I hadn’t yet decided how I was going to handle the difficult meeting with Luís’s mother. I’d just have to play it by ear. I unclipped G’s lead, stuffed the harness in my bag, and replaced it with her working collar.
‘You know what to do,’ I said.
With a pert waggle of her rear that signified, ‘You’re talking to a pro’, she threaded her way through a clump of arum lilies. If Luís’s brother had stashed any drugs, she’d soon nose them out.
The shadow of a cloud flitted across the sunlit path, dulling the glint of upturned green bottles buried neck-down in the red earth. Perhaps Luís had collected those empty bottles from the bar to use as an artistic decorative edging. An ancient pine, devoid of needles except for its topmost branches, twisted arthritic limbs low over the pantiled roof, its huge grey cones black against the sky like a huddle of roosting birds.
‘Senhora Gomes,’ I called. Again the curtain twitched. ‘Senhora Gomes,’ I called again.
I heard the rattle of a key in the lock, and the door opened a cautious few centimetres.
‘Who is it? What do you want?’ The voice was wary.
‘I worked beside your son at the hotel.’ This was only a slight exaggeration. ‘I have something to tell you.’ What that was, I had no idea. I hoped inspiration would strike if I managed to draw her into conversation.
The door swung open. Against the gloom of the interior, her funereal clothes rendered her almost invisible. A pale disembodied face, eyes red with weeping, appeared to float in the darkness. For a moment she said nothing. Then she stepped back and beckoned me in.
She closed the door behind me. I heard the sound of the key being turned. In a country where people do not normally lock their doors, it was a sign that Senhora Gomes was afraid of visitors. As I stood letting my eyes become accustomed to the gloom, she brushed past me and threw open the window shutters. Light flooded in, revealing a sparsely furnished kitchen-living room: a sink with a single plate and cup on the draining board, and above it, two shelves displaying a row of earthenware plates and cups. Four wicker-seated chairs were set round a heavy wooden table. The only other furniture in the room was a low cupboard. On it stood a vase of arum lilies, a black-framed photograph of her dead son – and, startling alien anachronism in a setting reminiscent of a Brueghel interior, a modern telephone, no doubt provided by Roberto. In the drug world speedy communication is essential.
She pulled out a chair and motioned me to take another. The woman was younger than I expected. Thick black hair, as yet without a trace of grey, was swept back from an oval face and secured with a black ribbon. On her lap her work-roughened hands kneaded a sodden handkerchief.
‘It is hard for a mother to lose a son,’ I said.
When she made no reply, I reached for the black-framed photograph and set it down on the table between us. ‘Never to see him again….’
I let the silence grow.
While she dabbed at her swollen eyes with the tiny square of cloth, I reached over again and picked up another framed picture standing half-hidden by the vase of flowers. It could have been a photo of the same man. But it wasn’t.
The resemblance was striking, but my training in facial recognition enabled me to pinpoint slight differences: the shape of an earlobe, the distance between the eyes, the shape of the lips – things that would have gone unnoticed by most. With the two photos side by side, it was easy.
She was watching me, fear in her eyes.
‘It is harder still, senhora, when that son is her first-born,’ I said gently. I held up the black-framed picture. ‘This is not Luís.’ I waited for her reaction.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘And I can prove it.’
An animal wail that lifted the hairs on the back of my neck filled the small room.
‘My son is dead,’ she sobbed.
I held her gaze. ‘It is as I thought. Luís was in danger because he was going to speak to the police. If the killers think he is dead, he will be safe.’
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
‘A friend of Luís. I wish to help him, if you’ll let me, senhora.’
She sat there, eyes wide, hand still pressed to mouth. For some minutes neither of us spoke. Through the open window the chime of a clock striking the hour drifted faintly up from the valley below. I waited.
‘Who–are–you?’ the words sank into the heavy silence like pebbles into a still pool.
‘My job is to fight drug crime.’ I took her hand. ‘You must help me find the men who killed Roberto – before they find Luís.’
Apart from a sharp intake of breath, she made no response.
