Death Trick (16 page)

‘Yeah. It took ages.’

‘I was afraid it might. I’m really grateful. How many cases have you found?’

* ‘Five.’ She hesitated. ‘You did talk about really vicious men—it wasn’t just someone picking a pocket or mugging a tourist?’

‘That’s exactly right. The kind of brutal crime which makes you draw in your breath when you hear about it.’

‘Then it is only the five. Like I told you, the señor preferred to work for the foreigners.’ She searched the top of her desk, then opened the top right-hand drawer and brought out a folder from which she extracted a sheet of paper. ‘There are the names.’

He took the paper from her. ‘Again, many thanks.’

She smiled and suddenly no longer looked fretful and slightly bad-tempered.

He left the office and returned to the traffic-clogged street. Five names, none of which he recognized. Immediately, he decided, he’d hold them in reserve. But the moment it began to look as if the motive for Roig’s murder was none of the more obvious ones, then he’d ask Records for full details on the five men and would check them out . . .

He drove out of the car park and along the Ronda to the Manacor road.

The receptionist at Hotel Rocador told Alvarez that Vidal was on bar duty at the pool. He walked through the lobby and the large lounge, out to the patio. Being on top of a cliff, at the base of which was virtually no beach, a swimming pool was a very important amenity—the hotel had two, one very large and one much smaller and constantly shallow for children. The large pool was clover-leaf-shaped and on the side of one of the ‘leaves’ a bar had been built out into the water; around this were fixed underwater bar stools. Vidal, and another employee, were serving in the bar.

Alvarez went up to the edge of the pit in which the bar stood, and called to Vidal, who looked at him, nodded disdainfully, and continued to mix a drink for a topless red head. Alvarez walked over to a chair set in the shade of an acacia. He stared at the sunbathers, each stretched out on chaise-longue, lilo, or towel, and wondered what his mother would have said had she been told that one day young women would come to the island who would be so brazen that they’d strip off almost naked in public? Perhaps it would be more to the point to wonder what his father would have said! . . .

Some ten minutes later, Vidal climbed out of the bar on to the poolside grama grass, which felt like cardboard underfoot. A young woman, lying on her back on a towel and displaying shapely breasts, raised herself on her elbows and spoke to him. Even at a distance, it was clear that she was asking him to do something and he was treating her request with indifference. These days the young, thought Alvarez, with sudden middle-aged jealous bad temper, had everything in life far too easily; when he’d been young, he’d have danced barefoot on glass to be spoken to by so attractive and unclad a woman.

Vidal was wearing an open-necked white shirt and sharply creased black trousers; he looked smart, handsome, and very self-possessed. ‘You’d like a word with me?’ he asked, his polite tone in sharp contrast to his expression.

That’s right.’

‘Unfortunately, señor, as you saw, I am on duty.’

‘I’ve had a word with management and it’s OK for you to break off.’

‘You told them why you wanted to speak to me?’

‘I merely said I’d some routine questions; it sounded more tactful. You’d better find yourself a chair; we may be some time.’

‘Of course. Excuse me for a moment.’

If only he weren’t so damned polite, in a condescending manner!

Vidal brought over a chair, set it down, sat. ‘I am ready,’ he said, as if nothing of importance could begin until he was.

‘Have you seen Señorita Garcia in the past couple of days?’

‘I have not.’

‘Why not? She’s lonely, she’s had a very rough time, and you’re a cousin.’

‘I am her second cousin.’

‘And in Andalucia does that make all the difference? As a second cousin, you can forget her and leave her to her misery? You don’t feel as we do, that a blood relationship, however remote, creates ties that should be honoured?’ Their previous meeting had convinced Alvarez that the only way of breaking through Vidal’s proud self-possession was to make him too angry to realize what he was saying.

Vidal’s manner became sharply antagonistic. ‘What would you know about how I feel?’

‘Only by judging from your behaviour.’

