Deadly Petard (14 page)

‘But only after the tax man had virtually ruined it.’

‘Couldn’t you find a way of cheating him?’

‘That’s hardly fair.’

‘Who said I was trying to be?’

‘You never understood,’ said West, and he sounded more sad than resentful. ‘And that makes it all the more tragic. Babs was so scared of losing her dignity through pain that she committed suicide. You’ve done your damndest to strip the dignity away from her memory.’

‘Do you now want us to believe that Miss Dean was trying to maintain her dignity?’

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

‘We’re interested in the real cause of her death.’

‘Isn’t that perfectly obvious? She’s been mentally unstable ever since she was a kid. She’s always been liable to commit suicide.’

Cullon looked at Alvarez, but Alvarez was staring out across the terraced garden and it seemed obvious that he was perfectly content to leave the questioning to the English policeman. ‘Maybe she could have . . . But in the end she didn’t.’

‘Then her death was an accident?’

‘No. She was murdered.’

‘Murdered! That’s impossible!’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Why in the hell should anyone want to murder Gertie?’

‘To prevent her finally admitting that you weren’t in her house throughout the evening of your wife’s death.’

‘Christ! Are you trying to say I murdered her?’

‘You catch on fast.’

He slammed his clenched fist down on the glass-topped table. ‘I don’t know a damn thing about her death.’

‘You decided to get rid of her because then you’d be completely safe. And you reckoned it would be easy. After all, you’d murdered your wife and we’d never been able to pin that murder on your shoulders in a court of law.’

‘I did not kill Babs.’

‘Only trouble was—you didn’t realize this, of course—you’d become too cocky.’ Cullon’s tone was contemptuous. ‘It’s a common failing. A man commits a crime and because the laws of evidence favour the guilty he gets away with it and that makes him reckon he’s too clever ever to be caught. So he goes on and commits carbon copy crimes and never stops to realize that repetition creates pattern and a pattern can identify.’

‘What pattern is there? Where’s there any similarity?’

‘You faked your wife’s death as suicide and we were never able to wrap the murder round your neck because Miss Dean gave you an alibi. You faked Miss Dean’s murder as suicide and used precisely the same method to kill her and try to cover up the killing . . . Tell me, didn’t it ever occur to you to introduce even a little variety? Or were you so certain that no one on this island would ever learn about your wife?’

Beads of sweat, evaporating almost at once, gathered on West’s forehead. ‘I swear I don’t know anything about Gertie’s death.’

Tile the Bibles ten feet high and it won’t make any difference.’

‘I tell you, I never touched her.’

‘Miss Dean died at around ten—the same time your wife died. Is ten your lucky number? Where were you at ten last Monday night?’

‘I . . . I was with a friend.’

‘Who?’

‘My fiancee.’

‘What’s she ever done to deserve such a fate? What’s her name and address?’

‘You’re not going to drag her into this.’

‘You’ve just placed her slap in the middle.’

‘I . . . I’ve never told her about what happened in England.’

‘She’s in for some nasty shocks, then. Her name and address?’

‘Go to hell.’

Alvarez turned. ‘Señor,’ he said quietly, ‘it will be much easier if you tell us now. Then the matter can be dealt with discreetly.’

West still hesitated, then he said bitterly: ‘Rosalie Rassaud.’

‘Where’s she live?’ asked Cullon.

‘In the urbanizacion behind this place.’

‘What’s the name of the house?’

‘Can Piro.’

‘How long were you there Monday evening?’

‘I was there . . . all night.’

Abruptly Cullon changed the subject. ‘How many years had you known Miss Dean?’

For a moment, West seemed bewildered, then he said: ‘Ever since we were kids.’

‘Where did she live when you first met her?’

‘Wealdsham.’

‘Can you say what her address was then?’

‘The house was in Brick Lane. Number ten . . . twelve . . . I can’t remember exactly. What’s it matter where she lived?’

The question went unanswered and it was several seconds before Cullon said: ‘Why did Miss Dean let you have a key to her house?’

‘Who says she did?’

‘You’re denying it?’

‘Of course I’m bloody well denying it,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve hardly seen her since I came to live on the island and haven’t been within miles of her place, ever.’

