Death Trick (12 page)

‘Señorita, thank you for helping me. Please think very seriously about returning to your family.’ He saw from the way her mouth tightened that, sadly, she had no intention of doing so.

Alvarez parked in front of Braddon’s house, climbed out of the car and walked towards the front door and this, for a brief moment, brought him in sight of the swimming pool; Braddon was sitting out on the pool patio, his look of sullen dissatisfaction obvious even at that distance. Alvarez walked on. Only those with practical experience knew what hell a lotus existence could become to someone psychologically unsuited to its style of freedom. Impotent bitterness was a potent fuel, especially to a man with a quick temper . . . The maid opened the front door and he was explaining to her what he wanted when Letitia entered the hall from the sitting-room. ‘It’s you!’ she said sharply.

‘Señora, I must apologize for disturbing you, but I have to ask your husband some questions.’

‘You’ve asked him more than enough already.’ She stared belligerently at him. ‘Haven’t you yet found out who killed Roig?’

‘I am afraid not.’

‘He was a crook.’

‘Perhaps regrettably, that was not sufficient justification for killing him.’

‘You’re entitled to your opinion, I’m entitled to mine . . . Well, I suppose you’d better come on through.’

He followed her into the sitting-room and then out on to the pool patio. Braddon was wearing only shorts and his chest was nearly the colour of bronze.

Letitia said: ‘He wants to ask you more questions. God knows why. If he can’t judge you’re incapable of killing anyone, he’s not much of a detective.’ It was impossible to judge whether she had momentarily forgotten that Alvarez spoke fluent English or was being deliberately rude.

Braddon, who had not come to his feet, looked up, squinting because of the sun. ‘I told you last time, I had a bit of a row with him, but that’s all. And what I’d like to know is, who wouldn’t in the circumstances?’

‘Very few, señor.’

He was surprised by such an answer and it was several seconds before he said: ‘Then why go on and on about things?’

‘Because he was murdered.’

‘But it wasn’t anything to do with me.’

‘Yet surely you wish to help me discover who it was who killed him?’

‘Why the hell should I care? Bloody good luck to whoever it was. I’ll tell you, it’s no good looking to me for crocodile tears; I never did believe in that nonsense about forgetting what a bloke was really like just as soon as he’s dead. Roig was a pure corkscrew of a bastard . . .’

She hurriedly interrupted him. Joe, don’t let yourself get so worked up.’

‘What d’you expect me to do, knowing he swindled me and what that means to us? If I had the chance—’

She interrupted him again, before he could finish whatever he’d been going to say, and she decided it would be politic to swallow her true feelings and offer Alvarez a more friendly welcome. ‘Why are we still standing?’

‘I’m not,’ observed Braddon.

‘Inspector, do sit down; I think you’ll find that chair there will be the most comfortable.’

He sat on the wood and canvas chair which was partially within the shade of the sun umbrella set in a concrete base.

‘Well, what is it this time?’ demanded Braddon, accepting that he’d have to cooperate, at least to some degree.

‘Señor, since speaking to you on Sunday, I’ve learned certain things and you may be able to help me interpret them and find out what they really mean.’

Letitia moved a chair and sat close to her husband, ready to try to cut short any further rashness on his part.

‘Señor Roig knew an Englishman, Señor Oakley. Have you met Señor Oakley?’

‘No,’ replied Braddon.

‘He had a house in Llueso.’

‘It doesn’t alter anything if he had a house in Timbuktu. I’ve never met him.’

Letitia put a hand on his forearm, but he shrugged it off.

‘He also has been murdered.’

‘So are you going to be daft enough to suggest I killed him as well?’

‘How terrible!’ she said, trying to counter the suggestion of indifference to another murder—which, she was certain, might be interpreted as a mask to other and deeper emotions —which her husband’s manner had given.

‘He was murdered for one of two reasons. Either he knew who killed Roig and therefore had to be silenced, or it was because he and Roig had done business together. At the moment, I think the latter possibility is the more likely . . . Señor, do you know the name of Andreu y Soler?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘They are developing the urbanization of La Portaña.’

‘Never heard of that either.’

