A Maze of Murders

by Roderic Jeffries

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  CHAPTER 1

  As life filtered back, it seemed to Sheard that someone had not only split open his head, but had also emptied some of the riper contents of a dustbin into his mouth. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a curving ceiling which was so close that he thought it was descending to crush him. He whimpered as he struggled to move from wherever he was to wherever he could get to; his head struck something yielding. Despite the additional agony this promoted, he tilted his head up until he could see what he had touched. A pair of feet.

  After a while, he managed to lift himself up on to one elbow. The feet belonged to a young woman who wore a pair of lime-green pants and occupied less than half the settee. Because she was on her back, he could see the mole just below her left breast. The mole seemed about to prompt a memory, but his confusion proved to be too great.

  He looked to his right. Lying on the floor was a second young woman; she wore nothing. He could no longer support himself and collapsed. It might look like heaven, but it felt like hell. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. He regained consciousness and, despite the continuing agony in his head and vile taste in his mouth, became aware of an unusual warmth about his legs. He propped himself up, looked down at his naked body; from the middle of his thighs downwards, he was in sharp sunshine. He visually followed the shaft of light through a doorway and saw rails, a flagstaff, and brilliant blue sky.

  The flagstaff unlocked his memory.

  Lewis had been the first to spot Kirsty and Cara. They had been strolling along the pedestrianized front when they saw the girls watching a human statue. Lewis had started talking to them and after a short while, correctly judging Cara’s off-hand manner to be no more than the initial declaration of I’m-not-the-sort-of-girl-you-seem-to-take-me-for, had suggested they move to one of the cafés for a drink.

  Kirsty had been friendly, Cara had maintained an air of boredom until Lewis had suggested that they have one more drink then take a trip across the bay in his motor cruiser. Cara had jeeringly called him a liar who didn’t have so much as a rowing boat, but had accompanied them along the eastern jetty and when Lewis had identified the Aventura as his, she had been the first to board.

  They’d cast off and with Lewis at the helm had made their way out of harbour and into the bay. They’d sailed around for a while – getting to know each other – and had then anchored off the Hotel Parelona. In the saloon, Lewis had opened a cupboard and brought out two bottles of whisky – one nearly empty, the other full – four glasses, and a pack of cigarettes. Cara had cast off any suggestion of boredom and the evening had proceeded along accepted lines. Initial refusal, token resistance, much giggling. But then things had not gone according to plan …

  Sheard suddenly knew he was going to be very ill. He slithered off the settee too quickly and had to grab for support. As his stomach looped the loop, he realized he’d no idea where the heads were. Necessity also being the mother of improvisation, he staggered out of the saloon on to the deck and leaned over the rails to be far sicker than he had thought possible. It was a while before he overcame his misery sufficiently to notice the anchored yacht a hundred metres across the glinting sea on which two men and one woman were laughing. He remembered he was naked.

  As he returned to the saloon and slumped down on the end of the settee, Cara began to move, then sat up. She stared at him, eyes bloodshot, expression drawn, looking older than she claimed to be. ‘God, I feel awful!’

  ‘No worse than I do.’

  ‘How the bloody hell d’you know?’ She moved a hand to her stomach and was surprised to discover she was naked. ‘I’m going to be sick. Where’s the loo?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She struggled to her feet, lost her balance and grabbed hold of Kirsty’s hip for support. Kirsty made a sound that was midway between a grunt and a cry. Cara made for the for’d doorway.

  He lay back and closed his eyes.

  Cara returned. ‘The loo’s up the corridor but I can’t get the bloody thing to work. It’s all handles and wheels. What do I do?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I’ve known dead dogs more useful than you.’ She slowly searched through the clothes that littered the deck and found hers. She pulled on panties, T-shirt, and skin-tight jeans. ‘I feel I’m being choked.’ She stumbled out on deck, grabbed the rails, and breathed heavily.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Kirsty’s voice so startled him that he turned sharply; pain surged through his head. ‘She needed more air.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm from the look of you. I said not to drink so much.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he muttered.

  ‘If it wasn’t the booze made it impossible, what was it?’

  ‘What was what?’

  She giggled.

  Only a feeling of intense lethargy prevented his telling her how stupid her giggling sounded.

  Cara returned to the saloon, tottered over to the starboard settee and collapsed on to it. ‘I swear to God, not another drop if I live to be a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘I told you, you were all drinking too much,’ Kirsty said sanctimoniously.

  ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose Neil’s even worse than you two?’

  ‘I bloody hope so.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘We’d better find him so he can take us back.’

  ‘You find him if you’re in such a hurry.’

  Kirsty climbed off the settee, picked up her clothes from the deck and got dressed. She went for’d, soon to return. ‘He’s not inside so he must be outside.’

  They said nothing.

