Deadly Petard (13 page)

‘And you might find something that I have missed.’ ‘No way. There’s no chance of that.’ Alvarez was so generously guileless that Cullon momentarily felt embarrassed by his own attitude.

They drove the back route to Caraitx, along lanes which wound their zigzag way through undulating countryside. In the village, Alvarez stopped at the municipal police station to collect the key to No. 15, after which they continued up to Calle Padre Vives.

Already the house smelled of disuse and—ironically, since there had been no rain for weeks—of damp. They went upstairs.

‘This was the señorita’s bedroom. Since her death, nothing has been altered except that I folded up the clothes there, on the chair, and I tidied the bedclothes. The suicide note and the bottle of sleeping tablets are on the table, together with the plastic bag which was taken off her head.’

Cullon went over to the bedside table and looked down at the typed note. After a while he reached out, only to stay his hand. ‘I presume the note’s been checked for prints?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Why ever . . .’ He cut the words short.

‘One could not be certain it was necessary,’ explained Alvarez.

By leaning over, Cullon could read the note without having to touch it. ‘Has anyone heard her recently complaining of pain?’

‘Señor Meade and his two friends agree she never once mentioned it. Señora Garcia, who used to work here, says the same. But señor West refers to her as a hypochondriac’

‘She mentions her friend, Pat, who died. Have you found the letter telling her about the death?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Or any letters from Pat?’

‘She has kept many letters, but there is not one from Pat.’

‘Interesting, point! . . . Any idea where her typewriter is?’

‘In the cupboard over there.’ Alvarez pointed. ‘The compartment nearest the window.’

‘Presumably you’ve checked that for prints and the type?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Perhaps . . .’ said Cullon, finding it more and more difficult to remain patiently tactful.

Alvarez went over to the cupboard and brought back the Olympia typewriter, which he put on the bed. He opened the case, then threaded a sheet of notepaper into the roller and used the blunt end of a ballpoint pen to tap out the first words of the suicide note. He pulled the notepaper free, looked at it briefly, handed it to Cullon.

Cullon lifted up the suicide note by holding the edges, dropped it on to the bed face uppermost: he spread out the second sheet of paper alongside it. ‘Two peas in a pod. First he murdered her, then he sat down and typed out the so-called suicide note. He’s a cool bastard, if he’s nothing else.’

He turned his attention to the plastic bag. ‘Presumably this hasn’t been checked out either?’

‘I’m afraid it hasn’t.’

It was like working with a probationary constable in his first week of duty. ‘D’you think it could be arranged for things to be checked?’

‘But of course.’

‘You don’t mind if now I just have a bit of a search?’

‘Whatever you wish.’

On the dressing-table Cullon saw the several different sized and shaped pieces of broken earthenware. ‘Any idea what this lot was?’

‘The pieces were on the floor when I first entered. I’m certain it was what we call a cazuela—they are dishes which come in many sizes and are used for cooking and other things. When one has tapas in a bar . . . That reminds me. I must take you to the new bar in Llueso. Even though the owner comes from Madrid, his tapas are excellent. I’ve certainly never tasted better. Kidneys in sherry, meat balls, squid, liver . . .’

‘That sounds great. From the look of the inside of these bits, there wasn’t anything in the dish when it got smashed. Could’ve been intended as an ashtray, I suppose. D’you know if she smoked?’

T am afraid I cannot say.’

‘I doubt it’s of any importance.’ Cullon moved on to the opened window and put his head outside. When he brought his head back in, he said: ‘Did the people next door hear anything at all?’

‘The mother sleeps at the back of the house and she went to bed early. The son was studying in the front bedroom and says he didn’t consciously hear any car stop here. I doubt he would have noticed anyway.’

‘So there’s no joy there. Did Miss Dean lock all outside doors at night?’

‘It is impossible to be certain now, but one must assume that she did. Ten years ago it would not have been necessary: then one did not need to lock anything. But things have become different.’ Alvarez sighed.

‘So if West had to break in, as opposed to her letting him in, he either needed the key or the skill to force the lock.’

T don’t suppose the lock on the front door is very complicated.’

