building became a clinic. My daughter worked there for a while when it first opened but she got scared and left.’
‘Scared?’ asked MacLean.
‘Do you believe in ghosts Senor?’
‘No,’ said MacLean.
‘Me neither,’ said Jose. ‘But many people say that at night you can hear the cries of the people who were locked up and tortured in the Hacienda all these years ago. My daughter said that she heard them too. I believe her.’
‘Is that Maria?’ asked MacLean, nodding to a pretty, dark-haired girl who appeared at intervals in the doorway leading to the kitchen.
‘Si,’ said Jose. He called to the girl who joined them at the bar. She rested her arm on her father’s shoulder while he slipped an arm round her waist. ‘We are talking about the Hacienda Yunque, Maria. I was telling the Senors that you once worked there.’
‘Briefly,’ said the girl.
The word took MacLean by surprise. It was not one he had expected to hear and had been said with very little trace of accent and clear-eyed confidence. There was clearly more to Maria than a local girl who helped out in the kitchen.
‘You’re a student Maria?’ asked MacLean.
‘Yes, why do you ask?’
‘Your English is perfect.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What are you studying?’
‘English,’ replied Maria with a smile.
MacLean asked Maria about the ghost stories and she joined MacLean and Leavey at a table while her father and Willie MacFarlane went back to discussing football.
‘Do you have an interest in the Hacienda?’ asked Maria.
‘In a way.’
‘I didn’t work there for very long, just a few weeks during one vacation but it was long enough to frighten me.’
‘The sounds in the night?’
‘Not just that,’ said Maria, ‘Although I did hear something, I swear.’
‘Then what else?’
‘There’s something very odd about the place. People go missing.’
‘Missing?’ asked Leavey.
‘No less than six local girls have disappeared since they went to work at the Hacienda.’
‘But surely the police… ‘
‘No you don’t understand. They go to work at the clinic then suddenly they decide to leave and seek jobs in other parts of Spain. They send post-cards saying that they are all right but they never write letters with addresses on.’
‘Maybe they see the rich clients at the clinic and get a taste for the good life. It happens.’
Maria shook her head. ‘Not my friend Carla!’ she insisted. ‘Carla Vasquez and I were best friends. We played together when we were children; we went to school together; we told each other everything. She would never have gone off without telling me first.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing since? asked MacLean.
‘Nothing. Her mother has had two post-cards saying that she is well and happy but I don’t believe it. There’s something wrong, I’m sure of it.’
‘What about post-marks?’
‘Madrid,’ said Maria.
‘And Madrid is a very big place,’ conceded MacLean.
‘Si, and far away.’
MacLean asked about the patients at the clinic. What were they like?’
‘Rich women,’ said Maria. ‘Nearly always from the north of Europe, Germany, Holland, Scandinavia, England. Many have titles.’
‘Why do they come here? Do you know?’
‘The Hacienda has a reputation for being the best,’ said Maria. Everything is of the very highest quality. Even the most difficult patients seem pleased.’
‘What sort of treatment do they come for?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ said Maria. She cupped her hands unnecessarily under her own small breasts and made a lifting movement then she gripped her right thigh as if it was much larger than it was and said, ‘The riding breeches.’
MacLean smiled at the terminology. ‘How about faces?’ he asked tentatively.
‘A lot of face lifts,’ said Maria. ‘Noses, chins and eyes. The surgeons are very good; they never leave scars. There is nothing to tell other women that an operation has been carried out.’
MacLean swallowed. ‘No scars? Was it conceivable that they were using Cytogerm for cosmetic surgery and ignoring the risks? He balked at the thought.
‘Why are you so interested in the Hacienda, Senor?’ asked Maria.
‘Like you, I think there is something wrong about the place,’ said MacLean. ‘It’s much too long a story to tell you just now but we three have come here to find out the truth. We may need your help. What do you say?’
Maria did not hesitate. She said, ‘I will do anything that will help me find out what happened Carla.’
MacFarlane came across to the table to ask what they were talking about.
‘I think we have found what we came here to find, Willie,’ said MacLean.
‘So it is here after all?’ said MacFarlane.
‘Looks like it,’ said Leavey. ‘And from what Maria told us we were sitting in the shade of its walls this afternoon.’
The original plan to return to Malaga was scrapped. MacLean asked about the possibility of renting accommodation in Fuengirola. Maria thought that it should not be too much of a problem at that time in the season. Most of the apartment blocks along the sea front had been built for letting purposes. MacLean, anxious to maintain as low a profile as possible, asked if she knew of anything personally. He saw from her eyes that she had taken his point.
Maria said something to her father in rapid Spanish. MacLean managed to abstract the word, ‘Perla’ from the reply. He remembered that he had seen the word on an apartment block in the Paseo Maritimo. He was right. Maria said that her father had a friend who owned property in the building. He would telephone him. Twenty minutes later, after thanking Jose and Maria and saying that they would see them in the morning, MacLean got into a cab with Leavey and MacFarlane. It would take them to their new apartment in the Paseo Maritimo.
At two in the morning the three men were still sitting on the balcony of the apartment quietly discussing the swinging fortunes of the day. The air was pleasantly warm, although humid, and a moon shone down from a cloudless sky to highlight the waves as they lapped gently on the shore below.
‘Maybe we should have gone back to pick up the car,’ said MacLean.
‘Let’s just leave it,’ said Leavey. ‘It’s just another rented car that got dumped; happens all the time. It wasn’t damaged so no harm done; there’s nothing there to concern the police.’
MacLean felt reassured. He wished that he had Leavey’s capacity for analysing each situation on its merits instead of a Scottish conscience that promised disaster as a consequence of every misdemeanour.
MacFarlane stretched his arms in the air and yawned. ‘I think I’ll turn in,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Leavey, getting up and grimacing at the noise his chair made on the balcony tiles.’
‘Ssh! You’ll have the neighbours round!’ chided MacFarlane.
MacLean was left alone. He too was tired but a crocodile of questions was queuing up for his attention. If he took them to bed he wouldn’t sleep. He stood up and leaned on the balcony rail to look at the silhouettes of the fishing boats which had been pulled up on the beach for the night. It wasn’t that any of the questions to be answered were difficult, it was fitting all the answers together that was the problem.
