Ill be there on the dot.
She took my hand again briefly. Thank you, dear friend, she said, reached up and brushed my cheek with the lightest of kisses, then slipped inside.
Which very definitely drove every other thought from my mind, including Lillie. There was something elusive about her. Something indefinable that couldnt be pinned down. Frankly, it was as irritating as an itch one couldnt get at to scratch and irritating in another way also. I had a feeling that I was becoming involved in something in spite of myself and any kind of an entanglement where a woman was concerned, was something I preferred to keep well clear of.
I paused on the edge of the kerb to light a cigarette before crossing to the jeep and an old Ford truck came round the corner on two wheels, mounted the pavement and rushed me like a fighting bull in full charge.
I made it into the nearest doorway with very little to spare, was aware of Redshirt leaning out the cab window laughing like a crazy man and then the truck swerved round the corner into the next street and was away.
I didnt attempt to follow. Thered be another time and Id had enough action for one night. What I needed now was a long, tall glass of something or other and a cool hand on my fevered brow - which brought me straight back to Lillie.
When I got back to the villa I didnt bother with the front gate, preferring a less public route out of deference to Lillies good name although I sometimes think she simply liked the idea of someone having to climb over the wall to get to her. As usual, shed turned the electronic warning system off to facilitate matters.
As I came up out of the garden to the terrace outside her bedroom Lillie called out sharply and it wasnt exactly a cry for help.
The French windows stood open to the night, curtains billowing like white sails and there was a light on inside. Carlo, as far as I could judge, seemed to be performing manfully enough. Certainly a slight, polite cough from the terrace would hardly have helped, so I did the obvious thing and got the hell out of there.
When I got back to Tijola, I stopped at the beach bar and had a large glass of the local brandy, a brew calculated to take the skin off your lips if you were injudicious enough to allow it to touch them. There was a light in the cottage window which didnt surprise me for at that time Turk was in the habit of turning up most nights.
I found him sprawled across the table, out to the wide. The eye balls were retracted, but his pulse was steady enough. Heroin and Spanish Brandy. I wondered how much longer his system was going to be able to take it as I carried him across to the bed.
I covered him with a blanket, turned to go back to the table and saw a piece of paper pinned to the door with the breadknife. We put the bird to bed for you. Mind your own business in future or next time its you.
God knows why I bothered, but I was running when I went out of the door. Not that it mattered because when I reached the slipway, the Otter simply wasnt there.
Definitely not my night.
3 The Jesus Reredos
I was up at first light and drove into Ibiza where I helped myself to a couple of aqualungs and various other essential items of diving gear from the Mary Grant.
When I got back to Tijola, Turk was still out cold. I tried slapping him awake which did no good at all and when I attempted to get him on his feet he collapsed instantly, boneless as a jellyfish. It was like handling a corpse and I got him back on the bed and left him to it.
So, I was on my own again - the story of my life, or so it seemed. One thing was certain. Whatever had to be done I would have to do alone so I pulled on one of the yellow neoprene wetsuits Id brought from the Mary Grant, buckled on an aqualung and went to it.
I tried the obvious at first and simply waded into the water from the slipway. The seabed shelved very rapidly at that point so that it was four or five fathoms deep close inshore.
The water was like black glass, giving the illusion of being quite clear and yet visibility was poor, mainly because the sun wasnt yet out.
I went out, as I have said, in a direct line from the slip-way for perhaps fifty yards, keeping close to the bottom and didnt see a thing. So I tried another approach and moved back towards the shore, tacking twenty yards to either side of my central line in a slow, painful zig-zag.
Which all took time - too much time. I hadnt eaten, hadnt even swallowed a cup of coffee which was a mistake for, in spite of the wetsuit, it was cold.
I was getting old, that was the trouble. Too old for this kind of nonsense. The cold ate into me like acid and I was gripped by a mood of savage despair. Everything I had in the world was tied up in the Otter. Without it I was nothing. On the beach once and for all and no way back.
