Death Trick (21 page)

‘You are the Spanish police and want to speak about something in connection with an investment we’ve made in the Spanish firm of Andreu y Soler? What is the matter?’ There was a note of concern in his voice.

A firm of highly conservative rectitude, he thought, which would recoil from the first whiff of scandal. ‘There’s nothing wrong, señor. I just thought you might be able to help me by saying how I can get in touch with Señor Oakley.’ This was the moment of truth. Would a short silence be followed by angry surprise? Get hold of a man who’d drowned back in July? What the hell sort of a policeman was he . . . ?

‘Why are you ringing us to find this out?’

‘Andreu y Soler suggested you as being the most likely people to know. He is not at the address they have and the matter is urgent.’

‘Do you mind telling me roughly why you wish to speak to him?’

‘He’s a potential witness in a case and I have to verify certain facts as soon as I can.’

‘Would you hold on a moment, please.’

As he waited, his thoughts raced ahead . . .

‘Hullo. We have a Swiss number where he can be contacted. Would you like me to give you that?’

He wrote the number down and thanked them. He telephoned the Swiss number.

A voice said in French, then German: ‘This is an answering machine. At the moment, Gerald Oakley is away, but if you will leave a message he will receive it very shortly. Please speak after the last of the four pips. You have sixty seconds in which to leave your message.’

The pips sounded.

‘This is Inspector Alvarez, from Llueso. Today is the seventeenth of September, fifty-four days after you drowned in the sea, many miles off Mallorca. Will you please telephone me at my office.’ He gave the number, then cut the connection. It occurred to him that anyone—other than Oakley—who had heard him, would place him as either crazy or drunk.

He slumped back in the chair. But for one thing, Oakley could have disappeared and the rest of the world would always have believed him dead. Ironically, that one thing was his pride which demanded that he prove his honesty.

He was a man of many contradictions; happy to benefit from illegal activities, yet demanding of himself the highest standards of honesty in all dealings with his dishonest partner; clever and hard-headed, yet naively trusting when it came to the people he chose to work for him . . .

Roig had swindled Andreu y Soler and put the whole urbanization at risk. Another man might well have shrugged his shoulders and told his partner that it was just bad luck —money earned by swindling had been lost to a swindler —but because Oakley had a total sense of loyalty and honesty, because he felt guilty for not having detected what was happening soon enough, he’d desperately sought to find a way of saving everything. And it seemed he might have succeeded when disaster struck—Roig had been murdered. He didn’t need to be half as clever as he was to appreciate how likely he was to be named the main suspect. And let it be known that he was suspected of murder and any firm, let alone one as conservatively honest as the German one, would withdraw. So he had had to do something to keep the police at bay either until they found out who the real murderer was or until he could gain enough time for the German company to reach a decision and to invest their money and so reach the point of no return . . .

How to keep the police at bay for long enough? He must have reached the answer at least in part due to his sense of ironic humour. Wrong-foot them, again and again, until they were reluctant openly to accuse him, let alone arrest him, until quite certain they had all the facts, exactly, precisely, and incontrovertibly . . . Since he was apparently involved in the murder, first make it appear he had fled the island in an attempt to escape. Then, when he was being sought as the killer, let the evidence suggest that far from having killed, he had been killed. When his murderer was being sought, return to life and explain away all those details which had pointed to his death. Finally, when enough time had been gained, ‘die’ once more . . .

He’d learned from the note Beatriz had left that an Englishman had arrived who clearly was working with the Spanish police. Obviously, a detective come to question him about the insider dealings in London and Ashley Developments. With no way of judging how much the English police now knew, or how close to arrest and subsequent deportation he was, he’d realized that he had to disappear at once. But although the German company were very interested, they had not yet finally committed themselves. Now there was only one way of winning through. A faked suicide. But at such a time this was going to be viewed with the deepest possible suspicion, however brilliantly staged. So the question became, what sort of proof would overcome even that degree of suspicion? And the answer had been, proof provided by people who appeared emotionally to have the most reason for wishing him alive . . .

