An Enigmatic Disappearance (18 page)

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The village, small as it was, had a mayor. Xamena was an old man and dressed, as he had throughout his life, in clothing which would suggest to any official from a town that he was virtually destitute. Slugs always attacked the ripest-looking fruit.

He met Alvarez with such a marked lack of interest that he might not have understood who the Cuerpo were, let alone the possible significance of a visit from one of its members, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that he finally suggested Alvarez enter his house. The front room had – since this was as far as unwanted visitors would progress – been furnished with a couple of uncomfortable chairs, a rush mat that had seen much better days, an ancient cabinet, two yellowing prints, and a miniature Catalan flag.

They sat. Xamena's lower jaw moved as if he were working toothless gums together as he stared vacantly at the rush mat.

‘You'll likely have lived here all your life?' Alvarez said.

Xamena was not prepared to make such an admission so early in their conversation.

‘Reminds me of the more remote villages our way.'

‘Never been to Mallorca.'

‘It's a wonderful island…'

As Alvarez continued to list the delights of Mallorca, Xamena became uneasy, recognizing his visitor was from the same stock as he and therefore not to be fooled by an appearance of bovine stupidity.

Alvarez switched the discussion – monologue – to agriculture. Was modern apple growing, as practised near the coast, profitable; was the cork industry in decline? Laughingly, he spoke about the farmers who had learned how to work the EU's agricultural policy so firmly to their own advantage that a fallow field became more profitable than one laden with the heaviest crop of corn …

Xamena could stand the tension no longer. ‘What the hell d'you want?'

Before Alvarez could answer, Xamena's wife appeared through the inner doorway and was about to say something when he roughly ordered her away. For a while, his lower jaw moved more rapidly, then he said hoarsely: ‘Is it about the restaurant?'

‘You own one?'

He cursed himself for a fool, convinced he was about to learn that income tax was not a myth.

‘If it's the top one, I had the best meal there I've had for a long time.'

‘There's no profit.'

‘The more successful a business, the less profit it makes … I've come to ask you something.'

‘What?'

‘Do you remember an Englishwoman with a man some years back who died in a fall?'

‘Are you here because of that?'

Alvarez nodded.

Xamena came to his feet and left the room. When he returned, he carried an unlabelled bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. ‘I've a very small vineyard, very small indeed, and sometimes make a little coñac.'

The brandy, probably made illegally, was rough, but it was the roughness that recalled the past. Alvarez praised it and Xamena refilled his glass.

‘As I understand things,' Alvarez said, speaking casually, ‘the woman and man went for a walk not really knowing the area?'

‘Foreigners would walk over a precipice without seeing it was there.'

‘What happened after she'd fallen?'

‘He carried her back to the car and drove her down to the doctor at Las Macaulas.'

‘Why didn't he bring her here since it would have been so much quicker?'

‘'Cause there ain't no doctor here and never has been.'

‘How d'you think the man knew that?'

Xamena shrugged his shoulders.

‘Is the same doctor still practising in Las Macaulas?'

‘There's another. And to get him to come up here, you've got to be dying and if you're dead when he arrives, he curses everyone for wasting his time.'

‘What happened to the first doctor?'

‘Packed in working.'

‘He was pretty ancient, then?'

‘Him? Wasn't nearing sixty.' Xamena spoke with the scorn of twenty years' seniority.

‘Then it was early for him to retire?'

‘Always was a lazy sod. So when he come into some money, he said he was fed up with listening to other people's problems.'

‘Where did the money come from?'

‘How the hell would I know?'

‘Does he still live in Las Macaulas?'

‘Someone said as him and his family left.'

‘Who buried the Englishwoman?'

‘Tilo Domingo. He's the only undertaker in Las Macaulas.'

‘Has he retired?'

‘Hadn't when old Bruno died a few months back. And Catalina, his daughter, said as how the bill was so enormous it was no wonder Domingo had been able to buy himself such a big house.'

The strands were there, Alvarez thought, but would he ever be able to knot them together?

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Had he realized how much rough walking was involved, Alvarez would never have arranged for one of the villagers to show him where Belinda Ogden had supposedly fallen. After leaving the car, the five kilometre-trek – his companion swore it was only just over one, but he was trying to make a fool of him – wound up and down precipitous slopes, made dangerous by loose stones and rocks, and he became convinced that he would fall with fatal consequences and have to be driven to Las Macaulas to be buried …

The site of Belinda's accident was very similar to that of Sabrina's – a sheer face of rock that backed a relatively level section. The only obvious difference was the lack of any undergrowth. However, there had never been a body to conceal.

CHAPTER 21

Once a small town, Las Macaulas had, thanks to an ever-increasing prosperity, grown into a large town. The centre was a place of haphazardly angled narrow streets and buildings with small windows which gave the impression of an inward-looking population; the new, outer suburbs were laid out geometrically and the houses and bungalows had been built for comfort and many had picture windows so that it seemed that those who lived here looked outwards.

The doctor had lived in an old, slightly crooked house just behind the main street. The new owner had no idea where he'd moved to after retiring, but a nearby chemist thought he'd probably gone to Argentina because he'd often said he wanted to return to where he'd been born only days after his parents had arrived there after fleeing Spain on the success of Franco's army in the Civil War.

Even the most hard-working and dedicated investigator had to accept that he could not work flat out twenty-four hours of the day. And Alvarez had noted a restaurant opposite the market square whose menu had looked very promising …

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At ten-twenty on Saturday morning, he braked to a halt in front of a large ranch-style bungalow on the northern outskirts of the town. He left the car, crossed the pavement, opened the wrought-iron gate, and walked up a stone path on either side of which was a formally designed garden. The front door was elaborately panelled in very good quality wood. An expensive property.

