“I don’t know,” said Theo. “But I had the impression they’re not going to do much until Monday.”

  “They might not do much until Monday, but you and I are going flat out. See you back at the cottage. I have news, too.”

  In the early evening, once they had exchanged notes, Beatrice suggested Theo attend a church service at Nirvana. She apologised for putting him through such an experience, but he expressed genuine eagerness and loped off down the hill to arrive a little early.

  Raf Beaufort was not at the Moffatts’ villa and had returned to Palma. Philly gave Beatrice his number and left her to mooch around the garden while she made the call. Raf agreed to make himself available to Beatrice on Saturday morning and suggested they chat while browsing the market in Sóller. On the phone, he sounded completely relaxed and unconcerned at her interest in speaking to him.

  The point at which Beatrice had seen Hoagy’s studio from the other side of the wall was not difficult to find. She examined the area carefully for any signs of recent activity, droplets of blood or any markers the killer might have left behind. The police would surely have swept the area surrounding the studio, but were unlikely to have paid more attention to this spot than any other.

  Her search turned up nothing at all. She refused the offer of an aperitif, keen to get back to the cottage and Matthew. She’d hardly seen him over the last couple of days. If she wasn’t careful, she might forget what he looked like.

  Chapter 16

  Raf had a vintage Jaguar. Of course he did. It was in British racing green, with cracked red leather seats, a wooden steering wheel and retractable roof.

  “I bought the old girl at auction, nigh on twenty years ago. The trouble is, I can only drive her three months of the year in Britain. She is not what you call a wet weather vehicle. That is why, at enormous expense, I transported her to her natural home. I spend around half the year in Mallorca so why not have the perfect vehicle to drive the coastal roads?”

  Beatrice could see his point. The car suited the landscape so perfectly it could almost be a travel poster from the 1950s.

  Philly came outside, brandishing a large silk paisley-print square. “You’ll need a scarf, Beatrice. Raf’s Jag is a fabulous way to travel but it does play hell with one’s coiffure. Here’s one of mine. It’s not Hermès, probably Marks & Spencer, but it will certainly keep your hair out of your eyes. Have fun, you two! Will you be back for lunch?”

  Beatrice took it. “That’s very kind. I’m afraid I can’t make lunch. I must make full use of the little time I have left. But thank you for the offer.”

  “That’s a damned shame,” said Raf. “But I hope you won’t say no to a spot of breakfast when we get to Sóller. Philly, what say I pick up a selection of tapas at the market, to save you the bother of cooking lunch for us?” He dropped his voice. “How is the old boy?”

  “Depressed, I’d say. I don’t mean he’s feeling a little blue or down in the dumps, I’m talking about clinical depression. Most of the day he sleeps and when he is awake, he’s drinking. If there is no improvement over the weekend, I shall call his doctor first thing on Monday.”

  Raf reached inside his jacket, pulled out some sort of chewed stick and began gnawing on it. “Poor old bugger. Let’s see how the land lies over lunch. It could be as simple as the fact he needs new inspiration. We’ll talk later but now I must escort Ms Stubbs to one of the finest markets on the island. Come this way, madame.”

  Beatrice knotted the scarf around her head, feeling rather like the Queen, and noted that the label was not Marks & Spencer’s, but Liberty London.

  The journey through the rolling landscape was breathtakingly lovely, especially when one had all the accoutrements of Grace Kelly. Raf pointed out features of interest and Beatrice admired them, resisting the temptation to do a royal wave at the heads turning to stare as the vehicle purred past shops, squares, café bars and out onto the open road.

  There was something about Raf which said ‘normal rules do not apply to me’. On arrival in the town of Sóller, he left his vehicle at a rakish angle in the parking area, clearly not a designated spot. He did not buy a ticket, simply sauntering off in the direction of Plaça des Mercat. In his crumpled blue suit and shock of white hair, he had the air of someone famous. People did a double take, evidently trying to place him. His confidence and air of entitlement forged a path ahead of them, rather like an icebreaker in a frozen sea.

