'There must be.'
'Take yourself to La Galería El Aljibe. It's in the Plaza de la Constitucíon outside the ayuntamiento.'
'Why would I want to do that?' he says, thinking to himself sourly that she's getting too confident trotting out her Spanish.
'It'll give you an idea of what they're like on the inside.'
'But it's been done up. I'm after a real aljibe.'
'There's still water under the gallery floor.'
'That isn't what I meant.'
Richard sips his coffee. Feeling the sweet cloying liquid on his tongue he almost blenches. He does his best to hide his reaction. The notion of basing his sleuth on Paula is becoming rapidly less appealing. Even so, he persists.
'The aljibe at La Corona. It must have an access port, a place for water to flow in. I need to know if it's large enough for a body to slip into, or if there's a grille preventing access.'
'Does it matter?'
'It does.'
'Can't you make it up?'
'I daren't.'
'Then you need to go there, Richard.'
'Won't you come?'
'I told you, I'm busy.'
'Busy.'
He refrains from pointing out that her daughter is with her grandparents, she only waits tables on Fridays as far as he knows, and she clearly isn't about to clean the house.
'If you must know,' she says with sudden honesty. 'Celestino's missing.'
'Missing?'
'You're beginning to sound like a parrot, Richard. Yes, missing. I haven't seen him since Saturday morning.'
'It's Tuesday.'
'I'm well aware of that.'
'Have you spoken to the police?'
'Not yet. He's a grown man. I doubt they'd do a lot.'
He looks down at his coffee, at the brown skin forming on the surface. His gaze wanders over the other items on the table: an assortment of pens in a chipped earthenware jar, three placemats, stained, and a square of notepaper. Without his glasses, he has to strain to read the writing, but he can see it is Paula's. Addressed to Celestino. Something about going out. She really ought to see to that phone message.
'Are you looking for him then?'
'I've asked his friends. I've searched the house and the studio and found nothing to indicate foul play. I don't know what to do next.'
'Difficult.'
'You're a detective novelist. What would you do?'
'Hard to say.'
He didn't mean to sound evasive. In fiction, characters solve mysteries by following the clues he, the author, puts in the story. It was contrived. Real life is different. In real life, it takes an exceptional human and a lot of good luck to solve a crime.
'I was thinking of going for a drive. Visit the places where he's known. Art galleries maybe. Ask around.' She eyes him thoughtfully. 'Would you like to come with me?'
'Me?'
'You're doing it again. Yes, you.'
'I'd be of no use.'
'You'd be company.'
'I'm afraid I can't help you, Paula,' he says, suddenly rattled that she won't go with him to La Corona, but she expects him to traipse around the island helping her. Besides, she knows he has a bad back. All that sitting for long periods in a car will do it no good at all. He begins to wonder if she isn't rather selfish.
Leaving his coffee with its congealing brown skin on the table, he stands.
'You're leaving.' She seems taken aback, but he's hardened to her sensibilities.
'All the best with your search, Paula. I daresay I'll see you around.'
He avoids her gaze as he rounds the table. She follows him to the front door.
Pedro
I would have booted Richard out into the street if I'd been the booting-out type. Instead I slam the door on him. Never have I known a human being so self-centred. Surely Richard can see I'm wracked with worry? All he can think of is his blasted book. Come to think of it, I'm glad he chose not to accompany me. He'd have been atrocious company, quizzing me on my knowledge of local culture or complaining about his back. And a headache too no doubt, for I'm sure I detected alcohol on his breath; disturbing, so early in the morning. Why did I even suggest it? If he had agreed, I may have been tempted to divulge my concerns about that painting in Redoto's restaurant and the fewer who know about that, the better. Six days until the winner of the La Mareta commission will be announced and reason is getting away from me. I only came home to grab a few things. Leave another note, just in case.
I return to the kitchen and toss the contents of his cup in the sink. A sliver of brown skin slides towards the plughole. I watch it disappear, then attend to the message light on the telephone console that has been flashing since I arrived and I didn't manage to press the button before Richard turned up.
