A Maze of Murders (2 page)

They waited. A waiter, in the hotel's ‘uniform' of open-neck white shirt, black trousers, and red cummerbund, came up to the desk and, at an indication from the receptionist, along to where they stood. ‘You wish?' he asked, speaking English with great difficulty.

Sheard answered him in Spanish. He shook his head. ‘The señor did not eat breakfast today. Of that, I can be certain.'

Sheard thanked him and he left. Even though it had been obvious what his answer had been, Kirsty said urgently: ‘Well?'

‘He didn't have breakfast.'

‘Oh, God!… Then maybe he went to that hotel on the other side of the bay and is playing a joke on us. That's possible, isn't it?'

He was vaguely surprised that after the very brief acquaintance, she should become so emotionally concerned that she would clutch at non-existent straws. ‘That's not the kind of hotel where you turn up dressed real casual. And since his clothes were still on the boat…'

‘You've got to find out. You must phone and ask.'

‘I don't think…'

‘It doesn't matter what you think. Where's a phone we can use?'

‘We'd best find a public one.'

‘Then hurry instead of just standing around.'

As he followed her out of the hotel, the contrast between the cool interior and the heat and blinding light outside exacerbated his headache. He came to a stop.

‘What is it?'

‘My head's bursting.'

‘Can't you forget that? Which way?'

‘Turn right,' he muttered resentfully. He followed her along the broad pedestrian way, once a road, which, lined with palms, fronted by sand and sea, and sprinkled with tables protected by multicoloured sun umbrellas at which people ate and drank, epitomized the Mediterranean for most tourists.

They reached two public phones, back to back. He lifted the receiver of the one facing the direction in which they'd come, inserted a coin, dialled. No connection was made, but the coin disappeared into the interior of the machine instead of falling down for him to retrieve. He lacked the energy to swear. He moved round to the second phone and this time was more successful. The woman to whom he spoke said that no Señor Lewis had booked in at the hotel and she had no knowledge of anyone by that name.

As he replaced the receiver, Kirsty, her voice strained, said: ‘What do we do now?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You've got to. You live here.'

‘Sure. Only…' He lapsed into silence.

‘We must tell the police.'

‘Perhaps we should wait a bit longer…'

‘Where's the police station?'

‘A couple of roads back.'

‘Then for God's sake, get moving.'

He led the way past numerous small shops, all catering to the tourist trade, to a building which only recently had become the office of the port's Policia Local – as the force was now called. In the front office, an overweight policeman with a Zapata moustache was reading a newspaper. He looked up, resumed reading.

‘Kick some life into him,' she said.

‘He'll react when he's ready. This is Spain.'

‘And I'm English. Hey, Rip Van Winkle!'

The policeman finally put the paper down and stared at them with evident dislike.

‘Good morning,' Sheard said in Spanish and in soapy tones. ‘I trust we don't disturb you?'

‘What's the matter?'

‘We're very worried. A friend of ours may be missing and…'

‘What do you mean, he may be? Either he is missing or he isn't.'

‘We can't be certain.'

‘Then come back when you can.'

‘What's he saying?' she asked.

Sheard told her.

She faced the policeman and said angrily: ‘It's your job to find out if anything has happened to him. So do something.'

The policeman had understood the import of her words, if not the words themselves. He brushed his moustache with crooked forefinger, picked up a pencil; the lead was broken and he put it down. He searched for and eventually found a ballpoint pen; it refused to work. He threw it into the wastepaper basket while expressing his opinion of the mothers of pen makers. He puffed as he hauled himself to his feet and left the room. When he returned, he had another ballpoint pen. He sat, opened a drawer of the desk and found it was empty, slammed it shut; in turn, he checked the other drawers without success. He left the room again, to return with a sheet of paper. He sat. ‘Well? I haven't all day to waste.'

Sheard said: ‘The four of us went by boat across the bay last night and had a bit of a party…'

‘Where's your residencia?'

‘I'm not a resident.'

‘Where's your passport?'

‘Back in my room.'

‘Get it. And tell her to bring hers.' He pointed the pen at her, then slapped it down on the desk. He picked up the newspaper and, with evident satisfaction, resumed reading.

