Relatively Dangerous (3 page)

‘Good heavens, yes! That’s the register for the independents; we naturally keep a separate one for the packages.’ His tone said far more than his words. They would have chosen to cater solely for the independent traveller, but the world had changed and now even the luxury hotels had to accept bookings from package holiday operators. But those which were staffed by persons who still appreciated the difference between quality and quantity maintained what standards they could.

Alvarez spoke to the receptionist, handing back the register as he did so. ‘Do you remember Señor Thompson?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t really. You see, it was change-over day and there’s always trouble then.’

‘D’you think any of the other staff would be likely to remember him?’

The assistant manager answered. ‘The porter would have carried his bags . . . Who was on duty then?’

‘Servero, I think,’ said the receptionist.

‘See if you can find him, will you, and ask him to come in here. But before you go . . . Inspector, would you like a drink?’

‘A coñac would go down very well.’

‘And I’ll have my usual.’

The receptionist left and there was a short wait, then the porter, dressed in traditional waistcoat, entered the office, a tray in his hand. ‘I was told to bring this along in a hurry,’ he said, as he put the tray down on the desk. He was in his late fifties and had learned to perfection the art of insolent servility as found in most British hotels.

The assistant manager picked up the balloon glass of brandy and leaned across to pass it to Alvarez. ‘The Inspector wants to ask you a few questions,’ he said, just before he drank from the glass of still orangeade.

The porter’s expression became wary.

‘Do you remember Señor Thompson?’ Alvarez said. ‘He was here Monday night.’

‘He was an independent,’ said the assistant manager.

‘Ah! You must be talking about the gentleman who arrived in a white Ford Fiesta.’

‘He certainly was in a Fiesta,’ said Alvarez, ‘but I can’t say what the colour was.’

‘And his luggage was one small suitcase and a director’s case.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve a very good memory,’ said the porter complacently, apparently forgetting that initially he had appeared to be having difficulty in recalling the guest. ‘Beautiful quality luggage. Not like most of them who come here; plastic for them.’

‘You carried his luggage in?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Will you tell me exactly what happened from the moment you met him?’

The porter, intent on proving just how excellent his memory really was, spoke at length. He’d carried the luggage in and across to the desk. The señor, allocated Room 34, had registered. He’d taken the key and had led the way up to the third floor and along the right-hand corridor to the end room. He’d unlocked the door and ushered the señor inside. He’d casually remarked that this was the nicest room in the hotel. It always made a guest feel doubly welcome to be singled out for special attention; or to think he had been.

‘Was he talkative?’

‘Very friendly, not like some of the people we get here.’

‘Did you speak in Spanish or English?’

‘English.’

‘What did he talk about?’

‘This and that. I asked him if he’d been to the island before.’

‘Had he?’

‘Several times . . . D’you mind telling me a bit more of what this is all about? I mean, he was a real gent—you can’t mistake ‘em, not if you’ve been in the job as long as I have—so what’s the problem?’

‘Unfortunately, he’s been killed in a car crash and although we now know his name, we can’t find any reference that will enable us to contact his next-of-kin.’

‘There must be something written down in his papers.’

‘We don’t know for certain he was carrying any,’ said Alvarez patiently.

‘Then what d’you think was in his director’s case?’

‘We don’t know because we haven’t found it.’

‘Then what about his wallet?’

‘That was also missing . . . Did he comment on any of his previous visits? Did he suggest when they were or where he stayed?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘D’you reckon he was deliberately avoiding any definite references?’

The porter, sharp but not particularly intelligent, was bewildered by the question and it had to be repeated in a different form before he answered: I wouldn’t have said he was.’

‘You learned nothing about his life?’

The porter scratched his neck. ‘Only how much he liked sailing.’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘Because he talked about it and said as how it had been too squally for the past few days to take his boat out.’

‘He talked about “his” boat?’

‘That’s what I’ve just said.’

‘Anything more?’

‘No.’

‘If you should remember anything, get in touch, will you?’

‘I’ve told you everything; I’ve a good memory.’

‘Then thanks for all your help.’

