Relatively Dangerous (4 page)

Higham looked embarrassed.

‘Tell me, how did you come to meet Señor Thompson?’

‘I was walking along the road, hot and tired, trying to thumb a lift. He stopped and when he heard I’d no definite objective, said he’d show me a part of the island tourists didn’t usually see. We drove up into the mountains.’

‘Then he knew the island well; perhaps had a house here?’

‘He knew it well, yes. But from something he said, I’m pretty certain he didn’t own any property here.’

‘Did he mention friends and where they live?’

‘No, he didn’t. In fact, looking back, I’d say he was one of those types who’s always interested in other people, but is careful never to talk about himself much.’

‘I think he gave you lunch?’

‘We stopped at a restaurant right up in the mountains that had a fantastic view. The place was obviously pretty pricey and I told him I just couldn’t afford it. He said the meal was to be on him. Frankly, that had me thinking just for a second.’

‘Thinking what?’

‘Whether he was a queer and had me in his sights.’

‘Do you think that was right?’

‘No way. He was just one of those blokes who likes meeting people and hearing about them.’

‘Did he drink a lot?’

‘No. He mentioned that since early morning he’d had a migraine threatening and booze was one of the things which could bring on an attack. But that didn’t stop him giving me a couple of drinks before the meal and ordering a good bottle of wine; so by the end, I was very cheerful, thank you . . .

‘We hadn’t long left the restaurant when he stopped the car. He was sick; God, how he was sick! When he’d begun to recover, I offered to drive, but he said the car was only insured for him and in any case he was OK. So he started up again. And then . . . He had another attack, much worse than the first and didn’t stop in time. We started weaving all over the road and going like the clappers. I tried to grab the wheel, but he’d still got hold of it. . . And that’s how we went over the edge.’

‘A very frightening experience. Thank you, señor, for telling me.’ Alvarez stood.

‘D’you have to go, then?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘D’you think . . . Is there any chance you could drop in again some time and have another chat? I mean, with no one but the doctor speaking English, I’m cut right off.’

‘I certainly will call in if I can.’

‘That’s great. And if you do, I don’t know if there’d be any chance of finding an English newspaper?’

‘I will try.’

‘That’s a real pal . . . Just one more thing. D’you think there’s much hope of recovering my cash?’

‘Frankly, I’m afraid not.’

‘If I could get my hands on those bastards . . . Still, at least I’ll get a refund on the travellers’ cheques.’

‘Perhaps I can help you over that. Sometimes in order to claim one needs a note from the police to confirm that the loss has been reported to them.’

‘That’s a thought. D’you think you could let me have something?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Then thanks again.’

Alvarez said goodbye and left. On the ground floor there was a newsagent and in this he found a copy of the
Daily Mail
. He bought it, took the lift back up to the fourth floor and handed the paper to a nurse and asked her to give it to Higham. Then he returned downstairs and left the building. He was glad to escape. He loathed hospitals because they reminded him that he was only mortal.

After a slightly delayed siesta—since he’d returned late from Palma—and a subsequent and essential cup of coffee, Alvarez left the kitchen and went through to the front room and the telephone. He reported to the superior chief.

‘You’ve hardly made any progress,’ complained Salas.

‘On the contrary, señor,’ he began, somewhat piqued, ‘I’ve identified both men and determined the cause of the accident . . .’

‘Have you discovered who’s the dead man’s nearest relative and where he or she lives?’

‘No . . .’

‘Or the name and address of any friend who lives on the island?’

‘No . . .’

‘Then you’ve attained little of any significance. Has it occurred to you to send the number of the dead man’s passport to England to ask their help in tracing his next-of-kin?’

‘There hasn’t been time, señor. I’ve only just returned from making my inquiries. But it’s my intention to get on to England the moment I ring off now ‘Inspector, if you could contrive actually to accomplish one quarter of what you’re always about to do, your crime figures would be impressive instead of a disgrace.’

‘Señor, my clear-up rate is quite good ‘Only because you carefully forget to record, let alone investigate, a large proportion of the crimes committed,’ snapped Salas, before he cut the connection.