‘Why did she move out to Mallorca?’

T wouldn’t know.’

‘Was it to try and get away from you?’

‘Why the hell should she want to do that?’

‘Think about it.’

‘You’re trying . . .’ began West hotly, then abruptly stopped speaking.

Alvarez looked at Cullon, who nodded. Alvarez stood. ‘Before we depart, señor, will you please give me your passport? You will kindly not try to leave Mallorca until our investigations are completed and you have permission to do so.’

‘You’ve no right . . .’ West again became silent. As a foreigner, suspected of murder, it was he who had few rights. He swore, stood, and went into the house. When he returned, he had his passport in his right hand: he dropped it on to the table in front of Alvarez with a gesture of insolent resentment.

Later, as they drove along the dirt track, the suspension of the car thumping heavily, Cullon said, with open satisfaction: ‘This time, we’ve got the bastard running scared.’

Cullon, perspiring so freely that his shirt was sodden and sticking to his back, sat on the edge of Alvarez’s desk and dialled 07. He waited for the high-pitched note to indicate he was through to International, dialled 44, and then the eight figures for Petercross divisional HQ. There was a brief rash of high-pitched squeaks—without which no international call ever seemed complete—and then he was through. He asked to speak to the detective-inspector.

‘Yes?’ said Rifle, sounding as impatient as ever.

‘Cullon here, sir.’

‘Where’s here?’

‘Llueso.’

‘Why the devil are you still there?’

‘Things have turned out to be a little bit complicated.’

‘Uncomplicate them.’

‘It’s not all that easy.’

‘What’s the matter? Having trouble with the natives?’

Cullon remembered the siesta, the beach, the swim, and the proud, shapely young women. ‘Could you organize some information? Find someone who knew Gertrude Dean when she was a youngster and get this person to talk about those times. She used to live in Brick Lane, Wealdsham: possibly number ten or twelve. West maintain’s she’s always been mentally unstable and I’m hoping you’ll be able to shoot down that sort of evidence.’

‘It sounds as if you’re fairly confident this time?’

‘As confident as I can be at this stage.’

‘So you’ve broken whatever alibi he tried to set up?’

‘As a matter of fact, no, not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘We haven’t had time.’

‘Not had time? What in the hell have you been doing all the while?’

‘Laying the groundwork.’

‘You’re not out there to build roads . . . What’s the weather like with you?’

‘Very sunny and hot.’

‘No doubt you’ll be pleased to know that here it’s raining like the second Flood’s starting.’

After the call was finished, Alvarez looked at his watch. ‘If we go back now, we’ll just have time for a drink before lunch.’

Cullon made no objection.

Rosalie Rassaud was not beautiful, but she was very attractive because honesty, gentle good humour, warm emotions, and a sense of deep loyalty were always attractive. She seldom dieted, yet maintained an enviable figure. She had honey-coloured hair which curled naturally, a high forehead, deep blue eyes, a wide mouth, and a chin just square enough to hint at the fact that she could be very determined, even pig-headed at times. Stupidity, cruelty, or injustice, aroused her anger and when angry she didn’t care what she said: a Mallorquin whom she’d found beating his dog with a thick stick had later, and admiringly, referred to her as sounding like a fishwife.

Her husband had been killed a year before in a road accident. She’d been so shocked and so grief-stricken that had she been less strong-minded, she might have contemplated suicide. He had been earning a very good salary, but they’d both been young and careless about the future and when he’d died he’d left her two properties, one in France which was on a heavy mortgage, the other a holiday home in Mallorca bought largely on a bank loan, a few investments, many debts, and beyond that only happy memories. Once her financial affairs had been put into order, she’d been left with only the home in Mallorca and just over a hundred and fifty thousand francs in cash. Obviously, she was going to have to find a job. The thought of working again hadn’t worried her, but the thought of being on her own in France had terrified her because she hadn’t yet been ready to face the world. So she’d decided to use part of her capital to live for one year in Llueso, after which she’d sell the house and return to France and a solitary working life.

