Dead Clever (4 page)

Alvarez spoke slowly. ‘But if Green did jump . . .’

Ware interrupted him. ‘Before you start listing objections, listen to a few facts which have been dug up in the UK. Four and a half years ago he had a very well paid job as a salesman with a finance company. He made a lot of money and spent it all. Then the company closed and he was out of a job. He found great trouble in obtaining a fresh one, despite the fact that he was reputed to have a golden tongue that could sell an oil well to the Sheikh of Dubai, and when he did he earned very much less than before. He found it impossible to live within his reduced income and amassed considerable debts. It seems—though this is as yet unsubstantiated—that he tried to bolster his finances by gambling, failed, and ended up owing a large sum of money, which he’d no hope of repaying, to a man who wouldn’t hesitate to send out a squad of heavies to persuade him to find it from somewhere.

‘He took up the sport of parachuting after his income was so severely reduced and soon became good enough to be a member of a club’s competition team.

‘His marriage went sour and he and his wife separated, although there hasn’t been a divorce. She went to court and was awarded an allowance, but has had repeatedly to resort to solicitors to try to make him pay up.

‘Finally, and most interestingly, the firm for which he worked until four years ago was owned by Patrick Bennett and it dealt in Over-the-Counter shares. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Shares aren’t my scene either, but I’ll make things as clear as I can. In the UK we have three markets in shares, the third and lowest of which has been given the plebeian name of Over-the-Counter, or OTC. This means that dealers bring stocks to the market and make the market; that is to say, if they are the only dealers handling a particular stock, they list the buy and sell price solely according to their own judgements and not because of market forces. Obviously, this can—and does—make for a very volatile market and a buyer can find himself in the position of wanting to sell stock back to the dealer and being quoted a price that must mean a very heavy loss, but being unable to avoid this because no one else will offer to buy the stock from him. By now you’re probably beginning to wonder why anyone should be foolhardy enough to venture into a set-up which is tailor-made for suckering. The answer is twofold: first, because it is such a volatile market, it is possible—especially if one chooses stock which is handled by two or more dealers—to get the timing right and to make a great deal of money in a very short time; secondly, under a government scheme, rich men can invest in companies which are quoted in this market and, subject to certain conditions, can gain tax relief up to a considerable amount. If the stock gains, they’re doing very nicely; if it loses, but by less than the tax relief is worth to them, they’re still smiling.

‘Which is where Bennett came in. He handled stock likely to attract rich men and for which he was the only dealer. He made the prices and naturally these fluctuated, but almost without exception when a holder came to sell the price was lower than when he’d bought; yet not so low that he showed an overall loss when the benefits of tax relief were taken into account. The stock Bennett had bought back at a low price could later be sold to a fresh buyer at a high price. It was a clever way of making money and it was perfectly legal, subject to one proviso—that it could not be proved that he was deliberately rigging the market in order to ensure that every punter suffered a loss. I don’t need to point out to you that the only feasible way of proving such rigging would be to show that over a period he had knowingly bought high and sold low, not because of the way the market was moving, but in order to make the maximum amount of money for himself.

‘Not surprisingly, his actions had come to the attention of the authorities and they’d considered whether he’d been guilty of, and could be charged with, criminal fraud, but it was finally and regretfully decided that it would be almost impossible to prove to the satisfaction of any court that he’d been pursuing a criminal course of action. Few would be prepared to testify against him—rich men don’t like admitting that they’ve been suckered and if a rich man’s loss is represented by a small overall gain, the ordinary man is going to find it difficult to believe that the rich man has been swindled. So Bennett escaped prosecution and retired a multi-millionaire, who will, one imagines, never invest in OTC stock. And, no doubt, revels in his life of luxury in Llueso.’

‘You’re saying that he lives here?’ asked Alvarez, his voice high from surprise. ‘Then Green . . .’ He became silent.

‘Was picked up by a boat skippered by Bennett.’

‘Why should Bennett take such a risk?’

‘Green had worked for him and therefore was in a position to provide the proof that he had been deliberately rigging the market.’

