Death Trick (5 page)

‘We’re starting with Sopas Mallorquin.’

‘There’s no one on the island can make a sopas to touch yours.’

She nodded. ‘And then there’ll be pork chops.’

‘With alioli?’

‘But of course.’ She spoke with surprise. Would any cook serve pork chops without garlic sauce?

Fifteen minutes later, he was in his office. He called Traffic on the telephone and asked them to find out the number of Oakley’s car. Half an hour after that, they rang back to say that the number was PM 12050.

He slumped back in the chair. Assume for the moment that Oakley’s disappearance betokened flight, then surely he would not have taken his car since that could be so readily traced; but he would have needed to reach a jumping-off point . . . He sat upright, leaned forward and lifted the telephone receiver. He made three calls; the first was to the airport, asking the police to check all cars parked there (a request that was met with an angry demand to know whether he realized how much work was involved); the second was to the docks, with a similar request; the third was to Traffic, asking them to put out a general call for information on the white Seat.

As he replaced the receiver, he yawned. He looked at his watch—merienda-time. He went downstairs and out to the street and then walked along up to the old square. Tourists were drinking at the many tables, in the shade of trees, set out in front of the cafes which fronted the square. Life was fun for those who didn’t have to work, he thought. He went into the bar in the Club Llueso, ordered a coffee and a brandy, and sat.

The Neatherleys’ house was almost at the top of the urbanization. Because of the shape of the hill, it had needed extensive foundations and the cost of building had been over a third more than it would have been on flatter land. From it there was a magnificent view across to Llueso Bay but, decided Alvarez, only a foreigner could ever have decided this worth the extra cost.

A maid, wearing an apron, showed him into a large sitting-room whose picture windows faced south and the bay. Constance Neatherley entered. She had a beaky face, overshot teeth, and a manner which flatly contradicted the proposition that all persons were equal. In the days of Empire, she could have been found anywhere from Ascension to Zanzibar instructing the natives on how to do things her way.

In summer, she wore cotton frocks whose cut and colours did not suit her and no make-up to hide the roughness of her skin. Her string of pearls were cultivated, but she always referred to them as natural, being a woman of refinement. She accepted it as her duty to set by example the standards to be maintained among the expatriate community (the British community, that was; she doubted that the smaller French, German, and American ones had standards).

She listened to what Alvarez said, noting with distaste his crumpled shirt and creased trousers. ‘And if I do know Mr Oakley, is that any concern of yours?’

‘Señora, I wish to speak with him.’

‘Why bother me with that fact?’

‘Beatriz, his maid, says the señor was expected to have supper with you on Tuesday, but did not turn up.’

‘Dinner,’ she corrected.

‘Perhaps you have heard from him since then?’

‘I have not.’ She spoke sharply. Nothing excused bad manners. She crossed to the nearer armchair and sat. She did not suggest that he did the same.

‘Then you cannot tell me where he is now?’

‘No.’

‘But perhaps you could suggest the name of a friend of his who might be able to help me?’

‘Just what is this all about?’

‘As I said . . .’

‘I am perfectly well aware of what you said. But that doesn’t answer my present question.’

‘I wish to speak with Señor Oakley.’

‘About what?’

‘I will explain that to him when I see him.’

She was annoyed by his insolent answer and was about to express herself on the subject when there was the sound of a car door being slammed. She turned and looked at the doorway. A man entered. ‘Hullo, there,’ he said jovially to Alvarez. ‘Don’t think we’ve met?’

‘He’s from the police.’ Her tone was frigid.

‘Is that so?’ Neatherley was well-fleshed, largely because he ate and drank generously whenever he had the opportunity. Gregarious by nature, his wife had had to rescue him from several friendships which she, with her finer feelings, would have found very distasteful, had they been prolonged. ‘The police, eh? What have you been up to, old girl?’

Her lips tightened. Since marrying him thirty-five years ago, she had succeeded in eliminating most of his more unwelcome traits, but she never had been able to cure him of his appalling sense of humour. ‘Thomas!’

‘All right. Just . . .’

