Murder Majorcan Style, page 1
Table of Contents
A Selection of Recent Titles by Roderic Jeffries
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
A Selection of Recent Titles by Roderic Jeffries
AN AIR OF MURDER *
ARCADIAN DEATH
AN ARTISTIC WAY TO GO
DEFINITELY DECEASED *
AN ENIGMATIC DISAPPEARANCE
AN INSTINCTIVE SOLUTION *
AN INTRIGUING MURDER *
MURDER DELAYED *
MURDER’S LONG MEMORY
MURDER NEEDS IMAGINATION *
MURDER, MAJORCAN STYLE *
A QUESTION OF MOTIVE *
RELATIVELY DANGEROUS
SEEING IS DECEIVING *
A SUNNY DISAPPEARANCE *
SUN, SEA AND MURDER *
TOO CLEVER BY HALF
* available from Severn House
MURDER, MAJORCAN STYLE
Roderic Jeffries
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and in the USA by
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2011 by Roderic Jeffries.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Jeffries, Roderic, 1926-
Murder, Majorcan style. – (An Inspector Alvarez mystery)
1. Alvarez, Enrique (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Police–Spain–Majorca–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9’14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-338-9 (EPub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8043-7 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-355-7 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ONE
Sunshine came through the single window and illuminated the layered fog from the green Jaguar’s exhaust and part of the figure of the man who had slumped forward and who sprawled across the steering wheel.
In his office, Alvarez considered what Dolores might be cooking for supper. It was a long while since they had enjoyed Fava parada, one of his many favourite meals. Once, a typical dish of peasant farmers, in her hands it would grace a five-star restaurant. He looked at his watch and was dismayed that the time was only just after five. Three hours before he would be expected to leave the office, at least an hour and a half before he did so and could reasonably explain his absence if called upon to do so.
The phone rang. He hesitated, instinctively certain this meant trouble. Since it continued, he finally lifted the receiver. ‘Llueso Cuerpo . . .’ he began.
‘Caught you just before you skulked off early?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The Prime Minister’s third secretary wishing to congratulate you on completing twenty years’ service without achieving anything.’
He recognized the voice. Tomeu, a policia in Port Llueso with whom he had often enjoyed an evening of fun. ‘It is an offence to show disrespect towards a member of the Cuerpo.’
‘How does one have respect for a man who switches his affections with monotonous regularity?’
‘I tell her how much I earn and she does the switching.’
‘But not until she starts talking about the joys of motherhood? How are Dolores and Jaime?’
When family news had been exhausted, Tomeu said: ‘D’you know Ca’n Mortex on the bay road?’
‘The large stone house a retired general had built years ago, which has been bought by a foreigner who’s planted mature palm trees at some phenomenal cost?’
‘Englishman. Like all his tribe, offer them sunshine and they lose any thoughts about the value of money.’
‘What about the place?’
‘This is about the owner. Señor Sterne has been found dead in his car in the garage. The engine was switched on, the tank was empty of fuel. He’s slumped over the wheel and not driving anywhere any more.’
‘The usual rubber hose from exhaust to the interior of the car?’
‘No. It’s a large car and a small garage for the size of the house. It would have filled with exhaust fumes pretty quickly. From what I remember about a case some years back, it’s the carbon monoxide which does the damage and that doesn’t have to be strong before it quickly makes one too drowsy and muddled to do anything.’
‘Who’s living in the house?’
‘A brother and sister, adult children of the dead man. She’s pure bitch. Then there’s a couple and their daughter who do the housework.’
‘What have you learned from them?’
‘I’ve left it to you to do the questioning. That’s supposed to be your job.’
‘Is Doctor Antignac there yet?’
‘I reckoned it best if you called him.’
‘What about a photographer?’
‘Your pigeon.’
‘Every task is someone else’s?’
Tomeu laughed.
Alvarez replaced the receiver with more force than was necessary. Gone was a quiet evening, the pleasure of a drink, or two, before a delicious meal (Fava parada?). He was faced with work, would probably return home long after the meal was served so that his portion would have to be reheated and would consist only of what the family had left. And in the immediate future, he must phone Superior Chief Salas.
He dialled Palma. When contact was made, he asked: ‘Is the superior chief still in his office?’
‘Naturally!’ Ángela Torres, Salas’ secretary, expressed her contempt for anyone who could imagine he would leave the office early.
‘I need to speak to him.’
‘Who is calling?’
