A Question of Motive by Roderic Jeffries Page A

‘I’m Inspector Alvarez. And you are Eva?’
    â€˜How d’you know that?’ The question had disturbed her.
    â€˜I was told you worked here and haven’t met you before.’
    â€˜I thought . . .’
    He wondered what she had thought? ‘Shall I come in?’
    She became flustered. ‘I should have said.’
    He stepped into the hall. ‘Is Parra not here?’
    â€˜Him and Luisa have gone into Inca.’
    â€˜And the señorita?’
    â€˜She’s in the sitting room, watching television. Doesn’t do much else.’
    She had spoken with little feeling. One had to approach middle age and understand the fears of one’s future to sympathize with the burdens of others.
    She made no move to show him into the sitting room. He preferred her indifference to the finer points of staff service to Parra’s over-indulgence in them. As he entered, Mary looked away from the television set and at him. ‘I hope you don’t mind my turning up without warning?’
    She used the remote to switch off the television. ‘Of course not. You’re looking rather stern.’
    â€˜I have to tell you something.’
    â€˜Which is going to be horrid.’ She looked away.
    He sat. ‘Your uncle may not have died accidentally.’
    â€˜Then what happened?’
    â€˜Might he have been sufficiently worried and depressed to commit suicide?’
    â€˜Never! It’s a horrible suggestion.’
    â€˜He was rather depressed.’
    â€˜Was he?’
    â€˜So I’ve been told.’
    â€˜By whom?’
    â€˜I can’t remember. Perhaps there were many worries with the present financial chaos . . .’
    â€˜He said we’d be more careful because no one knew how the markets would move, but we’d no need to worry.’
    â€˜He could have wanted not to disturb you.’
    â€˜Don’t you understand? He wouldn’t have killed himself whatever happened. He thought it the coward’s way out.’
    â€˜You seem very certain.’
    â€˜I am.’
    Would Gill have told her the true situation?
    â€˜Have you any more ridiculous, horrible suggestions?’
    He longed to say ‘no’. ‘I’m afraid that if he could never have committed suicide, it’s possible he was deliberately killed.’
    Her face expressed shock. ‘Christ!’ Her voice rose. ‘Isn’t it cruel enough that he’s dead? Now you come and say someone may have hated him so much, he was murdered. How could anyone hate so horribly?’
    â€˜If it is the truth, I will find out.’
    â€˜Why don’t you know the truth?’
    â€˜If I were clever, perhaps I would.’
    â€˜I . . . Please, take me down to the bay again.’
    They were seated at a table set out on the sand, a straw south-sea sun cover providing shade. In front of her was an as yet untouched glass of Maquis Murietta rosado, in front of him an empty glass. He checked the time. ‘I’m afraid we should move if you have an early lunch.’
    â€˜Normally, it’s at one,’ she answered.
    â€˜For us, that is early.’
    â€˜I’m not hungry.’
    He was. ‘Will your meal be waiting for you?’
    â€˜No. I said I didn’t know what I wanted and would tell them when I decided.’
    â€˜Shall I ring your home and ask them to prepare whatever you choose?’
    â€˜Luisa is away with Pablo; Eva hasn’t learned to cook.’
    â€˜That’s unusual.’ To talk might briefly blanket memories and fears. ‘But probably not so much these days. Cooking is a skill, good cooking, a skill presented by the gods. The young no longer are prepared to take the trouble to learn the art; they do not understand a happy marriage comes with a contented husband. Why bother to cook when one can go into a shop and buy something frozen which merely has to be put into a microwave? That it tastes of nothing does not