Deadly Petard (12 page)

‘Indeed.’

Alvarez had borrowed a Seat 124 from the Guardia and this was now parked in the middle of the taxi rank, causing the taxi drivers to swear. He opened the front passenger door. Then he said, almost diffidently: ‘Señor, it is hot today. Perhaps for the journey you might feel happier without a coat or a tie?’

When in Rome, wear a toga . . . Cullon took off his tie and coat and put them on the back seat, together with his mackintosh and overnight case.

Alvarez started the engine and, without any signals, drove away from the pavement immediately in front of a tourist bus. ‘Have you been on the island before, señor?’

‘The name’s Tim.’

‘Thank you,’ he said gravely.

‘No, I’ve never been here before.’

‘It is the most beautiful island in the world.’

Cullon noticed a hoarding from which part of the poster was peeling away and flapping in the slight breeze.

‘If you could just run through all the facts as you see ‘em, I’ll go through our end of things and we can compare notes.’

‘D’you mean we do that now?’

‘That’ll save time, won’t it?’

Alvarez looked at Cullon, his expression perplexed, then back at the road just in time to avoid hitting the car he was overtaking. ‘It will not be very easy when I am driving . . .’

He called this driving? Cullon judged they’d missed that car by less than six inches.

‘I wondered which hotel to book you in, Tim. There are some in the port which are very nice, but I decided you would prefer to be at Cala Roig. The scenery is so wonderful. I have spoken to the manager and explained that you must have the best room, facing the sea. It is so relaxing to sit out on the balcony and look at the sea and the mountains.’

Cullon smiled. ‘I doubt I’ll have much time for sitting around.’

‘The swimming there is very good unless there is a strong north wind and then it can be dangerous because of the . . .’ He thought for a moment. ‘The undertow,’ he said proudly. ‘But if there is any fear of that, a red flag is flown and a white rope is drawn across the bay to show where it becomes unsafe. Do you like swimming?’

‘Yes, very much. But, you know, if I’m to get through the work as quickly as possible . . .’

‘I will take you to Parelona beach. Nowhere else in the world is so beautiful. That is, of course, unless one goes on a day when the buses with all the tourists arrive . . . I am sorry to say this, but some of the tourists can be rather noisy.’

The first two-thirds of the drive, along the main Playa Neuva road, were through uninteresting countryside, but then they turned off on to the Llueso road and immediately the land became scenic with tree-covered slopes and later an impressive skyline of stark mountain crests. They rounded the base of Puig Antonia, with its hermitage on top looking like a nipple on a firm breast and as near to heaven as mortal man had been able to reach, to come into sight of Llueso.

‘There!’ said Alvarez, taking both hands off the wheel to gesticulate. ‘There we are!’

Cullon—once Alvarez was once more gripping the wheel—stared at the town (he was to learn that the locals always called it a village), which looked as if the houses had been emptied out over the hill and left to find their own level.

Alvarez checked his watch. ‘That’s good. We will be just in time.’

‘To question West?’

‘To eat lunch.’

‘There’s absolutely no need to bother as far as I’m concerned. A sandwich will do me fine.’

‘A sandwich! For your first meal on the island?’

‘It’s all I ever have when I’m working.’

Alvarez looked at him with evident sympathy, then finally regarded the road once more. ‘I hope you do not mind, but I have arranged for us to eat lunch with my cousin. I live with her and her family.’

To object further could only sound rude or boorish, perhaps both. ‘That’ll be wonderful,’ Cullon replied, hoping that MacAllister had been joking when he’d said that snails were one of the favourite dishes on the island.

They turned off the main road and entered the village by way of a maze of narrow streets where, as far as Cullon could judge, traffic wasn’t regulated by any rules whatsoever. Bikes and mopeds used whichever side of the road was more convenient, cars jockeyed for position with all the finesse of rampaging bulls, and to reach Calle Juan Rives they went up a one-way street the wrong way, finally to park in front of a sign which said that in the second half of the month parking was permitted only on the other side of the road.

Cullon climbed out and looked at Alvarez’s home. Like every other house in the road, it was terraced with the front door opening directly on to the road and the windows shuttered so that it looked deserted. He remembered the state of terrace houses he’d been inside in England and the gloomy thought occurred to him that even then their luncheons might well be climbing laboriously up the walls inside.

