Murdered by Nature (11 page)

‘Is there some kind of trouble?' Browyer weakly asked.

Alvarez sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I'm investigating the death of Colin Kerr.'

‘Isn't . . . isn't that the name of the man who drowned?'

‘Yes.'

The door opened, and a maid entered, came to a sudden stop. She looked at them, left, shut the door behind herself. Alvarez briefly considered hurrying out and explaining the true situation to her.

‘You can't think . . . I never met the man.' Browyer's blustering had given way to uneasiness. ‘I swear it was nothing to do with me. It can't be, I didn't know him.'

‘You are a nephew of the late Señor Ashton?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Are you here because you had hoped to borrow more money from him?'

‘Why do you think that?'

‘Cows don't shed their horns. Do you expect to benefit under your uncle's will?'

‘He disinherited me. Just because . . . He was living like it was seventy years ago.'

‘What exactly do you mean by that?'

‘He thought . . . thought it was a sin. I tried to explain. But she wouldn't let him understand. She hates me.'

‘You are referring to Señora Ashton?'

‘Of course I am.'

‘You believe she dislikes you because of your sexuality?'

‘Because I know how it went.'

‘What went?'

He poured himself a drink of neat gin. ‘She made eyes at him in the hospital so he had her as a day nurse at home. There, she hotted him up until he married her. If the old fool had had any sense, he'd have got what he wanted for a few quid.'

‘I have met the señora. For her, initially the relationship rested solely on sympathy.'

‘Believe that and you know sod-all about women. He'd lost his wife, but Laura stroked his brow and had him wriggling like a fifteen year old.'

‘Those who knew them before the señor died have repeatedly said they had a great affection for each other.'

‘I'm his nephew, but he leaves me nothing, and she gets everything.'

‘The will is not yet public. How do you know you have been disinherited?'

‘What's that matter?'

‘You have a reason for not answering?'

‘A bloke told me.'

‘Who was he?'

‘A clerk in a lawyer's office.'

‘Señor Ramírez's office in Palma?

‘I can't remember.'

‘Where did you meet the clerk?'

After a long pause, Browyer answered: ‘At the office.'

‘Whose name you have forgotten. Why did he tell you?'

‘We . . . saw each other a couple of times and . . .' He drank eagerly.

‘Did you often ask your uncle for money?'

‘I'd got nothing, and he was bloody rich. The house here, properties in other countries, luxury car, yacht, and God knows what else.'

‘You resented his wealth?'

‘It wouldn't have hurt him to pass something on.'

‘When you came to the island, did you stay at Son Dragó?'

‘Until he suggested it would be more convenient for everyone if I stayed in a hotel. The staff were always complaining about me. They couldn't understand they were just servants.'

‘That didn't stop you coming to the island since you hoped your frequent requests for money would eventually bear fruit.'

‘It wasn't like that.'

‘How was it, then?'

There was no answer.

‘Were you ever aware that the señor smoked reefers?'

‘Did what? He'd as soon have been caught in a massage parlour as smoking dope.'

‘You'll know what smoked cannabis smells like.'

‘If you're saying . . . If someone had smoked it, it would have been her.'

‘No doubt there are another dozen faults of which you'd like to accuse her, but I've not the time or wish to listen.'

He left. It had been time wasted in the company of an insecure, jealous, frustrated man.

Jaime's greeting as he entered the dining room was: ‘You're so late, the kids have eaten everything.'

‘You had twice what I did,' Juan, a half-peeled apple in his hand, protested.

‘That's why he's got so big a tummy,' Isabel observed.

‘How many times do I need to tell you two that it is rude to make personal remarks?' Dolores asked sharply.

‘You told Daddy he'd get even fatter if he had any more.'

‘That was a reminder, not a personal comment. Enrique, your meal is in the oven. It will be all right, but not as good as had you returned on time.'

‘I had to talk to people in Playa Nueva.'

‘That prevented you phoning to tell me you would be late home?'