‘If. . .’ He stopped.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Were you going to say that if only she hadn’t had an affair with Roig, you’d have rushed to comfort her? So is your pride the kind that’s very fierce but fragile? Let anyone so much as criticize your second cousin with an unsullied reputation for the way she does her hair and you’ll explode with prideful wrath; but if she’s had the bad luck to end up in a situation that you think lowers her in the eyes of others, you walk away, however desperately she needs help, in case her misfortune begins to rub off on to you.’

‘If you weren’t a bloody policeman . . .’

‘What would you do? Run your sword through my guts?’

Vidal stared at him for several seconds, then shrugged his shoulders.

Blast! thought Alvarez. Under provocation, Vidal had lost his hair-trigger temper—but he had then almost as quickly regained it. There was a sharpness there which was not always apparent . . . ‘How many times have you been to Casa Gran?’

‘Twice.’

‘When?’

‘I’ve told you before.’

‘Why did you go to see Roig?’

‘On a personal matter.’

‘Was it to talk about Señorita Garcia?’

‘I’ve just said, it was a personal matter.’

‘There’s something I can’t begin to understand.’

After a while, Vidal said hoarsely: ‘What?’

‘Why you hadn’t warned her about him?’

‘D’you think I didn’t try when I first heard? I told her exactly what kind of a man he was: a mujeriego.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘It’s an Andaluce expression for a man who has seduced a gipsy woman and refuses to marry her and so make the liaison honourable in the eyes of the family; only his castration can restore the family’s honour.’

Alvarez was startled. ‘Castration restores honour! . . . So you were really telling her what you were going to do to Roig?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘None of the families in Bodon or Posuna could know what had happened.’

‘But you knew.’

‘Would I tell anyone and bring shame to our family?’

Clearly, honour was impugned not by an act of dishonour, but by the publication of that act. ‘On your second visit, did you call Roig a mujeriego to his face?’

‘Maybe. I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t? Perhaps one doesn’t remember much about one’s inferiors. Did you speak to the woman?’

‘After the whore laughed at me, I told her she was a mala zorra.’

‘Another Andaluce expression?’

‘A diseased prostitute wouldn’t soil her hands by touching a mala zorra.’

‘You explained the meaning of the words to them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then one can imagine he was somewhat angry. Did he threaten you?’

‘Why do you keep asking the same questions?’

‘Have I asked that one before? Then let’s see if you give the same answer. Did he threaten you?’

‘I didn’t bother to listen to his ranting. I left.’

‘Determined to teach him a lesson at a later date?’

‘One doesn’t bother to teach a cur.’

‘Did you see Señorita Garcia after that?’

‘No.’

‘But she tried to get in touch with you, didn’t she?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘She begged you to help her?’

‘I had warned her.’

‘In your proud world, is there no room for human weakness and emotional fallibility?’

‘In my world, a woman does not dishonour herself with a mujeriego.’

‘You’ve obviously yet to learn that sooner or later life kicks everyone in the crutch; even the proudest. And when one’s really hurt, the sympathy of someone, someone even as low as a mala zorra, is infinitely more valuable than the justification of a proud and honourable man . . . But I don’t suppose you’ve the slightest interest in what I’m trying to tell you. Each generation refuses to learn except by harsh experience. That’s the real tragedy of life.’

‘You sound like a preacher.’

‘There can be worse comparisons . . . Where were you on the night of the murder?’

‘I told you.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘In my room because I was off duty.’

‘Nowhere else?’

‘I said I might have gone to a bar; I can’t remember.’

‘Did your landlady see you at all?’

‘No.’

‘Can anyone vouch for you . . . And don’t bother to remind me that an Andaluce gentleman does not lie.’

‘I can’t remember anyone.’

‘It would pay you to.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

Alvarez stood. ‘Suppose you stop thinking about your sense of honour and try to imagine how much some real sympathy would mean to the señorita?’

Vidal’s expression became stubborn.

On Tuesday morning, when Alvarez arrived at La Portaña, climbed out of his car, and stared around the urbanization, it was clear that the tempo of work had slowed. The cranes looming over the blocks of flats were not operating, the grass in the square, previously so neatly trimmed, was now in need of cutting, none of the sprinklers was operating, and no gardeners were working on the flowerbeds.

