“We are already in. Ask if she knows what happened next door. Use first names to show her we are part of the inner circle. Tell her what the police said about the footage. It means the murderer came from either Whistler’s property or hers. Stress we want to help her and protect her from the press pack out there.”

  “What press pack? They have all gone.”

  Beatrice huffed through her nostrils. “Just tell her.”

  Theo launched into his Spanish explanation and Beatrice looked around the grounds, paying particular attention to the wall adjoining the Moffatts’ property. The gardens were well kept and along the side wall were a series of olive trees and other shrubs, creating a natural green frieze along the base of the edifice. Due to the geographical unevenness typical of Deià, Señora Navarro’s property was around two metres lower than the Moffatts’ grounds. Likewise, the Moffatts’ place was two metres lower than Bernie Whistler’s. The three houses were built on three consecutive descending steps. The implication of this was that the wall separating Señora Navarro’s property from that of the neighbours was considerably higher on her side. On observing the boundary wall while wandering the Moffatt gardens with Philly, Beatrice would have guessed one could easily leap over the whitewashed stone and into Señora Navarro’s garden. From this angle, however, she could see one could easily break a leg attempting such a drop. As for access to the scene of the murder from this place, one would need some climbing equipment, or a bunk up at the very least.

  The woman was explaining something to Theo involving lots of hand gestures and pointing at the gates, punctuated by occasional clutching of the silky bow at her throat.

  “Her staff members come in and out via the little doorway in the gates. That’s always unlocked and it’s only when she needs to admit cars or strangers like us that she uses the buzzer. She thanks you for your compliments on her garden and says you can have a look around, if you like. I’ll stay here and see what else I find out.”

  Beatrice gave a little curtsey of thanks and wandered across the lawn towards the wall. She inspected the olive trees, sniffed at the bushes and noted the space between the carefully planted foliage and the wall itself. There was a corridor, in effect, running behind the shrubbery. Presumably for the gardener’s ease of maintenance. She walked the length of the wall, grateful for the shade, inhaling all the aromas of a Balearic Island in full bloom. Once she reached the end, she turned and retraced her steps, this time noticing a wrought iron handle just above her head. She stopped and examined it. It was not attached to any door, just embedded in the white concrete and at a strange height for a door handle. With a glance around to ensure she was not being observed, Beatrice tugged at the iron to see what would happen. Nothing budged, apart from a few flakes of whitewash coming away on her hands. If it wasn’t a handle, what was its purpose? She looked up and saw a second handle about an arm’s length above the first. Not handles, but rungs. The lower part of the wall was covered in ivy. Beatrice dropped to a crouch and calculated. If you wanted to reach the first, you would need to stand on something about knee height. She patted ivy leaves, feeling her way up and down directly beneath the wrought iron rung.

  It took her five seconds to find it. Without hesitation she placed her foot on the ivy-camouflaged step and reached up for the first rung. Logically, there had to be something halfway between the two, either to the left or the right which would enable someone to climb the wall. She ran her left arm in an arc across the whitewash but found nothing to help her ascend. She turned her attention towards the right and saw it instantly. Her mistake had been to start with her right foot and right hand. Had she started with her left, another foothold protruded on her right hand side, as did another handhold halfway above. She switched sides and began climbing. Within thirty seconds, she found herself peering over the wall and through the hedge at Hoagy Moffatt’s studio.

  Señora Navarro knew nothing about the ladder up the garden wall. She assured Theo she’d never seen it and certainly wouldn’t dream of climbing it. Beatrice could believe that. Glamorous as the elderly lady was, she seemed fragile and nervous. She took them around to the kitchen garden, where an old man in a beret was working in a lean-to greenhouse. He looked blank at Theo’s questions but willingly followed them to the wall to see the ladder for himself. He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders to his ears and swore, on the bodies of several saints according to Theo, that he’d never noticed it in his life.

  Expressing profuse thanks to the lady of the house and her gardener, Beatrice and Theo left through the gates.

