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—but there’d been no money there. Perhaps, for some reason, he’d left it somewhere else? She’d checked the three rooms she hadn’t cleaned that morning; no money. But in the spare bedroom, one of the paintings had been swung back, revealing the wall safe it normally concealed; the door was open and the safe was empty. It did seem very strange he should have left it like that . . .
    She’d locked up the house. By now definitely uneasy, she’d looked in the garage; the car wasn’t there. This seemed to confirm that he’d left, in a tearing hurry . . . As she’d been about to leave, a car had driven up and the driver had leaned through the open window and called her over. The señora hadn’t had the manners even to say good-morning, but had spoken very rapidly in English and had become annoyed when asked to speak more slowly. It appeared that the señor had been invited to a meal at her house the previous night, had accepted, but had never turned up. The señora had three times telephoned to find out what was the matter, but there’d been no answer. So now she wanted to speak to him . . .
    ‘I don’t think she was worried about the possibility the señor could be ill,’ said Beatriz. ‘She was just furious because he hadn’t turned up at her place.’
    ‘D’you know who she is?’
    ‘Her name’s Señora Neatherley; she and the señor have been to Señor Oakley’s more than once. Her husband’s a much more pleasant person.’
    ‘Where do they live?’
    ‘Up in the urbanization, but I’ve no idea which house.’
    ‘You’re being very helpful. There’s something else you can maybe tell me. Has a man called Señor Roig ever visited the señor’s house?’
    ‘I’m certain he hasn’t,’ she answered confidently. But then she added: ‘But I do seem to know the name.’
    ‘Could it be that he’s telephoned some time and you’ve taken the call?’
    ‘D’you know, I think that’s right. In fact, now I remember exactly. It’s not all that long ago when the telephone rang and the señor was out, so I answered. The caller wanted the señor to ring him back as soon as possible; he said his name was Señor Roig.’
    ‘I wish everyone had as good a memory as you . . . A bit earlier on, you spoke of the señor’s car—what kind is it?’
    ‘A Seat 127.’
    ‘And the colour?’
    ‘White.’
    ‘One last thing. What would you say the top of the señor’s head looks like?’
    ‘What’s that?’
    He smiled. ‘I haven’t gone round the bend! What colour’s his hair?’
    ‘Just an ordinary brown.’
    ‘Straight?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Beginning to show signs of baldness?’
    ‘He quite often jokes and says that he’ll be completely bald in a couple of years and then he’ll be a very old man. As I always tell him, there’s a good bit of life left in him yet.’
    ‘You Sound as if you like him?’
    ‘I’ve worked for enough foreigners to know they come in all sorts—he’s the best. Doesn’t think we’re stupid just because we do things in a different way. And he’ll sit down with me for a cup of coffee in the middle of the morning; you’d be surprised how many of ‘em would sooner be dead than be seen doing that.’
    ‘I don’t think I would.’ He stood.
    She stared up at him. ‘You think something has happened to him?’
    ‘I simply don’t know at the moment.’ He thanked her, said goodbye, and left. He was not surprised that the name of Roig had evoked no startled reaction. News of the murder had been in all the papers, but few women bothered to read about events which took place beyond their own villages and it had not been mentioned on the television.
     

 
CHAPTER 6
    Alvarez reluctantly climbed out of bed, to sit on the edge. He stared at the closed shutters, the slats and the sun creating bars of harsh light, and yawned.
    ‘Come on,’ Dolores shouted from downstairs.
    He wondered how she managed to be so bright and sharp this early; too sharp, if the truth