She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then nodded.
“And where do you suppose Alice was at the time?”
“Another vehicle, I imagine.”
“Go on, Inspector.”
“Alice and her friends didn’t exactly keep a low profile while they were here. They stayed in the most expensive home on the island, ate in the best restaurants, and partied at the hottest nightclubs. To make matters worse, Alice was constantly posting photos of herself on social media.”
“Isn’t that de rigueur these days?”
“I suppose. But a crew of professional thieves was bound to notice that the wife of a British billionaire was staying on the island with three female friends and no bodyguards.”
“How did it go down?”
“Somehow they forced her to a stop. If I had to guess, they overtook her after she left Sant Miquel and were lying in wait when shearrived up there. They stuck a gun in her face and told her to hand over her purse and her valuables. Rather than comply with their demands she resisted.”
“Things got physical?”
“These hoods have short fuses.”
“Then what?”
“They forced her into their vehicle, and the situation went from bad to worse. Alice is desperate now. She’s fighting as though her life depends on it. Flailing, kicking, gouging with her nails. The thieves subdue her, and what was once a simple robbery is now aggravated assault and battery. At this point the only way to get out from under a long prison sentence is to make Alice disappear.”
“Not bad,” said Gabriel. “But it’s all based on guesswork and supposition.”
“Not entirely,” replied the inspector.
“The Hermès sandal?”
She nodded.
“Where is the cove where it was found?”
“On the eastern side of the island.”
“And the villa where they were staying?”
She pointed to the north. “Just over that hill.”
He directed the beam of the torch toward the steep slope of the ravine. “A shame about that rope,” he said, and started to climb.
They loaded the emergency triangles into the boot of the Citroën and followed the serpentine road to the summit of the ridge. The sea appeared, stretching like a bolt of black silk toward the distant Spanish mainland. The last light of dusk had faded, the first starshad appeared. A ferry was approaching Ibiza from Valencia; a colossal cruise ship festooned with lights was heaving its way toward Barcelona. Sailing vessels and motor yachts dozed at anchor along the coastline.
The road turned inland and the sea vanished from view. They sped past a noisy restaurant, a small hotel, and a colony of whitewashed villas. The property at the end of the road was hidden behind walls of stone. Security lights flared automatically as Inspector Aragón pulled up at the entrance. She typed an eight-digit passcode into the keypad and the gate swung slowly open.
“This is still an active crime scene, by the way.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Gabriel. “It won’t be my first.”
She headed up the drive, past manicured trees and hedges, past a red clay tennis court, and slowed to a stop at the entrance of the villa. There was another keypad next to the door. She entered the same eight-digit code and led Gabriel inside.
The interior lights were motion activated. They pulled on crime scene gloves and shoe covers in the entrance hall and padded silently across the marble floor, into an enormous great room. The furnishings were contemporary and costly—southern European chic. Beyond a retractable wall of glass was a sweeping terrace, and beyond the terrace lay the sea. There was not another residence in sight. It was as if they had Ibiza to themselves.
“Who owns this place?” asked Gabriel.
“An anonymous shell corporation. The identity of the real owner is a matter of considerable speculation on the island.”
