Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

‘Senhora Smith, I have to tell you that the toxin in the seeds is highly irritant and can be fatal. While I am not able to predict the outcome with certainty, I hope that with supportive care, your cat may make a full recovery.’

  I subsided back onto the chair, weak with relief that G still had a chance.

  He was saying, ‘We have hydrated her to counteract the diarrhoea, and now we must wait.’

  ‘How long before you can…?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Any deterioration will occur in the next few hours. Tomorrow we will know the outcome. Until then she is in the hands of God.’

  In the taxi home I was consumed by a deep smouldering rage, a rage directed at the shadowy figure whose plan it had been to put the deadly seeds in G’s bowl. Was it a vindictive act of revenge because she had detected the drugs at Senhora Gomes’s house? Or did they fear that she would sniff out a more incriminating cache, one that would point a finger at the identity of that shadowy figure?

  I let myself into a house that no longer felt like home. Without G, there was an emptiness, an absence. Whether Gorgonzola lived or died, I now had more than a professional interest in tracking down the man who ran this drug cartel. As far as I was concerned, it had become a crusade. My revenge for this attack on Gorgonzola would be to track him down and bring him and his organization to justice.

  No time like the present. Firmly putting aside any inclination to huddle in a chair and weep, I flicked through the telephone book till I found Senhora Gomes’s number. She answered on the second ring. Had she been expecting a call, perhaps from Luís?

  I spoke quickly. I must get my message across before she put down the phone. ‘Senhora, I am the inglesa whose cat found the suitcase.’ I heard the quick intake of breath. ‘When we met, I warned you Luís was in grave danger. If you want to save him, you must get him to contact me immediately. It is essential that I speak to him tonight. My house is the old house on the Estrada Monumental, next to the big kapok tree. If he wishes to telephone, my number is …’ I repeated it twice. ‘I will wait for his call till midnight.’

  On the other end of the line there was silence, then a click as the phone was put down. All I could do was wait – and hope.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I woke with a start, momentarily disorientated, pins and needles in my arm, hip numb. After a quick snack in lieu of an evening meal – the afternoon’s events had deprived me of all appetite – I’d sat on the veranda waiting for Luís to get in touch. I must have dozed off while gazing at the lights twinkling on the hills above Funchal, for a glance at my watch showed it was now a few minutes after two in the morning.

  Luís hadn’t phoned.

  Neither had the vet. ‘I’ll phone you at nine tomorrow when the surgery opens,’ he’d told me, ‘unless there is news before that.’ There’d been no need for him to spell it out. Any news before morning would be bad news.

  Ftk ftk ftk. A moth was fluttering and dashing itself against the dim bulb of the veranda light. I eased myself upright from an awkward slouch in the wicker chair. I’d played my best card in that phone call to Senhora Gomes, gambled and failed. What was I to do now? Nothing came to mind. I rose stiffly to my feet and flicked off the switch.

  I sat there in the faint light of the stars and the crescent moon staring out over the bay. With the failure of Luís to contact me, that line of investigation had petered out. Little chance now of turning up a new lead in the nine days left before the comandante presented me with my economy class air ticket.

  The tired brain is an inefficient problem-solver. Six hours’ sleep, and things might seem a bit brighter. When I woke up, my subconscious might just have come up with a solution. Faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem, I’m a believer in going to bed and giving the brain free rein.

  Things didn’t turn out quite like that. First of all, try as I might, I couldn’t get to sleep. Eyes closed, I lay in bed but instead of drifting gently into the arms of Morpheus, my head was a swirl of thoughts. In desperation I tried all the recognized techniques – slow, deep breaths, relaxation of the muscles starting at the feet and working up to the neck, visualization of tranquil scenes, counting sheep – nothing worked.

  More wide-awake than ever, I stared up at the ceiling. Normally falling asleep is no problem, no problem at all: I can cat-nap on planes, trains, and buses, had even on occasion been prodded awake at concerts and lectures. Why didn’t I try a few lines of that soporific poem, Song of the Lotus Eaters? It might do the trick. How did it go? I closed my eyes and trawled my memory …

  … thro’ the moss the ivies creep …

  And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep …

  I dragged the words out as slowly as I could.

