Murdered by Nature (13 page)

Benavides entered. ‘I have the addresses, señora.'

‘Will you give them to the inspector.'

He carelessly handed Alvarez a sheet of paper, turned to leave.

‘One minute. Inspector, would you like another drink?'

‘It is a thirsty day, señora, so I would.'

Benavides bent forward to pick up Alvarez's glass. He said, in a whisper, abandoning politeness altogether, ‘For you, every bloody day is thirsty.'

Alvarez drove along the bay road. Clouds sent shadows rippling along the mountains as they responded to the changing shapes of rock faces. He passed a building under construction in a field which had once been known for the quality of the artichokes it grew. Would building continue until the area became more suburbia than countryside? Development was the curse, prosperity the benefit, of the past fifty years.

He turned into Cami de Ferent, stopped in front of Ca'n Llop, a
caseta
which had recently been enlarged, as was evident from the different colour of some of the stonework. Houses were often known by the nickname of the present or past owner. Had one been a wolf in some form – money, possessions, women? At a guess, there were now two or three bedrooms, bathroom, sitting and dining rooms, kitchen; before there would have been three rooms, perhaps one or more with only shutters and no glass windows, no running water, a brick oven, a long drop. María was not there. He looked at his watch. To locate Raquel's home would take time.

As he drove, he considered Laura Ashton. She was one of those regrettably few women whom one instinctively accepted to be without wiles. With her, there would be no sly glances, no carefully timed downcast eyes, no attempt to draw attention while seemingly avoiding it; she would not assess a man by the depth of his pockets; loyalty and compassion marked her. Ashton had been a lucky man.

There was no one at his home, despite the time. He opened the sideboard, brought out a bottle of Fundador and a glass, fetched ice cubes in an ice bucket from the kitchen, sat.

Twelve minutes later, Jaime came through the entrada and into the sitting/dining room. ‘I'm starving. Is grub ready?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘No one else is here.'

‘Dolores must be getting lunch.'

‘She doesn't know that.'

Jaime sat, poured himself a brandy. ‘A man works all hours of the day, denies himself any pleasure to make up for his wife's extravagances, and what are his thanks? She can't be bothered to cook him a meal when he wants it. I'll tell her what I think when she returns.'

‘Shouldn't advise that.'

‘I'm to starve? She does her job properly or there'll be trouble for her!' He had spoken sufficiently loudly to mask the sounds of Dolores' return.

‘For what trouble must I prepare myself?' she asked as she entered the room.

He was startled. ‘I didn't hear you.'

‘How could you when you spoke so loudly, it seemed you were addressing the neighbours?'

‘I was talking to Enrique.'

‘He has become deaf?'

‘Where have you been?'

‘Out.'

‘I can see that.'

‘Then why ask?'

‘Where have you been?'

‘I have just answered you.'

‘I mean . . . Look, I'm hungry.'

‘Then you will eat well.'

‘There's nothing to eat. I expected to come back to a meal.'

‘A man's expectations are like moonbeams.'

But . . . It's . . . It's . . .'

‘You have something to say?'

Jaime drew in a deep breath. ‘It's a wife's duty to have a meal ready.'

‘Then having discussed my duties, let us examine yours. If a wife is not at home when her husband expects her to be, he should wonder why and worry – has she suddenly been taken ill and rushed to hospital? Did she go shopping and get run over as she crossed the roads? Could she have suffered a stroke? When she returns home, unharmed, he should express his gratitude and joy in order to reassure her that she is his life. How did you express your gratitude? By demanding to know why your lunch was not on the table. Your belly was far more important than me helping Natalia.'

‘But you—'

‘I have not finished. A husband may lack all feeling for his wife, regard her as a domestic slave to be ordered around, but that does not abolish his duty to maintain his house as his wife has a right to expect. How do you maintain this house? The kitchen fan has needed repairing for so long it has probably seized up; the upstairs needs repainting; one of the Butano bottles has been empty for a month; the sink is clearing far too slowly; part of the guttering at the back looks insecure, and above it a tile is missing; the orange tree has not been sprayed.