‘Now what's up?' she asked in exasperation.

‘We have to get our passports,' Sheard replied.

‘What the hell for? What about Neil?'

‘He won't listen until he's seen our passports.'

‘Then he needs kicking where it hurts.'

‘Come on,' he said hurriedly. ‘Let's go and get them.'

They had reached the doorway when the policeman said: ‘Hombre, find yourself a Spanish girlfriend. She'll have better manners.'

CHAPTER 3

Alvarez awoke. He stared up at the ceiling and knew a deep inner contentment. Life wore a golden hue. The previous day, a distant and almost forgotten relation of Jaime had visited them. Not only had he brought with him four bottles of Vega Sicilia, he had praised the lunch as one of the best meals he'd ever enjoyed. After he'd left, Dolores had declared him to be handsome, intelligent, and a man of cultured tastes. As always, her moods had been reflected in her cooking. Supper that evening had been a veritable feast.

Might a spirit of such beatitude continue? Could today's lunch be Pollastre farcit amb magrana? Even a cook of moderate ability would make something special of this dish of chicken, pork, lamb, pomegranate, wine, and seasoning; she could turn it into Lucullan fare …

She called up from downstairs that it was a quarter past. He acknowledged that fact. After a while, he sat up, swivelled round on the bed, and put his feet on the floor, welcoming the coolness of the tiles. Already, the day was hot. Soon, it would be very hot. Heat was not conducive to work …

‘It's half past. You'll be very late.'

Late was a word that was subject to many interpretations. By his, he was almost never late for work. He hauled himself to his feet and went along to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he entered the kitchen and sat at the table.

‘I've made some coca for you,' she said. ‘I didn't start your chocolate until I heard you moving, but it's nearly ready.'

‘There's no rush. There's very little work in hand and the superior chief is at a conference somewhere so he won't be making a nuisance of himself for a while.'

‘Why is he always so difficult?'

‘He comes from Madrid.'

‘I had forgotten.' She was an elegant woman with a presence that could become commanding; with her jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, strong features, and upright carriage, it seemed apposite to picture her with mantilla and gold inlaid tortoiseshell comb, side-saddle on a caparisoned horse almost as proud as she. In fact, she had not a trace of Andaluce blood in her. She stirred the heating chocolate with a wooden spoon.

‘I saw Diego last night,' he said. ‘Asked to be remembered to you.'

‘The blackguard!'

‘I thought you had a soft spot for him?'

‘Doesn't stop him being a blackguard.'

‘What's he done to deserve that?'

‘Eulalia was so certain he would marry her that she crocheted a matrimonial bedspread, yet never once did he say or do anything that would allow her or her parents to demand he marry her. Then when Rosa appeared with many millions of pesetas – if one were evil-minded, one might ask how she earned them while she lived in Barcelona – he was after her as hard as he could run.'

‘He was always a realist.'

‘Only a man could say such a heartless thing!' Yet she spoke regretfully and not, as would have been normal, aggressively. ‘Eulalia's heart was broken and her trousseau, on which she'd worked since she could first hold a needle, for her became rags.'

‘Surely they came in handy when she married Narciso?'

‘You can believe it was the same thing?'

He could, but clearly she couldn't.

She took the pan off the cooker, poured chocolate into a mug; she placed the mug, coca, and some membrilla on the table. ‘I hope the coca's all right?'

It was very unusual for her to be diffident about the quality of her cooking. He cut a slice, spread membrilla on it, ate.

‘Well?'

‘There's not a pasteleria between here and La Coruña could equal it.'

She was satisfied. ‘I must go and do the shopping for lunch.'

‘Pollastre farcit amb magrana?'

She shook her head.

His disappointment was brief. Lunch would still be a feast.

She picked up a shopping bag and her purse, and left. He finished the coca on his plate and reached out to cut another slice, checked himself. Recently, the doctor had told him to smoke, drink, and eat less if he wanted many more birthdays. In the face of so stern a warning, he had sworn to take the advice to heart. But this coca was as light as a thrush's breast feather; and doctors always exaggerated in order to increase their self-importance.

