Ros turned away her face to hide the flash of pain in her eyes. Once she'd always been happy and laughing. Since Larry's death she'd been more subdued, but Lorenzo's softly spoken words reminded her she'd temporarily forgotten Tim and she felt ashamed, as though she'd betrayed him.
Silently Lorenzo pulled her towards him as she sat on the edge of the pool, while he stood in the water. Her face was on the same level as his and he took it gently in his hands, turning it towards him. As she closed her eyes he kissed both eyelids, then the tip of her nose, and finally her mouth, his lips gentle yet insistent on hers so that they opened as a flower turning towards the sun.
Ros wanted to pull away from him but had no willpower to move. Gradually he slipped his arms about her and she slid back into the water, held against him in an iron grip which prevented her from touching the bottom of the pool, so that he did not have to bend to reach her lips.
'You – are – an – enchanting – little – witch,' he told her kissing her after each word 'Lunch, my love.'
Briskly he heaved her out of the pool and sprang after her, walking away towards a small unobtrusive doorway. It led behind the bar that opened when needed for the convenience of swimmers. By the time he returned she'd recovered from his kisses and was sitting on one of the loungers rubbing her hair, partially hiding her face in the towel.
Almost immediately one of the waiters appeared with a large tray and placed it on a small table between two of the loungers. Ros busied herself pouring coffee.
'Have you made any plans for the rest of the day?'
'I – have to do some shopping, I haven't had much opportunity before,' she said hurriedly.
'Would you care to drive me to the airport first?'
'Airport?' she repeated stupidly, and the way her heart plunged at the thought he was going away horrified her.
'If it's no trouble. I have to go to Madrid for a short while. I hope to be back the day after tomorrow.'
'Yes, of course I'll take you,' she managed.
At least his absence would leave her spare time free for making further enquiries about Tim, she thought bleakly. She had developed the habit of listening for Lorenzo, expecting him always to appear beside her. Firmly she told herself she'd probably discovered all she could from him, and must resist further temptation. The thought depressed her, much as she longed to get on with finding her brother.
Her success with the doctor had given her a further idea and she was eager to follow it up.
At the airport, before she guessed his intention Lorenzo took her gently in his arms and kissed her lingeringly, sweetly.
'Every minute I'm away will be lonely,' he murmured.
Without giving her time to reply he turned and walked through the doors. She saw him cross the tarmac and board a small plane. He carried a slim briefcase, which a steward took from him as he reached the steps. The man saluted smartly before springing in to close the door.
*
Ros was puzzled. It wasn't the regular flight, clearly, with such a small plane. It was more like the six-seater executive jet big businessmen sometimes used. How did Lorenzo come to be travelling in one? Then she shrugged. She knew so little about him, he might have wealthy friends through his work, one of them might have offered him a lift, there were all sorts of explanations. She must forget him and continue her search for Tim.
She drove back into Palma, and using the same ploy as with the doctor, was soon seated in a small café drinking coffee, and talking with a newspaper reporter.
Gradually she brought the conversation round to Lorenzo's sailing accident. To her increasing puzzlement the man knew something about it but not all the details. He didn't, for example, seem to know who the man involved was.
'Then why wasn't it reported?' she asked blankly.
'The Company,' was the laconic reply.
'I beg your pardon? Which Company?'
'The one which owns so many luxury hotels, not just in Spain and the islands, but all over Europe, and America too. It's always referred to just as the Company.'
'How does that affect what you report?'
'The old man, who started it, is a recluse. Lives in some remote spot. But he has sufficient pull with powerful people to suppress any damaging information. And the story of one of the employees at the Castilla getting into such a pickle would in his view be detrimental to the Company.'
'I see,' Ros said thoughtfully. Did that also apply to the missing children? She'd found no local reports about them, either. 'Were there any other reasons to suppress it? Any suggestions that someone else might have been involved?'
'How involved? Look here, what do you know?'
'Nothing, but could there have been someone else in the boat, for instance, who hadn't been saved? I'd have thought that a more likely motive for suppressing such a story.'
He pulled thoughtfully at his lip, staring hard at her.
'There were no funny rumours,' he said flatly. 'And I advise you not to start any. It wouldn't be healthy for you.'
'Not healthy? Do you mean the Company could harm me? Like the Mafia in Italy or New York?' she demanded incredulously.
He laughed. 'You have a very vivid imagination, Senorita. We reporters have to stick to facts. No, I mean simply that if the Company wished, they could probably make life very difficult for you, in Spain and probably elsewhere. That's all.'
*
But was it, Ros thought as she drove back to the Castilla. At every turn she came across the suggestion or at least the possibility of violence. Had Tim been caught up in this? And how?
There was still time for a quick sail before it grew dark, and she determined as her next move to talk to the boatman who looked after the Castilla's small fleet of boats. She already wore jeans and a sweater, so pausing only to collect a pair of suitable shoes she went down to the beach.
They chatted as he prepared a small dinghy, but to her frustration he knew nothing useful. He'd only been employed at the Castilla for a month, but he had seen Lorenzo sail and laughed at the suggestion he might not have been able to handle the boat which had been wrecked.
