Relatively Dangerous (2 page)

‘Where was the car hired?’

‘At the airport.’

‘Then it’s possible the two men are foreigners?’

‘Why do you imagine I’ve asked you to handle the matter rather than someone in whom I’d have greater confidence? I told you at the beginning that the injured man speaks English, but hardly any Spanish.’

‘In fact, señor, you didn’t mention that.’

‘I know precisely what I said. Kindly concentrate. I want a full report on my desk by tomorrow morning at the latest. Is that clear?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I was hoping for a more forceful contribution.’

‘Who do I speak to about the crash?’

‘Gomez, B divisional HQ.’ He cut the connection.

Alvarez opened the top left-hand drawer of the desk and brought out a small booklet in which were listed the telephone numbers of all departments of the guardia civil. He found the number, rang it, spoke to Gomez.

‘The crash took place at just after three, yesterday, Wednesday, according to the smashed watch on the dead man’s wrist. The car was travelling eastwards on the Estemos road and had just passed kilometre post thirty-seven.’

Alvarez visualized the area, so isolated and, in parts, even harsh that it could have been a continent removed from any tourist beach.

‘They tried to take the tightest bend on that road far too fast and the car went over the edge. It hit a ledge which flipped open the doors and since the passenger wasn’t wearing a seat-belt he was thrown clear, but the driver was belted in and he carried on all the way down. He never stood a chance.’

‘What did the passenger do—climb back up to the road and call for help?’

‘He was too confused to do anything constructive. We found him just wandering around halfway between the road and the wreck.’

‘If he didn’t call you out, who did?’

‘Another car came along and the driver stopped short of the bend for a leak. He saw something in the torrente glinting in the sun, walked round the bend to find out what it was, realized the crash could only just have happened and drove on to the nearest telephone, four kilometres away.’

‘Why didn’t he climb down to help the passenger?’

‘He’d no idea that there was one. All he saw was the wrecked car. The passenger must have been hidden by the trees.’

‘Wouldn’t he have heard the car stop on the road?’

‘Who knows? He can’t speak Spanish and anyway was knocked silly.’

‘He was lucky, then, that this other car stopped.’

‘Right. Still, the hospital says his injuries aren’t serious and he’ll get over his confusion problems. I suppose that in the end he’d have got himself up to the road if no one had stopped.’

‘And you haven’t been able to identify either him or the driver?’

‘After we’d got the driver out—and if I told you what that was like, you’d not want any supper—we searched him and the car. No papers of any sort.’

‘And the same with the passenger?’

‘Right again. And the only luggage was a backpack, the kind hikers use with an aluminium frame. That contained clothes and some tinned food, but nothing else.’

‘Did you try to get a name out of the passenger even though he was so confused?’

‘My oppo did, since he reckons he’s learned a lot of English from the birds he’s pulled on the beaches. Never got anywhere. Not learning the right kind of English, maybe.’

‘It’s funny, neither of them having any papers.’

‘Not necessarily. Last week I stopped a car for crossing a solid line in the middle of a village at twice the speed limit and the driver, who was English, said he never carried any papers around with him because he didn’t have to at home. I bloody near told him to clear off back there.’

‘Even so, the backpack suggests a hiker. You’d expect him to carry means of identification around . . . I gather you’ve been on to a car hire firm at the airport?’

‘Not me.’

‘Who did get in touch with them?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘D’you know the name?’

‘Worldwide Hire Cars.’ Gomez’s pronunciation of the English words was so poor that Alvarez had to ask three times for them to be repeated.

He thanked Gomez and rang off, phoned the car hire firm at the airport and spoke to a woman with a voice of honey and spice.

‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t answer you, Inspector. It’s all very worrying and I’ve had the manager shouting down the phone, but Toni handled that hiring and when his mother was suddenly taken ill, he flew back to Madrid.’

‘But somewhere there must be the usual record of the hiring?’

‘Yes, of course. But as I said to the manager, I just can’t find it. You see, I’m only relieving Toni and I don’t know his system of filing.’

‘Have you any idea when he’ll be back?’