‘Believe me, senhora, Luís is in great danger. These men are ruthless. Roberto is beyond your help, Luís is not.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Her face flushed. ‘My Roberto was – is – a good boy. I will hear nothing bad against him. Nothing, do you hear? It is Luís who is in his grave.’ She jumped up with such force that her chair toppled backwards with a crash. ‘I must ask you to go now and leave a mother to her grief.’
The instinct to protect the reputation of her dead son was blinding her to the danger Luís was in. Slowly I rose to my feet. I’d gone too far, overplayed my hand.
She ran over to the door and flung it open. ‘Go, senhora!’
I made one last attempt. ‘If you hear from Luís’ – I pointed at the telephone – ‘tell him—’
‘How can I hear anything from the grave, senhora? You must not come again.’
There was nothing else I could do. To prolong my stay, would be a gross intrusion. With a sigh I stepped out onto the path.
At that moment of defeat I felt the receiver in my pocket vibrate. It was picking up the low crooning purr from Gorgonzola, the signal she had been trained to give when she detected drugs. I pulled it out of my pocket and studied the readout. Close, very close, five metres away. I turned till the flashing location indicator pulsed red, directing me to the source. There could be no mistake, G and the drugs were somewhere inside the house.
‘Roberto kept bad company, Senhora Gomes. And this’ – I held up the receiver – ‘proves it.’
Before she could block my way, I brushed past her and re-entered the house. The door of the adjoining room was slightly ajar. From inside came the faint rumble of G’s crooning purr.
‘Let me show you,’ I said, and pushed open the door.
Apart from a couple of gold-framed religious prints hanging on the wall, this room was as sparsely furnished as the kitchen-living room. A brass double bed filled most of it, leaving space only for an armoire wardrobe and the most amazing three-tier metal ring washstand. Above the white porcelain bowl with blue floral design, the metal looped ornately round to clasp a porcelain-framed oval mirror, two curved tendrils branching off to form perfect towel hooks. The second tier held a small soap dish, and on the bottom ring stood a matching water jug in a bowl.
On top of the wardrobe crouched a smugly purring Gorgonzola.
‘Where are you going? What do you think you’re d—?’ At the sight of the scruffy cat making itself at home in her bedroom, Senhora Gomes’s protests terminated in a small scream.
‘This animal has been trained to detect drugs, senhora.’ I stepped over to the wardrobe. ‘Move over, G,’ I said.
She leapt lightly onto the bed and I reached up and lifted down the suitcase. Judging by its weight, I – or rather G – had made quite a find, ten kilos perhaps. I opened the lid, watching Senhora Gomes as I did so. The blood drained from her face at the sight of the neat packages lined up inside. Eyes wide, she stared at the case like a terrified rabbit mesmerized by a predatory stoat.
‘Nao, Roberto, nao.’ It was a cry of despair, a cry of anguish that no one could fake.
I sat her down on the bed and put an arm round her shaking shoulders. ‘On the day that those men killed Roberto, Luís was going to tell me something.’ I pulled her round to look at me. ‘I have to speak to him, senhora. He is i
n grave danger. When you see him, if he phones you, tell him he can leave a message for me at the Massaroco Hotel. I am Senhora Smith. He knows when I will be there.’
I could only hope that this assignation with Luís would be more successful than the last.
CHAPTER SIX
Late that afternoon I sat in my cupboard of an office at Police HQ, staring at the battered green suitcase on my desk, trying to decide what to do. I should, of course, hand it in to the comandante with a report, but I was reluctant to do so. Undoubtedly her response would not be subtle. She’d order a Shock-and-Awe armed raid on the Gomes house. Poor Senhora Gomes would be bundled into a police car and hauled off for questioning. Luís would go to ground, and with him, any hope of solving the case.
The blades of the ceiling fan moved slowly overhead, barely stirring the heavy air. Out in the corridor a door slammed. I came to a decision. Pulling open a drawer, I rummaged till I found an evidence label. I filled in location and date and attached it to the suitcase together with my report. Then I shoved the whole lot into the narrow gap between the filing cabinet and the wall. I’d bring it to the comandante’s attention at a time when it wouldn’t throw a spanner in the works.
