A Question of Motive (3 page)

‘My God!'

‘If I know where Señor Gill is, I can speak to him.'

‘But he doesn't . . . You can't think it may be he.'

She had spoken with certainty, not alarm. ‘I have no knowledge who is the unfortunate man. Therefore, I have to consider he may have come from your house. When did you last see your uncle?'

‘When I left to go to Palma yesterday morning.'

‘You have not seen him today?' Her answers confused him. ‘Were you aware he was not here this morning?'

‘When he didn't come down to breakfast, I went up to his room and saw his bed had not been slept in.'

‘That must have worried you?'

After a long silence, she said in a low voice: ‘No, it didn't.'

‘Why is that?'

‘Because he had obviously gone to see a friend and stayed the night.'

‘He often does so?'

‘When . . .'

‘Yes, señorita?'

‘Do you have to know?'

‘I think so.'

‘It's so complicated.'

He waited.

‘Robin's wife died some years ago. Then last year we were invited to a party at which we met the Oakleys. He . . . he became friendly with Virginia.'

‘And is with her now?'

‘He'd have let me know if he wasn't. You see . . . He must know I can guess how the relationship is, but if it's not put into words . . .'

‘You can speak to Señora Oakley and ask if he is there?'

‘I suppose so . . . But it will embarrass both of them. And me.'

‘Nevertheless, I think I must ask you to get in touch.'

She hesitated, finally stood, crossed to the telephone which stood on a rosewood card table. She lifted the receiver, dialled, listened, replaced the receiver. He assumed she had dialled the wrong number.

‘He . . . he's not there.'

‘How can you be certain?'

‘Paul answered.'

‘He is the husband?'

‘Robin must have gone to stay with friends in Andraitx. He's repeatedly said he hadn't seen them for a long time and must do so.' She spoke intently. ‘That's where he must be.'

‘Would you please ring them.'

She might not have heard him. He watched her changing expressions and was convinced he could correctly interpret them because he had known a time when logic said one thing, the heart another. When he had been told Juana-María had been crushed against a wall by a drunken French driver, he had driven at a reckless speed to the hospital, knowing her injuries must be very serious, praying that she was not badly hurt because the car had been moving slowly, she would smile at him and the doctor would say she would be fit and well in a short time. She had died minutes after he reached her in intensive care. ‘Please, señorita, speak to them.'

She stood, crossed to the card table, picked up a small tabulated notebook. She opened this at the wrong page, finally found what she wanted, went to dial, but stopped. ‘I . . . I can't.' Her voice shook. ‘You'll have to.'

He walked over and took the notebook from her. ‘Which name is it?'

‘Green.'

He dialled.

‘Yes?'

‘May I speak to Señor Gill, please?'

‘I'm afraid he's not here.'

‘I am sorry to have troubled you.' He replaced the receiver before he could be asked why he was phoning. ‘He's not with them, señorita.'

‘Then he's with the Yates. Or the Keens,' she said wildly.

‘Before I speak to them, I must have a word with Parra.'

‘I tell you, he has to be with one of them.'

‘Please believe me, it will be best if I talk to Parra first.'

She mumbled something. Fear raised lines in her face.

He crossed to her chair and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Courage, señorita . . .'

She jerked his hand off with a quick shrug. ‘Don't,' she cried shrilly.

‘But . . .'

‘Don't touch me.'

He was bewildered. ‘I was trying to offer you comfort. We Mallorquins often touch each other as a mark of comfort, sympathy, friendship. I fear I had forgotten that many do not regard this in the same way.'

She made a sound like a strangled cry, stood, walked to the window and stared out. When she spoke, her voice was strained. ‘I . . . I couldn't help myself because . . .'

‘There is no need to explain.'

‘I must.'

About to repeat what he had just said, he checked the words. Why, was difficult to explain, but he was certain that by explaining the reason for her apparent gauche action, she would in some way lessen the panicky fear which gripped her. He could remember how, as he drove into the grounds of the hospital where Juana-María lay, he had promised himself he would forgo much if she recovered. It had been as if he had believed his self-sacrifice could help her.