Four months before the date of her return to France, she’d met West. She was too generous in character to wonder what sort of person lay behind that facile charm; nevertheless it was doubtful if normally she would have become very friendly with him. But for her, circumstances weren’t normal. And he made her laugh, and even though she was the least mercenary of women, she could not forget that his wealth offered the security she had once had and had then, frighteningly, lost . . .

The urbanizacion in which she lived stretched from the gently sloping ground at the foot of a mountain to a quarter of the way up its ever-steepening side. The houses high up cost roughly twice as much to build as those below and suffered shifting foundations and cracked walls, but had magnificient views: houses at the bottom normally only suffered minor structural troubles, but they had no views at all since the developer had employed a landscape expert who had preserved all the pines originally on the site and had then planted vast numbers of cypress, oleanders, and cacti, so that all was shade and intrusive gloom. Ca’n Piro, at the bottom, was a bungalow built in Ibicencan style: which was to say, it had graceful curving lines and flat roofs which leaked in heavy rains.

Alvarez led the way to the front door, at the head of a short flight of stone steps, and when Rosalie opened the door he introduced himself and Cullon. ‘I am very sorry to trouble you, señora, but we need to ask you some questions.’

They entered. The sitting-room was not large and as this had been a holiday home the furniture was very simple and there was not much of it, but she had used colour with such imagination that no one ever thought of the room as under-furnished. On the mantelpiece above the open fireplace were two framed photographs: one was of her late husband, the other of West.

‘Señor West will have told you we would be coming, and why,’ remarked Alvarez, more as a statement than a question.

She hesitated. ‘He phoned me,’ she finally admitted. She spoke English with a slight accent which did not distort her words, but added to them a chuckling charm. She sat very upright in her chair with a loose cover in yellow and red zebra stripes. ‘It is ridiculous to believe that Keir knows anything at all about the death of Gertrude.’

‘I sincerely hope so; nevertheless I must make certain. The señorita died a week ago, at about ten o’clock on Monday night. Will you tell us, please, if you saw señor West that evening?’

‘Yes, I did. He was here.’

‘When did he arrive and how long did he stay?’

‘He came at about seven and spent the night.’

‘He was here all night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, señora.’

Cullon, impatient because he considered Alvarez’s questioning to have been far too soft, said: ‘Has he ever told you what happened in England before he came to live on the island?’

‘He said that his wife had tragically died.’

‘He actually used the word “tragically”?’

‘Why are you so surprised? Isn’t death always tragic?’ she asked bitterly.

‘That all depends . . .’

‘It is always tragic,’ interrupted Alvarez. He stood. ‘Señora, thank you for all your kindness. I am very sorry if we have distressed you.’

‘Surely . . .’ began Cullon hotly.

Alvarez again interrupted him. ‘Goodbye, señora.’

They left. The moment they were seated in the car, Cullon said heavily: ‘I don’t know if you realized it, but she was lying as hard as she could go. All we needed to do was tell her West’s wife didn’t just “tragically” die, she was murdered, and we could have broken her and got to the truth.’

‘Perhaps.’ Alvarez turned the key and the engine started at the third attempt.

‘Then why head me off as you did and just leave?’

Alvarez backed down to the road and turned right, in the direction of the entrance to the urbanizacion. ‘She has known much sorrow.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Do you really wish to add still more sorrow until you can be certain it is necessary? What is the truth about the death of señorita Dean? Suppose we are wrong when we believe West murdered her? Suppose he was not with señora Rassaud at all that night, yet nevertheless knows nothing about the death of the señorita?’

‘Suppose we believe in fairies?’

‘Sometimes, I do.’

Exasperated, Cullon looked sideways and to his complete surprise realized from Alvarez’s expression that the comment had not been made facetiously. He slumped back in the seat. How could anyone cope on an island where a detective let a vital witness off the hook because he believed in fairies?

They passed a field of orange trees in which a man was working the soil beneath the trees with a wooden cultivator pulled by a mule: coming along the road in the opposite direction was a donkey cart, driven by an old woman in widow’s weeds: just visible, beyond the field to their left, were two women and a man who were winnowing some sort of grain with large wooden shovels. They were, Cullon thought, centuries away from the world of packaged holidays. Perhaps in such a past there were fairies . . . He silently swore. He was in danger of becoming every bit as crazy as the locals.