Three and One Make Five (12 page)

Sweet Mary, a man’s mind could only accept so many questions before it was in danger of exploding, like an over-revved engine. He leaned down and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk.

She had the body of a woman five years younger and this without rigorous dieting. Rightly proud of it, she loved him to exclaim over it as he stroked her satiny flesh.

He ran his fingers down the small of her back, so lightly that he felt the brush of down.

‘Do you know what you’re doing to me?’ she murmured. Tm purring. I’m a cat in front of the biggest saucer of cream in the world. I’m so happy that it’s like a hundred sunbeams inside me.’

He leaned over until he could substitute his lips for his fingers. Then, suddenly, he stopped.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

He resumed. It was hardly the moment to admit that he’d suddenly realized that package holidays often catered for particular pleasures or hobbies . . .

Alvarez stood in his office and stared down at the photograph on his desk. Clarke, Allen, and an unidentified older man, stood on a beach ringed by palms, beyond which were several many-storeyed, tourist-styled buildings which were backed by stark mountains, the peaks of two of which were unusually shaped.

A typical holiday snap, taken anywhere, any time within the past twenty years wherever tourists found sun and sea. But two things about this snap were of particular interest and might just possibly help to identify the location and the time: the two mountain peaks which leaned towards each other as if to touch and form a circle, and the oxygen bottles in a harness which rested on the sand in front of Allen. Surely there must be someone who’d be able to recognize that skyline? Scuba-diving was very popular in certain parts of the island and it was a sport which brought together people from widely different backgrounds.

He drummed on the desk with his fingers. Who did he know who’d been all over the island and had a good memory? His fingers stilled. Manuel Rotger.

The hotel Parelona was justly world famous. In an age of rapidly falling standards it tenaciously held to those of more spacious days: couples when booking in were expected to give the same surname, at dinner guests usually wore dinner-jackets or long dresses, bedlinen and towels were changed every day, and the staff were polite. The doorman socially classified Alvarez with one quick glance, but even so he still opened the swing door with gloved hand and said gravely: ‘Good morning, sen or.’

Alvarez crossed the marble-floored lobby to the reception desk, behind which stood the receptionist, a tall, thin German, who spoke six languages fluently, dressed in black coat and striped trousers despite the heat, and Rotger, in the hotel uniform of deep pink coat and black trousers.

Rotger had been head concierge at the Parelona for fourteen years and in that time he had developed a generous waistline and a commanding presence. A great man, he had learned to deal with even the most tricky emergency with complete aplomb. Once, a well-known member of a royal family had, when by the pool, started howling and ripping off ladies’ costumes. Rotger, hastily called to the scene, had walked him along and introduced him to a wealthy widow from Detroit who’d been making life hell for an unusually handsome waiter. The royal was not heard to howl again.

Alvarez asked Rotger if they could have a quick word together somewhere private and Rotger gracefully inclined his head, then led the way into a small office immediately beyond the reception area.

‘How are things going?’ asked Alvarez, as he sat.

‘I can’t complain,’ replied Rotger. Many of the hotel guests would not have complained had they been as wealthy as he.

‘And the family’s well?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘What’s the score—four kids?’

‘Five. We had a girl at the beginning of the year.’

‘Not retiring yet, then?’

Rotger smiled his I-am-not-very-amused smile. He now judged that this visit was not likely to embarrass him personally and therefore saw no reason to be amused by a boorish remark.

‘I’d like you to do something for me.’

‘I shall be only too pleased to help in any way I can,’ he answered automatically.

‘Look at this, will you.’ Alvarez brought the photograph out and passed it across. ‘Was it taken on this island, and if so, whereabouts?’

Rotger briefly studied the photo. ‘Don’t you realize this could be anywhere in the Mediterranean where those package holidays go?’ He spoke the words ‘package holidays’ in tones of contemptuous dislike.

‘I know. It needs a miracle to identify the place. But I was told that if anyone in the world could work that miracle, you could.’

Rotger nodded.

