possesses to you. That suggested you must know her quite well and would be able to help me.’
‘She’s left everything to me? . . . Good God!’
He appeared to be genuinely surprised, Alvarez thought.
In his office, Alvarez sat behind the desk and tried to sort out the evidence. If the señorita had not committed suicide, she had been murdered: if she had been murdered, there had to be a motive. In her will, West was named sole heir, but her notes made it clear she’d intended to cut him out of her second will. On the face of things, then, here was a motive. But West’s surprise on learning about the contents of the will had appeared genuine and was it reasonable to suppose that a man as obviously wealthy as he would murder for the relatively little that he stood to lose if the will were changed? Had any other possible motive come to light? No. Then surely it was clear the señorita had committed suicide? He’d learned that she’d always been mentally rather unstable . . . Yet Meade had sworn she was not in the slightest depressed—just the opposite—and there were one or two small discrepancies or queries. Added to which, some months ago they’d had that request from England for information, following the death of West’s wife in suspicious circumstances. So, for the second time, West was—possibly—connected with a woman who might not have committed suicide as at first sight seemed likely . . .
He must have fuller details of what had happened in England. Yet any request for those must go through Superior Chief Salas’s office. And it was not long since Salas had been assured that this was a clear case of suicide.
He leaned down to open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk . . .
CHAPTER 13
The bedside digital clock rang the alarm. It was an infuriating sound, being so subdued and polite: discreet, apologetic bleeps. Their old alarm clock had gone off with a rude, raucous clatter which seemed so much more appropriate to an early morning call.
Cullon reached over and turned off the alarm.‘I could sleep for another twelve hours,’ he muttered thickly.
‘Then why in the hell don’t you?’ said Tina, visible only to the extent of her curly, dark brown hair.
He yawned. ‘Because if I don’t turn up on time, the D.I. will have my guts for garters.’
She pulled the sheets and blankets down far enough to reveal a small, round, snub-nosed face, touched with elfin humour.‘I think Mr Rifle wants putting down.’
Then she yawned, propped herself up on one elbow, and looked beyond his right shoulder at the clock. ‘Hey! It’s only a quarter to seven. You’ve gone and set the blasted thing half an hour too early. I could get a divorce for that.’
He sat up and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. ‘I told you last night, love, I’ve got to be at the station early.’
‘You didn’t tell me anything of the sort.’
‘When I got back last night . . .’
‘You were so exhausted you collapsed in the chair and went to sleep. I woke you up and you managed to eat supper, then you snored your way through the ballet on telly. And when we came to bed, you fell asleep just as I was getting ready to say a very loving good-night.’
He grinned.
‘It’s not funny,’ she shouted.
‘Of course not,’ he assured her. ‘As a matter of fact, I suppose I was a bit tired . . .’
‘You weren’t a bit tired, you were totally exhausted. Like you’ve been for weeks. You come home and can’t do anything but fall asleep. Our marriage has as much romance left in it as last week’s fish and chips.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that we’ve had a hell of a lot of work . . .’
She was normally a cheerful, happy-go-lucky woman with a tremendous sense of fun, but worry was beginning to make her sharp. ‘And you let that blasted man pile most of it on to your shoulders.’
‘Someone’s got to cope,’ he said defensively.
‘Why’s that someone always have to be you?’
‘It
‘She’s left everything to me? . . . Good God!’
He appeared to be genuinely surprised, Alvarez thought.
In his office, Alvarez sat behind the desk and tried to sort out the evidence. If the señorita had not committed suicide, she had been murdered: if she had been murdered, there had to be a motive. In her will, West was named sole heir, but her notes made it clear she’d intended to cut him out of her second will. On the face of things, then, here was a motive. But West’s surprise on learning about the contents of the will had appeared genuine and was it reasonable to suppose that a man as obviously wealthy as he would murder for the relatively little that he stood to lose if the will were changed? Had any other possible motive come to light? No. Then surely it was clear the señorita had committed suicide? He’d learned that she’d always been mentally rather unstable . . . Yet Meade had sworn she was not in the slightest depressed—just the opposite—and there were one or two small discrepancies or queries. Added to which, some months ago they’d had that request from England for information, following the death of West’s wife in suspicious circumstances. So, for the second time, West was—possibly—connected with a woman who might not have committed suicide as at first sight seemed likely . . .
He must have fuller details of what had happened in England. Yet any request for those must go through Superior Chief Salas’s office. And it was not long since Salas had been assured that this was a clear case of suicide.
He leaned down to open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk . . .
CHAPTER 13
The bedside digital clock rang the alarm. It was an infuriating sound, being so subdued and polite: discreet, apologetic bleeps. Their old alarm clock had gone off with a rude, raucous clatter which seemed so much more appropriate to an early morning call.
Cullon reached over and turned off the alarm.‘I could sleep for another twelve hours,’ he muttered thickly.
‘Then why in the hell don’t you?’ said Tina, visible only to the extent of her curly, dark brown hair.
He yawned. ‘Because if I don’t turn up on time, the D.I. will have my guts for garters.’
She pulled the sheets and blankets down far enough to reveal a small, round, snub-nosed face, touched with elfin humour.‘I think Mr Rifle wants putting down.’
Then she yawned, propped herself up on one elbow, and looked beyond his right shoulder at the clock. ‘Hey! It’s only a quarter to seven. You’ve gone and set the blasted thing half an hour too early. I could get a divorce for that.’
He sat up and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. ‘I told you last night, love, I’ve got to be at the station early.’
‘You didn’t tell me anything of the sort.’
‘When I got back last night . . .’
‘You were so exhausted you collapsed in the chair and went to sleep. I woke you up and you managed to eat supper, then you snored your way through the ballet on telly. And when we came to bed, you fell asleep just as I was getting ready to say a very loving good-night.’
He grinned.
‘It’s not funny,’ she shouted.
‘Of course not,’ he assured her. ‘As a matter of fact, I suppose I was a bit tired . . .’
‘You weren’t a bit tired, you were totally exhausted. Like you’ve been for weeks. You come home and can’t do anything but fall asleep. Our marriage has as much romance left in it as last week’s fish and chips.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that we’ve had a hell of a lot of work . . .’
She was normally a cheerful, happy-go-lucky woman with a tremendous sense of fun, but worry was beginning to make her sharp. ‘And you let that blasted man pile most of it on to your shoulders.’
‘Someone’s got to cope,’ he said defensively.
‘Why’s that someone always have to be you?’
‘It
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