Death Trick (6 page)

Alvarez left the booth and crossed the road to the terminal. Inside, there was for once relative calm, but that was due to a temporary lull in flights, not because a logical system of passenger handling had been introduced.

He went to the counter at the end of the long line of check-in points which dealt with last-minute applications for tickets and the young woman, smartly dressed in Iberia costume, favoured him with a professional smile. He explained the nature of his inquiries.

‘You want to know if a man, who might have called himself Oakley, bought a late ticket for a flight out on Tuesday afternoon?’

‘That’s right.”

‘I wasn’t on duty, then, but Lucia was and she’s probably in the staff room right now. I’ll see if I can get hold of her.’ She spoke over the internal telephone, then said to him: ‘She’s coming down right away.’

Right away turned out to be the best part often minutes. Lucia was small, pert, and she had a pair of dark brown eyes that would keep most men guessing but hoping. ‘I’ve brought the papers for Tuesday.’ She opened the folder she had been carrying. ‘What was the name again?’

‘It could be Oakley, but is more likely to be something else. If I remember correctly, there’s nothing to stop a man giving a false name when he buys a ticket?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And there’s no check against his passport when he hands in his luggage?’

‘Only when there’s a blitz on against people selling the return halves of tickets they don’t intend to use themselves. But that doesn’t happen very often.’

‘It must be years since the last one,’ said the woman behind the counter.

‘And when he passes through immigration, they don’t compare the name on his ticket with that on his passport?’

‘Can you imagine them bothering?’

He smiled. ‘So if you’d look to see if there was an Oakley? If there wasn’t, I’ll describe the man as best I can and maybe you’ll remember him.’

‘I suppose that’s just possible,’ she said doubtfully. ‘As a matter of fact, not many people bought late tickets on Tuesday.’ She opened the folder and began to run her forefinger down a printed form on which several entries had been made in ink. Almost immediately, she came to a stop. ‘G. Oakley. A first-class single to Heathrow.’

‘He did book in his own name!’ Alvarez’s voice expressed his surprise. A man fleeing the island and wanting to cover his tracks could be expected to book a ticket under a false name. Unless that was to accord him a degree of cool logic which would not be his after committing murder . . . ‘Is there any chance you can remember him sufficiently well to describe him?’

She thought back for a moment, shook her head. ‘Not really. I said earlier it could be a case of maybe, but he’s just a blank, even though he was first-class.’

‘Then he didn’t say or do anything out of the ordinary?’

‘Can’t have done, can he? Not like some. We get cursed for everything that goes wrong.’

‘You can say that again,’ commented the woman behind the counter. ‘One time I was even sworn at because Manchester was shut off by fog and the plane was diverted to Birmingham. I felt like asking the old bitch if she reckoned I had a direct line to heaven.’

Alvarez thanked them and left; as he walked away, each was boastfully detailing the rudest passenger she had had to deal with.

Salas said, over the phone: ‘Have you asked London to find Oakley?’

‘No, señor.’

‘Why the devil not?’

‘I’ve not had confirmation yet from the forensic lab that that is blood on the steering-wheel. What’s more, I haven’t spoken to Señor Braddon . . .’

‘How can he be of the slightest significance?’

‘Apparently Roig’s secretary says he and Roig had a heated row not long before the murder . . .’

‘You may accept that I am aware of the facts in the case. I will rephrase the question in a simpler form. Have you evidence to suggest that Braddon knows Oakley?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Do you favour the theory that Oakley’s sudden, unexpected disappearance from the island has nothing to do with the murder?’

‘I’m sure it has everything to do with it.’

‘Then would you agree that the pattern of Oakley’s departure is that of a man panicking and desperately trying to escape before the police catch up with him?’

‘Yes. Except. . .’

‘Except what?’

‘Why did he book in his own name?’

‘Have you not just agreed he was in a state of panic?’

‘But wouldn’t someone in that degree of panic almost certainly draw attention to himself in one way or another? Yet the woman who sold him the ticket can’t begin to remember him.’

