Gabriel climbed out of the car and accompanied the detective into the encampment. Shanties of plywood and corrugated metal, crudetarpaulin tents, worn-out cars and rusted caravans—the other side of paradise indeed. At the center of the camp was a dusty common area with four portable lavatories and a single water tap. Two young boys were kicking a ball about, watched over by an exhausted-looking woman of perhaps thirty. Inspector Aragón addressed the woman in Spanish, and she shook her head in reply. Then, after having a look at the inspector’s credentials, she pointed toward the encampment’s western boundary.
It was there they found Mariella Cruz. She was seated on a folding beach chair outside an aged French-made caravan. She wore a cotton tank top and shorts and a pair of soiled trainers. Her hair was nearly black, as were her eyes. They settled first on Inspector Aragón.
“I’ve been expecting you.” She glanced at Gabriel. “You too, Señor. But I’m afraid my colleague Ramón didn’t catch your name.”
“Did he tell you why we wanted to see you?”
“He said it had something to do with the Englishwoman who sat at one of my tables a few days ago.”
Mariella Cruz had not risen from her folding chair or offered her hand in greeting. Perhaps, thought Gabriel, she regarded herself as an untouchable. She seemed to sense his discomfort.
“It’s not so bad here, Señor No-Name. Much better than my last place.”
“And where was that?”
“A garage in Santa Eulària. I shared it with six other girls. No water, no electricity, no toilet.” She shrugged. “Heaven on earth.”
“And before that?”
“Long story. And very boring.”
Gabriel handed Mariella Cruz his mobile phone. “Do you remember her?”
She lowered her eyes toward the screen. “The Brits all start to look the same after a while, but this one I remember. Hard not to.”
“What about her friend from the beach?”
“I really didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Was he British as well?”
“He spoke perfect English, but he had a slight accent. It might have been German.”
“How old was he?”
“Maybe forty.”
“Hair color?”
“Sort of blond, but it was hard to tell because of the hat. For all I know, he was bald on top.”
“Wedding band?”
“I didn’t notice. But he was wearing a nice watch. A Rolex Daytona, the platinum model.” Her eyes settled once more on Inspector Aragón. “Don’t you have any questions?”
“Any plans for the rest of the evening?”
“A long soak in my Jacuzzi,” she quipped. “And then dinner at a fancy restaurant.”
“Put on some proper clothes, Mariella. You’re coming with us.”
It was a ten-minute drive from San Rafael to the Policía Nacional headquarters. The inspector placed Mariella Cruz in an interview room and escorted Gabriel to her cramped office. There she rang a colleague who dealt with matters related to immigration and passport control and instructed him to prepare a list of all German, Austrian, and Swiss males who had visited the island the previous week. At Gabriel’s suggestion she added Dutch males to the request, as well as those from Denmark, Norway, and Sweden.
“How soon?” asked the colleague.
“Tonight.”
“Impossible.”