He entered a room twice the size he had expected, spotlessly clean, attractively furnished, and smelling only of polish. He was introduced to the family. Dolores, raven-haired, handsome, received him in so stately a manner that he all but bowed: Jaime smiled and smiled and made a long and involved speech of welcome of which he didn’t understand a word: Juan and Isabel, after a brief initial shyness, plied him with questions which Alvarez translated.

‘What will you drink?’ Alvarez asked him, once he was seated in the nearest, very comfortable, armchair.

‘Nothing, thanks. I never have anything when I’m working.’

‘But it is the custom to have a drink when one welcomes a friend into the house. Surely you will take something?’

In fact, he realized, he was quite thirsty. ‘I’d hate to break a custom! Could I have a very small gin and tonic, please?’

He was handed an embarrassingly large gin and tonic.

They talked—it was not nearly the labour he’d expected, considering everything had to be translated—and after a while he sneaked a look at his watch and was uneasy when he realized how much time had already been wasted, especially in view of the fact that Dolores hadn’t yet even left to start preparing lunch. Alvarez misunderstood the cause of his concern and after apologizing for such a lapse of hospitality, refilled his glass.

Dolores never cooked better than when she thought she might be severely judged. The gazpacho, made early that morning, was served with chopped onion, tomato, cucumber, sweet pepper, and croutons. Jaime offered white wine and Cullon, who liked wine but seldom could afford to drink it, said he would like just a little. To his amazement, the tumbler in front of him was filled almost to the brim.

The soup was followed by lechona. The spiced crackling of the sucking-pig was as crisp as newly made buttersnaps and the meat as tender as a virgin’s kiss. Jaime said he’d have some red wine, of course, and he could not resist: just a little. His tumbler was filled. Later, it was refilled.

Strawberry spongecake, buried beneath an avalanche of whipped cream. The slice he was given would have fed both Tina and himself. A little white wine to help it down?

They returned to the front room and sat, except for Jaime who went over to the long, low, ornately panelled sideboard, where he opened the right-hand door. He spoke and Alvarez translated. ‘Will you have coñac, Cointreau, Benedictine, apricot brandy, or chocolate liqueur?’

‘Nothing more: I just couldn’t,’ he answered, aware that he was not enunciating his words as clearly as he would have liked.

‘You must have a coñac. Nothing is so good for the digestion.’

They drank a toast to England and one to Mallorca: one to the world-famous Scotland Yard (impossible to explain the difference between the Metropolitan Police and a county force) and one to the Mallorquin Cuerpo General de Policia: one to good wives and bad women . . .

Cullon awoke. Something was odd—apart from the taste in his mouth—and he tried to work out what. Then he opened his eyes and found he was sprawled out in an armchair and that on the table to his right was a glass half full of brandy. My God, he thought, with the horror which another man might suffer on discovering his wife was dining at the same restaurant as he and his mistress, he’d fallen asleep after lunch!

Alvarez entered the room, a welcoming smile on his broad face.

Cullon struggled to his feet. ‘I’m most terribly sorry,’ he said thickly.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘I’m afraid I fell asleep.’

‘But of course.’

‘I’ve never done such a thing before, not in working hours.’

‘Surely you always have a siesta?’

‘Never.’

‘Then what do you do after each lunch?’

‘I work, of course.’

Alvarez shook his head in perplexity. ‘Soon, we will go along to your hotel and make certain all is well. But first, perhaps, you would like some coffee?’

He would like some coffee very much.

His hotel room was on the top floor, obviating the common problem in tourist hotels of someone overhead deciding to dance the Charleston at three in the morning. The assistant manager, who showed them to the room, assured Cullon in fluent English that if the slightest thing was wrong, or if he wanted anything, he had only to speak.

After the assistant manager had left, Alvarez said:

‘Evaristo will make very certain you are completely comfortable. He knows that I know that he’s building a house without the proper permissions.’

Cullon, not quite as shocked as he might have been a few hours earlier, wondered what Detective-Inspector Rifle would say concerning the undoubted advantages of misprison.

