Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

  Smother him was more like it. G had a long memory, and didn’t quickly forgive attacks on her person. Blackie might no longer be the arrogant, spoiled thug that had attacked her on that previous assignment in Tenerife, but she’d be taking no chances. Pre-emptive strike strategy, I think the military call it. It was just as well I was coming back to Madeira.

  Gorgonzola was gratifyingly pleased to see me, but not nearly so pleased when I produced the cat-carrier and whisked her into it. She realized that a cease-fire had been unilaterally imposed from on high, that Blackie was no longer a legitimate target, and that war game fun stopped now. Watched by an ecstatically mewing Blackie, I stowed the cat-carrier with its thwarted incumbent on the floor of the rental car.

  Victoria gave me a farewell hug. ‘Come back soon, dear. Blackie’s already missing his little friend.’

  Turning a deaf ear to G’s grumbles, I drove along the Estrada Monumental passing the gingerbread house, now awaiting a new tenant. Its faded green shutters were firmly closed, the racemes of purple wisteria clinging to the pale stucco walls were beginning to wither at the tips. Old houses have a soul that needs to be cherished. It was as if in my absence its life-force had drained away.

  Before my enforced departure from Madeira I’d found an agreeable substitute for the gingerbread house. In preparation for my return I’d rented a tiny studio apartment in an old house that drowsed on a handkerchief-sized scrap of land bypassed by the modern world. From the main street all that was visible above a high wall and a rippling green sea of banana fronds were terracotta roof tiles faded by more than a century’s exposure to sun and rain.

  The entrance to this hideaway was via a cobbled lane too narrow for modern vehicles. I parked on the street and opened the rear door of the car.

  ‘Time for you to go undercover, G.’ I zipped the cat-carrier into a capacious holdall brought expressly for the purpose and started off up the lane.

  After a few metres I stopped. The holdall was emitting disconcertingly loud yowls. So much for the planned undercover arrival at my new abode. I slid the zip open a few centimetres and hissed, ‘Shut up, G. This is work. You’re being unprofessional.’ She wasn’t wearing her working collar, but it had the desired result – silence. A reproachful silence. Followed by an anguished mew, faint but unmistakable, craftily designed to wound. Suitably chastened, I made my way up the lane, the scuff of my shoes loud on the cobbles.

  The rented studio was plainly furnished and scrupulously clean. As a bonus, louvre doors led directly onto a shady patio-courtyard complete with lime-green metal table and a couple of chairs, French café-style.

  With a bright, ‘Very nice, eh, Gorgonzola?’ I unzipped the holdall, lifted out the cat-carrier, unfastened the catch and flung open the door. ‘What do you think of your new home?’

  I waited a moment for a response, but there wasn’t one. I knelt and peered in. ‘C’mon, G, forgive and forget,’ I pleaded.

  This time I got a response. It sounded most decidedly like a fart.

  That did it. ‘I’ve been up since three to catch that early morning flight, G. I’m tired. T-i-r-e-d. I’m going to take a short power nap. We’ve work to do tonight. I hope you’ll be in a better mood when I wake up.’

  I took off my shoes and flung myself on the bed. I was tired. My eyes closed…. A moment later, or so it seemed, a large paw tap tap tapped my arm. I didn’t open my eyes. Hot breath fanned my face … taptaptap.

  ‘Watch my lips, G. T-i-r-e-d. T-i-r-e-d, do you hear?’ I muttered drowsily.

  Just when I thought she’d given up and I was drifting once more into slumber … taptaptaptaptaptap.

  ‘Let – me – have – that – power nap, G,’ I said through clenched teeth.

  And eventually she did. But not before I had staggered over to the nearby supermarket in search of a conciliatory offering that would satisfy her gourmet tastes.

  On the flight back to Madeira I’d made the decision to stake out the somewhat seedy block of flats in Funchal where Gonçalves holed up. I parked my car a short distance away. The CCTV footage of Gonçalves being the best lead I had – indeed the only firm one – I was prepared to lie in wait for him all night, every night.