‘Are there any signs of it being forced?’

T have not had time to check that.’

Cullon was hardly surprised. ‘How about doing that before we leave?’

T think that perhaps I have a lock probe in the car,’

said Alvarez doubtfully.

Cullon left the window and resumed his search. He was very thorough. Alvarez watched him with endless patience.

‘That’s that, then,’ he said finally.

They went through to the studio where Cullon studied the three unframed paintings leaning against one wall. ‘These are all right—got lots of colour. Not like the ones she had in her place back home: they were all greys and blacks. But apparently people bought ‘em, which just goes to prove not everyone has the same taste.’

‘Señor Meade says that since she lived here, she has been happy. Perhaps that is why her paintings now have colour.’

‘Could be, I suppose.’

‘But then why should the painting on the easel be so . . . so tortured?’

‘How d’you mean?’ Cullon moved across the floor to study the unfinished painting on the easel. ‘It is a bit grim when you get down to it, isn’t it? She must have suddenly started feeling blue.’

‘Because she believed herself ill, perhaps?’

‘Now we’re moving outside my horizons! But I do know this much: if she was feeling grim it’s ten to one at least part of the trouble was that she’d finally realized .West was gunning for her.’

They moved into the spare bedroom, then from there to the bathroom. Downstairs, in the kitchen, Cullon checked the sizes of the plastic bags.

Five minutes later, the search was completed. ‘So all that’s left to do now,’ said Cullon, ‘is to check the front door lock to see if it was forced.’

They went out to the car and Alvarez searched through the jumble of things on the back seat, but failed to find the pencil-thin probe. Then, as a last resort, and only after a struggle, he lifted up the bench seat. The probe lay there, together with bits of paper, fluffs of dirt, and several lengths of string. He picked the probe up and switched it on and it failed to light. ‘I suppose the battery is finished,’ he said philosophically.

‘Surely you can get a new one in the town?’

‘I suppose so,’ he answered wearily.

They drove down the steep roads and finally found an electrical store: this had batteries of every size but the one they needed. Alvarez looked at Cullon, hesitated, then walked along the road to a small corner shop, dark inside and smelling of dried sardines, with open barrels of sugar, rice, flour, and beans. The woman inside took the battery Alvarez handed her, examined it closely, and then asked Alvarez if he came from Llueso. There followed a long discussion, which left Cullon more and more impatient. Finally, however, the woman disappeared through a bead curtain, to reappear a few minutes later with a broad grin of triumph on her face. She handed the old battery back to Alvarez, together with a new one. There was just one remaining problem. She’d no idea how much it cost. Alvarez suggested about fifty-five pesetas and she agreed that that sounded a very fair price.

They returned to Calle Padre Vives and there Alvarez, watched by two interested boys with crude imaginations who commented on what he was doing, inserted the probe into the keyhole of the front door lock and peered down through the lens at the interior mechanism. He slowly revolved the probe, then straightened up and switched off the light. ‘I can’t see any signs of scratching.’ He handed the probe over.

Once he’d focused his gaze, Cullon could see that where the mechanism was not touched by the key the grease and dirt were undisturbed, which made it virtually certain that there’d been no attempt to force the lock. He withdrew the probe, switched off the light, and straightened up. ‘If the back door’s the same, either he used a key or she let him in.’ His voice hardened. ‘The second woman to learn too late what kind of a bastard he really is.’

For fifteen years, Quijano had worked in fishing boats, earning so little that there’d been times when he could not afford to buy enough food to feed his family. Then he’d been told that the foreigners, many of whom were now living in the area, were all so stupid that they’d pay ridiculous wages for a gardener. He’d become a gardener.

The woman who’d first employed him had asked if he knew about flowers: he’d assured her that ever since he’d been a youngster he’d been growing hundreds of different flowers and on the whole island no one knew more about them than he. She’d then agreed to pay him what he asked and this had been the final confirmation that foreigners were stupid since, naturally, he’d asked for twice as much as he’d expected to get.

