Deadly Petard (2 page)

‘Yes.’

‘And señora West unfortunately died?’

‘She committed suicide.’

‘As I understand things, the English police do not seem to be quite certain about that.’

‘I don’t give a damn what they’re not certain about. Babs committed suicide.’

‘Did you know her well?’

‘No. I don’t suppose I met her more than a dozen times all told.’

‘You know señor West much better?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘Since we were kids together. Look, what’s this all about? I’ve answered all these questions again and again back home.’

‘I am sorry, but I have to make a full and precise report. If that is the correct thing to say?’ He smiled. ‘I am afraid I often mistake my words.’

‘If I spoke Spanish half as well as you speak English, I’m darned if I’d ever apologize to anyone,’ she said brusquely. She was not going to allow herself to be influenced by his friendly manner.

‘Apparently, the Señora kept a diary and in this she sometimes wrote in a code.’

‘Well?’

‘The English police have only just been able to decipher what was written.’ He paused. ‘Señorita, do you know who Sandra was?’

She stared blankly at him for a second, then started. ‘No,’ she said sharply. She looked away, raised the mug to her lips, found it was empty.

It seemed possible that to begin with the name had meant nothing to her, then she had remembered something. ‘Señorita, can you not perhaps suggest who Sandra might be?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Señora West must have either known Sandra or known of her.’

‘Which doesn’t mean a thing as far as I’m concerned. She’ll have known dozens of people I’ve never even heard of.’

‘Perhaps señor West knows Sandra?’

‘Perhaps.’ She shrugged her shoulders.

‘You cannot tell me?’

‘No.’

‘You have never heard him mention her name?’

‘Never.’

He fingered his heavy chin. ‘Are you quite certain?’ he asked quietly.

She faced him and spoke defiantly. ‘How definite do I have to get before you accept what I’m saying? I don’t know any Sandra, I’ve never heard mention of Sandra, and as far as I’m concerned neither Keir nor Babs knew Sandra.’

‘Then that is very clear. Thank you for your help.’ She was obviously surprised that he did not intend to pursue the matter.

Gertrude stood in the front doorway of her house and watched the Seat 600 complete a three-point turn and carry on down the sharply sloping road towards the right-hand corner. Then she closed the door, returned to the fireplace where she put her hands on the wooden mantelpiece and leaned her brow against her hands as if trying to ease a savage headache.

Fool to believe, as she had, that her memories were buried and that her new-found happiness could last.

For she had been happy: far happier than she’d ever been before. And it had been a happiness which had been all the sweeter because when she’d first settled in the village, contrary to all her hopes the villagers had treated her with a reserve which had come close to hostility. Later she had learned that, being in the centre of the island, they met few foreigners and even a fellow Mallorquin from another village was someone to be treated with caution and doubt . . . But she’d repaid reserve with a smile, had struggled to understand and speak Mallorquin rather than Castilian, had been ever ready to laugh at herself when she made some terrible linguistic blunder . . . Few Mallorquins could resist laughter. One or two of the women had begun to talk to her when she was out shopping and others had joined in—politely, but purposefully, correcting her Mallorquin because if she was doing them the honour of trying to speak their language, they would do her the honour of teaching her to speak it reasonably correctly. And one day, as she had been walking back up towards Calle Padre Vives, a woman standing in the doorway of a house had called to her that she looked tired and she needed a cup of cocoa and an ensaimada to refresh her body and soul. For the first time, she’d entered another house in the village . . . Later, they’d learned that she painted and this gained her enormous respect: to them, there was something mystical about being able to paint . . .

And now the past had returned to haunt her.

She was upstairs in her studio when, a couple of hours later and not long after it had become dark, the front doorbell sounded. She put the stick of charcoal down, went below, switched on the outside light, and opened the front door. She gave a muffled cry when she saw Keir West, whom she’d believed to be a thousand miles away.

‘That’s one way of greeting an old friend!’ he said with sardonic amusement.

But for the scarred area on his right cheek, he would have been too handsome: there would have been a suggestion of femininity that would have made people wonder. But the scars added a flaw which hardened his looks while at the same time they called for sympathy. So people seldom doubted him until they knew him well.

