An Enigmatic Disappearance (11 page)

‘You don't give a damn my wife is missing or what it's like for me. All you can do is talk vicious nonsense.'

‘Earlier on, the inspector and I had drinks and a meal in delightful surroundings and I showed him a photograph of Belinda. Guess what he said?'

‘How the hell can I?'

‘It would require very little imagination. He says she looks just like Sabrina.'

‘So what?'

‘Just one more coincidence?'

‘Why d'you think I married Sabrina?'

‘Delicacy prohibits an answer.'

‘Because she looks so like Belinda.'

‘Funnily enough, I said to the inspector that I reckoned that's what you'd probably claim.'

‘I suppose you think you're being smart?'

‘My headmaster cured me of ever believing that … Let's be serious. Sabrina and Belinda are one and the same, aren't they?'

‘You're crazy.'

‘It's quite a clever move for an amateur. But perhaps I wrong you by describing you as an amateur since you used to be a commodity broker, which means you're an expert at buying what you don't wish to receive and selling what you don't possess; a short-sighted pro might be more accurate. Short-sighted because you don't seem to accept that the law usually shows a measure of leniency to someone who realizes he's run his course and admits the truth, thereby saving time and money, rather than trying desperately to delay the inevitable.'

‘What truth?'

‘It becomes boring to have to spell out everything.'

‘Bore me.'

‘Back in England you ran so short of money that you and Belinda faked her death in order to claim successfully under her life insurance. You decided to live on this island, satisfied the deception would not come to light. But the money once more started to melt as fast as an icicle in hell and you realized you'd soon need to replenish the coffers. Easy. Your present wife would die in circumstances proven to be profitable. Unfortunately, no one has whispered to you the fact that in the world of crime, success breeds failure. A second wife disappearing with an unknown male, then dying in some foreign field leaving you to claim on a half-million policy? Very difficult to accept.'

‘You tried to say Belinda wasn't really dead. So what happened? You had to eat your words!' Ogden said sneeringly. ‘I'm not claiming anything because Sabrina's not dead.'

‘You admit it?'

‘I don't know where she is or what's happened to her, she's not dead.'

‘Señor…' began Alvarez.

‘Get out,' he shouted. ‘Clear off.'

Alvarez stood; Maitland did the same. ‘After we've gone and you've had time to calm down,' said Maitland, ‘think about this. Camouflage is only effective so long as it camouflages. Your stirring declaration of belief in Sabrina's being alive only appears to negate the possibility that you could be attempting to repeat the scam until you make the claim.'

They were halfway to the door of the sitting-room when Alvarez came to a stop. ‘Señor, do you and your wife have residencias?'

‘No.'

As Alvarez closed the front door behind himself, he said: ‘If the señora had a residenctia, we would have her fingerprints. But it should not be difficult to find good prints about this house.'

‘What would one compare them with? Back home, people only have their prints taken and held if they're convicted and we've no reason to think Belinda ever was. And the only other verifiable source would be the house she lived in with him, but that's been occupied by other people for too long.' Maitland led the way to the car and settled on the front passenger seat. He said, as he dipped home the seat belt: ‘He's admitted nothing, said nothing that takes us an inch forward. We think we know the truth, but can't be certain because improbable coincidences have a nasty habit of turning out to be fact, and reasonable assumptions to be wrong, because life likes to laugh.'

‘Which means I must determine whether the death certificate of Belinda is fraudulent. I will make inquiries.'

‘I hate to have to ask you to do that.'

‘If someone has acted criminally, he must be exposed,' said Alvarez bitterly, knowing that if the death certificate was false, a foreigner, no matter how understanding, would have learnt that Spanish honour had been tarnished.

*   *   *

As Alvarez sat down at the dining-table and reached across for the bottle of brandy, Dolores looked through the bead curtain. ‘You are late and I've had to delay supper.'

‘I had to make inquiries down in the port.'

