I take it all in, feeling his presence grow stronger with every word I read. Suddenly, I can see why nothing is more important to Celestino than saving this island from the developers.
'And it is the people who lose, Paula. The people who pay their taxes. They are the losers. Hundreds of millions of taxpayers' Euros have gone into those illegal projects along with tens of millions in EU grants that now have to be paid back. But what do the people do? They vote, again and again they vote for pro-development parties with known histories of corruptions. Why?'
Yes, why?
I have no answer.
Wanting to kiss his skin, I reach out for his hand, and feel the air.
It's with a new resolve that I grab the manila folders he's left under the desk and open each one in turn. I have no idea what I'm looking for. Two of the folders are filled with press cuttings from campaigns I've translated into English. I set aside the one on the campaign against the Spanish government's granting of drilling rights, a campaign turned success story when the Lanzarote government formed its own action group. Then there's the folder on the political movement, Somos, bulging full. A third folder, unmarked, contains a few press cuttings relating to the illegal hotels in the Yaiza municipality. Nothing more. The folder appears new, yet judging by its shape, has at one time contained much more than just those few cuttings. Recalling that scent I detected in the room I'm immediately suspicious. Whoever entered this bedroom was probably searching for the missing documents and now has them. But what if they were already missing? Or at least not here but at Pedro's? It's possible. They work together. And now I have an excuse to make another visit. I'll tell Pedro about the second painting too, see if he'll open up to me.
I take the file to the kitchen. The answerphone light flashes two new messages. I press the button. Kathy and Pilar again, asking for an update and offering support. I delete them both with a mental promise I'll return their calls soon. Then I update my note and make sure it's prominent on the table, stuff the file in my bag and leave for Máguez.
Puzzling Evidence
Gloria comes bounding to the door as I enter the house. 'Hello, darling.' I bend down with open arms, kiss her cheeks and sweep back her hair. Pleased to find her in a good mood, I pick her up and carry her through the house.
The kitchen is empty. I deposit my bag and sunglasses on the table. There's movement on the patio and I see Angela on her haunches in her gardening clothes, tending a cactus. Do cacti require that level of maintenance? A sudden churlishness rises up in me. That annoying way she has of keeping occupied with trivial things, a habit that has spilled over from her job as school secretary, her mind filled with myriad little requests and tasks, from a sore knee to a teacher searching for a key to a parent wanting to collect her daughter early. If she stops and reflects she'll probably find herself unfulfilled. It was the same in my own work at the tourist information centre, only the context was different. But I don't have my mother's temperament. I don't need to fill my hours with small occupations. At least, not domestic ones.
Opening the patio door, I recognise the source of my resentment, the attention my mother never gave me, and I pull myself up, resolving to fix the child in me one of these days.
The wind blows Angela's hair hither and thither.
'Stem rot,' she says, without getting up.
'How was the aloe vera farm?'
'Quite interesting. I bought that.' She points behind her to a potted succulent nearby. Tibbles is asleep on his side in the sunshine beside the cubby house.
'And Gloria?'
'Bill kept her amused.'
Gloria is getting heavy. I let her slide down off my hip.
'Mummy, look.' She tugs my arm and I allow myself to be led to the far corner of the patio. Leaning against the high wall is the cut and paste collage Gloria and Bill made, glued to a large board.
'Granddad painted it,' she says proudly.
I realise she means the lacquer.
'We mustn't touch it, Mummy. It's wet.'
I take in the work. Bill has surpassed himself. Out of a concatenation of animal cut outs and bits of scenery emerges the form of a face, a human face with eyes and nose and mouth. Simply executed but it doesn't matter. There's a bit of the artist in us all.
A door claps shut somewhere in the house.
'That'll be Bill back with the shopping.'
Seeing Gloria now occupied stroking Tibbles, I say, 'I'll go.'
Angela squats back down without hesitation.
