Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

  I wouldn’t have noticed the metallic-green car nosing its way out of the car-park fifty metres down the road if it hadn’t been for the road-rage blast on its horn as it tried to force its way into the traffic. The passenger was wearing a distinctive floppy yellow hat. There could be only one like that … I peered out of the taxi’s back window. I was right. Celia Haxby was gesticulating rudely through the windscreen at a jaywalker tourist wearing the equally distinctive headgear of an ear-flapped woollen Madeira hat. She’d obviously managed to persuade someone to take my place and drive her to Santana. Her day, at least, was proving more satisfactory than mine.

  The taxi driver tilted his head and eyed me in the mirror. ‘Where does the senhora wish to go?’

  ‘Estrada—’ I started, looking forward to a recuperative afternoon nap on my veranda.

  The metallic-green car was passing me just a metre away. And the driver was none other than Dorothy Winterton. Less than a week ago when we’d discussed car rental, she’d been quite adamant that peace of mind was her priority and had most definitely decided to get about by taxi or chauffeur-driven transport. Anyone can have a change of mind … Nevertheless.…

  The taxi engine revved impatiently. ‘Where you want to go, senhora?’

  I stared after the car and came to a decision. ‘I’ve to catch up with my friends at Estrada…or was it Rua…? Oh, there are my friends – in that green car. Follow it, will you?’ Thanks to the heavy traffic of central Funchal there’d be little danger of Dorothy realizing that she was being followed. Besides, taxis have a camouflage of their own.

  With a vroom and a zoom the taxi forced its way into the traffic. Dorothy and Celia’s car was still in sight. As I’d expected, the volume of traffic defeated even the taxi driver’s aggressive manoeuvres and we remained a comfortable distance behind. The green car headed down the Rua Carvalho and soon it became obvious that it was making for the port. When it turned onto the quay at the Lion Rock, I leant forward.

  ‘Just drop me here, senhor, it’ll save your time, and I’ll catch my friends up at the shipping office.’

  The old fortification on the Lion Rock would be an ideal vantage point to see and not be seen. I climbed the short flight of stairs to the top as the taxi sped away. From the little terrace I had a bird’s eye view of the harbour, the quay below and the green car drawn up near the ticket kiosk. The car doors opened and Dorothy and Celia made their way across to the kiosk. After a few minutes’ conversation at the window, they returned to the car, drove back along the quay, and headed towards the centre of town.

  It took only a few minutes to descend the steps of Lion Rock and make my way to the kiosk. Positioned in front of it was a large notice in English and Portuguese giving details of the ferry service to the island of Porto Santo.

  Daily except Wednesdays. Departs Funchal 0800.

  Departs Porto Santo 1800. Journey Time 2 hours 40 minutes.

  If Dorothy and Celia had purchased tickets to Porto Santo, I’d have to find out which day they were going.

  ‘Yes, senhora, how can I help?’ The ticket clerk was looking at me enquiringly.

  ‘I was just deciding which day to visit Porto Santo….’ I pretended to give it some thought. ‘I’d quite like to go the same day as my friend, the lady with the large yellow hat.’ I made a wide circular motion with my hand to indicate its ridiculous dimensions. I pretended to consult my diary. ‘She’s going on Saturday, isn’t she?’

  The ticket clerk shook his head, ‘No, senhora, she has taken a ticket for next week, terça-feira, Tuesday.’

  ‘Tuesday? Oh well, I’ll book for Tuesday too,’ I said and raked in my purse for the cash.

  ‘You wish tourist class, like your friend, or first class?’

  I paused in my raking and considered the pros and cons for a moment. They’d catch sight of me sooner or later, but the later the better. ‘First class, please,’ I said, and handed over the money in full knowledge that this hard-to-explain item in my expense account would be an extravagance that wouldn’t escape the eagle eye of the comandante. ‘Do you think the police department in Madeira are millionaires, Sshmit?’ she’d snap and reject the claim with a stroke of her pen.

  I stuffed the ticket into my bag. What now? I’d walk into town, do some shopping, have something to drink at one of the outdoor cafés. The sunshine was warm, the purple bougainvillea spilt spectacularly down the cliff beneath the old Quinta Vigia and I wandered along feeling rather pleased with myself. ‘Pretty damn clever of you, DJ, to find out what that pair were up to,’ I thought smugly.