‘Yes, you have, Joe,’ she said.

‘When I say I haven’t, I mean I bloody well haven’t.’

‘But we went to have a look at it only last month . . .’

‘No, we didn’t.’

‘That’s the place you’d read about and couldn’t understand why everything was so terribly expensive and you wanted to see it for yourself. And when you saw it, you said it was just for catching people who are snobs. And afterwards we went to the Chinese restaurant. . .’

‘I tell you, I’ve never seen the bloody place.’

She belatedly realized that if she continued to insist that he had, she would either make herself look stupid or her husband a liar. ‘No, you’re right. I’ve just remembered, it’s John I went with because you weren’t feeling well. And he didn’t like Chinese food, but was too polite to tell me beforehand because I’d said I loved it. And when he didn’t finish his spring rolls . . .’ She came to a stop, realizing that she was sounding less and less convincing.

Alvarez said: ‘Señor, have you heard of a firm, registered in the Cayman Islands, called Ashley Developments?’

‘No.’

‘Then now I have asked all the questions.’ He stood. ‘Except there is one more. Have you been able to remember someone who can vouch for the fact that on the night of the eighth you did not leave this house?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ she said, her tone now once more sharp, ‘I was here and he never moved.’

‘But have you managed to remember someone else?’

‘No,’ said Braddon pugnaciously, ‘but that doesn’t alter anything. I was bloody here and you can try as hard as you like and you won’t prove differently.’

Hotel Rocador was just over a kilometre outside Porto Cristo and the natural harbour which made the port a haven for yachtsmen. Situated on top of a cliff, it had a superb view out to sea. It was family owned, and even though virtually all the guests came on package holidays, they were treated with respect and attention, with the result that many of them came year after year.

The receptionist said that Vidal was off duty and suggested he might be in his digs in Porto Cristo. Alvarez drove back to the port. Camino S’on Perragut, at the western end, wound up a hill to a dead-end at the top. No. 41 was the last house on the right, remarkable for the shade of violet in which the shutters had been painted.

An elderly woman led him through the house and into a small enclosed patio. She pointed to the two-floor building on the far side and said that Vidal lived in the bedroom on the top floor.

He climbed the wooden stairs, past three cages containing canaries, and reached a small landing. From the room came the clash of rock music. He knocked on the door, but was hardly surprised when there Was no response. He opened the door and stepped inside. Vidal, wearing only boxer shorts, was lying on the bed; he had been reading a magazine. ‘What d’you want?’ he shouted.

‘Silence, to begin with.’

He hesitated, then leaned over and switched off the tape-recorder.

‘Cuerpo general de policia.’ He was not surprised to see the wary, defensive response to this announcement; most people, even those who lived lives whiter than new-fallen snow, reacted initially in the same way. ‘Mind if I sit?’

Vidal came to his feet in one swift, graceful movement, crossed to the only chair, picked up a pile of magazines and dropped them on to the floor, gestured with his right hand. ‘For you, señor.’

Mockery, or extravagant courtesy? You never knew with an Andaluce, thought Alvarez. He sat and the chair creaked, making him wonder if it would collapse since it was obviously riddled with worm holes. ‘I’m making inquiries into the murder of Pablo Roig—you’ll have heard about it?’

‘Someone at the hotel did mention it.’

‘You don’t sound very concerned. But surely you knew him?’

‘On the contrary.’

‘Are you saying that you never met him?’

‘No. Merely that I did not know him.’

‘So you’d agree that you saw him at his house, Casa Gran?’

Vidal inclined his head.

‘When?’

‘Perhaps a month ago.’

‘Do you know Señorita Garcia, or have you merely met her?’

If Vidal resented the form of the question, he did not show this. ‘I know her.’

‘Is this from some time back?’

‘It is from when we were both young.’

‘How would you describe the relationship between the two of you?’

‘To a stranger, I would not.’

‘Then think of me as a friend. Are you fond of her?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Were you in love with her before she met Roig?’

He said, with haughty scorn: ‘That is a ridiculous question.’