  “We’ll circle anticlockwise. Not simply because I’m a rebel but because we can pick up the lighter things first. I need half a dozen leather handbags, some snacks for lunch, a case of craft beer and more of my liquorice sticks. Then we will stop for coffee at somewhere only I know.” He tapped his nose. “After that, we’ll pick up the wine and the prints before we head back to Deià. Does that suit?”

  It was abundantly clear that whether it suited or not, that was the way the morning would unfold. “I don’t mind following you around as you do your chores,” said Beatrice. “However, I’m not here to shop, but to ask you some questions.”

  Raf held out an arm to stop an approaching motorcyclist and guided Beatrice across the road. There was no zebra crossing. “And so you shall, PI Beatrice Stubbs. I’m at your disposal. We can walk, talk, sample the wares of this particularly lovely outdoor market and enjoy each other’s company, all at the same time. I love Saturday mornings, don’t you? This way.”

  Her frustration at his lack of focus soon gave way due to the lack of hers. Beatrice adored markets. There was something of the treasure hunt about them, the expectation of finding that little undiscovered gem, a secret you would share with no one apart from your nearest and dearest and everyone else that you wanted to impress. She followed Raf’s impressive figure up and down the alleyways, underneath umbrellas and along pavements. While he socialised and shopped, she pottered from stall to stall, gazing at a pyramid of cheeses, inhaling the aromas of a herb stall, purchasing a pair of espadrilles for herself and a beautiful little bracelet for Tanya. The market was overwhelming for the senses. The heat increased as the sun rose and more bodies packed into the square. Music, voices and the clatter of magpies in the trees filled her ears, while her eyes ranged over a vegetable stall, a rainbow of aubergine, courgette, peppers, tomatoes, bulbs of garlic and strings of onion. Beatrice took a moment to stop and stare. The sun glinting off this array of fresh vegetables made them sparkle like jewels.

  Behind her was a stall selling leather goods. She stroked the furry underside of a satchel and ran her hand over a goatskin rug, inhaling the spicy sandalwood scent of curing. She bought a little wallet for Luke, complete with Mallorcan stitching, and remembered she should also bring something home for Marianne.

  “Having fun? This place is a delight, you have to agree. One more stop for my artisanal beers and then I’ll take you to my extra special café. That might be a good time for you to ask your questions. The beer fellow has a permanent shop, just over there. I’ll conduct my transaction and come and find you. Insider tip, that woman on the end sells pearls at around a fifty percent discount compared to the factories. She’s the real deal, I guarantee it. Back in a jiffy.”

  He sailed off through the crowds, his height and presence creating a natural parting. People simply stood back and watched, convinced they must know him from somewhere. Beatrice moved towards the stall he had mentioned, optimistic of finding the perfect gift for her goddaughter.

  Ten minutes later, she was placing three packages containing a pearl bracelet, black pearl earrings and a solitary black pearl necklace into her handbag when Raf appeared at her shoulder.

  “Did you find something you liked? Hola, Graça. My stomach requires some toast and my brain demands some sugar. Come this way, Beatrice. I really should blindfold you as no one else should know the way to Café Umberto.”

  Beatrice had met enough upper-class pretenders in her time not to be particularly impressed when they invited her into the inner circle. Her cynicism melted away as she entered Café Umberto. Up a tiny alley and one flight of nondescript stairs, Raf opened a door into a different century. She could have been on the Left Bank in Paris, or in a Viennese discreet establishment, or in a top-class restaurant overlooking Milan’s Duomo. At the end of the room, a wrought iron gate led out into a classic atrium. A string quartet played on a raised podium towards her left and on the right stood a long brass bar with coffee machines from the Italy of Roman Holiday and La Dolce Vita bubbling and hissing like a scientist’s laboratory.

  A waiter, in his more mature years, shook Raf’s hand with great enthusiasm, guided them to a table and presented Beatrice with a menu.

  “No need for that, my friend. We will have the full Umberto special. With all the trimmings!” His voice carried a loaded message. The waiter clearly understood, bowed and retreated behind the extraordinary bar.

  Raf fixed her with his bright blue eyes. “It’s quite something, don’t you agree?”

