Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

  What was the best way to handle the coming encounter with Dorothy Winterton and Celia Haxby? Just why had they concealed from me the fact that they were going to be on the ferry too? And if they were up to something, what measures would they take to make sure I left Porto Santo none the wiser? In hindsight I should have given this vital point a lot more consideration, but lulled by a hearty buffet breakfast and the gentle motion of the ship, I dozed off….

  When I woke, the sea no longer stretched unbroken to the horizon. Ahead were the two distinctive conical mountains of Porto Santo, purplish brown against a grey sky. I knew it wasn’t an island of tree-covered slopes and lush greenery, but as we approached, the almost complete lack of vegetation, the arid emptiness was startling. The capital, Vila Baleira, was a mere scatter of white houses hugging the ground in the valley between two low volcanic peaks. That thin line of colour must be the famous beach of golden sand, the island’s main tourist attraction, but where were the customary lines of sun beds and umbrellas? I couldn’t see any at all.

  People had started to leave the lounge and I hurried after them down to the reception area. Still no sign of Dorothy and Celia among the fifty or so gathered there. I edged my way through the crowd, aiming to be amongst the first to disembark. I wasn’t going to make the mistake of being stuck on the ship while they bowled off in a taxi to destination unknown. The exit door opened and I was carried along in the surge towards the gangway.

  Just as I reached the doorway, from somewhere behind me Celia’s voice said loudly and impatiently, ‘No, Dorothy, it’s this way to the car deck.’

  A man elbowed me aside, ramming his suitcase painfully into my heel as I swung round craning to pinpoint the speaker. Before the press of bodies jostled me forward, I caught a glimpse of Dorothy’s iron-grey perm reflected in the mirror ceiling tiles. All the way down the gangway I lectured myself on the crass stupidity of overlooking the obvious. Of course, I should have taken into account the possibility that they might take their car on the ferry. What better way of giving me the slip on Porto Santo? The best I could do now was to hope to commandeer a taxi and follow them.

  I scanned the vehicles lined up on the quayside – a blue bus, an assortment of cars, mini-buses and vans and, the answer to my prayers, a sole taxi. What if somebody else got to it first? As soon as I stepped onto the quay I broke into a sprint, only to slow to a halt after a few metres. I was too late. The taxi was moving off in the direction of Vila Baleira. I stood there staring disconsolately after it. I’d have to catch the public bus to the little town and hope that Haxby and Winterton might stop off for a coffee there. Perhaps if I had a scout around, I’d spot that distinctive metallic-green car of theirs. If not, I’d hire a taxi to drive me round. On such a small island with its simple road network, the chances were that I’d come upon these ladies sooner or later, though what I’d do then…. Perhaps things had worked out for the best, for with roads so empty of cars and people, I now realized that to have trailed after their car in a taxi would merely have drawn their attention to the fact that they were being followed.

  Poop poop. I spun round. I’d failed to notice the car coming up slowly behind me.

  ‘Yoohoo, Deborah.’ Celia waved a hand in greeting. ‘Surprise, surprise! You didn’t know we’d booked on the ferry too, did you?’

  ‘Dorothy! Celia!’ Genuine astonishment on my part, for far from sneaking off and trying to avoid me, here they were actively seeking me out.

  Celia was beaming at me through the open car window. ‘Going anywhere in particular? Can we give you a lift?’

  That put me on the spot. I managed to come up with, ‘Well, there’s the Columbus House and museum, and … er … I thought I’d do a little island sight-seeing in one of those picturesque horse-carts.’ I gestured in the direction of the one standing near the bus, a rhapsody in blue from wheel to roof, including the frilly curtains. ‘Then if there’s time, I’ll see if I can try out the famous sand treatment for my shoulder – if they do that sort of thing at this time of year, that is.’

  I was in for another surprise.

  ‘Hop in.’ Celia twisted round in her seat and eased open the rear door. ‘Let’s have a coffee together in town and you can tell us what’s worth seeing.’

  As we chatted in the five minutes it took to drive into Vila Baleira, my mind was busy with this unexpected turn of events. Could it be that in a desperate attempt to wrap up the case before the comandante’s deadline, I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, quite misinterpreted Dorothy and Celia’s innocent actions?