The porter went over to the door, opened it, turned. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. He was a real gentleman.’ He went out.

The assistant manager spoke drily. ‘Obviously, the señor tipped him generously.’

Alvarez looked at his empty glass and wondered if the hotel would prove equally generous.

Clinica Bahia, the smallest of the state hospitals in Palma, was situated on the eastern boundary of the city. It was an ugly slab of a building and inside little attempt had been made to brighten its image so that the gloomy reception area correctly set the scene. Plans either to replace or to modernize it were regularly updated, but never exercised. Yet despite this, the staff were efficient and cheerful and they usually managed to uplift a patient’s morale.

Alvarez took the lift to the fourth floor and then walked along the right-hand corridor to the small recess in which was a desk for the nursing staff and, on either side of this, wash- and store-rooms. A young nurse was working at some papers and he explained what he wanted.

‘Señor Higham? He’s in Room 413.’

He spoke with sharp surprise. ‘Then you have managed to find out his name?’

‘I didn’t because I don’t speak any English and his Spanish sounds like Portuguese.’ She grinned. ‘But Dr Bauza did post-graduate work in America and so he can speak English; he discovered the señor had recovered his memory.’

‘Has it fully returned?’

‘I couldn’t say exactly, but I think it must have done because Dr Bauza said he’s making a good recovery and ought to be able to leave quite soon.’

That’s good . . . All right if I have a chat with him?’

‘I don’t see why not. But if he starts looking tired, you’ll have to stop immediately.’

Most of the rooms on the floor contained four beds, but 413 had only two and the second one was empty. Higham was sitting up reading a paperback. A man in his middle forties, he had a round, plump face. A small, neat moustache, the same light brown as his hair, was set above a wide, cheerful mouth. The only visible signs that he had been in a car accident were the plaster on his right cheek and a bruise which stretched across his right chin.

Alvarez introduced himself, then said how delighted he was to find the other better.

‘No more delighted than I am, I can assure you!’ His voice was warm and tuneful. ‘These last few days have been like . . . The nearest I can get to it is, it’s been like having a spider’s web throttling my brain. I’ve kept struggling to get my thoughts lined up straight, but they just wouldn’t. Been rather frightening, really; a bit of me could still think and keep wondering if I’d gone round the twist. But, thank God, that’s all over and done with and now I can think as straight as I ever could, which maybe isn’t as straight as it ought to be . . .’ He laughed, then became serious. ‘Look, maybe you can tell me something. How’s the other man, the driver? No one here seems to know. I’ve got this very hazy idea that he must have been badly hurt . . .’

‘I am afraid that he died in the crash.’

‘My God!’ He fiddled with his moustache as he stared into the distance. ‘I didn’t realize things were that bad . . . I was lucky, then?’

‘Very lucky. And almost certainly because you were not wearing your seat-belt so that you were thrown clear.’

‘You never know, do you? Wear a belt and save your life; don’t wear it and save your life.’

‘Do you feel strong enough to answer a few questions?’

‘I’m fine.’

Alvarez settled on the spare bed. ‘We’ve had a bit of a problem because until this morning no one knew who either you or the driver was.’

‘I don’t follow. I mean, I wasn’t sparking on all four cylinders, I know, but you’ve got my passport. And Steve must have had papers on him.’

‘There were no papers of any sort on either of you.’

‘But there must have been.’

‘I’m afraid not. Where was your passport?’

‘Everything like that was in my backpack. It was far too hot to wear a coat and papers and money aren’t safe in a trouser pocket . . . You’re not saying my money’s gone as well?’

‘We didn’t find any.’

‘You looked in the backpack?’

‘It was thoroughly searched.’

‘Christ! That just caps everything.’

‘Was your money in cash?’

‘Not very much. Most of it was in travellers’ cheques . . . Then I did hear someone and it wasn’t imagination!’

‘How d’you mean?’