He entered the office. The over-groomed young man was not there and it was the typist who came up to the counter.

He asked if Vich was free.

Vich called him into the inner office. Vich’s manner was subdued and therefore he was not surprised when, once they were seated, the other said: ‘Since you were last here, things haven’t improved.’

‘I gathered there’d been a bit of a slowdown.’

‘I left a solid job to come and work for this outfit; trouble was, it didn’t pay all that well. Like a bloody fool, I remembered all the moans of the wife and kids because we couldn’t afford this and that, things that other people had, and I decided to make the change . . . Now, every time I look in a mirror I see someone who’s soon going to be out of work.’

‘It’s rough,’ said Alvarez sympathetically.

‘I’m not saying any of us is going to starve. The wife’s family have a couple of fincas and we could go and live in one of ‘em and farm. I come from farming stock and don’t mind getting my hands mucky. But the kids would hate like hell to have to leave Palma and live out in the sticks and the wife would miss all her friends; and it’s a fact that I wouldn’t fancy being beholden to her family. Nice enough people if you don’t owe them anything, but if you do, do they let you know about it!’

‘Isn’t there still time for the money to be found?’

‘Not enough. Not with the banks and the other property company so keen to take over.’

‘No joy from Ashley Developments?’

‘If they were going to do anything, surely they’d have done it before now?’

One man committed a swindle, thought Alvarez, and an ever-growing number of people were affected, many of them people the swindler didn’t even know existed; crime was as cruel indirectly as directly.

‘But you didn’t come to listen to me moaning,’ said Vich, trying to be more cheerful. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘Last time I was here, I mentioned a man called Gerald Oakley, but you said then that you’d never come across him. Have you done so since?’

‘No. Would you have expected me to?’

‘I don’t really know,’ replied Alvarez slowly. Oakley might want to save Andreu y Soler, but all his energies were surely far more likely to be engaged in trying to save himself from a charge of murder.

Mallinson rang from London at six-fifteen. ‘Sergeant Farley has been released from the case he was on and will be coming out to question Oakley—that’s with your permission, of course. He’ll be arriving tomorrow evening on CT 3164, a charter flight, arriving at Palma at seven-fifteen. Is there any chance you can arrange for him to be met?’

‘I will be there myself ‘That’s great. And as it’s probably going to take a little time, he’ll need a hotel for a few days; will you book him in somewhere?’

‘It may be a little difficult at this time of the season to find him a nice room, but I’ll do my best.’

‘There’s no need for anything too nice; after all, he’s only a sergeant.’ Mallinson laughed.

Farley was large and jovial and Alvarez, who met him in the arrival hall, liked him on sight. They chatted as they waited for the luggage to arrive on the carousel—as always, this took a considerable time because many of the handlers were having coffee—and then left, waved through the Customs check-point by a guard who knew Alvarez.

Once settled in his car, Alvarez looked at his watch. ‘It’s just after eight, so we can either have supper here in Palma, or drive back to Llueso which will take an hour, and eat there. Which would you prefer?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am a bit peckish because we were only given biscuits and what they said was coffee on the plane, but I leave it to you.’

‘Then we will stay here and eat at Celler Tomas. Their lomo con col is superb.’

‘Fine, just so long as what you’ve mentioned doesn’t contain snails.’

‘You don’t like them? But cooked the Mallorquin way, they’re delicious.’

‘Despite having a French grandmother, I just cannot face the thought of having one of them wink at me just before I go to bite it.’

It was a pity, Alvarez thought, that the English had never learned to take their food seriously.

Celler Tomas was in the centre of Palma and although discerning foreigners—that is, those who did not require table linen and obsequious waiters—often ate there, it was not a tourist restaurant. Farley pronounced the lomo con col delicious; he also said that the second carafe of red wine was even better than the first. And by the time he was enjoying a brandy with the coffee, he was becoming very interested in the cost of houses on the island. Ten minutes after they left the underground car park, and before they reached the autoroute, he was asleep and he did not awaken until they were beyond Inca and the eastern sky was almost dark.