Dead Clever (9 page)

‘She’s a good actress and very determined and never once gave an inch, not even when I explained how strong was our proof. Nothing will make her admit that Green is alive.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘There wasn’t anything I could do except try to make her understand that if no claim is made on the company, there’s a chance Green—and she—will escape prosecution since I imagine it would be difficult to prove he deliberately crashed the plane unless Bennett gave the game away and admitted it was all prearranged.’

‘Do you think that when she tells him, he’ll accept the advice?’

‘She’s smart and determined and more than capable of making him forget his greed and see sense. I’ll give you two to one that there’s no claim.’

‘Then from your point of view, the visit was successful.’

‘Yes. But I . . .’ He stopped.

Alvarez wondered what was the unspoken qualification?

They talked generalities for a short while, then Ware said goodbye and rang off. Alvarez stared with dislike at the mass of papers on his desk, mentally threw them aside, yawned, checked the time and regretfully decided he’d better wait another five minutes before leaving the post. He settled back in the chair and thought again about the odd way in which Ware appeared to be behaving. Of course, he shouldn’t forget that Ware was still relatively young and inexperienced and therefore liable to make a fool of himself over women. A man had to be fully mature before he learned sexual wisdom. He found the thought a comforting one since it was not always easy to reconcile oneself to maturity.

As Alvarez finished pouring out two generous brandies for Jaime and himself, they heard a call from the front room. Jaime shouted at the kitchen: ‘There’s someone here.’

Dolores appeared in the doorway. ‘Who is it?’

‘How would I know?’

‘By getting on your feet and finding out. Or have you already drunk far too much to go anywhere on your own two feet?’

‘I haven’t touched a drop yet,’ he protested, indicating the brandy and forgetting all the wine previously consumed. ‘In any case, it’s woman’s work to greet a visitor.’

She stepped into the room, took off her apron and dropped it over the back of a chair, and then, as she walked towards the far doorway, said scornfully: ‘With you, everything but drinking is woman’s work.’

Jaime waited until she’d gone through to the front room before he said: ‘But she’s a wonderful cook.’ It was his way of excusing himself for having remained silent in the face of her provocative words.

They drank.

Dolores called out: ‘Enrique, come here.’

He emptied his glass, pushed it across the table so that Jaime could refill it in his absence, stood, and walked through to the front room. Dolores was talking to an elderly woman, dressed in black, the colour and texture of whose face spoke of endless summers in the fields.

‘It’s Elena,’ snapped Dolores, mortified that Alvarez obviously did not immediately identify their visitor.

‘But of course!’ He went forward and kissed her on both cheeks, having to bend down to do so because, although short himself, the top of her head only came level with his chin. It was, he considered, small wonder that he had failed to recognize her. In the four years since the death of her only son, she had aged ten.

She looked up at him, her expression entreating. ‘You will find them, won’t you? They haven’t been home for three days now.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Miguel and Carlos.’

‘Are you saying they’ve been missing since Sunday, but no one knows about it?’

She nodded.

‘Why on earth haven’t you reported their disappearance?’

Elena stared down at the tiled floor.

‘Were they, then, on a trip?’

She nodded.

‘How long did they expect to be away from home?’

‘Just the one night. But they haven’t come back. I thought there must be a delay and they’d stayed to wait for another night, but they’ve never turned up and I haven’t heard a word. Where can they be? I said to Ana . . . She married Miguel and God has given them one fine boy and now she carries another in her belly. Carlos is not married yet, although he has a novia.’

‘It’s good to hear about Miguel . . . Tell me, what did you say to Ana?’

‘That we must ask someone to help. She reminded me about you. You will help us, won’t you, because we are relatives?’

Elena was only a very distant cousin of Dolores and the relationship between himself and Dolores was almost as remote, so that it was quite beyond him to work out the degree of relationship between Elena and himself, but for a Mallorquin even the most tenuous of relationships created an obligation. ‘Of course I’ll do everything I can.’

‘There mustn’t be any trouble,’ she said nervously.

‘He’ll make certain there’ll be none/ said Dolores.

‘But although I’ll naturally try and avoid . . .’ he began.

