As Alvarez drove carefully around the right-angled bend in the dirt track, Ca’n Liodre came in sight above the tops of the orange trees – the grove was on land a couple of metres lower. An old farmhouse, reformed for a Mallorquin owner, he judged – the windows had not been enlarged.
He parked in front of the lean-to garage in which was a dark-green Astra shooting brake, its numberplate showing it to be only months old. He left his car and walked across the badly laid concrete above which, on a rusty trellis, grew an ancient vine that was laden with bunches of grapes that would soon be ripe.
The original wooden door, grey and pitted with age, had been swung back against the stone wall; inset were two modern wooden and glass doors. He knocked and when there was no answer, knocked again. Finally, he stepped inside – something he would have done immediately if Mallorquins had been living there – and called out. As he waited, he looked around himself. Originally the main room of the house with a very large, cowled fireplace around which the family would have sat in the winter, now the area was a hall and contained no more than a couple of leather-backed chairs, three framed photographs of Llueso in the past century on one wall and a small, crudely fashioned hanging on another.
There were the sounds of shoes on bare tiles and then a man came through the doorway immediately to the side of the open staircase. Alvarez introduced himself.
‘Come on through.’
Beyond the doorway was what had originally been a barn; the crudely beamed ceiling was five metres high at its apex and there was a small gallery. Thanks to the height, the very thick rock walls, and the single small window, the sitting room was cool – it was also so dimly lit that even in the height of summer, the overhead cluster of lights was switched on.
‘Take a seat.’ Bailey gestured with his hand in the general direction of three chairs and a settee, none of which was of matching design or covered in matching material – landlords had long since learned not to cosset foreign tenants. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
A different character from Robertson! ‘Thank you, señor. If I might have a coñac with only ice?’
Bailey went through a second doorway into the kitchen – as Alvarez was able to judge since the door was left open. Bailey returned with a tray on which were bottles, two glasses, ice, and a lemon. As he put the tray down, a woman entered through the first doorway. He quickly turned. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m joining you for a drink, of course … Are you going to introduce me?’
He hesitated, then said abruptly: ‘My wife, Fenella. Inspector Alvarez.’
No great beauty, Alvarez thought, but lucky possessor of something almost as quickly discernible and of far greater value – the quality of warmth. He was glad he had shaved and put on a clean shirt.
Bailey spoke to his wife. ‘You’re obviously forgetting you’re due at the coffee morning in aid of the local dogs’ home.’
‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘Today. So you’ll have to make your excuses and miss a drink.’
She hesitated, then left the room.
‘Women,’ Bailey said, ‘have a good sense of time, but not of dates.’
She returned, a small book in her hand. ‘And men should learn to look before they correct.’ She went up to where he stood and held the book open. ‘Tomorrow. A public mea culpa, please.’
Bailey, his expression annoyed, shrugged his shoulders.
‘If that’s not to be forthcoming, I’ll accept a G and T instead.’ She turned to Alvarez. ‘Harry says you’re a detective?’
‘Yes, I am, señora.’
‘Are you here because we have unwittingly done something terrible?’
‘I need to ask a few questions,’ he answered evasively.
‘About what?’
Bailey said: ‘There’s no need to worry –’
She interrupted him. ‘I’m not worrying, just curious.’
‘And you know what curiosity does.’
‘I hope you don’t equate me with a cat?’
‘Only in feline grace.’
‘Very laboured.’
‘But some marks for intention?… I’ll get another glass.’
A couple so at ease that they could be quite rude to each other, knowing their words would be accepted humorously? Alvarez wondered. Probably … And yet Bailey had sounded annoyed rather than surprised when she’d first appeared and it seemed that there was an undercurrent of tension to their lightly spoken words.
Bailey poured out drinks, handed glasses around, sat. ‘Now, what’s the problem and how can we help?’
‘Perhaps you have heard of the death of Señor Zavala?’ Alvarez said.
‘The bush telegraph has been working overtime. We were told about it almost as soon as it happened. Presumably, then, that’s why you’re here?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘There’s something about his drowning which raises a problem?’
‘It seems possible it was not an accident.’
‘Is that a euphemistic way of saying he may have been deliberately killed?’
‘There is reason for believing that that may be so.’
‘Good God!’
‘Which is, you’ll understand, why I have to ask questions of the people who may be able to help me to discover the truth.’
‘Of course. But I can’t think you’ll find us of any use.’
‘But it is correct that you knew him?’
‘We met him once only, at a cocktail party.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ironically, on the day he died. It came as quite a shock to hear what had happened. At midday, full of life and, it has to be added, himself; that night, dead. Whoever it was said that life is more transitory than any of us dare acknowledge, knew what he was talking about.’
‘Presumably, this party was given by friends of yours?’
‘Friends of friends. We’re still newcomers to the island and the Achesons, who’ve been very kind, were invited by Dolly Selby and they asked if they could take us along because they reckoned we’d have the chance to meet some of the more interesting expats, as Dolly always serves good champagne.’
‘And you were introduced to Señor Zavala?’