The door was opened by a woman who was dressed in such style that he became very conscious of the fact he had been wearing the same clothes for a couple of days. He introduced himself. ‘I should like a word with your husband, señora.'

‘I'm afraid he's at work.'

His brief surprise that a man of substance should work on a Saturday was succeeded by the realization that death did not respect the weekend. He asked for directions to Domingo's office, thanked her, left.

Domingo y Hijos had a single large show window and the display was of a large cut-glass vase filled with flowers, set against a black backcloth; without any obvious indication of the nature of the firm's business, there was no mistaking what that was.

A young woman, well groomed, greeted him in professionally sympathetic tones. She showed him into a room in which the only furniture was six comfortable chairs set in a rough circle, four framed prints, two of religious motifs, two depicting scenes of natural beauty that was touched with sombreness because of dark, heavy clouds, and a deep pile carpet in dark mauve.

Domingo entered. Younger than Alvarez, he was taller, slimmer, and dressed with far greater care. He came forward, hand outstretched. ‘My wife phoned to say you would be along. Please sit down.'

Alvarez sat.

‘I gather you're from Mallorca. I've visited there twice – a very beautiful island. Of course, there are areas where tourism has unfortunately made itself all too obvious, but if one looks beyond them…'

Alvarez listened in silence to the flow of words that was spoken in rich, warm tones.

‘That's enough from me. Now, can you say what brings you here?'

‘I'm making inquiries concerning the death of Señora Belinda Ogden and it's possible you can help me.'

‘That's not a name I recognize. Should I?'

‘You were responsible for the funeral arrangements.'

‘Indeed. How long ago did she pass on?'

‘Roughly three years ago.'

‘That's a long time, so it's small wonder I can't recall the sad event. Can you give me any of the details?'

‘An Englishwoman, in her early twenties, she was walking in the mountains near Son Jordi when she fell and suffered fatal injuries.'

‘I vaguely remember such an incident, but no more. No doubt the records will refresh my memory.' Domingo stood. ‘Is there a question concerning her death?'

‘Yes, there is.'

He waited, but when nothing more was said, left the room. He returned with a file which, once seated, he opened and from which he brought out papers. He skimmed through these, then looked up. ‘I remember now. Despite the injuries, a very attractive young woman. Very sad. One always hates to see gilded youth cut down.'

‘Are all the records there?'

‘Of course. We always keep them longer than the law demands.'

‘May I see them?'

Domingo hesitated. ‘I don't believe you have explained the reason for your inquiries.'

‘I will.'

It was obviously much less of an answer than he'd wanted, nevertheless he handed the file over. Alvarez studied the papers. A printed form filled in with the preliminary details, another which noted that the wishes of the nearest relative concerning the form of interment was still not to hand; a list of expenses which included thirty days of refrigerated storage; a copy of the death certificate; two handwritten letters from Ogden, in one of which he refused to accept any liability for expenses incurred; in the other, he grudgingly agreed to pay them … ‘I see the husband was reluctant to pay the bill.'

‘Was he?'

Alvarez passed the letters across. Domingo read them. ‘Of course. It turned out that the man she was with at the time of the accident was a lover and she'd run away from her husband. One could sympathize with the husband's viewpoint, of course, but one does have to observe business terms.'

‘What was the name of the man she was with – there doesn't seem to be any mention of it?'

‘No? I suppose that when it became clear he was not her husband and could not meet expenses, there was no cause to note it down. I'm afraid I've no memory of it.'

‘The body was collected from the doctor's surgery – how did that happen?'

‘As I remember, her companion drove her straight there, hoping something could be done for her. Unfortunately, on arrival she was found to be dead. It naturally became necessary to move the body immediately.'

‘Were the police informed of what had happened?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘They should have been, to check whether it was a genuine accident.'

‘I don't think there was the slightest doubt on that score.'

‘Who collected the body from the doctor's surgery?'

‘We did.'

‘Who exactly do you mean by “we”?'

‘I have a vague idea that it was one other man and myself.'

‘Can you name this other man?'

‘No.'

‘The circumstances must, to some extent, have been unusual, so probably he will remember the occasion?'

‘That could be.'

‘Would you speak to all your employees and find out who it was?'

‘I'll naturally do what I can, but I have to warn you that he may well have left my employ. People aren't as content to stick to one job as they used to be.'

‘Why was the señora cremated?'

‘You did not read all of the second letter from the señor? Having reluctantly agreed to meet the costs of his wife's funeral, he said she was to be cremated.'

‘Was that unusual?'

‘Since the crematorium opened in Barcelona, cremation has become the choice of an increasing number of people, despite the cost of transportation.'

‘Chosen especially by someone concerned about the possibility of exhumation?'

‘Are you suggesting something?'

‘Isn't that obvious?'

‘Inspector, you are beginning to talk in riddles.'

‘I'll speak more plainly. Whose body was cremated in the name of Belinda Ogden?'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Who was the dead woman you sent to Barcelona in place of Belinda Ogden's body?'

‘Are you suggesting we inadvertently confused bodies? Every body is positively and continuously identified to prevent any such disaster.'

‘Nothing was inadvertent.'

‘I think you should be more precise in whatever accusation you are trying to make.'

‘You were an accomplice in the fraudulent insurance claim following Belinda Ogden's supposed death. Since you could have no control over the cremation – which was essential to avoid exhumation – you did not dare risk delivering to the crematorium a coffin that was filled with something to mimic the necessary bulk and weight because there had to be the thousand to one chance that the deception would come to light. Therefore, you sent the body of another woman, in the name of Señora Ogden, to the crematorium.'