Relatively Dangerous (12 page)

‘Then will you check?’

Gates gestured with his plump, very white, smooth right hand. ‘Naturally, I am eager to accede to your request. But will you first acquaint me with the reason for it? If you will excuse the little conceit, I regard myself as the guardian of the memories of those whose layings-at-rest I have conducted and I would not like to think that I have in any way betrayed that guardianship.’

Wallace said: ‘My companion is Inspector Alvarez, from Majorca.’

‘From Mallorca? . . . Please pardon my small correction, but I endeavour always to refer to a country or town in the same style as do the inhabitants; a subtle compliment to them . . . Mallorca. An island of beauty and charm. But no doubt you are well aware of its many virtues?’

‘I’ve never been there. Inspector Alvarez has been investigating an accident in which a man died. His name was Steven Arthur Taylor.’

Gates rested his elbows on the desk, joined the tips of his fingers together to form a triangle, brushed the tips of his middle fingers backwards and forwards across the hairs which grew out of his nostrils. ‘Forgive me, but I fear I have become confused. Did you not previously ask me whether we had laid to rest Mr Steven Arthur Taylor three years ago last March?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I do not understand.’

‘I’m wondering if you buried a man who wasn’t dead.’

‘Sergeant, surely you cannot begin to believe that we, or any other member of our honourable profession, could possibly lay to rest someone in whom the breath of life still lingers? Such a happening belongs only to the lowest and most disagreeable fiction.’

‘That’s good news for anyone in a coma, only it’s not what I’m talking about. But before we go any further, suppose you check if you did handle his funeral?’

Gates, his expression pained, used the intercom to ask for the Book of Loving Remembrance to be brought in. A moment later, Miss Carol carried in a large, leather-bound ledger and carefully laid this on the desk. She left, again without a word. Gates put on a pair of spectacles and opened the ledger. After a while, he looked up. ‘Steven Arthur Taylor, who had resided at Keene House, Middle Cross, was laid to rest on the sixteenth of March, three years ago.’

‘Then how come he was buried a fortnight ago in Majorca?’

Gates sat back and interlocked his fingers across his lower chest. ‘That is quite impossible.’

‘It is what happened,’ said Alvarez.

‘No, señor. It cannot be what happened.’

‘His body was exhumed and his son identified it.’

Then I can only suggest. . .’

‘Come off it,’ said Wallace crudely. ‘Where’s your body buried?’

‘Are you referring to Steven Arthur Taylor who passed on three years ago last March?’

‘I’m referring to the man you buried, who most certainly wasn’t Steven Arthur Taylor. Which cemetery is his grave in?’

‘He was not laid to rest in a cemetery. His family wished him to be welcomed by the divine flame.’

‘What’s that mean—cremated?’

Gates inclined his head.

‘How very convenient.’

‘For those who do not subscribe to tradition . . .’

‘For those who don’t want an exhumation.’

‘All the proper certificates were presented.’

‘I’m sure they were.’

Gates’s expression was blandly patient, but he could not quite hide the sharp watchfulness of his deep brown eyes.

‘What other male funerals did you carry out during the previous week?’

‘I do not think I am at liberty to answer that. As the guardian . . .’

‘Then I’ll get a warrant.’

Gates sighed. ‘I fear, Sergeant, that you are not of a sympathetic nature.’

‘In this case, you’re right, I’m not. Now, do I get the names, or do I get a warrant?’

Gates leaned forward, adjusted his spectacles, read, and then slowly and reverently named ten people.

‘Which of those was in his forties and died from coronary thrombosis?’

‘I cannot possibly answer.’

‘You must have seen the death certificates.’

‘Of course. But I never record such details since when one has passed on, one’s mortal . . .’

‘Give me the names again, this time with the dates of the funerals. I’ll check ‘em out.’ Wallace wrote down the list. ‘Which were buried and which cremated?’

Gates provided these further details, then said very earnestly: ‘Sergeant, may I ask that if you insist on disturbing their memories, that at least you conduct your inquiries with all due decorum?’

