September

mindless malice. Mrs. Ishak, bless her darling heart, come to his rescue with the cardboard crate of tonic water borne before her like a votive offering.

'Oh, thank you, Mrs. Ishak.' And not a moment too soon. 'Here, let me take that.' He went to relieve her of the heavy load. 'I wonder, can you put that down to my account?' He could easily pay in cash but did not wish to linger a moment longer than he had to.

'Of course, Mr. Aird.'

'Thank you.' The crate was transferred. With its weight safely in his arms, he turned to take his leave of Lottie and make his escape.

But Lottie had jumped the gun and was gone. Abruptly and disconcertingly, she had simply disappeared.

9

Tuesday the Thirtieth

'Has she always lived in Majorca, this aunt of yours?'

'No. She's only been here for about two years. She lived in Paris before that, and New York before that, and then California before that,' Lucilla said.

'A rolling stone.'

'Yes, I suppose you could call her that, except that she's gathered lots of lovely moss.'

Jeff laughed. 'What's she like?'

'I don't know because I've never seen her. By the time I was born, she was gone, married to an immensely wealthy American and living in Palm Springs. It seemed to me that she must be the most glamorous woman in the world. So wicked and sophisticated like someone out of those old 1930 plays, with men falling for her like ninepins, and always unashamedly outrageous. She eloped when she was eighteen. Such a frightfully brave thing to do. I'd never have had the nerve. And she was beautiful.'

'Will she still be beautiful?'

'I don't see why not. After all, she's only about forty, not over the hill yet. There's a portrait of her at Croy in the dining-room. It was painted when she was about fourteen and even then she was a stunner. And photographs too, all over the place, in frames or the old albums that my grandfather used to fill with snapshots. I used to welcome wet afternoons because then I could spend them poring over those old albums. And when people talked about her, even if they started by being disapproving because she'd been so thoughtless and uncaring to her parents, they always ended up by remembering some funny anecdote about Pandora, and then of course there could be nothing but laughter.'

'Was she surprised when you spoke to her on the telephone?'

'Of course she was. But pleased surprised, not horrified surprised. You can always tell. At first she could hardly believe it was me. But then she just said 'Of course you can come. As soon as possible. And stay for as long as you like.' And she gave me directions and hung up.' Lucilla smiled. 'So you see, we're good for at least a week.'

They had hired a car, a little Seat, the cheapest they could get, and were now well on their way across the island, driving over flat, intensely cultivated countryside, dotted here and there with slow-moving windmills. It was afternoon and the road ahead of them shimmered in the heat. On their left, far-distant and hazy, marched a range of impassable-looking mountains. On the other side, somewhere out of sight, lay the sea. For air, they had opened all the windows of the car, but the wind was scorching and dusty and very dry. Jeff was driving and Lucilla sat beside him, holding the scrap of paper on which she had scribbled the directions that Pandora had given her over the telephone.

She had rung Pandora from Palma, having arrived with Jeff that morning in a boat from Ibiza. They had spent a week in Ibiza, staying with Jeff's friend, Hans Bergdorf. Hans was a painter and his house had taken some finding, being at the very top of the old town, within the ancient walls of the fortified city. Finally discovered, it had proved very picturesque. It was thick-walled and whitewashed, but primitive beyond belief. The views from its jutting stone balcony took in the whole panorama of the old town, the new town, the harbour, and the sea, but even this delight scarcely made up for the fact that any cooking had to be done on a miniature Calor gas stove and the only running water came from a single cold tap. Consequently, both Jeff and Lucilla were extremely dirty, if not to say smelly, and the bulging backpacks piled onto the back seat of the car were stuffed with unsavoury, soiled and sweaty clothes. Lucilla, never a girl to spend time worrying about her appearance, had started to have fantasies about washing her hair, and Jeff in desperation had allowed his beard to grow. It was blonde like his hair, but uneven and straggly and made him look more like a down-and-out than a Viking. In fact, the pair of them presented such a disreputable picture that it was a wonder that the hire-car man had agreed to rent them the Seat. Lucilla had noticed a certain suspicion on his face, but Jeff had produced a wad of pesetas and, with cash safely in hand, he could scarcely refuse.

She said, 'I hope Pandora's got a washing-machine.'

'I'd settle for a pool.'

'You can't wash your clothes in a pool.'

'Want a bet?'

Lucilla gazed through the open car window. She saw that the mountains had drawn closer and the countryside become more lush. There were pine trees, and the smell of warm resin blew in through the open windows along with the dust. They came to a junction joining another main road. They paused for traffic to pass. The road sign was marked 'Puerto del Fuego.'

'Well, we're on the right track. What happens now?'

'We take the Puerto del Fuego road, but we have to turn off to the left in another mile or so. It's a little road and it's signposted to 'Cala San Torre.' ' The traffic thinned. Taking his chance Jeff cautiously negotiated the junction. 'If we find ourselves in the port, then we've gone too far.'

'That follows.'

Now she could smell the sea. Houses appeared, a new apartment block, a garage. They passed a riding stables with scrubby paddocks where sad, bony horses tried to graze.

'Oh, poor creatures,' said the tender-hearted Lucilla, but Jeff had eyes only for the road ahead.

'There's a sign. 'Cala San Torre.' '

'That's it!'

They turned off the sun-baked dual carriageway and found themselves, abruptly, in a green and verdant countryside totally unlike the flat and exposed land through which they had been travelling. Umbrella pines threw shade across the road, speckled by sun splashes, and from ramshackle farms came the contented cackle of hens and the bleat of goats.

'It's suddenly gone pretty,' Lucilla observed. 'Oh, look at that sweet little donkey.'

'Keep your eyes on the map, girl. What happens next?'

Lucilla obediently consulted her notes. 'Well, next is a very sharp turn to the right, and then we go right up a hill to the last house at the very top.'

They came upon the turning around the next corner. Jeff changed down and made the turn. The Seat, sounding as though at any moment it might boil like a kettle, ground painfully up the steep and winding lane. There were other houses, large villas scarcely glimpsed beyond closed gates and burgeoning gardens.

'This,' said Lucilla, 'is what estate agents call a much-sought-after neighbourhood.'

'You mean snob.'

'I think I mean expensive.'

'I think you do too. Your aunt must be loaded.'

'She's got a Californian divorce,' Lucilla told him and her voice implied that there was no need to say more.

Another hundred yards or so, another hairpin bend or two, and they had reached their destination. Casa Rosa. The name, embellished on decorated tiles, was set into a high stone wall and clearly visible despite a cloak of pink-blossomed mesembryanthemum. Open gates lay ahead. A driveway, deeply bordered, sloped up to a garage. The garage had a car parked in it, and another car-an enviable silver BMW-was parked in the shade of a gnarled olive tree. Jeff switched off the engine. It was very quiet. Then Lucilla heard water splashing, as though from a