'Scent? What sort of scent?'
'Just scent.'
Bill looks at me blankly and I begin to wonder if there's anything more to be gained from the conversation.
Angela opens the door and the aroma of roasting pork follows her outside. She's carrying a colander of vegetable scraps, which she tosses into a small bin in the corner.
'I keep coming back to the anti-corruption work Celestino is involved in,' I say, persisting regardless. 'Someone wants to discredit him.'
Angela stops on her way back to the kitchen. 'You need a compelling motive,' she says. 'In all good crime stories, there's a solid reason: usually jealousy, revenge or greed.'
'Could be a personal vendetta,' Bill says.
'Or to shut someone up.'
'But we're still no closer to the truth. It's as if we have all the pieces laid out before us and we're too stupid to see it.'
'We need to confirm Redoto's surname,' Bill says.
I pull the laptop closer, aware I was going about the search the wrong way round. I enter 'Redoto Redoto' and a photo of him appears immediately. According to the websites, Redoto is one of Lanzarote's most well-known and highly respected businessmen. He has numerous business interests, including several restaurants. There are photos of him shaking hands with the mayor of Teguise. No mention of his involvement in anything untoward. Whatever Pedro knows is not in the public domain.
I'm about to show Bill the screen when he eases himself up off the lounger.
'I'm famished. Shall we eat?'
I follow him inside, his laptop in one hand, his glass in the other.
Later, when Gloria is asleep and Bill and Angela have taken her place in front of the television, I wrap a soft blanket around my shoulders and go out to the front garden. I sit down on one of the seats outside my bedroom window and gaze at the conical shapes of the volcanoes, heavy and close set against the night sky. It's easier to gain clarity in the clear cool air, easier to ponder, in the dark.
It's as though a circle has completed, three paintings swapped for the three in the studio. The odd thing is each time I've encountered a painting Shirley has been with me. The fact nags at me and I wonder if I've been premature in my assessment of my neighbour. Although if Shirley is behind this, then her acting skills, and the elaborate nature of her methods, are nothing short of phenomenal. It isn't possible. No one would go to such lengths. Not even someone with a longstanding grudge. Shirley is nothing more than an unwitting conduit leading me to each painting. For how else would I have seen them?
There's only one person other than Shirley who could have known my movements over the last few days: Redoto's wife Maria. It was Maria who invited Shirley to Redoto's. Shirley must have told her she'd invited along her friend. For all I know, Maria might have suggested it. She was genuinely surprised and outraged at the sight of those crucifixes but maybe that was just an act. She even bought herself a necklace sporting a crucifix, as though to mock the situation. She would most likely have known about Shirley's trip to Benicod's office to collect those election leaflets. Those two are as thick as thieves. Maybe Shirley let slip she was meeting Lolita too. If Maria was using Shirley to lead me to those works, then she could have hired the man in the black sedan to ferry them about, make the switches, keep tabs on my movements. It all starts to make sense.
But why?
It has to be revenge. Maybe Shirley was right all along with her salacious remarks about Redoto having an affair. Maybe the woman in question is Lolita. I try to picture them together without success. I also have no idea how Benicod might be involved. Perhaps for some unknown reason Maria wants to humiliate them all. She must have somehow stumbled on Celestino's paintings at the studio and seen in them an opportunity. The more I think about it, the more likely it all seems. It's the best I've come up with so far and if true, it might mean that Maria knows the whereabouts of Celestino.
Maybe he's being held captive. Then again, what would be the point? Did he get in the way? Arrive unexpectedly when Mr Black Sedan came to take his artwork? Defend his paintings and suffer the consequences? So many variables. I could explode from the confusion. How do real sleuths manage to unravel crimes? If any of it is a crime. I don't even have a clear idea about that. If it is, then for all his foibles and insecurities, Richard would have better luck solving it.
