Sunshine came through the single window and illuminated the layered fog from the green Jaguar's exhaust and part of the figure of the man who had slumped forward and who sprawled across the steering wheel.

In his office, Alvarez considered what Dolores might be cooking for supper. It was a long while since they had enjoyed Fava parada, one of his many favourite meals. Once, a typical dish of peasant farmers, in her hands it would grace a five-star restaurant. He looked at his watch and was dismayed that the time was only just after five. Three hours before he would be expected to leave the office, at least an hour and a half before he did so and could reasonably explain his absence if called upon to do so.

The phone rang. He hesitated, instinctively certain this meant trouble. Since it continued, he finally lifted the receiver. 'Llueso Cuerpo ...' he began.

'Caught you just before you skulked off early?'

'Who's that?'

'The Prime Minister's third secretary wishing to congratulate you on completing twenty years' service without achieving anything.'

He recognized the voice. Tomeu, a policia in Port Llueso with whom he had often enjoyed an evening of fun. 'It is an offence to show disrespect towards a member of the Cuerpo.'

'How does one have respect for a man who switches his affections with monotonous regularity?'

'I tell her how much I earn and she does the switching.'

'But not until she starts talking about the joys of motherhood? How are Dolores and Jaime?'

When family news had been exhausted, Tomeu said: 'D'you know Ca'n Mortex on the bay road?'

'The large stone house a retired general had built years ago, which has been bought by a foreigner who's planted mature palm trees at some phenomenal cost?'

'Englishman. Like all his tribe, offer them sunshine and they lose any thoughts about the value of money.'

'What about the place?'

'This is about the owner. Señor Sterne has been found dead in his car in the garage. The engine was switched on, the tank was empty of fuel. He's slumped over the wheel and not driving anywhere any more.'

'The usual rubber hose from exhaust to the interior of the car?'

'No. It's a large car and a small garage for the size of the house. It would have filled with exhaust fumes pretty quickly. From what I remember about a case some years back, it's the carbon monoxide which does the damage and that doesn't have to be strong before it quickly makes one too drowsy and muddled to do anything.'

'Who's living in the house?'

'A brother and sister, adult children of the dead man. She's pure bitch. Then there's a couple and their daughter who do the housework.'

'What have you learned from them?'

'I've left it to you to do the questioning. That's supposed to be your job.'

'Is Doctor Antignac there yet?'

'I reckoned it best if you called him.'

'What about a photographer?'

'Your pigeon.'

'Every task is someone else's?'

Tomeu laughed.

Alvarez replaced the receiver with more force than was necessary. Gone was a quiet evening, the pleasure of a drink, or two, before a delicious meal (Fava parada?). He was faced with work, would probably return home long after the meal was served so that his portion would have to be reheated and would consist only of what the family had left. And in the immediate future, he must phone Superior Chief Salas.

He dialled Palma. When contact was made, he asked: 'Is the superior chief still in his office?'

'Naturally!' Ángela Torres, Salas' secretary, expressed her contempt for anyone who could imagine he would leave the office early.

'I need to speak to him.'

'Who is calling?'

She would know perfectly well who he was, but she needed to remind any caller that she was the virginal go-between on whose shoulders rested the efficient running of the corps. 'Inspector Alvarez, señorita.'

'It helps to know who the caller is.'

There was a pause, then Salas said, in his usual abrupt manner: 'Yes?' 'Inspector Alvarez, señor.'

'There is no need to waste time by unnecessarily identifying yourself.'

'I was just making certain you knew it was me.'

'It was I.'

There was a longer pause. Finally, Salas said: 'Like Exmorodes, you have been stricken dumb?'

'I can't quite understand what you meant when you said you were you?'

'I was trying to correct you to say, it was I.'

'But I know who I am.'

'I have no intention of trying to unravel your incomprehensible nonsense. I will ask you questions, you will answer them briefly and without any prevarication. Why are you phoning?' 'To make a report.'

'What is hindering you?'

'When you said ...?'

'Your report.'

'An Englishman, Señor Sterne, who lived at Ca'n Mortex, in Port Llueso, has committed suicide, gassing himself in his car.'

'In the usual manner?'

'Apparently not.'

'Why do you say "apparently"?'

'I haven't yet visited the property to confirm the facts.'

'You can see no reason to have done so?'

'In the circumstances, it seemed more important to inform you first.'

'The forensic doctor confirms your judgement?'

'He hasn't yet examined the dead man.'

'You have no direct confirmation the man is dead because you have not bothered to observe his body or the circumstances which surround it, yet you confidently state this is a case of suicide?'

'The petrol tank is empty and the ignition is switched on.'

'Facts you have accessed intuitively?'

'One of the policia in the port has reported them to me.'

'It is reassuring to learn there is someone who understands how a case should be conducted. Do you consider it might be an idea not to waste much more time before learning what the doctor has to say and to find out for yourself what are the facts?'

'I intend to drive down to the port the moment I finish speaking to you, señor.'

'You will not find that too precipitous an action?' Salas closed the line.

Alvarez replaced the receiver, sighed. Being a Madrileño, Salas would never appreciate that to rush was to shorten one's life.

Ca'n Mortex was large and slab-like; being rock-built, many of the windows were small; except for the roof, there were only right angles; it would have been easy to be mistaken into believing it had been intended to offer defence from sea marauders as well as being a home.

Alvarez drove past the wrought-iron gates of elaborate design, the costly replanted palm trees, the multicoloured flower beds, braked to a halt in front of the portico with elaborate columns and pediment. He stepped out of the car, paused to look back across the garden and road at the bay.

The water was poster blue, the sunshine softened the appearance of the surrounding mountains, the slight breeze only fitfully filled the sails of yachts and windsurfers.

There was a polished brass knocker on the panelled door. As he struck it, the deep, dissonant sound reminded him, for no apparent reason, of Riera's poem, 'Time past as time present', which he had had to learn word perfect at school. He had never understood it.

The door opened with a couple of creaks and a youngish man, dressed in white jacket and striped linen trousers, said, 'Yes?' in a tone of sharp disparagement.

Alvarez had forgotten to shave that morning, he might with advantage have changed his shirt, but that provided...