  ‘Down here, Dorothy.’ Celia was pointing to a parking area behind the handful of shops and bar-restaurants on the main road. ‘There might be a nice little café near the sea.’

  And indeed there was a café, right on the palm tree-lined promenade with a good view of the pier and the beach. As we sipped our coffee, the sun emerged from behind the clouds, transforming the sea to a startling turquoise-blue edged by sand so pale as to be almost white.

  ‘Make a wonderful painting, don’t you think, Celia?’ Dorothy put down her cup and framed the view with her fingers. ‘We could be in the Caribbean.’

  ‘Those colours!’ Celia produced a digital camera from her bag. ‘I must capture those colours.’ She pushed back her chair and wandered across the promenade to point the camera at the sweep of the bay.

  ‘Celia’s such a perfectionist when painting landscapes and still life, you know. She spends hours mixing those paints and getting things just right.’

  I suppressed a smile. Dorothy was either being very loyal, or was a very poor judge of painting. The muddy greens and greys of the hilly landscape I’d seen in Celia’s room were anything but natural. And as for ‘getting things just right’ – the only easily recognizable object in that picture with the pink teacup, apart from the teacup itself, was the slab of raw fish.

  ‘Now to see what I’ve got. It’s too bright out there.’ Celia sank into her seat, held the camera on her lap in the shade of the table and peered at the screen. ‘Hmm, not bad, but it’s too empty. It needs a colourful figure in the foreground.’

  Dorothy put down her cup. ‘That purple outfit you’re wearing, Celia, would make a good splash of colour. How about if I take your picture standing under that palm tree?’ She held out her hand for the camera.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Dot, but your pictures are always blurry. Either that, or you cut off my head or my feet.’

  ‘It’s Dorothy, Celia. Not Dot. Just because last time the photos—’

  ‘Why don’t I take the photo?’ I broke in.

  ‘Would you?’ Celia handed me the camera with alacrity and rose to her feet. ‘I think if we go over there near the pier … oh, mustn’t forget this. Need it for the picture.’ She picked up her floppy hat from beside Dorothy’s handbag on a vacant chair and jammed it on her head. ‘Back in a sec, Dorothy.’

  But by the time Celia had decided exactly where she was going to stand and had struck a suitable pose, it was a good deal longer than ‘a sec’ till we returned to the table.

  ‘I knew this would happen, Celia.’ Dorothy gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Your coffees were stone cold. So I asked the waiter to take them away and took the liberty of ordering another pot – and some more of those delicious biscuits. Here you are, Deborah.’

  ‘Now compare these two shots, Dorothy.’ Celia took a quick swig of coffee, pushed aside her cup, and switched on the camera. ‘Can you see why the composition is so much better in this one?’

  I listened with half an ear to the discussion, drank my coffee and pondered my next move. I was convinced now that I had been wrong about Dorothy and Celia having an ulterior purpose in visiting Porto Santo. Suddenly aware that they had stopped talking, I looked up.

  ‘Er, sorry.’ I drained the cup and placed it back in the saucer. ‘Did you ask me something?’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘We were wondering if you would care to accompany us to a delightful little bay just along the coast. You and I can sit in
the shade while Celia exercises her brushes.’

  ‘Yes, do come, Deborah. Dot gets a teeny bit bored with no one to talk to. You see, an artist must concentrate totally to capture the essence of a scene.’

  Final proof that I had been on the wrong track. They definitely wouldn’t want me along if they had something to hide.

  ‘We-ll, I had thought—’

  ‘Oh, you won’t have to listen to me rambling on the whole time, Deborah. After getting up before dawn to catch the ferry, a little nap in the shade will definitely be on the cards.’ She leaned forward, gazing at me intently. ‘And I think you should have one too. You’re looking a little tired, dear.’

  I stifled a yawn. I did feel a bit drowsy. ‘Well, thank you. If you’re sure—’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Dorothy caught the waiter’s eye, produced the car keys from her handbag and rose to her feet.

  ‘Quite sure.’ Celia echoed, picking up her camera.