He came forward and lightly kissed her on one cheek. ‘You’re looking more attractive than ever Gertie.’

She remembered the first time he’d told her she was beautiful. She’d known he didn’t mean it, but even so she’d experienced a sudden warmth she’d been unable to hide.

‘Well, am I going to be asked in or do I spend the night out in the cold?’

He had always been a smart dresser and he was now wearing a lightly checked suit of perfect cut and a salmon coloured shirt. His tie was green. She wondered if another man would have worn a black tie.

He stepped past her and looked around. ‘I see you’ve gone native. Good. I knew you’d never descend to a three-piece suite and antimacassars.’

‘Upstairs I’ve an aspidistra in a brass bowl,’ she said, trying to meet mockery with mockery.

‘All the rage among the smart people.’

‘Why have you come here? What d’you want?’

‘I’ll start by accepting a strong gin and tonic. Hell, I’ve been travelling for days and I’m so thirsty I could drink water without being ill.’

‘You’ve been days?’

He crossed to the fireplace and stood there with his back to it. ‘You must have read about the bastards in air traffic who are going slow?’

She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen a paper in days.’

‘Hasn’t the news been on the local goggle-box?’

‘I don’t have television.’

‘Christ, you really have buried yourself out in the sticks!’ He brought a slim gold cigarette case from his coat pocket. ‘Have you taken up smoking yet?’

She shook her head.

‘A pity. Indulging in at least one vice would do you the world of good.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Yeah. I turned up yesterday morning at the airport only to find the flight was cancelled. No apologies, even though I was first class, just a printed notice and a girl behind the desk who couldn’t have been less interested. I made ‘em get me on the first available flight, though,’ he said with satisfaction, remembering how rude he’d been. ‘So here I am, throat like a dried-out piece of sandpaper and only kept alive by the vision of a very large, very iced gin and tonic.’

She remained where she was for several seconds, then left and went through to the small, well equipped kitchen. He’d never have come to the house unless he wanted something, she thought as she opened the cupboard in which she kept the drinks. But what could she possibly offer him now? An alibi? She’d provided that. Money? He’d inherited a fortune from Barbara. Love? What kind of a bloody fool question was that? But she knew a sudden, brief yearning.

She carried two glasses back to the sitting-room and handed him one. He raised his. ‘Here’s to life, Gertie: may it always deal us trumps.’ He crossed to the nearest chair and sat, his legs stretched out. He had no hesitation in making himself completely at home, even to the extent of ignoring a nearby ash-tray and flicking ash into the fireplace. ‘If you haven’t been seeing the papers, I don’t suppose you’ve been keeping up with the events at home?’ He didn’t speak quite as casually as he’d intended.

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘You know, you surprise me, cutting yourself right off like this. But then you’ve made quite a habit of surprising me. Like the day you sold up at home and came out here without a word to anyone.’

‘There was no one to tell.’

‘There was me. I was hurt that you never said goodbye.’

‘You—hurt?’

‘I’m really quite sentimental at heart . . . Tell me, what made you leave so suddenly?’

‘I wanted to get away.’

‘Obviously. But the question is, why?’

‘What’s it matter now?’

He drew on the cigarette. ‘You didn’t begin to get doubts, did you, Gertie? That wasn’t why you quit? I swear I told you the truth.’

It was strange, she reflected, how he’d always yearned to be believed, even when it didn’t matter. His one major weakness?

He threw the cigarette on to the logs and drained his glass. If you were to offer me a refill, I just couldn’t refuse.’

She had not sat down and she now went over, collected his glass, and continued through to the kitchen.

When she returned, he reached up and gripped her right hand. ‘You’re quite the sweetest person I know, Gertie.’

She felt herself flushing. She tried to free her hand.

‘Suppose I were to ask you to do me one last favour?’ His voice was low and warm, his expression earnest. Then he cocked one eyebrow, in ironic interrogation, as Clark Gable had once done in a thousand high street cinemas when the circle seats cost two and six.

She finally managed to free her hand and she went over to a second chair and sat. ‘What is it you want now?’ she asked wearily.

