An Enigmatic Disappearance (19 page)

‘A suggestion almost as ridiculous as it is insulting.'

‘But one which can be tested.'

‘Indeed? How?'

‘The grave of the woman who should have been buried but was cremated will, on exhumation, prove to be empty.'

‘The authorities are naturally always very reluctant to permit a single exhumation on account of the distress caused to the family, yet here you would be asking for not one, but many.'

‘Why?'

‘Because if I were as clever and crooked as you suggest, when approached to take part in the criminal deception, I would have stipulated that I must arrange the false burial some good while before the cremation so that the identity of the substitute could not later be ascertained by consulting the records of burials immediately before or after the supposed cremation. I can't be certain without checking, but I think you will find that in the month during which the English señora's body was in cold storage, we conducted a considerable number of burials. The authorities will never agree to all of those graves being exhumed.'

Domingo's tone had carried no hint of mockery, yet Alvarez had no doubt that mockery was there. ‘How long have you lived in your present house?'

‘Not very long.'

‘When did you buy it?'

‘About three years ago.'

‘Quite a coincidence!'

‘It is coincidental with what?'

‘The supposed death of Señora Ogden.'

‘I fail to see any link.'

‘Obviously, the money Señor Ogden gave you after the false cremation proved successful enabled you to make the move.'

‘You have an ingenious, if somewhat primitive, mind. I wonder how you respond to the fact that I had to take out a mortgage to buy my present home?'

‘In one of two ways. It is clearly a very expensive place and the money Señor Ogden gave you was perhaps not sufficient to cover the difference between the cost of it and what you received from the sale of your previous home; that you decided a mortgage would provide good camouflage should anyone wonder at your sudden access to wealth. How much did you get for your previous house, how much did the present one cost, what size is the mortgage?'

‘And if I tell you that the answers are solely my business?'

‘I inform you that I will arrange for the authority to examine your accounts and bank balances so that from them I can gauge what those answers are.'

‘Obviously it will, as so often is the case, be more practical to accede to the wrongful use of authority than to resist it on the grounds of principle … There was a convention in England which I went to; whilst there, I bought a lottery ticket. I was returning here before the draw, so I gave the ticket to a charming Englishman I'd met and asked him to check it that Saturday. You can imagine my delight when he rang to say that although I hadn't scooped the top prize, I had won a considerable sum of money. I asked him to send it to me, less five thousand pounds which I hoped he'd accept as a gift – an undeclared token of admiration for his honesty since he could have pocketed everything and I'd never have known. He refused to accept a penny. It's humbling to meet such honesty.'

‘I'm sure it surprised you. How did he send you this money?'

‘In the literal sense he didn't. He arranged for his bank in the Islas Normandas – I understand that the British are so persecuted by their tax bandits that they find such offshore accounts even more beneficial than we do – to pay it to me when I went there for a short holiday.'

‘They gave it to you in what form?'

‘A number of high-value travellers' cheques.'

‘Where did you cash these?'

‘Here and there. I don't really remember.'

‘How very convenient!'

‘That great philosopher, Javier Solchaga, once said that memory responds to man's subconscious more readily than to his conscious.'

‘What is the name of your benefactor?'

‘Jeremy Awkright.'

‘His address?'

‘Very sadly, he passed on soon afterwards. For the truly good, this world is so often a resting place of short duration.'

‘Does his widow still live in the same house?'

‘I don't remember saying he was married, but, in fact, he was. I had a brief note in reply to my letter of commiseration in which she said she'd found the house too big and full of memories and had sold it and would be moving out within days. She promised to let me know her new address but, sadly, has never done so. I deeply regret that – I should have liked to invite her here for as long as she wished as a small gesture of thanks for her husband's wonderful kindness.'

Domingo had spoken with such warm sincerity that Alvarez found himself almost believing what he had been told.

