“She was alone when she arrived, but she met someone.”
“Who?”
“A guy who was hanging out on the beach. It looked to me as though they were surprised to see one another.”
Gabriel reclaimed his phone. “How did it happen?”
“She noticed him walking past the restaurant and waved to him.” The barman shrugged. “Just one of those things.”
“Did she call out his name?”
“She might have. But I don’t remember what it was.”
“How did he look?”
“Tall, thin, decent shape.”
“What about his face?”
“He was wearing a hat and sunglasses.” The barman pointed toward the distant end of the open-air seating area. “They were sitting at that table over there.”
“Did anyone else get a better look at him?” asked Inspector Aragón.
“Mariella.”
“Their waitress?”
The barman nodded.
“Mariella what?”
“Cruz.”
“And where can we find Mariella Cruz?”
“She’s off today.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
The barman folded his arms. “You can find Mariella in San Rafael.”
“Great,” said Inspector Aragón. “Where in San Rafael?”
The problem, she explained, was one of supply and demand. Mass tourism on Ibiza had driven up the demand for low-wage seasonal workers, and yet the supply of affordable housing had dwindled, replaced by multimillion-euro estates owned by superrich foreigners. The monthly rent on the inspector’s small apartment in Ibiza Town was twenty-five hundred a month, which devoured most of her modest government salary. Still, she considered herself fortunate. Many of the island’s essential workers—its firefighters and teachers, its nurses and ambulance drivers—had no choice but to commute from the mainland each day.
“Needless to say, a dishwasher or hotel maid can’t afford to spend sixty or seventy hard-earned euros on airfare. The lucky ones live in one-bedroom apartments with ten other roommates.”
“And the ones who aren’t so lucky?”
“You’ll see when we get to San Rafael.”
It was located in the center of the island astride the highway that connected Ibiza Town to the port of Sant Antoni. On the northern side of the town, just beyond the football pitch, was a makeshift village of tents, shanties, and caravans.
“Welcome to the other side of paradise, Señor Allon. The owner of the land rents the plots for four hundred euros a month. He charges another hundred a month for water and electricity.”
“He must be doing very well for himself.”
“Too well, if you ask me.”
