“The problem is that Beatrice’s attention is usually occupied elsewhere, even when she is physically present. He’s said a few things recently that make me think he’s getting forgetful. To be honest, I’m glad Will and Adrian are taking care of Luke this week. If he’d been on his own with Dad, I’d be worried.”

  Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Let’s just observe, take notes and hope Beatrice picks up on his behaviour. If not, we’ll give her a nudge. You’d better get a move on if you want to get to that yoga class. Do you need a lift?”

  “No, it’s just a few streets away. See you back here for lunch. I love you.”

  “I love you too. Don’t pull any muscles.”

  The yoga studio was on the second floor of a building on an ordinary street of small shops and by the time Tanya located it, she was the last to join the group. Five women and three men were already seated cross-legged on mats. The instructor waved her in.

  “Hi! Welcome to Nirvana and Vinyasa Practice. Your first time?” A tall woman with blonde hair, she had an American accent and impressive musculature visible under her vest and knee-length lycra shorts.

  “Yes, sorry to turn up late. I couldn’t find the studio. Um, should I pay you now?”

  “Grab yourself a mat and we’ll deal with payment later. I’m Miranda. Are you new to yoga?”

  Tanya left her shoes and bag outside, and selected a purple mat from a pile at the side of the room. “Not new, exactly, more lapsed. My name’s Tanya, I’m here on honeymoon.”

  “So sweet! Congratu-LA-tions!” Miranda’s voice rose and fell in pitch and she initiated a round of applause from her fellow practitioners.

  Tanya blushed and muttered her thanks while rolling out her mat. Why the hell she had said that? The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

  The class began and within fifteen minutes, Tanya was bored. Miranda spent far too long, in Tanya’s opinion, wittering on New-Age-style about mind, body and spirit. It took half an hour before they actually started doing anything than conscious breathing. She was paying twenty Euros for someone to tell her how to breathe?

  A few forward folds, planks, cobras and volcanos later, the class ended with them pulling their mats into a circle, placing their hands together in prayers and saying Namaste to everyone else in the class. In her head, Tanya was already rehearsing the story for Gabriel. The class applauded Miranda and began rolling up their mats. Tanya fetched her bag from the hook and followed her ‘teacher’, who was reducing the volume of the stereo.

  “Can I pay you now, please?” she asked, holding out a twenty-Euro note.

  “You sure can!” Miranda accepted the note and slid it into a purse. “How did you find the class? My morning classes are pretty relaxed but we have a Power-Up session every afternoon if you’re looking for more of a workout.”

  Don’t ask any questions! Tanya told herself. “My husband and I are going exploring this afternoon, but I might come back tomorrow. That must be such a busy day for you, classes morning and afternoon. No wonder you’re in such great shape.”

  Miranda directed her attention past Tanya’s shoulder. “Bye, you guys! See you tomorrow.” Her attention snapped back with a false smile. “Thank you! I’ve been practising for years, so you know, it pays off. It’s pretty full on, yeah, but I don’t teach all the classes myself. Another practitioner does the Spanish-language sessions and a couple disciplines I don’t teach. We also use the space as a spiritual home, a place of worship. If you’re looking for a belief system, we welcome enquiring minds.”

  Tanya was backing away before she finished. “Well, that’s very nice. Thanks so much for the yoga class. Very stimulating. Now I’d better go and find my husband. Have a nice afternoon.”

  Chapter 10

  Bernie Whistler had one of those faces which cried out for a slap. Everyone is at the mercy of their genes when it comes to arrangement of features, pleasing or not. Where one can influence the countenance one presents to the world is in one’s choice of expression. Bernie Whistler had that shiny smug sneer dearly beloved of toxic politicians. Fundamentally, it said, ‘I’m all right, Jack’.

  It was clear from the outset that Whistler had only agreed to meet Beatrice in the hope of gaining some gossip. He sent a servant to open the gates while he paced around the pool talking on his mobile. He wore a cotton dressing-gown over Bermuda shorts and leather flip-flops with a designer logo, his florid face shaded from the morning sun by a baseball cap. Beatrice’s first instinct was to push him into the pool.