  She went aft and out on deck and they could hear her climb up to the flying bridge. When she came back, she said, worry edging her voice, ‘He’s not anywhere.’

  Sheard opened his eyes. ‘He’s got to be.’

  ‘Then you find him.’ She came up to the settee. ‘Move.’

  ‘Why?’

  She grabbed him and pulled. Cursing, he put his feet to the deck and stood. The effort threatened to bring fresh disaster, but by repeatedly swallowing heavily, he was able to persuade his stomach not to revolt a second time. He dressed.

  He checked the wheelhouse, heads, for’d locker and flying bridge. Back in the saloon, he said: ‘You’re right.’ He sat.

  ‘Then what’s happened to him?’

  ‘Stop getting so excited,’ Cara snapped. ‘He’s gone ashore.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wanted to.’

  ‘How’d he get there?’

  ‘If he’s half as smart as he thinks he is, he walked.’

  ‘Skinny and with all the people from the ritzy hotel and on the other boats watching?’

  ‘He’d love it … Anyways, how d’you know he was starkers?’

  ‘His clothes are still on the floor.’ She pointed.


  Lying about the deck were a shirt, pants, jeans and sandals.

  ‘He can’t have gone ashore without his clothes,’ Kirsty said.

  ‘If he ain’t on the boat, he must have done.’

  ‘Why would he do a thing like that?’

  ‘How would I know? Jeeze, you’re making my head ten times worse. Can’t you shut up?’

  ‘Suppose he fell overboard? This could be terribly serious. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Yes. You’re being a bloody pain.’

  ‘If he’s missing, we’ve got to tell someone.’

  ‘I’m not stopping you.’

  Kirsty turned to face Sheard. ‘Get us back.’

  ‘Look, if we…’

  ‘Move,’ she shouted.

  Anything for a quiet life. He stood and wished he had not.

  CHAPTER 2

  The hotel was one of the few in the port still family-run; the staff were both pleasant and helpful. ‘His key is on the board,’ the receptionist said, in heavily accented English. ‘He is not in his room.’

  ‘Would you know if he returned during the night?’ Kirsty asked.

  He shook his head. ‘For that, you must speak to the night person.’

  ‘How can we?’

  ‘He will be here at seven tonight.’

  ‘That’s no use.’ Worry made her sound angry. ‘We’ve got to talk to whoever was on the desk last night.’

  ‘He sleeps. Perhaps after three in the afternoon…’

  ‘Now!’

  ‘Señorita, when a man has worked all the night…’

  ‘Something terrible could have happened to Neil. We must know if he came back here during the night and is safe.’

  ‘This is different. I phone Miguel and say why I wake him. One moment, please.’ The receptionist reached across to the nearer telephone, lifted the receiver, dialled. When the connection was made, he spoke, listened, spoke more rapidly, gesturing with his free hand. He looked up. ‘His wife wakes him. She did not wish, but I explain, is necessary.’

  They waited. When the receptionist began to speak over the phone again, Kirsty said: ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sheard answered.

  ‘I thought you spoke Spanish?’

  ‘He’s talking Mallorquin.’

  ‘Oh, God! I hope Neil did come back here.’

  He agreed, his hope based on a different reason from hers. Since living in the port, he’d taken every possible care to keep as clear of the authorities as possible; if Lewis really were missing, he was going to have to bring himself to their attention.

  The receptionist replaced the receiver. ‘Miguel says señor not return. He knows for sure. The señor’s room is fifteen and Miguel would have taken the number in the lottery if the señor want the key.’

  ‘Perhaps…’

  The two men looked at her and waited.

  ‘He could just have returned, not gone to his room, and had breakfast.’

  If Lewis had been suffering even half as badly as he was, Sheard thought, breakfast would have been off.

  ‘Could you ask someone if he was here for breakfast?’ she said.

  The receptionist used the second telephone to speak to another member of staff. When the brief call was over, he said: ‘The waiter comes. Now, please excuse me.’ He moved down the counter to speak to a woman.

  They waited. A waiter, in the hotel’s ‘uniform’ of open-neck white shirt, black trousers, and red cummerbund, came up to the desk and, at an indication from the receptionist, along to where they stood. ‘You wish?’ he asked, speaking English with great difficulty.

  Sheard answered him in Spanish. He shook his head. ‘The señor did not eat breakfast today. Of that, I can be certain.’

  Sheard thanked him and he left. Even though it had been obvious what his answer had been, Kirsty said urgently: ‘Well?’

  ‘He didn’t have breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, God!… Then maybe he went to that hotel on the other side of the bay and is playing a joke on us. That’s possible, isn’t it?’

  He was vaguely surprised that after the very brief acquaintance, she should become so emotionally concerned that she would clutch at non-existent straws. ‘That’s not the kind of hotel where you turn up dressed real casual. And since his clothes were still on the boat…’

  ‘You’ve got to find out. You must phone and ask.’