  Within an hour I glimpsed a movement in the dark recess of the doorway. A moment later a man emerged. At first I wasn’t sure if it was Gonçalves, but as he passed under a streetlight, that U-shaped bald patch on the top of his head told me my vigil was at an end. He advanced on a motor scooter parked by the communal rubbish bin and kicked it off its stand. The glowing tip of a cigarette arced into the gutter and without a backward glance he sped off towards the centre of town.

  At a discreet distance I followed. I wasn’t altogether surprised when he took the road towards Camâra de Lobos, the coast end of that old mountain path, the route whereby I suspected drugs were being transported into the Nun’s Valley. And Haxby, with Winterton in tow, had made no secret of her visits to Camâra, ostensibly to plant her easel in the very spot where Winston Churchill had set up his. But had there been any views of the fishing village among the paintings in Haxby’s room? I mentally reviewed the stacked works…. No, not one – circumstantial evidence to back up my theory that her visits there had been for an entirely different reason.

  Pondering this new train of thought, I almost missed the brightening of his brake lights as Gonçalves slowed, bumped over a low kerb and turned into a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Anxiously I scanned the road for a parking place. Fifty metres ahead a car moved off and I swooped into the vacated space. After a quick glance in the mirror to check for oncoming traffic, I flung open the door – then eased it shut. Gonçalves had reappeared and was walking briskly along the pavement towards me. Any sudden movement would have attracted his attention, so I just sat there, hoping that he’d be so intent upon his own affairs that he’d pay no particular attention to a woman, head bent, rummaging in her handbag.

  Once he was a safe distance ahead, I picked up the rucksack. At 11 p.m. there were enough people wandering around in Câmara de Lobos to make me inconspicuous as, keeping to the shadows, I followed on foot Silvestre Gonçalves’ wiry figure. The up-turned crescent moon sailed out from behind a bank of cloud, silvering the far side of the street and plunging the near side into still deeper shadow. The thump thump thump of heavy metal music spilt from the open doorway of a bar. Off to my left, under the shelter of a clump of palm trees a line of blue and green fishing boats slumbered on the cobbles of the harbour like ground-roosting exotic birds. A few metres from the shore, the jagged ribs of an old hulk lay half-submerged in the dark waters as if picked clean by the razor-sharp teeth of a shoal of the espada fish it once hunted.

  The rucksack on my back twitched as its occupant detected the alluring aroma of fish wafting up from the array of nets strung on racks and spread on the quayside. G was registering temptation, but temptation heroically resisted – a subtle way of underlining that when she was officially at work, she was the total professional. This afternoon’s unfortunate episode of the holdall had been forgiven, but not forgotten.

  He was heading away from the harbour in the direction of the huddle of narrow lanes round the fish market. Now that there were fewer people about, I dropped further back. He rounded a corner, and I lost sight of him. I quickened my step, but the dimly lit street stretched emptily ahead: the façade of the fish market stared blankly back at me; a shutter hanging loose on one of the houses opposite rattled mockingly in the freshening breeze.

  I walked slowly down the street on the lookout for something, anything, that might indicate where he’d gone to ground. At the end of the street I set the rucksack down and unzipped it. G’s tousled head emerged and immediately swivelled to target the fish market.

  ‘This side, G.’ I pointed to the row of houses. ‘Let’s see what you can nose out.’

  I really didn’t have much hope, but with Gorgonzola scouting ahead, I walked back up the street. Halfway along, a movement flickered in the shadows – o
nly a skinny white cat scavenging in an overflowing municipal rubbish bin. It eyed Gorgonzola appraisingly, saw in her scruffy coat an unwelcome rival for the treasures of the bin, and took mean and vicious action. With a blood-freezing tchaaaargh, claws slashing like scimitars, it hurled itself at G.

  My brain was still clunkily taking in the situation as G’s alley-cat genes launched her into a counter-attack. Her opponent had made the fundamental error of going for the throat. While its claws were entangled in the thickest area of G’s patchy fur, G sank her teeth into the back of its scrawny neck, and with a toss of her head, hurled her attacker into the road.

  With a contemptuous yeeerh, G fluffed herself up and advanced, ears flattened, stiff-legged towards her dazed assailant who leapt to its feet with an ear-splitting hooowooool and shot off to a safe distance from where it screamed raucous defiance and abuse.

