‘The family is a very old one, as you know of course,’ said Casas. ‘Their roots are here – in Catalonia. I speak as a local man; my father was a Catalan fisherman. He’s dead now, but there was a song he used to sing about Molino – the one his father used to sing, as had his father before him. It’s something very close to us here.’
‘What is it?’ prompted Alison quietly.
‘I remember a few lines of that song – I can hear him singing it on the boat now after some rough, fresh wine.
‘Listen to the pan pipes coming over the sea
Pipes of love, pipes of lust
Pipes of Molino – pipes of Sebastia
Naked flames
Leaping in Sebastia.’
‘Sounds like Bacchanalia,’ said Alison. ‘What’s this place Sebastia?’
‘It’s a small fishing village on the very tip of the island.’ Casas hesitated and absently rubbed a piece of bread round his plate. ‘It has a rather dark history – a place where sex of various kinds could be had freely.’
‘Sounds a real little paradise.’ Larche was uneasy.
‘I thought the Tomas family owned the island,’ said Alison. ‘Didn’t they own Sebastia as well?’
‘No,’ replied Casas. ‘It was always separate.’
‘But how did a place like this exist in their back yard?’ asked Larche. ‘Isn’t it a little – disreputable – particularly for such a distinguished Catholic family?’
Casas smiled. ‘The two communities seemed to have coexisted quite happily – and separately over the years.’
But Larche was taken aback. ‘I have to admit I’d heard the odd rumour, but I always dismissed it. Surely there isn’t any truth in all this?’
Casas shook his head rather patronizingly. ‘My dear Larche, I know it to be true for I used to go there as a boy. I lost my virginity in Sebastia – as many others had before me.’
‘Right under the noses of the aristocracy?’
‘Right under their noses,’ said Casas with some pleasure.
The waiter brought coffee and Alison Rowe and Marius Larche refused cognac. Casas had a framboise.
When the waiter had gone Alison said, ‘So – Sebastia was a sort of brothel – right in the lap of the Tomas clan?’
‘It was more than that …’
‘What else then?’ said Larche impatiently, wishing Casas would come to the point.
‘All things were allowed in Sebastia,’ said Casas, looking at Larche very directly. ‘The place is run by men – for men. But one day the women will step in and when they do I wouldn’t like to be around.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Alison curiously.
‘Maybe nothing at all. It’s just my own feeling – there’s a special breed of woman in Sebastia.’
‘Clandestine Amazons?’ asked Larche brightly.
‘Perhaps they have clandestine power,’ replied Casas, ‘like Islamic women. But they’ve been watching and waiting too long – seeing their own sex used, spat upon, exploited. One day …’ His voice almost died away. ‘One day, I’ve often thought, they might turn on the men.’
‘I didn’t realize you were such a feminist.’ Now it was Alison’s turn to be bright.
Casas shrugged. ‘I’m not – I’m just a fatalist.’
‘Why are you telling us all this about Sebastia? Is it that important?’ Larche asked.
Casas drank some more of his framboise. ‘Background,’ he said quietly. ‘Of course, on another level, the Tomas family have done a great deal for Sebastia. We know they’ve helped the community when there’ve been poor catches, bad times, storms –’
‘Plague, pestilence,’ cut in Larche impatiently. ‘Come on, what is all this? More local rumour and speculation?’
‘Are you suggesting that Eduardo Tomas’s death could have some connection with the seamy side of Sebastia – and that brought about his murder?’ Alison sounded sceptical. ‘Surely a situation like this would have leaked out. I mean, it’s not exactly Hola magazine stuff but what about your tabloids? And the rest of Europe’s?’
Larche could see Casas was already regretting his frankness. ‘As you say, it’s most likely to be local rumour and speculation and dismissed by the media as the stuff of injunctions and libel suits, but I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Eduardo Tomas was clearly murdered by a professional assassin,’ pointed out Larche. ‘I don’t suppose he was hired by some woman from a fishing village.’
