I should have stopped to think that there was something odd about him leaving the message where I would have little chance of finding it. But I didn’t. With the waterfall of water roaring out at my feet, I stood at the railing scanning the shore, trying to pick him out. He couldn’t be far away. Down below, a group of the cruise passengers and a guide were gathered round a tall pottery vase. I spotted the boor in the hideously patterned shirt posing for a photo on the sill of an old stone window. He seemed to be staring straight up at me.
Guiltily I turned away, and that saved my life. The numbing blow, intended for the back of my head, fell instead on my shoulder, paralysing my arm. My attacker had planned it well. The noise of the water had concealed the rush of footsteps behind me. Stunned with pain and shock, I collapsed across the railing. Hands grabbed my legs and heaved me headfirst into the thundering waterspout of the cascade.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Falling … falling … mouth open in a silent scream….
But by throwing me in headfirst, my would-be murderer had miscalculated, for he’d put me into a dive, a position that would give me a chance of surviving unscathed. It’s not the sort of situation you’ll find in the Department’s self-defence manual, but instinctively my left hand grabbed my paralysed right arm and formed a protective V over my head. I hit the water like a tyro high diver. Four points on the judges’ scorecard, I’d say.
Neither had my assailant taken into account the depth of the lake at this point. Down, down I went till my fingertips touched mud. A few metres shallower and I’d have broken my neck. When I surfaced spluttering and blinking water out of my eyes, the cavalry, in the form of half a dozen of the cruise passengers led by the boor in the hideous shirt, were running towards me along the edge of the lake. I managed an awkward splashy sidestroke towards him with my good arm.
He reached out to pull me to the shore. ‘You were mugged, lady. I saw it all,’ he yelled.
A few moments later I stood dripping on the bank, shivering with cold and shock. Just before my knees buckled, someone wrapped a coat round my shoulders and helped me to a bench. I sat hunched and dazed while dissenting voices clashed and bickered over my head.
‘She’s awfully pale. Lay her down.’
‘Keep her walking.’
‘Call the police!’
‘No, an ambulance.’
‘The police’ll want to speak to her first, and get a statement.’
‘Who saw it? What did he look like?’
‘A tall, thin guy with a beard. I’d be able to pick him out again.’
‘I’ve got twenty-twenty vision. I’m telling you, definitely a small guy with a moustache.’
I put an end to it all by fainting dead away.
Later that evening, a solicitous Gorgonzola on my knee, I sat on the veranda of my little gingerbread house in the Estrada Monumental recuperating with a strong cup of tea. Amid the pinpricks of light on the hills high above Funchal I was just able to make out the floodlit façade of the church of Nossa Senhora pinpointing the position of Monte Gardens and the scene of the attempt on my life.
‘I was more than lucky to escape with only a badly bruised shoulder, eh, G?’
Her rough tongue rasped my hand in sympathetic agreement.
‘Explain, Sshmit!’ Comandante Figuera’s fierce glance managed to encompass both the sling on my injured arm and Senhora Gomes’s battered green suitcase with its stash of heroin, now lying open on her desk. When I’d stowed it carefully away in my office on Tuesday afternoon, I’d been confident that no one would be poking around and it would be safe enough there till I decided how to deal with it. Which just shows that I should have gone by my rule never to take anything for granted.
A blood-red fingernail flicked the evidence label with its tell-tale location and date. ‘This, Sshmit, was not in yesterday’s report.’
Stirred by a gust of warm air from the half-open window, the strelitzias arranged themselves in a muttering Greek chorus of condemnation.
‘No, but you see—’
‘What I see, Sshmit, is this.’ She passed the account of my meeting with the senhora slowly across my vision, the matador teasing the bull with his cape just before he readies his sword for the kill. ‘And this.’ Her hand rested accusingly on the bags of heroin. ‘But I did not see them till I found them myself. The head, Justinia Figueira, did not know what the hand, Deborah Sshmit, was doing.’
In the vase the Greek chorus swung into action again, foretelling doom.