I surfaced close to the slipway and found Turk sitting cross-legged on the beach, a blanket around his shoulders. There was a bottle of that cheap local brandy wedged in the sand between his feet and he nursed a tin cup in both hands.
Enjoying yourself? he asked.
The only way to live.
He swallowed some more of that terrible brandy and nodded slightly, a curiously vacant look in his eyes. It was as if he was not really there, in spirit at least.
He said, Okay, General, whats it all about?
So I told him. The mill at La Grande, Claire Bouvier, Redshirt and his friends - the whole bit and as I talked, the sun edged its way over the point, flooding the creek with light.
When I was finished he shook his head and sighed heavily. You never did learn to mind your own business did you? Little friend of all the world.
Thats me, I said. Now lets have your professional opinion.
Simple. Youve been looking in the wrong place. The way the currents run in this cove you should have tried the mid-channel.
My heart, as they say, sank. But its fifteen or sixteen fathoms in places out there.
I know, General. I know. He smiled wearily. Which is why youre going to need papa. Give me five minutes to get into my gear. Well use the inflatable with the outboard and make sure theres at least twenty fathoms of line on the anchor. Were going to need it out there.
I said, Are you sure you feel up to this?
Youve got to be joking, he replied without even an attempt at a smile.
He turned and walked away with a curious kind of dignity, the blanket trailing from his shoulders like a cloak and yet there was something utterly and terrifyingly wrong. Earlier when I had attempted to waken him he had seemed like a corpse. Now the corpse walked. It was simple as that.
I was crouched in the dinghy in mid-channel taking a breather just before nine oclock when Turk surfaced and gave me the sign. I adjusted my mouthpiece, went over the side and followed him down through around ten fathoms of smoke-grey water.
The Otter was crouched in a patch of seagrass like some strange marine monster. From a distance everything seemed perfectly normal and then, when I was close enough, I saw the holes ripped in the floats and hull.
So that was very much that and there was certainly nothing to hang around for. I followed Turk up and surfaced beside the dinghy. He spat out his mouthpiece and grinned savagely.
Somebodys a handy man with a fireaxe. You certainly know how to win friends and influence people.
I pulled myself into the dinghy, unstrapped my aqualung and started the outboard. All right, so Im splitting my sides laughing. What are the prospects?
Of raising her? He shrugged. Oh, I could do it, but Id need to have a couple of pontoons and a steam winch and wed need to recruit half-a-dozen locals as general labourers.
How long?
A month - maybe more if the weather plays us up, but whatever happens it would cost you. Four, maybe five thousand dollars and that would be cutting it to the bone, a friend for a friend.
Which still left repairs to the floats and hull and the entire engine would have to be stripped, the control system. And add to that the airworthiness check the authorities would insist on before she flew again. God alone knows how much that would cost.
Is it on? he asked.
I shook my head. Not in a thousand years.
What about insurance?
Nothing that would cover this. I could never afford the right kind of premium.
I killed the motor as we drifted in through the shallows and we got out and pulled the dinghy up onto the beach together.
Turk picked up his aqualung. This character in the red shirt and wire glasses. Ill ask around. Somebody must know him.
What good would that do? I said bitterly. He could never pay for this.
Maybe not, but you could always take it out of his hide some, after asking him politely why he did it?
I suppose it was only then that the full extent of the catastrophe really got through to me and I kicked out at the inflatable dinghy savagely.
Why? I said. Why?
Id say the girl was the person to put that question to.
Claire Bouvier?
She didnt want the police in on things did she? She told you it wasnt how it looked. This creep tried to run you down in a truck and failing in that direction, sees the Otter off and leaves you a warning to mind your own business. Id say if anyone can throw any light on the situation it should be her.
I glanced at my watch. It was just after nine-thirty. Okay, that makes sense if nothing else does. Ive arranged to meet her at ten oclock at the Iglesia de Jesus. You want to come along for the ride?
He smiled, that strange, melancholy smile of his. Not me, General, I havent been to church in years. Its not my scene and neither is this. Ive got my own coffin to carry. Youre on your own.