‘It hasn’t occurred to you that probably her mind was filled with boyfriends and not the work she was paid to be doing?’

‘Even so, a man who’s really in a panic . . .’

‘You know what you’re trying to do, don’t you?’ shouted Salas.

‘What, señor?’

‘Complicate; complicate everything to the point where a straight line runs over itself.’

‘It’s just that I’d feel happier if I checked these other points and had a clearer picture of what happened.’

‘Clearer picture? Show you the Mona Lisa and you’d see Guernica . . . Get on to London immediately and ask them to find Oakley. Is that clear enough to prevent you telexing New York for information on Fray Junipero Serra?’

Lying in bed on Sunday morning, staring up at the ceiling, Alvarez tried to understand why it was that sometimes he was such a fool? Salas was satisfied the case was open and shut, so why couldn’t he accept that? Yet here he was, on a day of rest, trying to decide whether or not to motor over to Magalluf to talk to the Braddons. What if there had been a row between them and Roig? It sounded as if Roig had been a man with whom it had been difficult not to have a row. And Braddon had never been seen within the vicinity of Casa Gran, nor was there any evidence to suggest he’d fled the island in panicky haste . . .

It was his peasant background which was responsible for his refusal to think sensibly, he decided. A peasant, a plodder, so often did not have the wit even to understand the uselessness of his work. When it was time to sow, but the land was too sodden, he waited with bovine patience for it to dry out; his crop grew and then the hail flattened it, the mould withered it, the mole crickets ate it, but he still tended what was left, even though it was now obvious even to him that he could never hope to gain an honest return for his work . . . And in the fullness of time, he harvested a tithe of a crop and stupidly rejoiced that he had harvested anything . . .

Arnold Braddon had opened a grocery shop in Amhurst, Hampshire, in 1897, the year of the Diamond Jubilee. He called it Braddon & Son, which was his only deliberate act of deception in an honest life—at that time he had been unmarried and he was a man of strict morals.

Later he did marry and his wife bore him the son, Joseph; but the birth was a difficult one and in consequence of the complications she was unable to have any more children. Arnold Braddon, respected if not really liked by all who knew him, died suddenly at the age of sixty-one.

From his father, Joseph Braddon inherited an overwhelming respect for honesty and a short temper, from his mother a stubbornness that at times became almost blind unreason. That the shop not only managed to survive the advent of supermarkets, but did so profitably, was due in part to his honesty—no customer was ever cheated, even indirectly, of a single penny—but far more to his stubbornness. Between them, he and his father had traded for many years and so he was not going to change anything, however many experts proved that there was no longer any room for the traditionally run grocer. For a time it had, in fact, seemed the experts were right and his customers, faced with prices higher than elsewhere, would dwindle in number until he was forced to close, but still he refused to sack most of the staff and instal self-service. Then, just in time, there was a reaction from the packaged take-it-or-leave-it of the supermarkets and people returned to favouring a shop, even if it was more expensive, where an assistant welcomed them by name, complimented them on their choices of cheese, offered them one of ten different teas, and suggested they try a newly arrived delicacy. He was, of course, fortunate that Amhurst lay in a prosperous part of the country.

His wife, Letitia, had had no children (not for want of trying; in the early days of their marriage, her enthusiasm had surprised and often embarrassed him) and so there had been no son to pass the business on to. On his retirement, he had had to sell. And the price he had been offered—for the site, not the business, much to his sorrow—had been far greater than he’d expected. By his standards, he was wealthy. He’d looked forward to a quiet, respectable retirement . . .

This was when Letitia had dropped her bombshell. Being so honest, if ever asked he would have admitted that he’d never really understood her—which was, perhaps, why they’d been happy together. Among other things, he’d always assumed that like him her roots were too firmly entrenched locally ever to be moved. But suddenly, without a single hint previously given, she’d told him she no longer wanted to live in their small, rather gloomy Edwardian house with a garden darkened by laurel bushes, but wanted to move to a large, modern, and wholly cheerful home in the sun with a garden filled with cannas, hibiscus, oleander . . . Live abroad? Where nobody washed, women didn’t shave under their armpits, and everyone ate garlic . . .

