He called Will’s mobile, which went straight to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. Instead he practised his post-holiday expression for his employees, mentally rehearsing a few anecdotes to give a flavour of their blissful fortnight away.

  His team had done a great job. The place looked spotless, Jed’s records were up to date and a cursory look over the books showed June had been a very good month for business. Tamsin, who stepped into Catinca’s role on the design side, had begun a new promotion, pairing the right wine with the right book. It proved a savvy move, shifting serious numbers of bottles to go with the Booker Prize shortlist. Adrian made a note to give her some sort of bonus. It was busy all morning, which helped distract him, but when the doors opened at eleven, the staff slipped into their usual roles without any need for Adrian’s guidance. He had trained them well. So much so, he was superfluous. He went into the office to do what he was supposed to do – strategic thinking – but his concentration was shot. All he could think about was his husband and where he might be. He needed to talk this over with someone with good sense who knew them both. There were two obvious candidates, but one of them was in Mallorca. He picked up the phone to call Catinca.

  There was some debate about the lunch venue, but Catinca won, mainly because Adrian could not be bothered to argue. He arrived at The English Restaurant in Spitalfields just after one o’clock and wished he had brought his sunglasses. Catinca was sitting outside, wearing one of her own creations, a pleated neon pink and yellow maxi dress with red Converse trainers. Her hair hung into thick plaits over each shoulder and over one ear sat a blowsy silk flower in shades of pink. She jumped up to hug him.

  “I missed you, mate! You wanna sit outside or is it too hot?”

  Adrian squeezed tight and stood back to look at her. “I missed you too. Not outside. It’s too hot and you’re too bright. I feel underdressed sitting opposite you.”

  Catinca gave him the once over. “You are underdressed. Still in holiday mode, I reckon. Let’s go in, I’m hungry.”

  They found a table underneath the stairs, and ordered food and a bottle of mineral water.

  Catinca folded her arms on the table and searched his face. “What is it? Or you just wanna show me your holiday snaps?”

  Adrian pressed his fingers to his brow and shook his head, determined to suppress the tears. When he had his emotions under control, he looked into her concerned face. “Will wants kids. After a week of babysitting Luke, he got broody and has asked if we can reconsider. I said no, he drove off and I have no idea where he spent last night. He’s not answering his mobile and for all I know he could have hooked up with some butch biker in a gay bar and gone home with him. Or perhaps he went round to an ex-boyfriend and asked if they could try again, bring up a family together, with three kids and a bloody Labrador. I don’t know where he is, how he’s feeling or even if he’s dead in the Regent’s Canal. We had a lovely holiday and on the drive home he ruined it and drove off in a strop. Am I being unreasonable? Or is he being unfair?”

  Catinca stroked her plait, gazing over his shoulder in thought. “Will went off in a strop? Doesn’t sound like him. That’s the sort of thing you would do.”

  A twinge of guilt nudged Adrian. “Yes, I suppose it is. As a matter of fact, I did have a wobbler last week. One afternoon I had a few drinks with some people outside the pub and when Will said I was being unreasonable, I threw my toys out of the pram and went off …”

  “… in a strop? That I can believe. He is due at work today, right? Did you call the Met and ask to speak to him?”

  “No! Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Hold on, I’ll do it now.” He reached for his phone and then realised Will might see his number and decline the call. He spotted the public phone at the end of the corridor and used that instead.

  “Good afternoon, you’re through to the London Metropolitan police. How can I help?”

  “Oh hello, my name is…” Adrian scanned the room for inspiration. “Samuel Smith. I have some information for Detective Sergeant William Quinn. Could you possibly put me through?”

  “One moment, Mr Smith. Do you have a case number?”

  “Oh, no, sorry. I must have left it at home.” He cringed at his own appalling lie.

  “Not to worry. Connecting you now”

  The phone rang twice before Will’s voice came on the line. “DS Quinn? Hello?”

  Adrian put the phone down, breathing heavily.

