The Khufra Run

So that was very much that and there was certainly nothing to hang around for. I followed Turk up and surfaced beside the dinghy. He spat out his mouthpiece and grinned savagely.

‘Somebody’s a handy man with a fireaxe. You certainly know how to win friends and influence people.’

I pulled myself into the dinghy, unstrapped my aqualung and started the outboard. ‘All right, so I’m splitting my sides laughing. What are the prospects?’

‘Of raising her?’ He shrugged. ‘Oh, I could do it, but I’d need to have a couple of pontoons and a steam winch and we’d need to recruit half-a-dozen locals as general labourers.’

‘How long?’

‘A month - maybe more if the weather plays us up, but whatever happens it would cost you. Four, maybe five thousand dollars and that would be cutting it to the bone, a friend for a friend.’

Which still left repairs to the floats and hull and the entire engine would have to be stripped, the control system. And add to that the airworthiness check the authorities would insist on before she flew again. God alone knows how much that would cost.

‘Is it on?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘Not in a thousand years.’

‘What about insurance?’

‘Nothing that would cover this. I could never afford the right kind of premium.’

I killed the motor as we drifted in through the shallows and we got out and pulled the dinghy up onto the beach together.

Turk picked up his aqualung. ‘This character in the red shirt and wire glasses. I’ll ask around. Somebody must know him.’

‘What good would that do?’ I said bitterly. ‘He could never pay for this.’

‘Maybe not, but you could always take it out of his hide some, after asking him politely why he did it?’

I suppose it was only then that the full extent of the catastrophe really got through to me and I kicked out at the inflatable dinghy savagely.

‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘I’d say the girl was the person to put that question to.’

‘Claire Bouvier?’

‘She didn’t want the police in on things did she? She told you it wasn’t how it looked. This creep tried to run you down in a truck and failing in that direction, sees the Otter off and leaves you a warning to mind your own business. I’d say if anyone can throw any light on the situation it should be her.’

I glanced at my watch. It was just after nine-thirty. ‘Okay, that makes sense if nothing else does. I’ve arranged to meet her at ten o’clock at the Iglesia de Jesus. You want to come along for the ride?’

He smiled, that strange, melancholy smile of his. ‘Not me, General, I haven’t been to church in years. It’s not my scene and neither is this. I’ve got my own coffin to carry. You’re on your own.’

And on that definite and rather sombre note, he turned and walked into the cottage.

The Iglesia de Jesus is no more than a ten-minute drive from the town and stands in the middle of some of the richest farmland in Ibiza. An area criss-crossed with irrigation ditches, whitewashed farmhouses dotting a landscape that is strikingly beautiful. Lemon groves and wheatfields everywhere, even palm trees combining with the Moorish architecture of the houses to paint a picture that is more North African than European.

The church itself is typical of country churches to be found all over the island. Beautifully simple in design, blindingly white in the Mediterranean sun. A perfect setting for one of the most glorious pieces of Gothic art in Europe.

When I opened the door and went inside it was like diving into cool water. The silence was so intense that for a moment, I paused as if waiting for something though I hadn’t the slightest idea what. A sign perhaps, from heaven to tell me that everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds. That my own experience of life and its rottenness was simply an illusion after all.

There was the usual smell of incense, candles flickered down by the altar. There was no one there, and I suddenly knew with a kind of anger, that the girl wasn’t going to come. Had never intended to.

And then I saw that I had been mistaken in thinking I had the place to myself for a nun in black habit knelt in front of the Reredos, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer.

I took a deep breath, fought hard to contain the impulse to kick out at something and made for the door.

A soft, familiar voice called, ‘Mr Nelson.’

I turned slowly, too astounded to speak.

The central panel of the Jesus Reredos portraying the Virgin and Child is a masterpiece by any standard and beautiful in the extreme. But it is an austere beauty. Something quite untouchable by anything human with the quiet serenity of one who knows that God is Love beyond any possibility of doubt and lives life accordingly.

Standing in front of it in that simple, black habit, Claire Bouvier might well have been mistaken for the artist’s model had it not been for the fact that the Reredos had been painted in the early years of the sixteenth century.

It could only be for real - had to be - I didn’t doubt that for a minute, for in some strange way it fitted. At least it explained the cropped hair and I sat down rather heavily in the nearest pew.

‘I am sorry, Mr Nelson,’ she said. ‘This must be something of a shock for you.’

‘You can say that again. Why didn’t you tell me last night?’

‘The cirumstances were unusual to say the least as I think you will agree.’

She sat down rather primly in the chair next to me, hands folded in her lap, those work-roughened hands which had so puzzled me. Then she looked up at the Reredos.

‘I didn’t realise it was so beautiful. Everything is so moving - so perfectly part of a whole. Particularly the scenes from the life of the Virgin on the predella.’

‘To hell with the …’ She turned sharply and I took a deep breath and continued. ‘Look, what do I call you for a start?’

‘I am still Claire Bouvier, Mr Nelson. Sister Claire, if you prefer it, of the Little Sisters of Pity. I’m on leave from our convent near Grenoble.’

‘On leave?’ I said. ‘Isn’t that a little irregular?’

‘There are special circumstances. I’ve been in East Pakistan for the past couple of years or BanglaDesh as they now call it.’

The whole thing seemed to move further into the realms of fantasy by the minute. I said, ‘All right, just tell me one thing. You were dressed like a nun last night when our friends grabbed you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you said it wasn’t just an ordinary assault. You wouldn’t let me take you to the police, for instance, which I would have thought reasonably strange behaviour for someone of your persuasion.’

She got up abruptly, moved towards the altar and stood there gripping the rail. I said quietly, ‘Our friend in the red shirt tried to run me down in a truck last night after I left you. When I got back to my cottage at Tijola, I found a note telling me to mind my own business.’

She turned quickly, a frown on her face. ‘From whom?’

‘Redshirt and friends. It has to be. You’ll be interested to know they also towed my seaplane out into the middle of the channel and sank it in sixty feet of water, just to encourage me.’

There was genuine horror on her face at that, but she turned away again, head bowed, gripping the rail so tightly that her knuckles whitened.