The comandante gazed thoughtfully at me. ‘The senhora identified Gonçalves from the photo in our files. At last, Sshmit, we have the evidence of a business arrangement between Winterton and the most unlamented Gonçalves. So, as I said, the next question is … now that we have the evidence against her, how do we close the trap on the big fish, Winterton?’
It sounded as if she already knew the answer to that one. And something told me that, whatever I was about to hear, I wasn’t going to like it.
She pinned me to my seat with her piercing stare. ‘My dear Sshmit, I tell you what you must do. You must frighten this Haxby and Winterton. Yes, you must arrange that they will take actions that will lead to their arrest. How this is done, I leave to you.’ The two neat rows of perfectly matched teeth smiled their crocodile smile.
My first thought when I left the comandante was to go off in search of Raimundo. I drew a blank. He was nowhere to be found – not behind the public counter stabbing fitfully at the keyboard, nor tinkering with his car in the police yard. My enquiries were met with a shrug, expressive of ‘Ribiero? Who knows?’ I scribbled a congratulatory note and left it propped up against the computer.
Easel set up on the tiny terrace overlooking the terracotta rooftops on the far side of the harbour, floppy yellow sun hat pulled low over her eyes, blue and green artist smock flapping in the light breeze, Celia Haxby was giving her undivided attention to painting the scene before her. Unnoticed, I crept up and peered over her shoulder. Pinned to the easel was a small postcard depicting one of Winston Churchill’s oil paintings of Câmara de Lobos.
‘Thought I’d find you here, Celia.’
She looked up, in her expression surprise – and something else. ‘You’re back!’
‘Mmm.’ I made a show of studying the painting. ‘Copying Sir Winston, eh? Pretty good, Celia. If his signature was on it, it would sell for thousands.’
‘Oh!’ The loaded brush shot across the paper trailing green in its wake. She was rattled, just as I’d intended.
‘Dear, dear, dear! Will you be able to … er, fix it?’ I whipped out a tissue and dabbed frantically. The resultant green smudges were much more disfiguring than the original thin streak.
‘Bloody hell!’ She snatched the canvas off the easel and flung it on the ground. ‘Don’t you know better than to sneak up on an artist when a work’s in progress?’
‘What a shame! I’m so sorry,’ I said with feigned concern. After a moment’s silence in memory of the spoiled masterpiece, I said cheerfully, ‘I was looking for you to give you the good news. Starting from tomorrow, my office hour in the Massaroco will be back to normal.’
This was not greeted with any detectable enthusiasm.
‘Humph.’ She turned away and snatched up brushes and paint tubes. ‘It’s no use me continuing with this. Too late in the day now to capture these colours. Light’s going.’
‘Well,’ I said sunnily, ‘must be off. Better luck tomorrow, eh? Might pop along to see how you’re getting on.’
She surged to her feet, thunderous scowl signalling, ‘I bloody well hope not.’
I sauntered back to my car, well-satisfied with that little performance. So far, the comandante’s master-plan was going well. Next on my list was Dorothy Winterton. But that part of the plan would be put into operation after I’d given Celia time to contact her with the unwelcome news of my return.
So with time on my hands, when I arrived at the Massaroco I went in search of Zara. When she wasn’t in any of her usual haunts – sitting on a high stool in the café bar, swimming in the pool, or lying stretched out on a sunbed, I asked reception to call her room, but there was no reply.
I was standing at the desk gazing around, when a young woman came through the swing doors to the foyer, a bulky carrier bag in each hand. It took a couple of seconds for me register that it was Zara: short brown hair, clothes casual but not outrageously trendy, nothing about her that would immediately catch the eye.
She caught sight of me and hurried across. ‘Didn’t expect to see you so soon, Debs!’
‘Just got back.’ I studied her for a moment. ‘What’s with the new image, then?’
She giggled. ‘That’s the point – merge with the crowd. Kinsey and Stephanie couldn’t carry out their investigations if they drew attention to themselves.’ She put down the carrier bags, flexing her fingers to restore the circulation. ‘These are a ton weight. I’ve legged it all the way from the English Book Shop and frankly, I’m bushed.’