  “Oi! Food is here,” called Catinca. “Did you speak to him?”

  Adrian returned to the table and sat down, his pulse throbbing in his ears. “No, I didn’t say anything, but it was definitely his voice. He’s at work. Not dead in the canal.”

  Catinca bit into a chip. “That’s what I thought. Do you want ketchup?” She offered him a sachet and took a slug of wine, leaving a lipstick mark on the glass.

  “No, thank you. Just salt and vinegar for me. Actually, bollocks to that, I do want ketchup and in fact, I want a glass of wine.”

  Catinca looked towards the bar and caught the eye of one of the serving staff. With her catlike smile, she raised her glass and lifted two fingers. The guy got the message and gave her the thumbs up.

  “They just fall at your feet, don’t they? How is it possible that you’re still single?” asked Adrian.

  “Sodding hell, you sound like Beatrice! Anyway, who says I’m still single? And why don’t the ones I want fall at my feet? Thing is, mate, we were talking about you. What’s the deal with you and Will?”

  “The deal is that the deal has changed. We got married on the basis of the fact neither of us wanted children. Now he’s changed his mind. I can see no way out of this other than offering him a divorce. If I can’t give him what he wants, maybe someone else can?”

  Catinca gazed at him for a long time while tucking into her fish. Finally she spoke. “You love Will. Will loves you. If you let something like this come between you, you are pair of boneheaded sodding idiots. Intelligent people talk things through, give each other time, listen to opposite points of view and keep an open mind. You don’t just chuck in the towel at the first sign of trouble. Can’t believe I have to give you relationship advice!”

  Adrian dipped a chip into the mushy peas and listened.

  “Don’t cock it up, mate. Not sure I believe in soul mates, but you and Will are the closest thing I’ve seen. Sit down together and talk it through. Know your red lines before you start and be prepared to compromise. It’s like any other negotiation, innit? Except in this case you both want the same thing. To make each other happy, right?” The barman placed two glasses on the table. “Oh, the wine. Thank you very much, will you put that on the same bill?”

  “Yes, no problem. Can I say I really like your dress?” The expression on the barman’s face was as if he was looking at a kitten.

  Catinca pulled out a business card from her handbag. “I’m a fashion designer. We haven’t got this one in your size but I’m sure I could find you something. Give me a call, yeah?”

  He took the card with a blush. “I will, thank you. Enjoy your meal.”

  As the man walked away, Catinca returned her focus to Adrian, who was giving her a sardonic smile. “Shut up. It’s called networking. After lunch, before you get back to Dionysus, call Will again and make arrangements. Tell him you’re prepared to talk it through. It may take more than one conversation. Tonight, make nice dinner, put your side forward, listen to his. Agree to think and maybe talk some more. No more stomping off and throwing toys out of pram. Behave like grown-ups. Relationships are like gardens, need constant tending.”

  Adrian lifted his glass to bump it gently against hers. “To Catinca Radu, fashion designer, relationship counsellor and damn good friend.”

  She laughed and took a sip of wine. “Reason I’m so good at giving relationship advice is because I’m on the outside. You owe me full-on counselling session, if ever I find myself a boyfriend.” She flipped her gaze at the barman who was sneaking glances in her direction. “Never know where you’re gonna strike gold, innit?”

  On the walk back to Dionysus, Adrian considered Catinca’s advice. In his heart, he knew the concept of kids was anathema to him, but perhaps they could be some kind of compromise. If they went into this discussion with the determination to achieve a positive outcome for both, perhaps the marriage would survive.

  He pulled out his phone and dialled Will’s number.

  Chapter 24

  Sunrise found Beatrice still awake on the sofa drinking herbal tea. Worrying was a pointless occupation but decision-making was not. It was clear in her mind that Matthew needed to see a doctor, which could only happen when they had returned to their local GP. In the meantime, she had to bring this case to some sort of conclusion before they could fly home. Between now and then, he had to be under supervision at all times. She owed Tanya an apology. Thinking back, Will had flagged this situation over two weeks ago. It could be anything, she told herself. Her own mother had gone completely doolally for a week until the hospice diagnosed a urine infection. It still could be anything, but the priority was to find out the truth.