  The sand was soft against my cheek. I was lying on my side, the shoulder I’d injured at Monte buried in the warm therapeutic grains. I felt rested and relaxed … so relaxed that it was too much effort to open my eyes.

  A man’s voice penetrated the warm drowsiness that cocooned me. ‘Desculpe, senhora, it is not permitted to sleep on the beach.’ A hand shook my arm.

  I thought about this. How ridiculous. Any beach I’d seen was full of bodies stretched out and dozing in the sun. It was in my mind to say this, but I couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘Desculpe, senhora, it is not permitted to sleep on the beach when the sun goes down.’ The voice was louder this time. ‘I must ask you to leave.’ The hand on my arm tightened.

  Bloody Jobsworth. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours, if that, so it wasn’t anywhere near sunset.

  ‘Please to open your eyes, senhora. It is time to go back to your hotel.’

  Another voice broke in. ‘Having trouble, Artur? Drunk too much wine, has she?’

  What a nerve! My eyes flew open and I sat up, or tried to. I collapsed back onto the sand, fighting off a wave of nausea.

  Two faces peered down at me. The older one frowned. ‘The senhora was very foolish to drink and then to lie so long in the sun.’

  I glared up at him. ‘One and a half cupsh of coffee, shenhor.’ I levered myself onto an elbow, and sank back again as the horizon performed a slow gyration.

  ‘Told you, Artur. Drunk!’

  ‘No, I’m shertainly not! But I think I have been too long in the sssun. I musht have fallen ashleep.’ I realized I was slurring the words.

  The younger man knelt beside me. ‘What is the name of your hotel? I will call a taxi.’

  ‘Massharoco,’ I said. No, that wasn’t right, was it? That is where I work. I live in a house with wisteria climbing round the balcony, the gingerbread house. I frowned. ‘I’m ssorry I can’t quite remember the name of the shtreet, but it’sh near the lido.’

  ‘Lido?’ Artur frowned back, as if frowning was infectious. ‘There is no lido here. Could the senhora have come to Porto Santo on the ferry?’

  ‘Yesh.’ With the help of the young man I sat up slowly. ‘I’d be awfully grateful if you could get me to the port. I’m feeling a bit dizzy and I’ll be able to lie down on the boat.’

  A snort of amusement erupted from Artur’s colleague. ‘Bit late for that, senhora. That’s it away out there.’

  I squinted against the light. I could just make out, halfway to the horizon, a white ship heading at full speed away from the island. I should be on it. What was I doing lying here on the beach? The events of the day were, for some reason, hazy, only half-remembered: I recalled boarding the ferry, standing on the quayside in Porto Santo, looking disconsolately after the one and only taxi disappearing in the direction of the town, getting into Dorothy Winterton’s car, sitting with her and Celia at the café on the promenade, coming with them to this sandy cove….

  But where were Dorothy and Celia? Surely they wouldn’t have gone off to catch the ferry leaving me asleep on the beach? Celia must have finished her painting here and decided to drive on to another scenic spot. And I must have said I wanted to stay longer on the beach and I’d make my own way back to the ferry. But try as I might, I remembered nothing about it. Nothing at all.

  How could I have been so stupid as to fall victim to the sun? I knew how strong it was at these latitudes, was always warning clients about the danger. I tried desperately to think of something to say to Artur and his sidekick that wouldn’t involve that tricky letter ‘s’.

  Artur was looking at his watch. ‘It is possible for the senhora to get back to Funchal tonight.’

  ‘Yesh? I mean, really?’

  ‘There’s a flight to Madeira in about an hour.’

  ‘They won’t take her, Artur. Under the influence of alcohol.’

  ‘No, I’m not! I’m a bit under the weather, off-colour, ill!’ I took a deep breath and enunciated the next words slowly and carefully, on guard against that treacherous, betraying ‘s’. If you can call a … er … car to take me to the airport, I will be very grateful.’

  By the time the flight was called, helped by several glasses of water, a pot of black coffee and a sandwich, I was feeling a lot better. Groggy, but definitely on the mend. I stared out through the plate glass windows of the departure lounge at the star-studded sky and the darker mass of Porto Santo’s low hills. If the short-staffed Agençia hadn’t put me in charge of the next day’s trip to the São Vicente Caves, being stuck on Porto Santo overnight would have been inconvenient but not really a matter of great concern.