Higham shook his head, as if to clear it; he spoke quickly. ‘The worst part was seeing what was going to happen and not being able to stop it. I tried to grab the wheel and steer us away, but it was no good. As we went over, I can remember thinking: So this is what it’s like to crash. And then things got painful. And now they’re still confused even though everything else is back to normal. I’m pretty certain I shouted for help for a while; nothing happened, so I picked myself up and stumbled around, but I kept falling over things . . . And it was when I was lying on the ground, too weak to move any more, that I thought I heard voices. I called out, but they didn’t seem to hear me and in the end I kind of decided that the voices had only been in my mind. But if the money’s gone, there probably was someone, wasn’t there?’

‘It certainly seems so,’ he agreed, angered that there could be men who’d rob the dead and the injured and leave the injured to his fate. ‘Do you have any idea whether Señor Thompson had much money on him?’

‘He must have had a fair bit. After all, he gave me lunch at a restaurant that certainly wasn’t cheap and there was still plenty left in his wallet when he’d finished paying.’

‘Would you like to guess how much?’

‘I wouldn’t. I mean, I took care not to take too much interest.’

‘Of course . . . You heard talking, which means two or more men. Did you understand anything they said or did the rhythm of their speech suggest what language they were talking?’

‘No to both. Like I said, it was all so hazy I wasn’t even certain I really was hearing ‘em.’

‘Señor, have you been long on the island?’

‘Hardly any time at all. You see, I didn’t leave England until . . .’

His job in England, a wages clerk, had been boring but safe. He’d married a little later than his pals, after he’d saved quite a bit of money—he’d always led a steady life although ever since he’d been a youngster he’d dreamed of adventure. Debbie had been considerably younger than he. At first, that hadn’t mattered. Probably it never would have done if her sister hadn’t married a man who knew all the dodges, especially how to work the more profitable VAI fiddles. Spent money like water. Debbie’s sister had flaunted new clothes, jewellery, cars . . . Debbie had become as sour as hell and had nagged and nagged him to find another job where he’d make better money. Against his will, he’d moved. Things had worked out OK for a while, even though his income still fell far short of his brother-in-law’s—but then cheap imports from the Far East had hit his new firm so hard that it had very nearly been bankrupted. Inevitably, there’d been redundancies and these had been based on the usual last in, first out. His redundancy money hadn’t strained its brown envelope . . .

He’d hoped Debbie would understand; after all, if he hadn’t moved, he’d still have a job. But she hadn’t been willing to understand anything or to stand by him and she’d cleared out. Soon afterwards, he’d heard that she’d moved in with a friend of her brother-in-law who ran a Porsche and thought that a twenty-pound note was loose change.

Strangely, despite the bitter pain, his overriding emotion had been one of anger, directed not at her or her lover, but at himself. Why had he been such a bloody fool as to allow himself to be so trapped by conformity — since sixteen, all dreams ignored and all ambition directed towards a steady job with a pension, a house on mortgage, a worthwhile savings account—that he’d laid himself open to such hurt? And in his anger, he’d sworn an ending to all conformity. Draw a line through his past life and start again. Remember those dreams. Wander the world . . .

He’d sold the house and paid off the mortgage. He’d left that road in which he’d lived all those dead years without saying goodbye to anyone. He’d drifted through France, crossed the Pyrenees, taken months on the journey down to Valencia, where he’d spent the winter in the company of other, mostly much younger, drifters. In March, his feet had begun to itch once more. Someone had talked about standing on the north-west coast of Mallorca and watching the sun sink below the sea and discovering one’s immortal soul. He didn’t give a damn about his soul, but the mental image had triggered a desire. He’d crossed in the ferry, hitch-hiked to somewhere with a name like Son Ella, and had stood on a high cliff and watched the blood-red, oblate sun sink below the sea. It had been slightly eerie. No wonder ancient man had been scared at every sunset that the sun wouldn’t reappear . . . ‘I’m sorry. God knows why I’m going on and on like this. You probably won’t believe me, but usually I don’t bore other people with my problems.’

‘Señor, I have not been bored. And perhaps it’s good for you to speak about all these things.’

‘Yes, but . . .’ He stopped.

Alvarez smiled. ‘But being an Englishman, you do not like to put your emotions on display?’