‘Three years ago . . . Three years ago, I was returning from work in the City. I left the tube at Ealing and walked up the road, as I did every evening. There was a house on a corner which was empty and for sale. The front garden had a hedge around it. I was passing the gate when a man came out from the garden, put an arm around my throat, and dragged me inside. I fought, chewed his hand and made him let me go, screamed for help. He cursed me, threw me to the ground, kicked me in the face and side, and ran. I kept screaming and a couple found me and called for help.

‘I was six weeks in hospital. When I came out, I was terrified if a man I didn't know very well tried to touch me. I've tried and tried to cure myself and failed. I simply couldn't stop myself shouting at you even though it was absurdly rude.'

‘It is kind of you to have explained.'

‘You looked so dismayed.'

And now he would have to ask more questions which would possibly bring her fresh tragedy. ‘As I mentioned, I need to have a word with Parra.'

She looked at him with sharp worry.

He left the sitting room, searched for and found the kitchen. Parra stood by the central table. Luisa Parra, as he presumed she must be, was stirring a pot on one of the gas rings set on top of an electric oven.

She stopped stirring and turned. ‘You're the inspector?'

‘That's right.' Older than Parra, she possessed none of her husband's sleek looks. Her figure said that she enjoyed much of her own cooking.

Cooks demanded praise. Alvarez said: ‘What you're preparing smells delicious.'

‘Fabada Asturiana as it should be made.'

‘A dish for the gods!' He turned to Parra. ‘Can you say when you last saw the señor?'

‘Yesterday morning before we left for our day off.' He spoke to his wife. ‘Was it around ten o'clock?'

‘A quarter past.'

‘You spoke to him then?' Alvarez asked.

‘Only to say we were leaving,' Parra answered.

‘Did you know he was going out?'

‘He had said he wouldn't be here for lunch so there was no need to leave him a meal.'

‘And the señorita was not eating here?'

‘She was going to Palma to do some shopping and might eat there or return to one of the local restaurants.'

‘Is the señor's car in the garage?'

‘I imagine not.'

‘Will you find out, please?'

‘You think he may have been in some sort of accident?'

‘At the moment, I don't think anything for certain.'

Parra left and quickly returned. ‘His car is still there. Someone must have picked him up.'

‘I want a photograph of him. Find one if you can.'

‘I'll ask the señorita . . .'

‘No.'

‘But . . .'

‘It will be best if she does not learn I have asked. Obviously, neither of you has heard a man was found dead at the foot of Barca, having fallen from the top.'

She turned, holding a wooden spoon, and stared at Alvarez. ‘Sweet Mary!'

‘It might be the señor?' Parra asked.

‘It is a possibility.'

Parra spoke to his wife. ‘Didn't I tell him?'

‘More than once,' she answered.

‘And he was annoyed and told me he was capable of managing his own life without my assistance?'

‘I heard him say that.'

‘What did you tell him which so annoyed him?' Alvarez asked.

‘That when he warned everyone not to go beyond the fencing, it was stupid of him to do so. Not, of course, that I used the word “stupid”.'

‘You have seen him step over the fencing?'

‘Many times.'

‘Recently?'

‘Happens several times a week.'

‘Why would he take such a risk?'

‘To check or photograph the orchid.'

‘Orchid?'

‘It's growing between the fencing and the edge of the cliff.'

‘Wouldn't have thought anything would grow on the rock.'

‘It's in a gully filled with muck. Some time back a friend was staying here and noticed it. He said it was rare and had never been seen before so far away from its natural habitat or in so inhospitable a place. It was such a rarity, the señor had to do everything he could to protect it. It was called Mosques . . .' He stopped.

‘Mosques blanques,' she said.

‘He was very interested in flowers?' Alvarez asked.

‘Used to be that he just liked them in the garden.'

