Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

  ‘What we must ask ourselves, my dear Sshmit, is why this thing was done.’

  Justinia Figueira leant back in her chair and studied the ceiling as if seeking the answer from the large black spider crouched in the centre of the web anchored between the light flex and the cheap plastic shade. Its thought transfer rate must have been markedly sluggish, for minutes passed and she continued to stare fixedly at the ceiling. Her eyelids slowly closed. A soft p … p … escaped from her slightly parted lips, the sound of someone sinking into slumber.

  Action! I wanted, I needed, action! Every second counted. I couldn’t bear to think about what could be happening to Gorgonzola. I was convinced that Winterton had master-minded the snatch, and while the comandante took a leisurely post-lunch nap, the gang might be—

  And I was doing nothing about it. Nobody was doing anything about it. I found myself standing in front of the desk gripping the vase of strelitzias with the intention of hurling to the floor these aloof symbols of Justinia Figuiera’s indifference.

  Her eyes snapped open, and closed again. My flushed face, white knuckles, and rapid breathing had not seemed to register. What would it take to get some action, any action, from this woman of stone? I took a deep breath and raised the vase high above my head, ready to hurl it to the ground with a bloodcurdling scream.

  Her eyes remained closed. Her lips moved.

  ‘Calm yourself, my dear Sshmit. The cat is in no immediate danger. It is obvious that they have taken the scruffy creature to use for the bargaining. We must wait. Yes, what we must do is wait.’ She settled herself into a more comfortable position in the high leather back chair.

  With hands that trembled I set the vase down, spilling drops of water onto the polished desktop. I collapsed onto the hard chair reserved for interviewees, took a deep breath and thought about what she had said.

  In Dorothy Winterton’s eyes the main threat came from myself – so why had I not been the main target outside the vet’s? There’d already been several attempts to eliminate me, so why had they held back on this occasion? With the seizure of the shipment of drugs at Câmara de Lobos, it was clear that the police net was closing in. Just how close, must have been plain to Winterton when I’d set Gorgonzola to sniff out her handbag on the terrace of the Massaroco. I tried to put myself in her shoes…. Top priority for her now must be how to make her escape from Madeira. With the authorities on the alert, the obvious air or sea routes were closed – unless…. Yes, the comandante’s words made sense. Gorgonzola was being used as a bargaining tool.

  I gazed up at the ceiling. The spider was testing the strength of its web, plucking at the filaments with the sureness and practised delicacy of a concert harpist. Satisfied, trap set, it stretched out motionless once more. I put my mobile on the desk and, like the comandante, settled down to wait.

  The call came an hour later, by which time, they hoped, my fears for G’s safety would have made me desperate. And that wasn’t far from the truth, I have to admit. I snatched up my phone.

  The comandante shot upright in her chair. ‘A moment, Sshmit.’ She leant forward, deftly extricated the mobile from my hand and studied the display. ‘This number shows that the call comes from a public phone box. It is unlikely to be genuine, one of your Agençia clients. We will not answer it. We play the waiting game, and this time it is they who must wait.’ Keeping a firm grip on the mobile, she settled back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  Short of committing an assault on her person, there was nothing I could do. I count myself an old hand at the waiting game, something of an expert in fact. In my line of work I’ve often had to sit hour after hour in a vehicle, or less comfortably, lie flat on my stomach under a bush, waiting patiently until someone made a move. I have some well-tried ways of passing the time – but none of them worked for me now. I sat on that hard chair and the leaden minutes dragged on. Above me the spider hung motionless in the centre of its web. It too was waiting.

  At midday the comandante stirred. ‘I do not think it will be long now, Sshmit. We must hope that this time they speak on their mobile phone. In exchange for the animal, they will ask for something. You will say that it is necessary to have the time to do this, so they must call again in an hour. Then we strike.’

  I nodded. Phone network technology can use a mobile’s signal to locate its position very accurately. Meanwhile it was back to waiting. I tried in vain to find a comfortable position on the hard chair.