Heading through the house, I pass Bill loaded up with shopping bags. I go on outside to find he's taken in most of it. All that remains in the boot is a small box of assorted groceries and a carton of juice that must have fallen out of a bag. I prop the juice on top of the box and reach in and pull it towards me. The box is heavy, but not as much as those leaflet boxes I lugged around earlier. A brace of cyclists heading for La Corona draws my attention and I rest the box on the edge of the boot and watch them labour up the long rise.
The wind is fresh but not unpleasant. A film of low cloud to the west dampens the rays of the sinking sun. I observe La Corona, drawn by its presence. There is a natural uniformity to the island's volcanoes, with their smooth conical shapes too steep for an easy climb. Each has its own unique majesty, found mostly in the shape of its crater. La Corona shares with its sisters of Los Helechos, a formidable if spent power, its barren form tempered only by the euphorbias and lichens clinging to its sides.
It occurs to me I ought to try and find a way into the tourism industry. Do my bit to change things from within. Surely my Spanish is good enough by now? I could volunteer. Would they welcome a volunteer? I have no idea. All I do know is Shirley is right; I have to create some meaning for my existence on the island beyond my family.
I pick up the box and elbow the boot shut.
I find Bill emptying the bags and putting the last few tins and jars in the pantry. I set the box down on the table and take up Bill's chair at the end.
'How was the day's detective work?' he says, closing the pantry door. 'Still no sign?'
'No. I mean, well, yes.'
Curious, Bill comes over and draws up a chair. He sits with a forward lean, hands clasped together on the table.
I fiddle with some loose packing tape on the grocery box, nagging it free. 'Shirley invited me to lunch.'
'That was nice of her.'
'Not really. I didn't realise until we got to Yaiza that she planned to use me as her packhorse.'
'Her packhorse?'
'She had me trailing her around delivering leaflets for Bentor Benicod's election campaign.' I press the tape back down and put my hands flat on the table. 'Two boxes full. Lunch came after.'
'The cunning fox,' Bill says with a laugh. 'And I don't suppose you would have been too happy helping out with that campaign either. Benicod is not known for his scruples.'
'There were moments I felt like dropping the boxes in the gutter and walking off. But I didn't want to find myself stuck in Playa Blanca with no easy way home.'
'I'd have been livid. What a waste of your time!'
'Not entirely,' I say, turning my gaze to his face. 'Another painting showed up.'
His reaction is immediate, in his widening eyes and sudden intake of air.
'Another one! Where this time?'
'At the town hall. A number of staffers were puzzling over it when we walked in. Someone replaced Benicod's portrait, apparently.'
'He wasted no time getting his phizog on the wall then.'
I ignore his remark. 'I managed to get close enough to see the signature.'
'Celestino?'
I nod.
'And the painting?'
'A volcano spewing money.'
'Straight to the point then.'
'I don't follow.'
'Paula, it's obvious. Celestino is having a dig at Benicod. That shyster must be raking it in over all the development going on in Playa Blanca.'
'I doubt Celestino would have
created that painting specifically to criticise Benicod.'
'I wouldn't put it past him.'
'Besides, you're assuming he put it there. And we don't know that.'
'What did Shirley make of it?'
'She didn't notice. She was preoccupied with the leaflets.'
'Probably for the best. The fewer who know about this, the better. And Benicod?'
'He was out. The staffers arranged for the offending painting to be removed while I was still there. Although I dare say Benicod will be told what happened. After all, it was his portrait that was switched.'
'He'll realise the moment he walks in that his visage is no longer bearing down on the foyer.'
'But what does it all mean, Dad?'
'We need to find a connection between the two men.'
'Redoto and Benicod?'
'Granddad!' Gloria presses her face to the windowed patio door. Bill gives her a winning smile as he goes to open it, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Even without reading Celestino's blog I know enough about the complicity of business people and politicians to realise the implications. There have been enough scandals over the years in Britain and beyond. You'd need to live in a vacuum not to notice.