  She gave up on the whole concept of sleep, folded up the blanket and tiptoed into the bedroom. Matthew had thrown off the duvet and was lying on top of it, fully clothed and snoring. Beatrice had a shower, scrubbing herself as if removing a crust, dressed and prepared breakfast for a man with a hangover.

  As she scrambled eggs and fried bacon, she forced herself to acknowledge the worst-case scenario. If Matthew had some kind of degenerative illness, she would have to stop work and become a full-time carer. That was not a problem. She would find other things to occupy her mind, but what of his? Her eyes filled with tears and for the first time since she acknowledged the reality, she wept, huge gulping sobs at the injustice of the world. He was a classics professor, a fine mind, with extraordinary intelligence to such a level that he could develop it in others. He was the brains of the outfit, combining intellectual excellence with emotional comprehension. If anyone deserved to rot from the inside, it was her.

  The bacon was burning. She took it off the heat and dabbed her eyes with some kitchen towel, sniffing and blowing her nose.

  “What is it, Old Thing?” Matthew stood in the kitchen doorway, crumpled and creased, his face wrinkled in concern.

  “Ah, there you are! Oh, it’s nothing, chopping onions always has the same effect. We are having the full English, as far as I can cobble together the ingredients.”

  “Yes, that ought to do the trick. I had one tipple too many last night and I can feel it now. Memories of last night are a tad vague, but I hope I didn’t do anything too awful.”

  Beatrice dropped the tissue and embraced him. “You never do anything awful. I love you, Matthew Bailey. Now come and sit down before the bacon goes cold.”

  He squeezed her tightly, kissed her forehead and pulled out a chair, humming a refrain from The Pirates of Penzance.

  While he attacked the contents of his plate, a thought occurred to Beatrice. She wished she’d paid more attention to Matthew’s waffling last night.

  “Do you remember telling me you saw the inside of Hoagy’s studio?” she asked, as casually as she could manage.

  Matthew stopped chewing and a panicked expression crossed his face. Then his forehead cleared and he swallowed. “I remember very well. Due to the fact I am familiar with his work, it was nothing short of a revelation to see some of the earlier work in progress, as it were. Quite fascinating. On top of that, I had an expert guide by my side. Raf explained the arc of Hoagy’s career and some of its significant turning points. I wish you had been there, my love.”

  “So do I,” said Beatrice, with feeling. “Tell me, was Hoagy with you?”

  “No, he was in the wine cellar looking for a particular bottle of red, I disremember the name. That’s right, Philly was inside the house, Hoagy was in the cellar and Raf and I were discussing some of the elements of the Flamenco piece. He offered to show me some of the preliminary sketches. I practically bit his hand off. What an experience, I must say.”

  “Doesn’t Hoagy mind people poking about in his private workspace?” Beatrice asked.

  “I imagine he would mind people poking about, but Raf is his agent. He treats the place as if it’s his own home. I rather envy him.”

  “Hmm. Do you want some more toast to mop up those beans?”

  “Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm.”

  A rap came at the door. “Ah, Theo’s here. We have a little job to do before we go to the funeral. Could you clear up and have a shower? We shan’t be long, so don’t leave the house.”

  The clinic was halfway up the mountain and boasted the most spectacular views out to sea. The most perfect place to recuperate, she could imagine. Paloma Mendez was waiting for them in the foyer, wearing white trousers and a white tunic. She held a folder in her hand. Theo introduced them in Spanish and at Beatrice’s prodding, repeated the assertion that she was under no obligation to speak to them.

  She answered him in English. “I understand. It’s OK. Can we talk outside?” She glanced over her shoulder at reception.