‘And they, of course, took much longer than you'd expected.' Her tone was both ironic and angry.

‘If you're thinking…'

‘My thoughts are my own.' She withdrew.

‘She reckons I've been spending my time with a woman,' Alvarez said to Jaime, as he poured himself a drink.

‘Haven't you?'

‘No. It was all work.'

‘She'll never believe that.'

‘Don't I know it.'

‘She never believes anything.' He lowered his voice. ‘Yet as God is my witness, I never lie to her unless it's absolutely necessary.'

‘You're a good husband!'

CHAPTER 13

As Alvarez waited to speak to Salas, receiver to his ear, he watched a gecko scurry a wavy path across the ceiling, then freeze when only a few centimetres out from the wall. When he'd been young, people had been so scared of geckos that on sighting one a woman would scream. Popular myth had said that if a gecko landed on one, the grip of its feet was so great that if one tried to remove it by force, it would rip away the skin. Yet it must have happened relatively frequently that a gecko landed on someone and then frantically scurried off, leaving no physical harm. So how had the myth survived in the face of the truth? How many more beliefs were equally fallacious?…

‘Yes?' said Salas, his bad temper obvious even over the phone.

‘Señor, in connection with the disappearance of Señora Ogden…'

‘Have you found her?'

‘No. But I am convinced she is alive.'

‘Then I will assume she is dead.'

‘Señor Maitland, from England, who investigates suspected insurance frauds is on the island because…' Alvarez briefly detailed the facts. ‘So it would seem that the death certificate was false,' he concluded.

‘Only if the two women are the same person.'

‘If they aren't, the coincidences…'

‘Have you still not learned that coincidences can never be a substitute for the truth? Have you not stopped to consider the consequence of accepting this Englishman's contention regarding the two señoras?'

‘Of course I have, but…'

‘You find it easy to believe a Spaniard would betray the authority invested in him?'

‘It would be very unusual, of course. But it could happen…'

‘Only in the mind of a Mallorquin.'

‘Then I am to make no inquiries into the validity of the death certificate, even though Señor Maitland is convinced it has to be false and no doubt will be telling the British police that?'

There was a long silence. ‘There are times,' said Salas bitterly, ‘when regretfully one has to humour ignorance.'

‘I am to check it out?'

‘No doubt you are now about to suggest you should travel to wherever the certificate was issued in order to make inquiries. You will travel nowhere. The inquiries will be made by a local inspector, thus ensuring they are carried out far more quickly and efficiently. Do you have a copy of the certificate?'

‘Yes, señor.'

‘You will fax it to me right away.' Salas cut the connection.

Alvarez replaced the receiver. He searched amongst the jumble of papers and files on his desk and eventually found the copy of Belinda Ogden's death certificate which Maitland had given him the previous day. She had died in Las Macaulas from multiple injuries following a fall at Son Jordi; the doctor's signature was an indecipherable scrawl. Son Jordi was in the Pyrenees, some thirty kilometres inland, and the trip would have provided a pleasant break …

*   *   *

He climbed out of his car and the sounds of splashing water made him, as absurd as this might be, feel cooler. He crossed to the front door of Ca Na Ada and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in maid's uniform. ‘Is Señor Ruffolo in?' he asked.

‘No, he's not.'

There was a call. ‘Who is it, Marta?'

She turned and spoke to the open doorway of the sitting-room in fractured English to say she didn't know.

Alvarez had recognized the voice. ‘Señorita Heron, it is me.'

‘And who the hell's me?' Ada, as inappropriately dressed as ever, stepped into the hall. ‘So me's you. After more booze?'

About to deny the insulting suggestion, he checked the words, convinced that an earnest denial on his part would merely provoke her contempt. ‘Provided it's from a good bodega.'

She laughed. ‘You're an insolent bastard!… Marta, champagne, brandy, and ice.'

He followed her through the sitting-room to the pool complex. She slumped down on the swing chair which had been set up since he was last there. ‘If it gets any hotter, I'll dissolve.'