  A fat bluebottle made a noisy entrance through the open window. Idly I followed its progress round the room. Several circuits of the ceiling later, it blundered into the carefully laid ambush of the spider’s trap. The web master stirred, then having identified a prey, darted across to clasp its victim in a deadly embrace. But the outcome was no neatly trussed victim, only a gaping hole and a web in tatters – a timely reminder to me not to take anything for granted. The comandante’s carefully constructed plans might very well fall apart. And the consequences for G … I didn’t want to think about it.

  I tried to shut out my dark thoughts by staring at the shadowy shapes of flower stems in the blue vase on the desk. At that moment the call came to the mobile. The comandante sat up, studied the incoming call number and nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘It is from mobile, not from public call box. Of course, we can only track her while her phone is switched on. We need to know where she is when the call is ended. So, Sshmit, you must say you will phone her when you have done what she asks.’ She scribbled the incoming number on her pad and handed me the phone.

  I took the call. ‘Yes?’ The tremor in my voice was not an act.

  ‘I presume I am speaking to Deborah Smith?’ It was unmistakably the voice of Dorothy Winterton, but hard and authoritative, totally unlike the familiar timid delivery of the elderly widow, avid partaker of the Massaroco’s afternoon teas.

  ‘Yes. I-I believe that you have my cat—’ I caught the comandante’s eye. She nodded her approval. The break in my voice was calculated to convey that I would do anything to get G back – including helping Winterton escape arrest. I pushed away the uncomfortable thought that perhaps this was the truth.

  ‘Listen carefully, Smith, if you want to see the brute again. Alive, that is….’ The long pause that followed was designed to play on my nerves, as of course, it did.

  When I glanced over at the comandante, she was talking quietly on her own line, setting up the trace. Whatever I said would have to ensure that Dorothy Winterton kept her phone switched on in expectation of a return call confirming that the authorities were meeting her demands. Could I manage it without rousing her suspicions?

  My audible gulp broke the silence. ‘Wha-what do I have to do? I take it there’s going to be a trade-off?’

  Winterton appeared to ignore the question. ‘Such a well-fed cat,’ she mused, her voice silky. ‘Accustomed to two good meals a day, I’m sure.’ Another pause, then, ‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I? You’re an intelligent woman.’

  Across the desk, the comandante opened and closed fingers and thumb in a ‘keep her talking’ signal.

  I waited as long as I dared before replying. ‘I-I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well then, let me ask you a question, my dear. Did your cat have a good breakfast this morning? With perhaps a nice little drink of milk or water, eh?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ I stammered. ‘But, but—’ I sensed what was coming.

  ‘I believe I read somewhere that a cat can survive without food for an amazingly long time – now, how many days was it? I really can’t remember off hand, but let’s say thirty. Without water, of course, that will be quite another matter. Survival time will be considerably reduced.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Shall we find out, Ms Smith?’

  I ran my tongue over dry lips. I thought of G, a desiccated bundle of bones, too weak to raise her head…. Hour after hour she’d lie there, trusting that I’d come—

  ‘No, no,’ I burst out. ‘I’ll do anything, anything.’ And I meant it.


  The comandante looked up sharply.

  Dorothy Winterton’s quiet laugh was unnerving. ‘I see that you understand me. So kind of you to supply the cat-carrier, by the way. It will fit most snugly into the place I have in mind. And there’ll be no chance, no chance at all, of the beast clawing its way out.’

  ‘Just tell me, tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll—’

  The comandante gave a satisfied thumbs-up sign as she replaced her receiver on its rest. The mobile had been traced.

  Dorothy Winterton’s tone was briskly businesslike. ‘What I intend, my dear, is to be on the flight that leaves for South America tonight. A ticket, one-way, of course, to be left for me at the desk. When I reach my destination, and only then, will I tell you where the cat’s hidden.’

  I played for time. ‘You’re asking a lot.’

