The Ambiguity of Murder (2 page)

She liked to practise her Spanish. ‘It's a nice day.'

‘Now, it is perfect!'

Because of the generosity of so many tourists, every Mallorquin male in the prime of his life imagined himself Don Juan; she didn't doubt that the slightest hint of encouragement on her part would have him breathing heavily as he undressed her with greater skill than he gardened – he found difficulty in distinguishing flower from weed. She smiled a neutral smile, made her way across to the front door, certain that he was appreciating the rhythm of her taut buttocks. She unlocked the door and went into the hall. ‘It's me.'

‘I'm in here,' Robertson called out.

‘Be with you in a second, darling.' She carried the shopping bag into the kitchen, emptied it and put the perishable items in the refrigerator. About to leave, she remembered the two letters she'd collected from the post office and brought them from her handbag.

He was sitting on the settee, watching a soap opera on the television. ‘How are you now?' she asked, sounding concerned.

‘No better. Worse.' He did not look away from the screen. ‘It feels like I'm being sawn in half. It's appendicitis, whatever that useless doctor said.'

‘But you had your appendix out when you were a boy.'

‘They must have left part of it in.'

He'd suggested that – through her, since he took pride in speaking no Spanish – to the doctor. The doctor did not speak any English, so she'd been able to mistranslate his curtly contemptuous reply. ‘Have you taken the pills he gave you?'

‘No.'

‘For goodness sake, why not?'

‘They're probably nothing but chalk.'

She gave up. ‘There are two letters for you.'

The programme ended and the advertisements began. He used the remote control to switch off the set.

She handed him the letters. He opened the first one and brought out a single sheet of paper. ‘What's the use of sending me this?' he demanded angrily.

‘What is it?'

‘That's just the point. It's in Spanish. Why?'

Because they were living in Spain. When he became annoyed, which was frequently, she mentally compared him to a bedraggled, aging bantam cock. The hairs in his nose needed cutting and his moustache a good wipe. Not Adonis's younger brother. One of the sad facts of life was that so few men had fat bank accounts before they had fat bellies. ‘Shall I have a look?' He held out the letter and she took it. After a moment, she said: ‘It's in Mallorquin, not Spanish, so I can't be certain, but it looks as if the town hall's putting up the catastral value of this place.'

‘Bloody robbers!'

‘I've heard that a lot of properties are being revalued.'

‘Anything to grub more money out of the foreigners.'

She hadn't known him in England, but didn't doubt that when he'd lived there, he'd complained about the ever-increasing rates and how they were wasted on supporting layabouts … It was necessary to nudge him into a better mood. ‘I suppose you wouldn't like a little champagne before I get the meal.'

‘You do, do you?'

‘Well, if your stomach's so bad…'

‘Champagne's good for the stomach.'

‘Then I'll get a bottle out of the fridge and you can have a glass…'

‘I'll have as many glasses as I like.'

‘Of course you will, my pet.' It was astonishing how you could always lead a man by making him think he was doing the leading.

She returned to the kitchen and opened the double-door refrigerator, looked at the several bottles that were on one of the shelves. Champagne or cava? If she offered champagne, he'd probably complain about the cost; if cava, the fact that it wasn't champagne. In the end, she chose a bottle of Veuve Clicquot because that was her favourite. She brought the cooler out of a cupboard, slotted into this the two frozen packs which had been in the deep-freeze compartment of the refrigerator, put the bottle into the cooler and that on a tray, together with a couple of flutes.

Back in the sitting room, she set the tray on one of the occasional tables. ‘Will you open it or shall I?'

‘I'm feeling too rotten to do it. But don't make a mess of things and waste half of it.'

She wondered if he was genuinely ill, but regretfully decided that this appeared unlikely. ‘It's terrible seeing you suffer; but you're so brave about it.'

‘I'm English.'