She would know perfectly well who he was, but she needed to remind any caller that she was the virginal go-between on whose shoulders rested the efficient running of the corps. ‘Inspector Alvarez, señorita.’
‘It helps to know who the caller is.’
There was a pause, then Salas said, in his usual abrupt manner: ‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Alvarez, señor.’
‘There is no need to waste time by unnecessarily identifying yourself.’
‘I was just making certain you knew it was me.’
‘It was I.’
There was a longer pause. Finally, Salas said: ‘Like Exmorodes, you have been stricken dumb?’
‘I can’t quite understand what you meant when you said you were you?’
‘I was trying to correct you to say, it was I.’
‘But I know who I am.’
‘I have no intention of trying to unravel your incomprehensible nonsense. I will ask you questions, you will answer them briefly and without any prevarication. Why are you phoning?’
‘To make a report.’
‘What is hindering you?’
‘When you said . . .?’
‘Your report.’
‘An Englishman, Señor Sterne, who lived at Ca’n Mortex, in Port Llueso, has committed suicide, gassing himself in his car.’
‘In the usual manner?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Why do you say “apparently”?’
‘I haven’t yet visited the property to confirm the facts.’
‘You can see no reason to have done so?’
‘In the circumstances, it seemed more important to inform you first.’
‘The forensic doctor confirms your judgement?’
‘He hasn’t yet examined the dead man.’
‘You have no direct confirmation the man is dead because you have not bothered to observe his body or the circumstances which surround it, yet you confidently state this is a case of suicide?’
‘The petrol tank is empty and the ignition is switched on.’
‘Facts you have accessed intuitively?’
‘One of the policia in the port has reported them to me.’
‘It is reassuring to learn there is someone who understands how a case should be conducted. Do you consider it might be an idea not to waste much more time before learning what the doctor has to say and to
‘I intend to drive down to the port the moment I finish speaking to you, señor.’
‘You will not find that too precipitous an action?’ Salas closed the line.
Alvarez replaced the receiver, sighed. Being a Madrileño, Salas would never appreciate that to rush was to shorten one’s life.
TWO
Ca’n Mortex was large and slab-like; being rock-built, many of the windows were small; except for the roof, there were only right angles; it would have been easy to be mistaken into believing it had been intended to offer defence from sea marauders as well as being a home.
Alvarez drove past the wrought-iron gates of elaborate design, the costly replanted palm trees, the multicoloured flower beds, braked to a halt in front of the portico with elaborate columns and pediment. He stepped out of the car, paused to look back across the garden and road at the bay.
The water was poster blue, the sunshine softened the appearance of the surrounding mountains, the slight breeze only fitfully filled the sails of yachts and windsurfers.
There was a polished brass knocker on the panelled door. As he struck it, the deep, dissonant sound reminded him, for no apparent reason, of Riera’s poem, ‘Time past as time present’, which he had had to learn word perfect at school. He had never understood it.
The door opened with a couple of creaks and a youngish man, dressed in white jacket and striped linen trousers, said, ‘Yes?’ in a tone of sharp disparagement.
Alvarez had forgotten to shave that morning, he might with advantage have changed his shirt, but that provided no reason to assume he was an undesirable visitor. Many Mallorquins, especially those employed by foreigners, had forgotten the old saying, gold marks the wealthy man, manners the gentleman. ‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia,’ he answered sharply.
The change in manner was immediate. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, unfortunately I did not recognize you.’
‘Perhaps because you have never met me.’ A response worthy of Salas?
‘Please come in.’
Rank could be as effective as gold in marking superiority.
He entered a large, vaulted hall. A waste of space in his philistine judgement. The floor was tiled in island marble; in the centre was a richly coloured and patterned carpet; there were several doors, each made from rich wood in traditional patterns; there was a large cut-glass bowl filled with flowers, adding the lightness of colour to an otherwise bleak appearance.
‘Will you come into the green sitting-room, Inspector?’
He entered. A large room, predominately coloured green, so carefully furnished with antique and quality furniture, it seemed to him to be more like an advertisement in a glossy magazine than a place to relax.
‘Can I have your name?’ Alvarez asked, as he stood by a luxuriously upholstered settee.
‘Evaristo Roldan.’
‘What other staff are there?’
‘My wife and my daughter work in the house, Marcial in the garden.’
‘Is he full-time?’
‘Necessarily so. As well as the flower beds in the front of the house, there is a large vegetable garden at the back.’