Satisfied that the suitcase and its contents would be quite safe, I switched off the fan and closed the door behind me. It was time to head off to my little gingerbread house and relax.
Gorgonzola welcomed me back by twining herself affectionately round my legs as I walked up the path. I made up a rum poncha with a slug of orange juice, then G and I climbed the wooden stairs to the little balcony with its screening curtain of wisteria. From here I could look out over the busy main road and the pavements of strolling pedestrians to the broad sweep of Funchal Bay. I sat on the wicker rocking chair sipping the poncha and reviewing the day’s events. Eyes closed, G lay on my knee drooling and twitching, carried away in some feline dream.
I was half asleep too when the blare of car horns brought me sharply awake. At first I wasn’t going to disturb G’s slumber over something silly like a prohibited U-turn on the road, but curiosity got the better of me.
‘Sorry about this, G.’ I lifted her off my lap and deposited her on a chair.
Sure enough, a car was guiltily straightening itself up from a U-turn. I was just about to sit down again, when I saw the spikily gelled blond hair of Charles Mason. He was walking quickly along the far pavement in the direction of town. The body language, the way he brushed past the pedestrians, almost elbowing them out of his path, showed he was a man with a mission. And fifty metres behind was Zara Porter-Browne. Dark glasses hid her eyes, but the large floppy hat hanging low over her face didn’t quite conceal those emerald green locks. When Mason stopped to allow a car out of a hotel driveway, she darted behind one of the thick-trunked eucalyptus trees lining the pavement. When he hurried on, she came out from her hiding place and followed at a discreet distance. Interesting.
‘Life’s full of little surprises, eh, Gorgonzola?’ I said, and thoughtfully resumed my lazy rocking.
Next morning I decided G and I would pay a visit to Celia Haxby – or rather to her room at the Massaroco Hotel. I knew she wouldn’t be there as she was touring the cellars of Blandy’s Wine Lodge. I reckoned I had about an hour and a half before there was any danger of her returning.
‘An ideal opportunity, G, to have a sniff around, don’t you think?’ I fetched her working collar and dangled it in front of her.
She stretched, yawned, and sat up. A few minutes later we were speeding along the Estrada Monumental. At the hotel I parked under the shade of a spreading kapok tree, and pulled out the hated cat-carrier from the boot.
‘Box time, I’m afraid, G.’ I held the door open invitingly, keeping my fingers crossed that she wouldn’t create too much of a fuss. The working collar did the trick. Duty was Duty. With a loud miaow signifying, ‘I hope you appreciate I’m only doing this because I want to,’ she got in.
I left her in the car and made a quick reconnoitre through the foyer. The key to room 316 was lying in its pigeonhole behind the reception desk. The coast was clear. I wasn’t going to risk a face-to-face encounter with Dorothy Winterton or even Haxby herself. The fact that she’d left her key at reception was no guarantee that she had actually gone on the trip to Blandy’s so, cat-carrier in hand, I slipped through the swing doors to the service stairs. I make it a practice not to use a lift in hotels or apartments unless it’s absolutely necessary.
When I search a room, it’s not a quick flip through the contents and out. It’s essential to leave everything exactly as found. Ninety minutes would soon slip by. Therefore I didn’t pause to listen to raised voices as I passed the service door to the second floor. What stopped me in my tracks was Zara Porter-Browne’s high-pitched trilling laugh. It cut through the metal door as cleanly as the hot flame of an oxyacetylene torch through steel plate. I nipped back and eased the door open a fraction.
‘… and you didn’t count on me following you to that restaurant last night, did you, Chas? Never once looked back. Too intent on making it with your next meal ticket, were you?’
‘I won’t tell you again, Browne. Get out of my way. I’m warning you!’
‘Or what, Mr Ro-ll-ex? Another soaring trill of laughter. ‘Spaghetti, tee hee hee, hanging from your ears, tomato sauce dribbling down your face and off the end of your nose! Spoilt your cosy tête-à-tête with little Miss Moneybags, did I? I can’t wait, Chas, to put those shots on You Tube.’ Tee hee – ow!
