Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

‘That was really bad of you, G,’ I said reproachfully.

  She must have thought so too, for she crept guiltily into the cat-carrier without any of the usual fuss. It was while I was bending down securing its door that I spotted the corner of a leaflet lodged between the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. Another of my rules is never to leave a promising stone unturned – or a piece of paper unread. I fished it out. It was merely a pricelist of artists’ works, the sort of thing that private art galleries provide for prospective buyers at an exhibition. Well, can’t win them all. I slipped it back where I’d found it.

  Mind occupied with the near-disaster of the damaged easel, I stepped out into the corridor. And only just avoided bumping into Dorothy Winterton on her way to her room on the same floor.

  Her startled, ‘Oh!’ synchronized with my gasp of, ‘Sorry, I didn’t—’

  In a reflex action I swung round, concealing the cat-carrier with my body and pulled the door shut, at the same time calling out, ‘OK, Celia, I’ll see to that and let you know tomorrow.’ With a nod and a smile to Mrs Winterton, I headed back along the corridor.

  There’d be time to deliver G to the gingerbread house before I nipped back to the hotel for my office hour. It was while I was driving along the Estrada Monumental that an unwelcome thought occurred to me. By addressing that departing remark to the absent Celia I’d probably increased the chances of Dorothy Winterton bringing up the subject of my visit at one of their tea-and-cake sessions. I had taken a calculated risk. Perhaps I’d just succeeded in drawing unwelcome attention to myself….

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I hadn’t bargained for a traffic snarl-up on the road to the hotel, so I walked into the Mimosa Bar for my office hour a bit later than planned. It was already quite crowded with late-morning snackers or early lunchers. I took up my position near the counter-bar, ready to give advice or deal with problems, but today nobody was waiting to consult me. At the opposite side of the room Zara Porter-Browne sat hunched and brooding over a long drink. She was shooting malevolent glances in the direction of the terrace where Charles Mason had joined Dorothy Winterton for afternoon tea. A charming smile and easy laugh are tools of the conman’s trade and he was employing them to the full with total disregard of the threatened repercussions from Zara.

  He was certainly not the type to socialize with lonely elderly females, chivalry being a concept foreign to his understanding. That made two of us wondering what he was up to. I made it my business to find out. From my briefcase I selected a leaflet on the lava caves at São Vicente and wandered casually in their direction. Keeping my back turned to Dorothy and Charles, I stopped at a nearby table ostensibly to chat with the couple sitting there. They had been a little apprehensive about taking a trip on the Monte toboggan – a high-backed wicker bench on sledge runners. Two men in traditional whites and straw boater hats steer this flimsy carriage down a twisting narrow road into the centre of Funchal, braking the headlong rush by the friction of their boots. As George launched into an enthusiastic account of how they had careered down the steep tarmac road meeting on-coming cars and trucks, I nodded and smiled at appropriate intervals. My real interest, however, was in the conversation going on at the table behind me….

  ‘Really?’ Dorothy sounded more than a bit bored. She wasn’t going to be the easy pushover that Charles had no doubt envisaged. ‘Well, I’ve not got any spare cash to invest.’

  ‘That’s just it, you get ninety per cent return.’ The sincerity in Charles’s voice was calculated to reassure and smooth away any doubts. ‘You see, the secret is—’ The rest of what he said was drowned out by a re-enactment of the scariest bit of the toboggan ride, complete with Susan’s mini-scream and George’s white-knuckle grip of the table edge.

  If I lingered a bit longer, I could eavesdrop a bit more, so I spread out the São Vicente cave leaflet in front of them. ‘After all that excitement, the excursion to these caves may seem a bit tame, but I can certainly recommend it. You’ll find them a very interesting experience. It’s not just a walk through caves, you see. There are entertaining effects like a make-believe journey to the earth’s core and a river of lava, and illustrations of the famous volcanic eruptions at Pompeii and Krakatoa.’

  Behind me Dorothy was saying, ‘I am a bit of a wine connoisseur as you guessed, and that does sound as if it has interesting possibilities. But …’

  ‘You just can’t lose.’ The confidence in Charles’s voice would have convinced the most swithering Doubting Thomas. ‘There’s always more demand than supply for reliably fine Bordeaux wines like Château Lafitte. But I don’t have to tell you that.’