Alvarez, who had a plastic carrier bag in his right hand, walked out on to the small balcony and stared down at the flat calm sea. ‘Shall we change into our costumes?’

‘But I’m afraid I haven’t brought one with me. I reckoned there’d be no time for swimming.’

‘No matter. I’ll telephone Evaristo and tell him you need a pair of trunks immediately. He will find you some.’

The sun warmed the whole of Cullon’s body as he lay on the towel and with a gesture that went straight back to childhood he scooped up sand with his toes which stretched out beyond the towel. There were the sounds of approaching people and he opened his eyes. Three young ladies, one blonde, two brunette, spread out towels and sat a couple of metres from him. They removed the tops of their bikinis.

A policeman’s life was different in Mallorca.

On Monday morning, Cullon awoke at 7.10. Eager to make up for all those wasted hours the previous day, he climbed out of bed, crossed to the window, drew the curtains, opened the shutters, and stepped out on to the balcony. The bay was backed by bleak mountains which rose steeply out of the intensely blue water, making the scene a memorable one. He was tempted to continue to enjoy it, but overcame such weakness and returned inside to wash and dress.

Breakfast was served, at the guest’s option, either in the bedroom or by the pool. After a quick shower, he went down to the ground floor and out to the poolside. A yawning waiter reluctantly said he’d check if it were possible to serve breakfast yet and left. A quarter of an hour later, he returned with a tray on which were two ensaimadas, apricot jam, butter, coffee, sugar, and milk.

For once, Cullon ate slowly, enjoying the novelty of breakfasting out of doors, by a pool and the sea. He was surprised to discover, after finishing his second cup of coffee, that the time was already 8.20. He hurried inside to the reception desk and asked if Inspector Alvarez had been looking for him? The gravely courteous receptionist replied that the inspector had not yet arrived. Cullon, as he often did when irritated, jingled the coins in his trouser pocket.

‘Sir,’ said the receptionist, ‘please sit down outside and rest. When the inspector is here, we will tell you.’

He hesitated but, since there seemed to be no reasonable alternative, finally accepted the advice. He crossed the road to the sea patio, built up a couple of metres above sea level, and sat at one of the tables.

Nine o’clock. He stood and stared across the road at the hotel. Had Alvarez forgotten their arrangement for the morning? Surely, even here, that wasn’t really possible? Or was it? Perhaps he ought to phone . . . It occurred to him that he didn’t know the telephone number, the address, or even Dolores’s and Jaime’s surname . . . After a while, he settled back in the chair and watched a yacht ghost along with a spinnaker which kept threatening to spill. His eyelids became heavy . . .

‘Good morning, Tim. I hope you had a pleasant night?’

Cullon came hurriedly to his feet. ‘Haven’t slept so soundly in years.’

‘Excellent!’ beamed Alvarez, as he sat. He waved his arm. ‘This is still a most beautiful bay. Yet I can remember it when there were just a few fishermen’s huts and if you looked around yourself you could believe the world was still just starting. Now, though . . .’ He indicated a number of small, ugly houses, built on a precipitous stretch of rockface on the far side of the bay. ‘Now there is building everywhere. Yet they make many people rich. Are the rich happy? Certainly, the poor seldom are . . . I am a fool to talk like this when you are on holiday and trying to enjoy yourself.’

‘Hardly on holiday,’ corrected Cullon.

Alvarez called a waiter over. ‘Two coffees.’ He turned to Cullon. ‘And you will have a coñac with your coffee?’

‘Not this early in the morning, thanks.’

‘But it is an old Mallorquin custom which helps a man prepare himself for the day.’ Alvarez ordered two Soberanos.

Cullon checked the time yet again. 9.34 and they still hadn’t even begun work. He looked at the sea, the mountains, the limitless sky, and suddenly thought: What the hell?

When they were seated in his car, Alvarez said: ‘We will question señor West, of course, but first I thought that perhaps you might like to look in señorita Dean’s house?’ ‘That would be an idea. Apart from anything else, it’ll give me a direct picture of the background.’ Cullon sounded enthusiastic. He’d been wondering how on earth to engineer a visit to the house without making it seem that he had absolutely no faith in the other’s ability to carry out a proper search.