Salas was satisfied the case was open and shut, so why couldn’t he accept that? Yet here he was, on a day of rest, trying to decide whether or not to motor over to Magalluf to talk to the Braddons. What if there had been a row between them and Roig? It sounded as if Roig had been a man with whom it had been difficult not to have a row. And Braddon had never been seen within the vicinity of Casa Gran, nor was there any evidence to suggest he’d fled the island in panicky haste . . . It was his peasant background which was responsible for his refusal to think sensibly, he decided. A peasant, a plodder, so often did not have the wit even to understand the uselessness of his work. When it was time to sow, but the land was too sodden, he waited with bovine patience for it to dry out; his crop grew and then the hail flattened it, the mould withered it, the mole crickets ate it, but he still tended what was left, even though it was now obvious even to him that he could never hope to gain an honest return for his work .
