Death Trick (7 page)

Alvarez felt sorry for Braddon and wondered why he’d ever been so ill-advised as to come and live on the island? It was so obvious that he was far too unworldly ever to be able to meet a cunning peasant on equal terms.

‘He swindled me,’ said Braddon furiously.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Letitia, ‘but nothing you can say or do now will alter what’s happened so there’s not really much point in going on and on about it, is there?’

‘If this were England, I could drag him through the courts and see him struck off the Rolls.’

‘But we aren’t in England.’

‘And whose bloody fault is that?’

‘Señor,’ said Alvarez, hoping to outflank a domestic row, ‘after receiving that letter, did you return to Señor Roig’s office?’

‘I did. And I told him just what I goddamn well thought of him . . .’

‘Joe,’ said Letitia, ‘do try and calm down; it’s not good for you to get so excited.’

‘How did he react to what you said?’ asked Alvarez.

‘Didn’t like it when I told him he was nothing but a lousy crook.’

‘Joe sometimes becomes excited,’ she said, obviously far more aware of the potentially dangerous significance of what he was saying than he, ‘but it never lasts . . .Joe, wouldn’t it be an idea to have some drinks?’

For a moment it looked as if Braddon would ignore the suggestion, but then he stood. He asked what they’d like to drink, left, crossing the patio into the house.

Even if they did have problems with the foundations of the house, thought Alvarez, they’d a very desirable property. Their own land all round them and the next house a couple of hundred metres away, views of both the mountains and the sea . . .

‘The trouble with Joe is that he’s so completely straightforward.’

Alvarez looked at her as she sat in the shade of a sun umbrella. At first, he’d been inclined to regard her as meek and colourless; now, he appreciated that behind the quiet appearance and manner there was considerable determination.

‘And because he’s like that, he’s never ready for anyone who’s devious. And if that person takes advantage of him, he feels betrayed. Can you understand what I’m trying to say?’

‘Indeed, señora.’

‘I had a feeling about Roig from the beginning. Maybe it was because he always smiled with his mouth, but never with his eyes. Joe could never see that. If he takes to a person, he won’t hear anything against him; and he thinks people he likes are every bit as honest as himself. Every time there was another delay, I suggested we ought to speak to someone else to make certain that Roig really was doing everything he should. Joe said that that would be disloyal to him.

‘Then, when Roig as good as admitted he’d been stringing us along to protect his relations, Joe was not only shocked and hurt, but also very worried because if the repairs cost four million, which is what a builder suggested, we’re going to have to dig into capital and he’s a horror of doing that although we’d still be well off and we’ve no one to leave our money to. So it was worry as much as anything which made him talk like he did. But his anger never lasts. And the way he’s talking now is because of worry and not . . . I mean, you can’t believe . . .’

‘What can’t I believe, señora?’

She shook her head, afraid to put into words a possibility which—as unlikely as this might be—he had perhaps not yet determined for himself.

Braddon, carrying a tray, returned to the patio. He passed the glasses, then sat. His chair was in the full sun and after a few seconds he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.

‘Why don’t you move into the shade?’ she suggested.

‘I’m all right.’

‘But you’ll roast if you stay there and you know how easily you burn.’

‘Stop fussing.’

So stubborn, thought Alvarez, that he’d rather suffer unnecessary discomfort than be seen to change his mind. Would he stubbornly go on hating? . . . ‘Señor, as I said at the beginning, I would be grateful if you would answer some questions.’

‘I know nothing about the murder; nothing at all. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not shedding any tears over it.’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ she said, her voice high.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s stupid.’

‘It’s stupid to think a man changes his character just because he dies.’

Alvarez asked: ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘When I told him in his office precisely what I thought of him.’

‘Have you ever been to his country home, Casa Gran?’

‘Never been on visiting terms, not even before I realized what kind of a man he was. I didn’t even know he’d got that place until I read it’s where he was killed. I suppose he bought it out of what he’d made from mugs like us.’

‘I imagine you own a car—what make is it?’

‘A Renault eleven.’

‘And does the señora also have one?’

