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went on to a neighbour’s place to help nurse the sick wife. There are three people to swear she was in that house from around eight to well after one the next morning.’
    ‘Has she any idea who the murderer might be?’
    ‘None that helps us, since she inclines to the idea that Roig’s death was inspired by the Almighty as a punishment for his wicked life.’
    ‘Was it wicked?’
    ‘Depends on your definitions; mine say he had a whale of a time. Seems like there was a succession of women, much younger than himself, and enthusiastic. But the daily’s one of the old brigade who reckons life should be dull; became almost incoherent at one point, saying he’d ruined sweet innocence and deserved to die. I’ll bet they were innocent!’
    ‘Have you talked to any of ‘em?’
    ‘I’ve only been able to identify the last one and there’s not been the time to get hold of her yet.’
    ‘Did his wife know what was going on?’
    ‘Frankly, although she’s obviously not prostrated with grief, I’ve thought it best to keep off the subject for a bit. Still, if you ask me to guess, I’d say she had a pretty shrewd idea. All the daily can say is that she’s never seen the wife at Casa Gran. Obviously, that was Roig’s secret love-nest.’
    ‘The rich lead different lives, don’t they?’
    ‘Envy won’t get you anywhere.’
    ‘Can the daily give a good description of the man in the 127?’
    ‘She was upstairs when the car arrived and she looked out of the window, but saw only the top of his head; ordinary brown hair, straight, perhaps beginning to bald at the crown. When she went downstairs, the two men were in the main sitting-room and she’d no cause to go in there. Just before leaving, she heard Roig shouting, but it was in English so she’s no idea what he was saying; the visitor was talking in a normal voice and as the door is very solid, all she caught was a murmur.’
    ‘Not very promising.’
    ‘I told you, so far it’s a real cow. But on top of that, I’m feeling like death.’
    ‘Sorry to hear that.’
    ‘Look, Enrique, there’s something you can do for me right away. There were a few papers about the place and we came across one with a note of a telephone number—530782. That’s your end of the island, so check it through and find out if it can have any significance, will you? I need to get hold of something that’ll keep Salas quiet.’
    ‘Try strychnine.’
    Jaume chuckled.
    When the call was over, Alvarez looked through the drawers of the desk for a copy of the telephone directory, eventually found that he’d used it to prop up the corner of a very battered cupboard. Because numbers were listed under separate towns and villages, it did not take him long to discover that the one Jaume had given him belonged to Gerald Oakley of Ca’n Tardich, Carretera Llueso/Puerto Llueso, s/n. Oakley sounded to be an English name; Roig had spoken English to the visitor to Casa Gran on Monday morning.
    Twenty minutes later, he drove up the narrow dirt track and parked in the shade of the olive tree which stood outside Ca’n Tardich. He climbed out of the car. In his. fantasies, this was the kind of house he’d buy after winning the lottery . . .
    He rang the bell to the right of the front door and then, when there was no answer, walked round to the vine-covered patio. He stared at the sheep in the field, their neck-bells clanking as they moved, and he thought how, if the land were his, he’d drill for water and when successful would turn the parched field into a cornucopia of beans, peas, peppers, aubergines, tomatoes, onions, garlic, radishes, strawberries, artichokes, lettuces . . .
    He returned to the car and drove off, stopping outside the ugly, square house that stood on the wider dirt track. Two young girls were playing with dolls on a patch of weed grass and he asked them if their mother was around; the elder ran into the house. When she returned, she was accompanied by a woman who held a baby in