The sun burned orange in a sandy-grey sky. It was August and the air thick and hot. Richard stepped outside and pulled the front door behind him to trap in the cool. He’d risen early and breakfasted on fresh figs, local goat cheese, and the crusty end of the raisin bread he’d bought last Sunday from the German baker who had a stall at the Teguise market. He was on his way there now. He opened the door of his Golf, cursing the lack of shade. The driver’s seat burned his back through his shirt and the steering wheel was so hot he had to hold it with the tips of his fingers. He switched the air-conditioning on full.
He drove slowly through the narrow streets of Haría and headed up Montaña Aganada, going easy round the switchbacks, then accelerating once he’d crested the top and the land open