There are two messages, one from Pilar, the other Kathy, each asking for an update and hoping I'm okay. I delete them both. I'll call them later. I ought to talk to Pedro too. As comrade-in-arms he, more than anyone, may have information leading to Celestino's whereabouts; but I baulk at the thought. Besides, I don't have time to interview my husband's friends. It's a lie. I know it's lie. I have plenty of time. Time enough to be consumed by a mix of shame and trepidation, as though talking to his closest ally will bring the notion that my husband has walked out on me to the fore.
I returned from Costa Teguise yesterday with Celestino's painting uppermost in my mind and no idea if its presence in Redoto's restaurant implied he was alive and in hiding somewhere embroiled in subterfuge, or if he was in some sort of danger. Shirley's speculations hadn't helped. In a turmoil I could hardly contain, I bid her a hasty farewell, got in my car and drove straight to Máguez to confide in my parents, the only people I felt I could trust.
I arrived a little after three, bursting with my news, but Gloria bounded to the door with her usual exuberance. Bill and Angela seemed relieved I was back and quickly exited the living room, Bill making for his office, and Angela heading out to the patio. Resigned to Gloria's needs, I sat on the floor with puzzles, with teddy bears and dolls, with crayons and then with picture books. Two hours of undivided attention and I took her through to the second living area at the back of the first and turned on the cartoons hoping for freedom, but Gloria insisted I sit with her. I pretended to watch, one ear cocked to the kitchen where I could hear my mother preparing dinner. A short while later came the spicy smell of frying sausages.
It was six when at last we were seated round the table and I could detail my day. Angela appeared baffled but Bill gripped the situation with his usual tenacity. First, he speculated on how I came to find myself viewing the painting, which was remarkable in itself. I explained that other than Shirley and Maria, no one could have known I would turn up at the restaurant, which I supposed made them prime suspects. But neither woman knew it was Celestino's work, or knew a thing about how it got there. Maria was appalled at the sight of it and Shirley had found the whole situation hilarious, quickly deciding that someone must have been playing a practical joke and that Redoto shouldn't take it seriously. I thought back over Shirley's speculations—the cook did it, one of the waiters, the painting had been stolen and planted in the restaurant to set Redoto up—they were the sorts of scenarios that would have found their way into one of Richard's books, if Haversack Harvest were indicative. The more I talked it through, the more it did appear to be some sort of joke. Bill agreed. Which left the matter of the artwork itself.
'Why would anyone put that particular painting in that particular restaurant? That's the question we need to keep in mind,' he said, cutting Gloria's toast into thin strips to dunk in her boiled egg.
The rest of us were dining on the sausages and a creamy mash, not Gloria's favourite. At home, I would have required her to eat what was put in front of her or go hungry. Angela and Bill had other ideas. Ignoring the pleasure she was taking in making an eggy mess on her plate, I tried to think about Bill's question, come up with answers, but my mind clogged up over the thought that Celestino was b
ehind it all.
'Solar panels on a beach,' Bill said, 'Any idea where?'
'The mountains are undoubtedly Los Ajaches.'
'That's a start.'
'You mean it could be a pointed reference?'
'Implying something that the recipient would understand, yes.'
'Which would explain why Redoto was so angry.'
But that was all it explained. Without knowing the context, it was impossible to grasp the precise nature of the message implied by the painting, beyond that it had something to do with the death of solar power.
Angela changed the subject, asking if I minded them taking Gloria to the Aloe Vera farm near Órzola one day in the week. I thanked her with some relief. At least Gloria would be kept entertained. With luck, they'd tire her out and she'd be less covetous of my attention when I returned.
Before the conversation could revert back to Celestino I took my plate of almost-finished food to the kitchen sink to make a start on the dishes.
An hour spent attending to Gloria's bedtime and I whittled away the rest of the evening slumped in front of the television doing my best to stay focused on the images on the screen and not those my mind kept wanting to mull over.