CHAPTER 22

On Monday morning, Alvarez arrived in his office, sat, and stared at the telephone. He must phone Salas and report on his visit to the Peninsula – an unwelcome task and therefore best carried out as soon as possible. Yet the superior chief might have been delayed by any one of a dozen concerns and not yet at work. So perhaps it was best to wait a while …

It was just after ten when he returned from merienda. A task delayed was a task betrayed. He sat, lifted the receiver, dialled.

‘Well?' said Salas.

‘I have to report, señor, that I questioned the mayor of Son Jordi. I asked him if Señora Belinda Ogden's body had been taken to the village before the undertaker removed it. As expected, it had not been. It seems the señora's companion carried her from the place of the accident to the car and drove her to Las Macaulas.'

‘The man's name?'

‘I was unable to determine that.' He paused, but surprisingly, Salas made no comment. ‘At the doctor's surgery in Las Macaulas, she was pronounced dead. In view of the circumstances, it was necessary to remove her body immediately and the undertaker, Domingo, was called. According to his records, the señora's body was held in storage until Señor Ogden agreed to meet all funeral expenses. He asked for her to be cremated.

‘Inquiries in Las Macaulas showed that soon after these incidents, the doctor retired, though not of a retiring age, and left the town with his family. No one knows for certain where he's gone, although there is the suggestion it was Argentina where he was born. I judge it very unlikely that we will be able to trace his present whereabouts.

‘I questioned Domingo. I would describe him as smooth as butter, as sharp as a knife, as twisted as a…'

‘Try not to become absurd.'

‘Yes, señor. I asked him to identify the man who, with him, collected the señora's body from the surgery. He claimed this was impossible. He showed me the señora's file which contained two letters from Señor Ogden, the first refusing to pay her funeral expenses, the second agreeing to do so and demanding cremation. There was also the receipt from the Barcelona crematorium. This surely means that when a suitable body became available, a coffin filled with something was buried in the local cemetery, while the body was held back to be sent, when the time was judged right, to the crematorium in the name of Señora Ogden.'

‘How much of this does Domingo admit?'

‘None of it.'

‘An exhumation will prove or disprove the possibility.'

‘He pointed out that since it would be impossible for us to pinpoint which of many funerals was faked, many exhumations would have to be undertaken; that the authorities would never agree to this, not least because we can offer only a theory and not proof.'

‘If this deception was carried out, Domingo will have demanded and been paid a considerable sum of money. An examination of his lifestyle and accounts will expose this.'

‘That's what I reckoned, señor, especially on finding that he'd moved into a new and very expensive house soon after the señora supposedly died. But he claims he won a considerable sum of money on the English lottery and it was that, together with a mortgage, which permitted him to buy the place.'

‘Winning money is every criminal's favourite explanation for sudden wealth.'

‘He says he bought the ticket in England when attending a conference. Because he would be leaving the country before the draw, he gave the ticket to an English friend he'd met. At a later date the friend phoned him to say he'd won a prize…'

‘That proves he's lying. The friend would have said nothing so that he could keep the money for himself.'

‘But there are people so honest that…'

‘Spare me such naive stupidity.'

‘He claims that the friend transferred the money to a bank in the Islas Normandas and he collected it from there in the form of travellers' cheques. He cannot remember at which bank or banks he cashed these.'

‘I've never before heard such a farrago of nonsense.'

‘Quite so, señor. But unfortunately, while we can be certain that that is so, it's going to be very difficult to prove this…'

‘I should have placed the investigation in the hands of the local officers instead of expecting you to handle a matter requiring intelligent initiative.' Salas cut the connection.

Alvarez replaced the receiver, slumped back in the chair, put his feet up on the desk. He'd done his best and no man should reproach himself when he could say that.

He needed to question Ogden again, but time for reflection would not go amiss; he'd wait until the afternoon.

*   *   *

Alvarez parked in front of Ca'n Nou and crossed the gravel drive to the front door, rang the bell. The door was opened by Concha. ‘What do you want now?' she said with curt hostility.