‘You silly bitch.’
‘You’re hurting me, Chas. Ow! You’ll break my arm! Ow!’
I’d have to do something. I put the cat carrier down and prepared to walk casually in on them.
Charles’s response to her cries was a mocking laugh. ‘This is nothing to what I’ll do if you mess—’ His yelp of pain told me that Zara was in no need of rescue.
‘I’ll be watching you, Chas. Try your tricks on anybody else and you know what to expect.’ The tap tap tap tap of high-heeled sandals receded unhurriedly along the corridor.
I picked up the cat carrier and continued up the service stairs. ‘No need to worry about her. She can look after herself – just like you, G.’
I turned my thoughts back to the task in hand: the search of Haxby’s room. Instinct told me Celia with her loud paintings and her equally loud ego was up to no good. Instinct is something I never ignore.
I pushed open the service door on the third floor. The corridor was deserted. I stepped smartly along to 316 and tapped on the door. You can’t afford to take anything for granted in my line of work. I counted to twenty and knocked again, excuse at the ready. No reply. I inserted my electronic picklock and I was in.
Once we were safely inside, I opened the carrier and let Gorgonzola explore. I’d expected some sign of painterly activity, but was surprised to see a whole row of pictures stacked in twos leaning against the wall opposite the bed. I’d seen the speed with which Haxby had covered a canvas in splodges of paint, but it was astonishing to find that in the five days she’d been in Madeira she had completed no fewer than six paintings. I flicked through them.
The first one, of the ‘splodge and smear’ school, brought to mind the artist Howard Hodgson. ‘Pleasing and possibly mood evoking, these colours, eh, G?’
She sat down in front the picture, head on one side. After a few moments’ consideration of the orange, yellow, green and aubergine splashes, she yawned dismissively.
‘Not up to your standard, is it? You could have produced one of these in five minutes.’
G was one of the rare ‘cats that paint’. On four notable occasions in the past, she had shown herself to be equally artistic. Another yawn and she wandered over to give a once-over to something more interesting, Haxby’s gaudy multi-coloured smock hanging over the back of a chair.
Behind the Jackson Pollock look-alike picture was that spectacularly awful Gaugin-cum-Van Gogh I had seen her working on in the garden. I carefully replaced both paintings as I’d fo
und them and turned to the next stack. A scene of fishing boats drawn up on a foreshore was probably the fruits of those visits to Câmara de Lobos.
Behind that picture was a sombre study in muddy greens and greys of rolling hills. I picked it up and studied it. Haxby couldn’t have set her easel in front of this sort of landscape in Madeira.… There were enough views here to keep any artist busy, so why would she…? Anything that breaks an expected pattern, I file away carefully for future reference.
Still life studies formed the third stack. One, very small, was a realistic and quite pleasing composition depicting a giant teacup towering pinkly over a slab of raw fish and assorted unidentifiable objects. The other was, in my eyes, a rather childish drawing with poor perspective, the sort of thing that gives Art a bad name: two vases of flowers and a goblet appeared to hover over a yellow table on which lay, in weird combination, an apple, a rose and a banana.
I stood back and surveyed the stacks of paintings. This conveyor-belt production implied that there must be a market for them.
‘Whatever turns you on, eh, G?’ I said, looking to see what she was up to.
Having finished an unproductive recce of the room, and now bored with the proceedings, she had turned her attention to the portable easel propped in a corner near the window and was standing, front legs braced on the wood. Another couple of seconds and she’d be clawing vigorously at that expensive piece of equipment.
‘No, Gorgonzola.’ The intended nail filing was converted to a swipe at an imaginary fly.
Ugly scratch marks would hardly go unnoticed by Haxby on her return – they’d be a sure giveaway that somebody had been in the room. I could visualize all too clearly the interrogation of the maid, indignant protestations, the summoning of the manager … Just the knowledge that there had been an intruder would be damage enough. Haxby wouldn’t have to find out who it had been.
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