An Artistic Way to Go (16 page)

‘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?'

‘Maybe you'd like a full list of everything else I haven't done?'

‘Then you will not know that Señor Cooper reappeared last night.'

White blanked his expression so that it was impossible to gauge how, or whether, the news affected him. The ability to hide his thoughts was one he shared with the Mallorquin peasant – a similarity, Alvarez decided with pleasure, he would not welcome.

‘He's at his place, then?'

‘In one sense, yes; in another, no.'

‘Can't you say any goddamn thing straightforwardly?'

‘His body was discovered early this morning. He had been murdered.'

White drank. He put the glass down. He said, neutralizing his tone so much that ironically it gained emphasis: ‘How murdered?'

‘He was struck on the head several times with something solid.'

‘What something?'

‘At the moment, that is unknown. The murderer took the weapon away with him.'

The waiter returned and put a coaster down on the table, a glass on the coaster, and was about to add the bill when Alvarez explained that the assistant manager would be responsible for it. Looking doubtful, the waiter left.

‘Señor, when I last spoke to you, I said that Señor Cooper had disappeared and his car had been discovered in circumstances which made it seem he must have committed suicide. Yet there were certain facts which contradicted such a possibility. Now I know that he did not die then. So how to explain events? The only reasonable explanation that I have reached is that Señor Cooper wanted someone to believe him dead, but raising a presumption of suicide is not easy when there is no body; people in trouble often try to fake their own deaths. Murder, however, presents a different scenario. It is common for there to be no body for the simple reason that its absence is greatly to the advantage of the murderer, since without it there can often be no proof there has been a murder. So Señor Cooper, a man of talent, decided to set the scene for suicide, making certain that evidence must raise the probability that it was in fact a case of murder. Would one call that a double bluff? If this was the true position, one very important question has to be answered. What would make someone in Señor Cooper's position – wealthy, married to a beautiful wife – go to such lengths? It would have to be something that so frightened him he could think of no other way of escape. What was that something?'

‘How the hell would I know?'

‘He was due to have lunch at home, yet after your visit on the Sunday, the maid described him as having been in a very distressed state and he left the house without a word of explanation. It would seem obvious that it was the subject of your conversation that so terrified him.'

‘We never got beyond small talk, British decorous style.'

‘That bores, but never frightens.'

‘Sure. So nothing I said frightened him.'

‘Why did you visit him?'

‘You need to be told everything six times? Friends back in the States suggested I look him up because he'd be glad to meet me. They couldn't have been more wrong.'

‘You'd no other reason?'

‘None.'

‘Then why did you previously visit the area and study the señor's house through binoculars?'

‘I told you before, that's all crap.'

Alvarez sighed. He raised his glass and drained the last of the smooth, rich brandy. ‘Where were you last night between nine and ten?'

White said contemptuously: ‘You think I killed the limey?'

‘It's possible.'

‘Like an honest politician is possible. Between nine and ten I was in the restaurant here. The meat was so tough, I sent it back with the suggestion the chef use it to resole his shoes. He'll likely remember that.'

‘I should imagine he would.'

‘So you can return my passport.'

‘Not before I've heard from America as to whether or not you have any known criminal connections.' Alvarez stood. ‘Thank you for your help, señor.'

‘If there's one thing I hate, it's a goddamn polite cop,' White said violently, for once not bothering to mask his emotions.

CHAPTER 18

When Alvarez entered the small office in the boatyard, Delgado was swearing over the phone, using to the full the rich, colourful, sacrilegious obscenity with which the Mallorquin language was endowed. He slammed the receiver down. ‘What do you want?'

‘I wouldn't mind a friendly welcome.'

He delivered his opinion of friendly welcomes.

‘All right, let's move on. I need to talk to Señor Burns.'

‘Then why waste my time?'

‘Since he works here…'

‘Works here, does he? That's news to me! Rings up after lunch and says he's suddenly been taken ill and is in bed. You can't rely on a foreigner even to stay healthy.'

Alvarez left and drove the short distance to the flat. The old woman was seated in the shade and he greeted her. She moved her head from side to side, mumbled something he failed to understand, and gesticulated with one hand. A bad day, he thought with sympathy as he climbed the outside stairs to Burns's flat.

He was about to knock on the door when he reasoned that if Burns were ill in bed, it would be kinder, if possible, not to make him have to come to the door. He turned the handle and pushed, found the door was unlocked, stepped inside and called out.

‘Who the bloody hell is it?' Burns demanded.

‘Inspector Alvarez.'

‘What d'you want?'

‘A word.'

‘I'm too ill.'

‘Then I'm afraid I'll have to come through…'

‘I'll be out.'

When Burns entered from the inner room, dressed in T-shirt and shorts, he appeared more belligerent than ill. ‘What gives you the right to come bursting in here?'

‘The door was unlocked. And since Señor Delgado told me you were too ill to work, I judged it kinder to enter, if that were possible, than to cause you to have to come to the door.'

‘Next time, try knocking.'

‘It would seem you have recovered.'

‘I still feel as if something were gnawing away at my guts.'

‘Then let us sit down.'