An Artistic Way to Go (6 page)

‘Yesterday morning, when I went out to do some shopping.'

‘What time was that?'

‘About ten. When I got back, he wasn't here and his car was gone.'

‘Were you expecting him to return last night?'

‘Of course I was.'

‘Have you spoken to friends to discover if he's with them?'

‘No one's seen him. Something terrible's happened, I know it has.'

‘Do you have reason to suppose he might be in trouble? Has he received any threats?'

‘No.'

If the husband really had disappeared, then an investigation should start immediately. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, ‘missing' husbands preferred not to be found until they had had time to concoct a story good enough to allay the suspicions of their wives. Added to which – though, of course, this was not in any sense a deciding factor – by the time he'd driven to the huerta, talked to the señora, and determined the facts, it would be long after lunch time. ‘Señora, rest assured that almost all missing persons turn up sooner rather than later. But to make certain there is no obvious cause for concern, I'll be along as soon as I have finished some very important work which, regretfully, I cannot delay.' He said goodbye quickly – women when emotional could become very argumentative – and replaced the receiver. He settled back in the chair.

CHAPTER 7

Over the years, the slowly rising land of La Huerta de Llueso had been overtaken and overlaid by luxurious homes, gardens, swimming pools, and even hard tennis courts, so that now only a bare half of the area was under cultivation. It was a sad sight for anyone who could remember when every last centimetre of every field had been worked.

The narrow lane had been designed for mule carts, not cars. As Alvarez slowly approached a very sharp right-hand bend, made blind by the house on the corner, a Mercedes came round at speed and was forced to brake fiercely enough to make the tyres squeal shrilly. The driver sounded the horn and angrily waved at Alvarez to back. Alvarez did so until the road briefly widened sufficiently for two vehicles to pass. The Mercedes drew level. ‘Pity you didn't ever learn to drive,' the man behind the wheel shouted in English through the opened window before accelerating away.

Alvarez thought up an answer after the Mercedes's dust had settled. He continued on around the corner, turned left a hundred metres on. Now he was level with a small orange grove in which a man was working with a Roman plough, pulled by a mule, a sight which in the past decade sadly had become rare. Alvarez braked the car to a halt, leaned across to lower the passenger window. ‘Felipe.'

Caimari shouted at the mule, which came to a stop, head drooping. He dropped the reins, walked between orange trees, came to a stop, and looked up – at this point, the road was a metre higher than the field. ‘It's you, Enrique! Not seen you for a long time.'

‘Life gets even busier. How's the family?'

‘Can't complain.'

He was of a generation who had endured great want and hardship and had learned the truth in the old Mallorquin saying, Do not complain that the rich man is robbing you lest he realize you still have something worth stealing. ‘Which is Ca'n Oliver, owned by English people?'

He thought. ‘Along the next dirt track to the right. The land belonged to old Serra until he died.'

‘D'you know the English señor who lives there?'

‘I've seen him. He's not seen me.'

Alvarez correctly understood that the Englishman was one of those foreigners who snobbishly ignored the locals. ‘His wife says he's gone missing since yesterday morning.'

‘Surprised she's bothered to report it.'

‘Why d'you say that?'

‘It don't mean nothing. And if you ain't anything better to do than talk, I have.' He turned, stumped his way back between the trees, picked up the reins, shouted at the mule and resumed ploughing.

Alvarez drove on until he reached a dirt track on his right, turned on to this. A couple of hundred metres on, a drive flanked by oleanders, grown as trees, not bushes, led up to a turning circle in front of a very large bungalow. Visible were flower beds which were a mass of colour, and part of a lawn that looked fit enough for bowling. Because the land sloped very gradually all the way to the distant shore, Llueso Bay was visible; seen at this distance, all development around the water became mere blotches that hardly diminished the beauty of the scene.

The door opened and he turned to face a young woman in neat maid's uniform. He introduced himself.

‘You'd best come in instead of standing out there,' she said pertly.

He stepped into the large, air-conditioned hall, almost icily cool in comparison with the heat outside. ‘Has there been any news of the señor?' she asked.

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘I do hope nothing terrible's happened.'

‘I doubt it has … When did you last see him?'

‘Yesterday morning.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Well, it was after the visitor had gone. I heard a noise of something falling here, in the hall, and came out to see what had happened. The señor had knocked the jug in which they keep pencils on to the floor.' She pointed to a small beautifully proportioned side table with fluted frieze and tapered legs, on which stood a heavily chased silver jug next to a telephone and answering unit. ‘When I saw his face I thought he must be ill, but when I asked him if anything was wrong, he didn't seem to hear. Just went out and slammed the front door behind himself.'

‘And then?'

‘I picked up the pencils and the jug, put 'em on the table, went back to the kitchen to help Clara.'

‘Did he drive off?'

‘Don't expect the likes of him to walk, do you? Left as if the devil was tapping him on the shoulder. As I said to Clara, I'm glad I wasn't standing in front of the car.'

‘Can you say why you thought he might be ill?'

‘Not really … I mean, it's not easy to say. You look at someone and think he's not well, but it's difficult to explain exactly why you do. D'you understand?'

‘Perfectly. He didn't say anything to you?'

‘Not a word. It was like he didn't even know I was there.'

‘Do you know who the visitor was?'

‘Never seen him before.'

‘When he was here, d'you think he and the señor might have been having a row?'

‘When you're in the kitchen, you can't hear anything of what goes on in the sitting-room.'

‘And the señora did not return until after the señor had left?'

‘Quite a long time after.'

‘She must have been surprised not to find him at home?'

‘Can't rightly say.'

‘Did you tell her you'd been worried that he might be ill?'

She shook her head. ‘I didn't say nothing … The thing is, neither of 'em likes us saying what we think.'