He stopped work in the garden of Ca’n Absel and watched a Seat 600 rattle along the dirt track and come to a stop by the garage. Alvarez left it and walked to the front door, rang the bell, and waited. Quijano could have told him that no one was inside, but he continued to watch.

Alvarez turned back and it was then that he first noticed Quijano. He crossed to the steps, climbed down to the pool patio, and came across the lawn to where Quijano stood. Tm looking for the English señor.’

‘Well, as far as I know he ain’t down here,’ replied Quijano, with the malicious enjoyment of a cunning peasant playing the part of a fool.

‘Is the maid anywhere around?’

‘You’d best ask her, not me.’

‘I’m from the Cuerpo General de Policia.’

‘Think I don’t know that?’ Quijano hawked and spat.

Alvarez stared more closely at him. ‘Miguel Angel!’

‘Took you long enough to remember me.’

‘All right, but I’ve not seen you in months and months and I wasn’t expecting to find you here.’

They discussed mutual friends, the weather, and the prospect for crops. Eventually Alvarez brought up the subject of West.

‘I don’t know exactly when he’ll be back, but it won’t be all that long from now, since he’s got to pay me before I go.’

Alvarez leaned against the bole of an orange tree, careful to keep well clear of the lower branches with their deadly spikes. ‘What kind of a bloke d’you find him?’

‘A foreigner.’

‘Yeah. But you can sometimes meet a reasonable one. So is he?’

‘I don’t let him bother me, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Would you describe him as a nice bloke?’

‘If I was too tight to know what I was saying.’

‘So what exactly’s wrong with him?’

‘Acts too big.’ He hawked and spat again, to add emphasis to his words.

They heard the sounds of car wheels crunching on a loose surface and looked at the turn in the dirt track: very soon, a Mercedes came into view.

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Quijano. ‘He’s got a nice car. And come to that, I wouldn’t say no to his woman, either.’

‘But like as not, she’d say no to you.’

The Mercedes drove into the garage. Alvarez returned across the lawn and up to the house patio.

‘You’ve a great sense of timing!’ said West sarcastically.

‘OK, so sit down and in a minute I’ll get the drinks.’

‘I have someone with me, señor.’

‘My cellar should just about be able to stretch . . . But you’re going to have to wait until I’ve paid the gardener.’

West walked past Alvarez and down the steps. Alvarez returned to the Seat and spoke to Cullon through the opened window.

They sat on patio chairs, set round the table under the vines. From nearby came the shrilling of cicadas, from further away the toneless clanging of sheep bells. For over a minute, a man in the next field sang, his voice high and wailing, recalling the times of the Moors.

By watching West and Quijano, it was obvious that they were arguing. Then, with an oath that just reached them as a meaningless shout, West brought something from his hip pocket and he handed this over, before turning away and walking back to the pool.

He spoke as he began to climb the steps. ‘People are becoming bloody greedier and greedier . . .’ His head rose above the level of the patio and for the first time he saw Cullon. He came to a sudden stop.

Cullon, ironically polite, said: ‘Good morning.’

‘What . . . what are you doing here?’

‘Come for a bit of a chat.’

‘But . . . but why . . .?’

‘It’ll be a lot easier if you can manage to come up to our level.’ The play on words was very obvious.

He hesitated, then climbed the remaining steps and by the time he reached the patio he’d managed to regain most of his normal composure. ‘I’ve one golden rule in life. Always put pleasure before business. So what would you both like to drink?’

They both asked for brandy. He went over to the house, unlocked the front door, continued inside.

Quijano, carrying a rubber basket with his mattock in it, climbed up to where they sat. He grinned. ‘The stupid bastard couldn’t be certain how many hours I worked last week.’

‘Worked?’ said Alvarez.

Quijano thought that so funny that he was still chuckling when he reached his Mobylette. He secured the basket on to the carrier, making certain the mattock was safe, started the engine, rolled the machine off its stand, sat on the saddle and drove off.

When West returned, he set a silver salver down on the table. He handed round the glasses, sat. He raised his own glass to Cullon. ‘Welcome to Mallorca. A country so civilized that even a poor man can afford to drink.’

‘And a rich man?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘You should do. Your inherited you wife’s estate.’