliver only left me one when both he and Rachael were away. That wasn’t because he didn’t trust me – I hope! – but because he’s that sort of a man.’
‘Perhaps rather a subtle difference?’
Field smiled briefly. ‘A man can be generally suspicious while specifically trusting.’
‘Do you know what was the time when you were there?’
‘Not with any accuracy. I suppose it was around half nine, judging by the fact that the light was beginning to mellow. All I can say for certain is that I was back here just before ten when I listened to the news on the radio.’
It was all said with such openness that it seemed Field failed completely to understand the possible significance of his answers. The naivety of innocence. Yet, Alvarez thought, knowing that little was ever done in the village or the countryside without someone’s being aware of the fact, apparent naivety could be a clever ploy. He suddenly cursed his mind, made eternally suspicious by his job. The man who spent his life cleaning stables smelled dung even when he put a rose to his nose.
* * *
Serra was picking ripe tomatoes off plants that had been staked and whose side shoots had been nipped out, a system of cultivation that had only recently been accepted by the farmers who, despite the lower quality and lost fruit, had previously allowed the plants to grow unchecked and unstaked because that was how it had always been done.
Alvarez walked up to where Serra was working. ‘That’s some nice fruit.’
‘And it’s all going into market, even if you tell me it looks sweeter than a virgin’s nipple.’
‘You’re so suspicious you’d demand to see Peter’s ID card before you’d believe his halo’s genuine.’
Serra picked the final two ripe tomatoes on the plant, straightened up. ‘If you’re not on the cadge, what do you want?’
‘The answers to some questions.’
‘I’ve no time for answers or questions.’
‘You’re going to have to find time. Señor Cooper was murdered last night.’
He half turned and shouted across to his wife. ‘It’s right what they’ve been saying. The English señor bastard has been murdered.’
‘God rest his soul,’ she said.
‘There’s no need for Him to bother Himself with that one!’
Alvarez said: ‘Seems like he won’t be able to stop you pinching his water any more.’
‘It’s him what’s been doing the thieving. Using water on flowers and grass at this time of the year. The silly sod deserved to be murdered.’
‘And you decided he’d get what he deserved?’
‘Are you trying to say I did him in?’
‘It was one way of getting your own back on him for making you look a fool.’
‘Who says he did?’ Serra demanded furiously.
‘It’s common knowledge he got the better of you, and him only a foreigner. There’s some saying you’ve grown so soft, you’ll soon be giving to charity.’
‘Anyone talks like that in front of me and I’ll smash his face.’
‘Like you smashed the señor?’
‘I ain’t seen him since the last time he was belly-aching over the water.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening?’
‘Where d’you think? Working.’
‘When did you leave here?’
‘When the work was done.’
‘Was that before dark?’
‘And if it was?’
‘How long before?’
‘I don’t have a watch and so don’t waste my time looking at it.’
‘You’d know the time near enough. And when the wind’s right you can hear the church clock from here.’
‘Maybe it was nine,’ Serra shouted, annoyed by Alvarez’s refusal to be annoyed.
‘Did you go straight home?’
‘No.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘To the bar.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’ll need to try to find someone who’ll confirm where you were.’
‘Haven’t I just told you?’ he shouted. ‘You’re so bloody stupid, you don’t know how many algarroba beans make six.’
CHAPTER 17
Dolores said: ‘Pass your plate, Enrique.’
Alvarez looked up. ‘No more for me.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I had so much the first helping.’
Her expression darkened. ‘Perhaps you find my fabada tasteless?’
This time, he decided, he wasn’t going to succumb to her emotional blackmail. Jaime might always weakly give in for the sake of a peaceful life, but he was made of sterner stuff. ‘It’s delicious, but I’m simply not…’
‘You are so simple you think you can fool me!’
Jaime, Isabel and Juan watched and listened with intense interest.
‘Not hungry? You are hungry! But not for my fabada.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know full well.’
Her manner as much as her words identified the real cause of her annoyance.
‘For your information, I have not lost my appetite because I am yearning after some foreign blonde.’
Jaime spoke without thought. ‘Is it the one who swims naked?’
‘She does what?’ demanded Dolores shrilly.