Tomorrow will be Friday. Six days without Celestino and in small ways I'm becoming accustomed to his absence. The anxiety I've carried in my heart all week that he will turn up in time for the announcement of the commission winner has transmuted into a gripping impatience. With my arms folded across my belly, I gaze at the night sky, the visibility of the stars muted by the bright streetlights of the village.
An outing to Puerto Calero and La Quemada
Richard nibbles at a slice of pumpernickel; the flavour is earthy, almost rancid, the texture like glue in his mouth. The frustration he's been feeling for days turns to fury with every swallow. He promises himself that one day soon, he'll switch to white bread. He's suffered the loaf long enough. How many years has it been? He reflects back and realises with a shock that half a century has passed since he adopted the habit, a habit born of grief and guilt over his mother's tragic suicide. No one takes their own life because their son won't eat the bread put in front of him. No one. Even if he'd gone into a full-blown tantrum. It's time to let go and move on. Time to move on from a lot of things, in fact. He needs progress and it's hard to come by. The pumpernickel, he decides with a measure of vehemence, is holding him back.
He begins to wonder if his literary efforts to set a crime novel on the island are jinxed. Yesterday, on the way to the police station to report the body, he had it in mind to make the most of the opportunity and see if he might learn a thing or two about police procedure. Instead, his efforts to make himself understood were met with incomprehension and derision. The officers at the main desk seemed determined not to take him seriously. When he produced Paula's mud map in an effort to explain the location, one of them chuckled and winked at his colleague. 'Muerta cuerpa,' Richard repeated. The men just smiled. He was on the verge of giving up when a woman entered, a friendly looking civilian in a long white dress. She stood at the other end of the counter. Richard made one last attempt to get across what he'd seen. The woman interrupted and said one word to the officers. 'Cadávar.' That was all it took to change their expressions. They snatched the mud map, took down Richard's details, and hurried him out the door, muttering something about a traductor. 'They're getting a translator,' the woman called out as he exited the building.
He leaves the remains of his pumpernickel on his plate, and goes to the fridge and pours himself a glass of tonic water. He swills his mouth then gulps down the rest, eager to banish the taste of the pumpernickel. Hoping to calm himself, he marches about the house putting things away. It's to no avail. He's still in a grump when he drives to the plaza, parking outside the supermarket at the end. It's too early for a proper drink—he isn't about to develop that bad habit—so an espresso will have to do. He's feeling soothed by the walk beneath the trees but his mood hardens the instant he sees Paula slumped at a table outside the café at the end. Part of him wants to turn back but she's facing his way and she's already seen him. As he gets closer he sees by her posture how done in she is, although with half of her face hidden behind her sunglasses, he can't be sure. Come to think of it, the poor creature is probably at the end of her wits. And in a remarkable whoosh of feeling that takes him by surprise, his grump gives way to something like pity. He approaches and hovers by her table.
'Still no sign of him?' he says gingerly.
'Nope.'
'And the lil' un'?'
'Gloria's at her grandparents.'
He rests his hands on the back of the vacant chair.
'Mind if I join you?'
'Go right ahead.' She sits up straight and pushes her empty cup to one side. 'How's your back?'
'Improving,' he lies.
A waiter comes
over to take Richard's order. Richard glances at Paula but she shakes her head.
'Una café, por favor,' he says.
'With milk.'
'No, thank you.'
He watches the waiter walk away. Then he gazes at his wan companion. She seems to be looking in his direction. He wishes she would take off her sunglasses so he can see her eyes. He lowers his own gaze, suddenly lost for words. An awkward silence grows.
After what feels like a century, she breaks it with, 'Any headway with your book?'
It is the obvious question. He wishes he has a better response for her, but honesty, of a sort, prevails. 'I went to Famara but had to turn back at the landslide,' he says, trying not to inject into his voice the bitterness lurking inside. 'And when I went to the mareta you told me about at Tabayesco, I got drenched.'
'Don't blame me.'
'I wouldn't dream of it,' he says, realising as he speaks that she's probably right; he does blame her.