  … And … from … the … cra-ggy … le-dge … the … po-ppy … hangs … in … sle-ep …

  No use. The poppy might be drowsy, but I definitely wasn’t.

  Perhaps the line, ti-red eye-lids on ti-red eye-s….

  My eyelids were heavy and my eyes certainly were tired, but my mind was a whirling kaleidoscope of disturbing images: handcuffs dangling from Raimundo’s nicotine-stained fingers; a trail of vomit leading to the darkness under the kitchen cupboard; G’s body lying limply in my arms, her frightened eyes staring up at me….

  To sleep, perchance to dream…. Did I really want to sleep? Anything was better than uncontrollable dreams. In one movement I sat up and threw aside the bedclothes. I’d listen to a CD, read a book, or brush up my Portuguese. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a light sweatshirt and jeans. A glass of poncha wouldn’t go amiss either. Yes, I’d sit in the wicker chair on the balcony-veranda and pass those long hours until dawn broke over the eastern headland of Funchal Bay.

  I switched on the table lamp on the veranda then settled myself comfortably in the rocking chair with a copy of Madeira and Porto Santo and the promised glass of poncha within easy reach. There’d be no harm in doing a little homework. Dorothy and Celia’s purpose in taking the ferry to Porto Santo on Tuesday might be entirely above board, but if it wasn’t … I might be clutching at straws, but at least it was a possible lead.

  I thumbed through the pages. Four miles of unspoilt golden beach…. That was one up on Madeira’s concrete lidos, fine as some of them were. Horse-carts with canopies and curtains…. Picturesque enough to justify Celia toting along her canvas and brushes. Perhaps that was all this jaunt of theirs was – a totally innocent painting trip, its end result the effortless reduction of golden sand and invitingly blue sea into a hideously garish daub.

  I took an appreciative sip of the poncha and idly turned a page in the guidebook. Apart from a small Columbus museum and a seventeenth-century church, the main tourist attraction of Porto Santo was the excellent beach, also claimed to have therapeutic properties in the treatment of varicose veins, arthritis, aches and pains…. The sufferer is buried up to the neck in the sand…. Though my shoulder wasn’t bothering me as much as it had, perhaps I’d give the sand treatment a go. That, of course, would have to take second place to tracking Dorothy and Celia’s movements – even if all they were up to was murder by paintbrush. Porto Santo was a very small island so following them would be easy. There was one big problem: by trailing after them everything, I would draw attention to myself. I reached for the glass of poncha and took another sip. I’d have to work that one out when I got there.

  For the moment I was content to lean back against the cushions and rock slowly to and fro, the only sounds the rhythmic creaking of the chair, the soft sigh of a lone car passing by on the road below, the rustle of the night breeze in the leaves of the wisteria. Relaxed, and at last drowsy, I drifted towards sleep…. By the sound of it, the wind was getting up … the rustle of leaves was more lively now … the wisteria seemed to be taking a bit of a battering. Must be in for a storm … my eyelids slowly closed….

  ‘Merda.’

  The muttered oath from somewhere just below the level of the veranda shocked me wide-awake. Mome
ntarily powerless to move, I stared at the shaking stem of wisteria, thick as a man’s wrist, which twined and twisted in a stranglehold round the railings of the veranda. There could be no doubt about it – someone was using the network of branches as a makeshift ladder.

  On the outermost fringe of the warm pool of light cast by the table lamp my eye caught a movement, just where the edge of the veranda plunged down into darkness. Fingers scrabbled for a hold, gripped, knuckles whitened. Agent James Bond 007, weapon aimed, would have been out of his seat, stamping down on those fingers in a nanosecond. Agent Smith, HM Revenue & Customs, just sat there like a tailor’s dummy, mouth agape.