He wondered why she didn't remain indoors and enjoy the air conditioning? The English seemed afraid of comfort. Perhaps they believed discomfort fortified the soul.

‘So what do you want?' she demanded.

‘I wish to speak to Señor Ruffolo.'

‘Do you now? Why?'

‘To ask him some questions.'

Marta, a tray in her hands, came out of the house. She put the tray down on the table by the swing seat, left.

‘Pour,' Ada commanded.

He went over to the table, lifted the bottle of Veuve Clicquot out of the cooler, eased out the cork, filled the flute and passed this to her. As he dropped three cubes of ice into the glass and poured over them a generous amount of Carlos I, he thought how much more acceptable were the crumbs from a rich man's table than the slices of bread from a poor man's. He returned to his seat.

‘So now you can tell me what you want to ask Rino,' she said.

‘I think it would be best if…'

‘In my house, it's what I think is best that's best.'

‘I'm afraid that cannot always be true.'

‘You've a hell of a gall for a little country detective.'

‘It's all I have, so I guard it carefully.'

‘Do you now! Arrive uninvited, hang out your tongue, and then try to tell me you can do as you like in my house!'

There had been no anger in her voice, only amusement. He congratulated himself on correctly judging her character.

She picked up the bottle of champagne and refilled her glass. ‘Are you still daft enough to think he knows something about Sabrina Ogden's disappearance?'

‘It seems possible.'

‘It's impossible.'

‘How can you be so certain?'

‘He's here because he amuses me and I give him a life of luxury. But I've known what it is to be hard up and looked down on by almost everyone, so I always want a quid's worth for every quid I spend. Are you with me?'

‘I think I understand.'

‘I'm telling you he knows that if he started to mess around with another woman, I'd kick him out.'

‘Can you be sure he understands that? In my job, I meet people who could know the truth, but don't because they don't wish to. Even if he should be certain how you would react to his engaging in such a friendship, he might be able to hide that certainty from himself.'

‘His mind doesn't have that sort of a kink.' She drained her glass, refilled it. ‘People laugh at me. But even the worst of the local snobs can't call me a fool. Someone like him can have the women swarming, so I've always kept both eyes wide open. I'm telling you, that whenever the two meet, he doesn't respond.'

‘You are suggesting that Señora Ogden finds him attractive?'

‘Married to Bevis, any red-blooded man would seem attractive.'

‘He's never responded? Many men would, since she is beautiful.'

‘If their women are stupid enough to trust 'em out of sight.'

‘Do you know of any man who has been paying her unusual attention?'

‘What a refined way of asking if some randy bastard has been after her goodies!' she sneered.

‘I have heard that Señor Keane was friendly with her.'

‘It's possible, seeing the mouse of a wife he's got. But I don't know and I don't care. What other people get up to is their shout and good luck to 'em if they get away with it.'

‘Señorita, I need to ask you where Señor Ruffolo was on Sunday afternoon, the sixth – which is when the señora disappeared – and all the following Monday?'

‘Where d'you think he was? Here, with me.'

‘You did not enjoy a siesta on either day?'

‘No.'

‘Was that not unusual?'

‘Why d'you keep on asking bloody stupid questions? Is it your weaselly way of saying what you think of me having a boyfriend young enough to be my son?'

‘The relationship is no concern of mine. But were I to consider it, I would say that since it obviously gives you pleasure, you are to be envied, not criticized.'

‘I'll tell you one thing, that's a different way of looking at things! The local expats look down their noses at anyone who so much as drops an aitch, so they reckon I'm dirt. Of course, that doesn't stop 'em coming here and eating my grub and drinking my booze because it's better than anything they can afford at home. There's no bigger freeloader than the upmarket Brit.'

‘I am a peasant; peasants accept the world as it is.'

She refilled her glass yet again, looked across. ‘Why aren't you drinking? The brandy's not good enough for a peasant?'