'We've two more like it, and though they're not boats for novices, Senor Carreira can handle them like he does a woman. Begging your pardon, Senorita, but you know what I mean.'
In the bar before dinner Ros found two of the musicians, and they were only too happy to keep her company. She discovered they'd both been at the Castilla for a year, and soon had them reminiscing.
'The drummer's new, isn't he?' she asked after a while.
'Newer than us. Came three months back when the other left.'
'Left? Oh yes, I heard. No one seems to have any idea where he went.'
'All eager for a new arrangement he wanted us to try, next day gone without a word of explanation. All his clothes moved, and his scooter. But it's strange he left his drums and still hasn't claimed them.'
Ros kept her voice calm. 'Very odd. What do you think happened?'
'Why do kids have odd notions? Perhaps he'd suddenly had enough of being a drummer, and decided to move on. It wouldn't have been possible to carry the drums on his scooter, and perhaps he hasn't had the gall to send for them. Maybe doesn't need them and can't be bothered. He was an American, and from what he said he wasn't short of money back home, even if he'd run away.'
'Is that what he said, he'd run away?'
'Something like that. What was it?'
He turned to his fellow musician, who hadn't said much.
'He felt stifled at home, wanted to try and make out for himself. It's my guess he found it harder work than he'd expected and decided to call it quits. Probably back home now, scoffing the fatted calf.'
'This was at the same time Senor Carreira had the accident?'
'Yes, and it couldn't have been more difficult, two of our band out of action at the same time.'
That was all they'd thought about it, and Ros didn't believe they had the slightest suspicion the two might have been connected. She learned
Lorenzo often took the taciturn one sailing, and had once taken Tim, but she could find no suggestion Tim had been going with him on that last day.
*
As carefully and unobtrusively as she could during the next two days, and ignoring sly looks when she mentioned Lorenzo, Ros continued to question the hotel staff about Tim, but none of the ones she tempted into conversation admitted knowing he'd intended leaving.
All she'd discovered was the reason the accident hadn't been reported, and that was far from reassuring. She didn't have to admit that Tim was her brother, and she felt an obscure relief. To have done so would, she was beginning to believe, be dangerous to them both.
Then, the next day, at breakfast, the taciturn musician stopped beside her table. 'You know that fellow we were talking about yesterday?'
Ros's heart somersaulted and she was incapable of replying.
'That young drummer. I could swear I saw him last night, down on one of those floating palaces in Palma Harbour.'
Ros stared at him, fighting back a desire to cry with relief. It might not have been Tim, she told herself wildly, but refused to accept the possibility.
'Where?' she croaked when her voice came back.
He was looking at her worriedly. 'Are you OK?'
'Yes, just surprised,' she managed. 'On one of the yachts? Do you know which one?'
'Yes, I thought Senor Mendez might be interested too. It was the Golden Gull. But he was a long way off and I couldn't be absolutely sure.'
Ros drove straight down into Palma. Was it Tim? Please let it be Tim, she prayed. What was he doing on a luxury yacht? When would she be able to find out more?
At the harbour she searched feverishly for names on the yachts there, but it was hopeless. There were so many, and it was impossible to see those moored further out.
Eventually she sought out a harbour official and demanded to know where the Golden Gull was moored.
'Too late, Senorita,' the man said calmly.
'Too late? Why? What do you mean?'
'She sailed at first light.'
Ros started at him in dismay. 'Gone? Oh, no! Where to?'
He shrugged. 'Can't say. Only in here for a couple of nights.'
'I suppose you didn't see the people on board? I heard there was a young man, a boy really, that I knew. I was hoping to see him.'
He shook his head. Ros sighed. It had been a very remote chance he would have known.
'Didn't see any of them.'
'Where's the yacht registered? Surely there's a record of that?'
'Bahamas, I think. Want me to check?'
'Could I find out who the owner is that way?' she asked without much hope.
'No need and you could probably find out where they've gone at the house,' he suggested, sensing her disappointment.
'What house?'
'Where the owner lives.'
Her eyes lit up with renewed hope. 'You know where the owner lives? Oh, where? On the island? Please tell me. And who is the owner?'
'He's a Mr Goldstein, American I think but could be English. I'm not sure of the name of the house, but it's on the road to Soller, up one of the little side roads, I'm told.'
Ros's heart sank. She'd had no success finding the other house along that road. The man was still talking and she concentrated.
'He isn't there often, they say he's got dozens of houses all over the world, but there's bound to be a caretaker, someone who'd know where he is or when he's due back. You could find it and ask if it's that important.'
*
Ros thanked him effusively, and retreated back to the car. It had to be Tim, it must be. It would be a cruel disappointment if it turned out to be someone else. Maybe it was the house Tim had marked. It would be too great a coincidence for him to be associated with two houses in that area.
