was not at home.’
‘I see.’ The two words expressed disbelief, but also an acceptance of the fact that it would be almost impossible to prove Alvarez was lying. ‘Hearing I had reason to come to this end of the island this morning, the superior chief suggested I spoke to you personally in the hopes that by so doing the investigation into the death of Señor Taylor might be dealt with with a little more efficiency than has hitherto been the case. When I expressed my surprise at the necessity for such a comment, he further remarked that whenever he knew you were handling a case of the slightest importance, he could never make up his mind whether he would prefer you to observe your usual level of incompetence, in which case nothing would get done, or to try to show some initiative, in which case there might well be total chaos. At the time, his words surprised me. Now they do not. Look at your desk.’
Alvarez perplexedly looked at it.
‘I have never before seen such slovenly untidiness. Have you forgotten the maxim, ex nihilo nihil fit?’
‘Er . . .’
‘In future your desk will be tidy at all times and your papers up-to-date and correctly filed. One more point; when you have occasion to pursue an investigation before reporting here in the morning, you will tell the duty guard so that he can inform anyone who inquires where you are. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘I do not expect to have to refer to the matter again. Now, you fly to England tomorrow morning . . .’
‘I what?’
‘Kindly do not interrupt me. It is necessary for you to go because they stubbornly refuse to accept that it was Steven Taylor who died on this island last Wednesday week. Quite clearly, they are both unwilling and unable to accept that their own investigations of three years ago were incompetently handled. In consequence, you will now prepare a report on Taylor’s death, detailing the facts in such a manner that they, despite their ludicrous pride, can no longer claim that they are right and we are wrong.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Thanks to your initial lateness, I am now going to have great difficulty in arriving on time for my appointment.’ He walked over to the door, put his hand on the handle, stopped. ‘It occurs to me that it would be best if I read through your report before you leave so that the necessary corrections can be made. Your plane takes off at eleven, which calls for you to check-in by ten . . . Be at my office at eight-thirty.’
‘But. . .’
‘Well?’
Alvarez realized that it would not be politic to point out that that would mean his leaving home at some quite ungodly hour. ‘Nothing, señor.’
‘It would clearly help you more closely to emulate justum et tenacem propositi virum.’
‘Yes, señor.’
The comisario opened the door and left.
The main CID room at Brackleigh Divisional HQ was very large and it contained a dozen desks; at the far end, a space was partitioned off to form the detective-sergeant’s room. Detective-Sergeant Wallace, a round, cheerful man, with the beginning of a double chin, finished reading the report which Alvarez had translated into English. He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve got to admit that that seems definite. The son identified the father. So that presents us with the interesting question: Who did we bury?’ He reached over for a folder and read one of the loose pages inside. ‘How much do you know about our end of things?’
‘Very little, señor.’
‘Let’s cut out this señor talk. I’m Ian and you’re . . .?’
‘Enrique.’
‘Right . . . I’ll fill you in. When your initial request about tracing the next-of-kin of Steven Thompson came in, we shunted it to the passport people. As you know, they came back with the news that the passport had been pinched some four years back. That rang the alarm bells and we asked you for further details. You then identified Steven Thompson as Steven Arthur Taylor, late of Keene House, Middle
‘I see.’ The two words expressed disbelief, but also an acceptance of the fact that it would be almost impossible to prove Alvarez was lying. ‘Hearing I had reason to come to this end of the island this morning, the superior chief suggested I spoke to you personally in the hopes that by so doing the investigation into the death of Señor Taylor might be dealt with with a little more efficiency than has hitherto been the case. When I expressed my surprise at the necessity for such a comment, he further remarked that whenever he knew you were handling a case of the slightest importance, he could never make up his mind whether he would prefer you to observe your usual level of incompetence, in which case nothing would get done, or to try to show some initiative, in which case there might well be total chaos. At the time, his words surprised me. Now they do not. Look at your desk.’
Alvarez perplexedly looked at it.
‘I have never before seen such slovenly untidiness. Have you forgotten the maxim, ex nihilo nihil fit?’
‘Er . . .’
‘In future your desk will be tidy at all times and your papers up-to-date and correctly filed. One more point; when you have occasion to pursue an investigation before reporting here in the morning, you will tell the duty guard so that he can inform anyone who inquires where you are. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘I do not expect to have to refer to the matter again. Now, you fly to England tomorrow morning . . .’
‘I what?’
‘Kindly do not interrupt me. It is necessary for you to go because they stubbornly refuse to accept that it was Steven Taylor who died on this island last Wednesday week. Quite clearly, they are both unwilling and unable to accept that their own investigations of three years ago were incompetently handled. In consequence, you will now prepare a report on Taylor’s death, detailing the facts in such a manner that they, despite their ludicrous pride, can no longer claim that they are right and we are wrong.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Thanks to your initial lateness, I am now going to have great difficulty in arriving on time for my appointment.’ He walked over to the door, put his hand on the handle, stopped. ‘It occurs to me that it would be best if I read through your report before you leave so that the necessary corrections can be made. Your plane takes off at eleven, which calls for you to check-in by ten . . . Be at my office at eight-thirty.’
‘But. . .’
‘Well?’
Alvarez realized that it would not be politic to point out that that would mean his leaving home at some quite ungodly hour. ‘Nothing, señor.’
‘It would clearly help you more closely to emulate justum et tenacem propositi virum.’
‘Yes, señor.’
The comisario opened the door and left.
The main CID room at Brackleigh Divisional HQ was very large and it contained a dozen desks; at the far end, a space was partitioned off to form the detective-sergeant’s room. Detective-Sergeant Wallace, a round, cheerful man, with the beginning of a double chin, finished reading the report which Alvarez had translated into English. He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve got to admit that that seems definite. The son identified the father. So that presents us with the interesting question: Who did we bury?’ He reached over for a folder and read one of the loose pages inside. ‘How much do you know about our end of things?’
‘Very little, señor.’
‘Let’s cut out this señor talk. I’m Ian and you’re . . .?’
‘Enrique.’
‘Right . . . I’ll fill you in. When your initial request about tracing the next-of-kin of Steven Thompson came in, we shunted it to the passport people. As you know, they came back with the news that the passport had been pinched some four years back. That rang the alarm bells and we asked you for further details. You then identified Steven Thompson as Steven Arthur Taylor, late of Keene House, Middle
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