Wallace arrived at the hotel at which Alvarez was staying at six-thirty that evening and suggested they had a drink at a country pub he knew and liked. During the drive, Alvarez stared at the lush, green pastures and heavy crops and mentally compared them with those at home where, unless there was water for irrigation, pastures were burned off by the sun and crops were light. Then he stared up at the cloud-covered sky which had been threatening rain for hours and he ceased to envy the farmers whose lands promised such wealth.

The Five Legged Horse stood on crossroads, opposite what had once been the village shop, but was now a private house. The pub, reputedly an old smugglers’ cottage— history, however, did not record any period of great smuggling activity in the area—had been modernized several years previously, but this had been done with taste and a happy lack of plastics, chrome, and humorous drawings.

‘What’ll it be. then?’ asked Wallace.

Alvarez would have liked a brandy, but knew from experience that the size of an English tot would have shamed even a Basque, while its cost would be beyond disbelief.

‘A lager, if they have one,’ he answered, choosing to be safe.

They sat at one of the small, round tables. Wallace opened a bag of crisps and pushed this across, raised his glass. ‘The first today and all the sweeter for that.’ He drank, put the glass down, helped himself to a couple of crisps, munched those as he brought a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his sports coat. ‘I got one of my DCs to check out the death certificates; here’s the result.’

Alvarez read down the list. ‘The only real possibility is this man of forty-nine who was also cremated.’

‘Right.’

‘But is there any way of being certain?’

‘I’d say we can be certain. The question is: Can we ever prove it? I suppose we might be able to trace out the evidence of the money Gates was paid to work the switch, but I doubt it. If you want my opinion, he’s so bloody fly that only an insecticide will ever fix him.’ Wallace contained a belch. ‘Excuse me. Indigestion. The missus says it’s because I eat too much fried food. I tell her, if the canteen didn’t fry the food, we wouldn’t be able to eat it.’ He reached down to a pocket and brought out a small pack of tablets, one of which he swallowed. ‘I’ve never read the instructions, in case they say, not to be taken with alcohol!’

Wallace’s actions and his words recalled a scene for Alvarez. He remembered Higham’s description of the meal in the restaurant up in the mountains and how Taylor had hardly drunk anything because to do so might be to trigger off the attack of migraine which the pill was meant to prevent . . . And how the subsequent violent illness had, according to himself, resembled no other attack of migraine he had ever endured . . .

‘Is something up?’

‘I think, Ian,’ he replied slowly, ‘that perhaps I have been investigating a murder without, until now, recognizing that fact.’

‘Let me try to understand,’ said Superior Chief Salas wearily. ‘You now claim that three years ago Steven Taylor faked his own death in England by bribing an undertaker to provide a body which he could substitute for his own in a faked car crash in order to escape arrest for fraud?’

‘Yes, señor.’

‘And you go on to say that Steven Taylor’s real death, two weeks ago, was not accidental, but was murder—yet once again, you can prove nothing?’

‘At the moment, no, but it does seem possible . . .’

‘For you, is anything impossible?’

‘What I’ve done is put two and two together . . .’

‘And inevitably arrived at several solutions, none of which is four.’

Alvarez doggedly continued. ‘We know that when Steven Taylor was over here, he was probably engaged in some kind of business. What could be more likely than that it was similar to what he’d done in England before his “death”—in other words, a swindling scheme? There are many wealthy foreigners who live here and by all accounts he could talk so persuasively that he could encourage even a rich man to part with money. When one swindles, one breeds bitterness and anger. Someone he swindled was determined to get his own back.’

‘Did this someone arrange the car crash?’

‘No, señor, what he surely did was to substitute a capsule containing poison for one containing the drug which Taylor took whenever he felt a migraine threatening. The fact that the initial symptoms of the poisoning caused him to crash was pure chance.’

‘And you have reached this conclusion solely on the grounds that he was sick after the meal?’

‘He ate and drank very little, then suffered symptoms that were unlike those he’d ever suffered before. Señor, I wish to investigate further.’

‘How?’

‘I would like to find out where he lived after his faked death and who he has defrauded on this island. May I have your permission to proceed?’

‘Why bother to ask?’ demanded Salas, with a fresh rush of anger. ‘You never have in the past.’