‘The Inspector is asking questions about Gerald.’

‘Gerry? The old dog! So what has he . . .’ He came to a mumbling stop as he saw the gathering expression on her face. He hurriedly said to Alvarez: ‘I say, don’t keep standing. Grab a seat. And what’ll you drink?’

‘It is far too early to start drinking,’ she said crisply.

‘But the people here don’t bother about yardarms as we do . . .’

‘Stop waffling.’

‘Yes, dear.’

Alvarez sat and briefly pondered something he’d once read or been told. Upper-class Englishwomen overcame their refined distaste for the carnal desires of their husbands by visualizing Wordsworth’s daffodils. He decided Señora Neatherley had chosen seldom to need to contemplate daffodils.

Neatherley stood in front of the fireplace, in which was set a wood-burning stove, and put his hands in the pockets of his immaculately laundered linen trousers. He cleared his throat. ‘I hope Gerry’s not in any sort of trouble?’

‘At the moment, señor, my only brief is to find him so that I can speak to him.’

‘Kind of disappeared, has he? As a matter of fact, we invited him over for an evening meal . . .’

‘He knows about that,’ she said.

‘Oh! Really? Odd his not turning up; I mean, you’d expect him to get in touch if something had happened . . .’

She interrupted him again as she spoke to Alvarez. ‘We have not seen him, or heard from him, since he accepted my invitation. There is, therefore, no way in which we can help you.’

‘Not directly, señora, but perhaps indirectly you may be able to.’

She was annoyed; it was always difficult to deal with someone who lacked the social wit to realize when he was being politely told it was time to go.

‘I would like to understand what kind of a man he is. You are his friends and so will be able to tell me that.’

‘I do not know what you’re talking about.’

‘He means . . .’ began Neatherley.

‘Thomas!’

He rattled some coins in one of his pockets.

‘Is he a happy man, señora, or does he have troubles?’

‘We all have troubles.’

‘But has he seemed worried about anything recently?’

‘Perhaps I should make myself perfectly clear. Many people believe friendship is a reason for the exchange of endless intimacies; I do not.’

‘But I feel certain you have been able to judge whether he has seemed to be worried about something?’

‘Gerry’s been as full of beans as ever,’ said Neatherley. ‘Never met a bloke who can so look on the bright side of things as he does.’

‘Is he a clever man, señor?’

‘I’d call him that, wouldn’t you, Constance?’

‘He has good manners, which is far more important. Or perhaps I should say, he appeared to have them until Tuesday.’

‘Do you know where he lives when not on the island?’

‘I have not the slightest idea.’

Neatherley said: ‘He obviously moves around the Continent a good bit and also goes back to the UK.’ His tone changed slightly. ‘But now I come to think of it, I don’t remember his ever mentioning what I’d call a definite home. D’you, Constance?’

‘I have already answered that question.’

‘But he must have one somewhere. He can’t spend all his life living out of a suitcase, can he?’

She didn’t bother to answer.

‘If he travels a great deal, perhaps he is in some kind of business?’ suggested Alvarez.

‘I’m pretty sure he is,’ said Neatherley. ‘I remember I was chatting to him one day about development on this island and how it had gone wild and ruined the whole place and the people who were building now were bound to lose a lot of money and he said that there was still room for good profit if one knew what one was doing. There was something about the way he spoke which made me wonder if he could be in property development.’

‘Can you remember what it was that made you think that?’

‘Damned if I can now. Have you any idea, Constance?’

‘No,’ she answered wearily.

It seemed clear that he would learn nothing more. Alvarez stood. ‘Thank you, señora, señor, for your help.’

She was surprised. It seemed he’d actually dredged up enough manners to leave.

The telephone rang and Alvarez leaned across the desk to pick up the receiver.

‘Airport police here. That Seat you were asking about is in the car park, opposite Terminal A. There’s a ticket on the dashboard which says it was left there just before midday on Tuesday.’

When the call was over, he rang Jaume’s office, but was informed that the inspector was away ill. He asked the man at the other end of the line to pass on the information to whoever continued the investigation.