‘A husband should share with his wife the duty to look after the children. Juan is learning to swim. How often have you taken him to the sports centre? Isabel wants to learn Mallorquin dancing. Have you taken her to any of the classes? Do you have a close interest in their school work and go with me to the parents' day at her school to speak to the masters?'

‘I had to drive into Palma—'

‘At the time, your excuse was that a great friend was ill and you'd promised to go to the hospital to cheer him up.'

‘You've got things all mixed up.'

‘It is your misfortune that I have a good memory. It is my misfortune that I believed it to be my duty to prepare a meal which could be served immediately on my return since this would please you.'

Jaime picked up the bottle to refill his glass.

‘You have drunk enough.'

‘I've only had one!'

‘Your memory deteriorates by the minute.' She went through to the kitchen.

‘She won't believe me even when I tell the truth,' he said bitterly.

A
lvarez left the car and walked up the short path to the front door of Ca'n Llop. He opened the door, stepped inside, called out, a small dog barked. The stone walls of the
entrada
had been plastered, the floor was tiled, the sloping ceiling was beamed. On a small table was a vase in which was a bunch of roses.

María Patera entered, told the dog to be quiet, closed the door behind herself. Plainly featured, she was dressed in a frock which draped, rather than fitted her. He introduced himself, explained the reason for his visit.

‘I know nothing, but will make much of it.' She smiled as she quoted a local saying.

Her smile erased the suggestion of bitterness which her face held when in repose, the consequence of the uneasy quality of living which life had given her.

They sat in the central room.

‘You want to talk to me? First, you will have a drink? I have only the wine a friend makes and it is not from Rioja.' Another quick smile.

‘What is better than the wine from a friend?'

She left, returned with an earthenware jug and two glasses, filled one glass, handed it to him.

He drank. Were an oenophile to describe it, tasting of soil would be his mildest comment.

‘I'd like to hear how you got on with the señor and señora. Were they pleasant to you?'

‘Before I went to work there, which I had to do because such jobs have become difficult to find – I was worried because they were foreigners. They would say, do this, why have you not done that? But the señor was kind – ask Manuel – and the señora speaks to me as if to a friend. Perhaps she is not a true foreigner.'

‘Would you think they were happy together?'

‘How could they not be, living in such a home?'

‘Things can be difficult in a palace.'

‘Until he became ill, what was there to worry them?'

‘Perhaps the difference in their ages.'

‘For them, there was none. I have seen them look at each other as a newly married man looks at his bride.'

‘Did she have friends of her own age?'

‘Many.'

‘The señor never objected?'

‘Why should he?'

‘He might have worried she would become too friendly with one of the young men of around her own age.'

‘You think she would have warmed another man's bed?'

‘It happens.'

‘You understand nothing. Had you seen her tears when the señor died, you would not suggest such an absurdity.'

‘Do you remember a man was found dead in the bay at the beginning of the month?'

‘You think I have the memory of a flea?'

‘Did you read about the scar on his neck and how we hoped someone would identify him because of it?'

‘Now you think I cannot read?'

Since she was only slightly older than he, that would have been possible; until quite recently, some people could only identify themselves with a thumbprint. ‘Did you ever see the man with such a scar at Son Dragó?'

‘No.' She went through to the kitchen, returned with a glass into which she poured wine for herself. ‘You have asked Manuel and Felipe questions, so they told me. Now you ask me the same ones. Why?'

‘They didn't tell you that the dead man left a notebook in which he'd written the address of Son Dragó? That means he perhaps knew someone there. Such a person might be able to help us learn who murdered him.'

‘Murdered?'

‘You did not know?'