‘True – but no one else is going to tell you about Sebastia. I’m a local – and you should understand a little of the local background.’
‘Do your – other colleagues know about this? Those who are not locals?’
‘Of course,’ replied Casas. ‘I considered it my duty to tell them.’
‘I never went to Sebastia when I was staying on the island before,’ said Larche. ‘But then no one ever left the house and its grounds.’ He paused. ‘However – thank you for the information. It’s certainly a mystery why the respectable Tomas family keep Sebastia on their doorstep if it’s as disreputable as you say.’
‘Go to Sebastia yourself. You’ll find nothing – just an old Catalan fishing village. No more.’
‘It all comes to life after dark?’ suggested Alison.
‘It only comes to life for those who know,’ said Casas, draining his liqueur.
Chapter 3
Half an hour later a short, rather dumpy little man with a straggling grey beard got out of a black Mercedes. He strolled across to the jetty where he was greeted with some deference by the security guards just as Casas emerged from the restaurant with his proteges and hurried across the road.
‘Detective Superintendent Alison Rowe and Detective Chief Inspector Marius Larche of Interpol. This is Inspector Emilio Calvino who is in charge of the investigation for the Spanish police.’
There were formal handshakes while Larche tried to forestall the professional hostility he had anticipated in Calvino. ‘I realize that you may see us as interlopers, but we shall both keep a very low profile.’
‘The more help we have the better.’ Calvino’s voice was neutral; his eyes were expressionless and a bland smile hovered on his lips. ‘Besides, I know the family are anxious to see you in their hour of need, Señor Larche. You are a friend, are you not?’
‘I knew Eduardo Tomas,’ said Larche guardedly.
‘And I gather he was anxious for your involvement.’
Larche continued to make self-effacing noises, deeply conscious of Alison Rowe’s appraising gaze. She’s assessing how I handle this, he thought, and I’m not coming over that well. ‘I just want to ensure our roles don’t overlap,’ he continued.
‘But they will, señor. How can they not do so?’ Calvino’s professional smile widened. ‘You are welcome to talk to whom you like, but at the same time you must, of course, keep me informed. You and Detective Superintendent Rowe will be our scavengers, toiling in the harvested fields. But who knows what you will find still growing, still festering. Naturally you will both receive our co-operation as I’m sure you will receive the family’s. We shall disprove that English expression – too many cooks spoil the broth.’ He laughed and then lit a small, rather noxious cheroot. ‘The island’s our fortress,’ he said. ‘Please ensure you don’t try to leave it without my permission.’
The launch sped over a still, calm ocean which was sprinkled with yachts, many of them stationary whilst their occupants took the siesta. Calvino stood up in the prow, just behind the dapper-suited man at the wheel. He stared ahead, his broad back a clear indication that conversation was no longer required and that he had disposed of at least his initial duty.
Larche glanced at the receding coastline, at the cliffs, whose strange sinewy quality Salvador Dali, who had lived and worked at nearby Port Ligat, had captured so exactly. Leaning forward expectantly, he watched Molino grow bigger, the same rugged cliffs dropping sheer into the sea, the waves boiling at their base which was honey-comb
ed with caves. Great pinnacles of rock, formed by the island’s erosion over the centuries, rose from the surf, thickly populated by huddled gulls.
Police speedboats ringed the craggy shores, bobbing up and down on the rough water as it touched the outcrops of Molino – a magnificently barbaric sight, chillingly primeval in its grandeur. There was no sign of any buildings or even, so far, of a natural harbour, just the relentless lashing spume of the waves and the mournful cries of the seabirds.
Dampened by spray, sitting in the stern of the launch, Marius Larche and Alison Rowe watched the ancient shores with unease. It was as if a ragged monolith had been placed in the eye of paradise.
Slowly, lurching in a tide rip, the launch rounded the northern tip of the island. It was the first time Larche had ever approached Molino from the sea; his other visits had been made by the Tomas family’s private helicopter.