  “While we’re here, let’s pop next door. I want to introduce you to the Moffatts, seeing as they’re paying your wages. Just don’t tell them anything about the case. I want to know for sure before giving them false hope.”

  Before either of them could press the buzzer, the gates swung open and Bernie Whistler emerged. He threw Beatrice a look. “You still here? Made any progress?”

  Beatrice gave him a sweet smile. “Hello, Mr Whistler. I’d love to stop and chat but we’re in a terrific hurry. Bye for now.”

  She walked through the gates, but didn’t miss his look of curiosity when regarding Theo.

  “Beatrice! And this must be your marvellous assistant! Theo, I am delighted to meet you!”

  “You too, Ophelia. What a beautiful name.” Theo gave her a winning smile as he scratched one of the wolfhound’s ears.

  Philly became practically girlish in Theo’s company. “How fabulous that you’re fluent in Spanish! I can muddle my way through the daily basics but I’d never be able to interrogate a suspect. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thanks, but we really must get on.” Beatrice jumped in. “What was Whistler doing here?”

  Philly scrunched up her face in disgust. “He came to make us a proposal. Hoagy’s having a nap so Whistler had to deal with me. According to him, the property is now tainted and unsaleable, due to recent events, so he was prepared to up his bid and take it off our hands. He told me it was an offer we couldn’t refuse. He was quite put out when I refused it.”

  “Well done you. Give my best to Hoagy. We’d better go.”

  “Oh, there’s not even time to give me a tiny little update?”

  “I’d rather not. We’re not sure of the facts yet ourselves.”

  “You know best, my dear. Lovely to meet you, Theo. You simply must come round to dinner one evening.”

  “Thanks, I’d like that.”

  The pair of them beamed at each other and it took all of Beatrice’s firmness to drag him away. They said their goodbyes and walked down the hill to Beatrice’s cottage. Once again, Gabriel and Tanya had invited Matthew to join them on their explorations of the island, so the place was empty. The private investigation team sat in the garden with a jug of water and discussed the implications of their visit to Señora Navarro.

  Beatrice stated the facts. “That door in the gate is always open. She has no security cameras. Someone could slip through that doorway and up behind the shrubs to the ladder, hop over the wall, commit some horrific murder and descend the way they came. Señora Navarro’s sight is not the best or she wouldn’t need glasses. The chances of her spotting a night-time visitor sneaking through her grounds are pretty much nil.”

  “True. Neither the gardener nor the housekeeper live on site. Señora Navarro has no interest in her neighbours and I believed the gardener when he said he’d never seen that ladder. It’s pretty hard to spot, as most of the rungs have been whitewashed. Still, we should maybe inform Detective Quintana, just to show willing.”

  Beatrice tapped her index finger to her lips. It helped her to think. “Good idea. Why don’t you do that and show him the photographs I snapped on my phone. Meanwhile, I will try and find out who lived in that house before her. It’s a funny angle to attack this, if you think about it. We’re looking at opportunity, rather than motive. The other thing that bothers me is the escape plan. Whatever weapon the killer used was a sizeable blade and after the event, it would have been covered in blood. How come that whitewashed wall shows not a single speck? The police really should do a forensic examination of the site. I’ll leave the persuasive language to you.”

  Theo ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “Two conversations in one day with Detective Quintana. Lucky me.”

  The obvious place to start when finding previous owners of particular properties was with the local council. However, when Beatrice checked the opening hours, she discovered the office was only open from nine till twelve and three to six each day. It was now 17.25. She grabbed her bag and ran out of the door, not even taking a moment to leave a note for Matthew. She got to the office at quarter to six with a sinking feeling. There was no way an official could retrieve the information she needed in such a short time. Still, tomorrow would be Saturday, so she had to try.