‘Manuel said that's what it was, but he knows more than any encyclopedia, so we listen, but do not believe. There is something more you wish to know?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Then when you've finished the wine, you won't be staying.'

Home-made wine and a blunt dismissal – the old Mallorca.

He returned to his car, sat behind the wheel, stared through the windscreen. There might be time to have a word with Raquel, but little annoyed Dolores so much as being late for a meal, even though that was quite normal for others.

The next day, Alvarez stepped into the hall of Son Dragó, returned Benavides' greeting, said: ‘Is Raquel working here today?'

‘Yes,' Benavides curtly answered.

He was glad other people had to work during a weekend. ‘Will it be OK to have a word with her in the staff sitting-room?'

‘I have been asked by the señora to give you all the help I can.' It was an obligation which Benavides obviously resented.

Five minutes later, Raquel walked into the room. Alvarez tried to conceal his surprise. She was in her early twenties, blonde, attractively featured, and enjoyed a body that must annoy most women. ‘I'm sorry to drag you away from your work.'

‘Do that whenever you like,' she answered.

Her smile revealed regular, white teeth. Without being able to explain why, he gained the impression she was of an ardent nature.

‘Manuel said you'd want to ask me about the man who drowned.'

Her tone had changed and suggested she could have mistaken his admiration for prurience.

‘I'm trying to find out if he ever called here.'

‘Not as far as I know.'

‘No one has casually mentioned seeing him somewhere about the estate?'

‘Why ask me? You've spoken to the others, so if they had seen him, they would have told you.'

She had begun to annoy him. ‘I have to make absolutely certain of the facts.'

‘Is there anything more you want to know?'

‘Not for the moment.'

He watched her leave. A shining red pimiento looked attractive, but it would bite the tongue.

There was a gentle knock on the door. He called out to enter. Inés took a half-step into the room, came to a stop.

‘Hullo! How are things going?' he asked. She was nervous, even frightened, he judged. ‘Is there some way I can help you?'

She stared down at the floor.

‘Come on in and sit.'

Almost a minute passed before she finally did so. Seated, she gripped her hands tightly together.

‘Are you troubled about something, Inés?' he asked quietly.

She nodded.

‘Is it a very difficult trouble?'

She nodded again.

‘Tell me what is the matter so that I can help you.'

‘My dad—' She stopped.

Physical or mental assault? Domestic violence had become much more frequent or, if one were a cynic, more frequently reported. ‘Whatever you say to me won't go beyond these walls.'

She looked directly at him, then hurriedly away.

The door opened, and Benavides entered. ‘Please excuse this intrusion, inspector, but I wondered where Inés was. Beatriz needs help in the kitchen.'

‘I'm afraid she'll have to wait. I want a word with Inés.'

‘Then I'll stay.'

‘Why?'

‘As I explained previously, I try to give her support.'

He would have agreed to the request, had he not noticed Ines' expression. ‘I don't think that will be necessary.'

‘What do you want to ask her?'

‘I am not yet certain.'

‘Then I really should remain.'

‘If she wants to leave, she may; if she stays, but becomes distressed, I'll call you.'

‘As you say, inspector,' Benavides said angrily. He spoke to Inés. ‘Don't forget.'

‘What is she to remember?' Alvarez asked sharply.

‘To help Beatriz as soon as she leaves here.'

‘I'll remind her.'

Benavides left.

‘It's a pity we were interrupted,' Alvarez said, ‘but he was trying to help you, wasn't he?'

She said nothing.

‘Are you unhappy at home?'

He waited. ‘Inés, we all have problems we find terribly difficult to talk about, so I'll ask you a few questions and you can answer them very briefly. Am I right in thinking that what you said before Manuel came in here means your trouble is what happens at home?'

‘He . . . he's . . .'

‘Does your father do things which embarrass you?'

She rushed her words. ‘He won't let me wear clothes like the others do because he says they look indecent. He won't let me go out with friends in the evening because that leads to mortal sin.'