‘Funny thing to get interested in.'

‘I suppose it's because it's so rare. And he said it was so beautiful.'

Beauty was a personal judgement. ‘Perhaps you'd find a photo of him?'

‘I'll see what I can do.' Parra left.

Luisa moved a saucepan on to an unlit burner and switched off the gas. ‘The dead man may be the señor?'

‘Until I see a photo of him, I won't know.'

‘But you think it is him?'

He did not answer her question directly. ‘Has he seemed very depressed recently?'

‘Why do you ask?'

‘Has he?'

‘Wouldn't have said so.'

‘He was the same as usual?'

‘The little I saw of him.'

Parra returned to the kitchen and handed Alvarez a framed photograph of Gill and a woman.

‘Who is she?'

‘His late wife.'

Despite the injuries to the head of the dead man, there could be no doubt.

‘Is it him?' Parra asked.

‘Yes.'

Luisa said something incomprehensible.

‘I must tell her,' Parra said.

‘I will,' Alvarez contradicted.

‘Wouldn't it be kinder since she knows me?'

‘It is going to be cruel whoever tells her and it is my duty to do so.'

‘Please be gentle,' Luisa said.

‘Of course. If you come with me, you will be able to offer her what I cannot.'

She spoke to her husband. ‘Watch the fabada.'

They went through to the sitting room. Mary stood by the right-hand picture window. She swung round, looked briefly at Luisa, then at Alvarez.

He spoke directly, convinced this was the kindest thing to do. ‘Señorita, I am very sorry to have to tell you it was your uncle who fell.'

Her lips trembled and her face contorted. ‘No. Please God, he can't be dead.'

Luisa went forward and put her arms around Mary.

He returned to the kitchen. If Parra was keeping close watch on the cooking, this was not immediately apparent since he was seated at the table.

‘How did she . . .' Parra stopped.

‘As one must expect. Your wife is consoling her. I need to know something concerning the señor.'

‘I know nothing about his private life.'

‘I wouldn't expect you to. What has his behaviour been like in the past few days? Has he been acting normally?'

‘Yes.'

‘He wasn't depressed?'

‘I suppose he wasn't as cheerful as most times and maybe a bit down and a shade short-tempered.'

‘Your wife thinks he was very normal.'

‘She doesn't see him nearly as much as I do.'

‘Any idea why he could have been depressed?'

‘Might have been money.'

‘Why d'you say that?'

‘He complained to Luisa that housekeeping was becoming increasingly expensive and maybe there'd have to be cuts in things like lobster.'

‘That's all?'

‘Well . . . I did happen to hear him speaking on the telephone because I was passing through the room. Couldn't help hearing. You understand?'

‘You wouldn't wish to be thought eavesdropping. Why is what he said of interest?'

‘It seemed he could have lost a lot of money in the financial crisis.'

‘Could or had?'

‘Wasn't in the room long enough to hear.'

Alvarez asked further questions but learned nothing fresh. He left the house and noticed a man working on a flower bed. In contrast to the normal form of weeding – dragging, chopping, chipping the earth with a mattock, to the detriment of flowers as well as weeds – he was kneeling and using a hand-fork. He stood as Alvarez approached.

‘Are you Santos?'

‘And you're from the cuerpo.'

Alvarez made a brief judgement. Moorish blood many generations back, a rugged face, broad mouth, strong shoulders, and a self-possessed manner which said he considered himself at least the equal of the next man. ‘You know what's happened?'

‘Been told there's a dead man below.'

‘I'm afraid it may be the señor.'

‘Can't say I'm surprised.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Would go over the fencing to look at that bloody orchid. Said he wanted to record it for his friend. If it hadn't been there, he'd never have been so daft.'

‘Did he often step over the fencing to look at it?'

‘Near every day.'

‘Did you see him on Saturday?'

‘No.'

‘When did you knock off work?'

‘Midday, same as ever.'

‘Will you show me where the orchid is.'