  A familiar voice made me jump. ‘You were right, Celia. It is Deborah.’

  I swung round. The green car I had last seen heading towards the centre of town had drawn up at the kerb. Dorothy and Celia were peering at me from the open window. They must have turned left at the marina and doubled back via the Rua Carvalho. Could they have spotted me getting out of the taxi at Lion Rock, and suspicious that I’d been following them, were they now checking up?

  ‘Oh hello, Dorothy,’ I said, mind racing through plausible answers to awkward questions.

  Dorothy leant her elbow on the edge of the window. ‘Well, what are you up to, then?’ The tone was light.

  Celia’s smile was friendly. ‘Why didn’t you tell us back at the hotel that you were coming this way? We could have given you a lift.’

  If Dorothy and Celia had seen me at the kiosk, and I lied about it…. Honesty is the best policy, lies have a nasty way of tripping you up.

  I moved over to the car. ‘I’ve been to book a ticket to Porto Santo. Never been there, I’m afraid, and it’s high time I paid the place a visit.’

  Dorothy took off her sunglasses and polished them. ‘So you’ll be going on—’ Tone casual, eyes sharp.

  I supplied the information. ‘Tuesday of next week.’

  Just audible was Celia’s low mutter. ‘Of course, that’s her day off.’

  I added, ‘I’ve decided to treat myself, splash out and travel first class. It’s only ten euros more, after all, and includes a meal each way.’

  ‘That does seem quite a bargain.’ From the frosty look Celia shot at Dorothy, I surmised that Dorothy’s penny-pinching had prevailed when it had come to purchasing their cheaper tickets.

  I waited for them to tell me that they too were going to Porto Santo, had already booked their tickets. They didn’t. Of course, that might have a totally innocent explanation – they might genuinely want their own company, be anxious that I might impose myself on them by tagging along with them wherever they went.

  But if they were up to something, had I done enough to make our joint trip to Porto Santo seem a mere coincidence? To give them something else to think about, I asked an awkward question of my own.

  I patted the roof of the car. ‘So you’ve decided to take the plunge and have a go at driving, after all. Good for you, Dorothy. You were a bit nervous about it, weren’t you?’

  Her eyes flickered, ‘Well, I—’

  Celia leant eagerly across. ‘Driving in Madeira’s not bothered her at all. Yesterday when we drove down all those hair-raising zigzags to the Nun’s Valley, you didn’t bat an eyelid, did you, Dot? And—’

  ‘Shut up, Celia.’ A thunderous look. ‘How many times have I told you not to call me that?’ She revved the engine. ‘Must love you and leave you, Deborah. We’ve got things to do.’

  I watched them drive off. Less than two weeks ago, she had gone out of her way to cultivate the image of nervous driver. Yet, if Celia was to be believed, Dorothy had taken in her stride hairpins and sheer drops that could turn even confident drivers into nervous wrecks. It seemed I’d just peeled away another of the comandante’s onion-layers. But what exactly had I found?

  CHAPTER NINE

  At 10 p.m. that evening I was making final preparations for my clandestine raid on Grant’s orchid laboratory.

  ‘That shed at the orchid farm is worth investigating, don’t you think, G?’

  She
inspected a paw noncommittally.

  I took my arm out of the sling and wriggled my injured shoulder experimentally – painful, but not unbearably so. I’d have the use of both hands if needed, and the rest of the time I could put my hand inside my buttoned jacket or trouser pocket to take the weight off the joint.

  Gorgonzola watched expectantly as I sat down on the bed to lace up my rubber-soled boots. My all black, disappear-into-the-night outfit was the sign that an expedition was on the cards. She was particularly fond of night expeditions with all their exciting sounds and smells, tantalizing, though forbidden, of course, till duty had been done. But after that … she sheathed and unsheathed her claws in anticipation.

  At odd moments in the last few days I’d been mulling over that incident at the farm when Grant had flown into a rage over the dropped pot of cymbidiums. I was increasingly convinced that he’d dropped the plant because he’d been startled by something I’d said. I couldn’t recall my exact words, but laboratory and orchid propagation had definitely featured.

