The Ambiguity of Murder (10 page)

‘But it is correct that you knew him?'

‘We met him once only, at a cocktail party.'

‘When was this?'

‘Ironically, on the day he died. It came as quite a shock to hear what had happened. At midday, full of life and, it has to be added, himself; that night, dead. Whoever it was said that life is more transitory than any of us dare acknowledge, knew what he was talking about.'

‘Presumably, this party was given by friends of yours?'

‘Friends of friends. We're still newcomers to the island and the Achesons, who've been very kind, were invited by Dolly Selby and they asked if they could take us along because they reckoned we'd have the chance to meet some of the more interesting expats, as Dolly always serves good champagne.'

‘And you were introduced to Señor Zavala?'

‘Much to his annoyance.'

‘Why is that?'

‘He was in deep conversation with a very liberated redhead – judging by her lack of dress. Unfortunately for him, Dolly is the epitome of a cocktail party hostess and she has only to see a couple enjoying each other's conversation to break up the tête-à-tête. She led the redhead away and poor Guido was left with us.'

‘And you talked with him for how long?'

‘Until we decided to ease his pain and move on, leaving him free to pursue the redhead.'

‘You would not have had time to learn anything about him, then?'

‘We learned more than enough,' Fenella said.

Alvarez turned to face her. ‘From your tone, señora, it sounds as if you instinctively disliked him?'

‘I –'

Bailey interrupted her. ‘Nothing raises my wife's hackles more quickly than a man who obviously thinks himself irresistible and lays on the charm with a trowel. Not that she would ever describe it as charm.'

‘And you, señor, how did you regard him?'

‘With amusement rather than dislike, since he wasn't aiming his charm at me, and it amuses me to hear someone claiming the world wouldn't turn without his assistance.'

‘What was he boasting about?'

‘Himself. How important he'd been when in the diplomatic service, what taste in modern art he possessed, the style he brought to living – in another fifteen minutes, I don't doubt we'd have learned how he inspired his old friend Michael to paint the Sistine Chapel.'

‘Did you see him again after the party?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Are you quite certain?'

‘That's an odd question in view of what I've just said.'

‘Nevertheless, I should like an answer.'

‘Why? D'you really think that after leaving the party I'd immediately have rushed off to see someone I'd be happy never to meet again? If so, perhaps I'd better be more specific. We spoke to Guido Zavala for probably no more than ten minutes, but in that time both Fenella and I judged him to be someone we did not want to become friendly with – a judgement which I'm perfectly prepared to accept can reflect badly on us rather than on him. Does that answer you?'

‘A car was seen leaving his home that evening, soon after dark, and it was being driven very recklessly. This raises the possibility that the driver was under an emotional strain.'

‘You're suggesting the driver was responsible for Zavala's death?'

‘That has to be a possibility.'

‘And, since this has to be the point of your questioning, you think I was the driver…?'

‘That's utterly absurd,' Fenella said sharply.

Bailey spoke lightly. ‘After a policeman has been dealing with the public for even a short time, I suspect that the absurd becomes commonplace.' He spoke to Alvarez. ‘Isn't that so?'

‘I would have used the word “unusual” instead of absurd.'

‘Because it's more diplomatic?'

Alvarez smiled. ‘The car has been identified as a new, dark-coloured Astra shooting brake, driven by a male. As shooting brakes are still relatively rare on this island – though rapidly becoming more popular – I have had a list drawn up of those which are owned in this area. You are one of only three foreign owners. You knew Señor Zavala.'

‘From little acorns, great oak trees truly do grow! Would you think me rude if I pointed out the fallacies in your conclusion?'

‘Of course not.'

‘But our glasses are empty, so first let me refill them.' He stood, collected the glasses, and left.

Fenella, with a poise Alvarez admired, talked about the house they were renting and remarked, with resigned amusement, that some of the hot-water pipes had been taken around the outside of the house so that if they still lived there during the coming winter, a hot bath would be difficult …

Bailey returned, handed them their glasses, sat. ‘I hope this won't sound too pompous, but had we wished to make further contact with Guido, I would not have felt the need to do so within only a few hours of first meeting him. According to himself, he was very rich, and such eagerness on our part would have aroused his deepest suspicions – the rich find it very difficult to separate themselves from their riches. The next point. Is it correct that he died in the evening?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you said that this car was seen after dark?'

‘That's right.'

‘Then any identification has to be very uncertain.'

‘It was seen by someone who is knowledgeable about cars and there was nearly a full moon.'

‘Moonlight is known to distort, as many a couple have discovered a few years into their marriage … Does the observer claim to be able to identify the driver?'

‘No.'

‘Is there any reason to be certain that the car did not come from another area of the island?'

‘No.'

‘Have you spoken to the other two foreign owners of similar cars?'

‘Not yet.'

‘So you can't be certain whether, or not, they knew Guido … I think, Inspector, that you've been fishing.'

‘I'm no fisherman, señor, but I understand that one only fishes where there is reason to think there might be fish.'

‘Touché,' said Fenella.

Bailey smiled. ‘But to show what a poor catch I represent, I wasn't driving anywhere that night, I was here, with Fenella, watching television on an illegal card smuggled out from England – a confession made to convince you of my good faith and in the hopes that you will take no official action.'

‘On this island, smuggling has always been regarded as a legitimate occupation.' Alvarez drained his glass. He stood. ‘Thank you for your help.'

‘Which can't have helped.'

‘A negative can be as useful as a positive.'

As, a few minutes later, he drove away from Ca'n Liodre, question jostled question. Had Bailey been trying to persuade his wife to leave the house before the questions began? Had she been equally determined to stay to judge the situation for herself? Had this disagreement led to tension? Had his explanation of their obvious dislike of Zavala been genuine? Why had he gone to such lengths to try to prove the car seen by Francisco could not have been correctly identified, when the normal reaction would surely have been a simple flat denial that it could have been his?… Yet if the Baileys had not met Zavala before the cocktail party, it had to be ridiculous to suppose that in the course of a meeting lasting roughly ten minutes, Bailey could find cause to murder.

