Murder Majorcan Style, page 9
‘Are we going to sit here until lunch is over?’ Jaime asked.
As they left the car, Ana came through the open doorway and across to them. She exchanged a cheek-kiss with Dolores, smiled at Jaime, asked Alvarez: ‘Do we remember?’ She kissed him on the lips. ‘Let’s go inside, out of the heat. I want to show you the estate, but that will have to wait until things become cooler. And anyway, Elena – my cook – says we must be ready to eat as soon as the meal is ready or it will be spoiled. One becomes a slave to one’s staff.’
The entrada was large and its ceiling, high; the walls had been plastered and recently painted a light pink which avoided the sense of oppressiveness had they remained bare rock.
‘I’ve carried out considerable modernization because in this day and age, one doesn’t want to live in discomfort just for the sake of authenticity. But I’ve left one room as it was in my grandfather’s day. Would you like to see it?’
Dolores said they would.
Ana walked into a room to the left of the entrada. She opened the shutters. ‘I was born after my grandfather died, but when I’m in here, I seem to know him.’
There was a large oil painting of an elderly man in fashionable clothes of the era and innumerable framed photographs of men and women, most of whom looked uneasy. A pair of hammer shotguns hung in crossed position on a wall. The floor was tiled in island marble. The furniture was old-fashioned, but not rustic since that would have suggested ‘proper’ chairs, tables and cupboards could not be afforded. On the larger table were several silver ashtrays, traditional presents at weddings and first communions.
‘I come in here and sit,’ Ana said, ‘to enjoy the calm which the past can provide. You’ll understand that, Enrique.’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Like hell,’ Jaime muttered, not loud enough for Ana to hear, but Dolores’ expression made it clear she had.
‘Let’s go through to the sitting room. And I expect you two men would like a drink before we eat.’
The large room had two windows which had, with necessary great care, been enlarged by removing stones from the wall. Through them, the mountains were visible, their sides patched with pine trees, their crests spearing the cloudless sky.
A middle-aged woman in maid’s uniform entered.
‘Please tell Juana what you would like?’ Ana said.
They both chose brandy. They both were resentfully aware Dolores was silently reminding then that they would refuse a second drink.
‘I do hope you enjoyed the meal?’
Dolores was lavish with her praise. ‘I could not have cooked a more delicious mejillones con salsa devinoto. And the soufflé was heavenly light.’
Ana turned to Alvarez. ‘Did you enjoy it as much as you do your cousin’s cooking?’
He faced a question that could not be answered. To praise Ana’s meal at the expense of Dolores’, or vice versa, was to arouse resentment in one of them. ‘How can one compare perfections?’
‘A silver tongue? So very dangerous to a young lady! Would you like to dine here again?’
‘I certainly would.’
She smiled. ‘You sounded as if you really meant that.’
They walked. Later, Dolores complained it had been for more kilometres than from the village to the port, she should have been warned to wear comfortable, not best shoes, and in the heat she would have found it far more preferable to remain in the house. Alvarez had enjoyed every moment. He asked Ana how many hectares she owned and she was not certain; he guessed the figure to be between a hundred and a hundred and fifty. The sheep were well conformed, the lambs filled with the energy of health. Not a fruit tree had shown signs of mould. All the crops were strong growing.
He was introduced to the farm manager. A long and varied conversation caused him to judge the other as intelligent, interested in his job, ready to accept modern techniques even when these contradicted the customs of centuries.
Jaime had jeeringly referred to him as Don Enrique. No matter how poor a man’s background, married to the owner of Son Cascall, he would be given the respect of Don . . .
Dolores stopped by the bead curtain, turned. ‘I’m only cooking a simple supper.’
‘Why?’ Jaime asked.
‘Because if you ate as richly now as you did at lunch, your belly would blossom until you could no longer see your feet.’
‘There’s a joke . . .’
‘Which you will not repeat. Enrique, did you enjoy the lunch?’
Alvarez, seated at the table, fiddled with his glass, half-filled with Viña Ardanza. ‘It was almost as delicious as if you had cooked it.’
‘You are right. There was the hint of a piquant flavour missing. Elena lacks the final skill of a first-class cook.’
‘That’s not what you told Ana,’ Jaime said.
‘I have to explain that a guest does not criticize her hostess’s food . . .? Perhaps Ana should have tried to make certain Isabel got everything right.’
‘Can Ana cook?’ Alvarez asked.
‘And why not? She may live a grand life, but she knows a man ceases to complain only when his stomach is full.’
‘So why did her husband quit?’ Jaime asked.
‘Because like most men, he could not appreciate loyalty and the pleasure of giving rather than taking . . . Enrique, did you think there would be so much land?’
‘I guessed there was a fair bit when she spoke of having a farm manager, but didn’t expect quite so much. It must be one of the largest estates on the island. And the soil has a body as good as that around Mestara. It made me wonder if it would grow potatoes and strawberries profitably.’
‘Did you ask the farm manager?’