‘I met Jane at the supermarket and she asked how you were. I told her, not at all well, but that you weren't like the locals, always moaning.' Her mother had taught her that while sex brought a man running, it was polishing his ego that held him. She lifted up the bottle.

‘That's champagne!'

‘I thought you really needed the best.'

‘Maybe. But it costs a bloody fortune.'

Full marks to her for divination! She opened the bottle without spilling a drop. ‘The barman at the Ritz couldn't have done better.' She filled the two flutes, handed him one, carried the second across to an armchair and sat. She stared through the French windows. Because the house and garden were on a slight downward slope, there was a view across to the Estart Caves. In a nearby field, pink almond blossom provided a swirl of colour. Jane had told her that pink trees produced bitter almonds and to eat too many of these was dangerous because they contained prussic acid. She'd fantasized about buying a couple of kilos and feeding them to Jerome, but couldn't forget that Jane was a font of misinformation … To look at the fields, the hills, the mountains, and the blue sky, was to recall Sunbury-by-the-river: here, all was beauty; there, all had been ugliness and even the river had been more like a sewer …

‘What are you thinking?' he demanded.

‘How lovely it is here.'

‘Where it isn't ruined.'

She drained her glass. ‘Would you like a refill before I go through to get lunch?'

‘If you want.'

She stood, moved the occasional table with the champagne on nearer to him so that he could reach it, refilled his glass, said: ‘By the way, I should be back for tea, but if I'm not I'll leave everything ready so that you have only to put the machine on the stove for coffee.'

‘What are you talking about? Back from where? Where d'you think you're going?'

She said lightly: ‘I told you earlier, bunnikins; before I went out to do the shopping.'

‘You didn't tell me anything.'

She moved until she could bend down and nuzzle his cheek. ‘I promise you I did. You were just too busy thinking great thoughts to make a note of what I told you.'

‘What's it all about?'

‘Theo's picking me up at half past two, which is why we're having a slightly early lunch.'

‘Why are you always going out with that little toad?'

‘You're always nasty about him!'

‘I call a spade, a spade.'

‘But he's so amusing. And he knows nearly everyone so that through him we meet more people.'

‘If they're his friends, I don't want to.'

‘Aren't you being just a little old-fashioned?'

‘Nothing wrong with that.'

‘But things have changed so. I mean, these days people can do their own thing and no one worries.'

‘Which is why England's become a sink.' He drank deeply. ‘Still, if you're out with him, I know what you're not doing.'

That was very amusing, but she was careful not to smile.

*   *   *

Theodore Lockhart enjoyed nothing more than raising someone's hackles, most especially when that someone was one of the stuffier expatriates. He had a sharp mind, a spiteful character, and a wide knowledge of modern art. He dressed with expensive taste, sported a gold Boucheron and an ornate gold medallion, drove a BMW, lived in a large flat overlooking the bay, and always claimed to be as poor as a church mouse because that caused considerable speculation as to whom was financing him.

He braked to a halt in front of Ca'n Jerome and hooted twice. The front door opened and as Karen came out and down the two steps on to the gravel, he studied her with approval. She had an attractive face and knew how to make the best of it, a slim, shapely figure which she took care to highlight without being too obvious, could talk intelligently, and was a bitch.

She opened the front passenger door and climbed in, sat.

‘How is his excellency this shining day?' he asked.

She clicked her seat belt home. ‘More boorish than ever because he thinks he's dying.'

‘Life is seldom that generous.' He drove round in a circle, headed for the gateway. ‘I'm surprised he's let you loose.'

‘I told him you were taking me to see the garden with hundreds of bulbs that are out.'

‘What garden's that?' He braked to a halt, checked the narrow road was clear, turned left.

‘The one belonging to your Dutch friends.'

‘Acquaintances. The Dutch are so very serious it's almost impossible to become friendly. Did he believe you?'

‘Of course he did.'

‘Silly man. If I were he, I wouldn't believe a single word you told me.'

‘Do you have to be so beastly?'

‘I was complimenting you.'

