A Question of Motive (5 page)

‘I very much doubt it.'

‘Then why do you say he may have been depressed?'

‘Parra, the man who works in the house and is . . .'

‘I am well aware of his identity.'

‘He thought the señor had become less cheerful, short-tempered, and shown signs of depression. His wife disagreed, but she saw the señor far less often than her husband did.'

‘Have you spoken to the señorita to learn her impression?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Why not?'

‘She is very emotionally distressed and it will be kinder not to trouble her at the moment.'

‘The investigation is to wait until you decide she is sufficiently recovered?'

‘When she is, her answers are more likely to be correct.'

‘If you are asking the questions, that possibility seems remote.'

Alvarez drove down to the port and along the front road towards Playa Neuva, stopped when halfway along. The beauty of the deep-blue sea, scarcely rippled by the lightest of breezes so that only a few optimists were out with windsurfers, and the grandeur of the mountains which ringed the bay, provided him with the sense of peace and contentment they could offer to someone responsive to their beauty. When trouble was everywhere and hope had been shredded, he would retire to the bay and slowly trouble would disperse and hope would return.

Reluctantly, he left and drove to Aquila. The road leading up to the house with its unguarded and fatally dangerous edges and corners restored discontent. When he parked the car and stepped out on to the ground, he was thoroughly gloomy.

Parra came out of the house, hurried to the car and opened the driving door. ‘Good evening, Inspector. Nice to see you again.'

Did one have to be rich, Alvarez wondered, to accept servile politeness with pleasure? He went to close the door but was forestalled.

‘I trust you are in good health, Inspector?'

‘I'm still living.'

‘Always welcome knowledge. The señorita noticed you drive in and said she expects you want to speak to her again. Perhaps you would like to come in now?'

‘Later.'

‘She will be glad to see you.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘She is very distressed.'

‘Hardly surprising.'

‘Is there any way in which I can help you?'

‘No.'

‘Please tell me if there should be.'

Alvarez was aware he had been rudely curt, but could not overcome his scorn for a Mallorquin who was so very polite because his job might depend on his being so.

He walked slowly towards the ‘bow' of Barca. Already, he could feel the prickles which foretold the sweat of fear. Why continue? Why not confess to Salas he was unable to examine the rock around the orchid; could not, even if he were promised promotion to comisario. His rate of walking became still slower. Confession would be useless. Salas was too self-centred, too dismissive of others' failings to try to understand that mental strength could never overcome such terror.

As he came to a stop, he remembered Machado's last words before the bands of the garrotte were drawn about his hooded head and neck. The weak die repeatedly before their deaths, the strong only when it arrives. He must be strong.

‘Looking for something?'

Santos' words jerked his mind back to reality. The wooden barrier was only three metres away. He began to sweat.

‘You look like you're about to pass out.'

Could words have been more inappropriate? ‘Just thinking,' he croaked.

‘Something wrong with your voice?'

‘Sore throat.'

‘Lemon and honey will soon see an end to that.'

‘I'll try it as soon as I get home . . . Would you do something for me?'

‘What prevents you from doing it yourself?'

‘My leg's bad.'

‘Seems like you're physically deteriorating very fast.'

‘It sometimes gives way without warning and leaves me pretty-well immobilized.'

‘Best carry a crutch around.'

‘I'd be very grateful if you'd look to see if there's any sign of rock having fallen away recently from there.' He pointed.

‘Is that where the señor went over?'

‘Can't be certain, so it needs to be checked. I'd look for myself if it weren't for this damned leg.'

Santos whistled a few bars of unrecognizable music. ‘It'd be best for you to do that in case I get things wrong, not being my job.'

‘I trust your judgement as I would my own.'

‘It's not the height that's worrying you?'

‘No.'

‘Then the thing for you to do, with that bad leg, is to get down on the ground and move forward until you can look over the edge. If I hang on to your legs, you'll be as safe as a man can be.'

‘I can't climb over the fence.'

‘Wriggle under the lower bar. Or maybe it don't look right for an inspector to be seen crawling? All right, I'll do as you say and one day you can do me a good turn.'

Alvarez watched Santos climb the fence and walk to the edge of the rock with such assurance that the drop might have been only centimetres. Santos knelt and peered more closely at the rock face.

He returned to where Alvarez stood. ‘There's been no breakaway – all the rock's weathered. There's a couple of marks which have recently scarred the weathering.'

‘What would you reckon caused them?'

‘Can't say.'

‘The toes of shoes?'

Santos shrugged his shoulders.

‘Thanks for your help.'

‘Might be an idea to ask a doctor if your sore throat and wobbly leg are the result of nerves.'

There had been no need for sarcasm. Alvarez walked across to the house.

Parra opened the front door. ‘Please come in, inspector.'

Mary was in the sitting room and was surprised to see him. It seemed Parra had not, as claimed, told her of his presence. Words spoken to make him feel more welcome than he was?

She returned his greeting and said: ‘Still more questions?'

‘I had to return here to check something and I hoped you wouldn't mind if I came in to ask how you were.'

‘You think I might mind you were kind enough to care?' After a moment, she said: ‘There's something I have to ask. When can I . . . can I arrange the funeral?'

‘I fear I cannot say yet, señorita. You see . . .' He stopped.

‘Well?'

‘Because of what happened, there will have to be a post-mortem.'

She closed her eyes and gripped the arms of the chair.

Only a peaceful life admitted a peaceful death and then very rarely.

‘It's the thought . . .' She moved her hands off the arms of the chair and joined them together in her lap. ‘I want to apologize.'

‘For what?' he asked in surprise.

‘The way I behaved, embarrassing you last time.'

‘I once knew too much sorrow ever to be embarrassed by another's sorrow. If you thought me that, it was because of my inability to help you.'

‘You think you did not?'