Again he stared up at the towering water-drenched rock formations and at the densely packed pine trees at the top. It is a fortress, he thought, but not of Calvino’s making. It’s always been sealed.
Alison Rowe was depressed; as they neared Molino she felt increasingly worried about her brief. If the Spanish police found Hooper in Madrid or Barcelona, then she would, no doubt, be swiftly called to identify him. Beyond that she felt she was uselessly hanging around, an encumbrance to Larche and to everyone else on the case.
She shivered involuntarily, cold in spite of the hard glare of the sun. The dredging up of the horror from her past was still causing her considerable pain. And there was something else; something that darted around in her mind – a little stab of worry that was growing larger and more irritating by the moment. Had Heycroft sent her to Spain to get her out of the way? Was there really anything valid for her to do here? Would she have a job when she got back? Was he already manipulating a variety of different situations against her? Alison pulled herself together and tried to shake off the paranoia.
Her thoughts turned to Tom. They had been friends for ten years now – almost to the day – and had been about to celebrate the decade with a trip to Pompeii. She suspected that Tom had planned the trip deliberately, for this was where they had met, on an archaeological holiday. Then he had been a barrister, divorced with two young children. Now he was still a barrister, divorced but with two older children. They had similar tastes, backgrounds, interests, and he had wanted her to live with him with a view to marriage, but she had put him off. Alison wanted to be single-minded, didn’t want the conflict of interests that she knew marriage would bring. She was determined to battle to the top in the police, determined not to allow marriage to stand in her way, aware that her male chauvinist colleagues and competitors would undoubtedly interpret it as a sign of weakness.
But strangely, despite all her ambition, in the last few weeks she had not been so sure, and loving companionship – even babies – with Tom seemed less of a taboo. What would she do if Tom proposed to her in Pompeii? Would she amaze them both by accepting?
Larche turned to her and smiled as the launch nosed through the choppy waters, round another headland and on towards a harbour that suddenly appeared welcomingly through the silver sheen of the spray. It was a good smile, she thought. Strong and authoritative and almost mischievous, as if he wasn’t prepared to be put down or patronized by anyone. In his well-cut jeans and open-necked shirt, Larche had a distinction that set him apart from all the other policemen she had met. It wasn’t that he was French and therefore of a different culture to the hard-bitten, woman-shy, insecure and competitive men that she usually worked with; he just came over as more mature, a survivor. But a survivor of what, she wondered. The Roman head, the lines around his mouth, the bags under his eyes, the long grey hair, those light discerning blue eyes. What had he seen? What had he experienced to exude this strange aura of survival, of redemption?
‘It rather strikes me that the situation in Molino has all the makings of a vintage Christie,’ Larche remarked in his light brown voice with its slightly accented English. Suddenly Alison realized that he was trying to reach her more positively – that they were to be colleagues, sharing the light-hearted badinage as well as the evidence. Oh well, she supposed it would pass the time. ‘Of course we need a storm,’ he continued. ‘The family, friends – and admittedly in this case half the security corps and a large number of policemen – trapped in an old house on a bare rock.’
‘It’s not very bare,’ she observed. ‘It looks as if there’s a dense pine forest up there.’
‘Mere detail,’ he reprimanded. ‘The victims are hurled to their deaths from the topmost pinnacle. Suspects multiply and are narrowed down by Hercule Poirot.’
‘Is that you?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘In all modesty …’
‘And I’m Captain Hastings?’
‘In drag, perhaps. Later we confront everyone in the library, Poirot accuses and the murderer runs for the abyss.’
‘Suppose there isn’t a library?’ she objected.
‘There must be; it would ruin the whole plot if there wasn’t.’
He watched her covertly as they laughed and saw her visibly relax for the first time, the intelligence radiating from her eyes, her dry humour already an ally. Yes – yes, he had grown used to the company of women and Larche was pleased that Alison Rowe had been persuaded to come to Molino.
‘Well,’ said Calvino, sounding slightly like a holiday courier. ‘The harbour is the only way in – and out – to this part of the island – and there’s no movement without security passes.’