‘You must have been all over the island and you’ve a memory like an encyclopaedia.’

He put on a pair of spectacles and examined the photograph very much more carefully than before. ‘The beach, the trees, the hotels . . . impossible to tell. But those mountain crests . . .’ He took off his spectacles and replaced them in the case. He leaned back in the chair, joined his fingertips together, and then gripped his upper lip between his two forefingers and plucked it repeatedly, to the accompaniment of plopping noises. ‘I seem to remember that unusual formation. I can recall looking at it and thinking that if the two crests had been just a bit larger they could have joined together to form a hole: a whole mountain.’ He smiled, appreciating so sophisticated a witticism.

‘Then it is on this island?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Where?’

He plopped his lip a few more times. ‘Playa del Xima,’ he said finally.

‘Would that part of the coast be any good for scuba-diving?’

‘It’s where they held the championships a year or two back.’

Xima was a small village (nevertheless, more than four thousand people lived in it) which had been built around the top of an oblong hill to give protection from raiding Moors. One of the last battles between Moors and Christians on the island had been fought at the base of the hill and this anniversary was celebrated every June 10th. The Moors had inflicted heavy casualties and had only turned back because a storm had suddenly blown up and put their boats in danger, but because of the need for artistic balance they were now, every June 10th, routed and slaughtered.

Playa del Xima was three kilometres away. Once a low, unspoilt, beautiful stretch of coast, it was now a forest of concrete buildings.

Alvarez parked his car on the front by a bulbous palm tree, and climbed out. He looked to the east and there, many kilometres away but looking close in the clear air, were the two mountain crests which leaned towards each other. Now to identify the spot from which the photograph had been taken.

Some twenty-five minutes later he was talking to the assistant manager of one of the largest hotels on the front. The assistant manager, pot-bellied, harassed, unable to keep still for very long, said: ‘Yes, that’s us: taken before we had the extra floors put on which was a couple of years back.’ He put the photograph down on his desk, then almost immediately picked it up again.

Tm trying to identify the oldest man.’

‘He’s never been on the staff here, that’s for certain.’

‘He could have been a guest—the other two were—but I think it’s more likely that he was an instructor. D’you see the scuba gear in front?’

The assistant manager brought the photograph slightly closer to his eyes. ‘Yes, if you mean the two air tanks?’

‘It’s possible that he was the instructor and the other two were on a package tour which specifically catered for anyone interested in scuba-diving.’

‘As a matter of fact, the Hotel Bahia—that’s the next but one to us—used to deal with a firm which specialized in clients who were interested in diving.’

‘You said, used to deal with—have they stopped?’

‘ According to what I’ve heard. The hotel decided the custom wasn’t large enough and the organizing firm wanted very cheap holidays.’

‘But the Hotel Bahia will have the records?’

‘What records?’

‘The name of the instructor and of all the guests who’ve come out with the firm?’

The assistant manager smiled tiredly. ‘It’s most unlikely. If any of us had to keep those kinds of records for more than a year, we’d have to build somewhere to house ‘em.’

‘Damn! But it’ll be worth asking, anyway . . . Look, could you do me a favour and ring them and ask?’

The assistant manager telephoned the other hotel, spoke to his opposite number, wrote briefly, then replaced the receiver. ‘I’m afraid it’s like I said. They don’t keep detailed lists of guests for more than the year required by law and there’s no way in which they can help you name someone from several years back. But they do have a record of the name of the travel firm which used to cater for diving enthusiasts and they’ve given it to me.’ He passed a slip of paper across. ‘And they suggest you get on to the Hotel Azul, at the other end of the beach. They’re now dealing with that particular firm.’

The Hotel Azul was a small, one star hotel, set three roads back from the front. Potted rubber trees grew on either side of the reception desk and a segmented, very spiny cactus, its withered air roots making it look geriatric, was trained up the side of the archway over the main staircase on the far side of the lobby.

The receptionist, a young man, nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s right. We deal with a British firm which specializes in scuba-diving.’

