That Deacon hadn’t seen the Humber parked below seemed further evidence of Cayton-Wood’s attempts at self-concealment.
Curious, he looked towards the windmill. He’d already formed a theory as to what might be inside it, based on the fact that, of all the windmills scattered through the countryside surrounding Lisbon, Garcia had chosen this windmill; had driven straight to it, had known the way, had seemed very familiar with where he should park and which path he should take. It would be a good spot for a transmitter, Deacon thought – far enough out that one wouldn’t be noticed, and common enough to blend in with the landscape.
But that did nothing to explain why Cayton-Wood would come up here alone.
Or why Garcia, head bent, frowning, to his painting, should look suddenly so thoughtful, and so worried.
Manuel Garcia.
There it was, in black and white. It hadn’t meant a thing to me the first time I had read it. He’d been one name among the many in the list that Anabela had prepared, at my request – the list of those who’d died between November 1943 and April 1944.
He’d made it nearly to the end. He’d died on April 6th. I felt a small surge of excitement as I read the name again. Perhaps he was the murder victim Deacon had wanted to tell me about. There was no cause of death recorded on the list – it was a simple register of names, and dates. But still, I thought it promising.
Which meant there were two obituaries that I needed to look up now, or have Anabela find for me: Manuel Garcia’s, here in Lisbon, and JL Cayton-Wood’s, in England. Cayton-Wood’s would be more difficult. I didn’t have a date, or an exact location, and only Regina Marinho’s word that he had died at all, but I was hoping Roger Selkirk might be able to supply me with more details when I met with him.
He would know about Garcia’s death, as well. It was strange that Regina Marinho had not.
Of course, I reasoned, it was possible she’d never heard. She’d left the company in March, she’d said. But if she’d kept in touch with Roger Selkirk all these years, and if he was as up on things as she said he was, it seemed unlikely she would never have been told about the Spaniard’s death. Unlikely, too, that such a thing would simply slip her mind, when she was talking to me, given that her memory of events had seemed so crystal clear.
Wendy, from the driver’s seat, asked, ‘Mum still sleeping?’
‘Yes, she is,’ I said.
‘It was all that lunch, I expect.’ She glanced back. ‘Do you always bring your work with you, on holiday?’
‘It isn’t really work.’ I packed the pages back into their envelope, and set it to one side. ‘Just reading.’
We were coming into Lisbon.
Wendy asked, ‘Where would you like to be let off?’
I wasn’t entirely sure. I couldn’t go back to the York House just yet – Matt would know where I was, then. He likely had somebody watching the door. I’d considered bunking in with Anabela, then abandoned the idea. Someone might have seen me eating dinner with her, Friday night – they might know who she was, and where she lived. And while I would have liked to stay at the hotel where Wendy Taply and her parents were, to have a bit more time to talk to Len, I knew I couldn’t risk that, either. I had no idea who might have been watching, on the highway, when I’d gotten in their car, and just because I didn’t think that we’d been followed, that didn’t mean I was safe.
My best bet was to try to disappear; to take a room at some small pension, where no one would think of looking for me.
I told Wendy, ‘Any big intersection will do. I’ll take a cab or the subway from there.’
They dropped me at the Sete Rios subway stop, across from the Zoological Gardens. There was a hasty exchange of handshakes, and good wishes, but my ‘thank you’ seemed inadequate, for all that they had done.
I felt a momentary pang of deprivation when they’d left me, but that was quickly replaced by a sense of release. Like an animal loosed from its tether, I turned and plunged into the thick of the crowd.
The room I found was basic, even threadbare, but it had a private telephone.
There was nobody answering, now, at Regina Marinho’s.
I had better luck with the next number I tried. Anabela sounded almost pleased to hear from me. ‘I tried to call you yesterday, and then again this morning. You had asked me, when we met, if I could find out something more for you about this M Jankowski? Well, I asked my friend with the police, and yesterday he sent an email, with a bit more information. M Jankowski is a man – his name is Matthew James Jankowski, an American, and my friend thinks he may have some connection to the government. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the level at which he was making requests. Does this help?’