‘He reckoned it would, but strawberries are very labour intensive and there’s not that much casual labour available around there. Potatoes aren’t very profitable unless one can crop early and export to northern Europe.’
‘Would you try to grow them if you had the chance?’
‘I’d get seed potatoes from Scotland; strawberries, no. If pickers are in short supply, one can lose much of the crop. Again, the agents in Mestara would make certain we failed to get a good price.’
‘“We”,’ Jaime said jeeringly.
‘Just speaking generally.’ But Alvarez realized he had been thinking as if he might have the right to make decisions.
It was Sunday, but Salas did not believe in accepting that as an excuse for relaxing. So it was advisable to go to the office and avoid any possible allegations of slackness.
The market forced him to park well away from the post. His route was through the old square and he was passing the abandoned stone-slabbed fish stall – all fish now had to be sold under cover – when he saw Susanna on a metal seat, below the raised level. He walked to where she sat. ‘Hullo.’
She looked up, her expression bitter. She muttered a recognition.
‘May I sit?’
She did not respond. He sat. ‘I walked so much yesterday, my legs feel as if they’re about to go on strike.’
She was listlessly uninterested.
‘Have you been busy?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Do you help in the garden as well as in the house?’
She did not answer.
As he stared at the groups of drifting tourists, he tried to think of something which might gain her interest. Two youngsters, nibbling ice cream cornets, came to a stop and stared at her. Certain their thoughts were lustful, he told them to clear off in basic Mallorquin. ‘Would you like an ice cream?’ he asked.
Another shake of the head.
‘Will you have a churros with me?’
‘No. Thank you.’
It was unusual to hear a youngster offering thanks. Her mother had taught her manners.
‘Would you mind if I came back here to eat it?’
‘No.’
He stood, elbowed a way between people to the large van, the rear of which had been turned into a travelling kitchen. In the back were two large containers filled with oil, heated by calor gas. The air was filled with the hunger-inducing smell of the twists of butter, sugar, flour, and egg, being dropped into the boiling fat and retrieved crispy brown when they were sprinkled with icing sugar.
The first churros he had known had been cooked in the open, in a large battered, metal saucepan, the oil of poor quality, heated by wood. He had demanded one. How old had he been? Five, six? He could recall his grief when his father had refused to buy him one. He had not understood his father did not have even the few pesetas needed.
‘If you’re not buying, you’re in the way,’ one of the two men inside the van said.
‘Four churros.’ He would offer Susanna two, despite her earlier refusal. He would eat her two as well if she did not change her mind.
A youth, long hair, stubbled chin, ill-dressed, was now sitting by Susanna and trying to engage her in conversation. ‘Move,’ Alvarez ordered.
‘Get lost.’
‘You want to come down to the post on a charge of loitering?’
‘I ain’t.’
‘You will be when you’re in a cell.’
The youth stood, slouched away, muttering words he lacked the courage to say aloud.
Alvarez said: ‘I hope he was not bothering you?’
‘Not really,’ she answered.
One couldn’t really blame the moth when the candle shone so brightly. ‘I know you said you didn’t want a churros, but I’ve brought you one – or two, if you can manage them.’
She shook her head.
‘Try a nibble. When I’m feeling so gloomy that wine tastes like water, I eat something sweet to cheer myself up.’
‘No.’
‘You could eat a dozen and still be as graceful as a nymph.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘Susanna when my sky is black, I drive down to the bay to look at the water, hills, mountains, and their beauty is so magical, it turns my sky blue once more. Let me drive you down to the bay to find out if your sky changes colour.’
She stared down at the ground in front of herself. He had the sudden worry she might mistake his motive. ‘Please don’t think . . . I promise you I’m not trying . . . you know.’
‘I couldn’t think that of you.’
For the first time, there was an emotion other than grief in her voice.
He ate half a churros.
‘Please take me there.’
There was a rubbish bin nearby. He threw the plastic bag, in which were the remaining churros, into it.
He parked on the grass verge with the car’s bonnet pointing at the bay. The sky was a cloudless tent of blue, the breeze was too light to fill the sails of yachts which had optimistically left port, the sea was at peace, the sharp sunshine robbed the surrounding mountains of the air of intimidation they could possess when the sky was heavily overcast and the light poor.
Susanna spoke after a long silence. ‘It . . . it almost works.’
TWELVE
Alvarez ignored the post which had earlier been left on his desk and tried to remember the alternative names Marta had mentioned as that of the man who had had a fierce row with Sterne not long before the latter’s death. Park or . . .
He lit a cigarette. He had been surprised at the lack of vines at Son Cascall. Within a couple of kilometres was a farm which had been producing top quality dessert grapes for as long as could be remembered. The land might be very different in composition and quality, but it might not. One could grow two or three of the popular varieties of grapes to judge which was the best for the land and could eventually be a profitable crop. That would take a few years, but farming lived on time. The size of the estate provided its own problems. The sheep grazed much of the land, up to the slopes of the first mountains, and it must be a long and arduous job to check they were all well. If there were a large shed, sheep on the point of lambing could be held close to it and then taken inside so that the first days for sheep and lamb were not subject to the perils of sudden storms or unusual heat; illness could be spotted and treated before becoming potentially fatal.