‘To talk to the señor.'

‘He's not here.'

‘Have you any idea when he'll be back?'

‘How can I tell? I'm preparing supper, but perhaps he will be too drunk to want to eat.'

‘Is he still upset?'

‘Sweet Mary, what kind of a person are you? His wife dies and you ask me if he is still upset!'

‘It's not every bereaved husband who is.'

‘You would bury a wife with a smile, not a tear?… Unlike you, he grieves until it hurts to watch. Why won't you leave him alone?'

‘I need to ask him questions.'

‘You have not asked enough to make yourself feel important?'

‘I'm investigating the death of his wife…'

‘Which anyone but a heartless fool would know had nothing to do with him … I tell you this, any woman who married you would get even less than she expected!' She slammed the door shut.

She was probably right, he thought as he made his way back to the car. What did he have to offer? Only a belief in the ultimate triumph of justice. In the present age, such a belief tended to be a liability, not an asset.

He settled behind the wheel. Was there value in what he'd just heard? Concha was not someone to see true emotion because it was conventional wisdom that there should be emotion to be seen. She was convinced Ogden's grieving was genuine. But was he grieving because his wife had died, or because her death had not gone unquestioned as planned?

*   *   *

As Alvarez entered the house, he could hear Dolores singing a song which contained strange, disturbing notes that identified a Moorish origin. He carried on through to the dining-room and sat at the table opposite Jaime. He brought a glass out of the sideboard, helped himself to brandy, added three cubes of ice. He drank, then leaned forward and said in a low vocie: ‘Have you given her a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates?'

‘Why would I go and do a thing like that?'

‘How long has she been singing?'

‘Ever since I got back from work. Yet only this morning she was snapping my head off.' He emptied his glass. ‘If I live to be a thousand, I'll never understand women.'

‘Does any man?'

‘I had a cousin who used to boast he did, but when you met his wife you knew he was a liar.'

The singing stopped a moment before Dolores, red of face, sweating freely, pushed her way through the bead curtain. ‘Good, you're back, Enrique. The meal would have been spoiled if you'd been late.'

‘Is it something special, then?'

‘I thought everyone would like pez espada o aguja palada.' She hurried back into the kitchen.

‘It's a long time since she cooked that.' Alvarez drained his glass, refilled it. ‘Try and work out if it's something you've said or done that's put her into a good mood and then say or do it again.'

*   *   *

On Tuesday morning, it was once again Concha who opened the front door of Ca'n Nou. ‘Haven't you anything better to do? Can't leave him alone, can you?' She glared at Alvarez before she reluctantly stepped to one side. ‘He's out by the pool.'

He politely thanked her and received only a snort of dislike in return, made his way through to the patio. Ogden, his face grey and lined, wearing swimming trunks, was seated at the table on which was a bottle of gin, another of tonic, and an ice bucket. He looked up, but said nothing.

Alvarez sat. ‘I should like to talk about the trip to the Peninsula I've just made. I first went to Son Jordi at the southern end of the Pyrenees.'

Ogden looked away, but not before Alvarez noticed his expression, which suggested he was shocked and desperately trying to pull his wits together. ‘That's the nearest village to where your wife, Señora Belinda, supposedly suffered her accident. The mayor told me that the man she was with drove her straight into Las Macaulas because he knew there was no doctor in Son Jordi. D'you think he just guessed there wouldn't be, or did he know that?'

Ogden, with a shaking hand, poured himself another drink.

‘The doctor pronounced her dead and called the undertaker. The undertaker got in touch with you regarding the funeral arrangements; after an initial refusal, you agreed to pay for a cremation. Apparently, all very straightforward. Only it seems she was walking in the mountains with her friend and she fell over a rock face. That exactly matches Señora Sabrina's accident. Wouldn't you call that a strange coincidence?'