A friend’s words could be more dangerous than an enemy’s blows, Alvarez thought bitterly.
She put her hands on her hips. Her dark-brown eyes smouldered. ‘You confess that you know a woman so lost to modesty that she swims without a costume?’
‘Where does she go swimming?’ Juan asked hopefully.
She swung round. ‘Be quiet!’
Juan cowered back in the chair. Isabel pulled faces at him, silently jeering.
Dolores turned back. With all the fervour of an operatic diva approaching her death on a high C, she said: ‘Has any other woman had to suffer men so depraved that they corrupt not only themselves, but their young? Has there been another woman so scorned and humiliated?’
The situation threatened to become heated and confused to the point where anything could happen. Alvarez said hurriedly: ‘The only reason I’ve had any contact with the señora is through the case. It was not I who saw her swimming in the nude, it was the gardener. And she wouldn’t look twice at me, since she had a husband and a boyfriend.’
‘And you are so corrupted that you are willing to become her third victim?’
It had been Escanellas – that great pragmatist of the late nineteenth century – who’d written, Hold fast to your principles if certain they will not injure you.
‘I’m too old to stand in a queue. And you know something? This fabada couldn’t be equalled by the King’s chef, and all the talking has given me fresh appetite.’ He held out his plate.
* * *
Twelve buses were parked on the front of Cala Xima and the tourists they had brought filled the pavements and frequently spilled on to the road, forcing Alvarez to drive unusually slowly; even so, one couple engrossed in each other only escaped death because of his very quick reactions. Holidays befuddled the wits.
He parked in front of the Hotel Pedro and went into the air-conditioned foyer. The desk clerk remembered him and, despite his saying this was not necessary, called the assistant manager.
‘All I want is a quick word with Señor White,’ Alvarez said.
The assistant manager fiddled with his short right-hand sideburn, twisting the hair between thumb and forefinger. ‘The trouble’s a lot more serious than you suggested before, isn’t it?’
‘Did I suggest anything?’
‘You claimed it was no more than a routine inquiry. Since you’re from Llueso and there’s been a report on the local radio of the murder of an Englishman there, I presume that’s why you’re here now. I wouldn’t call a murder investigation a routine inquiry … Look, I’m not trying to find out exactly what’s going on, but I do have to judge whether the hotel could be affected. If so, I’ll need to warn the chairman of the company.’
‘Nothing will happen today to cause any problems.’
‘An ambiguous guarantee, Inspector! But if you could keep things as low key as possible?… I’ll find out if Señor White is around.’
The assistant manager was gone for less than a couple of minutes. ‘He’s
by the pool. I’ll show you the way.’
The swimming pool was in the shape of an unequally proportioned figure of eight, the smaller circle shallow and the much larger one, deep; a bar was set into the side of the latter and swimmers could sit on stools in the water as they drank. Around the pool there were tables and chairs with sun umbrellas to give shade.
‘Over to the right, halfway along.’
Alvarez looked across the pool. White, in multicoloured swimming trunks, was seated at one of the tables. The assistant manager smiled a professional au revoir, returned into the building.
As Alvarez approached, White looked up and his expression mirrored his sudden, sharp annoyance.
‘Good afternoon, señor. I’m sorry to have to bother you again, but there are more questions I have to ask.’
‘First, I’ve one for you. The American consulate says you’ve no right to hold my passport without just cause. What’s the goddamn just cause?’
‘Perhaps it would be better to discuss the matter somewhere less public?’
White hesitated, then stood, picked up the glass on the table, and strode off towards the building. Alvarez followed, almost having to run to keep pace.
White settled in the corner of the large lounge in which were only four other people. Alvarez sat opposite him. A waiter came up and asked them what they would like. White tapped his glass, Alvarez, deciding the hotel would wish to prove its generosity once more, ordered a Carlos I.
As the waiter left, White said harshly: ‘What’s the answer?’
‘Have you listened to the radio today?’
‘No.’
‘And none of the staff have mentioned the news?’
‘Is this the sixty-four-dollar show? If you’ve something to say, say it.’
The American vice of rushing. They’d never understood that often haste meant waste. ‘And you have not spoken by phone to anyone at Ca’n Oliver?’
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