  ‘Why would those words provoke such a reaction from a commercial orchid grower, tell me that, G?’

  She scratched her ear, and thought it over.

  I buckled her working collar round her neck. ‘Of course, you weren’t with me the other day, but there’s a good chance that the building at the rear of the greenhouses is his laboratory, and we’ll have to find out why he’s so touchy about it. Unpeel another layer of onion, eh?’ I unzipped the rucksack and held it open invitingly. ‘Your carriage awaits, G.’

  I’d accustomed her to transportation by soft-lined rucksack as being less obtrusive than the hated cat-carrier in certain situations, and the lure of a comfortable, warm, dark nest ensured I’d never had any difficulty getting her into it. I swung it from my good hand by its straps. ‘You’re getting heavy, G. Maybe I should think about putting you on a diet.’

  A low rumble from the rucksack signified the occupant’s contemptuous rejection of this suggestion.

  I closed the front door behind me and together we waited in the darkness of the garden for the car that was coming to pick us up. Under the palm trees the ghostly white trumpets of the Madonna lilies loomed eerily, their cloying scent heavy in the still air. Beyond the garden, the intermittent hum of passing traffic exaggerated the silence around me.

  A surge of adrenalin made my heart beat faster as I reviewed my plan. What if dogs guarded the building at night? What if I walked through an invisible electronic ray and triggered an alarm? If he was manufacturing heroin or crack cocaine in that innocuous-looking building, Grant or his henchmen would be prepared to kill to safeguard his secret. Gorgonzola and DJ Smith might very well end up floating in Funchal harbour like Roberto Gomes.

  The same thought had crossed the mind of the comandante. I’d found a message waiting for me when I returned from my trip to the Porto Santo Line’s office.

  We cannot have London asking why one of their officers has been found dead on the so beautiful island of Madeira. Bad for tourism, eh? I’d thought sourly. Therefore, I am assigning someone to look after you, watch the back, I think it is called. Since for the next four days you will not be able to drive, I have placed a car at your disposal. It was signed Justinia Figueira.

  Thoughtful of her, but I suspected that her ulterior motive was to put a mole in place to report my movements back to her. She certainly wouldn’t approve of tonight’s plans, and I didn’t intend to tell her in advance. No doubt she would find out soon enough as I had no option but to make use of the police driver. A waiting taxi in that remote spot close to midnight would be as good as putting up a neon sign Breaking and Entering in Progress.

  Gorgonzola stirred restively in the rucksack at my feet as night sounds filtered through the traffic noise. Her head emerged, ears tuned in like radar dishes swivelling to track tantalizing rustlings among the fallen camellia leaves.

  ‘Duty first, G,’ I said firmly, pulling the zip closed over her shoulders so that there would be no chance of her giving in to temptation. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  From the direction of Funchal came the sound of an approaching car and the noisy clatter of a loose exhaust. It rattled closer … passed by … and receded. Silence surged back.

  ‘There should be a law against it,’ I muttered. ‘Disturbing the peace with a fiendish noise like that.’

  I resumed my contemplation of the twinkling lights on the hills above Funchal Bay. Somewhere up there in one of the patches of darkness was the orchid farm’s shed with its secrets. From along the road came a faint clang clank clang clank clang clank. It was that wreck of a car again. Clang clank clang clank clang clank. I gritted my teeth. I willed it to pass by. Only it didn’t. The din reached a crescendo. Where were the traffic police when you wanted them? In front of my rusty gates, it turned out.

  The dark shape of a small car materialized on the far side of the railings and shuddered to a halt with the long-drawn-out sigh of a departing soul. Silence descended as if a soundproof door had slammed shut.

  From the driver’s open window, a hoarse voice said softly, ‘Olá, inglesa. The Ogre sends your transport.’

  Hell’s bells! Not content with saddling me with a spy in the cab, the comandante had also inflicted a clapped out vehicle that would track my movements over the whole of Funchal.

  I shouldered the rucksack and crossed the garden to the cobbled driveway. All I could make out of the speaker was a white shirt and the pale blob of a face shadowed by a large black hat of the homburg type. I stooped to peer in the window. Beneath the hat was the familiar bushy moustache last seen when Mason tried to report his ‘stolen’ ‘Rollex’.