‘I’ve an old Panda to do the shopping in,’ she answered. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘A car was seen driving up to Casa Gran on the afternoon of the murder and I have to try and identify whose it was.’

‘If we didn’t know he owned the place, it couldn’t very well be either of our cars, could it?’ said Braddon belligerently.

‘Joe, the Inspector has to ask questions,’ she said, trying to awaken her husband to the fact that it obviously wasn’t in his interests to antagonize a policeman.

Braddon finished his drink, put the glass down on the cane table with unnecessary force. ‘Do you think I murdered him?’

She gasped at this fresh stupidity.

Alvarez said evenly: ‘Did you, señor?’

‘No. But like I said, whoever did has my vote. He was nothing but a swindler.’

‘And you believe that that warrants his being murdered?’

She spoke hurriedly. ‘Joe often says things he doesn’t mean.’

‘I mean exactly . . .’ began Braddon.

She suddenly pointed up into the sky. ‘There’s an Eleonora’s falcon.’ They watched the bird as it gracefully curved in flight. ‘I saw an osprey three days ago and it had a fish in its talons. There’s a wonderful range of raptors out here.’

It had been a brave attempt to turn the conversation away from dangerous subjects and Alvarez was sorry to have to cut it short. ‘Señor, will you tell me where you were last Monday night?’

‘I said, I didn’t kill him.’

‘I still need to know where you were.’

‘Here.’

‘Is there someone who can confirm that?’

‘I can,’ she said loudly.

‘And perhaps there is also someone else? Do you have a maid who lives in?’

‘We have a daily woman, that’s all.’

‘Did any friends call?’

They looked at each other; she answered. ‘There’s no one came to see us Monday night.’

Palma was a city which was often denigrated, usually by people who had never visited the island on the grounds that their hairdressers went there every year. But for those who did not have to be seen by their friends to holiday in Pago Pago, it had much to offer and in parts was charmingly attractive.

Alvarez parked in a newly vacated space, climbed out of the car and stood on the pavement, admiring the setting. Behind him was a small green, ringed with palm trees, off which there led a broad road which provided a brief view of the boat-filled marina; ahead of him was a church, in parts nearly five hundred years old, which was simple yet graceful in style, but had sombre associations with the Inquisition; and to his right was Bistro Deux, a French restaurant whose reputation was excellent.

He crossed, walked past the church and down a side road that curved around rising land. He stopped at a block of flats, checked the names by the entryphone, pressed the third button down. A woman, her voice made tinny by the loudspeaker, answered. He identified himself. There was a sharp buzz and the door sprang open. He went in and crossed to the lift.

When Raquel Oliver opened the door, he was immediately reminded of Jaume’s contemptuous certainty that Roig’s women were far from innocent; undoubtedly, she was. Strikingly attractive, she made the mistake of being too obvious; hair very blonde, make-up very heavy, shirt and jeans very tight, and air of hard calculation unmistakable.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘d’you reckon you’ll know me the next time?’

‘I am sorry, señorita, I was just . . .’ He became silent, deeming it imprudent to explain that he had just unflatteringly summed up her character.

She accepted that his regard had been wholly lecherous. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

It was a small flat, built for a single person or a newly-wed couple. She had furnished it with a striking and artistic recourse to colours, many of which when apart might have been thought to clash, but when placed together astonishingly didn’t.

‘D’you want a drink?’

‘If I might have a coñac, with just ice?’

He watched her go over to a small sideboard. An islander, probably from the western end to judge by the accent with which she spoke Mallorquin. Had she been born forty years before, her life would have been a very different one. Forced to work in the fields from an early age, by now her looks would have disappeared; married to a man who probably offered her little or no overt affection; facing a future, as hard as the past, in which pleasure was a privilege restricted to the wealthy . . . Who but the severest of moralists could regret the change for her?

‘I’ll tell you one thing, you’re no chatterbox!’

‘I was thinking about the past, señorita.’

‘That’s a complete waste of time.’ She handed him a glass, went over to the second easy chair whose cover was a shocking pink, and sat. ‘I suppose you’re here because of Pablo?’