‘As a matter of fact, he phoned an hour ago to say his mother’s much better and he reckons to return early tomorrow.’

‘Then I’ll be along to have a word with him in the morning.’

He rang off, dialled the Clinica Bahia. A nurse told him that the unnamed patient’s physical injuries were relatively minor and he was making a good recovery from them, but his mind was still very confused and his loss of memory complete. The prognosis? The doctors were slightly surprised that his mind should still be so confused—he didn’t seem to have suffered any heavy blows to the head—but it was always very difficult to be certain about the brain; in the circumstances, they could offer no prognosis.

He replaced the receiver and relaxed. Toni was in Madrid, the car’s passenger didn’t know a thing. Even Salas, then, would have to agree that there was nothing more that could be done for the moment. His thoughts wandered. Hadn’t Dolores said that she was cooking lomo con col for supper . . .

Terminal A was in chaos; long queues had formed at several check-in points, some of which were still not manned, the departure board had not been altered since the previous evening, the arrival board was not working at all, the public address system had hysterics, and the information desk was manned by an attractive woman who was too busy flirting over the telephone to monitor the VDU in front of her, which in any case was rolling so heavily that it was impossible to read, while the luggage handlers were having their second merienda of the morning so that all carousels in the arrival lounges were empty. A typical morning at Son San Juan airport.

Alvarez threaded his way through the press of people around the outer doors of the arrival hall and crossed to the line of booths which were occupied by representatives of various car hire firms. Above one of the middle ones was the name, in blue lettering on a white background, Worldwide Car Hire.

A man, who was working at the desk, looked up. He noted Alvarez’s less-than-smart appearance. ‘Yes?’ he asked in bored tones.

‘Are you Toni Bibiloni?’

‘And what if I am?’

‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’

Bibiloni stood with studied elegance. He was dressed in lilac-coloured shirt and light green linen trousers. He was tall, slim, sleekly handsome, and very self-assured. ‘You’ve come about the car that crashed?’

‘That’s right.’ Alvarez’s reaction was as immediate as it was irrational—he disliked the man. ‘Did the hirer pay by credit card or cash?’

‘Cash.’

‘Why isn’t there any record of the hiring?’

‘There is.’

‘The person I spoke to yesterday . . .’

‘Dear Tania,’ said Bibiloni languidly. ‘A simply charming person, but so inclined to muddle. She failed to look in the right place.’

Ten to one, thought Alvarez uncharitably, there was some sort of fiddle going on; probably Bibiloni diverted cash into his own pocket. It wouldn’t be difficult, provided he’d got his hands on an extra supply of forms. If there were no queries, the cash stayed with him and there was no official record of the hiring; if there was, he simply ‘found’ the copy of the hiring contract and the money, carefully put on one side . . .

‘Is there anything more?’

Alvarez jerked his thoughts back to the present. ‘I’d like to have a look at it.’

‘Presumably, you’re referring to the copy of the hiring agreement?’ Bibiloni turned, crossed to the desk, took a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the drawers, brought out a folder from which he extracted two carbon copies, one of which he handed over.

Alvarez read. Steven Thompson. Address on the island, Hotel Verde, Gala Orana; passport number, C 229570 A; English driving licence number, 255038 ST16KD; date of hiring, 14th to 17th May. He looked up. ‘Do you remember this hiring?’

‘Of course.’

‘Was he on his own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had he flown from Britain?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘He didn’t mention where he’d come from?’

‘No. Only that it was warmer here.’

‘Which makes it sound as if he had come from Britain?’

‘If you say so.’

‘Did he mention why he was only going to be on the island for four days?’

‘No.’

‘What luggage did he have?’

‘A small suitcase and one of those executive briefcases.’

‘Then he might have been here on business?’

‘Why not?’

‘Did he speak Spanish well?’

‘Since I am fluent in English, that is what we spoke; it’s so much easier than listening to someone mispronouncing everything.’

Alvarez returned the copy of the hiring agreement. ‘Make certain this doesn’t disappear again until my inquiries are completed.’