‘Much to his annoyance.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He was in deep conversation with a very liberated redhead – judging by her lack of dress. Unfortunately for him, Dolly is the epitome of a cocktail party hostess and she has only to see a couple enjoying each other’s conversation to break up the tête-à-tête. She led the redhead away and poor Guido was left with us.’
‘And you talked with him for how long?’
‘Until we decided to ease his pain and move on, leaving him free to pursue the redhead.’
‘You would not have had time to learn anything about him, then?’
‘We learned more than enough,’ Fenella said.
Alvarez turned to face her. ‘From your tone, señora, it sounds as if you instinctively disliked him?’
‘I –’
Bailey interrupted her. ‘Nothing raises my wife’s hackles more quickly than a man who obviously thinks himself irresistible and lays on the charm with a trowel. Not that she would ever describe it as charm.’
‘And you, señor, how did you regard him?’
‘With amusement rather than dislike, since he wasn’t aiming his charm at me, and it amuses me to hear someone claiming the world wouldn’t turn without his assistance.’
‘What was he boasting about?’
‘Himself. How important he’d been when in the diplomatic service, what taste in modern art he possessed, the style he brought to living – in another fifteen minutes, I don’t doubt we’d have learned how he inspired his old friend Michael to paint the Sistine Chapel.’
‘Did you see him again after the party?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘That’s an odd question in view of what I’ve just said.’
‘Nevertheless, I should like an answer.’
‘Why? D’you really think that after leaving the party I’d immediately have rushed off to see someone I’d be happy never to meet again? If so, perhaps I’d better be more specific. We spoke to Guido Zavala for probably no more than ten minutes, but in that time both Fenella and I judged him to be someone we did not want to become friendly with – a judgement which I’m perfectly prepared to accept can reflect badly on us rather than on him. Does that answer you?’
‘A car was seen leaving his home that evening, soon after dark, and it was being driven very recklessly. This raises the possibility that the driver was under an emotional strain.’
‘You’re suggesting the driver was responsible for Zavala’s death?’
‘That has to be a possibility.’
‘And, since this has to be the point of your questioning, you think I was the driver…?’
‘That’s utterly absurd,’ Fenella said sharply.
Bailey spoke lightly. ‘After a policeman has been dealing with the public for even a short time, I suspect that the absurd becomes commonplace.’ He spoke to Alvarez. ‘Isn’t that so?’
‘I would have used the word “unusual” instead of absurd.’
‘Because it’s more diplomatic?’
Alvarez smiled. ‘The car has been identified as a new, dark-coloured Astra shooting brake, driven by a male. As shooting brakes are still relatively rare on this island – though rapidly becoming more popular – I have had a list drawn up of those which are owned in this area. You are one of only three foreign owners. You knew Señor Zavala.’
‘From little acorns, great oak trees truly do grow! Would you think me rude if I pointed out the fallacies in your conclusion?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But our glasses are empty, so first let me refill them.’ He stood, collected the glasses, and left.
Fenella, with a poise Alvarez admired, talked about the house they were renting and remarked, with resigned amusement, that some of the hot-water pipes had been taken around the outside of the house so that if they still lived there during the coming winter, a hot bath would be difficult …
Bailey returned, handed them their glasses, sat. ‘I hope this won’t sound too pompous, but had we wished to make further contact with Guido, I would not have felt the need to do so within only a few hours of first meeting him. According to himself, he was very rich, and such eagerness on our part would have aroused his deepest suspicions – the rich find it very difficult to separate themselves from their riches. The next point. Is it correct that he died in the evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you said that this car was seen after dark?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then any identification has to be very uncertain.’
‘It was seen by someone who is knowledgeable about cars and there was nearly a full moon.’
‘Moonlight is known to distort, as many a couple have discovered a few years into their marriage … Does the observer claim to be able to identify the driver?’
‘No.’
‘Is there any reason to be certain that the car did not come from another area of the island?’
‘No.’
‘Have you spoken to the other two foreign owners of similar cars?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So you can’t be certain whether, or not, they knew Guido … I think, Inspector, that you’ve been fishing.’
‘I’m no fisherman, señor, but I understand that one only fishes where there is reason to think there might be fish.’
‘Touché,’ said Fenella.
Bailey smiled. ‘But to show what a poor catch I represent, I wasn’t driving anywhere that night, I was here, with Fenella, watching television on an illegal card smuggled out from England – a confession made to convince you of my good faith and in the hopes that you will take no official action.’
‘On this island, smuggling has always been regarded as a legitimate occupation.’ Alvarez drained his glass. He stood. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘Which can’t have helped.’
‘A negative can be as useful as a positive.’
As, a few minutes later, he drove away from Ca’n Liodre, question jostled question. Had Bailey been trying to persuade his wife to leave the house before the questions began? Had she been equally determined to stay to judge the situation for herself? Had this disagreement led to tension? Had his explanation of their obvious dislike of Zavala been genuine? Why had he gone to such lengths to try to prove the car seen by Francisco could not have been correctly identified, when the normal reaction would surely have been a simple flat denial that it could have been his?… Yet if the Baileys had not met Zavala before the cocktail party, it had to be ridiculous to suppose that in the course of a meeting lasting roughly ten minutes, Bailey could find cause to murder.
Why did life always have to be so complicated? Alvarez wondered.