  George was saying, ‘Sounds OK. We’ll let you know when we want to go.’

  I couldn’t prolong my conversation with George and Susan any longer. I made my way back to my seat pondering whether I should warn Dorothy about Charles and his little schemes. I didn’t like the thought of such a vulnerable elderly lady falling victim to a glib conman’s scam.

  Zara was slumped at her table, still nursing a drink, still glowering in the direction of the deliberately provocative Charles. As I watched, she slammed down the empty glass, shoved back her chair and made her way somewhat unsteadily to the bar. After she’d made two unsuccessful attempts to clamber up onto a high stool, I came to her rescue.

  ‘Awkward things, bar stools, aren’t they?’ I said, heaving her up onto the seat.

  Ignoring me, she slurred. ‘How ’bout ’nother poncha-n-orange, Mar-Marshio?’

  ‘I don’t think you—’ I began, but I needn’t have tried to intervene.

  Márcio instantly adopted the barman’s ostrich-head-in-sand manoeuvre for avoiding a tricky situation. Keeping his gaze firmly averted from Zara, he developed an intense interest in the glass he was polishing, holding it up and examining it for microscopic specks or smears.

  Zara gazed blearily at him for a few moments, swaying gently. Suddenly she toppled sideways. I made a grab for her, but she pushed me away.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Deboah. I’m pefekly capa-bib-le of taking off my shandal.’ She reached down and whipped it off.

  Whap whap whap. Her shoe-assault on the bar top had no effect on Márcio, but was certainly a conversation-stopper for the rest of those in the Mimosa Bar. Silence fell and all heads turned.

  ‘They’ve run out of poncha, Zara,’ I shouted above the thwacks. ‘How about a coffee instead?’

  She abandoned her sandal in mid-whap and turned to stare at me. ‘Wha-at?’

  ‘Two black coffees, Márcio – large,’ I called.

  Deafness miraculously cured, he busied himself at the espresso machine at the far end of the bar. He slid two cups of black coffee across the counter. I put one in Zara’s unresisting hands, and the other one in front of her. She buried her nose in the cup. I waited patiently.

  Eventually I broke the silence. ‘I can see you’re a bit upset about something, Zara,’ I said, feeling my way carefully. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I thought I had it made, gave him thousands of euros – a deposit for a pad for us. Then I saw that bloody watch … I knew then he was no good. But it was too late….’ She took a gulp of coffee. ‘What a nerve he’s got. Even filed an insurance claim when he said he’d lost the bloody thing. He’s wearing that piece of rubbish now.’ A muffled, ‘The guy’s a prick!’ drifted out from behind a curtain of green hair.

  I looked across the room. Mason’s sales pitch was in full flow. With each expansive gesture, his cuff slipped back to reveal what at this distance did indeed seem to be the maligned ‘Rollex’.

  After a moment she sighed, shook back the screen of hair, and picked up the cup. Her gaze followed mine. ‘The little shit! One day he’ll get what’s coming to him.’

  I tried a few sympathetic noises and gentle probing, but got nothing else out of her.

  Coffee cups drained to the last dregs, she muttered a vague, ‘Thanks’, and wandered off morosely without a backward glance at Charles an
d his new companion. I’d just have to wait and see if the fall-out from her feud with Charles would help or hinder my investigations.

  The message came as I was stuffing papers into my briefcase at the end of my office hour.

  ‘Phone call for you, senhora.’ Márcio held up the receiver and motioned me to come behind the bar.

  I’d asked Luís to contact me, but this morning’s search of Celia’s room, speculation about conman Charles’s motives for befriending Dorothy Winterton, and Zara’s recent antics had pushed that to the back of my mind. So it took a second or two to register what the voice at the other end of the line was saying.

  ‘Senhora Smith?’ The whisper was barely audible.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘You spoke to my mother yesterday.’

  Luís.

  ‘I must meet you, senhora.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said tone casual, and smiled for the benefit of anyone that might be taking too close an interest.

