At this time of day the market was practically deserted, only a handful of tourists were wandering among the stalls. I made some purchases, then crossed the road to the commercial centre where I could lose myself among the early-evening shoppers crowding the arcades and filling the cafés. I strolled into the building – and out by the back entrance. When I was sure I wasn’t being followed, I made my way to the police station, entering by an unobtrusive side door. I’d jot down some notes on the orchid farm and Grant’s behaviour while it was still fresh in my mind. It might also be worth asking my police colleagues if they knew of any ill-feeling between the Jardim’s owners and Grant.
The windows of my cubby-hole of an office face south. When I arrive in the morning, I usually make a point of opening the window and closing the louvred shutters, but today I hadn’t been in at all and the heat had built up. In an action replay of Grant’s measures for fast-cooling his cymbidium house, I flung the door and window wide open and for a few minutes leant on the sill gazing over the tumble of pantiled roofs and narrow alleys. On a rooftop clothes line, a green apron and faded blue trousers flapped in the stiff breeze blowing from the harbour; a couple of pigeons squatting on a nearby gutter were crooning love-notes to each other, and from the lane below the window drifted up the click click of hurrying heels on the cobbles.
I returned to my desk and was just finishing a rough sketch of the layout of the orchid farm, outlining the windowless building in red, when I noticed a closely typed sheet of paper lying on the floor between my desk and the window, blown off my desk by the artificial gale I’d created. I gave it a cursory glance as I scooped it up. It was a summary of the pathologist’s post-mortem report on Luís Gomes, translated into English for my benefit. Scrawled across the top of the report in the comandante’s aggressively spiky writing was, Explain, Smith!!
Explain? Explain what? My eyes raced down the page …
CAUSE OF DEATH:
Single stab wound in the back … long, narrow instrument, possibly a fish or meat skewer … Penetration of the heart …
TIME OF DEATH:
Post-mortem changes in the body … extent of rigor mortis … examination of corneal fluid … Estimated time of death not earlier than 0800 hours, not later than 1100 hours on Friday April 7.
I was puzzled. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the report. Nothing that would account for the comandante blowing her top as signified by that peremptory Explain, Smith!!
It was true that over the past month I had done little right in her eyes, and now she seemed to be blaming me for whatever it was that had been found at the post-mortem.
I read the report again, this time more slowly. If I had to go knocking at her office door asking her to explain, she’d take it as further clear evidence of my incompetence.
I was only on the third reading of the report that the import of the final sentence sank in. Estimated time of death not earlier than 0800 hours, not later than 1100 hours on Friday April 7.
Not later than 1100 hours … Stunned, I stared at the words in disbelief. When Luís had whispered to me, ‘Meet me três á tarde at the Beerhouse’, he was already dead!
CHAPTER FIVE
‘No, senhora, there is no doubt at all. This man cannot have been dead less than five hours. All our tests confirm it.’ Dr Palmeira’s tone was sharp. Clearly the pathologist was impatient to end the conversation and get on with his next grisly dissection. ‘Now, if you will excuse me….’ He turned and walked away.
There must be some explanation. At eleven o’clock Luís Gomes had been very much alive. At four in the afternoon I had been sure it was the eyes of Luís Gomes that had stared sightlessly up into mine from the bottom of the rescue boat, as sure of that as Dr Palmeira was of his conclusion that he’d died not later than eleven in the morning. Assuming he was correct about the time of death, the only possible explanation must be that the dead man was not Luís. I stared after the pathologist…. When the report had come into police HQ with his name on it, I had just accepted it, hadn’t given it another thought.
Before Palmeira could disappear into his clinical white-tiled world, I called after him, ‘One last question, doctor. Who made the formal identification?’
Not bothering to turn round, he called over his shoulder, ‘Ask at reception, senhora. The information is there.’