The setting sun was still visible above the mountains, but the burning heat had gone from it; animals moved from the shade they’d used all day, villagers carried chairs out into the streets and gossiped.

The telephone in Alvarez’s office rang and he answered the call.

‘Good evening, Inspector, it’s Gerald Oakley here. I confess I had hoped I wouldn’t receive your call, but there was always something about you which warned me that I might; and if I refer to a suggestion of dogged persistence, please accept that as a compliment and in no way condescending or critical. Now, before we go any further, satisfy my curiosity on one point. Why leave a message which gives me due warning that although I may have fooled all the world some of the time, unfortunately I’ve only managed to fool some of the world all the time. Surely you should have remained silent and travelled to Switzerland and asked the Swiss police to arrest me on a charge of murder before I realized my danger?’

‘There were really two reasons, señor.’

‘Which were?’

‘First, I was sure I would not succeed.’

‘Why not?’

‘I was certain you had foreseen the possibility and therefore must have worked out how to circumvent the danger.’

‘You have a flattering faith in my abilities.’

‘With reason. After all, I had discovered how you had foreseen the possibility that you would be investigated too closely for your own safety and therefore at some stage it might be necessary to “die” in an accident; and that the only way in which such a “death” would be accepted would be on the evidence of someone who must be presumed to want you very much alive. And the way in which you set about that was to erase the address of your wife in Italy on your passport, knowing that a forensic laboratory could eventually raise it. If an attempt is apparently made to hide something, the overwhelming inference has to be that the reason this was done was in order to conceal it—not to reveal it—and therefore whatever was hidden will be accepted as genuine. So who would doubt that your wife had been living in San Remo for as long as she claimed, or would question her distress and natural hatred for her late husband’s final mistress, whose address in Nice she just happened to have . . . ?

‘When a man can plan ahead like that, he is not going to leave himself wide open to disaster through a simple matter like providing a third party with a telephone number which can easily be traced. I imagine that you have an accommodation address which you never go near, but in which you have installed an answering machine capable of being activated by remote control. This enables you not only to keep in touch with your business interests, but also to learn about dangers without ever placing yourself in jeopardy.’

‘I have to award you full marks for perspicacity, Inspector . . . Let’s move on. What was the second reason?’

‘You did not murder Roig.’

‘I’m gratified you’ve accepted that fact, but also surprised. When I had the pleasure of meeting you, you left me in little doubt that I was suspect number one.’

‘Since then I have learned that you are a man of honour.’

‘As Brutus would tell you, an honourable man can kill.’

‘Certainly, but only in a moment of overwhelming passion when he has not planned and does not really know what he’s doing. The murderer went into the kitchen—quite a distance away—to get the knife and returned to the sitting-room to stab Roig, which means he knew exactly what he was doing; he stabbed him more than once and with brutal force, which either suggests a frenzy or a deliberate intention to kill, and because he had gone to the kitchen for the knife he was not in a frenzy.’

‘My respect for you increases all the time . . . If you don’t believe I murdered Roig, exactly why have you phoned me?’

‘To ask you some questions.’

‘Can there be any left?’

‘Have you and your wife separated, señor?’

‘And what is the relevance of that?’

‘Because . . .’

‘Because what?’

T hope it is not true and that Señora Oakley told me that merely as part of the story that was designed to lead me on to the woman who appeared to be your mistress.’

‘The best way of answering you is to get someone else to do it. Hang on a moment.’

A woman said: ‘Inspector, rest assured that if I suspected for one second that my husband had a mistress, I’d deal with her in no uncertain manner.’

‘I’m so glad.’

‘What a nice man you are! Sue’s absolutely right.’

‘Is Sue your daughter who was calling herself both Jacqueline Tabriz and Madame Brinaud? And who was trained in acting in England?’

‘Quite correct.’