  ‘We meet in Monte Gardens at five fifteen, just before they close the gates.’

  The garden covered a huge area so we’d have to rendezvous at a particular spot. ‘Where do you suggest we meet?’

  ‘At the big lake. Senhora, I must go now, the.…’ His words became an indecipherable mutter.

  ‘Just a moment, L—’ I stopped myself just in time from saying his name. ‘Where exactly—?’ But a click told me that he’d hung up.

  Though outwardly calm, as I gathered up my papers my heart was racing. This could be the breakthrough I so desperately needed. I glanced at my watch. It was now quarter past one. That gave me plenty of time to go back to Police HQ, write up my report on today’s events and make the rendezvous.

  I could have taken the cable-car up to Monte but Comandante Figueira’s only too predictable response to that expense would have been to snap, ‘What is this nonsense, Sshmit? My officers do not behave like tourists, spending many euros on luxury travel. I refuse to sanction such extravagance.’ The next second I’d see the offending expense chit brusquely stamped with ‘Claim denied!’

  So that left the public bus – crowded and inconveniently timed for my rendezvous – or my own car. I didn’t have to think twice: I’d need the car. After all, I couldn’t tell where I might be going after the rendezvous in Monte Gardens.

  Before long I was regretting my decision. The heavy traffic and the steeply twisting narrow road, barely wide enough to enable two cars to pass, made a mockery of the road sign wishing Boa Viagem. If I’d taken the bus, instead of having to keep my mind on the driving, I could have dozed, let my mind wander, or read a newspaper all the way up to Monte.

  While I waited in a tailback, the result of a fiendishly noisy municipal refuse truck edging its way teeth-grittingly slowly past a couple of parked cars, I got the chance to speculate about what Luís might say to me. Revenge would be uppermost in his mind. He’d be ready to tell me all he knew or suspected, nothing held back. Where would the trail lead? ‘Everyone has his secrets’, the comandante had said. ‘Peel away each layer like an onion.’ Well, I’d unpeeled a few layers here and there, and not come up with much. My best bet so far seemed to be David Grant and that nondescript, windowless building at the rear of those greenhouses of his….

  The car in front lurched into life. I switched my attention back to the road, and ten minutes later the name on the bus stop sign changed to Monte, an indication that I hadn’t far to go. In spite of the traffic holdups, I was early. I’d have time for a leisurely stroll through the themed gardens as I made my way to the lake.

  I nudged into a parking space underneath the huge plane tree in Largo da Fonte square. Everything depended on Luís making the rendezvous. He was our only lead, and the comandante was expecting me to report back on the meeting. But if once again he failed to turn up….

  I locked the car, and set off along the cobbled lane past the picturesque grey and white church. At the foot of its steps a few straw-hatted toboggan men were lounging, waiting for custom beside the wicker sledges, though most had given up for the day. I had expected no queues at the ticket booth so close to closing time, but when I rounded the corner to the entrance I was dismayed to find the ticket kiosk besieged by a mob of excited cruise passengers on a specially organized evening visit. At the slow rate the tickets were being dispensed.…

  ‘Excuse me.’ I pushed politely at a broad back clad in a hideously patterned shirt.

  ‘Wait your turn, buster.’ He didn’t turn round.

  I gave a gentle tug at the awful shirt. ‘I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry. Can you just let me—’

  ‘We’re all in a hurry. Something wrong with your ears?’ The red neck bulging over the collar deepened in colour. ‘Stand in line.’ He shuffled sideways to block my attempt to sidle past. Short of felling him with a blow to the back of the knee, there was nothing I could do to jump the queue.

  Five minutes passed … eight … ten…. Now I’d have to hurry through the garden to make it in time. A nervous Luís would wait only so long. If I missed him, the comandante’s sibilants would once again scythe through the air with the swish of scimitar blades. ‘Luís Gomes was our best lead. And you have, as you English say, blowed it. You are useless! Utterly useless, Sshmit!’