It was. Initial identification of the body had been from a credit card bearing Luís’s name and address. Formal identification had been made, not by the manager of the hotel, but by the closest of relatives, his mother. There was nothing for it but to do some gentle probing. Luís’s mother would have to be asked some delicate questions. That was why a couple of hours later, Gorgonzola and I were driving up to the mountain village of Boa Morte situated in the range of hills round Funchal that end abruptly at Cabo Girão, one of Europe’s tallest sea cliffs.
‘A case of mistaken identity, eh, Gorgonzola? Has to be.’ I could think of no other explanation for that time discrepancy.
There was no reply. Strapped into her harness, she was resting her paws on the window and staring down wistfully at the red roofs of the fishing village of Câmara de Lobos and the grey sea far, far below.
‘Still smelling the fish, G? If I’m right, there’s definitely something fishy going on here and if drugs are at the bottom of it, you’ll soon nose them out, won’t you?’
A loud purr signified assent – though that could have had something to do with the word ‘fish’.
I swerved to avoid a man walking up the road carrying a crate of cabbages on his shoulder, a reminder that such a narrow twisting road demanded my full attention. Pondering over why a mother might fail to identify her own son had to be put on hold.
Every inch of the almost vertical hillside was stepped with terraces of dark green interspersed with lighter green and the red-brown of bare earth. Across the valley a waterfall tumbled in a thin white line down a series of cliff faces plummeting finally into the depths of a barranco.
Peeeeeeeeep. The loud blast of a horn gave a second’s advance warning before a local bus careered towards me round the blind corner ahead, edging past with a loud hiss of compressed air from its brakes. Hairpin bend after hairpin bend, the road clung to the mountainside, narrowing as it climbed towards the top of the ridge of hills clothed in pine, eucalyptus, and a layer of dark-grey cloud.
‘Should have brought your raincoat, G,’ I said, as a scatter of drops bounced heavily off the bonnet, leaving their mark in the dust. ‘Luckily I’ve got mine.’
A flurry of rain hit the windscreen. I switched on the wipers and peered through the streaming glass at a signpost. Levada do Norte, Boa Morte. I turned into the road indicated, changing down into second gear for the hill ahead.
Five minutes later I drew to a halt at the crossroads that seemed to be the heart of the straggling village. Boa Morte translated as Good Death, but it hadn’t been a good death for the man they’d fished out of Funchal harbour. The misty drizzle that had replaced the torrential rain lent a suitably funereal air to the place. Droplets of water trickled like tears down the face of the statue of Nossa Senhora da Boa Morte gazing across the deserted street from her wall shrine of discoloured green and blue tiles.
The only sign of life was the open door of the one public building, a little bar-cum-shop. I’d been given no specific address for Luís’s mother. I’d ask for directions in there. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could make out a long low wooden counter and the dull gleam of bottles on shelves.
A voice spoke softly from the shadows. ‘Bom dia.’
‘I was wondering if you could tell me—’
A man rose from the stool behind the counter. ‘If it is the levada you want, senhora—’
My turn to interrupt. ‘No, no, I am looking for the house of Senhora Gomes.’
He rubbed his bristly chin. ‘The name is common here.’
‘It is the senhora whose son died four days ago.’
A silence. From the gloom came the
sharp click click click of rosary beads.
‘Senhora Carmella Gomes has her house on the levada, but it is not a good time to visit the poor lady.’
It was a struggle to understand the thick local accent, but his meaning was clear. He did not want me to call upon Senhora Gomes.
I chose my words carefully. ‘Of course, senhor. I would not wish to trouble the lady at such a time, but I spoke with Luís a few hours before he died, and …’ I let the sentence trail away. The inference that she’d want to hear what I had to say sank into the silence.
Click Click Click Click. The worry beads metronomed into action once more.
I waited. Any more pressure would be counter-productive and end in a point-blank refusal to divulge the information.
After subjecting his grey bristles to another going over, he seemed to come to a decision. ‘You take the road going up the hill. When you reach the levada, turn left.’ A machine-gun rattle of the beads. ‘You’ll find the senhora’s house half a mile along the levada, after the tunnel.’
He sank back onto his stool. As I left the bar, the beads clicked into action once again.