He revolved the glass between thumb and forefinger. ‘The police at home are proving to be even bigger fools than I’d imagined. D’you know, they’re still convinced I murdered Babs! The bloody fools just cannot understand that I loved her and wouldn’t have hurt her for anything in the world.’ He was silent for a while, his eyes unfocused. Then he continued. ‘I didn’t see sight or sound of them for weeks and thought they’d finally come to their tiny senses. Then the other day two of ‘em turned up at Middle Manor and tried to make trouble. Seems they finally managed to crack those bits in code in Babs’s diary . . . Funny to think Babs could keep ‘em guessing for so long when she was no master mind and they’re meant to be so smart, isn’t it?’

She wondered if he had the slightest inkling of how callous he sounded, talking about his dead wife in such terms?

‘According to them, every single entry referred to me being out with Sandra.’

‘So I heard.’

‘And most of the time I was just at the club having a pint . . .’ He stopped, suddenly realizing the import of what she’d just said. ‘How d’you hear, when you don’t get any news?’ he asked roughly.

‘A Spanish detective was here earlier today. He asked if I could identify Sandra or knew anything about her.’

His expression was now one of angry, panicky concern: he gripped the arms of the chair. ‘Those bloody air traffic controllers: but for them, I’d have been here yesterday. What did you tell this bloke?’

‘That I didn’t know anyone by that name.’

He slowly relaxed: he let go of the chair. ‘Did he believe you?’

‘I think so. In any case, he didn’t ask any more questions.’

He drank heavily.

Alvarez telephoned Palma and spoke to Superior Chief Salas. ‘Regarding that request from England, señor, I have spoken to señorita Dean.’

‘Yes?’

‘She says she has never known anyone by the name of Sandra and therefore cannot begin to identify her.’

‘Was she telling the truth?’

‘I am not certain.’

‘Then she was lying?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t be certain of that, either, señor.’

‘Typical!’ snapped Salas. ‘Is your report in the post?’

‘I regret, not yet. After all, I have only recently returned from interviewing her . . .’

‘I am referring to your latest monthly crime report.’

‘Oh! . . . señor, due to having to drive to Caraitx to question the señorita my time’s been very occupied . . .’

‘Are you trying to tell me you still haven’t done it? Goddamn it, what do you do all day long—sleep?’ Salas slammed down the receiver.

Alvarez sighed. There was no pleasing some people.

A carriage clock struck eight. West looked at his gold Braguet wristwatch. ‘I’d better be moving.’ The fire had been lit and the reflected light from the flames danced across his face, occasionally highlighting the scars on his cheek. ‘I don’t know what time they serve dinner, but I’ve been told it’s always late in Spain so I should still be all right by the time I get there.’ He stood. ‘I’ve booked in at the Parelona. They say it’s not too bad a pub?’ His voice rose, turning the last sentence into a question.

She didn’t answer. He knew just as well as she that the Parelona was renowned as a hotel in the highest luxury class. He’d always had to boast.

‘You’ll come along one day and have lunch or dinner with me, won’t you, Gertie?’

‘No.’

‘But it’s months since I last had the fun of seeing you.’

‘It’s still no.’

He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Maybe you’ll change your mind later on, since I could be around for a bit. Originally I was only coming for a couple of days.’ He paused, then continued. ‘But when I flew out of Heathrow it was sleeting and the wind was icy enough to wreck a pawnbroker’s sign. What’s the point in rushing back to Siberia? Ever been in Middle Manor in winter? I’ll swear it’s colder inside than out. So I’m beginning to think this island might be a good place to winter on.’

‘It gets cold and wet here as well,’ she said hurriedly.

His right eyebrow cocked upwards. ‘What’s the panic? Scared I’ll settle down out here for good?’

‘I don’t give a damn what you do.’

‘I’m glad about that. Because if I did happen to see somewhere to rent that wasn’t too grubby . . . I could very easily be tempted after seeing how lovely everything was this afternoon.’

Had he been captivated by the beauty of the island? Or did he want to remain close to her to make certain she did not go back on her denial that she had ever heard of Sandra?