‘There’ll be none.’

He gloomily wondered if Dolores had the slightest idea how difficult it might be to conceal his inquiries.

Dolores turned to Elena and suggested she stayed for a drink—if the men had left anything—but Elena said no, she had to return home to help Ana with the baby.

‘Enrique will drive you back.’

The finca was along a dirt track, rough enough to rattle continuously the suspension of Alvarez’s car. Except for the installation of electricity and running water, the house had not been reformed and there was still no glass in the upstairs windows which were protected by solid wooden shutters. Yet that this lack of modernization was not due to lack of money was made obvious by the new Renault 25 parked to the side of the house. In the field which surrounded the house were rows of beans, peppers, melons, lettuces, aubergines, and tomatoes, growing around orange, lemon, fig, and pomegranate trees; there were also a few roses, zinnias and geraniums in a small square, despite the fact that this land was good enough to grow more vegetables.

‘You’ve some fine crops,’ he said, as he climbed out of the car and studied the land.

For the first time, a little of the worry left her face.

‘I’ve not seen better this year.’

‘And you won’t!’

From within came the cry of a baby and she hurried inside. Alvarez followed her. The first room had been furnished without regard to cost—the three-piece suite was in white leather, the large sideboard was heavily carved in a traditional Andalucian pattern, the clock above the open fireplace was of Swiss make and in an elaborate gilt frame, the colour TV had a twenty-five inch screen and the video was the very latest, capable of endless tricks with windows. Yet the floor was uneven and many of the ancient and stained tiles were cracked and needed replacing.

Ana was rocking a baby in her arms. She was attractive in a young, full-flowering way, but already her features were beginning noticeably to coarsen and it was easy to judge that in another five years she would have lost most of her looks.

‘What’s the matter with Pedro?’ fussed Elena.

Just wind.’

‘Let me have him. I know how to get rid of it.’

‘He’s all right with me,’ she said resentfully, holding the child more tightly to herself.

Different generations, thought Alvarez, were finding it ever harder amicably to live together; forty years before, Ana would have handed over the baby without a moment’s hesitation, satisfied that an older generation must know more than she did.

Elena was annoyed, but did not pursue the matter. ‘Enrique has said he’ll find out what’s happened to Miguel and Carlos.’

Ana nodded; she’d never doubt that he would.

Alvarez sat in one of the armchairs. ‘How much do you know about the trip they were going on?’

The two women looked at each other; Elena answered. ‘Only that they didn’t expect to be away more than the one night.’

‘You’ve no idea what they were collecting, where, or who they were to deliver to?’

‘Of course not.’

‘At what time did they sail on Sunday?’

It was Ana who answered. ‘They left here at the end of the afternoon.’

‘Have they been working with anyone else recently?’

‘With no one.’

He wondered if they’d really told him all they knew or if, out of a misguided sense of security, they were keeping some facts from him.

In just a few years, the islanders had experienced dramatic changes in their lives, yet in the main they had not let such changes blind them to the fact that man kept his identity by holding to certain truths: God and the family were to be honoured (yet many Mallorquin everyday expressions were shockingly blasphemous—perhaps it was a camouflaged sign of faith), politicians and bureaucrats were to be mocked, and taxmen were to be defied.

Although smuggling had been practised for centuries, it had only been of importance to Llueso and Puerto Llueso from the turn of the century and it had only really flourished after the outbreak of the Civil War. Then, there had been men desperate to disappear before they were taken up into the hills and shot and farmers eager to sell their produce at better prices than those laid down by the authorities. After the end of the war, trade had once more slipped back, but later the tourists had begun to arrive, with so much money it seemed they were all millionaires, and they had demanded goods which either were not normally available or else bore a ridiculous amount of tax. Smuggling had prospered once more.

Prosperity had brought innumerable benefits to what had been a poor island; but such was the nature of all change it had also brought many crosses, of which the worst was undoubtedly drugs.

