to know?’
‘A car was seen driving up to Casa Gran on the afternoon of the murder and I have to try and identify whose it was.’
‘If we didn’t know he owned the place, it couldn’t very well be either of our cars, could it?’ said Braddon belligerently.
‘Joe, the Inspector has to ask questions,’ she said, trying to awaken her husband to the fact that it obviously wasn’t in his interests to antagonize a policeman.
Braddon finished his drink, put the glass down on the cane table with unnecessary force. ‘Do you think I murdered him?’
She gasped at this fresh stupidity.
Alvarez said evenly: ‘Did you, señor?’
‘No. But like I said, whoever did has my vote. He was nothing but a swindler.’
‘And you believe that that warrants his being murdered?’
She spoke hurriedly. ‘Joe often says things he doesn’t mean.’
‘I mean exactly . . .’ began Braddon.
She suddenly pointed up into the sky. ‘There’s an Eleonora’s falcon.’ They watched the bird as it gracefully curved in flight. ‘I saw an osprey three days ago and it had a fish in its talons. There’s a wonderful range of raptors out here.’
It had been a brave attempt to turn the conversation away from dangerous subjects and Alvarez was sorry to have to cut it short. ‘Señor, will you tell me where you were last Monday night?’
‘I said, I didn’t kill him.’
‘I still need to know where you were.’
‘Here.’
‘Is there someone who can confirm that?’
‘I can,’ she said loudly.
‘And perhaps there is also someone else? Do you have a maid who lives in?’
‘We have a daily woman, that’s all.’
‘Did any friends call?’
They looked at each other; she answered. ‘There’s no one came to see us Monday night.’
CHAPTER 10
Palma was a city which was often denigrated, usually by people who had never visited the island on the grounds that their hairdressers went there every year. But for those who did not have to be seen by their friends to holiday in Pago Pago, it had much to offer and in parts was charmingly attractive.
Alvarez parked in a newly vacated space, climbed out of the car and stood on the pavement, admiring the setting. Behind him was a small green, ringed with palm trees, off which there led a broad road which provided a brief view of the boat-filled marina; ahead of him was a church, in parts nearly five hundred years old, which was simple yet graceful in style, but had sombre associations with the Inquisition; and to his right was Bistro Deux, a French restaurant whose reputation was excellent.
He crossed, walked past the church and down a side road that curved around rising land. He stopped at a block of flats, checked the names by the entryphone, pressed the third button down. A woman, her voice made tinny by the loudspeaker, answered. He identified himself. There was a sharp buzz and the door sprang open. He went in and crossed to the lift.
When Raquel Oliver opened the door, he was immediately reminded of Jaume’s contemptuous certainty that Roig’s women were far from innocent; undoubtedly, she was. Strikingly attractive, she made the mistake of being too obvious; hair very blonde, make-up very heavy, shirt and jeans very tight, and air of hard calculation unmistakable.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘d’you reckon you’ll know me the next time?’
‘I am sorry, señorita, I was just . . .’ He became silent, deeming it imprudent to explain that he had just unflatteringly summed up her character.
She accepted that his regard had been wholly lecherous. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
It was a small flat, built for a single person or a newly-wed couple. She had furnished it with a striking and artistic recourse to colours, many of which when apart might have been thought to clash, but when placed together astonishingly didn’t.
‘D’you want a drink?’
‘If I might have a coñac, with just ice?’
He watched her go over to a small sideboard. An islander,
‘A car was seen driving up to Casa Gran on the afternoon of the murder and I have to try and identify whose it was.’
‘If we didn’t know he owned the place, it couldn’t very well be either of our cars, could it?’ said Braddon belligerently.
‘Joe, the Inspector has to ask questions,’ she said, trying to awaken her husband to the fact that it obviously wasn’t in his interests to antagonize a policeman.
Braddon finished his drink, put the glass down on the cane table with unnecessary force. ‘Do you think I murdered him?’
She gasped at this fresh stupidity.
Alvarez said evenly: ‘Did you, señor?’
‘No. But like I said, whoever did has my vote. He was nothing but a swindler.’
‘And you believe that that warrants his being murdered?’
She spoke hurriedly. ‘Joe often says things he doesn’t mean.’
‘I mean exactly . . .’ began Braddon.
She suddenly pointed up into the sky. ‘There’s an Eleonora’s falcon.’ They watched the bird as it gracefully curved in flight. ‘I saw an osprey three days ago and it had a fish in its talons. There’s a wonderful range of raptors out here.’
It had been a brave attempt to turn the conversation away from dangerous subjects and Alvarez was sorry to have to cut it short. ‘Señor, will you tell me where you were last Monday night?’
‘I said, I didn’t kill him.’
‘I still need to know where you were.’
‘Here.’
‘Is there someone who can confirm that?’
‘I can,’ she said loudly.
‘And perhaps there is also someone else? Do you have a maid who lives in?’
‘We have a daily woman, that’s all.’
‘Did any friends call?’
They looked at each other; she answered. ‘There’s no one came to see us Monday night.’
CHAPTER 10
Palma was a city which was often denigrated, usually by people who had never visited the island on the grounds that their hairdressers went there every year. But for those who did not have to be seen by their friends to holiday in Pago Pago, it had much to offer and in parts was charmingly attractive.
Alvarez parked in a newly vacated space, climbed out of the car and stood on the pavement, admiring the setting. Behind him was a small green, ringed with palm trees, off which there led a broad road which provided a brief view of the boat-filled marina; ahead of him was a church, in parts nearly five hundred years old, which was simple yet graceful in style, but had sombre associations with the Inquisition; and to his right was Bistro Deux, a French restaurant whose reputation was excellent.
He crossed, walked past the church and down a side road that curved around rising land. He stopped at a block of flats, checked the names by the entryphone, pressed the third button down. A woman, her voice made tinny by the loudspeaker, answered. He identified himself. There was a sharp buzz and the door sprang open. He went in and crossed to the lift.
When Raquel Oliver opened the door, he was immediately reminded of Jaume’s contemptuous certainty that Roig’s women were far from innocent; undoubtedly, she was. Strikingly attractive, she made the mistake of being too obvious; hair very blonde, make-up very heavy, shirt and jeans very tight, and air of hard calculation unmistakable.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘d’you reckon you’ll know me the next time?’
‘I am sorry, señorita, I was just . . .’ He became silent, deeming it imprudent to explain that he had just unflatteringly summed up her character.
She accepted that his regard had been wholly lecherous. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
It was a small flat, built for a single person or a newly-wed couple. She had furnished it with a striking and artistic recourse to colours, many of which when apart might have been thought to clash, but when placed together astonishingly didn’t.
‘D’you want a drink?’
‘If I might have a coñac, with just ice?’
He watched her go over to a small sideboard. An islander,
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