He replaced the receiver and knew a warm contentment. Jaume had been unable to request any further assistance, no fresh crime of any importance in Llueso had been reported, and the only letter to arrive that day could safely be ignored. He closed his eyes, the better to appreciate his blessings.

Even over the telephone, Salas’s resentment was obvious. ‘Inspector Jaume is ill.’

‘So I understand, señor,’ said Alvarez.

‘In view of the investigation into the murder of Roig, it is very unfortunate. It means someone else must take over the case immediately.’

‘I’ve left a note of the results of my inquiries for whoever does . . .’

‘You will.’

‘I will what, señor?’

‘Damnit, can’t you understand the simplest order? You are to take charge of the investigations into the murder of Roig.’

‘But . . .’

‘In view of the fact that you are already conversant with some of the details and because foreigners are involved, I’m left with no alternative. If I had one, I’d take it.’

‘But I have so much work in hand . . .’

‘Keep me fully informed of every single development and on no account are you to take any direct action without reference to me. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, señor, but . . .’ The line had gone dead. Alvarez slowly replaced the receiver. Was it really only a short time ago that he’d been congratulating himself on his good fortune?

The eight-year-old Seat 127 was in the middle of the fifth row of covered parking bays. The uniform sargento produced a key and unlocked the passenger door, reached inside, and brought out a ticket. ‘Here you are.’

Alvarez moved more fully into the shade of the corrugated iron roof before he examined the ticket. It had been issued at eleven fifty-two on Tuesday; say, fourteen hours after the murder. Of course, this could be merely a coincidence. But if one remembered that Oakley had not told Beatriz he was leaving, had not paid her, had not bothered to get in touch with the Neatherleys, and had emptied the safe, then surely a reasonable conclusion was that he’d left suddenly. So how likely was it to be that it was merely coincidence . . . ? ‘Have you searched the car?’

‘No. We’d no real idea what to look for and thought it best to leave it to you lot.’

It was a four-door model and he opened each door in turn. In the glove locker there were the papers required by law to be carried, a map of the island, and a garage tab which gave the date of the last service; on the floor in front, mostly on the driver’s side, were several stone chips and a sprinkling of dust; on the rear seat was an English newspaper.

He returned to his own car and brought from this the torch he always carried. He switched it on and checked the surfaces previously not readily visible and on the underneath of the steering-wheel he saw a stain, three to four centimetres long, which had the look of glossy varnish. ‘There could be dried blood on the wheel,’ he said, as he moved back and straightened up. If Oakley had stabbed Roig, it was very possible he had got blood on his hands; driving the car had transferred the blood to the steering-wheel.

He went round to the back of the car and opened the boot. The small interior was empty of anything but a sack which, from the circular marks on it, had been used to protect the floor from butano bottles. He shut the lid. ‘That’s all I can do for the moment . . . Will you do me a favour?’

‘Sure, so long as it doesn’t mean I actually have to do anything.’

‘Get on to Traffic and tell ‘em to collect this car and check it out for traces. Warn ‘em there may be bloodstains on the underside of the wheel so they’ll need to fit an extension before they can drive—and remind ‘em to use a cover on the driving seat.’

‘Will do.’

He locked the car and handed the key back. Then he made his way caterwise through the rows of parking bays to the pay-booth. Exiting cars were having to queue to pay and he waited patiently for several minutes before there was a break which enabled him to question the cashier in the booth. ‘Would you have been on duty here on Tuesday, just before midday?’

‘That’s right.’ A transistor was switched on and the pop music suddenly increased in volume; he switched off the set.

‘What are the chances you can remember the man who was driving this car?’ Alvarez passed across the parking ticket from the Seat.

A car drew up and the man took a ticket, inserted it in the machine in front of him, asked for sixty-five pesetas, and was given a hundred-peseta coin. After handing the driver the change, he looked briefly at the ticket Alvarez had given him. He shook his head. ‘Not a hope.’

‘It was an eight-year-old Seat 127.’

‘Like I’ve just said, there’s no way, not with the number of cars that come through here.’

‘That’s what I thought, but I had to check.’