He swore. Fantasy. Deceived into believing he might be in a position to farm Son Cascall. He had not married. Juana María’s death had for a long while left him bewildered, resentful, bitter, unable to face a woman without comparing her, always to her disadvantage. Once his grief was controlled, if no less painful when he remembered too vividly, he had grown accustomed to freedom.
There probably were benefits to marriage. One always had cleaned, repaired clothes, a neat and tidy house with furniture polished, tiled floors mopped, windows cleaned; meals were cooked, the washing-up was done, and so on. But marriage had developed disadvantages. Now, one’s wife might consider herself an equal, would think he should take his share in the running of the house, would object to his having a little discreet fun on the side . . .
He had confused himself with the thoughts of vines. He tried to remember what he had been trying to remember . . . Park or Parry. The names Marta had given him. He picked up the telephone directory from the floor. If luck was with him, he would find both men lived in the port or nearby. He was half lucky. T. Park lived in Port Llueso at Guillem Torrenova, 44. A Parry was not listed in those areas he checked. He phoned.
A woman said: ‘Yes?’
‘I should like to speak to Señor Park,’ he said in English.
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’
‘Oh!’
‘I need to ask the señor if he knew Señor Sterne.’
‘We both did, but . . . One moment.’
The wait was short. ‘Tom Park speaking. You’re asking if we knew Keith Sterne. Yes, we did. Are you ringing because of his death?’
‘Yes, señor. I wish to know if you are able to help me learn more about him. I should be grateful to have a word with you.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as is convenient.’
‘What about now?’
He looked at his watch. It was not too late in the morning for a trip to the port to interfere with lunch. ‘That would be very helpful.’
‘Do you know the street where we live?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re next door to the bakers.’
‘I will be with you in roughly twenty minutes.’ He said goodbye, replaced the receiver. The phone rang.
‘The superior chief wishes to speak to you,’ Ángela Torres said in commanding style.
‘I can’t return the . . .’ He cut short the childish retort.
‘Return what?’
‘I thought he wanted to ask about a written report.’
‘I made no mention of that. There are times, Inspector, when I am forced to agree with Superior Chief Salas. It can be very difficult to make sense of what you say.’
‘I suppose . . .’ He had forgotten her habit of transferring a call without advising the caller.
‘You suppose what?’ Salas demanded.
‘I was about to explain how one can be thinking so deeply . . .’
‘A problem which will not bother you. Are you pursuing your investigation into the death of Señor Sterne?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘I am reassured since there are times when I am not an optimist. What have you learned since the last time you managed to report?’
‘I have identified Señor Park. You will remember Marta, a member of the staff at Ca’n Mortex . . .’
‘Must you repeatedly confirm known facts?’
‘You might not, with so much to do, have remembered . . .’
‘Cease using your memory as a yardstick for that of others.’
‘I have phoned him. He admits to having known Señor Sterne.’
‘You have questioned him?’
‘I am about to.’
‘You find no disadvantage in repeatedly offering the same excuse for your failure to carry out your work efficiently?’
‘I was leaving here to question him when you phoned, señor.’
‘A retrospective decision.’
‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘Of course not. You have also questioned Señor Parry?’
‘There has not yet been sufficient time to identify him.’
‘You have been on holiday for the past days?’
‘It took a while to identify Señor Parry . . . I mean, Park.’
‘Is there any possibility of bringing order to your mind?’
‘The names are so similar.’
‘Similarity causes you to confuse lucidity with incompetency. You will make a report on your meeting with Parry as soon as it is completed.’
‘Park, señor.’
Salas put the phone down.
Alvarez was able to park in front of the bakery to the annoyance of the driver of an oncoming car who had marked the space for himself. The bakers arguably sold the best ensaimadas in the port or village. Had Dolores bothered to learn to drive, she could have come down in the mornings and bought a couple for his breakfast.
He knocked on the door of No. 31, instead of stepping into the entrada and calling out as he would have done had Mallorquins lived there. The terrace, rock-built house, three roads back from the front, faced a bar which advertised British TV, especially football matches in the season. Local youths favoured it. The Parks were either hard of hearing or not wealthy enough to live somewhere quiet.
The door opened. ‘Inspector Alvarez?’
‘I am sorry to be a little later than I said I would be, señor.’
‘Mallorquin timekeeping.’ Park’s broad smile stripped his words of snarky criticism.
Forty to fifty years old, Alvarez judged, medium height, reasonably well built, features of someone with a cheerful nature.
What would have been the entrada was now the sitting room, with comfortable chairs, newspapers and magazines on the table, flat screen television, and a glass-fronted cabinet in which were several small pieces of Lladro ceramics.
‘May I offer you a drink or is that disallowed since you are on duty?’
He had met this strange English provision before. ‘That would be very pleasant, señor.’