‘Looks as if you’ve brought the shop with you.’ I stooped to peer into the bags. ‘Are these all Grafton and Evanovich books?’
‘Yep. I’m going to make an in-depth study of Kinsey and Stephanie’s methods and then….’ She slipped her hand into her shirt pocket and pulled out a white business card. ‘I’ve had these printed out. What do you think?’
I stared at the card, trying desperately to think of something tactful to say.
ZARA PORTER-BROWNE INVESTIGATIONS
Worried? Suspicious? Why not put your mind at rest?
Discreet, resourceful. No case too small.
Undercover Work a Speciality
I pride myself on coming up with the right words in the trickiest of situations, but this time I was at a loss for words. I could only stutter, ‘Well, it’s … it’s …’
She didn’t give me time to finish. ‘But you’ll never guess what’s happened!’ Her eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘Just wait till I tell you—Oh, no!’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy, mustn’t say a thing.’ She put her mouth close to my ear and hissed, ‘Winterton’s in trouble with the police! Sex!’
‘But—’ I gasped.
‘They said no one staying at the hotel was to know, so telling you doesn’t count, does it?’ She grabbed hold of my arm. ‘Come up to my room and I’ll dish you the dirt.’
I found Dorothy on the terrace, sitting at one of the tables beside a magnificent flowering plant in a tub. From its huge white trumpets the sweet scent of honey drifted towards me in the warm twilight. I wandered casually towards her.
‘Hello, Dorothy, I hoped I’d find you here.’
She placed a finger in her book to mark the place and peered at me over the top of her spectacles.
‘So you’re back, Deborah. Well, this is a surprise.’
I had the strong impression that it was no surprise at all. I smiled a guileless smile. ‘I’ve just popped by to put up my office hour notice. I’ll be here on the terrace tomorrow to make up for the days I’ve missed, so if there’s something you want me to arrange before you go home next week….’
With a murmured, ‘I can’t think of anything at the moment’, she picked up her book, plainly signalling that the conversation was at an end.
‘Well, if anything comes up and you’ve missed me, my mobile number’s on the noticeboard.’
As I wandered down the steps of the terrace onto the lawn, she called after me, ‘I’ll let Celia know you’re back.’
Good try, Dorothy, but I was convinced that a panic phone call from Celia had already alerted her to my unwelcome return.
Screened by a bed of purple massaroco, I fished in my shirt pocket for the ultrasonic whistle and summoned G from the bushes where I’d left her. Rustle rustle. She slipped out from under an overhanging branch to twine herself round my legs. Large copper eyes looked up at me enquiringly.
I put my hand on her working collar and pointed up at the terrace. ‘Search, G.’
Purring softly she walked daintily up the steps, tail erect and twitching in anticipation of a challenge.
On several occasions I’d seen Winterton petting the hotel cat, so I knew she wasn’t one of those people with a cat phobia. If, as I suspected, Winterton knew about the sniffer cat that had detected drugs in the Gomes suitcase, the sudden appearance of G should in itself ruffle her composure. And that was the whole purpose of my visit here tonight. I waited.
Silence. Then from the terrace abo
ve came a sharp, ‘Shoo! Get away!’ The scrape of a chair being pushed back was followed by a small scream and an angry, ‘Go away, damn you!’
Fatally attractive words to a cat, as cat phobes all too often find out. Cats seem to take a perverse delight in pressing themselves upon someone who dislikes their presence. Such fussing and flapping would only add to G’s entertainment.
‘Stop it! Stop that now, I say!’
I smiled in satisfaction.
I heard the metallic clatter of a chair toppling over, then sounds of hurried departure. A blast of the sonic whistle brought G leaping down from the terrace. I gathered her up into my arms.
‘Mission accomplished, G.’ I murmured. ‘You haven’t detected any drugs, but I’ve got the result I wanted.’ All I could do now was wait.