  ‘Raimundo Paulo Ribeiro at your service.’ A cloud of cheap tobacco engulfed me.

  I disguised my instinctive recoil as a lunge for the rear door handle.

  ‘I think we’ve already met,’ I said. ‘Last Monday, in the public waiting room at Police HQ. One of my clients was reporting a lost watch.’

  The moustache twitched. ‘Ah yes, the senhor who so enraged my uncle, old João.’

  With the excuse of, ‘I’ll just get into the back seat. I’ve got a cat here in my bag,’ I clambered in and felt for the seat belt.

  ‘No funciona, not working,’ said silhouette. ‘You not need it. I, Raimundo Ribeiro, am expert driver.’

  The engine exploded into life in a series of backfires. Faintly above the clang clank clang clank I heard, ‘I take you to your destination, senhora.’

  With a jolt that snapped my head back against the worn upholstery and toppled the rucksack, we kangarooed into motion along the Estrada Monumental.

  G’s yoooowl of protest blended with my shriek, ‘But I haven’t told you where—’

  ‘No problema. You tell me, we go.’ The shout just carried above the din.

  I righted the rucksack and leant forward. ‘The Englishman Grant’s orchid farm,’ I bellowed at the back of his head. ‘It’s up—’

  I just caught the response, ‘I know. I know. For thirty years I am traffic polícial. Sometimes when there is sickness, or I anger Comandante Figueira, I have to work at the desk, but it is not something I like.’

  I sank back against the seat. Everything has its flipside. At least I didn’t have to make conversation. During the journey I would be able to concentrate on possible stratagems for breaking and entering.

  Not a hope. My mind dulled by the awful din found it impossible to do anything except worry about the attention we would be attracting. After several nick-of-time rescues of the rucksack as we hurtled round the numerous hairpin bends, horn blaring, it was all too much for G. Each time we were subjected to one of those violent changes of direction, the rucksack pulsated with rage, threatening to gyrate its way across the back seat. I grabbed the bag and hugged it tightly to me, whispering soothing words to the occupant and attempting a rendition of the Spanish madrelena music that usually worked as a magic charm to soothe her. Like the Portuguese fado, it has its devoted followers. G was one of the
m. To anyone not brought up in the tradition of that ethnic music, however, it can seem a tuneless cacophony.

  ‘Aa-ee-aaa,’ I moaned in her ear. As I gained confidence and my aaees and aa-oos soared and swooped, the rucksack vibrations gradually subsided. The mound of her head sank lower and lower into the comforting dark of the rucksack. The madrelena had worked its charm again.

  Only a tuft of red hair remained visible. I let rip with a particularly fine soaring note. My yowl cut through the air like a lone wolf baying at the full moon. We screeched to a halt. Raimundo switched off the engine and in the sudden silence his narrowed eyes studied me in the rear view mirror.

  ‘The cat she is a lover of Portuguese fado music,’ I said, laughing to hide my embarrassment. I quickly changed the subject. ‘Have we—?’ I just managed to bite back ‘broken down’ and change it to ‘Have we arrived?’

  ‘Yes, senhora.’ He switched off the headlights.

  A blackness that seemed almost solid pressed against the glass. I lowered the window and peered into the darkness looking for even a pale glimmer of the orchid farm sign that marked the opening to the driveway. ‘This is the orchid farm?’

  A chuckle came from the front seat. ‘I stop a little way before the farm, senhora. I think you want to make the private entrance.’

  I didn’t try to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘Well yes, that was the plan, but we seem to have advertised our presence a bit more than I intended.’ The rucksack heaved and G’s furious face glared accusingly at Raimundo.

  ‘Two angry ladies, eh!’ the white-shirted shoulder shook with mirth. ‘There is no problem, senhora. No one has noticed our arrival. In this car I am invisible.’ He twisted round in his seat. ‘Everyone has heard the noise of this engine many times. Their ears no longer hear it.’

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘What if someone comes and says, “What are you doing here, Raimundo?” I am right? That is your question?’

  I nodded.