I surmise that Benicod was, is, or would be gaining enormous wealth out of some sort of development. The island is better than a gold mine. And with the election imminent, whoever swapped those paintings is trying to besmirch his reputation. But how is that connected to the solar panel crucifixes at Redoto's restaurant? The environmental insinuation is transparent, but that is as far as my reasoning takes me. Were the paintings put there to expose the two men, or simply to ridicule them? My father is right. I need to find out how Redoto and Benicod are connected. I'll ask Shirley tomorrow, for she's known both men for years.
My thoughts arrive back where they started. Celestino has disappeared. Two of his paintings have appeared where they shouldn't have. Shirley aside, there are only two people I know who can further my inquiry: Fernando and Pedro. I need to ascertain if Fernando has had any involvement in the planting of those paintings since he's the only one with a motive and ready access to the studio. Did he rip that necklace off Celestino in a sudden fury? And Pedro is the only one who knows anything about Celestino's anti-corruption campaigns. He might know where the missing documents in that file are. Between them they might throw light on what is proving to be an impossible situation.
It occurs to me I dare not involve the police, not now, not with two of Celestino's paintings involved, not least for fear of jeopardising his chances in the lucrative La Mareta commission. I see straight away my own desperation affecting my choices, and I'm disconcerted by it.
Hearing the laughter through the doors to the patio makes me shrink. Unable to face the others, I take my sunglasses and go through the house to sit out the front where it's quiet. Outside my bedroom window, on a small patch of old concrete crumbling at the edges, are two outdoor chairs and a low table. I position the nearest chair to face La Corona and sit with my back to the island's south, with all of its bustle and ethically dubious ways. Feeling the cleansing wind on my skin, I close my eyes.
Stalked
I must have fallen into a deep sleep. I wake up suddenly, jolted out of slumber by a sudden noise. I'm alert in seconds. I strain to listen above the slap and rush of the ocean. I'm sure there was something else. I sit up in the bed, hoping to hear better. I don't.
The canned tuna followed by the cocoa and yesterday, fatigue had consumed me. I couldn't keep myself upright. I took my rucksack and lumbered upstairs and collapsed in the first bed I saw.
With its windows shuttered against the weather, the bedroom feels safe, as safe as it's possible to be here in Tenesar. Now, even hidden away in this little sanctum, I feel under threat. If I peer through the slats, will I be seen? Unlikely, but I won't risk it.
I look around the room. It's a kid's bedrooms, a girl's judging by the pink, the pretty stickers plastered to the chest of drawers. My mind drifts momentarily and I think of Gloria, my dear sweet child. I'm jolted back to the present by the scrunch of footsteps.
A single pair of footsteps, heavy, keeping a regular pace.
Where's the dog? Not here, that's certain.
The footsteps come closer and stop. The front door rattles in its frame. He can't know I'm here, surely? But will it open? Did whoever fail to lock the rest leave the front door unlocked too? Why didn't I check? I should have checked. I can't believe I forgot to check. I can scarcely breathe. I'm defenceless. I left my weapon downstairs too.
A pause and then a second rattle, harder, louder this time.
Silence. The door hasn't budged.
More footsteps. Another door further on. He's working his way down the street. He's being thorough, which can mean only one thing; he knows or he's fairly certain I'm here.
Either he's made that assumption based on the dog, or someone saw me escape my car and that same someone saw me head off in this direction. Whichever it is, I can no longer see how I will get out of this place alive.
How far will he take his search? He's assuming I haven't managed to get inside a locked house. Or that I'm stupid enough to leave the door open for him to walk right on in. Which I am. If I'd broken down a door, there'd be evidence. He'll be looking for signs. Or he's looking for somewhere accessible like the fisherman's hut.
I'm there in my mind in a flash. How stupid am I? Did I gather all my things? Did I leave a trace, a wrapper, blood stains, anything to show I was there?