  ‘A word of warning, Ms Deborah Smith, or whatever your real name is. You do realize, don’t you, that the authorities will set more store on arresting me than rescuing that scruffy animal? Do I make myself perfectly clear? No amount of police questioning will make me reveal the location of the cat. If you inform the police, you can say goodbye to Ginger.’

  I drew in a deep breath. ‘I’ve no choice, have I? I’ll phone you when I’ve set it up. But if I leave a ticket at the airport, and you catch the flight, how do I know you’ll make that phone call?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

  Silence. Call ended came up on the display.

  The comandante raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘So, Sshmit, let me guess. Provided that we do not arrest her at the airport, she will tell you where she has hidden the cat, yes?’

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘Câmara de Lobos …’ she said slowly. ‘At the moment that is where the signal it is coming from. But if Winterton switches off the phone we can no longer locate her.’ Thoughtfully she tap-tapped a glossy fingernail on her notepad. ‘Or … perhaps this very clever woman knows that the phone signals her location, gives it to another person to mislead us and vanishes into the air – like that!’ She flicked a hand in an airy gesture signifying a dematerializing Dorothy Winterton. ‘We cannot allow this woman to slip through the fingers. No, this we cannot do.’ Her eyes refused to meet mine.

  I knew why. Dorothy Winterton’s words were echoing in my head. ‘You do realize, don’t you, that the authorities will set more store on arresting me than rescuing that scruffy animal?’

  Justinia Figueira stared at a point above my head. ‘What we must consider most carefully is tactics, my dear Sshmit. There is only one place where we can be one hundred per cent sure that we will find this Winterton, and that is at the airport. Yes, she will walk up to collect her ticket. And then we close the net.’ On the notepad one black nail beat a slow funerary march for G.

  There was one chance, one slim chance left to save G and it depended on me getting hold of Raimundo. I’d caught a glimpse of him in the office as I’d rushed into Police HQ after she’d been snatched. Please, please, let him still be on duty. I ran along the corridor, my heart pounding. As I neared the entrance hall with its public benches, I made myself slow to a brisk walk. I mustn’t draw attention to myself, mustn’t let the fact that I’d sought him out get back to the comandante.

  There behind the desk was that unmistakably moustached figure. I let my breath out in a long sigh of relief. He didn’t acknowledge my presence. Eyes down, finger hovering in search of the correct key, he was engaged in his usual battle with the computer. I leant over the desk to bring my head close to his.

  ‘Raimundo, I must speak to you,’ I whispered.

  ‘Moment, senhora.’ A nicotine-stained finger stabbed down on a key.

  ‘G-Gorgonzola’s been–been—’

  A sob choked off the rest the sentence. To my dismay a tear trickled down the side of my nose and dropped onto the back of his hand.

  His finger froze on the key sending jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj zipping across the screen. For a moment he stared mesmerized at the display as the line marched on. jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj.

  ‘Merda!’ He snatched his hand away, and looked up at me. My brimming eyes and flushed face brought him to his feet. ‘Something bad has happened, senhora?’

  I managed to stutter out, ‘I need your help. The comandante intends to – intends to—’ I couldn’t go on.

  Fortunately he made no attempt to put a comforting arm round my shoulders – sympathy would have rendered me a blubbering wreck – but motioned me round the desk and led the way to the inner office, giving me the chance to pull myself together.

  ‘Tell me, senhora,’ he said.

  And I did. As I poured out my story, it was impossible to tell from his expression what his reaction was going to be. I finished. Without saying a word he went over and closed the door to the outer office.

  A tiny spark of hope flared as he said, ‘What do you want me to do, senhora?’

  ‘Five minutes ago the mobile phone trace showed that Winterton was in Câmara de Lobos. She’s an old woman, Raimundo, out of touch with modern technology, and might not realize that her location has been tracked by her mobile phone. So if she remains where she is until it is time for her to go to the airport…. And if I drive over there right now and—’

  ‘But, senhora, she may be gone. Already she may have—’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of, and that’s why I need your help. You’re my only chance of getting back Gorgonzola.’ I brushed away a tear.