Bibiloni shrugged his shoulders, but his expression was now watchful rather than supercilious.

Alvarez left and walked out through the west doors. The sky was cloudless and the sun was hot and by the time he reached his car he was sweating. Too much alcohol, too many cigarettes, and too much food; he must remember his resolution to cut back on all three, he thought, as he unlocked the driving door and sat, then hurriedly opened his window and turned on the fan because the interior of the ancient Seat 600 was like an oven. He picked up the pack of cigarettes on the front passenger seat and lit one, remembered his decision of only minutes before, decided that it would be a terrible waste to throw the cigarette away.

He drove on the autoroute until it came to an end, then continued along the Paseo Maritimo, the wide, elegant road which ringed the bay and gave a quick route to the west side of Palma and the succession of concrete jungles which had done so much to ruin what had once been one of the most beautiful bays in the Mediterranean.

Cala Orana had originally been a small bay with a wide, curving beach that was backed by land of such poor quality that it had supported only scrub trees and undergrowth on which a few goats and hollow-ribbed sheep had browsed. It had escaped the first wave of development which had swept the island because the land had been left to two minors who were therefore unable to sell, even thought the price then offered had been very good. Their immediate loss became their ultimate gain. By the time both had attained their majority, the land they owned was worth many times its previous value because it was now one of the very last stretches of coastline undeveloped. They’d sold to a company whose directors had had more imagination and taste, if no less greed, than most of their competitors and the company had promoted an up-market development, aimed at attracting people who wanted to live or holiday within easy reach of Palma, but who were not prepared to suffer the sardine-ugliness of a Magalluf. Only two hotels and two appartment blocks were built and none of these was more than four floors high; on the rest of the land were medium to large luxurious villas, each in a plot of at least two thousand square metres. And, as an added bonus, all sewage pipes discharged into the next bay.

Hotel Verde was on the east side of the bay. Designed by a Brazilian architect, it was sharply modernistic in appearance, yet a certain restraint had made certain that it remained just in taste for a traditionalist; even the exterior green tiling, which had provided the pedestrian name, complemented rather than exaggerated. It was surrounded on three sides by a well-tended garden and on the fourth by the sand and the sea.

Parking was to the right of the main entrance and Alvarez drew in alongside a Mercedes 190E on tourist plates. He left his car, stared at the Mercedes and then at his 600 and sighed, climbed the steps up on to the patio and went through swing doors into a large foyer, cool and comfortable.

The reception desk was manned by two men, dressed in black coats and ties. He introduced himself to the elder and explained what he wanted. The receptionist had a word with the assistant manager, then showed Alvarez into the office behind the reception desk.

The assistant manager was tall for a Mallorquin, pale-faced, suggesting he seldom went out in the sun, and clearly somewhat harassed. He picked up a pencil and fiddled with it. ‘You’re trying to find out something about the unfortunate Señor Thompson? I’ll see if I can trace his booking.’ He swivelled his chair round to face a small desk-top computer and VDU. He tapped out a command on the keyboard and a string of names and dates, in vertical order, appeared on the screen. He leaned forward slightly to read, suggesting he needed glasses. ‘He stayed here on the fourteenth, just for the one night.’

‘How did he book?’

He deleted that list, entered another command and a second one appeared. He frowned. I wish the damned thing wouldn’t get so muddled up.’ He cleared the screen and summoned up a third list. ‘Booked by telephone. There was no confirmatory letter, but then the call was only two days prior to the booking.’

‘Have you any idea where he telephoned from?’

‘None.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘I didn’t, no. In my job, I really only meet guests if they’re complaining about something and the desk can’t cool them down. Which is far too often.’

‘Would it be possible to have a word with whoever booked him in and also to see the register?’

The assistant manager stood and went to the doorway and called in the younger receptionist, who brought with him a large cloth-bound book. This, opened, he passed over. Alvarez read the penultimate entry. Steven Thompson, British passport number C 229570 A, registered from the 14th to the 15th. ‘Haven’t you had more than one other guest since he was here?’ he asked curiously.