An hour passes before I hear the car drive off. Only then, do I head downstairs with a sick undertow in my guts. He'll come back. The first visit was just a cursory and thwarted search. This second time, he was determined, convinced of my presence. Next time, and there will be a next time, what will he do? If it was me, I'd stake the place out and wait.
La Mareta
Richard has taken to pacing. Ten long strides across the living room, and ten back again if he takes the route across the deep pile rug; fifteen if he goes around the back of the leather lounge. Sometimes he makes a detour into the kitchen, rounding the island bench. His is not a ponderous gait. He pounds frustration into the floor with every footfall. Although he is wont to clasp his hands together behind his back, trying to imagine he's smoking a pipe. Now and then he pauses mid stride, bringing a hand to his chin, or pointing at nothing. It's all affectation but still. He's even started to grind his teeth.
Making his literary hiatus even worse, his visit to the aljibe at La Corona yesterday proved an arduous trek across acres of lava rubble, and when at last he arrived at the base of the volcano he found himself in an exposed, windswept locale. So what someone plastered a great mess of concrete to the slope to funnel storm water runoff underground? —People have been fiddling about with the passage of water the world over since time immemorial. Up close it was not that impressive. He might just as well have relied on a photo. To add to his consternation, the aljibe's access port comprised a rectangular hole large enough for an average size body to enter, which would have suited his literary needs perfectly well were it not for the solid looking metal grille barring access.
That grille has scuppered his plans. His plot is lost. His wayward hiker cannot be found dead in that water tank by his luscious sleuth. Not if he wants to please those critical readers bent on picking holes in the most trivial of circumstances. Whatever happened to poetic licence? If you want a haberdashery between the shoe shop and the bank, then you put one there. After all, he isn't in the business of writing facts. But he can already hear the derision.
Dismayed, and buffeted by the wind, he made his way back to his car in a funk, treading carelessly as he went. Several times he lost his footing, stumbled, and went over on his ankle, not dramatically, but enough to send a twinge right up through his spine.
The spasms started the moment he arrived home.
Dreading the incapacitation should he take to his seat, he started pacing, and he's scarcely stopped
pacing since. His physiotherapist back in Bunton advised him on such occasions to walk and walk and so he is, on the flat and stable floor of his living room where he is safe.
Paula might have cautioned him of the dangers. She must have known. Seems she's taken on 'Diaz' not only in name.
Having trekked to the aljibe, he's decided that even had the grille not been there, no one in their right mind or even in their wrong mind would lug a body across that rugged terrain to dump it there. It's a ridiculous idea and he admonishes himself for even considering it. When all anyone around here has to do is choose a spot along the cliff and push. He's been wasting time, and time he does not have.
As for a murder committed at the site, what could possibly be the reason? He keeps coming back to accessibility, or the lack thereof, and exposure, it being visible for miles.
The Aljibe: he came up with the title because he wanted his detective to resemble Paula.
The intrepid Paula.
He stops in his tracks. He should be honest with himself. Has he been harbouring a secret longing for her all these years? Ann's replacement? No, no, that's absurd. It's simply that she makes an interesting character and interesting characters are hard to come by. With her background in tourist information, she has so much potential. He hopes there'll be a way of persuading her to help him, for without the real Paula, the literary Paula refuses to spring to life.
Besides, he needs a new plot. Those abandoned tunnels Ann mentioned one time, dug into the cliff face to get at those water galleries in the mountains, do they reach the source? Paula will know. She's bound to.
Hoping to find her at home, he hurries out of the house and on down the lane to Calle Fajardo. Then he heads down the hill. As he corners the plaza he nearly bumps into the bald-headed man he saw walking past the Diaz residence the last time he went to solicit Paula's assistance. The man looks him up and down before crossing the street and standing at the next corner. Richard walks a few paces and glances back. The man seems to be waiting for someone, although it's an odd place to stand. Perhaps he isn't sure in which direction whoever it is will appear.
A Matter of Latitude Page 17