‘Nineteen seventy-nine.’
He looked at me like he didn’t understand.
‘Forty-five years ago,’ I clarified. ‘I gave it to her forty-five years ago. And according to photographs she wore it ever since.’
I don’t like police stations. They always make me feel guilty.
He sighed and gave the impression that I was wasting his time. Maybe he was embarrassed that they hadn’t worked out precisely what had happened to Christina. I really wished I knew some Spanish so I didn’t seem like such a naïve old tourist.
‘Where was the picture?’
‘It was on a website. Atlantis Scuba.’
Something flashed in his eyes when I said that.
‘Atlantis Scuba?’
‘Sí. Yes. Sí. The one owned by Alberto Ribas. I believe she knew him quite well.’
‘Mmm. Alberto Ribas.’ He sighed a long sigh. ‘Pues. Have there been…other things you see…?’
I wasn’t going to tell him about olive jars refilling with seawater or flowers appearing from nowhere. ‘No.’
‘Okay.’
There was a long pause. For a moment it looked like he was going to say something else. His mouth hinted at it, like an egg before it hatches, but nothing came.
‘Is that it?’ I wondered out loud.
The man gave me a stern look. I tried a softer approach. The way you might a grizzly bear in the woods whose lunch you interrupted. ‘It’s just that I am very concerned about my friend. I understand that there are still some questions about how she died and I know you are trying to get to the bottom of it…’
‘You are a guest on this island. It is important to remember…This island is not easy to…’ He searched for the English word and he decided upon ‘…see…I mean, you can see it. You can see…beaches…and palm trees…and you can pass the discos and the restaurants in your car. But you will never see it like an Ibicenco. Now. Thank you for your assistance, señora. Now, please, leave us to the investigating. You go and enjoy your holidays.’
He placed the letter to one side and went onto his computer.
‘Do you still need the letter?’ I asked.
‘Sí.’
‘Right. I see.’
I was going to ask for a copy but I felt I had reached the end of my question quota.
My time was clearly up. But as I was walking out of that humid room, hand on the door, he cleared his throat. ‘Oh, and señora, please stay away from Mr Ribas.’
I turned and nodded.
And, at that point, I really was going to do precisely as he said.
Anhedonia
I tried my best to put all this detective stuff behind me, to give up being Miss Marple for a while. So I did what most British people do on a Mediterranean island.
I went out and had a holiday.
And, on the face of it, it was a rather lovely holiday.
I saw the lighthouse at Portinatx.
I went to see the salt pans at Ses Salines and walked along the beach at Es Cavallet and tried not to blink an eye at the nude sunbathers.
I did as Christina had recommended and took a hike from Cala San Vicente along the old pilgrims’ path to Tanit’s Cave, up the steep hill, and felt about to die. I caught up with a small tour and took a sprig of rosemary and offered it as a gift to the goddess that had been on Rosella’s arm. I felt a bit silly placing it on the little shrine there, in the cave.
I traversed a sixteenth-century drawbridge to get lost amid the narrow lanes of Dalt Vila.
I saw a man on a skateboard and his dog trotting alongside. I saw colourfully clothed nightclubbers. I saw people speeding around a go-kart track. I saw hillwalkers. I saw hippies drumming at sunset.
I gazed up at palm trees.
I consumed bread and olives and aioli.
I ate a cheese-and-mint tart called a flaó.
I bought a cone full of ice cream sculpted like a flower.
I saw expensive yachts and small sailboats.
I drove around.