I wasn’t sure exactly what it did, except to make me feel that the water in which I was swimming had just gotten deeper. I already suspected Whitehall was responsible for Deacon’s death – the thought that the American government might be involved, as well, was information that I could have done without just then.
But still, I thanked her. ‘Look, could I ask one more favour?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I need to find a Portuguese obituary.’ I told her for whom, and the date of the death. ‘I’m going to try to have a look myself, tomorrow, at the library, but just in case…’
‘Oh yes, I understand. It is no problem.’
‘And I’m at a different number now.’ I told her what it was.
She wrote it down, and paused. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s fine. I’m fine,’ I reassured her, but I wasn’t sure that I’d succeeded.
‘I will be in touch,’ she promised, as she said goodbye.
I had one final call to make.
The phone rang five times before Roger Selkirk picked it up. He had a nice voice. Very English. ‘My dear girl,’ he said, ‘it’s no bother at all. No, I love having visitors. When would you like to come?’
‘Would tonight be too early?’
‘Ah. Tonight’s rather tricky, I’m afraid. I play bridge on Sunday nights. Would tomorrow suit you? In the morning?’
It would only mean a few more hours, I told myself. And Roger Selkirk should be safe enough. Matt had already been in Lisbon – if he’d known of Roger Selkirk, he’d have dealt with him then, before I’d even entered the picture. Which meant Roger wasn’t on Matt’s hit list. Not yet.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said, ‘would be fine.’
‘Good. Shall we say ten o’clock, then? That should give me time to make myself presentable.’ His tone grew mildly curious. ‘Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss about your grandfather?’
‘Whatever you can tell me.’ I avoided the specifics. Roger Selkirk, like everyone else, was an unknown quantity – as with Regina Marinho, I wouldn’t know until I’d met him whether he was someone I could trust.
Tomorrow, I thought, I could ask him my questions.
And first among those would be whether Manuel Garcia, in fact, had been murdered.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 2
Roger Selkirk’s house was small.
It had no garden at the front; the door sat nearly on the sidewalk, with black wrought-iron grilles across the windows to each side. The walls were stuccoed, painted a deep yellow that had weathered to a duller amber, but the door was brightly red.
Just two doors further on, the narrow cobbled street became a flight of worn stone steps that steeply fell downhill, towards the harbour. I could catch the scent of sea air on the breeze that chilled my cheeks, and hear the crying of the gulls.
I was alone. No one had followed me, I’d made quite sure of that. Remembering my early morning trip with Guy to Tony’s, in Toronto, I had taken two buses and three separate taxis to make absolutely sure no one would follow, and then I had come the last few blocks on foot.
Behind me, up the incline, I could see the red-tiled roof of what had once been the old Ivan Reynolds offices, around the corner. I’d passed that bui
lding by on my way here; I’d stopped to look at it, but time had taken all its charm and left a modern-looking shell – a dress shop on the ground floor with apartments overhead that didn’t look as though they harboured any ghosts.
My hopes were all with Roger Selkirk now.
I drew a breath, and knocked.
I didn’t worry when he didn’t answer right away. He would be, after all, an old man, Deacon’s age, or more. I gave him what I thought was time enough, then knocked again. There was no bell.
It wasn’t till I’d knocked the third time that I started to suspect he wasn’t there. ‘Mr Selkirk?’ I called loudly, as I pounded once again. I got no answer.
There were curtains at the windows – plain lace curtains that, at night, and with a light on in the house, would be quite easy to see through, but in the daytime they veiled every detail of the darkened rooms inside, and I saw nothing.