She had to force herself to sit still. Her instinct was to drive straight towards this place, to follow up this lead, the first possible sighting of Tim for over three months. But she already knew the difficulty of trying to find a strange house whose name she didn't yet know on such a road as the climbing, twisting, serpentine route leading across the mountains. First she must try and find the name of the house, and if possible exactly where it was. She needed a local guide.
She drove slowly back to the Castilla. Only then did she begin to wonder why Tim, if it was Tim, was on a rich American's yacht. Was he working for him? Why hadn't he written? It was so unlike her brother not to write to her. He'd written regularly ever since she'd left home, far more frequently than her mother ever did. A hasty phone call when she wanted something was her mother's preferred method of communication, and usually with no time to spare for even the most casual of questions about her daughter's life.
It was this thought which made doubts flood into her mind. This was worse than before, when she hadn't known a thing. Now there was the hope she might soon discover where Tim was, but also the dreadful fear it might all have been a mistake, and she was no nearer finding him than before.
She sat through dinner eating no more than a mouthful, and left as soon as possible to retreat to the privacy of her chalet.
If it did turn out to be Tim, it would clear Lorenzo of suspicion, she thought with a sudden surge of hope. It must be Tim, it would be unbearable to have her expectations raised only to be dashed again.
If only Lorenzo were here to help her, she thought as she fell into an emotionally exhausted sleep. Then everything would be all right.
*
Chapter 7
Ros set off early the next morning. First she went down to the harbour and arranged with a clerk in the office that he would telephone her if the Golden Gull returned to Palma.
Lorenzo had not returned, and Ros missed him more than she would have thought possible. How could another person, one met so short a time before, have become so important to her?
Her childhood had been punctuated by the upheavals of her mother's divorces, the dramas of marital quarrels and new men friends, with the only constant feature the regular visits to her father. Ros had tried to protect her young brother, and had grown unusually self-sufficient. She hadn't depended even on Larry. Now she knew she had always been the leader in their relationship, and the first doubts about whether they could have had a happy marriage were thrusting into her thoughts.
When he died she had never expected to need anyone else, and now she had found Lorenzo it was shattering to suspect he was treating her as he must have treated many other girls, protesting eternal love for a week or two and passing with little regret on to the next romantic interlude.
She banished these thoughts. They didn't help. She had to find the Goldstein house, and this time she knew the name. She would approach the task by going to Soller and asking there for directions. Some of the shops would almost certainly deliver.
The road across the pass rose in a series of short straight sections, turning abruptly back on itself with the upper stretches often only a few feet away from the ones below. From the top it looked like a flight of giant irregular stairs. On either side were orange and lemon orchards, the bright fruit hanging like coloured lanterns in the trees. Then came the olive groves, mysterious as ever. Occasionally a drive ran off at the bends, where she knew there were houses, some visible, facing southwards to the distant sea.
Ros stopped the car at one vantage point to look back down the valley. What a fantastic place to live, she thought, with that marvellous view. Mr Goldstein's house must be along one of the tracks she'd passed, but she had no idea which. But a house on any of the terraces stretching down the hillside would be dreamlike.
Her gaze was caught by the smoke of a train, a toy train far below, puffing between the trees. It had just come out of the tunnel which connected Soller with Palma and the south.
Ros wondered whether she would ever come back to this enchanting island for a different holiday. It was so varied, and she'd seen only a small portion of it. She would miss it but could she bear to return, would the memor
ies fade and become less painful?
She drove on and parked the car near the main square in Soller. A girl in one of the shops gave her directions to Mr Goldstein's house, and if she could count the number of bends accurately it should not be too difficult to locate. Besides which, the gateway was visible from the road, and distinctive. Ros spared a few minutes to wander about looking at the shops, the square pleasantly shady under the big plane trees.
To the discerning eye there were many hints of the town's former links with France, the main market for the port in earlier times. Ros wished she had time to go on the small tramway to Puerto de Soller a couple of miles away, but she would have to miss that. It was more important to look for Mr Goldstein's house.
Driving slowly back over the pass she soon found the gateway she had been told led to Mr Goldstein's house. It branched away from the road at one of the hairpin bends, the gate guarded by a pair of stone eagles perched on top of slender pillars.
The gates themselves were wide open, and Ros drove through onto a well maintained drive which curved gradually round the contour of a hill. She came to a junction, and a sign directed her to turn off into a shorter spur which soon widened out to a circle in front of a low, modern house. Ros tingled with excitement. It was the house Tim had marked. The building was painted a brilliant white, but the dark green shutters at each of the dozen or so windows which overlooked the valley were closed. A long paved patio ran the length of the house and the garden was arranged in a series of terraces which fell sharply down the steep hillside.
*
It matched the yacht, the 'floating palace' the harbourman had described. Mr Goldstein must be extremely rich if this was just one of his homes. Rather tentatively Ros got out of the car and approached the front door. Should she go to the back, she wondered, but there was no indication which way any back door might be, so she braced herself and rang the bell.
She had to ring again before she heard shuffling footsteps inside. The door was opened a crack, obviously held by a chain, and a wizened sexless face appeared, small bright black eyes peering out at her.
Island Quest Page 7