  She thanked the greeter boy and assured him she did not need coffee, juice or water, while waiting for Bigmouth to finish shouting into his communication device. She sat quietly at a garden table in the shade of the house, hands in her lap, as if she were at prayer.

  Eventually, his yelling fizzled out and came in her direction, one sweaty hand outstretched. “Call me Bernie. You’re a private detective? Really? Thought they only existed on the telly. Didn’t Miguel get you a drink or nothing?”

  “My name is Beatrice Stubbs. I’m not thirsty, thank you. I only have a couple of questions, so I’d rather keep this short and continue with my investigation.”

  His face darkened.

  She compensated. “I have no official jurisdiction so it’s kind of you to give me a few moments of your time. I can see you’re a busy man.” She loathed herself for pandering to his ego, but knew it was the only way to get his cooperation.”

  He yanked his shorts up and sat heavily on the chair opposite. “Busy don’t come close. Twenty-four-seven.” He opened his flabby mouth and yelled. “Miguel! Coffee! Rápido!” He winked at Beatrice. “Shoulda called him Manuel, innit?”

  She gave him a blank stare. “My questions concern your relationship with your neighbours. I understand you had an interest in acquiring their property.”

  “Not anymore I ain’t. Wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole after that young girl got murdered. Brutally stabbed to death, is what I heard.” He waited for her confirmation which she withheld. “I always said there was something dodgy about him having the missus and his bit on the side in the same house. Turns out I was right. The police let Moffatt and his wife go, though. What’s all that about?”

  The young man returned with a pot of coffee and two cups on a tray. Whistler ignored him but Beatrice gave him a smile. He returned the gesture and went back to the house.

  “The police have told me nothing, Mr Whistler, but my experience as a detective leads me to suppose they do not have enough evidence to charge them. How well do you know your neighbours?”

  He poured the coffee. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”

  “Thank you, no. Your neighbours?”

  “Not my kind of people, tell you the truth. He’s done very well for himself, in more ways than one, but Gawd knows why. You seen his pictures? My granddaughter paints better than that and she’s not yet ten years old. There’s a few of those sorts in this area, older arty-farty free lovers who keep banging on about the good old days. Me, I’m part of the newer entrepreneurial wave helping modernise the place and make the most of its assets.”

  Beatrice made a few notes, her jaw clenched. “Why did you want to purchase their property, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Matter of fact, I do mind. My plans are under wraps, specially now I’m gonna have to find another site. People don’t want holiday homes right next to the site of a sordid scandal.” He dropped his voice and leaned closer. “They said on the news she was the victim of a frenzied attack, but my lad,” he indicated with his thumb over his shoulder, “knows one of the guys at the morgue. He told Miguel she was practically decapitated.” He looked at Beatrice, eyebrows raised.

  “Best not to believe local gossip. People love to exaggerate. Did you know the victim at all?”

  He stirred several lumps of sugar into his coffee, his face sulky. “Seen her a couple of times at Sa Fonda. The place where the celebs hang out? She and her brother come from a posh family and they ain’t short of a bob or two. Why the hell she wanted to move in over there and let that old git perve over her, I have no idea.”

  “Where were you between the hours of ten pm on Monday and eight am on Tuesday?”

  “Monday night?” He scratched his chin. “I was having a few drinks at the Hotel Residencia bar. I had a couple too many, matter of fact, and got a taxi back here. That must have been after midnight, but I don’t know exactly. When Miguel turned up for work at nine, he found me asleep on the sofa with an untouched bottle of beer on the table.”

  Beatrice snapped her notebook shut. “Thanks for answering my questions. One last thing, do you have security cameras on your property?”

  He frowned. “Yeah, why?”

  “Would they be situated in a position to see if anyone accessed the house next door?”

  “Nope.” He scratched his stomach. “Got one outside the gates, but that’s trained on the entrance to this place. Hey, before you go, why did they keep questioning her and not him? Surely he’d be a suspect? Jealous rage if he saw her with another bloke or something? I don’t get it.”