‘Well, as I – er – mentioned in Tuesday’s report, Luís Gomes contacted me to arrange a meeting, and I thought it would be better if.…’ I stumbled to a halt, unnerved by her unblinking stare.
‘Let me make it clear, Sshmit. You feed me the information. I, Justinia Figueira, do the thinking.’
‘Yes, Comandante,’ I said meekly, in the hope that a gentle answer would turn away wrath.
In this case it didn’t. For another five minutes she read the riot act, employing an astounding range of English vocabulary, never repeating herself once.
‘So, Sshmit, you understand me, I think.’ She leant back in her chair. ‘And now that we have, as you say, cleared the air, tell me what Gomes said to you at this meeting. What did you learn?’
‘Er, nothing, Comandante. I have to admit it was all a set-up, a trap. Someone tried to kill me.’
There was no reaction of shock-horror, only a mildly raised eyebrow. She already knew about the incident in Monte Garden. The cat had been playing with the mouse. And that was why she’d made no enquiry as to why my arm was in a sling.
She jabbed an accusatory finger in my direction. ‘I will tell you what you are thinking, Sshmit. You are thinking, how was it that the soclever comandante found this suitcase that I so very foolishly concealed from her.’ A statement, not a question.
She was a mind-reader. ‘Yes, comandante.’
Making no attempt to conceal a little smile of satisfaction, she slid open a drawer, and produced the department’s machine for recording interviews. With the triumphant air of a magician pulling a very large rabbit out of a very small hat, she switched it on.
A few seconds of the standard preliminaries established place, date, and time, then, ‘Comandante Justinia Figueira interviewing Senhora Carmella Gomes.’
She’d interviewed Senhora Gomes yesterday evening. At the sheer unexpectedness of it I sank onto the hard wooden chair in front of her desk, hitherto pointedly un-offered as clear indication that I was being carpeted.
She ran the tape forward. ‘I think you’ll find this of particular interest.’
She stabbed Play.
‘… and when I opened the door,’ a tremulous Senhora Gomes was saying, ‘two men shoved me back into the room, and pushed me into a chair. One shouted at me, “Old woman, where is the suitcase?” I was too frightened to speak. The other man went through to my bedroom. I heard terrible crashes. Then he appeared in the doorway and said, “Everything in there is smashed, and if you don’t tell us where it is, we’ll start in here as well”. I said, “What suitcase? I know nothing about a suitcase”. And the man who had been in the bedroom swung his hand along both shelves and swept all my plates and cups onto the floor. All of them. All in pieces on the floor.’ For a few revolutions of the tape there was only the sound of sobbing. Then, ‘Still I said nothing. The man who was standing threateningly over me, snatched up Roberto’s picture. I gave a cry. It’s the only thing I have left to remember my Roberto. “This’ll make her talk”, he said. And he dropped it on the floor. “If you don’t tell us right now, you old bitch, this picture goes under my foot”.’
The burst of hysterical sobbing as she relived the moment choked me up. Even the comandante must have been affected, for she pressed the button to stop the tape. The sound of children’s carefree laughter filtered in from the street outside.
She broke the silence in the room. ‘The senhora could resist no longer. She told them that a Senhora Smith from the Massaroco Hote
l had taken the suitcase.’
Another silence fell as I considered the implications, the fall-out. Had Senhora Gomes mentioned that lady’s cat? This animal has been trained to detect drugs, senhora. I recalled my words with dismay.
‘Comandante,’ I said slowly, ‘did the senhora tell them anything else? Did she tell them that my cat found the suitcase?’
‘She did not say, and I did not ask because I did not know myself – until I read the report, the report you did not give to me.’ She held my gaze to underline the point. ‘But she did say that she had worried all night about your safety because she had let it slip that you wanted to contact her son. And that is why she came to the police. And that is why I went along to your office to warn you that your cover has been – how do you say it – shot?’
‘Blown,’ I supplied, my thoughts grim. Since the body had been found in the harbour, I’d let the hope grow that my arranged meeting with Luís had no connection with the murder, and that nobody had overheard the Meet me in the Beerhouse on the harbour at três á tarde. I tell you something then. I had begun to convince myself it had just been an unfortunate coincidence that Luís had decided to go to ground the very same afternoon. But whether or not this line of thought had been correct was of no consequence now. My cover had definitely been blown. And if the gang now knew about Gorgonzola, her life would be in danger too.
