read the sign. I still couldn’t tell you what it’s called.
I knew that there were houses up there, in the fields behind the ruins of the ancient Greco-Roman town, but I had never met anyone who lived there, so I knew nothing of them. The road rose gradually; the ground is quite high up there. I counted three houses as we passed, two on the left and one on the right, before Alex drew to a halt behind two other police vehicles and an ambulance. They were all lined up alongside a high stone wall, in which there was a double gate, partly open. I could just see the pitch of a roof from my raised position in the back seat of the car.
If the length of the wall was anything to go by, it enclosed a pretty substantial plot of land. ‘Whose house is this, Alex?’ I asked, as I stepped out of the cool of the vehicle, into the heat of the day.
‘You’ll see in a little while.’ He led Justine and me through the gate into a garden that was mainly lawn to the front, apart from the swimming pool to the right. The house itself was splendid, as fine as any I’d seen in the area. It was two storey, stone built also, with a loggia over the entrance, and wooden shutters framing each of the small windows. Older Spanish houses were built to keep the sun out; now that there are things like air-con and heat-reflecting glass, the country’s architects have been liberated.
We followed a paved path round the side. As we turned towards the back of the house, we stepped under a pagoda frame with a canvas cover that was set up to shade a small patio. I almost tripped over a chair, a solid wooden white-painted thing, but grabbed its leg to save myself, then trotted on to catch up with Alex.
As I looked around, I saw that the ground at the back sloped downwards, and that the stone wall enclosed the property completely, save for a gate at the back. Only the area of the garden along the length of the house was level, with a mixture of lawn and paving. It was defined by a small wall, of white cast concrete pillars, with plant pots set on top at regular intervals a few metres apart. A middle-aged man was sitting on the wall beside one of them, sweat forming dark patches under the armpits of his green uniform shirt. I recognised him. His name was Gomez and he was an intendant from the Mossos d’Esquadra criminal investigation branch.
He blinked when he saw me. ‘Senora Blackstone,’ he exclaimed. ‘What connection have you with this?’
‘The mayor suggested that she come,’ Alex told him. ‘And . . . well, she’s the mayor, OK.’
‘Connection with what?’ I asked.
‘Come and see.’
Gomez beckoned me forward. I approached him and as I did I could see over the wall, into the lower garden. Four crime-scene officers, in sterile tunics, were on their knees, searching the ground, square metre by square metre. Two paramedics stood off to one side, holding a stretcher, as if waiting to be called into action. At the foot of the steps that led down to the area, I saw a second uniformed officer: I had met him before too, Inspector Garcia, the intendant’s more abrasive sidekick. He and I exchanged not very friendly glances; and then the smell hit me, that and the buzzing of what sounded like a thousand flies.
I stood against the pillared wall and looked down. Beneath me, maybe three metres below, there was a rockery, with cactus plants in the sandy soil, and in its centre, teeth bared as if he was snarling, glaring up at me as he had in his office, lay the unmistakably dead form of José-Luis Planas.
Justine came to stand beside me, and gasped in horror, even though she had been told what she had been brought to see. ‘When was he found?’ she asked Gomez.
‘About two hours ago,’ he replied, ‘by his gardener, when he came in to check the watering system. Apparently it had been faulty for the last week or so.’
‘He’s been there for a while,’ I said. ‘You’d better move him pretty quick. I’ve seen this; I nursed in
I knew that there were houses up there, in the fields behind the ruins of the ancient Greco-Roman town, but I had never met anyone who lived there, so I knew nothing of them. The road rose gradually; the ground is quite high up there. I counted three houses as we passed, two on the left and one on the right, before Alex drew to a halt behind two other police vehicles and an ambulance. They were all lined up alongside a high stone wall, in which there was a double gate, partly open. I could just see the pitch of a roof from my raised position in the back seat of the car.
If the length of the wall was anything to go by, it enclosed a pretty substantial plot of land. ‘Whose house is this, Alex?’ I asked, as I stepped out of the cool of the vehicle, into the heat of the day.
‘You’ll see in a little while.’ He led Justine and me through the gate into a garden that was mainly lawn to the front, apart from the swimming pool to the right. The house itself was splendid, as fine as any I’d seen in the area. It was two storey, stone built also, with a loggia over the entrance, and wooden shutters framing each of the small windows. Older Spanish houses were built to keep the sun out; now that there are things like air-con and heat-reflecting glass, the country’s architects have been liberated.
We followed a paved path round the side. As we turned towards the back of the house, we stepped under a pagoda frame with a canvas cover that was set up to shade a small patio. I almost tripped over a chair, a solid wooden white-painted thing, but grabbed its leg to save myself, then trotted on to catch up with Alex.
As I looked around, I saw that the ground at the back sloped downwards, and that the stone wall enclosed the property completely, save for a gate at the back. Only the area of the garden along the length of the house was level, with a mixture of lawn and paving. It was defined by a small wall, of white cast concrete pillars, with plant pots set on top at regular intervals a few metres apart. A middle-aged man was sitting on the wall beside one of them, sweat forming dark patches under the armpits of his green uniform shirt. I recognised him. His name was Gomez and he was an intendant from the Mossos d’Esquadra criminal investigation branch.
He blinked when he saw me. ‘Senora Blackstone,’ he exclaimed. ‘What connection have you with this?’
‘The mayor suggested that she come,’ Alex told him. ‘And . . . well, she’s the mayor, OK.’
‘Connection with what?’ I asked.
‘Come and see.’
Gomez beckoned me forward. I approached him and as I did I could see over the wall, into the lower garden. Four crime-scene officers, in sterile tunics, were on their knees, searching the ground, square metre by square metre. Two paramedics stood off to one side, holding a stretcher, as if waiting to be called into action. At the foot of the steps that led down to the area, I saw a second uniformed officer: I had met him before too, Inspector Garcia, the intendant’s more abrasive sidekick. He and I exchanged not very friendly glances; and then the smell hit me, that and the buzzing of what sounded like a thousand flies.
I stood against the pillared wall and looked down. Beneath me, maybe three metres below, there was a rockery, with cactus plants in the sandy soil, and in its centre, teeth bared as if he was snarling, glaring up at me as he had in his office, lay the unmistakably dead form of José-Luis Planas.
Justine came to stand beside me, and gasped in horror, even though she had been told what she had been brought to see. ‘When was he found?’ she asked Gomez.
‘About two hours ago,’ he replied, ‘by his gardener, when he came in to check the watering system. Apparently it had been faulty for the last week or so.’
‘He’s been there for a while,’ I said. ‘You’d better move him pretty quick. I’ve seen this; I nursed in
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