A Question of Motive (2 page)

He used his mobile to ask for the body to be collected. ‘And will you tell . . .'

‘Hang on. Where d'you say it is?'

‘At the foot of Barca.'

‘Is that a hotel?'

It was extraordinary how ignorant people could be. He explained how to drive to the rock.

Cuesta, a commercial photographer with a contract to carry out police work, arrived as Alvarez switched off the mobile. They discussed village matters and their respective families before Cuesta walked over to the body. ‘Careless, leaving this mess for someone else to clear up!'

A crude, heartless remark, said to try to lessen a sense of shocked revulsion. ‘What shots do you want?'

‘General, close-ups of the head, and some of the cliff face.'

He watched Cuesta work with practised skill. Cuesta had been born, and for several years had lived, in Mestara, which had explained his initial problem in enjoying a successful business in Llueso. However, when it had become obvious he was far more skilful than his only competitor, his work had greatly increased. Then the rumour had spread that he was asking women and older girls to let him photograph them in the nude. Even after he had been able to show the falsity of the accusation, fostered by his rival, it had been a long time before a woman of good reputation would enter his studio unaccompanied by family or friend. As many said, no bonfire burned unless a match had been put to it.

Cuesta crossed to where Alvarez stood. ‘That's done. Do you know what happened?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Any idea when he died?'

‘According to Doctor Jurando, at about thirteen hundred hours.'

‘Was it likely suicide?'

‘I doubt it.' Suicide meant it became his case; accident was the policia's problem.

A
lvarez looked at his watch, hoping it was time for
merienda
. Since he had only recently arrived at the post, he was not surprised to find it was not. Yet a coffee and coñac before he phoned Salas would have provided welcome insulation.

There was a time when a man could find no way of avoiding what a man had to do. He picked up the receiver, dialled, and almost immediately Señorita Torres, Salas' secretary, said: ‘Superior Chief Salas' office.'

‘Inspector Alvarez, speaking from Llueso.'

‘What is it?'

Her tone had been even less welcoming than usual. ‘Is Superior Chief Salas in his office?'

‘Naturally.'

There was nothing natural in working on a Saturday morning when one was senior enough not to. ‘I have to make a report.'

‘Wait.'

He had not opened the morning post. As he balanced the receiver against neck and shoulder, he checked through the unopened letters to see if there was an envelope with an official appearance which might mean Salas would refer to it.

‘Yes?'

No good morning, no query about his health, but then Salas was a Madrileño. ‘Señor, yesterday morning, the local police received a report of the finding of a dead man . . .'

‘The identity of the informer?'

‘I can't answer that because . . .'

‘The identity of the dead man?'

‘I don't know because . . .'

‘It will greatly shorten this report if you record what, if anything, you do know.'

‘The information was that the body was by Barca . . .'

‘Am I being unduly optimistic to hope you can name the boat?'

‘It isn't one. It's a rock in the foothills of the Serra de Tramuntana, not all that far from Llueso.'

‘By what logic do you refer to a rock as a boat?'

‘Years ago, a man bereft of full intelligence thought a giant had been trying to carve out a boat, but had found the task too tough even for him and he got no further than forming the bows and foredeck . . . If that is the right terminology?'

‘I am as uninterested in boats as I am in giants.'

‘I was trying to explain . . .'

‘And failing. So before you introduce a flying carpet, try to give a lucid report.'

‘Following a call from the Policia Local in Llueso, I drove as far as possible and then walked to Barca. There was a body on the far side of the rock. It seemed obvious he had fallen, landing on his head, from the top of Barca. I called Doctor Jurando – he has forensic qualifications – who said the injuries were consistent with a fall. Death would have been instantaneous. Doctor Jurando provided an estimate of the time of death, adding the usual proviso. It was at about one, yesterday afternoon.'

‘You are aware that today is Saturday?'

‘Yes, señor. But the body was not reported until late yesterday afternoon and by the time I had confirmed this was not a hoax, the doctor had made his examination, the photographer had finished, and it was too late to report to you.'

‘Why?'

‘You would have returned home.'

‘A presumption no doubt based on your times of work. Has it occurred to you to determine the cause of the fall?'

‘It was probably an accident.'

‘You would like to explain why?'

‘Someone in the house . . .'

‘What house?'

‘The one on Barca.'

‘Is it your intention to make your report more interesting by initially ignoring facts and then introducing them one by one, forcing the listener constantly to guess where they might lead?'

‘Although it is the mountainous area, at Barca there is relatively flat land of about one and a half hectares. Rather a strange feature is . . .'

‘You will forgo the suggestion it was created by the giant stamping his foot in anger at his inability to complete the boat.'

‘There is a large house on the flat land. The original one was built by a colonel, but this was unfortunately burned down, some said . . .'

‘The history may be of interest to anyone who has the time to listen to it, I do not.'

‘It's my guess that the victim is someone from the house, unaware of, or oblivious to, the danger of getting too close to the edge of the cliff.'

‘You would not expect that the circumstances would have been reported long before the unknown man discovered the body? And why have you not taken the trouble to determine whether, in fact, the victim is from the house?'

‘I will be doing so when I finish my report, señor.'

‘I presume you have failed to consider suicide?'

‘On the contrary.'

‘But since you have not yet troubled to identify the victim, any judgement – including that of accident – is without credibility.'

‘There was no note of intended suicide on the victim.'

‘You disregard the possibility that such a note was left in the house.'

‘In my experience . . .'

‘We will stick with facts. You will ascertain what these are and then report to me. And since I have important work to complete, I shall be here, in my office, until late tonight and for much of tomorrow. I do not, therefore, expect to be informed on Monday morning that you were unable to contact me.'

Alvarez replaced the receiver. He had hoped to leave the investigation to the policia local, but initially, at any rate, he was going to have to conduct it.