Alvarez replaced the receiver. Sadly, Salas lacked the right attitude to command; praise, for him, was a dirty word. He returned to the dining-room, went over to the large sideboard, and opened the right-hand cupboard.

‘What are you looking for?’ demanded Dolores, startling him.

He looked at her as she stood in the doorway of the kitchen. ‘I was just wondering if there was coñac for after the meal or whether I needed to go out to buy some.’

‘There’s half a bottle, which is far more than you two are going to drink this evening,’ she said aggressively.

He wondered if he should go ahead and pour himself a drink now, which had been his original intention, quickly decided that that would hardly be politic since she was obviously in one of her more belligerent moods. ‘That’s all right, then.’ He closed the cupboard door.

‘You would be much healthier if you stopped drinking.’

‘Yes, I suppose I might be.’

She glared at him, returned into the kitchen. A moment later, there was the ringing noise of something dropping on to the floor, followed by an angry expression of such vulgarity that he hastily assured himself he must have mistaken the words.

He looked at the clock. An hour before the meal. Just time, then, to go along to the guardia post and his office, there to phone through the details of the passport so that inquiries could be made in England. He stood. What right had Salas to imply that he did not show a keen initiative?

The next morning, Alvarez was preparing to leave the house —a little on the late side because he had slept through two calls from Dolores—when the undertaker from Fogufol rang. ‘I’ve been on to Palma and they told me to talk to you because you’re in charge.’

‘In charge of what?’

The car crash, of course. What am I to do with the stiff? Is there to be a funeral or isn’t there?’

‘Of course there is,’ he replied testily. ‘But until we can trace the rtext-of-kin, we don’t know whether it’s to be here or in England.’

‘Are you saying I’m to keep him in store until I hear from you?’

‘I’m saying exactly that.’

‘You realize it’s costing?’

‘You’ll be paid.’

‘Just you remember that from now on you’re responsible for seeing that it is.’

Alvarez replaced the receiver. No one could be prouder of being a Mallorquin than he, but that pride didn’t blind him to the fact that for many of his countrymen money had become the most important part of life—or death.

In Palma, the litter-boxes and bins were emptied six times a week in late spring, summer, and early autumn, since in the heat anything perishable rotted very quickly. As the dustman lifted out the inner wire basket of one of the lamp-post boxes in Calle Arnoux, he saw among the paper and orange peel a wallet, between the two halves of which was a blue passport. He opened the passport. It belonged to Jack Higham.

Muriel Taylor looked at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror and initially was well satisfied, but then she noticed the curl of hair on the right-hand side. That blasted woman, she thought. The best hair salon in Palma and the head assistant couldn’t trim properly. Archie had recently remarked that the country ran in spite of the people who worked in it, not because of them. He originally must have heard someone else say that.

She examined her face again. No one would ever guess from her appearance that she was closing up fast on forty.

Her skin had the purity and tautness of a twenty-year-old: Her eyes were an unusual blue; men were fascinated by them. Her nose was Grecian. A friend had once called her mouth Roman patrician. Truly cosmopolitan. Her teeth were white and regular and an advertisement for her dentist in Harley Street; she couldn’t understand why so many of the British risked going to the local dentists who, for all she knew, still worked with treadle drills.

She left the stool and stood so that she could see herself in the full-length mirror. She had a near-perfect figure, hardly thickening anywhere, thanks to a rigorous diet, exercise, and will-power. She crossed to the longest of the built-in cupboards and slid back the right-hand door. Which dress to wear? Not too smart or it would be completely out of place. She chose a print frock which she had bought in Palma on a day when she was feeling dismal and needed to do something to buck herself up. She hadn’t worn it again because once she’d cheered up she’d rightly decided it lacked chic, but today that would be an advantage. ‘Oh, God, what a bloody bore!’ she said aloud, thinking of the luncheon and all the pleased-to-meet-you women to whom she’d have to make the effort to be polite.