  “Neither do I. Which is why I’m making enquiries. Thanks for your time and have a pleasant day.”

  He scowled, evidently unused to people not complying with his demands. Whistler turned his attention to his phone and Miguel appeared at her elbow to escort her from the premises. As they walked to the gates, Beatrice tried asking a couple of innocuous questions, but Miguel’s English was either unequal to the task or he’d been told to keep his mouth shut. Miguel locked the gate behind her with friendly wave. This was where Theo would have been useful. Beatrice waved and broke into a broad smile. Thankfully, the cavalry was on his way.

  The family regrouped for lunch at the café Whistler had mentioned. For some reason, Matthew addressed the waitress in Italian, which led to some confusion at first. She switched to English and they successfully ordered the Menú del Día, grilled fish with roasted Mediterranean vegetables. Gabriel had located Romy’s yoga practice and Tanya had even attended a class there that morning, in order to get an inside view. Beatrice was impressed and said so.

  “Matthew, did you manage to meet Hoagy’s agent?”

  “Yes, after a fashion. These people are all a bit overwhelming, I find. Raf Beaufort is clearly well-to-do and indebted to his star artist, although Hoagy seems to view their relationship in the opposite light. As Philly mentioned to you, Raf was just as besotted with this Romy person as Hoagy. Tears, sobbing, the works. Whether that’s personal emotion or a more cynical economic outlook, I’m in no position to tell. The big news of the day was the studio.”

  The drinks arrived and conversation stopped until they were alone again.

  Matthew continued. “Raf used his influence with the authorities. The man obviously carries considerable weight. The police gave them permission to access the outbuilding, on condition it was only the ground floor. We went inside together and it was the most dreadful scene. Every last painting of the girl had been slashed. The curious thing is that was not the case on Tuesday morning. The police officer who let us in was appalled. He herded us all out and called for a forensic team. It looks like whoever killed the girl returned to destroy her image.”

  Tanya’s hand rested on her clavicle. “When we were asleep in the guest room! Poor Hoagy, poor Philly! To have their home invaded twice with such violent, cruel results!” Her eyes welled with tears.

  Gabriel drew Tanya closer. “Wait, though. If someone returned to wreck the paintings, it couldn’t possibly have been Philly. On Tuesday night she was in the cells. She’s in the clear, right, Beatrice?”

  She interlaced her fingers and thought. “No, she’s not. She came home on Wednesday afternoon. No one checked the studio after the police left. It’s easy to assume the killer returned on Tuesday, but it could just as easily have been Wednesday. And the painting slasher might be an entirely different person. If you wanted to implicate Philly in both crimes, you’d make sure she was at home, with access to the studio for at least one night. Then discover the ruined paintings the day after. You know, I’m growing increasingly concerned that poor woman is being framed.”

  No one spoke for several moments and the waitress placed the food in front of a silent, dour group of four.

  “Thank you,” Beatrice remembered her manners. “Let’s eat and then I’ll walk up to the villa and find out a bit more. Who’s going to the airport to collect Theo?”

  “No one,” Gabriel replied. “I offered but he said he’d hire a car. He said it makes sense to have two vehicles. He has a point. So we’re free this afternoon, if you need us to do anything?”

  “No, I don’t. Why don’t you go exploring? Take the car and go off to a beach somewhere. You are on honeymoon, after all.”

  Tanya squeezed some mayonnaise onto her plate. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind a swim. We could go a bit further afield this time and find a bigger beach. Deià’s cove is beautiful, but it gets pretty crowded. Would you like to come with us, Dad? See a bit of the island? Cap de Formentor is supposed to have fabulous views.”

  Matthew blinked. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be on your own? I shouldn’t like to be a gooseberry.”

  Gabriel poured more wine for them all. “Matthew, we’d love to have your company. It would be ideal if Beatrice could come too but I understand she’s got to work. Come with us. We can drive along the north of the island and go beach-hopping.”