  “It is.” Beatrice looked around at the black and white tiles on the floor, the chandeliers above her head, the waiters dressed in formal attire, the modern art on the walls and the Art Deco glass of the windows. Each table was of a different design and not a single chair in the room matched. Yet every single piece of furniture was achingly elegant. The quartet came to a conclusion and a light patter of applause echoed off the walls.

  “I’m grateful for your introduction to such an unusual establishment. Quite a discovery. That said, the reason we are here is to further the investigation into what happened to Romy Palliser.”

  His Teflon-style confidence cracked and his head dropped, his gaze on the table. “Yes. I understand that. What you want to know?”

  Beatrice looked at the top of his white hair, his manicured nails, his white cuffs, tailored suit and Omega wristwatch. “Several things, actually. How come Hoagy believed he was summoning you from London when you had been in Mallorca since Sunday? How come it took you a full day to join the Moffatts when you were no more than an hour away? What kind of relationship did you have with Romy Palliser? You behave as if you are a member of Hoagy’s family and yet you profit directly from his work. Where do you draw the line between the professional and the personal? To your knowledge, was the relationship between Romy and Hoagy sexual? Had you yourself ever become intimate with the girl? I’m sorry to be crude but it is essential that I know the dynamics of your unusual circumstances.”

  A waiter arrived with a large tray containing two wide cups of hot chocolate, a selection of pastries, two mini bowls of fruit salad and a pair of shot glasses containing a clear liquid. “Enjoy, Mr Beaufort. Enjoy, madam.”

  Raf lifted his head as if it was extremely heavy. “I will answer your questions as truthfully as I am able. Let us break our fast. The hot chocolate here is the best I’ve ever had outside a particular establishment in Bruges. Help yourself to pastries. The ensaïmadas are my favourite. You asked about Hoagy summoning me from London. In his mind, I sit in a gloomy office in a rainy city all year round, because that’s where he remembers meeting me. The truth is, when I’m in Britain I spend around ten percent of my time in London. The rest I’m at my home in West Sussex. Generally speaking, I winter in Mallorca, but also travel here frequently during the summer months to support my various artists. Do take sugar?”

  “No, thank you.” Beatrice helped herself to something that looked like an apple turnover. “So if you were in the country when Hoagy called you in a panic, why didn’t you arrive immediately?”

  Raf passed her a cup. “I’m a businessman, Beatrice. I have meetings, viewings and negotiations every day. When I received Hoagy’s phone call, I rearranged all my appointments for Thursday so that I could come to his assistance. To cancel my diary on Wednesday would have been impossible and extremely bad manners. In short, I came as soon as I could.”

  The chocolate was sublime. Beatrice gave herself a moment to enjoy the pure sensory pleasure of a perfect cup. Then she returned to the over-confident, faux-humble man opposite.

  “Do carry on.”

  “You asked about Romy. I wish you had met her, Beatrice. It would be easier to comprehend the beguiling nature of the girl. Everyone fell in love with her on sight. She was ethereal, delicate, graceful and unattainable. A forest nymph as painted by Rossetti. No, I was never ‘intimate’ with that gossamer creature, merely transfixed by her loveliness. I’ve known her since she was tiny, because I was close friends with her parents. Charming people, the Pallisers, with excellent taste in art.”

  “How did they feel about the situation with Hoagy?”

  “I don’t know if they knew much about it. They live in Bermuda these days and have enough trouble with Nat. That boy’s a bit of a hellraiser, much like his dad. Now, regarding Hoagy and Romy’s relationship, I cannot be sure. Based on a comment Hoagy made the last time I stayed at their house, my belief is that they were not sleeping together. It was late March, Philly had gone to bed and Romy was drinking Laccao with Cointreau. Horribly sweet mess but she lapped it up. She got quite tipsy and wandered off to her quarters in the middle of a conversation. Hoagy and I gazed after her, slaves worshipping a goddess. Once she’d vanished into the night, he said, ‘Can you imagine what it would be like not just to look, but to touch?’ in such a wistful tone, it took me by surprise. I said something about not breaking the spell and continuing the magic, but his hunger was tangible. As was mine, I imagine.”

