10 Sant Miquel
Sant Miquel
Her car was an unmarked Citroen. She drove it very fast, with the swollen hand balanced atop the wheel.
“What happened?” asked Gabriel.
“I’m sorry?”
He indicated the damaged appendage.
“A suspect foolishly tried to resist arrest.”
“And so you hit him?”
“Several times.” With a sideways glance she added, “I’m a black belt.”
“Which discipline?”
“Karate.”
“Unsightly but effective.”
“Are you a martial artist?”
“No,” lied Gabriel. “I’m a real artist.”
“What do you do in your spare time?”
“I search for missing British socialites. They don’t give you a belt for that sort of thing.” They were hurtling along Ibiza’s
main north–south highway. The terrain around them was parched and brown. It reminded Gabriel of the valley of his youth. “And
what was the poor chap’s crime?” he asked.
“The man I hit? He was dealing drugs in the nightclubs.”
“Isn’t that why people come to Ibiza in the first place? To take drugs in nightclubs?”
“Some,” she admitted. “For better or worse, we are the party capital of Europe.”
“Surely you’re not from here.”
“The north,” she answered.
“Aragón?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. An old Moorish village called Alquézar.”
“What brought you to Ibiza?”
“A man, if you must know.”
“Is he still around?”
“Thank goodness, no.”
“You didn’t strike him, I hope.”
“I definitely thought about it.” She navigated a busy traffic circle. “And what about you, Senor Allon? Tell me something
about yourself.”
“Just type my name into the little white box. It will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Trust me, I did. You’ve lived a remarkable life. But how did you get mixed up with Edward Knight?”
“Friend of a friend,” replied Gabriel vaguely.
“What do you think of him?”
“I’m more interested in your opinion.”
“He seemed unusually calm and collected, given the circumstances. I suppose that’s what they mean by a stiff upper lip.”
The highway narrowed to two lanes and carried them past vineyards and olive groves to the town of Sant Miquel. The modular
white apartment buildings were rose-colored in the dying twilight. Inspector Aragón pointed out a café where a few locals
were drinking Estrella Galicia at a table in the street.
“The CCTV camera that photographed Alice’s car on Friday morning is over the doorway of that bar.”
“Did she pass by here again on Friday afternoon?”
“At three fifteen,” replied the detective.
Beyond the town loomed a bony ridge of hills. Inspector Aragón expertly handled the hairpin turns without once lifting her
foot from the throttle. Finally she applied the brakes and rolled to a stop along a stretch of road no wider than the hedgerow-lined
lanes of Cornwall. On the left side of the road was a retaining wall of sun-bleached stone. On the right, the passenger side,
was a deep ravine.
She opened the boot of the Citroen and from inside removed a torch and two emergency roadside triangles bearing the emblem
of the Policía Nacional. She placed one triangle behind the car and the other in front, then offered the torch to Gabriel.
“After you,” she said.
He peered into the ravine. The bottom, if there was one, was in shadow. “You don’t happen to have a length of rope, do you?”
“Policía detectives don’t carry rope, Senor Allon.”
He removed his sport jacket and tossed it into the back of the car. Then, after first switching on the torch, he stepped hesitantly
from the verge and began his descent. The ground beneath him was rocky and unstable. He crept forward, fencerlike, with the
torch in his outstretched right hand and his left extended behind him for balance. He was aware of Inspector Eva Aragón behind
him, moving with the silent surefootedness of a deer.
“Didn’t I read somewhere that you were a mountain climber?” she asked.
“You have me mistaken for someone else. I only paint mountains.”
“Perhaps I should lead the way after all. At the rate you’re going, we’ll miss dinner.”
“I thought you Spaniards ate at midnight.”
“My point exactly.”
Gabriel maintained his present rate of descent, and gradually the steep hillside gave way to flatter ground.
“That’s far enough,” said Inspector Aragón. “This is where the car came to rest.”
At the edge of a coppice of juniper and Aleppo pine, noted Gabriel. He played the beam of the torch over the rocky soil, then
lifted his gaze toward the pair of winking red triangles on the road above.
“There’s no way she could have survived a crash like that. Not in an open-top car.”
“Unlikely,” agreed the Spanish policewoman. “Someone must have rolled it into the ravine.”
“The thieves?”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then nodded.
“And where do you suppose Alice was at the time?”
“Another vehicle, I imagine.”
“Go on, Inspector.”
“Alice and her friends didn’t exactly keep a low profile while they were here. They stayed in the most expensive home on the
island, ate in the best restaurants, and partied at the hottest nightclubs. To make matters worse, Alice was constantly posting
photos of herself on social media.”
“Isn’t that de rigueur these days?”
“I suppose. But a crew of professional thieves was bound to notice that the wife of a British billionaire was staying on the
island with three female friends and no bodyguards.”
“How did it go down?”
“Somehow they forced her to a stop. If I had to guess, they overtook her after she left Sant Miquel and were lying in wait when she arrived up there. They stuck a gun in her face and told her to hand over her purse and her valuables. Rather than comply with their demands she resisted.”
“Things got physical?”