  Somewhere above me a window was flung open. ‘Shurrup, I say, shurrup!’ A hand holding a jug of water appeared and I just had time to flatten myself behind the malodorous bulk of the rubbish bin, when a sheet of water splatted to the ground right on target.

  A particularly piercing yaoooooooooooo cut off abruptly. The scrawny cat, flattened fur exposing skeletal thinness, blinked water out of its eyes. Hissss – Gorgonzola ever the opportunist, sprang forward to administer the coup de grâce. Splatt. With an expertise honed by years of practice, the hand at the window delivered a second jugful. Gorgonzola’s aggressive hiss deflated like a punctured air-cushion. Drenched and slimmed to half her size, abandoning her plans for GBH, she dived for cover under the bin.

  The Portuguese equivalent of ‘Gottcha, you bastards!’ drifted down from above. The window slammed shut. G’s bedraggled head poked tentatively out of her refuge and I’d just crouched down to scoop her up for a consolatory cuddle, when the faint squeak of un-oiled hinges made me look up. Across the road, a small door inset into one of the fish market roll-down shutters was slowly opening.

  A finger of light spilt across the tarmac towards the bin, seeking me out. I was sure I’d found Gonçalves, but I certainly didn’t want him to find me. Any movement by the bin would catch his eye. I had a few precious seconds while his night vision was adjusting. I lowered my head, tucked my chin into my shoulder, and prayed that my leg muscles would be able to hold their uncomfortable position.

  ‘Quiet, G,’ I breathed.

  A tremor ran through her, whether of victory thwarted or of shock delayed, it was hard to tell, but training won and she lay motionless beneath my hands.

  I stared at my knees. I heard the click of the door closing. Silence. Perhaps he’d sensed movement by the bin and was even now creeping towards me, knife in hand…. My straining ears picked up a faint sound, the quiet pad of rubber soles. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, instinct screamed at me to jump up and defend myself. But had I really heard something? Was it merely my overheated imagination? Gonçalves might just be standing there checking the area or lighting a cigarette. Leaping up from behind the bin would precipitate the very thing I feared: he’d rush at me, knife in hand. I took a deep breath and stayed down.

  Mustn’t–look–up, mustn’t–look–up. I tried not to picture my bowed shoulders, neck exposed like the bull’s for the fatal thrust of the matador’s sword. Mustn’t–look–up. Twenty of those little incantations and he’d have walked away up the street, and I’d be safe. Mustn’t–look–up … fourteen. Mustn’t–look–up … fifteen. Mustn’t—

  My calf muscles signalled surrender. At the same moment, my stomach rebelled against the putrid stink of decomposing fish and decaying vegetable matter erupting from the bin. I lurched to my feet, trying not to retch. If Gonçalves was there, all he’d have to do was hold out his blade and I’d fall on it.

  But he wasn’t there. The street was deserted. Even the scrawny cat had slunk off to investigate less perilous treasures. I reeled away from the foul smell and leant against a house wall, massaging the circulation back into my aching leg muscles. A barely audible, plaintive miaow issued from beneath the bin. Gorgonzola was pointedly rubbing in the embarrassing fact that while the captain had cravenly abandoned the stinking ship, G had dutifully remained at her post.

  I limped over and gathered her up. She lifted a woebegone face and stared at me wide-eyed, milking the situation for all she was worth.

  ‘Dear, oh dear, let’s see what we can do,’ I fussed.

  I set her down and did my best to dry her off by rubbing her with my jacket. Then bundling her up in it, I tucked her under my arm and walked across the road to investigate. I hadn’t seen the person who had emerged from the fish market and consequently couldn’t be sure it was Gonçalves. Perhaps I was wasting my time investigating, but it was worth a try.

  I studied the door. The lock was of the simple Yale-type, all that was necessary for a fish market out of working hours. I could have opened it with a paperclip, with my picklocks it was simplicity itself. I fished in my pocket with my free hand and within five seconds was inside the building.

  Moonlight filtering through roof lights opaque with salt and dust struggled to reach the floor where I stood listening. Gradually my eyes accustomed themselves to a gloom that smelled strongly of fish and salt water. The bundle under my arm nosed that heady bouquet and made a miraculous recovery, quivering with the excitement of a child let loose in a sweet factory. I set G down, keeping one finger in her collar as a reminder that this paradise for cats was a working environment for a HMRC drug detector.