  All in all, I thought gloomily, I had nothing to show for the time and effort spent visiting Porto Santo. A whole precious day had gone to waste. I was no nearer wrapping up the case, and less than a week remained before the comandante had me frogmarched onto that London-bound plane.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Bo–oring, bloody bo-oring.’ Zara pouted like a sulky toddler. ‘What do you mean by, “After we come out of the caves, we’ll visit the cliffs of the north coast”? You kept that bloody quiet when you talked me into this trip. “Journey to the Centre of the Earth”, you said, not “Journey to Dreary Old Scenery.”’

  ‘Sorry, Zara,’ I sighed, ‘but I know the caves won’t be a disappointment and, if you really don’t want to come with us to see those boring cliffs,’ – I hid a smile – ‘there’s always the local bus that’ll take you back to Funchal in an hour or so. But there’s no need to decide now. You can let me know later.’

  I left her pondering that one and went off to give out entrance tickets to the rest of the group, drawn from the Funchal hotels served by the Agençia. We joined the fifteen or so other people waiting for the guide to unlock the gate.

  She clapped her hands for silence. ‘We must keep in the group, all together in the group. No one must go into the places without the lights. With the lights no danger, where no lights, much danger.’ She turned to me, peeling off an adhesive label and attaching it to my jacket. ‘I give you new job. You, senhora, will come last of group, so you know that nobody is left.’ She relocked the gate behind us.

  The very mention of danger had altered Zara’s mood. A look of anticipation had replaced her sulky pout, and I too had to admit that I felt a little thrill of excitement as we followed the guide into the depths of the dimly lit lava pipe. Drip … drip … drip of water, scuff of shoes on the concrete path, pools of yellow light intensifying the surrounding darkness, rough cinnamon-brown walls closing round us, mysterious, faintly menacing. At intervals secondary pipes branched off, like the bronchioles of a giant lung, an impression reinforced by the current of air in our faces and the faint hum of the ventilation generator.

  The attack on me came totally unexpectedly. The chosen spot – an eerily beautiful subterranean lake. Under carefully placed spotlights the crystal clear water glowed a luminous emerald green. A moment before, Zara had thrust her camera into my hand.

  ‘Do me a favour and take me wit
h handsome here.’ She flung an arm round the neck of a youth that I’m sure she had never set eyes on before and subsided onto a rock beside the lake, pulling him down with her. ‘This’ll make all the guys back home sit up! OK, Debs, shoot.’ She pulled the startled youth’s head down. ‘C’mon, handsome. Light my fire.’ She clamped her mouth to his with the enthusiasm of a lamprey attaching itself to its host. For Zara the wonders of the subterranean world obviously needed a little pepping up.

  I was framing her in the viewfinder when without warning the lights went out, plunging the cavern into darkness, a thick velvety blackness that pressed on the eyes like a blindfold. Zara’s distinctive high-pitched giggle cut through the startled exclamations and little screams.

  The guide’s torch clicked on. ‘Lighting soon fixed. Only little problem. Two three minutes and—’

  I heard a startled, ‘Oh—’ a clatter of metal on rock and the beam of the torch was abruptly extinguished.

  ‘Keep tranqüilo, peoples. If you keep tranqüilo, there is no danger. No danger at all.’

  I put an arm out as somebody blundered into me. ‘Best to stand still till the lights—’

  Rough hands seized my outstretched arm and twisted me round. At the same time other hands pinioned my other arm to my side.

  Before I could let out more than a startled ‘What—?’ my feet were kicked from under me and I was lifted into the air in an operation so slick I didn’t have the chance to struggle. My knees crunched painfully against the low wall that surrounded the lake. With the efficiency of a boat being launched down a slipway, I was shoved forward and down. I took a deep breath to scream just as my shoulders and face plunged into the icy lake.

  Water rushed into my mouth. Choking … drowning.…

  Darkness enveloped me, the dark of the River Styx, river of the Underworld, river of Death.

  I was lying on my back and somebody’s lips were super-glued to mine. My eyes were closed, but somehow I knew it was Zara’s mouth.