High and elaborate wrought-iron gates, electrically operated, hung from pillars of faced stone; set into the right-hand pillar was a speaker unit, below which was a notice in English, French, and Spanish, asking callers to press the red button; fixed to a nearby olive tree was a small, all-weather TV camera; a beautifully constructed drystone wall stretched away on either side of the gates to encircle the hill and curving round with the wall were cypresses; on the top of the hill stood a large house, immediately notable for the fact that, unlike almost all other houses on the island, its lines were graceful rather than square and boxy. Alvarez left the car, crossed to the speaker unit, and pressed the red button. A woman, her voice made tinny by the speaker, asked him in Spanish what he wanted. He told her who he was and said he’d like a word with señor Bennett, if at home. ‘Yes, he’s here. I’ll open the gates.’ As he returned to the car, the gates opened; one of them briefly made a screeching noise which caused him to wince.