  The narrow beam of my pencil torch revealed continuous rows of stone tables stretching off into the darkness. If drugs were here, they’d be carefully concealed. I wasn’t going to find a row of packages neatly laid out for my inspection on one of these slabs.

  ‘Find!’ I waved Gorgonzola forward. She had been trained to sniff out narcotics. Her low crooning call would tell me if she found anything.

  Tail erect, she walked out of the beam of light. A wraith-like shape, she began a run along the rows of stone tables. I could trace her progress by the soft thud when she leapt down, followed some moments later by the scutter of claws as she leapt up to start on the next row.

  I switched off the torch and waited. I couldn’t afford to draw a blank here. I had no other leads. To date, the only evidence against Winterton was that CCTV tape of a woman meeting with Gonçalves, something that a smart lawyer would easily demolish. Time was running out to build a watertight case against her. In a few days she and Haxby would be returning to England, their holiday in Madeira at an end.

  With the minutes passing and still no signal from Gorgonzola, my hopes faded. Expectation gave way to resignation. By now, G must have almost completed her search. There was nothing for it but to stake-out Gonçalves’ house again. But this time he might not emerge for hours – or at all. And when he did, the chances were that he would just head for the nearest bar.

  Where was G? I suddenly realized that I could no longer hear the faint scratches and thumps that marked her position. Could she, oh treacherous thought, have stumbled on a succulent fishy morsel and even now be tucking into it?

  My fingers closed on the ultrasonic whistle in my pocket. One blast would bring her back. I hesitated. What if I called her back just when she was within a sniff of success? No, I’d give her one more minute, just in case.

  I gave her two minutes, then pulled out the whistle.

  Purrrrrr. I jumped as if I’d been jabbed with an electric cattle prod. The triumphant crooning call came from somewhere off to the left. Purrrrrrr. I switched on the torch and made my way towards the seaward entrance of the market. Purrrrrrr. G’s eyes flashed yellow-green as the beam caught her. She was crouched on a pile of old nets, proprietorial paw firmly planted on a battered red ball-float of the kind used to mark lobster pots.

  ‘Well done, G. How could I have doubted you!’ I gathered her up and planted a rather guilty kiss on her nose. ‘Now, clever girl,’ I unbuckled her working collar, ‘the place is yours!’

  She squ
irmed out of my arms and streaked off to home-in on a temptation previously resisted. I put on a pair of thin latex gloves, pulled aside the tangle of torn nets, and picked up the red ball. Judging by its weight, more than a kilo, Gorgonzola had hit the jackpot.

  I laid it on the nearest stone table and played the torch over its battered surface. A raised seam ran round the circumference like an old-fashioned ball valve in a cistern – at a guess, that’s probably what it had once been. So it should unscrew…. But it didn’t. My hands were too small to give me leverage. Carefully I replaced it under its screen of nets.

  The drug courier would need to pick it up before the fish market opened on Monday and, I glanced at my watch, it was already Sunday morning. I’d have to alert the comandante quickly. But how was I going to avoid recriminations over my return to Madeira, and the accompanying hostility and unpleasantness that would waste valuable time?

  ‘Enough, Sshmit,’ she’d hiss, thumping her fist on the desk. ‘As of the 25th of April, you have had no official presence here.’ The orange heads of the strelitzias would nod unanimous agreement. And that would be that.

  ‘Time to go home, G.’ I called, and she appeared, chewing at a cherished fish tail, like a desperate smoker taking the last frantic puff before boarding a bus. ‘You’ve earned it, G,’ I said and loaded her and the fish tail into the rucksack.

  I played the flashlight over the pile of nets, and satisfied that everything was as it had been, let myself out. The door clicked softly shut behind me. Perhaps on the drive back to Funchal I’d think what to do.

  When I unzipped the rucksack in the banana grove of the studio apartment, G stepped leisurely out and sat on the cobbles, meticulously cleaning her face and whiskers of the last traces of fish supper.

  ‘Full moon, and one o’clock in the morning, best time for cats on the prowl,’ I said heartily. ‘Only don’t bring me any little presents.’