A Question of Motive Read Free

fact, the victim is from the house?’
    â€˜I will be doing so when I finish my report, señor.’
    â€˜I presume you have failed to consider suicide?’
    â€˜On the contrary.’
    â€˜But since you have not yet troubled to identify the victim, any judgement – including that of accident – is without credibility.’
    â€˜There was no note of intended suicide on the victim.’
    â€˜You disregard the possibility that such a note was left in the house.’
    â€˜In my experience . . .’
    â€˜We will stick with facts. You will ascertain what these are and then report to me. And since I have important work to complete, I shall be here, in my office, until late tonight and for much of tomorrow. I do not, therefore, expect to be informed on Monday morning that you were unable to contact me.’
    Alvarez replaced the receiver. He had hoped to leave the investigation to the policia local, but initially, at any rate, he was going to have to conduct it.
    He opened the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and brought out a half-full bottle of 504 and a glass, was about to pour a drink when he remembered his promise to reduce his drinking. He hesitated. The promise was to reduce, not prohibit.
    Fifteen minutes later, he left the post and walked to Club Llueso for his delayed
merienda
.
    Without being asked, Roca, the bartender, poured out a brandy and a café cortado, and brought them to the end of the bar.
    Alvarez raised the glass and studied the depth of brandy. ‘Short measure again.’
    â€˜So give me the glass and I’ll pour you a standard measure.’
    He drank.

FOUR
    T he drive up to the top of Barca was relatively short, but for Alvarez, an altophobe, it was panic-inducing. The road, a minor example of the Spanish ability to overcome ‘impossible’ terrain, climbed the side of the rock face with two sharp bends which had no safety barrier on the outside. A car could fall over the side far too easily – an unintended twitch of the wheel would be sufficient. His hands had seemed constantly about to twitch.
    Previously, he had only seen the house – more accurately, parts of it – from below and he had been unable to appreciate it possessed a graceful form which could suggest an Italian architect. Externally attractive houses were not a common sight on the island; old ones had been built for permanence, modern ones were often a clutter of different roof levels and inharmonious lines. It complemented its site. Its height provided it with a sweeping view of pine trees, farmland, Port Llueso, the bay with its travel-poster-blue waters, the backdrop of mountains, the nature reserve to the east . . .
    â€˜Do you want something?’
    To Alvarez, the speaker’s tone had suggested he thought the visitor might be trying to sell something. Alvarez turned. Standing in the doorway was a man in his early thirties, carefully handsome, dressed in a spotless, uncreased white shirt and black, sharply creased trousers.
    â€˜To speak to the owner of the house.’
    â€˜You are?’
    â€˜Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’
    â€˜Oh! . . . I’m sorry, Inspector, but I didn’t realize who you were.’
    â€˜Perhaps because we’ve never met. The owner’s name?’
    â€˜Señor Gill.’
    â€˜He is here?’
    â€˜I’m afraid he is away, Inspector. Is something wrong?’
    He ignored the question. ‘Is there any member of the family here?’
    â€˜Señorita Farren, the señor’s niece.’
    â€˜Who else?’
    â€˜Luisa, my wife, and Eva, the maid. Santos is the gardener.’
    â€˜Your name is?’
    â€˜Parra.’
    â€˜You work around the house?’ Alvarez asked, convinced Parra would prefer to be thought of as the butler.
    â€˜I am lucky enough to do so, yes.’
    There was no need to be fulsome. A Mallorquin was the equal of anyone, even if he swept the