The Ghost Of Villa Winter

1 A TUESDAY IN MARCH Mid-March, and the day had turned out a little hotter than she cared for but at least the horizon wasn’t hazy. As the sun made a languorous approach to its zenith in a clear sky, she stopped to admire the ocean, a deep turquoise, lapping at the harbour wall. A cool sea breeze shooed away the worst of the heat rising from rock and concrete. The wooden seats, evenly spaced along the short stretch of paving and painted a vivid shade of blue, were empty. No one sat on them, not at this time of day at this time year and even with her sore hip, Clarissa wasn’t tempted. A quick dart of pain and she altered her stance. Something was not right with that joint. Despite the physio she’d received here, she would need to book an appointment with her doctor as soon as she arrived home from this trip. Trip? Holiday? Vacation? The last few weeks had been nothing of the sort. The seats faced the small bay. Behind her, to the north, was a low, rocky headland. To the south, and poking up behind tiers of cuboid dwellings, the mountains. A spray of bougainvillea cascaded down the side of one of the houses built into the rocky cliff over near the restaurant. Palm trees were everywhere, some newly planted, others towering. It was the pretty coastal village of Las Playitas and Clarissa had arranged to meet Claire for lunch. One of those villages too out of the way for the bulk of the tourists, those seeking the safety of the eateries run by the Brits. Here, the fare was authentic, the produce locally sourced, and the prices matched the luxury of the location. Also, there was no beach, not at this end of the village, and the beach at the far end sported black sand. The Brits, of course, wanted white. As did the Germans. Still, just like everywhere else on the holiday island of Fuerteventura, the local authorities had gone to a great deal of trouble, building a promenade at the foreshore that extended all the way along the beach, where an array of outdoor facilities catered for a smattering of small resort hotels. Having caught the public bus from the larger town of Gran Tarajal, Clarissa had arrived early. She’d spent the spare half hour ambling along the promenade, reflecting on whether to raise with her niece Claire the recent developments concerning Trevor. Probably best to leave it. Claire had fixed in her mind that Trevor was no good and deserved all he got, but that was where Clarissa differed. Whenever she brought up the topic – usually after one of her prison visits – the same conversation took place. ‘He had the stash of cash on him when he was arrested at the airport.’ ‘That means nothing.’ ‘It means he was planning on leaving the island with money that didn’t belong to him. He should have handed it in.’ ‘That doesn’t make him a murderer. He found that rucksack in the pink cave at Puertito del los Molinos. You were there. You know that part’s true.’ ‘I just don’t understand why you have to make a pet project out of that flaky author.’ ‘Because if I don’t, no one will.’ And it was true. Clarissa had started up a campaign for an appeal and Trevor’s release after hearing the story from Claire and her husband Paco on one of her regular holidays. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the man. The evidence he had been convicted on was circumstantial. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, twice. He was a literary thief, yes, having used a transcript he found to inspire his own story, and he was a thief in the finders-keepers sense as well, which did warrant punishment, but he did not kill that priest or the young man washed up on a secluded beach. To her, it was an open and shut case. From the moment she heard about Trevor’s predicament, she decided it was that young man washed up on the beach who had taken the cash from the priest, cash destined for a dog’s home in Venezuela. For a long time, she thought either he had got caught by the vicious ocean or he, too, was murdered by someone for reasons unknown, and the mystery would never be solved until Trevor was absolved of all involvement. Claire was adamant her aunt shouldn’t be wasting her time on a person of ill-repute. They’d been over it and over it. There was no point trying to persuade the intractable. Besides, Clarissa thought, as she stopped in a parcel of shade to gaze out at the brilliance of the ocean, she wasn’t preoccupied with the appeal. She was much more interested to hear from Trevor, the only Brit in the Tahiche prison in Lanzarote – Fuerteventura didn’t have one – his opinion of an inmate who was released only last week. And then there was Trevor’s view of one of his visitors, a prison counsellor assigned to help him mend his evil ways. Clarissa looked forward to hearing that as well. She was convinced she had discovered a way of freeing Trevor. She had the evidence in her handbag. She had an appointment with her lawyer that very afternoon at three, and she would call in to see Inspector García at the police station after that. She just needed to sort out the facts of the last weekend in her mind. Come to terms with what had happened on the so-called Villa Winter guided tour. Would there be in an inquest? Or just a funeral. Part of her wished Claire had forgotten about their lunch date and she could enjoy a plate of grilled fish from the morning’s catch in solitude, but she caught sight of that unmistakable shower of copper hair falling on slender shoulders and she stepped out into the sun to greet her niece.