Medusa

He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think we ever will. They are not Menorquin and we think they almost certainly leave the island very soon after.’ And he added, ‘Unless they go to the mainland of Spain, it is very difficult for us to trace their movements. Even in Barcelona, if they take the ferry, it is simple for them to disappear across the French border. No,’ he said again, ‘we do not know anything about them. What we do know, however, is that the night before there is a boat in Cales Coves and it is tied up against the rocks below the cave you were in that night. We have a description of that boat, a description that is indicative of a single mast and two hulls. We have checked with the harbour authorities and there is no boat of such description in either Mahon or Ciudadela, not in Fornells either — only this one.’

‘So,’ I said. ‘What is the significance of that?’ But I knew bloody well what was in his mind.

He was smiling now. ‘Did you know there is a landward exit from that cave?’ And when I explained we had been solely concerned with the two men who had rushed out from that passage, he nodded. ‘Of course. And it is unfortunate about the father of Senorita Callis, that she is not here to answer some questions.’

‘You’re checking, I suppose, that her father really does exist, that his car accident did happen?’

‘Of course. It takes time, and meanwhile you are here to answer all our questions. Let us suppose,’ he said, his eyes almost closed. ‘It is just a thought, eh? Suppose it is this yacht that is in Cales Coves the night before she take you to that cave. What do you think it might be doing there?’

‘Sheltering, I suppose.’

‘Why? Why Cales Coves and not Mahon or Ciudadela?’

‘If they’d had a longish passage, from Mallorca or Corsica — ’

‘Or Tunis,’ he said softly. ‘Somewhere along the shores of North Africa.’

‘If there’d been a passage like that,’ I told him, ‘with poor weather conditions you can get awfully tired, even in a stable boat like this. Then you just put in to the first shelter you find, head down and lights out.’

He nodded, still with that little smile. ‘Of course. I understand. But no navigation lights when coming in. Also there is a light in that cave mouth for a full hour before the boat appear. That is what attracted the attention of this witness we interview.’ He paused, watching me. ‘The boat has no lights all the time it was tied up under the cliffs, and there is no light any longer in the cave mouth. But there is the occasional flash of torches. There was a moon, you see, and some cloud in the sky.’ He sat back, suddenly relaxed. ‘Well now, you are a businessman, Seóor Steele, you have a position in Menorca, Spanish friends. But it was not always like that, eh? Before you come to Menorca, before your marriage. So, what does the description I have given you of what our witness saw suggest to you?’

If I said it suggested smuggling, he would think I was involved. If I said it didn’t suggest a damn thing, he’d know I was lying and be even more suspicious.

‘You don’t say anything?’

I shrugged, stretching my face into a smile. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘You have been to Bisley?’ The question took me by surprise. But of course, somebody would have told him about the cups. The inspector might have taken a note of them and reported. ‘You are a good shot I think.’ He was smiling again, the eyes bright like a bird that has seen a particularly succulent snail.

I nodded. ‘Why? What’s that got to do with it?’

He sat there, smiling still, and not answering, everything so quiet I could hear the distant chime of the cathedral clock. ‘Look, for God’s sake! I was there, right beside Jorge Martinez, sitting in front of a whole crowd of people. However good a shot I was at Bisley, there’s no way I could have done it.’

‘No. But there is somebody else. Antonio Barriago. You know him? A Spaniard who live in Algiers.’

Barriago! We stared at each other. Had he been the passenger that American yachtsman had said was on Thunderflash when she arrived in Mahon? Had Evans sailed the boat from a North African port, merely calling in at Marseilles on the way? ‘What about him?’ I asked. Barriago had been in the final shoot-off for the Oporto Cup, which was almost the last event I had taken part in.

‘You don’t know him?’ It was put subtly, an invitation to deny all knowledge.

‘No, I don’t know him,’ I said, ‘I’ve shot against him. That was three years ago and I haven’t seen him since. Why?’ And when he didn’t say anything, just sat there staring at me, I asked him why he was searching the boat.

For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to tell me that, but in the end he gave a little shrug and said, ‘Suppose it is Barriago who kill the Alcalde. And suppose — just suppose, Seóor Steele — he has been on board this boat — ’

But I stopped him there. ‘I tell you, I haven’t seen the man for three years.’