‘Is there an instructor?’

‘Yep. Looks after all the gear and takes the people out diving and sees not too many of ‘em drown! Not employed by us, of course.’

Alvarez brought the photograph from his pocket. ‘Is this the instructor—the eldest of the three?’

‘No. A much younger bloke.’

‘How long’s he been doing the job?’

‘Ever since I’ve been working here and that’s two years.’

‘Is there someone who’d know who was the instructor before the present man?’

‘The manager probably does. Hang on while I go and ask him.’

‘Take the photo with you and see if he can identify the man.’

The assistant manager returned in less than two minutes. ‘That’s the first instructor, all right. The manager says they changed something like a year before I moved here.’

Three years ago: the same period that marked the time when Clarke and Allen had suddenly become wealthy. Alvarez knew the heady satisfaction of someone who had long pursued a distant objective and, against all the odds and despite endless disappointments, at least seemed to be in sight of his goal.

Garcia liked himself. There was no doubt on that score. Whenever he had a free moment, he walked up and down the beach in his very brief trunks displaying his bronzed, muscular body. Any attractive and unaccompanied woman became a target and such was his degree of self-satisfaction that if she turned down his advances he judged her a fool without taste.

Alvarez disliked him on sight, but initially managed to hide this fact. He introduced himself. ‘Is it right that you take people out and teach ‘em scuba-diving?’

‘Sure.’ Garcia smiled at two women who sat on rush mats on the sand and were looking in his direction.

‘Did you ever meet the man who did the job before you?’

‘What if I did, dad?’

‘Then I want to hear about him.’

‘Some other time maybe. I’m busy,’ he said, as one of the women smiled back at him.

‘You’d rather I took you in and held you as a material witness?’

‘Hey—there’s no call to be like that.’ Garcia’s contempt for this slack-bodied, middle-aged man gave way to the uneasy realization that although he’d be laughed out of a Mr World contest, he was after all a detective.

‘Then perhaps you’ll tell me when you met him?’

‘When he quit. Bloody old fool. Tried to teach me the job just because he’d been diving since the Ark was salvaged.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Three years.’

Alvarez produced the photograph. ‘Is he in this?’

‘That’s him.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Try harder.’

A couple came and stood close to them and clearly wanted a word with Garcia. Alvarez nodded and Garcia went over and spoke to them, looked at his watch and at Alvarez, shook his head. The man asked a couple of questions, then he and his wife walked away. Garcia returned.

‘Have you remembered his name?’ Alvarez asked.

‘He was a Frenchman. Always dressed like a tailors dummy and thought himself a ladies’ man. His name was something like Massif . . . Massier, that’s it. Seemed to reckon he’d bloody well invented scuba-diving.’

‘What happened to him after he quit here?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Why did he quit?’

‘I don’t know that either. Look, all that happened was, I’d done a lot of diving, especially when I was doing my military service, and so when I heard the job was going I came along. And I was good, so I got it.’

‘What time of the year was this?’

‘August.’

‘You’re saying he left in the height of the season?’

Garcia sniggered. ‘That’s what got everyone really steamed up. Tourists coming out for the diving and no one to check the gear or hold their hands . . . The firm was screaming for someone. That’s how I screwed ‘em for a solid wage.’

‘What happened when you took over?’

‘He handed me the keys of the place where the equipment’s kept, tried to tell me what to do, and then was away. Got a bit of skirt all lined up, like as not.’

‘And that’s the last time you saw him?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re quite certain?’

‘Haven’t I just said . . . No, as a matter of fact, that’s not right. I’ve just remembered. I did see him once more, the next day. And was that a surprise!’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was sitting at a cafe with old Loco Llobera.’

‘Why was that so strange?’

‘Because the Frenchman was all smart and dainty and old Loco was a bag of rags who smelled like a midden.’

‘Any idea whether Sen or Massier is still on the island?’

‘None at all.’

‘D’you keep records of the names of people who come out and go diving?’