‘Wouldn’t it have made more sense for Green simply to blackmail him instead of going to all the trouble of setting up so elaborate an insurance swindle?’

‘It might have done if Green hadn’t had a wife who was pursuing him financially and a creditor who was threatening to put the heavies on him. He needed to disappear conclusively and this with sufficient funds to see him through the rest of his life. The insurance company would pay the money to his girlfriend, assuming she was sole beneficiary under his will, and the wife would have to go to court to establish any claim to it; obviously, a fruitless task.’

‘You’ve made it all sound plausible.’

‘Good. Then you’ll agree that we need to talk to Bennett?’

‘Of course.’

‘Now?’

Alvarez shook his head. ‘It’s getting on; we can visit him tomorrow.’

Ware was about to argue, when he relaxed. ‘Mariana. The Spanish gift to gracious living.’ He drained his glass, signalled to a waiter, and ordered fresh drinks. Then he watched three young and shapely women lay out towels on the sand and strip off their bikini tops.

As they braked to a stop it immediately became clear that here was no ordinary property. High and elaborate wrought-iron gates, electrically operated, hung from pillars of faced stone; set into the right-hand pillar was a speaker unit, below which was a notice in English, French, and Spanish, asking callers to press the red button; fixed to a nearby olive tree was a small, all-weather TV camera; a beautifully constructed drystone wall stretched away on either side of the gates to encircle the hill and curving round with the wall were cypresses; on the top of the hill stood a large house, immediately notable for the fact that, unlike almost all other houses on the island, its lines were graceful rather than square and boxy.

Alvarez left the car, crossed to the speaker unit, and pressed the red button. A woman, her voice made tinny by the speaker, asked him in Spanish what he wanted. He told her who he was and said he’d like a word with señor Bennett, if at home.

‘Yes, he’s here. I’ll open the gates.’

As he returned to the car, the gates opened; one of them briefly made a screeching noise which caused him to wince.

Ware engaged first gear and drove forward.

As it rose, the road wound round the hill and it reached the top on the north side. Here there was a lawn, a turning circle enclosing a raised bed of roses, and several shaped flowerbeds all filled with colour. Alvarez stared at the scene with amazement, not because the formal lay-out was so alien to a Mediterranean island, but because he was certain that every litre of water used had to be trucked up and it was mind-boggling to estimate what that must cost in the height of the summer.

There was a portico and the front door was made from a dark, beautifully grained wood panelled in traditional style. A middle-aged woman, dressed in a maid’s frock, escorted them through an air-conditioned, high-ceilinged hall and very large sitting-room—overburdened with antique furniture, carpets, paintings, and display cabinets—out to the patio. Beyond the patio was a lawn—larger than the one at the front of the house—and several flowerbeds, again geometrically shaped, and these were backed by a breathtaking view of the bay, the distant headlands, and the open sea beyond. To the right of the lawn was a very large swimming-pool, cloverleaf-shaped, equipped with a double diving board and a chute, and a complex of changing-rooms and barbecue area. Partially visible beyond the complex was a helicopter pad.

Bennett, who was wearing swimming trunks, stood. In his late thirties or early forties, he had a strongly featured face, noticeable for a very square chin. He smiled freely, but it was a tight and not a warm smile and it was easy to guess that he reacted calculatingly rather than emotionally to any situation. His body was well muscled, showing none of the usual extra inches which came from luxurious living and his flesh was tanned a deep brown. He greeted them politely enough, but made no attempt to shake hands. With one quick glance, he identified Alvarez. ‘You are the policeman?’

‘Yes, señor. And my companion is señor Ware, from England.’

‘Well, I suggest we move into the shade before you tell me why you’re here.’ His tone was brisk and commanding —a man used to giving orders. He walked round to the open part of the pool complex where several comfortable chairs were set around a couple of glass-topped tables. ‘I imagine you’d like something to drink?’