For once, Alvarez’s normally equable temper rose. This young man could now think of her only as damaged goods and a noble Andaluce demanded a woman of purity since only then could she be good enough to be his wife. ‘D’you mind getting off your high horse and telling me just why it’s so ridiculous?’

He looked at Alvarez, surprised but not alarmed, by the harshness with which the question had been put. ‘Because she is my second cousin.’

Alvarez had seldom felt such a fool.

‘Our great-grandparents lived in Bodon and my grandmother married a man from Posuna. They didn’t welcome the marriage since the people of Bodon have always regarded themselves as superior to those of Posuna. That is ridiculous, of course.’

‘You seem to a find that a lot in this world is ridiculous.’

‘I do.’

It was only coincidence that Vidal had been looking directly at him as he spoke, Alvarez assured himself. ‘Let’s get back to Roig. You went to Casa Gran and saw him there, didn’t you?’

‘Did I?’

‘You’ve forgotten that Señora Monserrat let you into the house and took you out to the courtyard where he was?’

He did not answer.

‘What happened then?’

‘He was insolent.’

‘Which infuriated you?’

‘Did it?’

‘Did you visit the place again?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘To speak to him about what?’

‘To explain what he must do.’

‘Which was?’

‘The matter is no concern of yours.’

‘On the contrary; I’m investigating his murder.’

‘My visit had nothing to do with that.’

‘I’ll be the judge.’

He was silent.

‘Who was in the house this second time?’

‘Roig and a woman.’

‘Who was she?’

‘A whore.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘I am neither blind nor deaf,’ he said scornfully.

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘I tried.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘He refused to listen to what I had to say or to promise to do what I asked him to do.’

‘Did he admit to having known Señorita Garcia?’

‘He merely called me a naive bumpkin who knew nothing about the world. The whore laughed.’

‘So what did you do or say?’

‘I left.’

‘But not before having one hell of a row?’

‘No.’

‘You want me to believe that you didn’t tell him what you thought of him and his previous ten generations? With all your overdeveloped pride, you didn’t threaten to push his head through his fundament for treating you like that in front of a woman?’

‘One does not demean oneself by arguing with a peasant.’

Reluctantly, Alvarez had to admire the spirit of a man who, himself poor, could mean it when he referred to an extremely rich man as a peasant. ‘When did you next visit Casa Gran?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Weren’t you there on the night of the eighth?’

‘If I didn’t return, I can’t have been.’

‘Surely you wanted to revenge yourself on someone who’d insulted your pride and made a woman laugh at you, even if you weren’t prepared to argue with him?’

‘A man can only be insulted by his equals or his betters.’

‘Then you seldom feel insulted?’

He disdained to answer.

‘Can you prove where you were on the night of the eighth?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘I advise you at least to try.’

He thought for quite a time. ‘I came off duty at seven.’

‘So what did you do after then?’

‘I probably came back here; perhaps after having a drink at a bar.’

‘Is there anyone who can vouch for seeing you during the evening?’

‘Why should they bother?’

‘To prove you’re telling the truth when you say you didn’t go to Casa Gran.’

‘I do not lie.’

If he’d been wearing a sword, thought Alvarez, he’d have touched the hilt with an unmistakable gesture. Andalucia now had an autonomous government. It was a pity they had not seen fit to ban emigration.

Alvarez arrived downstairs the following morning at nine o’clock and Dolores called out from the front room, where she had been polishing the furniture, that she had been out while he had been snoring and had bought him a couple of ensaimadas; they were on the kitchen table and for his chocolate all he had to do was put a light under the saucepan and warm it up. Admirable woman, he thought, as he lit the gas. He sat at the table and ate the ensaimadas with butter and apricot jam and drank two cupfuls of hot chocolate. An excellent way of starting the day—perhaps a slightly late start, as he was reminded when the clock in the dining-room chimed the half-hour. In view of this fact, it seemed wiser not to go straight to the post, but to do something which could reasonably be brought forward as a valid excuse for not having been in the office at eight, if challenged on that point, What? Now that he knew that any specific reference either to Andreu y Soler or Ashley Developments was important, surely a second and much more careful examination of all the papers in Oakley’s house was necessary?