‘She is a very good actress, just as you are.’

‘Thank you. I think you should know that she is feeling very contrite. You were so nice, she hated deceiving you and when you offered to pay her fare back home, she could hardly refrain from confessing everything.’

He ceased to feel embarrassed at the way in which he had been so thoroughly hoodwinked. ‘Señora, may I ask a very personal question? Right at the end of my visit to your daughter, she seemed very, very bitter and I cannot believe that that was a false emotion. Has she been unhappy recently?’

‘You are much too discerning. Yes, she’s been exceedingly unhappy, but things are gradually getting better. She went with a touring company to France, where she was educated, and met Michel Brinaud, fell in love with him, brought him home for us to meet, and said she was thinking of marrying him. Gerry, who’s a sharp judge of character, said he was a rotter. Couldn’t have been less tactful, but then there are times when he acts like a bull in a china shop. Naturally, she went off and married the wretched man. She suffered eighteen months of hell and then cleared out.’

‘I do hope she soon finds someone nice.’

‘I’ll pass on your wishes—she’ll really appreciate them . . . Now, would you like another word with Gerry?’

‘If I may, please.’

Oakley came back on the line.

‘Señor, can you tell me anything about the murder of Roig?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What really happened the day he was murdered?’

‘I’ve always told you the truth except in one detail; I drove away much later than I admitted. Which of course was a silly mistake, since it pinned me down as a liar.’

‘And were you arguing with him all the time?’

‘Arguing, pleading, threatening, promising, doing everything I could think of to try and make him repay the money, or at least a sufficient part of it to keep the bank sharks at bay. In the end, by which time he was half tight, I accepted that he wasn’t going to repay a peseta whatever I said — either because he wouldn’t or couldn’t, having, as he claimed, gambled the whole lot away.’

‘Did you see anyone near the house when you left?’

‘No.’

‘Was there much other traffic?’

‘If you mean on the dirt track, none at all.’

‘And on the road close to the dirt track?’

‘A couple of cars, no more.’

‘Did you notice a motorized bike of any sort?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then I have no more questions.’

‘No? You surprise me. Don’t you want to know if I am working hand-in-glove with the insider dealer in London?’

‘I haven’t the slightest doubt that you are.’

Oakley chuckled.

For once, Dolores was not working in the kitchen; she was on her own, watching the television. Alvarez poured himself a generous brandy, settled in one of the chairs. The programme came to an end and she used the remote control to switch the set off.

‘Where’s everyone?’ he asked.

Jaime’s gone to see Bertine and the children are playing with Angel . . . You’re home early.’

‘I’ve been feeling very tired.’

‘If you drank less, you’d feel more wide awake.’

‘I’m tired because I’ve been working too hard . . . Dolores, if a young woman’s been having an affair with an older man and is now in trouble and ought to go home to her family, but won’t, saying she can’t, what would you think is the real reason?’

She swung round, spoke in a shocked voice. ‘Enrique!’

‘Here, you’re not thinking it’s me, are you? . . . You women have one-track minds.’

‘That’s half a track more than you men.’

He drank, rested the glass on the arm of the chair. ‘You’d think she was pregnant, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Funny! It just never occurred to me at the time.’

‘Then it is you!’

‘No, it damn well is not!’

‘You are quite certain?’

‘I’ve never so much as run my hands up under her skirt.’

‘There’s no need to be vulgar,’ she said severely.

The owner of the house in Camino S’on Perragut said that Vidal was in his room. Alvarez went through to the patio and then up the wooden stairs to the bedroom, which vibrated to the noise of the record-player.

‘Turn it off,’ he shouted.

Vidal, showing none of the contemptuous courtesy he had before, hesitated, then, his expression sullen, leaned over the bed and switched off the player. Alvarez crossed to the chair, removed some clothes that were on it, and sat.

‘Whatever it is you want, you’d better hurry. I’m due at work soon,’ Vidal said.

‘Work can wait.’