It was past ten o’clock now, the hour we’d set for our meeting. At a loss, I crossed over the street to the house of a neighbour, whose windows stood open. The woman there didn’t speak English. I knew she didn’t understand what I was asking her, though when I mentioned Roger Selkirk’s name she nodded and said something in reply, her one arm gesturing towards the road.
‘He’s gone out?’ I asked. ‘Do you know where?’
She looked blank, and I tried to recall what the Portuguese word was for ‘where’. I ventured, ‘Onde?’ I pronounced it ‘ON-day’, hoping that was right.
Her face cleared. ‘Cemitério dos Ingleses,’ she said distinctly.
That, I understood.
The English Cemetery.
* * *
Joaquim was busy pruning back a vine that grew among a stand of headstones. Though it had been a few days since I had talked to him, he recognised me right away.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘You wanted the Marinhos. I remember. Did you get my message?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘And did you get to speak with her?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Good,’ he told me, rustling, head bent, among the vines.‘That’s good.’
‘She said I ought to talk to Roger Selkirk, so I called him, and we were supposed to meet at ten, this morning…but he wasn’t at his house. His neighbour told me I might find him here.’
Joaquim straightened then, and looked at me. I’d forgotten how sharply assessing his eyes were. He said, ‘You will, in three days. He was found dead this morning.’
I felt a turning in my stomach.
‘It was not unexpected,’ Joaquim said. ‘He was quite old, you understand. He had, how would you say it? A good innings.’
It was devastating news. Roger Selkirk had been my last link, here in Portugal, to Deacon, and I’d had such great hopes…
‘How did he die?’ I asked.
Joaquim said, rather carefully, ‘He fell, I’m told. He was not good with stairs.’
I didn’t buy that. And I wasn’t entirely convinced that Joaquim did either.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Joaquim said, ‘that I am not more help to you this time. He was a good man, Roger. He would have enjoyed to meet you.’
Salt in the wound. Trying to salvage something, anything, from my deep pit of disappointment, I asked, ‘Is there anybody else you know who worked for Ivan Reynolds? Anyone that I can talk to?’
He considered this. Then, ‘No one, no. They are all gone, now. Roger was the last of them. They are all gone.’ And with a sigh, he bent back to his pruning.
I nearly turned away, before remembering that he himself had been here at the time, among the English. I hadn’t pressed him, earlier. Perhaps I should have done. I said, ‘My grandfather once spoke about a murder at the company.’
I was watching him; I saw the pause in movement, small but telling. The sound of his shears bit the silence. ‘I would not know anything about that.’
It wasn’t the first time he’d told me a lie. He’d told me before that he hadn’t known Deacon, and I hadn’t believed him then, either. I could have demanded he tell me the truth, but it wouldn’t have been any use – he was someone who played his cards close to his chest. And, in honesty, I couldn’t blame him. He had no more reason to trust me than I had to trust him, and maybe, in the circumstances, even less.
And then, on impulse, I made a decision.
I said, ‘There’s an American, named Matt Jankowski. You may remember him, if you see him – he was here on Friday, the same time I was. In his thirties, brown hair, brown eyes, and he can speak Portuguese.’ I drew breath. ‘I don’t know whether he’s already spoken to you. I don’t know whether you gave him the same information you gave me. But if he comes back, you might want to be careful.’
I waited a moment. He didn’t look up.
I felt suddenly foolish for trying to warn him. A man like Joaquim didn’t need any warning. If someone tried to deal with him the way they’d dealt with Deacon, and with Cavender, and Grandma, and now with Roger Selkirk, maybe – if somebody tried the same thing with Joaquim, I had a feeling that the odds were in his favour.
He was not about to talk to me, that much was plainly evident, and so I turned on the path to leave.
I’d gone three steps when he said casually, ‘So now you will go back home, to America?’
I stopped. Turned back, to look behind. ‘Yes.’