Ware asked for a gin and tonic and Alvarez, a brandy. Bennett opened up the top flaps of a mobile cocktail cabinet and this raised a shelf in which were bottles, glasses, and an insulated container. He unscrewed the lid of the container and looked inside, went over to the wall and used an intercom to ask for ice. This was brought by the woman who’d opened the front door. Bennett put two cubes of ice into each glass and the rest of them into the container. He carried the drinks to the table on a silver salver, and sat.

‘What brings you here?’

Alvarez answered. ‘I believe you knew señor Timothy Green?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He worked for you for several years,’ said Ware.

Bennett looked at him. ‘The Inspector introduced you, but did not explain the reason for your visit. Are you connected with the British police?’

‘I’m a loss adjuster, acting for the Crown and Life Insurance Company.’

‘Really? To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never had any dealings with that company.’

‘Timothy Green took out a life insurance with them.’

‘Should there be any significance in the fact as far as I’m concerned?’

‘Señor,’ said Alvarez, ‘did you know that a week ago a light aeroplane, a Fleche, took off from the old airport on this island and crashed into the sea roughly half an hour later?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You don’t read the local paper or watch television?’

‘I read The Times and watch the BBC on satellite; there was no mention of the crash in either.’

‘The aeroplane was piloted by Timothy Green, the man who worked for you in England.’

‘I’ve remembered now that I did employ someone called Green—I don’t know what his Christian name was—so it might just conceivably be the same person.’

‘Did he visit you on the Thursday, Friday, or Saturday?’

‘Had he done, I would have remembered him the moment you mentioned his name.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘I thought I’d just made that clear.’

‘Do you own a boat, señor?’

‘Yes. Why should the question concern you?’

‘What kind is it?’

‘A sixty-foot motor-cruiser.’

‘Did you go out in it a week ago yesterday?’

‘I really can’t answer. I don’t remember every time I take her out.’

‘But surely you would remember if you went out that Saturday night to meet señor Green?’

‘I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said that Green was piloting a plane which crashed at sea?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then I could hardly have sailed out to meet him. Absurd things happen on this island, but hardly that absurd.’

‘Not so absurd if you picked him up after he parachuted from the plane.’

‘Far, far too absurd,’ he said drily.

‘Green was one of your salesmen,’ said Ware.

‘If he’s the same man, that’s correct.’

‘He’s been described as a man with a golden tongue. Was it his golden tongue, suitably barbed, which inveigled you into helping him fake his own death?’

Bennett said coldly: ‘I’ve been very patient, but I do have my limits and you’ve just breached them. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to leave.’

Alvarez looked across at Ware, then stood. ‘We may wish to ask you further questions at another time.’

‘Then I hope that you’ll at least do me the credit of making them more intelligent.’ He did not stand as they left.

The woman was waiting in the sitting-room. Ware said, his tone ironic: ‘What’s the betting he called her up on the intercom and told her to make certain that we don’t pinch anything on our way out?’

They drove down the winding road to the gates, which opened as they came in sight of them. Once through the gateway and on the road, Ware said: ‘What do you make of him?’

Alvarez answered carefully: ‘He certainly acts like a great hidalgo.’

‘If that means a cold, condescending bastard, I’ll agree!’

‘But perhaps his manner was telling us more than that he considers himself to be a great man. Someone who is afraid often attacks as a form of defence.’

‘All right, let’s assume he didn’t like our questions one little bit. Where do we go from here?’

‘To whichever restaurant we decide on. It’s lunch-time.’

Ware laughed. ‘You’re a great man for getting your priorities right.’

It was after 4.30 when they walked along the eastern arm of the harbour to the harbourmaster’s office, two rooms which were filled to overflowing with tables, bookcases, filing-cabinets, and instruments, and kept cool by air-conditioning and outside awnings.

The elderly harbourmaster shook his head. ‘I know señor Bennett’s boat right enough since it’s one of the largest in the harbour. But I’ve no idea whether she was at sea a week ago last night.’

‘You don’t keep a log of movements?’

‘Normally, no; there’s no reason to do so. It’s very different if we’ve reason to suspect smuggling. Then we keep a close watch.’