“These hoods have short fuses.”
“Then what?”
“They forced her into their vehicle, and the situation went from bad to worse. Alice is desperate now. She’s fighting as though
her life depends on it. Flailing, kicking, gouging with her nails. The thieves subdue her, and what was once a simple robbery
is now aggravated assault and battery. At this point the only way to get out from under a long prison sentence is to make
Alice disappear.”
“Not bad,” said Gabriel. “But it’s all based on guesswork and supposition.”
“Not entirely,” replied the inspector.
“The Hermès sandal?”
She nodded.
“Where is the cove where it was found?”
“On the eastern side of the island.”
“And the villa where they were staying?”
She pointed to the north. “Just over that hill.”
He directed the beam of the torch toward the steep slope of the ravine. “A shame about that rope,” he said, and started to
climb.
They loaded the emergency triangles into the boot of the Citroen and followed the serpentine road to the summit of the ridge.
The sea appeared, stretching like a bolt of black silk toward the distant Spanish mainland.
The last light of dusk had faded, the first stars had appeared.
A ferry was approaching Ibiza from Valencia; a colossal cruise ship festooned with lights was heaving its way toward Barcelona.
Sailing vessels and motor yachts dozed at anchor along the coastline.
The road turned inland and the sea vanished from view. They sped past a noisy restaurant, a small hotel, and a colony of whitewashed
villas. The property at the end of the road was hidden behind walls of stone. Security lights flared automatically as Inspector
Aragón pulled up at the entrance. She typed an eight-digit passcode into the keypad and the gate swung slowly open.
“This is still an active crime scene, by the way.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Gabriel. “It won’t be my first.”
She headed up the drive, past manicured trees and hedges, past a red clay tennis court, and slowed to a stop at the entrance
of the villa. There was another keypad next to the door. She entered the same eight-digit code and led Gabriel inside.
The interior lights were motion activated. They pulled on crime scene gloves and shoe covers in the entrance hall and padded
silently across the marble floor, into an enormous great room. The furnishings were contemporary and costly—southern European
chic. Beyond a retractable wall of glass was a sweeping terrace, and beyond the terrace lay the sea. There was not another
residence in sight. It was as if they had Ibiza to themselves.
“Who owns this place?” asked Gabriel.
“An anonymous shell corporation. The identity of the real owner is a matter of considerable speculation on the island.”
Gabriel contemplated the meritless abstract canvas adorning one of the room’s walls. “Let us say for argument’s sake that
Alice Winter’s fatal encounter with your as yet unidentified thieves took place at approximately half past three on Friday
afternoon.”
“Three-twenty-five, I’d say.”
“And yet her friends Sophie Maxwell and Ella Burns didn’t report her missing until the following day.”
“At 12:37 p.m. Ibiza time.”
“Did you ask them why they waited?”
“Several times.” She pointed toward a seating area. “In this very room.”
“And?”
“They said their friend Alice had a wild side, and they weren’t worried when she didn’t come home that night.”
“Were you satisfied with their explanation?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. But I was confident they had nothing to do with their friend’s disappearance, especially after
my colleagues found the car.”
“At approximately eight o’clock that evening?”
“More like seven fifteen. My superiors delivered the bad news to Edward Knight in Britain and then ordered me to seal the
room where his wife had been staying.”
“I’d like to see it, please.”
“Not a chance, Senor Allon.”
“And if I were to ask nicely?”
The door was defaced with a large X of crime scene tape, but inside the bed was immaculately made and nothing was out of place.
“The maid straightened up after Alice left the property on Friday morning,” Inspector Aragón explained. “This is the way I
found it on Saturday afternoon.”
Lying on the bedside table was a novel by Ian McEwan. Gabriel opened it to the page marked and read the first line. Within the half hour Briony would commit her crime . . . He closed the book and returned it to its original place.
“Where are the rest of her things?”
She led him into the bathroom suite. Atop the vanity was a formidable array of cosmetics and creams and other beauty supplies.
Gabriel unzipped a leather tote and found a small pharmacy of pain relievers, allergy medication, antidepressants, and sleeping
tablets. In a matching jewelry case were two wristwatches, a double strand of pearls, diamond earrings, and a gold-and-diamond
bracelet. In the drawers of the vanity were swimsuits, undergarments, pullovers, shorts, fitness attire, all bearing designer
labels. The rest of her clothing was hanging in the walk-in closet. Displayed on the top shelf was a selection of hats. A
broad-brimmed straw sun hat, a stylish fedora, a navy blue baseball-style cap by Prada.
“Why do you suppose she needed another one?” asked Gabriel.
“That one’s a Prada. It also happens to be blue.”
“And?”
“The hat she bought at Louis Vuitton was white.”
“How many baseball caps does one woman need?”
“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong woman.” She led him out of the bedroom suite and locked the door behind them. Outside,
they pulled off the gloves and shoe covers and climbed into the Citroen. “Have you cracked the case?”
“Not quite. But I’m getting there.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“The disappearance of Alice Winter had nothing at all to do with robbery.”
“What happened to her?”
“Perhaps it went something like this . . .”