Standing in my own kitchen beyond the reach of the morning sun streaking in from the patio, my mind is a blur of incomprehension. Three days since I last saw Celestino, and the house seems to exude him from every pore. I can only think one step ahead. I go upstairs to pack some clean clothes into a travelling bag, leaving plenty of space for some of Gloria's. Not knowing how long we'll be staying in Máguez, I toss in a few toys and toiletries as well. I give the patio plants a quick water, grab all I need and leave the house.
Once seated behind the steering wheel I can only think of one course of action. I'll check the paintings in the studio in case I missed something vital when I went there on Sunday, and follow up on my search for Celestino as well, which thus far has amounted to little.
I park outside the studio with two wheels on the pavement, leaving no room for a pedestrian to get by. I observe the street with a suspicious eye, noting the vehicles parked here and there, white rental cars mostly, and a black sedan reverse parking further up. There are no people about.
On my way inside, I decide to give the building a thorough search first. It is something a real sleuth would do. And I have to adopt the role, ill-suited as I am.
Forcing myself to tackle the upstairs before I lose my nerve, I head through to the debris-strewn patio. The banister looks secure but I don't touch it, preferring to make my way unaided up the broken stone steps. Trepidation rises with every tread. I've watched too many thrillers. And I can't shake the feeling that I've somehow entered one.
I pause on the landing. The air smells musty. Sunlight shafts in through rotting shutters. Old floorboards are stacked in a corner, those still in place in disrepair. The landing leads to two rooms, one on my right and another on my left. I pick my way across to the right.
I don't enter. The room contains nothing except a single wooden chair, placed off centre. It's a perfect setting for one of those grim interrogation scenes. A hapless man strapped, gagged, beaten. I shudder and quickly cross the landing to the room above Celestino's studio.
Part of the roof in the far corner of the room has collapsed leaving a small section of exposed rafters. Water pooling on the floor beneath has stained the boards. In the centre of the floor rubble has been piled in a heap. I skirt the rubble looking for clues, or what I think might be clues, the sort a real sleuth would stumble on: a discarded receipt, a scrap of torn clothing, track marks in the dirty floor. There's nothing.
Filled with a strange mix of relief and disappointment, I make my way downstairs, across the patio and through to the rooms at the back. There are two, both empty rubble-filled shells. The dirt and the dust appears undisturbed.
On my way through to the front of the building, I hear movement in the empty room opposite the studio. Something shuffling. I stop and listen. A car engine revs in the street. A voice, female, grows louder then fades as a woman passes by the front door. Drawing up courage, I enter the vestibule, the only part of the building in reasonable repair.
The room opposite the studio should be locked. It was locked when I tried the door on Sunday. I try again and to my surprise this time the doorknob turns in my grasp.
The shutters are boarded up, allowing in little light. A large desk takes up the centre of the room, along with an old armchair. Nothing looks disturbed and I'm about to make my exit when a waft of something hits me and I pause and sniff the air. Sitting atop the dank smell of an unaired room is the faint odour of something sweet, aromatic with a hint of musk. Perfume of some sort, male or female I can't tell. Someone else was in the room recently. When? How long do smells like that linger? Minutes, or hours? Whoever it was must have a key. And they forgot to lock the door on their way out. Maybe the person was in that room when I arrived and sneaked out when I was upstairs. It isn't a comforting thought. I remember the mill house is listed for sale. Chances are the agent showed around a prospective buyer. Even the vendor may have swung by, although I'm certain Celestino said he's returned to England for good.
Not exactly reassured by my rationalisations, I open the door to the studio. Celestino never keeps it locked. Perhaps he should. If an intruder has gained entry from the street, he could also have riffled through the artworks. It puzzles me why he's lax about his art when he's paranoid when it comes to his anti-corruption work. I flick on the light and scan the contents of the room.
