The garage was full of policemen. Pujol and his Guardia were in immaculately pressed green uniforms. The local police, under the command of their impressively hatted chief, wore shapeless blue tunics which would have been unacceptable, Sarah thought to herself, on a garage forecourt.
Pujol introduced her to the local chief with impressive formality, referring to her as Senora Profesora Skinner. The man's heavy grey eyebrows bristled with scepticism, until she disarmed him by congratulating him in fluent Spanish on the efficiency of his local force.
Sarah never went anywhere, not even on holiday, without the basic tools of her trade. She stepped across to where the body hung, policemen moving aside deferentially as she did. She took hold of Alberni's right hand, which was already cooling. Her fingers moved quickly and expertly to confirm the absence of any pulse. She climbed up on the white plastic chair, which had been righted. She took a small torch from her shoulder bag and shone it in the bulging eyes. Finally she produced a stethoscope and, unfastening the second button of the Dior shirt, held it to the hairy chest.
She jumped down from the chair, and stepped back towards Pujol and the Policia chief. The man is dead,' she said formally, in Spanish, to the grey eyebrows. He nodded emphatically as if to confirm her finding. `I'd say around two hours,' she explained to Pujol in English. She glanced at her watch. 'That would make it nine-thirty: about an hour before Bob found him.'
`How long would it take?' Pujol asked, wincing. He was pale; clearly, Sarah realised, unused or — odd for a policeman — unreconciled to violent death.
`Not long. He looks to have made a good job of it. That's a heavy knot, and the rope's been oiled to make the noose as tight as possible. I'd say he gave it some thought. Although he looks grotesque, all that facial stuffs reflex. He'd have lost consciousness in only a few seconds, not through strangulation but through pressure on the arteries, and he'd have been brain dead within five minutes. You can tell his wife, if she asks, that it didn't involve much pain. . apart from the mental pain that drove him to do it.'
Pujol took Sarah's hands in his. 'My dear, you have been most kind. The Guardia Civil will, of course, pay you a proper professional fee for your services.'
She smiled and shook her head. Old Pals Act, Arturo,' she said. For a second the dapper commandant looked puzzled, until he worked out the meaning of the saying. 'In that case, perhaps I offer you something in return. Would it interest you, professionally, to attend the postmortem? To see how we do things here? We have a good pathologist in Figueras, and I know he would be delighted to meet you. It will be on Monday morning at ten o'clock.'
Sarah's eyes widened with pleasure. `I'd be delighted, Arturo.' Suddenly a thought struck her. 'But what about. .?' She jerked a thumb surreptitiously toward the Policia chief, who had gone across to direct the untying of the knot and the lowering of Alberni's stiffening body from the pulley.
Pujol shook his head. 'No problem. As soon as that body crosses the L'Escala municipal limit, it's all mine. That clown has nothing to do with it from then on.'
`In that case, I'll see you on Monday.'
`Excellent. I will collect you at nine-thirty. Let us hope that Bob does not mind.'
Sarah laughed. 'Don't worry. Minding the baby's still a novelty for him! Long may it stay that way!'