Alvarez drove round the side of Las Cinco Palmeras and parked in the yard. Two cats watched him climb out of the car and then scurried away. The sun beat down and he remembered the cool, moist green of Kent.

Helen stepped out of the back door of the kitchen, hand raised to shield her eyes. When she identified her caller, her expression tightened. ‘Mike’s not here.’

She was a fighter, he thought admiringly. ‘Do you know when he will be back, señora?’

‘It’s señorita and you damn well know it is.’

‘I hoped you would accept that as a compliment, not as any intended insult.’

The answer surprised and bewildered her because there could be no mistaking the sincerity with which he had spoken. Then she remembered that on his previous visit he had shown himself to be very sympathetic and her manner changed. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t know when he will. You see, he’s gone to try and find the builders.’

‘They still have not done the work?’

She shook her head.

‘Do you know their name?’

‘It’s Ribas. Someone told Mike that they were the most reliable people around. If they are, all I can say is, God help anyone employing one of the others.’

‘I will have a word with Javier. I will tell him that if he doesn’t start, I will investigate all the work he’s recently done for which no proper licence was ever issued. He will arrive here immediately.’

She smiled. ‘You really are a most extraordinary detective. Blackmailing a builder! You’re either one of the nicest men I know, or one of the nastiest.’

‘Am I permitted to ask which?’

‘You may ask, but you certainly won’t get an answer. Now, let’s go inside and have a drink. And this time I can even offer you ice. Mike managed to persuade an electrician to come here and do a lash-up job and get one of the refrigerators running.’

They went inside. Since Alvarez’s last visit, the painting had been finished and the tables and chairs were now set out. She pointed to the nearest table. ‘Grab a seat. And what would you like to drink?’

She went into the kitchen, returned with a tray on which were two glasses, already frosting. ‘Brandy, ice, and no soda, for you.’ She handed him one glass, raised her own. ‘To long, sunny days with few shadows.’

They chatted. She told him about the difficulties they had encountered in buying and altering the restaurant, trying to give it more character than it had had, and then spoke excitedly about the future.

They heard the shrill scream of the Citroen van’s engine. When this was cut off, there was the slam of a door, then the stamp of approaching feet. Taylor shouted: ‘Helen!’

‘In the main room.’

‘The bastards say . . .‘He stopped abruptly as he entered and saw Alvarez. ‘So it’s your bloody car that’s in the way.’

‘Mike, the Inspector’s promised to help us,’ she said, trying to lessen the impact of his boorish words.

‘Doing what?’

‘He says he’ll have a word with Ribas and persuade him to start on the work right away.’

Taylor turned and went into the kitchen. They heard the chink of ice being dropped into a glass. Helen’s expression was once again worried and her previous vivacity was gone. ‘Please,’ she said in a low voice, ‘remember it’s all been so difficult for him. He’s not really trying to be rude.’

Taylor returned, slumped down on the nearer of the two free chairs at the table. ‘What d’you want this time—apart from free booze?’

‘To tell you something and ask you something.’

‘What’s the news? My work permit’s still at the bottom of the pile?’

‘On Wednesday I flew to England and went to Brackleigh.’

Taylor’s expression tightened.

‘While I was there, I learned certain facts. First, your father’s funeral three years ago was faked.’

‘You knew that before you went.’

‘Second, I learned why it was faked.’

Taylor drank, put the glass down with so much force that a few drops of liquid spurted up and spilled out on to the table. ‘In this bloody world, you run and you run and still you get hit by what you’re running from.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Helen, with sharp worry.

‘Ask him, not me.’

She faced Alvarez. ‘Why did Mike’s father fake his own death?’

Alvarez hesitated.

‘Are you suddenly suffering scruples?’ asked Taylor violently. ‘Don’t bother. Have fun. Throw the family’s dirty linen high into the air.’

‘Señor, I would prefer to discuss the matter with you alone and then you can decide what to say to the señora.’

‘D’you get an extra kick out of hypocrisy?’

‘Mike!’ Now there was anger as well as worry in her voice.

‘What’s the matter? Haven’t you realized that this is other people’s fun day?’