  ‘I don’t think…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you think. Where’s a phone we can use?’

  ‘We’d best find a public one.’

  ‘Then hurry instead of just standing around.’

  As he followed her out of the hotel, the contrast between the cool interior and the heat and blinding light outside exacerbated his headache. He came to a stop.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My head’s bursting.’

  ‘Can’t you forget that? Which way?’

  ‘Turn right,’ he muttered resentfully. He followed her along the broad pedestrian way, once a road, which, lined with palms, fronted by sand and sea, and sprinkled with tables protected by multicoloured sun umbrellas at which people ate and drank, epitomized the Mediterranean for most tourists.

  They reached two public phones, back to back. He lifted the receiver of the one facing the direction in which they’d come, inserted a coin, dialled. No connection was made, but the coin disappeared into the interior of the machine instead of falling down for him to retrieve. He lacked the energy to swear. He moved round to the second phone and this time was more successful. The woman to whom he spoke said that no Señor Lewis had booked in at the hotel and she had no knowledge of anyone by that name.

  As he replaced the receiver, Kirsty, her voice strained, said: ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve got to. You live here.’

  ‘Sure. Only…’ He lapsed into silence.

  ‘We must tell the police.’

  ‘Perhaps we should wait a bit longer…’

  ‘Where’s the police station?’

  ‘A couple of roads back.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, get moving.’

  He led the way past numerous small shops, all catering to the tourist trade, to a building which only recently had become the office of the port’s Policia Local – as the force was now called. In the front office, an overweight policeman with a Zapata moustache was reading a newspaper. He looked up, resumed reading.

  ‘Kick some life into him,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll react when he’s ready. This is Spain.’

  ‘And I’m English. Hey, Rip Van Winkle!’

  The policeman finally put the paper down and stared at them with evident dislike.

  ‘Good morning,’ Sheard said in Spanish and in soapy tones. ‘I trust we don’t disturb you?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘We’re very worried. A friend of ours may be missing and…’

  ‘What do you mean, he may be? Either he is missing or he isn’t.’

  ‘We can’t be certain.’

  ‘Then come back when you can.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ she asked.

  Sheard told her.

  She faced the policeman and said angrily: ‘It’s your job to find out if anything has happened to him. So do something.’

  The policeman had understood the import of her words, if not the words themselves. He brushed his moustache with crooked forefinger, picked up a pencil; the lead was broken and he put it down. He searched for and eventually found a ballpoint pen; it refused to work. He threw it into the wastepaper basket while expressing his opinion of the mothers of pen makers. He puffed as he hauled himself to his feet and left the room. When he returned, he had another ballpoint pen. He sat, opened a drawer of the desk and found it was empty, slammed it shut; in turn, he checked the other drawers without success. He left the room again, to return with a sheet of paper. He sat. ‘Well? I haven’t all day to waste.’

 
Sheard said: ‘The four of us went by boat across the bay last night and had a bit of a party…’

  ‘Where’s your residencia?’

  ‘I’m not a resident.’

  ‘Where’s your passport?’

  ‘Back in my room.’

  ‘Get it. And tell her to bring hers.’ He pointed the pen at her, then slapped it down on the desk. He picked up the newspaper and, with evident satisfaction, resumed reading.

  ‘Now what’s up?’ she asked in exasperation.

  ‘We have to get our passports,’ Sheard replied.

  ‘What the hell for? What about Neil?’

  ‘He won’t listen until he’s seen our passports.’

  ‘Then he needs kicking where it hurts.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Let’s go and get them.’

  They had reached the doorway when the policeman said: ‘Hombre, find yourself a Spanish girlfriend. She’ll have better manners.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Alvarez awoke. He stared up at the ceiling and knew a deep inner contentment. Life wore a golden hue. The previous day, a distant and almost forgotten relation of Jaime had visited them. Not only had he brought with him four bottles of Vega Sicilia, he had praised the lunch as one of the best meals he’d ever enjoyed. After he’d left, Dolores had declared him to be handsome, intelligent, and a man of cultured tastes. As always, her moods had been reflected in her cooking. Supper that evening had been a veritable feast.

  Might a spirit of such beatitude continue? Could today’s lunch be Pollastre farcit amb magrana? Even a cook of moderate ability would make something special of this dish of chicken, pork, lamb, pomegranate, wine, and seasoning; she could turn it into Lucullan fare …

  She called up from downstairs that it was a quarter past. He acknowledged that fact. After a while, he sat up, swivelled round on the bed, and put his feet on the floor, welcoming the coolness of the tiles. Already, the day was hot. Soon, it would be very hot. Heat was not conducive to work …

  ‘It’s half past. You’ll be very late.’

  Late was a word that was subject to many interpretations. By his, he was almost never late for work. He hauled himself to his feet and went along to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he entered the kitchen and sat at the table.