  For what seemed an age he took a deep interest in the scuffed tiles on the floor, tracing the grout lines with the toe of his boot. At last he looked up. ‘The signal is still being traced?’

  I took a deep breath to steady my voice. ‘Yes, and what I need to know is if the signal moves away from Câmara de Lobos.’

  ‘I understand, senhora. But if Comandante Figueira discovers—’ He slashed a finger across his throat.

  He was right. I was asking too much. Why should he put his career on the line for the sake of a cat?

  The spark of hope flickered and died. I shouldn’t have asked. I turned away. ‘It’s all right, Raimundo. Don’t worry about it.’

  I wasn’t going to give up while there was still a chance. It would take me about twenty minutes to reach Câmara de Lobos. Dorothy Winterton might still be hiding out in one of the picturesque little houses of the sleepy fishing village.

  I had my hand on the door when he said softly, ‘Un momento, senhora. The Ogre, she does not know everything. When I contact you, nothing has to be spoken.’ A smile lurked under the moustache as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket. ‘No one hears if I text you the position of the Winterton. And if Figueira does find out….’ He shrugged.

  I was lucky. The traffic on the outskirts of Funchal was lighter than usual – that, and putting my foot down at every opportunity, brought me to Câmara de Lobos in only fifteen minutes. I found a parking place on the road that swept up the hill towards Cabo Girão and sat staring through the windscreen at the picturesque cluster of red roofs huddled on the small headland overlooking the harbour, the scene captured in oils all those years ago by the Great Man himself. The fact that I’d heard nothing from Raimundo indicated that Winterton was still holed up somewhere, perhaps among these very houses. But now that I was actually within striking distance, I realized with sinking heart that I hadn’t actually worked out how I was going to rescue Gorgonzola.

  ‘She’ll kill you, G,’ I whispered. ‘If she catches sight of me, she’ll guess that somehow she’s been traced. Something that could only have been done by the police. Enough to sign your death warrant. She’ll know the net is closing in.’

  And it was. Nothing would prevent Comandante Figueira making that arrest at the airport. G would die. Panic and despair gripped me. I’d been deluding myself, been crazy ever to think that I could save her.

  In keeping wit
h the black pit of depression into which I’d plunged, a pitter patter on the windscreen heralded a flurry of rain, soaking the ground, intensifying the colours of the blue and orange boats drawn up on the shelving beach. I looked over to Cabo Girão to see that low clouds had swept down from the interior mountain range and were now draping the soaring cliffs in a thin grey veil. A shroud for G. No! There had to be something I could do. What? What? What? I punched the rim of the steering wheel in frustration.

  One thing was certain: if I did nothing, Winterton would be arrested at the airport, and G would die. But if I tackled Winterton now, there might be the slimmest of slim chances. Decision made, I flung open the car door and swung a foot out onto the pavement.

  Perleep perleep perleep peep peep. I snatched up my mobile from the front passenger seat and stared at the text message. Winterton was on the move.

  Shaking, I slid back behind the wheel. From where I was parked, I’d be able to spot that metallic-green car if she came past the harbour. But what if she saw me? What if she’d changed cars? What if she wasn’t holed up amongst those red-roofed houses, after all? What if she slipped by unnoticed?

  Nerves. I took several deep breaths. It didn’t matter if I didn’t see her passing by. Raimundo’s text messages would tell me where she was. The really important thing was to stay hidden, not alert her in any way. I slithered down below the level of the windows and lay on my side across the passenger seat.

  In this rather uncomfortable position the minutes ticked slowly on, marked by the swish of passing cars and the roar of an engine as a laden truck laboured to climb the hill.

  I stared at the mobile willing it to ring again. ‘C’mon, Raimundo, c’mon, c’mon. Tell me where she’s going.’