He goes on to describe his day, leaving out the bit when he was nearly swept away by a king wave, the bit when he found the woman's body, and the bit when he lost his footing and toppled backwards narrowly missing a boulder.
'Maybe you should give up.'
'On the idea of a Paula-inspired sleuth? Never!'
She smiles. It's a strange smile, a little mocking, and it makes him uneasy.
The waiter brings his coffee. He draws the cup and saucer closer to the edge of the table.
'But I've had to give up on that fabulous title you came up with,' he says, trying not to sound spiteful.
'A pity.'
'Yes, a pity.'
He gives his coffee a brief stir and takes a sip, for once enjoying the sharp aromatic flavour. They must have brought in new beans for he doesn't recall espresso in Haría tasting quite this good.
'There is another meaning you might think about,' she says.
She sounds serious so he says, 'Do tell.'
'La Mareta is a building in Costa Teguise. Manrique was commissioned to build it by a King Hussein of Jordan who gifted it to King Carlos of Spain. It was a royal residence for many years. The king entertained the rich and famous there, so I hear. Now it's being opened to the public.'
'Impressive. How do you know so much?'
'I married a local,' she says drily. 'And Celestino has entered a competition for a commission of artworks to be hung there.'
'I hope he gets it.'
'That's generous of you.'
'I'm thinking of you, Paula.'
She looks askance. What on earth has he said now? She really is far too touchy for his liking. What is it about him and touchy women? He seems to attract them. Not a quality he'll be giving his sleuth Paula.
'This building,' he says, persevering. 'You wouldn't care to show me where it is?'
'On a map, sure.'
'Won't you come for a drive?'
She doesn't answer.
He strokes the rim of his saucer. That bald-headed man he saw wandering about the village walks by. Richard admires the cut of his leather jacket. Despite his eagerness to walk fast, he's hampered by a gaggle of teenage girls milling about. An older woman with a little terrier looks set to catch him up. Then the woman pauses to let her dog sniff about the base of a tree trunk. The dog cocks its leg. Richard averts his gaze.
'Come on then,' Paula says unexpectedly.
He hesitates, unsure whether to believe his ears.
'Hurry up, before I change my mind.'
He downs his coffee in one gulp, scalding his mouth.
'I take it your car is at home,' she says, standing.
'It's at the end of the plaza.'
She marches off and he has to trot to catch up.
'Why the change of heart?' he says when they reach his car.
'What do you mean?'
'You've been refusing to come with me for days.'
'I'm sick to death of waiting and of searching. I have no idea how on earth you write crime, Richard. But I tell you, in real life, sleuthing is no joke.'
'Some people love it.'
'Detectives maybe, but I'm not a detective.'
He unlocks the passenger side door and holds it open. She all but falls into the seat.
'Maybe I can help you,' he says once they're on their way. 'From a crime writer's perspective, I mean.'
She makes no comment but she seems amenable so he goes on.
'In fiction, anything can happen. You're only limited by your imagination and what's plausible. Take Celestino's disappearance. A sleuth can make any number of assumptions as to his whereabouts and surmise whether he met with foul play. Then there are the suspects. I like five.'
'Five?'
'That's the standard. Each must have means, motive and opportunity of course, just like in real life. Take the plot I'd been working on in the Mareta.'
'La Mareta.'
'La Mareta then. The plot I did have in mind revolved around a body being found in a mareta. The Tabayesco one, let's say.' An image of the woman in the tunnel flashes in his mind. He dismisses it immediately and continues. 'You, the sleuth, make the discovery. But you end up following false trails. Could be that someone is planting evidence to implicate someone else. Or you and the reader are led to believe one person is the culprit when all along it's the one pointing the finger.'
'Interesting.'
'Now setting is crucial,' he says, warming to his theme. 'As you know, I've been plagued by it. The root cause of my writer's block. But now the juices are flowing and it's thanks to you. I have to say that this building of yours has me thinking I'll focus on the rich and famous. I haven't focused on that group in any of my previous works. Perhaps it's time I try.'