And on that definite and rather sombre note, he turned and walked into the cottage.
The Iglesia de Jesus is no more than a ten-minute drive from the town and stands in the middle of some of the richest farmland in Ibiza. An area criss-crossed with irrigation ditches, whitewashed farmhouses dotting a landscape that is strikingly beautiful. Lemon groves and wheatfields everywhere, even palm trees combining with the Moorish architecture of the houses to paint a picture that is more North African than European.
The church itself is typical of country churches to be found all over the island. Beautifully simple in design, blindingly white in the Mediterranean sun. A perfect setting for one of the most glorious pieces of Gothic art in Europe.
When I opened the door and went inside it was like diving into cool water. The silence was so intense that for a moment, I paused as if waiting for something though I hadnt the slightest idea what. A sign perhaps, from heaven to tell me that everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds. That my own experience of life and its rottenness was simply an illusion after all.
There was the usual smell of incense, candles flickered down by the altar. There was no one there, and I suddenly knew with a kind of anger, that the girl wasnt going to come. Had never intended to.
And then I saw that I had been mistaken in thinking I had the place to myself for a nun in black habit knelt in front of the Reredos, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer.
I took a deep breath, fought hard to contain the impulse to kick out at something and made for the door.
A soft, familiar voice called, Mr Nelson.
I turned slowly, too astounded to speak.
The central panel of the Jesus Reredos portraying the Virgin and Child is a masterpiece by any standard and beautiful in the extreme. But it is an austere beauty. Something quite untouchable by anything human with the quiet serenity of one who knows that God is Love beyond any possibility of doubt and lives life accordingly.
Standing in front of it in that simple, black habit, Claire Bouvier might well have been mistaken for the artists model had it not been for the fact that the Reredos had been painted in the early years of the sixteenth century.
It could only be for real - had to be - I didnt doubt that for a minute, for in some strange way it fitted. At least it explained the cropped hair and I sat down rather heavily in the nearest pew.
I am sorry, Mr Nelson, she said. This must be something of a shock for you.
You can say that again. Why didnt you tell me last night?
The cirumstances were unusual to say the least as I think you will agree.
She sat down rather primly in the chair next to me, hands folded in her lap, those work-roughened hands which had so puzzled me. Then she looked up at the Reredos.
I didnt realise it was so beautiful. Everything is so moving - so perfectly part of a whole. Particularly the scenes from the life of the Virgin on the predella.
To hell with the She turned sharply and I took a deep breath and continued. Look, what do I call you for a start?
I am still Claire Bouvier, Mr Nelson. Sister Claire, if you prefer it, of the Little Sisters of Pity. Im on leave from our convent near Grenoble.
On leave? I said. Isnt that a little irregular?
There are special circumstances. Ive been in East Pakistan for the past couple of years or BanglaDesh as they now call it.
The whole thing seemed to move further into the realms of fantasy by the minute. I said, All right, just tell me one thing. You were dressed like a nun last night when our friends grabbed you?
Thats right.
And you said it wasnt just an ordinary assault. You wouldnt let me take you to the police, for instance, which I would have thought reasonably strange behaviour for someone of your persuasion.
She got up abruptly, moved towards the altar and stood there gripping the rail. I said quietly, Our friend in the red shirt tried to run me down in a truck last night after I left you. When I got back to my cottage at Tijola, I found a note telling me to mind my own business.
She turned quickly, a frown on her face. From whom?
Redshirt and friends. It has to be. Youll be interested to know they also towed my seaplane out into the middle of the channel and sank it in sixty feet of water, just to encourage me.
There was genuine horror on her face at that, but she turned away again, head bowed, gripping the rail so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her round roughly. Look, that plane was all I had in the world and its not salvageable, so Im finished, Sister. A ruined man because I played the Good Samaritan last night. At least Im entitled to know why
She looked up at me calmly without struggling and nodded. You are right, dear friend. I owe you that at least. Perhaps there is a quiet place you know of? Somewhere we could talk