Comandante Figuera was saying, ‘… evidence tag caught my eye, and when I pulled the suitcase out from its hiding place,’ she couldn’t resist the dig, ‘I read the report you attached. But it was too late to warn you that your rendezvous with Gomes might be a trickery, that there might be …’ –she searched for the word – ‘that there might be a skulduggery. You must take great care, my dear Deborah.’
Her use of my first name sent a chill down my spine. That, more than anything else, made me realize the danger I was in.
After leaving the comandante I made my way to the Massaroco Hotel for my office hour. My little group of clients were bound to ask how I came to have my arm in a sling. Bearing in mind that one or more of them might very well know the answer in advance, I couldn’t afford to have too much of a discrepancy between what had happened and what I chose to tell them. Of course, anyone who was in cahoots with my attacker would know my reason for being at Monte, but a truthful, if edited, version of the event would keep them thinking that I didn’t suspect any of my clientele of being involved.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ Head on one side, Celia Haxby studied me with a frown of irritation. ‘I took you at your word when you said you wanted to see a professional artist at work, so I’d pencilled you in to drive me to those quaint little triangular houses at Santana this afternoon. I was depending on you.’ From somewhere in the depths of her smock, she produced an appointment diary, crossly flicked through the pages and with a dramatic black line disposed of the services of Deborah J. Smith.
Dorothy Winterton put down her cup. ‘That’s not very sympathetic of you, Celia. We should be asking how it happened.’ She patted my good hand. ‘Did you trip on those lethal pavements in town, dear? All bumps and dips. You must be careful. Keep your eyes on the ground. Those jacaranda trees are lovely when they’re in flower, but roots and mosaic pavements just don’t mix. Only the other day, Celia nearly—’
‘Really, Dorothy, she doesn’t want to know about things that never happened. Of course, I’m sympathetic.’
‘Well, how did you hurt your arm, Deborah?’ Dorothy seemed to be determined to find out.
‘Actually, I was mugged in Monte Gardens.’ I studied audience reaction. Nothing but surprise and shock. ‘Although I don’t remember much about it,’ I added carefully. ‘Somebody hit me and pushed me into the lake.’
Dorothy picked up her cup with a trembling hand. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, and I thought Madeira was such a safe place. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.’ A quick gulp of tea, and the cup clattered back into the saucer. ‘And to think Celia and I were actually planning to go there later this week. Dear, oh dear.’
Celia leaned forward, eager for details. ‘Did you see who did it? Did you get a description for the police?’
‘Well, no, it was all so sudden.’ And that was the truth. It could have been the man I’d thought was Luís, but it could equally well have been somebody else who’d been lurking in the shrubs behind the cascade terrace. At the time I’d not been in a fit state to question anybody and, as it had turned out, the eyewitnesses couldn’t even agree whether my assailant had been clean-shaven or not.
‘Really, Celia! She hasn’t got eyes in the back of her head! How could she possibly see who did it when he crept up from behind!’
Was Dorothy just taking it for granted, as anyone might, that the attacker had approached from behind? Or had that been an incriminating slip?
‘No need to be sarky, Dot.’ Celia closed her diary with a petulant snap.
‘Dorothy, Celia. Not Dot. You know I hate when you call me that.’
The Flamboyant Artist flounced the folds of her smock in a dismissive ‘up yours’ gesture. ‘Returning to the subject. Your shoulder’s not broken, is it, Deborah?’
At the sight of an arm in a sling, most people jump to the conclusion that it’s the arm that’s been injured. Was I reading too much into this?
‘It’s only bruised. I was really lucky,’ I said. ‘It’s a nuisance more than anything, because that means—’
‘Ooh, Deborah, what have you done to yourself?’
I looked up to see Zara standing in the doorway.
‘Mugged. She was mugged.’ Celia’s ample bosom heaved in indignation. ‘In broad daylight, too.’