He had just finished both coca and rich chocolate when the phone rang. He left the kitchen, went through the sitting/dining-room and into the front room.

‘It's the Policia Local down in the port. Is that Inspector Alvarez?'

‘Speaking.'

‘It's about time! Talk about being one hell of a job to get hold of you – the post said you'd be at work at eight-thirty, but I've rung your office every quarter of an hour since then, trying to get hold of you. Finally, they gave me your home number.'

‘I was called out unexpectedly and have only just returned for my breakfast.'

‘There's a spot of trouble here. A couple of English came in yesterday to report a friend was missing from a boat and they didn't know what had happened to him; they've been in again this morning to say he still hasn't turned up.'

‘Missing people are the Guardia's job.'

‘But they say this isn't their pigeon until it's certain the man is missing and it's up to you to ascertain that.'

‘They are a bunch of lazy bastards.'

‘Who'll argue?'

‘Why aren't they certain?'

‘There's no body.'

‘Of course there isn't since it'll take time to float to the surface.'

‘Argue it out with them. I'm just the messenger. Señor Sheard, Señor Lewis, Señorita Fenn, and Señorita Glass sailed out from the port late on Thursday evening. They crossed the bay and anchored off the Hotel Parelona, had a drink, fell asleep. When they woke up, Señor Lewis wasn't aboard and there's been no sign of him since.'

*   *   *

The row of single-storey terrace houses along Carer Joan Sitjar (until recently, Calle General Ortega) had originally been fishermen's cottages, offering only minimum shelter; however, each had had a garden at the back where vegetables and fruit could be grown, pigs and chickens kept. The rising tide of prosperity, fuelled by the tourist trade, had ensured that now they were in good repair and modernized to offer a considerable degree of comfort, but, since progress was always double-edged, owners were now forbidden to keep pigs or chickens in the gardens.

Alvarez braked to a halt in front of No. 14, whose walls were painted a light pink and doors and shutters green. He brought a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his face; the day was burning hot. He left the car, crossed the pavement, stepped through the bead curtain into the immaculately maintained front room. He called out.

A middle-aged woman, wearing an apron, hurried through the inner doorway. She studied him. ‘Enrique!'

He knew her face but couldn't place her name.

‘I saw Dolores only last week, up in the village where I go to buy vegetables because they're so much better than here where people only bother about selling to the foreigners. She said that…'

As he listened, he searched his memory and finally remembered who she was. When she paused, he said: ‘How's Joaquin?'

There was another flood of words. Her husband had had the bad fall when building a house for a German. What a house! More than forty million pesetas! Her father had bought his house for six hundred! Joaquin was much better and would be back to work very soon. She would be glad when he was. To have a man around the house all the time could drive a woman crazy. It was lucky they'd let the room to the Englishman – with no children of their own, because God had not been generous, they had an extra bedroom and it was stupid not to have someone sleeping in it who was willing to pay good pesetas. The Englishman played chess and for some of the time he kept Joaquin out of her way …

‘The reason I'm here is to have a word with Señor Sheard.'

Sweet Mary, but one could never be certain when one arose in the morning that one would be alive to go to bed in the evening. To think that only a few days before, the Englishman had been sleeping in her house and now he was dead …

‘But surely Señor Sheard is still alive?'

‘What a question! Did I not give him breakfast before he left early this morning?'

‘Then why did you say he was dead?'

‘Didn't Dolores say to me, no man ever listens? Perhaps a fortnight ago, Bert came to me…'

‘Who's Bert?'

‘Who do you think? Señor Sheard. Foreigners have Christian names, even if they sound so ugly that no saint would have them.' She spoke more quickly, raising her voice as one did when talking to someone slightly slow-witted. Bert met a friend who'd nowhere to stay and had asked if he might share the room. Naturally, she'd been about to refuse – some things happened in the world that a decent woman did not wish to know about – when Bert had added that his friend would naturally pay the same rent as he did. Whatever one thought about such things, only a complete fool spat on a peseta. So she'd said yes. Regretfully, after a few days the friend had left to stay at the Hotel Vista Bella. Now he was dead! Aiee, life was but death delayed!