Not that she was a snob. Very far from it. She believed in valuing a person for himself, not because of his background. Not, of course, that that meant that she was indifferent to those backgrounds. She rightly demanded standards, even if she was broad-minded about them. She didn’t hold that wealth was an essential. She knew one or two people whose incomes were as low as £25,000 a year yet who were perfectly pleasant. Schooling was important, but not an immutable criterion. Certainly the public schools —that was, Eton, Harrow, and Winchester—produced gentlemen, but the products of the bourgeois places, such as Sherborne, could often pass for same . . .

She slid the frock over her head and wriggled herself into it, zipped up the side, smoothed down the front, re-examined herself in the mirror. On her, since she added considerable ton, the frock wasn’t nearly as
déclassé
as on the hanger. But it would still suit its purpose because the other women wouldn’t be able to take offence. It was very important not to shame them and thus incur their strange envies. The Surbiton golf club secretary’s wife, Archie had called them. That also had to be a remark he had heard someone else make . . .

She took off the dress and hung it up, put on the print frock she had been wearing before. A neat little Cardin number which suited her to perfection.

She left the bedroom and went down the wide, curving staircase into the large hall. Many of the houses in the area were little boxes, built for and by people without either money or taste, but Ca’n Grande had been designed for an Armenian, and one could say what one liked about Armenians, the few educated ones had good taste and a developed, if at times oily, sense of beauty. Archie said that Ca’n Grande was like a spinnaker in a light breeze. She rather liked the analogy, even though it was too fanciful to be in really good taste. He was an amusing and comfortable companion to have around the place, offering the same devoted companionship as a bob-tailed sheepdog, but without all the mess of cast hairs. Of course, he wasn’t particularly intelligent—which sometimes made her wonder why he had not risen higher in the Navy—but he was properly mannered. It was a pity that his elder brother had inherited both title and estate.

One of the maids came into the hall. ‘Good morning, señora,’ she said in broken English.

‘Good morning, Catalina.’ Muriel did not speak Spanish. She was not the kind of person to go native.

‘You wish breakfast?’

She nodded. When she’d bought the house and had agreed to continue to employ the staff, she had encountered in them a regrettable tendency towards familiarity, Mallorquins having strange notions about equality. But she had soon taught them to show her due respect.

She went into the breakfast-room. The house was built on an outcrop of rock and the breakfast-room was to the south-east so that beyond the window was the patio and then, below, the sea. Few other homes on the island could boast so magnificent a view.

Catalina entered, carrying a tray. She carefully placed on the small circular table a silver teapot, milk jug, saccharine dispenser, toast rack with two slices of carefully triangulated toast, small bowl of Cooper’s marmalade, and a large bowl containing oranges, tangerines, and very large white grapes.

‘Thank you, Catalina.’ She was invariably polite to her servants, even though she paid them. Only a parvenu was rude to staff.

She sat, spread the clean table napkin over her lap— serviette was for those who were ignorant or snobbishly unaware that napkin had by far the superior pedigree, being descended from Middle English—and helped herself to a piece of toast and marmalade. There was no butter. She had given up butter at breakfast because of the starving hordes in Africa.

She heard a car, looked at her watch and realized that this couldn’t be Archie because she’d ordered him never to arrive before eleven o’clock. Then the car would be continuing on to the house which stood to the left of, and well below, Ca’n Grande. A Greek lived there. Greece might have joined the Common Market and he might be as rich as Croesus, but she had nothing to do with him because he always belched after eating. She finished the first piece of toast, poured herself out some tea. She must make certain that Archie sat between her and the chairwoman at the luncheon. The chairwoman was a large, stout, and very earnest woman, filled with good works, whose husband had been something like a butcher. Archie was wonderful at dealing with butchers’ widows. In fact, he was rather a dear.

If only he had some money, it would have been amusing to be married to him for a while . . . Good God! she thought, astounded. Hadn’t her last marriage taught her anything? She finished her breakfast, furious because she had reminded herself of all the humiliation she had for years been so determined to forget.