‘That'll be the day.'

‘Believe me…'

‘Not a single word you tell me.'

He laughed. ‘You're in good form. Why so? All excited?'

‘Why not?'

‘Performance seldom matches expectation … You do know how I hate prying into other people's affairs, don't you?'

‘You spend your life doing nothing else.'

‘I think you've been drinking vinegar to clear your complexion.'

She hastily pulled down the sun blind and examined her reflection in the small mirror. ‘What's wrong with it?'

‘Isn't that a small pimple on the tip of your nose?'

‘No, it bloody well isn't.'

‘Just a reflection of the sun … I swear I long to stay silent, but duty calls and I must answer. Do you think, my sweet, that it's a good idea to go on seeing Guido?'

‘Yes.'

‘Just yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘You don't want to know why I ask?'

‘It'll be for some nasty reason.'

‘I'm thinking only of your happiness. I hear things, Karen.'

‘So what have you heard about Guido?'

He braked at a T-junction, turned into a lane even narrower than the one they had just left. On their right was an orange grove, on their left a field in which grew a mixture of oats and wheat that would be fed green to stock.

‘Aren't you going to answer? I suppose you think I'm being stupid?'

‘Never stupid. Just ill-advised.'

‘Then whatever it is you've heard, it's crap. He's genuine with me and he's sworn he'll marry me the moment I say.'

‘Sweetie, the end of the rainbow always remains just out of reach.'

‘You're being sour because you're wrong.'

‘I'm only thinking of you.'

‘You never think of anyone but yourself.'

‘You're the complete bitch!'

She turned to look at him, spoke curiously. ‘Don't tell me you really are concerned on my behalf?'

He didn't answer.

‘You are! You're being sweet! I think I adore you.'

He once more spoke facetiously. ‘Please never say anything like that in front of my closest friends or you'll confuse them.' He had to slow down to overtake a donkey cart – a form of transport which had become very seldom met, yet only twenty years before had been ubiquitous. ‘What will happen to your husband if you leave him?'

‘He'll become my ex-husband.'

‘I simply can't wait for the day. There's nothing more amusing than a pompous, self-satisfied, middle-aged man with horns on his head.'

CHAPTER 3

Pons silently cursed the American who had invented poker, Belmonte who'd suggested a game, and his run of bad luck. He pushed a chip into the centre, discarded three cards.

‘You won't get rich on a pair,' sniggered Moya.

Like all lawyers, Moya made a fortune by exacerbating other people's miseries. Pons picked up the three cards he'd been dealt and saw to his elated surprise – since this was so against the run – that he now had a third jack. His optimism, nurtured by several glasses of wine, returned. He watched the play with great care. Only Moya and Cerda remained in and each bought just one card. So they had two pairs or were trying to fill a straight or a flush. To match one of their pairs with a singleton, or to complete the sequence, would be against the odds. For their part, they'd seen him have such useless hands throughout the evening that they'd dismiss the possibility that he had bettered this one …

‘Throwing in?' Moya asked.

He stared at his cards with a blank expression, not an easy task since he liked to trumpet his successes because of the envy they generated.

‘Make your mind up. Always assuming you've one to make.'

He pushed one of his chips forward.

‘You'll have us all running for cover!'

Cerda saw him.

Moya picked up his cards, looked at them, replaced them on the table face down. ‘I don't like spoiling someone's fun, but I just have to raise.' He bet four chips.

Pons wondered why lawyers always apologized before putting in the knife – to increase their pleasure? He bet his remaining six chips.

Cerda threw in.

‘You've got me thinking I should be sensible and quit. But then again, maybe you're bluffing.' Moya reached round to his hip pocket, brought out his wallet and extracted a wad of ten-thousand-peseta notes. He peeled off two. ‘Are you up to playing with the big boys?' A sneer curled around his words.

It abruptly became more than just a game of poker; there was now a clash of machismo.

Pons said: ‘Up fifty thousand.'