  A leather-jacketed arm hooked itself round a railing, a white blob of a face rose out of the darkness like a phantom from a grave. I screamed. I’d intended a blood-curling, mega-decibel scream that would ricochet round the hillsides bringing aid and succour in the form of the entire garrison of Police HQ. The reality was a pathetic squawked aaaarkh that wouldn’t have startled a sleeping bird from its roost in the neighbouring kapok tree.

  ‘Do not have fear, senhora,’ whispered a voice I recognized.

  ‘Luís?’ The surge of relief had the curious effect of making me want to giggle.

  ‘I get your message, senhora, but I am afraid to use the telephone. Ears might be listening. I see light on veranda and so I come.’

  As he prepared to heave himself up over the rail, my training at last reasserted itself. I leant forward and switched off the lamp. My night visitor must remain part of the night.

  ‘I think we have a lot to tell each other,’ I said, and ushered him inside, beyond the range of prying eyes. Behind closed curtains in the kitchen I plied him with coffee and brought him up to date on events.

  ‘As you may have guessed by now, Luís, my job involves a bit more than being client liaison rep for Agençia de Viagens Madeira. I am working with your Drug Enforcement Agency to bring to justice those evil men who killed your brother. You loved your brother and want revenge. Is this not so?’

  He stared into his coffee, saying nothing, but the involuntary white-knuckle grip on the mug gave me the answer.

  ‘When you set up that meeting at the Beerhouse on the harbour, you were going to tell me—?’

  I stopped. I’d suddenly realized that I might have got it all wrong. At that time he’d no idea that I was anything other than a travel rep, so why would he have passed on to me any information about a drug ring he’d stumbled on? In our discreet coffee-time conversations we had gossiped about guests and their peccadilloes, not serious crimes like murder and robbery. But if I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, so it seemed, had someone else. Perhaps all that Luís had been going to impart was a juicy bit of gossip about one of the guests then present in the coffee-bar, something the guest concerned might overhear. Had something so simple, so ordinary, set in motion a murderous train of events? I might have been on the wrong track from the beginning, but it didn’t alter the fact that somebody in that little group had a secret they were prepared to kill for.

  Luís was still staring into his mug of coffee.

  To get him talking, I asked again, ‘Just what was so important that you asked me to meet you at the Beerhouse?’

  He looked up and sighed. ‘Senhora….’ He stopped.

  I reached up to the shelf for the liqueur bottle and added a generous slug to both our mugs. It had the desired effect.

  ‘I’ve been wondering what it was you wanted to tell me,’ I said. ‘All I know is that your brother was killed and you disappeared. I think you are hiding because Roberto told you something that puts your life in danger. Is that not so?’

  His reply was a barely perceptible nod of the head.

  ‘That is why I needed to contact you, Luís. We must track down those men before there is more killing. What is it you know that might cost you your life?’

  He avoided my eyes. I could just make out the muttered words, ‘Now they just look for me. If they know I have spoken to the polícia, I have great fear also for my mother.’

  ‘Neither you or your mother will be safe until these criminals are brought to justice.’ I put my hand on his. ‘I can make a phone call now, and your mother and yourself will be taken to a safe house, a place of safety where they will not find you.’

  He pulled his hand free. ‘A safe place? You do not understand, senhora. Nowhere on this small island is there a safe place for enemies of the drug criminals.’

  ‘The safe place can be anywhere of your choice. It can be in England.’ I let that sink in. ‘It is your only chance, Luís,’ I said softly. ‘The only chance, for as you say, there is no place that is safe in Madeira for you – or your mother.’

  ‘I must think, senhora.’ He pushed back his chair, made to get up, then slumped back down and sat head in hands, staring at the worn wooden floor as if trying to memorize the pattern of the grain.

  I let the minutes tick by. The angry hornet buzz of a distant motor bike penetrated the heavy wooden shutters and the closed window, deepening the heavy silence.

  At last, he raised his head and looked at me. ‘Sim, yes, that is how it must be, senhora. I will tell you what I learnt from Roberto.’