They’d hired a car and toured Mallorca and looked at property for sale. The fourth house they saw had three bedrooms, three bathrooms, central heating, an integral garage, a swimming pool, and a garden filled with extravagant colour. ‘That’s for us,’ she’d said. He had tried to make her change her mind and when she’d demanded to know what was wrong with so beautiful a place, he had stumblingly admitted that it was just too luxurious for an ex-grocer . . . ‘There aren’t any sumptuary laws these days,’ she’d said, making it very clear that they were going to buy the place.

He’d been so right, though for the wrong reason. The first cracks had appeared the year after they’d moved in. He’d complained to the builder, who hadn’t been able to understand the problem; all houses cracked. Since he, along with most other builders on the island, was an off-duty waiter, his puzzlement was easily understood. The cracks had increased and worsened and it became clear that the house was suffering the effects of subsidence.

He’d consulted Roig to see if he could claim compensation from anyone. Roig had greeted him with smiling friendliness, listened to his tale of woe, and assured him that every house was insured for ten years from completion through the insurances compulsorily held by architect, aparejador, and builder.

‘Do not distress yourself for one second, Señor Braddon. We write letters to the architect, the aparejador, and the builder, they show these to their insurance companies, and the companies agree to the work being done.’

As they’d left the building, Letitia had said: ‘There you are, Joe. I told you there was no need to get in such a state.’

Such had been the force of Roig’s assurances that for a time Braddon had believed she was right.

The cracks opened up and spread in the summer when the earth dried out, closed in the winter once the rains had come. Repeatedly, he’d returned to Roig’s office, demanding to know when something would be started.

‘Señor Braddon, calm yourself. I give you my full assurance, everything is well. I have spoken to the architect and all he now needs is a more detailed letter of complaint. This he will show to his insurers and they will authorize the work.’

‘Yes, you are quite right, Señor Braddon, the insurance does run for only ten years from completion, but as you have started proceedings, that time has been stopped.’

‘Yes, Señor Braddon, I am doing everything that can possibly be done.’

There had been the preliminary hearing, designed to discover whether the parties could come together and reach an agreement. The lawyers for the other side had denied everything and the only consequence of the action that Braddon had ever been able to discover was that he was presented with a bill for the court fees.

There’d been the need to photograph the cracks for the court records. After they were taken, a notario had had to certify the photographs were a true likeness of the cracks; another eighty-odd thousand pesetas . . .

‘I know he was only in your house for fifteen minutes, Señor Braddon, but notarios are always expensive. We have a saying, “If you wish to dine off silver plates, become a politician; if off gold ones, a notario.” ’

And then, one morning in March, Braddon had gone to Roig’s office for the umpteenth time to try to get someone to do something, and the secretary had said—in her fractured, hesitant English—that she was sorry, but Señor Roig was out; however, it was fortunate that the señor had called as there was a letter for him. It proved to be brief and to the point. Roig was very sorry, but he could no longer act for Señor Braddon since his wife was cousin to the aparejador’s wife and it was not right to go to law against one’s own family.

When, almost incoherent with rage, he’d shown the letter to a friend, he’d learned just how devious Roig had been. In order to make a valid claim against the architect, the aparejador, and the builder, it was necessary within the ten years to bring an action in the courts. Yet despite all Roig’s encouraging reports, no step had been taken which, in this context, started the action; that could only happen when certain papers were signed and deposited.

‘Then what happens about the time-limit?’

‘Since the case hasn’t started, you’ve got to get those papers deposited as soon as possible and before the ten years are up.’

‘But they are almost up.’

‘Are you quite certain you didn’t sign anything asking for the case to be brought?’

‘Roig never told me I had to; he kept saying that everything which had to be done, had been.’

‘He obviously meant you.’

Braddon had not found that amusing.

Nor had he been amused when he discovered that he could not call in another solicitor until he had paid the bill of Roig; in other words, pay him for all the work he had not done. He finally understood why the island’s lawyers were called the Mafia by the general public.