  At last I reached the ticket window, slapped down a euro note that more than covered the entrance fee and made my way through the gate. The cruise group were clustered on the entrance terrace, wandering round the ancient gnarled olive trees and giant terracotta jars. I hurried past them and walked briskly down into the ravine, an enclosed world where railings and pillars of flyover bridges slashed scarlet red through the mingled greens of ferns, laurels and palms. Tightly furled fronds of giant ferns like elaborately engraved bishops’ crosiers showered me with drops of moisture as I brushed past; hidden birds peeped and twittered; water trickled and gurgled.

  The garden seemed to have swallowed up all other visitors, and I risked breaking into a run, the thud of my feet on the path loud in my ears. At last I caught my first glimpse of the sparkle of water from the lake. The rendezvous was only a couple of minutes away.

  A few minutes later I leant on the railing of the viewpoint terrace to catch my breath and scan the shores of the lake fifteen metres below. ‘At the big lake …’ Luís had said, and rung off without being more specific. A tiny island linked to the shore by an ornamental bridge held only tree ferns and a neat little terracotta-roofed swan house. No one was pacing the reed-fringed edge. No one was making a show of feeding the couple of swans. I was only five minutes late. Surely he would have waited for me.

  The obvious place for him to lurk was the grandiose tower on the stone bulwark bulging out into the lake with its double row of waterspouts protruding like cannon from a half-moon battery. He wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself pacing round the lake, so that’s where I’d find him.

  I was wrong. Nobody was there. I had to face the fact that either he hadn’t waited for me, or it was another no-show as had happened at the Beerhouse – without the discovery of the body floating in the water, of course. That triggered a disturbing thought: if he had been followed here, could Luís have met the same fate as Roberto? I steeled myself to crane out over the waterspouts to peer into the depths of the lake.

  No dark eyes stared up at me from beneath the surface. The only occupant of the lake was a swan, the wind ruffling its feathers as it glided serenely towards me, neck outstretched in anticipation of a morsel of bread.

  And then I saw him. I’d been concentrating on the lake and hadn’t noticed him on a stone platform a mere 200 metres away, on the same high level as myself. He was sitting on a metal seat with his back to me watching an impressive cascade that gushed in a smooth pewter curtain down into the dark waters. A thin spiral of tobacco smoke drifted up in the still air. As I watched, he rose to his feet, took a final puff, and threw the stub of his cigarette over the railing into the lake.

  ‘Luís!’ I shouted, and see-sawed an arm wildly to attra
ct his attention.

  Even as I did so, I knew there wasn’t a chance of him hearing me above the roar of the water. He glanced at his watch and stood for a moment, hands resting on the railing, looking down across the garden at the Bay of Funchal far below.

  ‘Luís!’ I screamed again, and willed him to look in my direction, then let my arm drop to my side. I was wasting precious time.

  He straightened and began to walk away.

  I turned and raced back through the arched doorway of the tower. It took barely thirty seconds to reach the broad walkway, and another thirty seconds to race along it, but when I rounded the shallow curve that hid the cascade and Luís from view, he’d gone. The seat was empty. In those sixty seconds I’d lost him.

  I could see along the walkway as far as the white bulk of the old hotel, but there was nobody on that path either. The gloomy interior of the grotto under the platform would make an ideal place for a discreet rendezvous, the thunder of falling water ensuring that there could be no eavesdropper to any conversation. That’s where he’d be. At the top of the steps down to the grotto, I hesitated. He might have run to catch one of the buses that passed the lower gate. Which way should I go? Which? Every moment lessened my chances of catching him up.

  If I messed up now, there’d be no way of retrieving the situation. In the report I’d written before setting off for Monte, I’d informed the comandante that I was going to meet Luís and that I was confident that he would give me vital information. Yes, if I messed things up now, it would be the perfect excuse for her to send me packing with ‘Adeus, Sshmit!’ ringing in my ears….

  If I made for the lower gate and he wasn’t there, there was still the chance that he might still be waiting in the grotto. That decided me. I turned to go. Lying under the seat was a booklet of matches bearing the distinctive logo of the Massaroco Hotel. I bent down, picked it up and with a slightly shaking hand, flipped open the cover. He’d left a message for me. Stand near the cascade. I’ll see you from below. L.