  Once he had made the decision to talk, Luís paced up and down my small kitchen, the words tumbling out of him. ‘Roberto and I were very close. As close as twins.’ He paused and swallowed hard. ‘Until a few months ago. Then I began to see that we were not so close. He is gone for some days and does not say where he has been. When he comes back, he has many euros and drinks much. “Little brother”, he says to me, “buy what you want.” But he would not tell me where this money comes from. Then I see that he has bad friends, so I say to him I cannot take his money any more, as I think it is bad money. He gets very angry and says, “Money is money. With this money our mother can have much comfort. Do you not wish our mother to have this, little brother?” And what can I say? The Massaroco Hotel does not pay much.’

  I pictured the sparsely furnished kitchen of the little house on the levada at Boa Morte, the sink with its single plate and cup on the draining board, and nodded.

  ‘One night I ask him, “Those bad friends get the money from drugs, is it not so?” He has drunk much wine and he laughs and says, “Do not worry, little brother, the polícia will not catch us.” So I know that is what he is doing. I tell him he must stop. I have heard that the polícia are watching the fishing boats. And he laughs and laughs and laughs and says, “They may watch the fishing boats as much as they like, but they will be looking in the wrong place.” I grab his arm and say, “You will be caught, Roberto, and our mother will be shamed.” He laughs again and says, “The polícia are so stupid. They look for the boats on the water, but they do not think of the little boats coming under the water from Porto Santo, little boats made of fibre-glass and wood.”’

  Submarines. Mini-submarines. All along we’d assumed that drugs were being moved in and out of Madeira by fishing or cargo boat and had concentrated our efforts accordingly. Mini-submarines hadn’t entered our heads. I suppose someone should have thought of it, but no one had.

  Luís sat down abruptly and buried his face in his hands with a muffled, ‘I should have found a way to stop him.’

  I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘What could you have done?’

  ‘If I go to the polícia, he not be dead.’ The last word ended in a sob.

  I sat down beside him. As much to distract him from this despondent train of thought as in the hope it would help with my investigations, I asked, ‘Do you know why he was killed?’

  He looked at me. ‘Ah, senhora, it is not only to me that Roberto talks of the submarines. When he has drunk much in the bar at Boa Morte, he again talks the big talk. I am afraid for him.’

  ‘And you also became afraid for yourself? Did something happen to frighten you?’

  He stared into space, seeing not my little kitchen, but the simple room beside the levada at Boa Morte. ‘The day before Roberto was found in the harbour,
when I get home from the bar, Roberto is already there. He is crying with fear. He say the men are going to kill him and me because I know too much. He say we must run off and hide. We arrange to meet in the church at Ribiero Brava and I stay to tell our mother what we are doing so that she will not go to the polícia when we disappear. I give him my credit card so he can get money.’

  So that explained the initial misidentification of the body.

  He stared into space. ‘Then I go to Ribiero Brava and I wait a long time at the church, but Roberto does not come. At first I am angry, then I am worried. I wait and I pray. All night I pray. In the morning I decide I must go to the polícia. But then these men will kill us all, even my mother who knows nothing. Madeira can no longer be our home. I decide we go to England but no one must know this. At the Beerhouse I will tell you that I must leave Madeira quickly and ask you, who know about tourists, where in England is good place for waiters, a place where Portuguese people do not go, but I cannot ask you this where someone might hear.’

  ‘I understand, Luís. But you did not come to the Beerhouse. Why was that?’

  ‘After I leave the bar, I go back to the church but Roberto is not there. I wait until I must leave for our meeting, but there is accident on Via Rápida and I come late.’ He buried his face in his hands again. ‘And then I see … I see Roberto’s body being carried into ambulance, and I have much fear and I hide.’

  ‘And your mother thought she could protect you from these evil men by saying Roberto’s body was yours?’

  He sighed and looked at me sadly. ‘Yes, but it was a foolish hope. These men do not care which brother they kill. Still they are looking. They will only stop when both of us are—’

  I stood up and went over to the phone. ‘Listen to me, Luís. They will not find you – or your mother. As I said, I can arrange that both of you are taken to a safe place, anywhere of your choice. Will I make that phone call now?’