He went into the kitchen, brought out of the oven a well-filled plateful of
Estofat de bou
. He briefly, superficially, felt sorry for the tourists at Hotel Floris who had been condemned to a meal of cold tinned soup, leathery beef stew, and a tasteless sponge covered with a cream mixture from a spray can. He returned to the dining room.

Juan stared at Alvarez's plate. ‘If you eat all that, you'll burst.'

‘What have I just told you?' Dolores snapped.

‘That wasn't a personal comment, it was a kind of reminder,' Juan answered.

Jaime laughed. ‘Well said!'

‘Isabel and Juan, outside and play until it's time for school,' she ordered.

They hurried into the
entrada
; slammed the front door shut.

Dolores faced Jaime. Her words were coated in ice. ‘As a parent, you should wish your son to behave well, not encourage him to act like a tramp.'

‘But it was sharp of him,' Jaime muttered.

‘My mother was correct.'

‘Was she ever anything else?'

‘You might manage to talk sense if you would only drink very little, but that possibility is too improbable for us ever to know.'

‘That's a nice thing for a wife to say!'

‘It was your mother-in-law who said it.'

‘It's a wonder you ever married me.'

‘
She
would have called it a mystery. Have you finished? If so, pass me your plate, knife, fork and glass.'

He passed the first three.

‘Your glass.'

‘I am going to have a little more wine.'

‘You
were
.' She collected up glasses, plates and cutlery, carried them into the kitchen.

Jaime said: ‘Enrique, did your parents ever discuss her? I mean, what kind of a person she was?' He indicated the kitchen.

‘My mother used to say she was very kind-hearted, ready to help anyone, but could be a bit sharp occasionally. You were asking for trouble when you laughed at Juan's remark.'

‘How was I to know it would annoy her?'

There were some for whom experience was no tutor.

H
e had enjoyed a restful siesta, and it was well after five when Alvarez drove up to Son Dragó. García was using a fork to spread dung around a white and red multi-flowered hibiscus. He dug the tines into the soil, softened by watering, rested his hands on the handle and watched Alvarez approach.

‘Mule?' Alvarez asked as he pointed to the contents of the wheelbarrow.

‘Horse.'

‘Best of the lot. Where d'you get it?'

‘Riding stables.'

‘Which ones?'

García shrugged his shoulders. One did not provide information from which an advantage could be gained by another.

Alvarez regarded the hibiscus. ‘I don't think I've seen so many flowers on a single bush before.'

García used an upturned mattock to transfer horse dung.

‘D'you remember talking about the almond trees at the bottom of the garden?'

‘No.'

‘What kind are they?'

‘Prunus dulcis mostly.'

‘Doesn't say anything to me.'

‘Does much?'

‘White blossom or pink?'

‘Both.'

‘So some are bitter almonds?'

‘If you say.'

‘You don't know?'

‘I don't try to tell when someone thinks he knows what he's talking about.'

‘The wind's getting sharpish, so what about moving to the garden shed?'

They walked to the small building, its wooden exterior marked by sun, wind, and rain. Once seated, Alvarez offered a pack of Marlboro cigarettes.

‘Know someone who runs 'em in?' García asked as he took one.

‘You think I'd knowingly buy smuggled cigarettes?'

‘If you got the chance.'

‘How many of the trees are growing bitter almonds?'

‘Four.'

‘A dangerous mistake, surely?'

‘Why?'

‘Doesn't the Señor hold open days when people can wander around the grounds after paying a couple of euros which go to charity? Some stupid oaf might try to eat a bitter almond, not knowing what it is.'

‘I knock 'em all down and clear up before the open day in September. Anyway, there's always a notice saying not to eat any fallen nuts.'

‘I haven't seen a notice.'

‘Because it ain't there. Move it after I've cleared the trees and burned all the almonds.'

‘Why not get rid of the trees?'

‘The señor liked the different coloured blossom.'