It was after nine o’clock before G and I were strolling through the little banana plantation to my studio apartment. After all this activity both of us were starving, so as soon as G was wolfing down her bowl of tuna, I headed for the little bar on the corner and ordered a pepperoni pizza and bottle of Coral lager to celebrate getting off a murder charge after being discovered in a locked room with a newly dead corpse. I sat at a table mulling over the other successes of the day … those engineered encounters with Haxby and Winterton had gone well. I plunged my knife into the soft crust of the pizza.
I reacted instinctively to the soft footfall behind me. I threw myself sideways onto the floor, sending the chair toppling. Raimundo was looking down at me.
He helped me up. ‘It is not the requirement to throw yourself at my feet, senhora, even though I am Policeman of the Week.’
To the barman craning from behind the counter I waved and called an embarrassed, ‘Disculpe, senhor. When I leant down to pick up the napkin, I fell off the chair. Bring another plate for my friend and another Coral lager.’
‘Well, Policeman of the Week,’ I said, as I slid half the pizza onto his plate, ‘Comandante Figueira told me she is very happy.’
‘Ah.’ A heavy sigh. ‘But I, Raimundo Paulo Ribiero, am not happy.’
‘No?’
‘No, senhora. She says to me “Ribiero, you have done well. I think you make good detective. So next week I move you from traffic department.” And she smiled that smile. But I want to stay free, go where I like.’ His shoulders drooped. ‘What can I do, senhora?’
‘Comandante Figuera says this because she is pleased with you.’ I chewed thoughtfully on my pizza. ‘What you must do is make her not pleased.’
Smiling, we clinked glasses to the Big Foul-Up.
Later, I sat in my little patio-courtyard at the lime-green table with Gorgonzola on my lap, listening to the sounds of the night.
‘I did try, G, to wriggle out of us being the bait in the comandante’s little scheme. I said to her “But how can I go anywhere near the Massaroco, Comandante? David Grant will be there. He’ll call the police as soon as he sets eyes on me.” That should have done the trick, shouldn’t it?’
But it hadn’t. This had been met with an airy wave of the hand and ‘Don’t worry about the Exotic Cut Flower Exporter, my dear Sshmit. The agents from CITES raided his orchid farm this morning. The senhor is even now being interrogated about the prohibited plants they found in his laboratory.’
I stroked G’s back. ‘I have to admit, G, that the comandante’s master plan has gone smoothly enough so far. Between us we’ve certainly rattled Winterton and Haxby, but what’s worrying me is what they’re going to do now.’ I watched her claws gently sheathe and unsheathe. ‘Comandante Figueira’s quite unscrupulous, you know. She’s staked us out like the tethered goat for the tiger hunter, hasn’t she?’
I tickled Gorgonzola behind the ears. My fingers slowed as I contemplated the likely fate of the goat.
I picked Gorgonzola up and held her tight. ‘We’ll have to be very careful, G, very careful indeed.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
I was halfway through breakfast the next morning when the call came to my mobile.
‘Senhora Smith? I am Elizabete Teixeira, assistant to veterinário Senhor Artur Spinosa.’
‘Yes?’ I was puzzled. It had been more than two weeks since I’d collected G from the vet. She seemed to have completely recovered from the attempted poisoning. Why would he be contacting me now?
‘You will remember, senhora, that when the cat was here we made the test of the blood. The results have just come, and … er … I do not wish to cause the anxiety, senhora, but there is a worry with the blood count.’
I looked down at G who was vigorously rasping her tongue over her coat in her post-breakfast wash and brush up. She sensed my eyes on her and paused for a moment before resuming. Could there really be something wrong with her, something seriously wrong?
Heart racing, I said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand. You tell me that Senhor Spinoza thinks that Gorgonzola is ill?’
‘Senhor Spinoza says you must bring the cat to him as a matter of urgency. He can see you in half an hour.’
‘But what is wrong? Can I speak to the senhor?’
‘A moment, senhora.’
Crackle crackle. Infuriatingly, the line started to break up. Senhor Spinosa’s voice was very faint. ‘… blood count …’ crackle crackle ‘… dangerously low for …’ crackle crackle … I could make out only the occasional word. Then the line went dead.