A weak shaft of sunlight was shining into the watchful eyes of Nossa Senhora da Boa Morte. The low cloud had moved on from the mountain tops, but the cloud of grump over Gorgonzola’s head was decidedly black. She hated being left in the car when there was a world out there to explore. Placatory titbit of a crunchy cat biscuit administered, I drove slowly up the road that the barman had indicated and parked on a flat patch of ground next to the levada.
The Levada do Norte is part of the old irrigation system that brings down water from the interior mountain range to the coastal plain. Alongside the channel ran the narrow maintenance path used by walkers and hikers. Wearing her working collar, G strolled ahead of me on the beaten earth track beside the narrow concrete channel. The tip of her tail twitched as she investigated clumps of strap-leaved agapanthus, the patches of clear-yellow oxalis and wild purple pea that edged the path. Around us the mountain slopes were clothed in pine and silvery eucalyptus arrowing their pencil-thin trunks to a blue sky scattered with clouds. The only sounds were the scuff of my shoes on the hard earth of the path and the distant bark of a dog.
Fifteen minutes or so along the levada and with perhaps quarter of a mile to go before I would reach the tunnel, an alcove shrine to the Virgin was built into the wall of a house. In her role of Our Lady of Sorrows she gazed mournfully back at me reminding me of the delicacy of the forthcoming interview. To speak to a mother grieving over the sudden death of a son was a difficult enough task, but how was I going to suggest to Senhora Gomes that her son might not in fact be dead? I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.
I tickled the back of Gorgonzola’s ears as she sat on the wall grooming her fur. ‘C’mon, G, we’d better be moving.’
Obediently she gave a last lick at her paw, stretched lazily, and jumped down, not onto the path but into the garden.
Yip yip yip. A small brown dog shot from under an almond tree frothy with blossom and leapt forward tugging at its chain. With a provocative twitch of her tail, G stalked slowly past, just out of reach. Before she could embarrass me further by bringing out the owner, I hurried on along the levada, knowing that having made her point, she would follow.
A volley of barking pursued us past a second house with its lichened pantiled roof level with the levada path. Beneath an apple tree in pink bud, a washing line of faded blue jeans, yellow T-shirt, assorted socks and a cotton bedsheet drooped soggily, as wet, or wetter, than when first hung out.
A gust of wind sent a scatter of withered eucalyptus leaves into the silently flowing water of the levada. They kept pace with me as I followed the concrete channel that hugged the rock face in a lazy curve across the wooded mountainside. Up to now the path had been broad and level with a wide border of low bushes and long grass acting as a natural safety barrier against the sheer drop to the valley hundreds of metres below, but when I rounded a jutting shoulder of rock, although the path was still broad, it had lost that comforting buffer of vegetation. I’ve a good head for heights, so it did not trouble me unduly. What did, was the bulge of rock face overhanging the water channel. The path tapered away to practically nothing. Two hundred metres beyond the bulge, I could see the dark mouth of the tunnel, but to get there I’d have to edge past the overhang on a ledge barely the width of a kitchen shelf.
I stopped. The directions of Worry-bead Man in Boa Morte had been precise. You take the road going up the hill. When you reach the levada, turn left. Could I have got it wrong? After all, his accent had been difficult to understand. No, there was no way I would have mixed up esquerda, left, with direita, right. And he’d definitely said I’d find the house half a mile along the levada, after the tunnel. Well, I’d turned left, and I’d found the tunnel, but no sane person would contemplate continuing along such a path. Certainly not Senhora Gomes, a middle-aged housewife with her carrier bags of shopping.
Gorgonzola brushed past me. For her, the tiny ledge held no terrors. Moth-eaten tail held aloft, she was moving confidently forward, as graceful as a fashion model gliding along the catwalk sporting an avant-garde fur accessory.
‘Come back, G,’ I called. ‘Somebody’s being playing silly buggers with us.’ It was clear that Worry-bead Man had not wanted me to find Senhora Gomes’s house. The question was why? Had it been merely because he didn’t want a grieving mother disturbed? Well, there was no way of telling, and there was nothing for it now but to retrace my steps.