Why did life always have to be so complicated? Alvarez wondered.

CHAPTER 12

Pons's house was on the western side of Cardona, where the hills and mountains, arching northwards, formed a backdrop rather than being part of the land; the soil was light and grew peppers noted for their flavour – to tell a young woman she was as sweet as a Cardona pepper was to flatter her.

Alvarez parked his car, climbed out, and looked around him. There was a well-kept flower garden and a pond in which ornamental ducks were paddling; to the right of where he stood there was an ornate fountain, carved out of sandstone by someone with considerable skill and artistic ability; on the patio of the house were two small statues of fawns. That all this should belong to a Mallorquin was surprising since the centuries had taught the islanders what to value – a tomato plant that bore was valuable, a rose bush, no matter how many and magnificent its blooms, was not. He climbed the steps to the covered patio, crossed to the front door, opened this and stepped into a room that was furnished in a style only partly Mallorquin. Clearly, there was a foreign influence here. He called out.

Rosa came through a doorway, stopped, and stared at him, her brown eyes filled with curiosity.

He smiled at her. ‘Hullo. I'm Enrique. Who are you?'

‘Rosa.'

‘That's a pretty name.'

‘I know it is.'

‘Is your father here?'

‘Yes.'

‘Would you tell him I'm here and would like a word with him.'

She left. He moved to stare at a large framed photograph, hanging on the wall, of a young girl, sufficiently like Rosa to identify her as a sister, who was taking part in the Festa de L'Estendard and was dressed in white with the carefully modelled body of a heavily caparisoned horse around her waist. It did a man's heart good to know that the old traditions were being continued, despite the tourists … Or was it, in truth, because of the tourists? Was it their malign money which kept them going…?

‘Who are you?'

He'd been so deep in thought that he had not heard Pons's approach. He introduced himself to a man who carried tradition on his shoulders – short, stocky, face roughened and lined, shoulders broad, manner of speech coarse and abrupt, like every peasant, challenging life even whilst knowing he must die and therefore lose the fight.

‘What d'you want here?' His Mallorquin had the guttural accent that was peculiar to those who lived in, or near, Cardona.

‘I'm making inquiries following the death of Señor Zavala.'

‘So?'

‘He drowned in his swimming pool.'

‘And if he did?'

‘There's the question, did he do so accidentally or because someone pushed him under.'

‘Why come asking me?'

‘If he was murdered, someone didn't like him.'

‘Must take a lot of learning to be smart enough to work that out.'

Alvarez continued to speak with the same good humour, accepting the other's bloody-minded attitude as a natural defence against authority. ‘I'm wondering if you can suggest who might have disliked him?'

‘Why should I be able to?'

‘You did work for him.'

‘Who says?'

‘Are you denying you did?'

There was no answer. More people had been hanged by their tongues than their hands.

‘I was told you're the best builder in the area, so he employed you since he always wanted the best.'

‘But didn't bloody well want to pay for it!' Pons said with sudden, sharp bitterness.

‘He owed you money?'

Pons cursed himself.

‘Did he?'

‘You think I give credit?'

‘Not voluntarily.'

There was a long silence.

Alvarez finally said: ‘I reckon the biggest bastards are the foreigners who come here and take advantage of us. They get us to do work, knowing that if things turn wrong they needn't pay what they owe because all they have to do is slip back to their own country and it'll either be impossible or not worth the effort to trace 'em. But Señor Zavala didn't time things right, so you can get the estate to settle. I'll be looking around, so if I find proof that you did work for which he never paid, I'll let you have it.'

‘He's dead. There's the end to his debts.'

‘That's how it used to be when debts were small and there was a widow who needed every peseta she could touch, but it's a different world now. You think anyone's going to stand out for a foreigner against one of us?'

‘He said he wasn't paying because the work wasn't good enough.' Pons was almost shouting. ‘All his money and he talked that crap!' He stumped his way out on to the patio, slumped down on one of the chairs that were set around a large wooden table.

Alvarez joined him. ‘What work did you do?'

Zavala had wanted a bedroom, a sitting room, and a bathroom, added to a house already so large that half an army could camp in it. He'd asked for an estimate, rejected it on the grounds that the total was far too large. As if even a million pesetas made any difference to the likes of him. And, for a foreigner, it had been an honest estimate. Times weren't good. In the end, the estimate had been reduced and resubmitted and finally, after quibbling about this, that, and the other, he'd accepted it. Then, when it was time for the first payment, he'd said he'd settle when the job was completed. He – Pons – had worked along with his men and twice as hard as they from dawn to dusk; he'd worked until his hands had blistered – hands roughened by a lifetime's labour. With the job done, he'd asked for settlement. Zavala had refused to pay on the grounds that the work wasn't up to the standard promised. That had been balls! The work was first class. The bastard had been holding on to the money, like the miser he was. In desperation, he'd been asked for half the total, the rest to be paid when full agreement was reached. He'd refused; he'd said that if the company was in trouble because money had had to be paid to third parties, that was none of his concern. In desperation, an abogado had been called in to help. As much use as an empty well, but he'd wanted paying; unlike builders, lawyers were paid for being incompetent … Pons became silent, overcome by the iniquities of an unfair world.

Rosa came out on to the patio and said Mummy wanted to know if they'd like something to drink? Pons hesitated, but his previous antagonism towards Alvarez had been swallowed up by his hatred of the dead Zavala; he asked Alvarez what he wanted. He told Rosa to bring out a bottle of brandy and some ice.