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presume you asked the señorita whether there was any whisky in the house?’
    ‘Er . . . No, Señor.’
    ‘Regrettable, but not surprising . . . Clearly, the bottle could have come from the house. Equally clearly, he could have stopped on his journey and bought it.’ Salas’s voice sharpened. ‘Did it by any lucky chance occur to you to find out what happens to the estate now?’
    ‘The señorita doesn’t know for certain, but she believes everything goes to the wife, even though she and the sen or have been living apart.’
    ‘Then if it proves to be true that the señorita has no financial interest in Clarke’s death, the case depends on whether or not he was drunk at the time of the crash.’
    ‘I . . . I suppose so.’
    ‘You sound uncertain. Have I proceeded too quickly for you to follow?’
    ‘No, señor. It’s just that . . . Well, I do wonder if everything really is quite as straightforward as it seems? I think we could be missing something important.’
    ‘A thought with which, no doubt, you’ve become over familiar,’ said Salas before cutting the connection.
     
    The results of the PM reached Alvarez on a Friday. The deceased had had a blood alcohol ratio of 0.2—in other words he had, in lay terms, been in a state of marked drunkenness.
     

 
CHAPTER 4
    By the first of July, the day temperature had risen to the middle nineties and there had been no rain for nine weeks. Where there was irrigation the land remained green, elsewhere it had turned brown. On the beaches the holidaymakers sunbathed, frequently to excess so that they needed medical attention: doctors and chemists regarded the July sun in the light of a second patron saint. The harbour of Puerto Llueso was filled with boats, ranging from twelve-foot speedboats to seventy-foot schooners, almost all owned by foreigners whose constant topic of conversation was the subject of how hard up they were. The sea-front cafes charged twice as much as was reasonable and memento shops succeeded in selling their stocks to foreigners who had obviously left any sense of judgement or taste at home.
    Alvarez awoke and stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, patterned by the light striking up through closed shutteres, and he idly wondered if it were five o’clock yet? If so, he really ought to start thinking about getting up. The thought depressed him.
    Downstairs, the telephone rang. Most calls were for him, but occasionally there was a private one so he waited for someone else to answer. The ringing continued. Dolores, he decided, was beginning to take life far too easily.
    He sighed, swivelled round, stood, then reached for his trousers and put them on. From below came the sound of a door being banged and the clack of high heels on tiles and then the ringing finally stopped. He sat down once more.
    ‘Enrique, it’s for you.’
    Wearily he stood and reached for his shirt.
    ‘Hurry it up.’
    He left and went downstairs.
    Dolores, who was standing near the phone, said: ‘If you drank less coñac after lunch, you’d be able to move a bit faster.’
    Women never understood the simple fact that a man’s digestion, which was a delicate subject, was aided by a little brandy.
    The caller was the duty guard at the post. ‘There’s a woman here, asking for you.’
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘How should I know?’
    ‘What’s she want?’
    The guard laughed salaciously.
    ‘She must have said something?’
    ‘All she’s said is she wants a word with you. God knows why!’
    ‘Is she young, middle-aged, old?’
    ‘A foreigner, far too young for an old man like you.’
    Alvarez replaced the receiver.
    Ts anything wrong?’ asked Dolores.
    ‘Just someone turned up at the station who wants to see me.’
    ‘Then you won’t wait for coffee?’
    He yawned. ‘Its not an emergency.’
     
    The reception area was immediately inside the main entrance of the guardia post and here a guard sat behind a desk and, when he could find no alternative, dealt with