Breakfast forgotten, I rushed over to where G was settling herself in a patch of sun. I scooped her up. Her eyes were bright and clear with no sign of the extra eyelid, that indicator of ill health in a cat. But if Senhor Spinosa was worried.…
I put G down, and with shaking hands retrieved the cat-carrier from under the bed. Abandoning the usual prolonged niceties needed to persuade her into the hated box, I made a grab and stuffed her in before she had time to utter more than an astonished squeak.
‘Sorry, G. Emergency.’
Ignoring G’s outraged mini-yowls, I rushed out to the car, placed the carrier on the floor, and sat behind the wheel for a few minutes trying to calm myself. The carrier was quivering and juddering as she threw herself against its sides. Taking comfort from the fact that she wasn’t behaving as one at death’s door, I turned the key in the ignition and eased my way out into the stream of traffic on the Estrada Monumental.
There are not many traffic lights in Funchal, but every single one was at red. The wait at each seemed interminable. Progress was slowed further by narrow side streets obstructed with parked vehicles. Nevertheless, nerves shredded, within the half hour stipulated by Senhor Spinosa I was just a street away from the vet.
‘Fingers crossed for a space near the surgery, G,’ I muttered. ‘Hold on in there. We’ll soon have you in Senhor Artur’s expert care.’
I glanced down at the cat-carrier. Her furious face stared at me through the grid. She didn’t look as if she wanted care, expert or otherwise. What she wanted was OUT. O-U-T accompanied by abject apologies and succulent snacks in recompense for that rough and unceremonious bundling into the box.
My two previous visits had been by taxi so I hadn’t then had the worry of seeking out a parking place. As I turned the final corner, I could see that the street was lined with vehicles on both sides. I cruised slowly up the street. At the end I turned and drove slowly back.
I’d just decided to double park and risk being towed away, when I spotted a movement in the line of cars as a small van began to nose its way out. I held back till it had completed its manoeuvre, then with a sigh of relief, swung into the vacated space. It only took a moment to go round the car, open the passenger door and pick up the cat-carrier.
I started across the pavement towards the surgery door. Closing my ears to G’s piteous yowls and sobs, artfully designed to rend the heart and embarrass me in front of any passer-by, I quickened my step.
Thump. I felt a violent blow between my shoulder blades. The cat-carrier was snatched from my hand and I was sent sprawling on the pavement. In a way, the thugs did me a favour. With b
oth hands empty, I could break my fall and prevent my face smashing into the concrete.
Winded and shocked, I groggily turned my head. A boot swung to target me full in the face. I rolled on my side and made a frantic grab. It was enough to deflect the full force of the attack. Off balance, my assailant staggered. At a shout of ‘Leave it!’ from the white van standing in the middle of the road, engine revving and rear door open, he abandoned the attack and flung himself into the already moving vehicle. With a roar and a scream of tyres it shot off down the street.
Shakily I got to my knees and stared after it. The cat-carrier had gone. And with it Gorgonzola.
From down the hill, a blare of horns marked the getaway route.
A woman’s voice enquired, ‘The senhora is hurt?’
I looked up to see a ring of concerned faces gazing down at me. Amid a babble of excited voices, someone helped me to my feet. Blood was trickling from a cut on my cheek, my right knee was throbbing where it had made contact with the pavement and both hands were grazed and bleeding.
‘I’m all right,’ I lied. ‘I must speak with the veterinário.’
Somebody must have summoned him from his surgery, for by the time I gathered myself together enough to limp the short distance across the pavement, Senhor Spinosa and his assistant were hurrying towards me.
‘My dear Senhora Smith, what has happened? What are you doing here? Is your cat ill?’
The surprise in his voice made it all clear. The phone call had been a ruse to lure me to the ambush. Whoever was behind it had made sure I’d be in the right place at the right time.
And I’d fallen into the trap.
For a moment I could only stare at him, close to tears. I swallowed hard.
‘You didn’t telephone me to bring in Gorgonzola for the results of a blood test, did you?’ I knew the answer before he shook his head. ‘Would you be good enough to call the police, senhor? G-Gorgonzola’s been … stolen.’ The quiver in my voice was embarrassingly obvious.
Suspects All ! Page 24