‘Then you had no reason to mention it,' he said reassuringly. ‘I'd better have a word with the señora now.'

‘Come on through with me. As far as I know, she's out by the pool, swimming or sunbathing.'

With or without a costume? he found himself wondering as he followed Rosa into the sitting-room. She suggested he waited there, leaving him no immediate chance to find out the answer to his question. She went out through the French windows on to the patio, in shade, thanks to the overhead roof, and disappeared from sight. He looked around himself. The furniture and furnishings spoke of money and taste. Chinese carpets, pelmeted curtains, luxuriously comfortable chairs and settee, occasional tables in a very dark, shiny wood, two glass-fronted display cabinets in which were some of the finer Lladro pieces, a bookcase filled with matching, leatherbound books, framed paintings of local scenes …

Movement, half seen, caught his attention and he turned. Through one window and then the French windows, he saw a woman approach across the patio. Words flooded his mind. Wavy blonde hair styled by a winsome zephyr; wide, deep blue eyes that could spur a cripple to run a kilometre merely to gain the favour of their rich glance; lips so shapely that Helen of Troy would pout with vexation; a body – enticingly, partially revealed as the lightweight swimming robe swirled to her movements – that undoubtedly could wear even the most mini of bikinis with nothing but credit … He halted the words, alarmed by their exuberance. No man was a greater fool than one for whom middle age was no longer a complete stranger, who looked at youth and thought himself young again …

She entered, closed the door, retied the belt of the swimming robe. ‘Are you the person I spoke to this morning?'

‘Yes, I am, señora.'

‘It's taken you long enough to get here.'

She possessed the arrogance of youth as well as the arrogance of wealth. ‘I'm sorry, but as I think I mentioned over the phone, I had to complete some very important work before I could come here.'

‘My husband isn't important?'

‘As I also mentioned, in almost all cases of the sudden disappearance of an adult, the person concerned has suffered no harm and soon gets in touch with someone to explain the reason for the disappearance.'

‘I haven't heard from Oliver.'

‘It is still relatively early and…'

‘He'd know how terrified I'd be; he'd never let me suffer like this if he could help it.'

The question that formed in his mind was as inevitable as it was unwelcome. Would a woman very distressed by her husband's disappearance choose to spend her time by the swimming pool rather than searching everywhere for him?

‘We're supposed to be flying to England tonight because the cruise starts tomorrow.'

‘A cruise?'

‘Oliver's always wanted to see the Arctic, though God knows why. When he saw the cruise advertised, he said we'd go on it even though it costs a small fortune. But if we don't fly tonight, we can't join the ship in time tomorrow.'

This directly contradicted the possibility that had begun to form in his mind only a moment before. He should have remembered that a person's reactions to any situation were often a poor guide to his emotions; where one would cry, another might appear quite calm … A rich man was always very careful of his money; he would never willingly forgo the enjoyment of something for which he had paid. ‘Señora, I will need to ask many questions so perhaps we could sit?'

She crossed to the settee, sat. He settled on one of the chairs. ‘Have you spoken to everyone who might be able to help?'

‘Of course I have.'

‘And no one knows where your husband might be?'

‘No. But it was all too obvious what some of them thought.'

‘And what did they think?'

‘Since malicious gossip is the favoured pastime, they decided he was with another woman.'

‘I very much regret having to do this, but I must ask, is that possible?'

‘You think he'd prefer one of those dried-up prunes to me?'

Crudely put, but who drank brackish water when champagne was on offer? ‘I understand there was a visitor yesterday morning – was he a friend of your husband's?'

‘Oliver had no idea who he was.'

‘Are you sure of that?'

‘When I told Oliver that a man called White had phoned and would be arriving at midday to see him, he was very annoyed because he thought the man must be selling something.'

‘Did Señor White say where he is staying?'

‘No. There was no way we could get back on to him or Oliver would have done so and told him not to bother to come. He was very American and just assumed he'd be welcome.'

‘Can you be certain he is American?'

‘You don't get an accent like that from anywhere else.'

‘You weren't here when he arrived yesterday morning?'

‘I was out shopping.'

He wondered why she'd suddenly spoken with unnecessary emphasis? ‘Is there anything you can think of, señora, which might suggest why the meeting with Señor White so disturbed your husband?'

‘Who's said it did?'

‘Your maid told me that just before the señor left the house, he looked so upset she thought he had been taken ill.'

‘Neither of them has said anything to me. How can people be so stupid?'

‘It wasn't stupidity. She came to the conclusion she must have been mistaken because had the señor been taken ill, he must surely have said so. And she didn't want needlessly to alarm you. But in the light of what has happened, it seems possible that the señor was not ill, he was concerned.'

‘About what?'

‘You know of nothing that might answer that question?'

‘Haven't I said, I don't?'

Once again, that emphasis. Something was giving her sharp concern, yet she wasn't prepared to say what it was …

She suddenly stood, crossed to the French windows, and looked out. ‘What can have happened to him?'

‘At the moment, I fear I have absolutely no idea.'

She turned round. ‘It has to be something awful or he'd be here, getting ready to leave to catch the plane tonight.'

‘We must hope that he turns up in time.'

‘And if he doesn't?'

‘Then I fear that you will miss the cruise. I am sure that in the circumstances you will not wish to go on your own.'

‘Of course not.'

For the third time she spoke in such a way as to attract his curiosity. Was she secretly hoping her husband would never return? That reminded him of what Caimari had said earlier … ‘One last thing, señora. What kind of car does the señor drive and what is its registration number?'

‘It's a BMW. But I don't know what the number is.'

‘That doesn't matter. I can find out from the records.' He stood. ‘I can assure you, señora, that I shall be doing everything possible to learn why your husband has disappeared.' A double-edged assurance if ever there had been one.