As we neared the house with the chained dog, I produced G’s harness.
‘For cats who can’t be trusted, G,’ I said. She had the grace to look guilty as I clipped on the lead.
I’d trot past the house at a speed that would keep her from straying from the straight and narrow. Best laid plans and all that.
An old woman dressed from head to toe in black was leaning on the gate. ‘Bom dia, senhora.’
I returned the greeting, casting a surreptitious look over her shoulder for the chained dog. Gorgonzola could withstand only so much temptation. ‘Nothing less than perfect behaviour, G,’ I muttered.
The woman clutched at my arm and peered at me short-sightedly. ‘The senhora must take care. This levada is not good to walk a dog. Near to the tunnel it is very dangerous. Only last week, two tourists were killed when they fell from the path.’ Turning towards the Virgin nestled in the alcove, she made the sign of the cross.
‘Obrigada, thank you for the warning, senhora. I think I took the wrong turning. I was looking for the house of Carmella Gomes. Perhaps you can tell me if it is along this way?’
‘Yes, senhora. Carmella’s house is on the levada.’ Her hand clutched again at my sleeve, as with her right she made another slow sign of the cross. ‘May Our Lady of Sorrows, who knows what it is to lose a son, bring comfort in her hour of darkness.’
I muttered something appropriate and gave a warning tug at the lead as Gorgonzola gathered herself in preparation to jump up onto the wall, the perfect vantage point to survey enemy territory.
Now was the chance to gain more information. Women of all ages and nationalities love nothing more than a good gossip.
‘He was a good son to the poor lady?’
‘Ah, senhora, that is where we do not understand the ways of God.’ She crossed herself again. ‘The son who brings dishonour to the name of Gomes lives; the son who was an angel to his mother dies. The Lord gives and the Lord takes. Only Our Lady understands.’
‘Perhaps the son whom God has spared is young and foolish, but will now mend his ways,’ I said.
‘If it were only so.’ A heavy sigh followed another energetic signing of the cross. ‘Roberto is her first born.’ Though there was no one in sight along the levada, she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Alas, that one is a slave to the evil powder, senhora. The young today are—’
A violent tug pulled the lead from my fingers as G took the opportunity to put into operatio
n a plan of her own. A leap and a scrabble, and she was sitting on the wall ready to taunt the enemy.
‘Down, G.’ I made a grab at the trailing lead.
When there were no retaliatory barks from the other side of the wall, I relaxed. The dog must be asleep.
‘Senhora,’ I said, ‘can you tell me how far—?’
I never did get an answer to my question for a loud provocative purrrrr from G triggered a strident yip yip yip yip yip and frenzied rattling of chain from the other side of the wall, making further conversation impossible. G and I beat a hasty retreat along the levada.
‘That was really naughty, G,’ I scolded. ‘If it hadn’t been for that little interruption of yours, I might have learned more about Roberto Gomes.’
A twitch of the tail and a wide yawn made it clear that she was unrepentant. The message was plain: a cat has to do what a cat has to do.
I arrived back at the road that led down to Boa Morte. Here, Worry-bead Man had told me to turn left. This time I turned right, and fifteen minutes walk along the levada, brought me to a small cottage. Nailed to the gate was a wooden board with the name Gomes in faded black lettering. At first sight the little house appeared unoccupied, curtains tightly closed, no smoke spiralling out of the chimney, no sign of life whatsoever. Senhora Gomes must have gone to stay with a relative.
For some minutes I stood on the path with my hand on the gate. My journey had been a waste of time. I’d half-turned to make my way back along the levada, when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed an infinitesimal movement of a curtain. Somebody was at home after all. I pushed open the gate.
I suppose you might describe the garden as a sort of Mediterranean potager: blue firework-bursts of agapanthus heads, purple spears of gladioli, white arum trumpets as smooth as silk, and a pink rose, exotic for Madeira, mingling happily with the rough foliage of cabbages and potatoes.
Suspects All ! Page 6