The launch was nudging against the smooth, round, weed-hung rocks of the small natural harbour, and Larche looked up chipped concrete steps to the dark pines beyond.
‘Señora Tomas is expecting you.’
‘Obviously Detective Superintendent Rowe and I will work together at all times,’ said Larche.
She smiled her gratitude and Calvino nodded quickly.
They walked up a narrow path between the pine trees with the late afternoon sun filtering down in latticed beams. The cicadas had begun to sing and there was a pungent scent of rosemary. Every now and then, flints and boulders pushed their way through the thick prickly undergrowth which continuously narrowed the track, and beyond was the darkness of the pines. Larche could hear the waves beating relentlessly against the rocks below them. A helicopter circled noisily and then began to roar over the trees and out to sea.
‘You’re keeping the island under wraps,’ said Alison, attempting conversation.
‘Yes.’ Calvino seemed more at ease when he was talking to her. ‘There’s a big dispute about security boiling up. After all those threats, Tomas walked to his death almost alone, except for his bodyguard, Carlos Mendes.’
‘Had he been with Tomas very long?’
‘Only a few months.’
‘You think he might be implicated?’
‘We’re checking him out, but he’s an unlikely assassin.’
The path widened and Larche found himself out on a wide headland lit by a mellow sun, its warm, ancient stones an inviting respite from the dim claustrophobia of the trees.
The house was set on a slight rise, with a large wooden cross surmounting a small shrine just below it. Imitation Palladian, it was a substantial two-storeyed white villa with a bell tower enclosed by a high wall. There were two policemen with holsters lounging against the wrought-iron entrance gates. Both had an air of somnolence which changed to relaxed vigilance when Calvino came into view.
He nodded to them and rang the bell. The gate slid open electronically, and they walked up a flight of steps into a paved courtyard. To one side there was an oval-shaped pool with a cherubim and seraphim fountain, and looking round, Larche noticed that there were several pieces of sculpture, some of them abstract, including a ragged silver construction which reminded him of the cliffs on the coastline, and several metal spheres topped by small windmills.
Larche glanced at Alison, but before he could say anything he saw Anita Tomas com
ing towards them, walking slowly, and calmly. A woman of considerable physical presence, despite the fact that she was small and stocky, she wore a beautifully cut black dress and a pair of high-heeled, obviously extremely expensive shoes. A slow, slightly questioning smile spread across her impassive features.
‘Marius. How good of you to come.’
Her smile had a luminosity to it that startled Alison. Why, she’s beautiful, she thought. Really beautiful. And she has such power of personality. Was that part of her persona as a distinguished cellist, used to the international public platform? Or was it to do with being the Spanish Home Affairs Minister’s wife? Or both? No wonder she could still insist that Marius Larche should be allowed to come to Molino. Yet Alison noticed something else about Anita Tomas. There was a shuttered look to her eyes and a reservation in her manner that gave her a rather detached air.
‘Anita.’ Larche stepped quickly towards her and they embraced. ‘I should have come much earlier.’
‘You’re a busy man.’ Her voice was clipped, authoritative, yet rather aridly polite.
Larche winced. ‘I wish I’d taken Eduardo’s telephone call much more seriously.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ she replied without malice. ‘Please don’t blame yourself.’ Anita sounded rather irritable, as if she didn’t want to bother with anyone else’s neuroses.
Calvino’s fixed smile widened as he spoke. ‘Señora, I have to speak to my security counterpart so I’ll leave you with your new arrivals.’
‘Thank you, Señor Calvino.’ Her voice was brisk and dismissive.
Realizing he had failed to introduce Alison, Larche said quickly and slightly awkwardly, ‘This is my colleague from England, Detective Superintendent Rowe. She is following up some information on a suspect we have and would like to talk to you about the threats Eduardo received.’
That was quick, thought Alison admiringly. She was wondering how he was going to explain her away.
‘The letters? Señor Calvino has the originals but I have copies. There are tapes as well.’
Confessional Page 5