  The receptionist spoke good English and directed her to the relevant office. Beatrice knocked several times but the lights were off and there was no reply. She returned to the reception desk and asked if there were any electronic means of gaining the information she needed. The woman went to lift her glasses and focus on the computer screen, but stopped and looked into Beatrice’s eyes. She had a kindly smile and crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes.

  “It will probably take me an hour or two to find the information you need. But there is another way. If I want to learn something about Deià, I ask Maria José. She lives two doors away from the bakery and she sits outside her house all day every day. She knows everything about everyone. I’m leaving now and I walk past the bakery on my way home. Would you like to come with me and I will translate your questions for her? She’s very old; I don’t know how old, but her memory is more useful than every computer in this building. My name is Juana.” She held out a hand.

  “Thank you, Juana. That would be extremely kind.”

  The old woman on the bench in a flowery pinafore seemed completely unruffled on meeting an English private detective who had questions about property ownership. Her wiry grey hair was pulled back above her temples by two sparkly butterfly clips, better suited to a twelve-year-old. She wore black socks and furry slippers, despite the heat, and evaluated Beatrice through thick plastic-rimmed glasses. Her eyes were bright and her curiosity still brighter.

  The first two minutes of their conversation passed with questions from Maria José and answers from Beatrice Stubbs, rather than the other way around. Finally, Juana turned the conversation to land ownership of the three villas in question and pulled out her laptop. Maria José lifted her veiny hands and tapped her fingertips together as she thought. Then she broke into a long voluble speech, enumerating on her fingers.

  Beatrice waited without any impatience, intrigued by this fascinating woman whose memory exceeded anything they could produce at County Hall. Juana typed as fast as she could, occasionally adding encouragement or asking a question, until the old lady had run out of steam. An impulse prodded Beatrice to give the woman something, but she had no chocolate or flowers and money would be crass. Instead, she rifled in her handbag and found a postcard she had intended to send to a friend in London. It depicted a classic Devon village, with a central green and rustic cottages. She handed it to Maria José with one of the few Spanish phrases she knew. Muchas gracias.

  The woman’s wrinkled face creased into a broad smile and she pressed the postcard to her chest and returned the favour. “God save the Queen,” she said with a cackle.

  Beatrice and Juana said their goodbyes and strolled further up the street to sit outside a pavement café. Juana ordered for them both, a glass of Hierbas, which tasted rather like Pernod or some other aniseed drink. There was no doubt it contained alcohol, but Beatrice had no objection. After all, it was Friday. Juana opened her laptop and began relating Maria José’s memories.

  “I have to translate her words directly. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s too complicated to put this all in reported speech. Okay, here we go. The Whistler man. He is very new, only two years in that place. Before, it was owned by a pizza restaurant millionaire called Ghiardelli. He was never there. Why he had the place, I don’t know. Very selfish to own a property that beautiful and never live there. The Whistler man is here a lot and I wish he wasn’t. He wants to knock the whole place down and build apartments. He says he doesn’t but I read his lying eyes, the son of a ... well, I don’t need to translate that bit.

  “Next door, the artists, they’ve been here eight years and two months. I don’t know exactly what he paints, other than mostly naked women, but he makes a lot of money and he spends it here, in Deià. His wife is a nice person. She comes into town every day, says hello, talks to people and speaks Spanish with a Mallorcan accent. I’m not a big fan of her dogs but she is a nice person.” Juana looked up. “I’ll skip the next bit because she just talks about dogs for a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” said Beatrice. “If you’ve got time that is, I’d like to hear everything. By the way, this drink is absolutely delicious. I will have to prevail upon your kindness one more time and ask you to write down the name of the thing before we leave. Sorry, do carry on.”

  Juana took a sip of her drink and smiled. “It’s very refreshing, the perfect thing for a Friday evening after work. So after the dogs, Maria José talked about the previous owners of the Moffatt villa. A family with four kids. Lovely people. Mallorcans from Palma, and she commuted to work in the hospital. She was a surgeon, something to do with eyes, I seem to remember. He stayed home with the children, very creditable in such a young man, and taught English in the evenings at the new place above the leather shop.” Juana mugged an apologetic face. “Sometimes it’s hard to get to the facts with Maria José.”

