Like hell it did! Not if you knew the purpose behind it. For a moment I was tempted to take him into my confidence, tell him about the Kalashnikov. But that meant telling him what I had done with it, and anyway a lawyer who handled the affairs of some of the most prominent people in Menorca would hardly relish the thought that he might be acting for a foreigner who had got himself involved in the murder of a politician so universally popular as Jorge Martinez. I kept my mouth shut, and in doing so made myself not only accessory to an act of terrorism, but also to all that followed.
How was I, yachtsman, charterer, small-time businessman, an escapee if you like into the lotus life of the Mediterranean, to know, or even to understand, the machinations of those far removed from the little Balearic island of Menorca? There was Wade, of course, and Gareth Lloyd Jones, Patrick Evans with his two toughies and a lovely catamaran with which to tempt me. I should have known. At any rate, I should have guessed. But that is hindsight. God almighty! I couldn't possibly have known, not then, sitting at my desk with a gin and tonic and staring out of the open window, not a breath of air stirring, the water mirror-calm and the shimmering hulk of the hospital riding to its upside-down reflection like one of those great floating batteries the French and Spanish navies had used against Gibraltar at the end of the eighteenth century.
If only Petra were still here. I could have talked it over with her — practical, matter-of-fact, and that bouncing, vital body of hers. I had a sudden picture of her lying naked on top of me, that last time, the day after Soo had lost the baby. If only she'd been out there in that tent on the far side of the island. No breeze at all and the air outside almost as hot as midsummer.
I got suddenly to my feet, finished my drink and drove round to a little restaurant I often used near the Club Maritime. I had gazpachoand gambas planchawith half a bottle of Campo Viejo, sitting there in the darkened interior, shocked to find myself eating alone as though I were some sort of pariah. In the old days I'd done that quite often. I'd had to. But since I had come to Menorca… since then, of course, there'd always been Soo and the host of friends we had made — people we knew, anyway. Never the need to be alone.
Back in the office I.began ringing round to discover whether Evans had put in anywhere. I think if I had phoned Florez he might have told me right away. But Florez was the last person I wanted to contact in the circumstances. It took me three calls before I thought of Felipe Lopescado who ran a little tabernaon the Ciudadela waterfront. 'LaSanta Maria? Si — un senior Ingles.'He even knew the name. 'Pat Eevanz.' The boat had come in to the puertoat Ciudadela late the night before last. There had been three men on board and they had come ashore for a drink about ten-thirty. 'Si,at the Taberna Felipe.'
'Is the boat still there?' I asked him.
'Si.'
'Was it there yesterday?'
'Si, all day.' And he assured me the men were still on board, all three of them.
'Do you know where they were at midday yesterday?' I had to ask him straight out like that, there was no alternative.
'They were here in the taberna.''For how long?'
'About three hours. You have eat here, senor. You and the senora. You know how long it takes.'
'They had lunch at your place then, all three of them?'
'Si. They have mejillones.The mussels are fresh in that morning, very good, very beeg. Then the capitanhave rabo de toroand there is one polioand one escalope.Also my tabernaRioja and some Quinta with the coffee.'
'And the captain's name?'
'I tell you, he is Pat Eevanz.'
I had him describe the man then, but it was Patrick Evans all right, and after leaving the taberna,Evans, with one of the others, had taken a taxi into the centra,while the third man returned on board. Felipe couldn't tell me when Evans had returned, but he assured me the man had been there this morning, because he'd seen him talking to the harbour master on the quay, and the Santa Mariawas still anchored in the same position. He thought it likely that their catch had been off-loaded at some other port. Certainly, no fish had been landed from the vessel in Ciudadela.
I was left wondering when Evans had planted that gun in the starb'd engine compartment, even whether he had.
I cleared my desk, then drove out to the airport just south of the San Clemente road. I thought Alejandro Suarez, the assistant manager and one of the few islanders who really enjoyed sailing, might be able to produce somebody on the airport staff, or at the Aviaco desk, who had actually spoken to Tony Barriago, somebody who could give me an idea of the man's state of mind. It would have taken him no more than half an hour at the outside to clock in at the airport, which would mean perhaps half an hour of waiting before actually boarding the plane. Plenty of time for his nerves to become ragged.
But Alex said the police had already interrogated everyone who might have spoken to him and the only person who had been able to recall him was the Aviaco woman who had dealt with his ticket. She remembered him because he had come back afterwards to enquire whether the plane had arrived yet, and when she said it was due in almost immediately, he had thanked her and turned away, apparently quite satisfied. He had appeared relaxed, not in the least nervous or upset. 'Do they think he is the killer of Don Martinez?'
'Possibly.' We were standing in the airport lounge, which was packed with people. The PA system suddenly broke into life, the hubbub rising to a crescendo as friends and relatives said their goodbyes to passengers on a Barcelona flight.
'Pardon. I have to go now. If there is anything else..' Alex smiled at me apologetically and went through into the departure area where, in addition to immigration and customs officials, security officers were screening the passengers before embarkation. Would Tony Barriago have been sweating as he went through the last stage before boarding the plane? But the security officer on duty now might not be the same as yesterday, and anyway, it was such an obvious line of enquiry that the police would have covered it already.
The crowd in the main lounge had thinned to a few people sitting at tables drinking coffee or wine and waiting for another flight. I wandered out into the long passageway that led to the arrivals area. This was what Tony would have done, mingled with the crowd from an incoming flight, even taken a stroll outside, anything rather than sit in the main lounge, boxed in and too conspicuous until it had filled up. I had a word with Maria at the stand that sold magazines and postcards, and then it occurred to me that he might have had a taxi waiting for him outside, just in case.
I went out and began checking with the drivers. A British charter flight was due in and there was quite a line of taxis waiting. It was about the ninth or tenth I spoke to, a fat man with a Panama hat perched on his head, who said he'd been there the previous afternoon when the Guardiadrove up to the airport, and yes, he had seen a taxi waiting in the car park opposite. He had noticed it because normally taxis waited in the line. They did not park with the private cars. And when the police arrived, a short, hook-nosed man, who had presumably hired the taxi, went across and spoke with the driver. He had stayed there talking to him for several minutes, right up until the time his flight was called. Then he had hurried back into the airport.
'And the taxi?' I asked him.
He come out of the car park and join us in the taxi line.'
'He had paid him off then?'