Hibrero Navarro would never have smuggled drugs. He had been able neither to read nor to write, yet he had known to a hair’s-breadth where lay the line which divided right from wrong. But his sons, Miguel and Carlos, were of the next generation, brought up in a time when many men once penniless had become extremely wealthy, and perhaps they had learned to read and write, but because of envy had lost the ability to see where that line lay . . .

Alvarez rang Capitan Reiff who was in charge of the drug squad. Reiff was an arrogant man from the Peninsula (in which he resembled Salas) and so he was careful to speak in Castilian and to sound deferential. I’m very sorry to bother you, señor, but I’ve been wondering if you can help me. Have you made any arrests in the past few days?’

‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘It’s like this. I had a call from a woman in Tarragona whose husband came to the island last Sunday and was supposed to stay at the Hotel Bahia Azul. But when she rang the hotel on Monday morning, they knew nothing about him. She waited, in case something had made him change his mind and he couldn’t immediately let her know, but she didn’t hear from him and so in the end she got through to me. She’s naturally very worried that something’s happened to him. I’ve spoken to the people in the hotel and they say that not only did he never turn up, despite what his wife believes he didn’t even make a reservation. Naturally, in case she’d made a mistake about the name of the hotel, I’ve been in touch with all those in the port . . .’

‘Why bother me with this? Probably all that’s happened is that he’s off with another woman.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that!

The captain made a sound of derisive contempt.

‘I’d best get back on to her and try to find out if she’s any suspicions. Of course that’ll be a bit tricky. I mean, I don’t think I can just come straight out with the suggestion . . .’

‘How you go about it is no concern of mine.’

‘Of course not, señor . . . there is just one more point. I did wonder if he might have been operating illegally and that’s why he gave his wife false information. Have you information on any drugs’ movement in the past few days?’

‘No.’

‘Then I needn’t bother you any further, señor. Thank you very much for all your help.’ Alvarez replaced the receiver, satisfied that his request for information would be dismissed as witless and not give the capitan cause to wonder if something were going on which he ought to know about. . .

He left the office and drove down to the port, where he parked on the eastern arm of the harbour, close to the harbourmaster’s office. Two types of fishing-boats still worked from the port; in-shore and off-shore. The in-shore ones were small and without a wheelhouse, the off-shore ones were slightly larger and had a cramped wheelhouse; as a further sub-division, a couple of the off-shore boats had more powerful diesel engines than the others or than their papers stated. Only one of the two was tied up and a man was aboard her, scrubbing down her stern with a long-handled brush.

‘How are things?’ Alvarez called out.

Martinez stopped work. He hawked, spat over the side into the scummy water, rested his weight on the handle of the broom.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Busier’n you.’ He was short, squat, and looked as old and battered as his boat; bare to the waist, his chest, where it wasn’t covered by a mat of grey hair, was the colour of ancient, muddy bronze.

‘But not too busy for a drink, I’ll lay?’

‘Are you buying?’

‘If you’re drinking.’

‘Why are you buying?’

‘Because I’d like the pleasure of a chat with an old friend.’

‘If that was all there was to it, you’d want the old friend to do the buying.’

‘Come on ashore, you sour old bastard.’

Martinez was reluctant to move, but Alvarez made it clear that he was prepared to wait. Swearing, Martinez brushed a last trickle of water through the nearest scupper, laid the brush down on the deck, picked up a dirty T-shirt which he pulled over his broad shoulders, then jumped ashore with an agility which mocked his years.

‘Where d’you like to drink these days?’ asked Alvarez.

‘Somewhere where I can choose who I drink with.’

‘What about Tomi’s?’

‘Are you now so bloody rich you like paying tourist prices?’

‘Tomi’s was all right when I was last there.’

‘Then it’s a long time since you were.’ He began to walk.

They reached the road, crossed to the far pavement and continued past shops which catered for foreigners and in which the prices were high, the quality often low, and taste usually non-existent. A side road brought them to a small bar, seldom patronized by tourists since from the outside it looked dirty and it did not serve snacks with chips. Inside it was spotlessly clean and on the walls were framed photographs of the port which showed a small, sleepy fishing village. Alvarez ordered two brandies, carried the glasses over to a table and sat opposite Martinez. ‘You and Hibrero were friends, weren’t you?’