  They followed her into the gardens, past blooming bushes of hibiscus and towards a bench out of sight of the building. Beatrice and Paloma sat down while Theo leaned on a rock opposite.

  Paloma’s voice was quiet and gentle. “Juan Carlos said you want to talk about Miranda Flynn, yes?”

  “That’s correct. This is in relation to the murder of Romy Palliser, so if you tell us something which could be relevant, we may have to share it with the police. I hope you appreciate that.”

  The young woman nodded. Like her cousin, she had glossy brown hair and olive skin, but her demeanour was less confident. “I understand. I brought her file. I can’t give it to you but I will answer your questions. It’s not allowed, but ...” She shrugged and opened the pale blue folder, and Beatrice cursed herself for leaving her glasses at the cottage.

  “Miranda Flynn, twenty-seven years old, American citizen. Admitted third of May this year for a termination. She was fourteen weeks pregnant.”

  “As far as I know, a termination in the early stages is a simple procedure and the patient can return home the same day. Was that true of Miranda Flynn?”

  The girl shook her head. “It depends on what kind of anaesthetic they have and if there’s someone to take care of them. Ms Flynn was alone and she wanted a general anaesthetic. She stayed here overnight and took a taxi home the next day.”

  “Do you provide counselling for women requiring a termination?”

  “Yes, before and afterwards. The initial consultation is mandatory. But follow-up sessions are optional and Ms Flynn refused.”

  Theo spoke. “An operation plus an overnight stay. That must cost a bit.”

  She checked the grounds to be sure no one could overhear and spoke in a whisper. “Two thousand and forty Euro. Paid by credit card.”

  Beatrice looked up at Theo. “That’s all very interesting, thank you, Paloma. I’m sure you’re very busy, so I just have one last question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Chapter 25

  The weather suited the atmosphere of a funeral. A mist rolled in over the island, blocking the sun and draping everywhere with an atmosphere of dampness. Like a veil, it distorted perspective so that the benevolent mountains embracing the town of Deià took on an air of ominous portent. The perfect day to dress in grey. Theo checked himself in the mirror in Beatrice’s living room. The suit looked good. Just a shame about the trainers, but at least they were black. He looked sober and a little sad, the exact opposite of how he felt. A secretive smile crept over his face, which he hid as Beatrice came out of the bedroom.

  A hurriedly packed bag to travel for an urgent case was unlikely to contain a formal funeral suit. But Beatrice happened to be very fond of dark grey and always had a jacket and a handbag in those colours. Matthew was a completely different proposition. When Theo had seen him at home in Devon, he always wore greens and browns. On holiday, it was all beige, white and ecru. Not that he would ever call it ecru, more sort of off-white. Beatrice improvised by borrowing Theo’s leather jacket and a pair of black chinos, and fashioned a black tie from one of her scarves. The end result gave him the air of Keith Richards, especially as he looked hungover and his hair was wild.

  “Finally, I think we’re ready. Matthew, do brush your hair, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Righty ho.” He retreated into the bedroom once again.

  “You look smart, Theo. You’re like Adrian, grey suits you. Which reminds me, I didn’t ask you how it went last night.”

  “It was good. We had fun.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No, there’s more. When I met Fae last night, she’d already had a visit from the police. On Sunday afternoon.”

  “Ah ha! So Quintana did get the message then.”

  “Yup.”

  “And Fae?” Beatrice cocked her head, waiting for more.

  “She told him what she told us. Now we’ve just corroborated her story.”

  “Yes, but what I meant was ...”

  “How’s that? Will I do?” Matthew said, looking slightly less rock and roll.

  Beatrice sighed. “Yes, you’ll do. Come along now, we don’t want to be late.”

  They drove north towards the family estate. Matthew, in the back seat, chatted on about his tour the previous day with great enthusiasm. Theo asked questions and encouraged him to go into detail. Mainly to keep Beatrice quiet. She had tried three times to get more information about last night’s date.