An Artistic Way to Go (15 page)

CHAPTER 16

Clara, being considerably older than Rosa, could remember a time when no sensible person spoke his mind except in the company of trusted friends – how else to be certain that the secret police were not listening? So it was only after Alvarez had chatted to her for some time that he was able to persuade her to speak relatively freely.

‘He sounds like he was a difficult man,' he said, as he sat at the kitchen table.

‘He could be, that's for sure. Never said how delicious the meals were.'

A good cook needed imagination, inspiration, forty-three spices, and praise without end. ‘Wasn't he interested in food?'

‘He was quick enough to say if he didn't like something.'

‘The typical foreigner!… Did Rosa have any trouble with him?'

‘Not if you mean, did he try to get a handful. She'd have told him what was what. In any case, if you ask me, the señor didn't think of us as ordinary sort of people. We're servants. Another thing. He'd the señora to keep him happy.'

‘D'you reckon she did?'

‘As busy as he could manage.'

‘I've been told she has a friend and sometimes, when they're alone, they have a swim together?'

‘So Jorge says, but he has an imagination that needs washing.'

‘Only it's not imagination this time. D'you think the señor knew she was dancing to someone else's band?'

She accepted that there was small point in continuing loyally to deny the affair. ‘If he'd had his wits about him, he'd have guessed right enough from the way she made an extra fuss of him. But being the man he was, he just thought that that was because she adored him even more. Many's the time I've said to Rosa that England must be a strange country when someone as blind as him can become so rich.'

‘In any country, when a woman puts her body as well as her mind to it, she can make a man believe the earth is square.'

‘Until she starts carrying a bastard.'

‘Life can be full of little surprises … So you don't think he ever suspected?'

‘If he had, he'd have been shouting the house down. Men like him can't stand being made to look stupid.'

‘Tell me, were you in this house last night?'

Her manner changed abruptly. She stared nervously everywhere but at him and began to fiddle with a small bowl that was on the table.

‘There's no need to worry,' he assured her. ‘I could never believe you had any part in the señor's death. What I'm asking is if you were here, you saw or heard anything unusual?'

‘There was nothing.'

‘Suppose you just remember everything you can about yesterday evening. It's as important to me to know everything seemed normal as that there was something strange. The kind of thing I want to hear is who was around, what you were doing, whether anyone telephoned.'

She spoke hesitantly to begin with, then gained confidence. The señora had left the house soon after breakfast without saying what she wanted for the day. Unless there was a party, only she or Rosa had to be on duty during the evening and so Rosa had left quite early to be with her novio. She'd spent the early evening worrying. Should she prepare dinner or shouldn't she? If she did and the señora didn't want a meal when she returned, it would be food wasted; if she didn't and the señora demanded a meal immediately, there would be a row. The señora expected everything to be exactly as she wanted …

Eventually, it had become clear that the señora would not be returning for dinner – it was always served at the same time, on the señor's orders. So she'd locked up, after switching on the alarm system, and had left and gone to the staff house. She'd watched television for a while and then decided to get some supper. After switching off the television, she'd heard a car. She'd thought it was the señora's, but when she'd crossed to the window and looked out, she'd seen it wasn't and the car was leaving, not arriving – she hadn't heard it before because of the television and, she had to admit, she wasn't as sharp of hearing as she'd once been …

‘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.'