‘Daylight or dark, mugged is mugged!’ Zara dragged a chair across from another table. ‘Tell me more.’
And I had to go through it all again.
She soaked up the account of my misfortune with the blotting paper intensity of an avid reader of tabloid blood and gore. ‘Wowee! You certainly don’t expect that sort of thing to happen here. In London, now, let me tell you …’ Zara launched into a dark tale of misadventure and mayhem. ‘… and there I was, lying bleeding in the gutter, and—’ She paused dramatically.
Dorothy didn’t wait for the climax. The noisy rattle of the teaspoon in her cup shattered the tension. ‘Yes, well. Isn’t it time you were getting back to that young man of yours? Where is he, anyway?’
Knocked off her stride, Zara took a moment to react. Her face flushed. ‘If you don’t know, I certainly don’t. I thought he might be with you.’ She pushed back her chair and stalked angrily away.
‘Temper, temper.’ With a hint of a smile, Dorothy Winterton laid down her teaspoon.
‘Uppity young madam! Well done, Dorothy.’ The Flamboyant Artist and the Colonel’s Widow clinked congratulatory cups. I had not been the only one to see that Mason’s sudden interest in cultivating Dorothy’s company had put Zara’s nose out of joint.
I made my excuses. If I could catch David Grant, it might be instructive to see his reaction to my arm in a sling. When there was no sign of him in his usual place at the bar, I went out to the terrace on the chance that he might be outside. He and Mason were sitting at a table in the shade of one of the striped parasols. The cluster of empty beer bottles indicated that they’d been there for some time.
As I approached, Grant set down his empty glass. ‘Yes, I’ll have another one, Chaz. So you really think there’s money in wine?’
‘Yes, Dave, en primeur’s a dead cert, believe me. If you play your cards right.’ Mason leant back lazily. ‘Buying vintage, still in the cask, can give huge profits – nearly ninety per cent after only five years.’
So Charles Mason was trying his investment scam again. Onto a loser this time, though. I doubted he’d get much joy out of a hardboiled character like Grant.
‘Hi there, guys,’ I said.
‘Geez, Deborah, you’ve been in the wars, haven’t you!’ Mason’s surprise seemed genuine.
Grant didn’t say
anything, merely rubbed reflectively at his nose, possibly remembering the Glasgow Kiss incident. While I recounted my sorry tale, I studied their expressions but could come to no conclusion. ‘And that’s all I can tell you,’ I finished. ‘This sling’s more an inconvenience than anything else.’
‘Where did you say it happened – at the cascade overlooking the lake, was it?’ Grant chewed reflectively on a toothpick.
I nodded. Had the word ‘cascade’ somehow slipped into my carefully worded account? I couldn’t remember.
‘Lucky escape, then. That’s quite a height to fall. What I’d like to know is—’ The muffled strains of Land of Hope and Glory floated up from the briefcase resting against the table leg. ‘Excuse me. Back to work.’ Grant got up and wandered away, phone to ear.
Like a fisherman who has been playing a fish for hours only to have it slip the hook, Mason slumped back in his seat despondently. Muttering to himself and casting black looks at the array of empty glasses, he pulled out his wallet.
Curious to see if I could provoke a reaction, I said chattily, ‘Not that I want to intrude into personal matters, but I couldn’t help noticing that you and Zara seem to have had a bit of a bust-up.’
‘None of your business.’ Pushing away the table, he jumped to his feet and stormed off.
The array of beer glasses rocked. Two teetered, and before I could grab them, smashed on the ground. I stared after him. I’d got my reaction, but what had upset him – my mention of Zara, or Grant’s obvious lack of interest in the wine scam? I stirred the pieces of broken glass with my foot. Whatever it was, he’d just managed an effective way of leaving without paying. I sighed. It looked like it would be me who was footing the bill for Mason and Grant’s drinking spree.
Twenty euros poorer, I made my way to the taxi rank outside the hotel. I was in a bit of a black mood myself at having to rely on taxis because of my injured shoulder. Altogether it had been a most unsatisfactory morning.
Suspects All ! Page 9