As far as I can tell nothing has changed, although there's so much clutter it's impossible to be certain. I make my way to the stacks of paintings leaning against the back wall. Most of them I've seen: the smaller ones for the markets, larger pieces for exhibitions. Sifting through, I don't see any new work. I survey the bench then pick up a sketchpad and leaf through the pages. Some of the drawings look like ideas for the La Mareta commission. There is no other work that resembles the solar-panel crucifixion. Yet that work is his, it has to be. And I can tell by the squished tubes that he's been using his new oils. Maybe there are other similar works and they've all been stolen. Perhaps by that recent intruder. It's a discomforting thought. I prefer to think that Celestino has taken them, if they exist. In which case, why on earth doesn't he get in touch?
I'm about to leave when I notice something glinting on the floor underneath his easel. I bend down. It's a necklace. As I reach to pick it up I find the pendant has come free and is lying a few inches away. I recognise the pendant immediately as Celestino's; the stone of polished obsidian I gifted him the holiday we met; Pedro's craftsmanship evident in the ornate silver clasp that holds the stone in place. A chill wind billows through me. Celestino never goes anywhere without the necklace now hanging between my fingers, broken as though wrenched from his neck.
I quickly dismiss my reaction as the workings of an overwrought mind, and deposit the necklace in my pocket.
There's nothing to be gleaned in the studio. I switch off the light and close the door.
Out in the street the wind tousles my hair. The day has grown bright and clear. I walk to my car keen to retrieve my sunglasses thinking I need the same clarity. Like a hound sniffing out prey, all I can do is follow my instincts and try to keep a grip. I wait for a few vehicles to pass. Observing the street, I note that the white hatchbacks all look the same as before and the black sedan has gone. Straight away I feel half ridiculous for even paying attention, seeing in myself little more than a child playing at being a detective.
Where next? If Celestino is behind all this, then it will have something to do with his anti-corruption efforts, and other than me and my father, the only person who knows of Celestino's campaigns is Pedro. I have no choice. Reticent as I am, I need to speak to him. With a new sense of purpose, I turn on the ignition. Eleven o'clock on a Tuesday seems a good time to find Pedro at home. The car is pointing in the right direction.
I prefer taking the fast rout
e to Tabayesco on the flatter, wider roads of the coastal plain. The road that winds down through the head of the valle de Temisa, while scenic, is narrow and too often cluttered with cyclists. It's a good road for a long walk. Yet after the storm there's sure to be rockfalls and landslides and I want to see, at a closer range than when I stood at the Los Helechos restaurant at the top of the switchbacks, if amongst the debris is an abandoned car. It's an off chance, but at least I can rule it out and it will be one less possibility playing on my mind. For if Celestino did take the mountain road south as Shirley claims, then despite it being insane to have taken that route last Saturday, he may possibly, just possibly, have been going to visit Pedro.
The barren saddles of the Famara massif stretch out eastward like elongated arms, the valle de Temisa forming a steep-sided U. The road snakes around the valley's head, where barrancos have carved out crevices in the folds of the mountain. The terraces extend the full height and length of the saddles, only the most rugged, scree laden areas left untouched. Many of the terraces are abandoned, yet in the flatter areas at the valley's base, farming continues apace.
I take it slow, keeping the car in low gear, stopping now and then to peer down at the squares of black fields and the low-lying scrub, mostly euphorbias and prickly pear. The bends afford a clearer view of the hillside up ahead. When I reach the gullies, I stop to take a longer look around. The road winds on for a kilometre before straightening out somewhat as it courses along the southern saddle to the village of Tabayesco. There's nothing to see. Any rockfalls and landslides have already been attended to and not a car wreck in sight. As I approach the sweeping hairpin at the village edge, a party of cyclists, taking up the whole road, pant their way towards me. I pull over in a lay by to let them pass and meet the stragglers on the next hairpin.
Tabayesco is a hamlet. I take a side road and park outside Kathy and Pedro's. Opening the door, I pause, suddenly in no hurry to go inside. Running through what I plan to say, I don't feel confident I know Pedro all that well. My friendship is with Kathy.
A Matter of Latitude Page 12