Alvarez was about to remark that it seemed a dubious pleasure when he remembered the laboratory assistant's long list of dangerous plants. Looking through the open doorway, he could see several oleander bushes. ‘When did you knock them down this year?'

‘Several weeks ago.'

‘It's difficult to strip a tree, so maybe some were left?'

‘Not when I've finished.' García stood, reached over to a small cane basket, brought out a bottle of 504 and a glass. ‘I'd likely offer you some, but you won't want the common stuff.'

‘You imagine I drink only French cognac?'

‘Why not, when you know someone who runs cigarettes and you'll get it cheap?'

Alvarez was handed a well-filled glass. He raised it in greeting, drank. ‘I've asked if you ever saw Kerr in the garden.'

‘More times than a hen cackles after laying.'

‘If you were sitting in here, you wouldn't see someone at the far end, by the almond trees.'

‘I only waste time when an inspector moans about the cold.'

‘You always have your
merienda
outside even when it's raining and twice as cold as now?'

There was no answer.

‘So there's time, every day, when a man could help himself to bitter almonds still on the tree or fallen to the ground and missed by you, when you wouldn't see him?'

‘Look through that.' García pointed at the window, beyond which both the approach to the house and the track to the end of the promontory were visible. ‘No one's been along since a German couple dug up the land with those bloody stupid walking poles.'

‘How did you react?'

‘Think I invited them in here?'

Alvarez finished his drink and as he waited to be offered a second one, dismissed García's claim that he spent little time in the hut. To sit and look out at a rare Mallorquin garden which stretched almost the length of the promontory, the bay, and the sea beyond the headlands, would be an irresistible temptation. ‘Did the señor often talk to you about the garden?'

‘Every day when he was fit enough to walk around.'

‘Would he sometimes be smoking?'

‘No.'

‘Did you ever think he might be on marijuana?'

‘A man like him into dope? You're as daft as Old Albert, who only found out he couldn't walk on water when he drowned.'

‘It's difficult to tell what a man will do, and I have to consider all possibilities.'

‘Then you'll consider them on your own on account of me wanting to do the work I'm paid for.' He brought the bottle of brandy out of the basket.

About time, was Alvarez's silent comment.

García held the bottle steady with one hand, used a pencil to mark on the label the level of the brandy, replaced the bottle. He left before Alvarez could find the words to express his opinion of such miserly suspicion.

If the coming telephone conversation became extended, he would not return home in time to relax and enjoy a brandy before the meal. But if he didn't ring . . .

‘Who is calling?' Ángela Torres said, in the tones of an official demanding a passport at a border control point.

‘Inspector Alvarez, señorita. Is the superior chief in his office?'

‘Why do you always ask?'

‘He might have been called away on some matter.'

‘Superior Chief Salas is only summoned on matters important enough to warrant someone of his rank and standing.'

Spinsters of a certain age were often said to regard their bosses with stars in their eyes; in her case, she probably included a halo. ‘I should like to speak to him.'

There was a wait, then a sharp: ‘Yes?'

‘Señor, in connection with the case of Colin Kerr, deceased, found dead in Llueso Bay on the first of the month . . .'

‘What was the direction of the wind?'

‘I don't know. But does that matter?'

‘It does not.'

‘Then . . . why do you ask, señor?'

‘If I pose a question which is obviously irrelevant, it is a criticism of the unnecessary detail I am being offered.'

‘But you so often . . . It would be easier for me if I could distinguish which of your questions was meaningless.'

‘And I should find it easier if I could decide whether it is ignorance or insolence which dictates your speech. Why are you phoning?'

‘I have revisited Son Dragó and spoken to García. I asked him—'

‘Who is García?'

Certain words danced on his tongue, but he managed to quieten them. ‘The gardener. Four of the almond trees produce bitter almonds. I said I was surprised they didn't cut them down for the sake of safety, but it seems the señor used to like to see the contrasting colours of blossom.'