He opened the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and brought out a half-f bottle of 504 and a glass, was about to pour a drink when he remembered his promise to reduce his drinking. He hesitated. The promise was to reduce, not prohibit.

Fifteen minutes later, he left the post and walked to Club Llueso for his delayed
merienda
.

Without being asked, Roca, the bartender, poured out a brandy and a café cortado, and brought them to the end of the bar.

Alvarez raised the glass and studied the depth of brandy. ‘Short measure again.'

‘So give me the glass and I'll pour you a standard measure.'

He drank.

T
he drive up to the top of Barca was relatively short, but for Alvarez, an altophobe, it was panic-inducing. The road, a minor example of the Spanish ability to overcome ‘impossible' terrain, climbed the side of the rock face with two sharp bends which had no safety barrier on the outside. A car could fall over the side far too easily – an unintended twitch of the wheel would be sufficient. His hands had seemed constantly about to twitch.

Previously, he had only seen the house – more accurately, parts of it – from below and he had been unable to appreciate it possessed a graceful form which could suggest an Italian architect. Externally attractive houses were not a common sight on the island; old ones had been built for permanence, modern ones were often a clutter of different roof levels and inharmonious lines. It complemented its site. Its height provided it with a sweeping view of pine trees, farmland, Port Llueso, the bay with its travel-poster-blue waters, the backdrop of mountains, the nature reserve to the east . . .

‘Do you want something?'

To Alvarez, the speaker's tone had suggested he thought the visitor might be trying to sell something. Alvarez turned. Standing in the doorway was a man in his early thirties, carefully handsome, dressed in a spotless, uncreased white shirt and black, sharply creased trousers.

‘To speak to the owner of the house.'

‘You are?'

‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.'

‘Oh! . . . I'm sorry, Inspector, but I didn't realize who you were.'

‘Perhaps because we've never met. The owner's name?'

‘Señor Gill.'

‘He is here?'

‘I'm afraid he is away, Inspector. Is something wrong?'

He ignored the question. ‘Is there any member of the family here?'

‘Señorita Farren, the señor's niece.'

‘Who else?'

‘Luisa, my wife, and Eva, the maid. Santos is the gardener.'

‘Your name is?'

‘Parra.'

‘You work around the house?' Alvarez asked, convinced Parra would prefer to be thought of as the butler.

‘I am lucky enough to do so, yes.'

There was no need to be fulsome. A Mallorquin was the equal of anyone, even if he swept the streets. ‘I'll speak to her.'

‘Will you please come this way, Inspector?'

He entered a spacious hall and waited as Parra opened a door, stepped inside and said: ‘Inspector Alvarez wishes to speak to you, señorita, if it is convenient.'

‘Please ask him to come in, Pablo.'

Mary Farren was dressed with the casual elegance money could provide. Her rich, auburn hair held a natural wave, her eyes were dark blue, her nose graceful, her lips firmly shaped. But on the left-hand side of her jaw, harmony was lost in heavy scarring and a slight, but noticeable, misshapen line.

‘Please sit,' she said in heavily accented Spanish.

‘Thank you, señorita,' he answered in English. The chair cosseted him with expensive luxury.

‘Before we go any further, may I offer you coffee or a drink?'

‘A drink would be very welcome.'

‘Will you tell Pablo what you would like?'

Parra had remained just inside the doorway.

‘A coñac with just ice, please,' he said in Mallorquin.

‘And I will have a Dubonnet.'

Parra left and closed the door.

‘How can I help you, Inspector?' she asked.

It seemed from the lack of any suggestion of alarm, any understanding of why he might be there, they had not heard about the dead body at the foot of Barca. He had to try to learn the facts without alarming her unless, or until, that became necessary. ‘I understand you employ Parra, his wife, a maid and a gardener?'

‘I assure you that we pay all the appropriate taxes.'

‘I would not doubt that, señorita. Is there anyone else who works here?'

‘Eloisa, but only when we have a party. She comes in and helps out.'

‘Have you any guests staying at the moment?'

‘No, why are you asking these questions?'

‘I will explain in a moment. Do the servants live in their own quarters?'

‘Yes. That is, except for Santos. He owns a finca between Llueso and Port Llueso, so he doesn't need accommodation.' She stopped. After a moment, she continued: ‘Last year he did think it would be a good idea if the family moved into the two empty staff rooms because he wouldn't be tired out by travelling to and fro and he could work longer.'

He was unable to resist the comment: ‘An unusual wish!'

She smiled. ‘We imagined he was hoping to have the chance to let his finca to tourists during the summer. But for us, three children under eight would have destroyed all peace.'

Parra returned, a silver salver in his hand. He crossed to where she sat, placed a glass on the piecrust table by her side, added a small bowl. ‘The cheese sticks you like.'

‘Well remembered! Will you see if the inspector would like some?'

Parra put a glass and the bowl down for Alvarez. ‘Is that all, señorita?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

He left.

She raised her glass. ‘Your health.'

They drank. Alvarez had been hoping for a good brandy and was not disappointed. Carlos III?

‘Inspector, you were going to explain the reason for your questions.'

‘Please allow me to ask a few more, señorita, before I do so. Parra told me Señor Gill is not here. That is so?'

‘Yes. Have you tried the cheese straws?'

‘Not yet, I fear.' He picked out two, held them in his left hand, carried the bowl over to her. She thanked him as he returned to his seat. ‘Can you say where he is?'

‘Probably. Why do you want to know that? And please don't say you'll explain later on. You're making me very worried that he's in some sort of trouble.'

Did he prevaricate further? If he did, her fear could be exacerbated rather than held in check. ‘Clearly, señorita, you have not learned that the body of a man was found below Barca this morning.'