‘Unusual for a foreigner to bother to grow vegetables.’
‘There were lawns, but Señor Sterne wanted fresh vegetables grown from English seeds. He liked to have them as fresh as possible; said that was the only way to enjoy them as they should taste.’
‘A gourmet of vegetables.’
‘Of all food.’
‘What relatives or friends of the dead man are staying or living here?’
‘Señor Alec Sterne and Señorita Caroline Sterne, his son and daughter, have been here for some little time. There are no guests.’
‘Where are they?’
‘They left earlier.’
‘Do you know when they intend to return?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘The señor was married?’
‘His wife does not live on the island.’
‘Divorced?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend here?’
‘Yes. Which is to say . . .’
‘Then say it.’
‘I don’t think it is my position to do so.’
‘Have another think.’
‘He has entertained more than one lady.’
‘Who found the señor?’
‘I did.’
‘In what circumstances?’
‘He’d said he’d be out for lunch and so when, soon after his son and daughter had left, there was a phone call, I answered it. A lady wanted to know where he was because he had failed to meet her.’
‘Who was she?’
‘She didn’t give her name, but from her voice I thought she might be Cecilia.’
‘Her surname?’
‘I have never heard it.’
‘One of his girlfriends?’
‘It seemed likely.’
‘Especially when they came down together to breakfast? Do you know if she’s married?’
‘I believe so.’
‘When she said he hadn’t turned up, did you wonder if something might have happened to him?’
‘I just thought he had changed his mind.’
‘About lunch or Cecilia?’
‘It could have been either.’
‘Then what?’
‘Later on, I needed a screwdriver – tools are kept in the garage. Even before I opened the interior door, I could smell exhaust fumes. When I switched on the light, I could see the señor slumped over the wheel.’
‘So you did what?’
‘Put a handkerchief over my nose, went down into the garage, smashed the window with an axe, opened the outside doors. I saw the señor was dead so I returned into the house and phoned the policia.’
‘How did you know he was dead?’
‘His face . . . He’d vomited. He was so . . . so lifeless.’
‘You didn’t open the car door and feel his pulse or heart.’
‘No, because . . . I was so certain.’
Alvarez could well understand the reluctance to touch the body of a man one thought was dead; he had to nerve himself to do that when it became necessary. ‘I need to go into the garage.’
‘Then will you follow me, Inspector.’
They went out into the hall and across to the far right-hand door.
‘D’you want me to come down with you?’ Roldan asked.
‘Best if you stay here.’
There were five steps down to the floor of the garage which was small, considering the size of the house – when that had been built, cars had been rare on the island, two-car owners unknown.
The air, though apparently clear, still contained the smell of exhaust fumes despite the smashed window and opened garage doors. He studied the red Jaguar and, with reluctance, the body inside. Another’s death was a harbinger of one’s own limited lifespan. The previous night, after supper, he had suffered pain in the stomach. The consequence of an overgenerous supper, or a forewarning?
It was not surprising Roldan had accepted Sterne was dead. To look at his face, his body sprawled forward across the wheel, forehead against the windscreen, the condition of the car inside, left no doubt. He opened the front passenger door, lowered the window, releasing a brief, strong smell of exhaust fumes. He examined the dashboard. All the dials had zeroed. He used a handkerchief to check the ignition key was fully turned on.
There was no suicide note on the seats, in the glove locker or the side pockets of the doors.
Not all suicides left behind expressions of dislike of someone or something.
The photographer arrived and at Alvarez’s orders, took photographs of the dead man from several angles. A minute after he had left, there was a call from outside the garage. ‘Señor, Doctor Antignac has arrived.’
He walked along the side of the car to meet Antignac by the open doors. They shook hands, briefly commented on how long it had been since they last met. Unlike many doctors, Antignac was friendly and did not display a suggestion of inherent omniscience.
‘What have we got?’ he asked. ‘My secretary said that whoever phoned, spoke very confusingly.’
‘It’s a suicide. Gassed himself in the car.’
‘Who’s the victim?’
‘The owner of the property, Señor Sterne.’
‘I think I met him some time back – socially, not professionally. Spoke quite reasonable Spanish for an Englishman.’
Antignac walked forward until level with the front car door, which he opened. He studied the body, examined the head, reached inside to lift the lightweight T-shirt, shifted the body to carry out a temperature investigation. He stepped back. ‘He did not die from carbon monoxide poisoning.’