'Richard,' Paula cuts in. 'I forgot to mention. You can't visit La Mareta. It isn't yet open to the public. The renovations are a work in progress. All you'll see is a high wall.'
'What a shame!'
He must have sounded as crestfallen as he feels because she comes back with, 'I'm sorry. Did you think it was already open?'
'Why else would we be going there?'
'It's my fault. My mind is scrambled. I tell you what. If it's the rich and famous you're after, let's go to Puerto Calero.'
'Where's that?'
'Just past Puerto del Carmen.'
'Do you have time?'
'Sure.'
Her turnaround in attitude is remarkable. But he isn't about to challenge it. He heads straight to the Arrecife ring road and takes the dual carriageway past the airport and the tourist strips, thick with traffic in both directions. Once through the sprawling town of Tias, things quieten down and he's able to observe the desert scrub of the coastal plain, a touch green after recent rains, but nothing like the greenery of the north. In his opinion, there isn't much to commend the area to the eye.
He only has to drive another handful of kilometres before reaching the turn off for Puerto Calero, a road that arrows straight to the ocean. Five minutes and two roundabouts later and they're in the village centre. It doesn't look to be much of a place, but just as in Costa Teguise, they've gone all out on tree planting. There are chunky palms trees everywhere. Paula directs him to some angle parking near a set of boom gates, which block vehicular entry to the road beyond. He isn't sure why she's made him park there until he gets out of the car and sees the tall masts of the yachts in the marina below.
They walk past the gates, Paula explaining that the marina was built by a José Calero in the 1980s, and developed into an exclusive community of expensive hotels and large houses. There are designer boutiques and the village even has its own security. Hence the gates.
'The marina attracts the super yachts of the terribly famous,' she says.
'Like who?'
'George Michael. Leonardo DiCaprio.'
'And they are?'
'Oh, Richard. The wealthy come for the marlin and the tuna, or to sail the waters of the Atlantic just for the pleasure of it.'
They keep walking and before long the marina come
s into full view. He isn't disappointed. On the clean sapphire waters, boats of all sizes bob about in the wind. A market displaying quality wares occupies a portion of the wide promenade. Set back behind thin-trunked palm trees, a row of restaurants, replete with deep verandas, looks sure to offer fine dining. The people ambling about are smart and civilised. He's immediately at home and is reminded of a time during his Haversack Harvest heyday, when he was invited to address a writer's festival and found himself escorted from the airport in a limousine.
They stroll along amicably, admiring the boats, although they quickly discover that neither of them know much about sailing. It's an odd thing to have in common but he's comforted by it.
On their way round the market stalls a delicious aroma of spices and roasting meats wafts by on the breeze and he's suddenly ravenous.
'Lunch?'
He escorts a surprisingly compliant Paula to the first restaurant they come to. He's about to enter when he realises she has no intention of following. Instead she stands at the entrance reading the menu on display and giving the inside a thorough if distant appraisal before wandering off to the one next door. That isn't good enough either. She leads him down to the very end of the promenade, checking each eatery in turn in an identical manner, then she ambles back, pausing again at each one, apparently dissatisfied. By the time they return to where they started, he thinks he'll die of hunger.
She leads him back in the direction of the car, mumbling something about prices, when a restaurant at the end of the marina catches his eye. Set in its own grounds, the two-storey building has all the grandeur of old colonial days, with tall sash windows and verandas on each level.
'Let's go there,' he says.
Paula stops in her tracks. She takes one quick glance at the restaurant and turns to him, an incredulous look appearing in her face. Without a word, she continues walking in the direction of his car.
'Don't be ridiculous,' Richard says, catching her up. 'We have to eat. I'll pay.'
Without waiting for her reply, he marches off, expecting she'll follow. When he reaches the entrance, he senses her behind him.
A Matter of Latitude Page 22