‘I believe you visited him quite often at his house, Casa Gran?’

‘And if I did?’

‘Then you can tell me about him.’

‘What about him?’

‘To begin with, what was he like?’

‘Like any other middle-aged man who imagines he’s Don Juan,’ she said, making it clear that she was not going to apologize to anyone, least of all to a middle-aged inspector, for the kind of life she led. She’d met Roig at an exhibition to which she’d gone because she knew the artist. She’d recognized his type on sight and so wasn’t in the least surprised when he’d made a point of talking to her. And she’d been sardonically amused to note how he’d preened himself, believing that his sophisticated air, hundred thousand peseta suit, and hand-made shoes, would bowl her over. Naturally, she’d played hard to get. She’d made him spend and spend on her and for a long time had offered absolutely nothing in return . . . She could not quite hide the fact that his mature charm had held an attraction for her.

‘Were you distressed to learn of his death?’

‘Of course. No more dinners at the Casino.’

He ignored the comment. ‘How did you learn of his death?’

‘I read about it in the paper. Bit of a surprise, really. To think that suddenly he’d . . .’ Just for a moment, her air of hard sophistication was dropped.

‘You’d no idea what had happened until then?’

‘How could I have?’ Her concern was sharp. ‘Here, you’re not thinking I had anything to do with that?’

‘I’m here to find out.’

‘Then you find out bloody quickly. If you think I could ever have stuck a knife into him, you’re crazy . . . I mean, why the hell should I kill him?’

‘You might have had a very bitter argument.’

‘D’you think I murder people I argue with? . . . In any case, when we went to his place, it wasn’t to argue.’

‘Or you might have learned he’d found another friend?’

‘He wasn’t looking at anyone else while I was around, that was for sure.’

‘When did you last see him?’

She thought back. ‘On the Friday.’

‘Have you any idea who might have killed him?’

‘No.’ She drained her glass, stood. ‘D’you want another?’

He handed her his glass. ‘He never spoke about being threatened?’

‘That’s not the sort of talk he was interested in,’ she said, as she walked over to the sideboard.

‘It’s strange what does get said in pillow talk.’

‘Not when I’m sharing the pillow.’

‘I suppose you’ve met the maid at Casa Gran?’

‘Couldn’t very well miss that one.’ She walked back, handed him a glass, returned to her chair. ‘Every time I looked like getting too close so she might actually come into physical contact, she crossed herself.’

‘Did she ever talk to you about Roig?’

‘She didn’t talk to me about anyone or anything unless she absolutely had to.’

‘So I don’t suppose you’d know who he—how shall I put it?—entertained before?’

‘That’s right, I wouldn’t.’

‘Can you remember where you were on Monday evening, say between ten and midnight?’

She answered immediately. ‘Here, watching a film on telly.’

‘On your own.’

‘On my own, so you can cool your imagination.’

‘I have to ask the question, to learn if there is someone who will corroborate that you were here.’

‘Well, there isn’t, so you’ll just have to . . . Hang on. A friend did phone me during the film and as it was boring, we had a bit of a chat.’

‘Would you give me his or her name?’

‘Hers.’

He wrote down the name, telephone number, and address. He finished his drink, thanked her for her help, said goodbye, and left.

There was a pay-telephone in Bistro Deux and after giving his order—which called for a great deal of thought because the menu was full and promising and he did not want to regret his choice later—he telephoned the woman whose name he’d been given. She confirmed the telephone conversation and was able to place the time at around eleven.

Back in his seat, he poured himself out a glass of wine, sprinkled olive oil and salt on a slice of bread, and ate and drank as he thought. Two things were clear: assuming the friend was not an accomplice, Raquel had a reasonably good alibi; and when Julia had railed against Roig for destroying innocence, she had not had Raquel in mind.

Roig’s town house in Palma had been built a couple of centuries before for an ancient, and near noble, Madrileño family who, in much state, had visited the island for holidays. The rooms, all large and with lofty ceilings, were built around an inner courtyard; with the heavy, studded outside doors shut, this courtyard had, before it had been paved to provide parking space, offered a touch of the countryside in the middle of the town.