  Beatrice leant forward. “You are doing me an enormous favour and I thank you for taking the time. When I’m speaking to a potential witness I listen to everything they say. Sometimes the truth is hidden in the irrelevancies. Please carry on.”

  Juana smiled back. “You’re the expert. When I asked her about the villa owned by Señora Navarro, she said this. That woman has had so many face lifts, I’m surprised she doesn’t have a beard. What does she think she looks like? She’s been there around ten years, I’d say. Rich widow, you know, from Madrid. Her husband made his money in fridges but died young and she moved here. Probably hoping to find herself a replacement and that’s why all the surgery. She employs that Garcia couple from behind the church, the ones who can’t have kids. She bought the villa from the Palliser family before they went up in the world and got that huge estate near Port de Sóller. That was when they used to live on the island but now they spend all their time in the Caribbean or something similar to that. What has the Caribbean got that we haven’t? I’ll tell you. No taxes. I think it’s disgraceful. These people make their money here! We buy their products and then they take their money somewhere else and no longer contribute to our lives. They should be ashamed. He’s a banker and the older son drives racing cars. What kind of social benefit do they make to the world? I’ll tell you, none. Yes, they built that property, twenty-five years ago. Those ginger kids grew up there and they do speak Spanish. Badly, but they do speak Spanish. I ask you though, what kind of contribution do they make to the world, to this island? Yoga lessons? Another celebrity bar?

  “One thing I can tell you is that I’ve met a lot of celebrities in my time and no one comes close to Robbie Williams. Charm? He’s overflowing with it. Whereas that Nat Palliser is an arrogant idiot with no respect. Racing cars, what a spoilt brat’s hobby. Anyway, does she know who killed the girl yet?”

  Juana closed her laptop. “After that there was nothing useful at all. I’m sorry, I’m not used to asking the right questions in this situation.”

  Beatrice looked up from her notes, her focus intense. “Are you telling me the Palliser family lived in the villa next door to the Moffatts’ place?”

  “That’s what she said. Except it wasn’t the Moffatts’ place then. The Palliser kids grew up there until the family moved north to their estate near Port de Sóller. Sometime later, the parents relocated to the Caribbean. Is that important?”

  “As yet, Juana, I have no idea, but this could be a very interesting lead. I’m so grateful to you for your time and patience, particularly on a Friday night. I insist on buying the drinks. Maria José is truly a remarkable woman.”

  “She really is. There are no secrets from Maria José.” Juana rolled her shoulders and gave Beatrice a shy smile. “You know, when I was little, I wanted to be a private detective.”

  “Do it. I retired from the police force with every intention of growing courgettes and doing some knitting. But if you have a curious mind, the right kind of resources and access to either technology or better still, a Maria José, you should go for it.” Her mobile buzzed in her pocket. She checked the display and saw it was Theo. “I have to take this, it’s my assistant. I’ll get the bill. Thank you so much and have a lovely weekend.”

  “You too, Beatrice, nice to meet you.” Juana put her laptop in her bag. With a grin and a wave, she left the café terrace. Beatrice took her drink and her phone to look out over the flower gardens below.

  “Theo? How did it go with Misery-guts Quintana?”

  “Better than expected, actually. His focus is no longer on Philly. He’s now taking a different tack.”

  “Let me guess. He’s going after Hoagy.”

  “That’s what I thought. But it seems Raf Beaufort has been a little bit economical with the truth. As far as you and I knew, he flew from London on Thursday to be at Hoagy and Philly’s side. Detective Quintana told me today that he has been on the island of Mallorca since Sunday morning, staying in an exclusive resort outside Palma. Quintana wants to know why he’s been lying and frankly, so do I.”

  Beatrice stared out across the verdant landscape, her brain racing to catch up. “Is Quintana going to interview him? If so, when?”