  Two sixty-plus men drooling over a twenty-something girl did not strike Beatrice as particularly romantic, but she held her tongue. “You’ve been Hoagy’s agent for ...”

  “Ever. I’m the longest relationship the man has maintained in his life. I’ve known all his wives and muses, but Philly’s the sort to last the distance. By God, that woman is tough. I did wonder if she’d scarper after Flamenco sold for over a million. Perfect time to claim her share of his cash and run, but she stayed with him and for that, let us give thanks. He would never cope without her.”

  He dipped one of the churros into his hot chocolate. This whole sticking-food-in-drinks business was not something Beatrice approved of, but here, the two seemed designed to go together. She picked up the liquor glass.

  “I assume this is not dry sherry?” she asked, with a cautious sniff.

  “It’s Aguardiente de Caña Rossa. A strong spirit distilled from raw sugar cane. Careful, though, it packs quite a punch.” He was enjoying himself again, Beatrice could tell.

  She took a tiny sip which burned its way down her gullet. Not that she’d ever admit it to Raf Beaufort, but this was a wonderful way to start a weekend. She wished Matthew was here.

  At that moment in time, Matthew was enjoying a buffet breakfast at Hotel Residencia. Theo had extended the invitation on hearing Beatrice’s early morning plans. He found Matthew great company, full of anecdotes and snippets of information, so that conversation was no effort whatsoever. Small talk sometimes made Theo feel shallow and uncomfortable. Talk with Matthew was anything but small. Over a plate of bacon and eggs, Theo explored ideas, history, languages and culture with an eccentric but expert guide.

  “They only spent a few months here in 1838, but it was a visit the island did not forget. Can you imagine? A woman who took a man’s name, smoked cigarettes, wore trousers and cohabited with a man not her husband? George Sand and her affair with Chopin was shocking to Paris, let alone Mallorca. She brought him here to recover from TB, and despite the fact the climate worsened his condition, he was incredibly productive. So was she, come to that. Three years later, she published Un hiver à Majorque. I can’t recall the exact quote but it goes along these lines. ‘Mallorca is the El Dorado of places, the green of Switzerland, the sky of Calabria, the solemnity and silence of the Orient’. Can’t you just see exactly what she meant?”

  Theo absorbed the landscape around them, hearing Matthew’s words echo in his mind. There was a solemnity about this place, as if it gave them permission to stop and soak in its goodness. “That’s beautiful. For me, there’s something other than the visuals, although they are striking. There’s a spirituality, a sense of balance.”

  “Well put. It takes a particular kind of openness to recognise that and I’m not surprised you are the one to put your finger on the concept. Even I, a crusty old academic, feel an impulse to express myself. In watercolours, on the piano, perhaps even in words far shabbier than those of George Sand. Did you know Parisian women had to apply for permission to wear trousers in those days? I say, these huevos rancheros hit the spot. Part of my five a day, no?” He placed his knife and fork together on his empty plate, his smile all the brighter in his lightly tanned face.

  “Have you had a good time, Matthew, despite Beatrice disappearing from morning to night?” Theo asked, aware of a growing affection for the erudite and affable older man.

  “Oh, I’m used to that after all these years. My only regret is for Tanya and Gabriel. A violent murder and babysitting her father should not be part of the girl’s honeymoon. That’s why I told them to go off by themselves today. They’re flying home tomorrow, you know. I will happily potter around Deià and might even stroll down to the coast if the sun’s not too strong. What are your plans?”

  “Yeah, my plans. Returning to Nirvana.” Theo wrinkled his nose. “That’s a lot less enticing than it sounds. More interviews with the church leaders when I’d much rather mooch about the coast with you. Still, got to keep focused. Catch you later for Tanya and Gabriel’s goodbye dinner?”

  “Most certainly. Shall we hail that chap so we can pay the bill?”

  “It’s on my room, Matthew. No charge to you because I stay here.”

  Matthew stared at Theo over his glasses. “I could have sworn you lived in London. How very odd.”

  “I’ve lived in London all my life,” Theo smiled. “In Mallorca, I fancied a nice hotel and this fulfils all my requirements.” Matthew’s gaze over his shoulder seemed distant. “You all right there? Matthew?”