  “That sounds jolly marvellous. Unless you need me to do anything here, Old Thing?”

  “No, I can handle the other English-speaking interviewees so there’s not much more to be done until Theo arrives. You go and enjoy yourself. Whole roasted garlic has the most divine flavour, don’t you think?”

  She ensured Matthew had his cap and sun cream before he left and put on her own straw hat to walk up the hill to the villa. The mid-afternoon sun was fierce. She pondered the same question which had nagged her from the moment she got Tanya’s phone call.

  Motive.

  The police clearly thought they could pin jealousy on Philly. The destruction of the paintings only fostered that theory. But the paintings were the source of her and Hoagy’s income. As for Hoagy himself, she was unsure. Could he have suffered an attack of jealous rage after she flirted with Gabriel, killed the girl and destroyed his own paintings of her to erase the memory? Tanya had made light of the flirtation, but who knows what was going on internally? He did have the only code to access the studio, after all.

  Whistler, the neighbour, didn’t look muscular enough to climb over the wall and stab a young healthy woman, but he was certainly the sort of man who could hire someone to do the job. Beatrice didn’t believe the bluster about scandalous gossip devaluing the land. If he managed to get them out and purchase the property, he’d raze the place and build apartments. The story of the previous owners would be nothing more than a footnote in history.

  She was itching to meet the previous muse, niece of Detective Quintana, but that would have to wait for Theo’s translation skills. If the woman would even talk to them.

  Outside the villa, a couple of journalists hung about, smoking. They made a half-hearted attempt at asking Beatrice questions but she waved them away with a flap of her hand. Years of experience had made her an expert in ignoring members of the press. She pushed the buzzer at the gates. When she announced her presence, the gates swung open but the dogs did not come barking down the drive. She waited till the entrance had completely closed to ensure no photographers sneaked in after her and trudged towards the house.

  The patio was empty and Philly came to greet her at the kitchen door. “Hello there, Beatrice. We’re taking your advice, you see, and staying indoors. Are those wretched tabloid hacks still out there? Bastards. Come and meet Raf. I’ve told him all about you.” She led the way into the cool tiled living area. “Did Matthew tell you about the studio? I’ve had to give Hoagy a Valium, whereas Raf is self-medicating with a bottle of Mahou. Don’t worry, it’s only beer.”

  The two men sat on white sofas, the dogs flat out at their feet. Philly made the introductions and poured Beatrice a glass of lemonade.

  Raf Beaumont stood to shake her hand. He was exceptionally tall, towering over her at well over six feet. He wore a linen suit which appeared to have been chewed by a cow. His thick white hair flopped over his face, he sported a bristly white moustache and wore wire-rimmed round glasses. He looked like an older version of Dirk Bogarde in Death in Venice.

  “Delighted to meet you, Beatrice. We’re very fortunate to have someone of your calibre aboard. I want you to know, as I have told H. and Philly, that should the police re-arrest this fine woman, I shall fly in my own lawyers to defend her. These damned local bully-boys will not get away with pinning a heinous crime on an innocent Ophelia.”

  Beatrice glanced at Philly, checking whether the secret was out.

  She gave a resigned shrug. “They asked me to go in today for a second round of questioning. Raf insists I refuse until I have legal representation. Which will be tomorrow.”

  Beatrice assessed Raf. “That’s a very generous gesture. A top legal team will be exactly what this situation demands. I hope to throw open other lines of enquiry to occupy police minds, but I fear the situation in the studio may give them further reason to suspect the lady of the house.”

  “Beatrice! You can’t think I would destroy my husband’s art?”

  “Of course I don’t think that. If I believed you were the perpetrator, do you think I would have accepted this job? No, I am wholly convinced of your innocence. The problem is that you don’t have a solid steel alibi for either event. Other than being asleep in bed. Philly, I’m just trying to think like the police, who are seeking the simplest explanation to wrap this case up fast.”

  Raf sat down next to Hoagy, who hadn’t looked up from his hands since Beatrice had entered the room, and drained his beer. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked.