An Enigmatic Disappearance (3 page)

Alvarez left the post and made his way to a shop near his parked car which sold electrical goods, including computer equipment. The young woman behind the counter was too busy concentrating on a computer game – set up to attract customers' attention – to notice him, until he said: ‘Do you know where Cami de Polso is?'

‘No.' She zapped a couple of aliens.

‘Where's the boss?'

‘Couldn't say.'

‘Would you see if he's around?'

She zapped a couple more. ‘Why?'

‘Because I want a word with him. Cuerpo General de Policia.'

‘And there was me thinking you was Arnie!' She reluctantly left, to go around a display of television sets into the back of the shop.

He wondered who Arnie was. Having watched which controls she'd used, he set out to zap the oncoming aliens. He failed ingloriously and a notice came up on screen to tell him he'd been eliminated.

A voice from behind him said: ‘You need to be under twenty to survive.'

He had known Valverde long enough to remember a skinny, snot-nosed boy from a family so poor that he had always worn cast-off clothing. Now he was sleekly plump and dressed in the height of casual fashion. They shook hands. Valverde, uncertain why Alvarez wanted to speak to him – the assistant had not bothered to explain – and therefore fearing it might be the wish to buy a piece of equipment at a heavy discount, complained about the rise in the cost of living, the drop in the numbers of tourists and the miserly spending of those who did arrive, and the rapacity of the tax collector who was rapidly reducing him to penury.

‘It's a cruel world,' Alvarez agreed. ‘You own a lot of property about the place, don't you?'

Valverde, ever careful, said: ‘Just the odd field, bought for old times' sake seeing as the old folks used to farm.'

‘Then you may know where Cami de Polso is?'

‘That's what you want to know?'

‘Yes.'

He prepared to be more helpful. ‘Can't say I've ever come across the road, but there are so many new names these days it's impossible to keep up with 'em.'

‘Maybe you've dealt with the bloke who lives in a house along there – Señor Ogden?'

‘We've certainly done business with a foreigner called something like that.'

‘Tell me what his house is named and I'll know if it's the man I'm after.'

‘Can't give it offhand, but he bought a video and Julio fitted that, so it'll be in the records. I'll have a look.'

He was gone less than two minutes. ‘Ca'n Nou.'

‘That's the place. How do I get there?'

‘Take the old road to Playa Neuva. Four to five kilometres along there's a property been bought by a foreigner with too much money and he's had all the stone walls rebuilt and added a pair of wrought-iron gates that wouldn't disgrace a castle. Just past there, turn left and carry on for a couple of kilometres. Julio says it's a new villa, on its own and close to the road.'

‘I thought all around there had been declared a conservation area and so no building was allowed?'

‘What a droll man you can be.' Valverde patted Alvarez on the arm.

CHAPTER 4

Alvarez turned off the Playa Neuva road into a lane that twisted and turned like a snake in torment. He slowed, from choice as well as necessity. Here, despite its nearness to the coast, was the true Mallorca, preserved because foreigners were interested only in the froth of life. Here were sheep and goats, figs preparing to ripen, stubble that marked crops harvested and stored …

As he rounded a bend, a nameboard listing Ca'n Nou came into sight. He braked to a halt and looked across a field to see a large, newly built villa. The true Mallorca, at least beyond the mountains, could exist only in a nostalgic mind, he told himself sourly. Foreigners had money and money corrupted the past as well as the present and the future.

He drove up the dirt track and came to a halt in front of the house. As he stepped out on to the gravel, the door opened and a man came out, eyes puckered to counter the glare of the sun. Middle to late sixties, Alvarez judged; beginning to bald, noticeably overweight, heavily featured face showing signs of ill health. He said in English: ‘Señor Ogden? My name is Inspector Alvarez. Your maid rang me at the post to say your wife is missing…'

‘There's no sign of her. What can have happened? Where is she?'

‘Perhaps I might enter?'

Ogden stepped to one side and Alvarez went past him and into the hall. Two doors led off this and one was open to show a large sitting-room, colourfully decorated and luxuriously furnished. Since Ogden made no further move, Alvarez went through. The room was cool, thanks to air conditioning. ‘Señor, I will need to ask you questions, but first I should like to see a photograph of your wife – can you provide me with one?'

Ogden left. When he returned, he handed across a photograph. Alvarez studied this. Sabrina was clearly very much younger than her husband. Significant? She had an oval face, long blonde hair, blue eyes, a pert nose, a sensuously formed mouth, and a shapely body – few men would look at her with neutral thoughts. ‘May I keep this for a while, señor?'

‘If you must.'

‘I will take great care of it.' He sat and after a moment, Ogden did the same. ‘Will you tell me exactly what has happened recently, remembering that something unusual that occurred even days ago may be significant.'

Ogden spoke disjointedly. He'd been very weak since returning from hospital and had spent every afternoon in bed. The previous day, after lunch, Sabrina had come into the bedroom to say she was going out for some fresh air. He'd heard her drive off in her car. He'd read for a very short while, then drifted off to sleep. When he'd got up, it was to find she had not returned home.

‘Did that worry you?'

‘Not really. It was getting on, but I just thought she'd either lost count of the time or stopped off to see a friend.'

‘When did you begin to worry?'

‘I suppose as it got later and later and she still didn't turn up.'

‘Did you phone all your friends to see if she was with them?'

‘I … No.'

‘Why not?'

There was a long pause. ‘She believes marriage is all about trust. I didn't want her to think I was checking up on her.'

‘But surely you were far more concerned for her safety than what she might think?'

‘Yes. Only in the end … I couldn't.'

‘Couldn't what?'

‘Phone.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'd had a drink or two to calm myself down so…'

In the end, he'd become too calm to phone. Could the photograph, Alvarez wondered, explain the otherwise inexplicable – a man who was worried by his wife's disappearance, yet instead of doing all he could to find her, drank himself silly? ‘When did you recover consciousness?'

Ogden mumbled: ‘In the morning, just before Concha arrived.'

‘Did you then phone your friends?'

‘Well, of course I did,' he answered, with a pathetic attempt at indignation.

‘The señora left here in her car. Presumably, you've no idea where that is now?'

‘How could I?'

‘What is the make, colour, and registration number?'

‘It's a green BMW. I can't remember the number.'

‘Are the papers in the house?'

‘We were told we had to keep them in the car … What's happened to her?'

‘You have no idea?'

‘D'you think I'd just be sitting here if I did?'

‘Is it possible that she might be staying away of her own will?'

‘What kind of a suggestion is that?'

‘The relations between you are not under any kind of a strain?'

‘We couldn't be happier.'

‘You told me you'd recently been in hospital – what were you suffering from?'

‘Very severe food poisoning.'

‘What had you eaten to give you that?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Was your wife ill?'

‘No.'

‘So she visited you in hospital?'

‘Of course she did. Every day. And stayed for as long as she possibly could.'

Ogden had spoken with such emphasis that Alvarez was reminded of the old Mallorquin saying, If a man swears too loudly that he has not seen your missing lamb, look first in his stew pot.

*   *   *

Back home, Alvarez walked through the front room, used only on very formal occasions, into the next one that was both sitting- and dining-room. Jaime was seated at the table, a bottle of brandy, a bowl of ice, and a glass in front of him. Alvarez leaned across to open the right-hand door of the Mallorquin sideboard, brought out a glass, sat. Jaime pushed the brandy and ice across.

‘Any idea what's for grub?' Alvarez asked, as he poured himself a generous brandy.

‘She's not said anything.'

He savoured the faint aroma that was creeping through the bead curtain. ‘Doesn't smell like chickpeas.' He added three cubes of ice to the brandy.

‘I should bloody well hope not! If she tried to give us that sort of muck, I'd have something to say –' Jaime realized he'd been speaking quite loudly and he came to an abrupt stop, stared uneasily at the bead curtain. Dolores did not appear to ask him to tell her exactly what he would say. He relaxed. ‘What the hell makes you think she might be?'

‘Concha Marti told her that if we were out of condition, she ought to feed us on simple food like chickpeas and throw every bottle out of the house.'

‘The whole family are just troublemakers … Bruno – he's married to Concha's sister – says that after living with her, hell will be heaven. Why be so stupid as to have anything to do with any of 'em?'

‘She rang the post to say she works for an English family and the wife's vanished.'

‘Any idea what's going on?'

‘He must be more than twice her age, he's pot-bellied, and he's balding.'

‘She's taken off with someone else?'

‘Wouldn't you?'

The bead curtain swished as Dolores came through from the kitchen. She was perspiring freely and her dress was creased and stained, yet she still possessed the haughty air of superiority that falsely suggested Andaluce ancestry. ‘Ha!'

They stared at her, not understanding the significance of that exclamation, yet nervously certain it would reflect to their disadvantage.

‘So! Even the most foolish of men can finally open his eyes to the truth!'

‘What are you on about?' Jaime muttered.

‘Is it not so obvious that even you can understand?'

He felt the need of a drink, but his glass was empty and this clearly was not the moment to refill it.

‘My cousin,' she said with deep satisfaction, ‘has opened his eyes.'

Jaime was relieved to discover that he was not involved in whatever was going on.

‘He has learned that when a man is old, his stomach proclaims his love of excess, and his hair disappears, he becomes a clown when he lusts after young women.'

‘I am not old…' Alvarez began indignantly.

‘Very soon, middle age will no longer be a stranger.'

‘My stomach is almost flat…'

‘If you were a woman, this house would be shamed.'

‘My hair's thick…'

‘No thicker than the leaves on a shade tree in a winter storm.'

‘And I do not lust after young women…'

‘Let a twenty-year-old foreigner so much as smile at you and your wits vanish.' She turned and swept back into the kitchen.

Alvarez morosely finished his drink, poured himself another. Since Adam, it had been the fate of man to be misunderstood by woman.

*   *   *

The heat, more intense than ever, was not conducive to work. Even though he'd enjoyed a siesta, Alvarez's eyelids were heavy as he finally reached the office. He sat, mopped his face and neck with a handkerchief, relaxed …

The phone woke him.

‘My name is Señora Shaw,' said a woman, speaking laboured, heavily accented Spanish. ‘Señor Ogden says why you have not spoken to him?'

‘I'm afraid I don't understand,' he replied in English.

‘Why not?' she snapped in Spanish.

He pictured her as skinny, beak-nosed, and critical of everything Spanish. He continued to speak in English, happy to be as pig-headed as she. ‘I am not certain why he should expect me to be in touch with him until there is something to report.'

‘Do you say that … that…' She struggled to find the words in Spanish.

‘Perhaps if you said it in English, señora?'

Her tone was bitter. ‘Have you not learned anything about Señora Ogden's whereabouts?'

‘I fear not. But you may rest assured that everything possible is being done. Are you a friend of the señor and señora?'

‘I am acquainted with them.'

‘Then you may be able to help me.'

‘Most unlikely.'

‘Nevertheless, I should like to meet and speak to you.'

‘You obviously haven't understood me.'

‘Señora, you may think you cannot help, but it is possible you possess knowledge the significance of which you cannot appreciate since you do not have all the facts. Will it be possible for me to visit your house in half an hour's time?'

‘If you must,' she answered bad-temperedly.

‘May I have your address?'

That call completed, he rang Traffic and asked them to check the records to find out what was the registration number of the green BMW belonging to Señora Sabrina Ogden, who lived at Ca'n Nou, Cami de Polso, Llueso. His request caused much resentment. The computer system was set up to identify the owner of a car from the registration number, not vice versa, and it would take endless time and trouble to do as he was asking …

As he replaced the receiver, he thought with scorn that the staff in Traffic were a bunch of layabouts.