The driver slammed his door behind him and walked across to me, a wide smile on his face. “Miss Matthews?” I nodded, rising to my feet. He was a big man with a head of untidy hair and friendly eyes, wearing a white tee-shirt that had seen better days and a pair of creased cotton trousers. “Mario Arteche,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously and picking up my case, throwing it easily into the rear of a battered cream-coloured estate car. “ I am sorry I am late.” We swerved recklessly out onto a sun bleached road: “Is this your first visit to Majorca?” “Yes.” “The villa D’Este is not near the tourist resorts. It is high in the mountains. A little lonely perhaps, but very beautiful.…” I leant back against the musty leather of the seat, content to let him do the talking, enjoying the sun and the sounds and smells of a new country.