He never stopped pruning. The sound of the shears went on, hard and methodical, cutting away the loose parts of the vine, the dead wood, all the pieces that cluttered and choked. ‘Talk to Jenny,’ he said. ‘Jenny Saunders. Her last name now is Augustine. She has a house in Washington, DC, a place called Georgetown. She will have the answers you are looking for.’ He glanced up, and our eyes met, very briefly. ‘If you know the questions.’
Jenny Augustine’s telephone number was unlisted.
Hanging up the payphone, I leant my shoulders on the glass and watched the cars pass by and felt, in that one moment, like a distance runner reaching breaking point, exhausted. The finish line I’d hoped to reach this morning had been moved beyond my range of sight, across another ocean. There was no one left to talk to, here in Portugal. Regina Marinho, like Margot and Patrick, was missing. Joaquim wasn’t talking. And Roger was dead.
All I had, now, was Jenny. She’ll see you, Regina Marinho had said, and I hoped that was right, but I couldn’t make the same mistake with Jenny that I’d made with Roger Selkirk. I should have talked to Roger on the phone last night, before he’d gone out for his evening of bridge. I shouldn’t have waited. I wouldn’t, with Jenny. I only hoped no one else got to her first.
Filled with new determination, I dialled information for a second time and got the local number for my airline.
The young woman at the airline desk was courteous and helpful. Yes, she said, it would be possible, she’d only need my ticket information and a credit card. I found both in the pocket of my jacket. As I pulled them out, another paper drifted to the dirty pavement at my feet, and after reading out my numbers to the woman on the phone, I bent to pick it up.
It was the paper Matt had written his hotel’s phone number on, but it had fallen face down, so when I picked it up the first thing that I saw was what was written on the other side.
My heart dropped.
The woman on the phone was talking, asking me a question.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s fine.’ She read me the details again but I only half heard them, then, ‘Thank you,’ I said, and hung up, with my eyes still on the paper.
It was Roger Selkirk’s name, and home address.
The address that Regina Marinho had copied out for me, in Evora. I had copied it again into the notebook that I carried with me everywhere, from habit, and I’d used my notebook for direction, when I’d gone to Roger’s house. I’d forgotten I was carrying this piece of paper still.
I thought of Matt, in Evora; how casually he’d glanced at what was written on this paper when he’d caught it as it fell out of my pocket. After all th
e effort I had gone through this morning – the buses, and taxis, and trying to cover my tracks so that no one would follow me – after all that, to find out Matt had actually seen Roger’s address; that I’d all but handed it to him…I felt almost physically sick.
Smoothing the folds in the paper, I turned it and read once again the few lines Matt had written, fighting back a surge of anger. He had played a game with me – a coward’s game – and he had won. I wouldn’t let him win again.
The next move would be mine.
I took the telephone in hand, and firmly dialled the hotel’s number.
‘Yes,’ I told the front desk, ‘I would like to leave a message for a guest of yours.’
The bar at the York House Hotel was an elegant, gentleman’s room, with warm, wood-panelled walls and cane-backed chairs with deep gold cushioned seats. The polished serving counter lay beneath a barrel-vaulted ceiling lit with recessed lights that shone down on a silver tray of brandies set beside a silver cooler of champagne, topped by a crisp white linen napkin. The bartender, formal in white dinner jacket, black trousers and tie, got me a drink and then left me to sit while he crossed the small courtyard and went through the other French doors, to the main hotel.
Nobody here, so it seemed, had taken notice of the fact that I’d been gone for nearly three days. When I’d arrived back a few hours ago, the desk clerk had done nothing more than smile and say good evening. I had been relieved. I hadn’t wanted to explain my absence.
I’d showered, and changed my clothes, selecting what to wear with the detached precision of a soldier changing into battledress.
And then I’d come down here, to wait.
I’d turned my chair so I could see the open doorway. I had purposely sat close to other people – to one side of me, a couple, young, my age, were drinking wine, and not far off three men in business suits were gathered at a table, speaking earnestly in French.
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