‘Then I am glad, señorita.'

‘Please call me Mary. What is your name?'

‘Enrique.'

‘That's Henry in English, isn't it? A long, long time ago, I knew a boy called Henry. He made me a daisy chain and said it was . . . Oh, God! Talk to me about cabbages and kings, anything to stop me thinking about the past.'

‘When my memory provides black times, I drive down to the bay. Quickly, or slowly, its beauty restores light. Come down to the bay and we will sit at one of the front cafés so that the magic works for you.'

‘You want to drive me down and take me to a café? Out of pity?'

‘Out of hope.'

‘If you're lying, Enrique, it's a wonderful lie.'

A
lvarez had left Mary at Aquila and was halfway down the descent from Barca when he realized he had forgotten something important and momentarily lost concentration on his driving. The car veered towards a drop of thirty metres. Instinct, rather than decisive thought, caused him to correct the mistake in time. He slowed to a crawl for the final drive down to the flat land.

It took time to recover from so close a brush with death. He parked near the old square, walked past tourists who had nothing to do but laze and drink, who did not risk their lives in the course of duty, and went into the bar at Club Llueso.

‘Are you all right?' Roca asked as he put a brandy and a café cortado in front of Alvarez. ‘You don't look your usual unhappy self.'

‘I nearly had a fatal accident.'

‘Happens all the time with foreigners on the wrong side of the road. Only last night I was retuning home . . .'

‘I was half a centimetre from going over the edge.'

‘If you had gone over, maybe you wouldn't have interrupted me when I was talking.'

‘When you come as near to death as I did . . .'

‘There's some who'd say you should have gone a little further.'

Alvarez carried brandy and coffee over to a newly vacated window table and sat. He drank most of the brandy and poured what remained into the coffee. Had he died, Roca would have been equally indifferent. Interested only in himself.

A young woman, who had been seated on her own at the next table, stood to leave. Had he been asked to criticize her, he would have had to remain silent. As she walked towards the door, a young man approached and it seemed he was introducing himself. Moments later, they left together. Alvarez watched them walk down the steps from the square to the road and knew bitter sorrow. Youth had deserted him and life offered no substitute. Had he approached her and suggested she might like to join him for dinner on his yacht, she would have welcomed the invitation; without a yacht, she would see him as a not-very-young, local yokel. He signalled to Roca he wanted another brandy.

‘You're working very late,' Jaime said.

‘What's that?' Alvarez was unable to hear clearly because the television, watched by Juan and Isabel, was presenting a pop group and the sound had been turned high.

Jaime shouted at the children to cut the row. Juan turned down the volume as little as he dared.

Dolores walked through the bead curtain. ‘What is the trouble?'

‘I was telling Juan to turn the sound down. Enrique and I couldn't hear each other.'

‘That could be considered an advantage.'

Alvarez opened a door of the sideboard.

‘You are thinking of having a drink now?' she asked.

‘I need one.' He put glasses and a bottle on the table, poured himself a generous measure of Soberano and added ice. ‘I've had a hell of a day.'

‘You're always moaning about that,' Jaime commented.

‘Because I am always suffering it.'

‘What was the trouble this time? The boss wanted to know what work you've done over the past seven days?'

‘You keep saying that.'

‘You both appear to have very limited conversational powers,' Dolores observed, before she returned to the kitchen.

Alvarez drank. ‘I had to spend much of the morning with the niece whose uncle fell over Barca. She's in a very emotional state. When I had to tell her there would be a post-mortem . . .' He swore at some length.

There was a swish of the bead curtain as Dolores returned. ‘I have had to become used to my husband speaking words which no decent person should know, but it now seems my two innocent children are to learn others that are equally offensive from my cousin.'

‘We've heard them on the box,' Juan said.

‘Words spoken on that are often not permissible in a decent home.'

‘But if Xelo says them . . .'

‘His crudity will ensure your mouth is washed out with soap and water if ever I hear you speak them. And turn that noise down.'

‘It's the latest number one . . .'

‘You did not hear me?'

Juan turned the volume down again, and Dolores returned to the kitchen.

‘Trust you,' Jaime muttered. ‘Like as not, supper will be spoiled because you've upset her.'

‘I swore because I suddenly remembered what I'd forgotten to remember.'

‘You're sounding plain daft!'

Alvarez drank. Had he not been so upset by Mary's distress, he would not have thought to take her to the bay and he would have remembered the post-mortem; had he not fenced with death on his drive down from Barca, he would have recalled the time it was held . . . Miguel Vich had written that help given from a sense of self-congratulation was like a boomerang – it returned to strike one.

Sunday. A day of rest except for those unfortunate enough to serve under a man who held that all days were for work.

He phoned the morgue, identified himself and immediately began to explain why it had been impossible for him to have attended as he had intended . . .

‘Why tell me? I'm just the attendant getting everything ready.'

‘Is there anyone who can tell me the result of yesterday's PM.?'

‘There wasn't one.'

‘Why not?'

‘It was cancelled.'

‘Are you talking about Señor Gill?'

‘If that's the Englishman who landed on his head. Going to be a job and a half to get him even halfway back to shape for the viewing.'

‘His PM was scheduled for yesterday afternoon.'

‘Doctor Jurando had an emergency – as you say, you did – and couldn't judge how long it would hold him, so said to delay until tomorrow morning.'

‘At what time?'

‘Midday.'

Miguel Vich had been wrong. The boomerang might return, but it could miss. He thanked the attendant, said he'd be at the morgue on Monday –
Why tell me? I'm just the attendant
– and replaced the receiver. The phone rang. Such was his sense of relief, he answered it immediately.

‘The superior chief will speak to you,' Angela Torres said.

‘Alvarez, I phoned you three times yesterday afternoon and three times there was no answer.'