‘We’ve found something that we can start looking at,’ Jacinta says. ‘Gil’s bag. We have his mobile phone and by the looks of it his work computer, so we can look through that, see if it throws up anything interesting.’
‘We’ll need to be cautious,’ Isabel says, ‘we don’t want the media getting any closer to this than they have to, especially if we have to confirm that this was done by someone Gifted.’
Voronov hums, eyes fixed on the table, thinking it through. ‘I think at this point we’re all leaning towards this being a crime. We need to go over what the crime scene officers have found,’ he goes on, ‘check the CCTV too, see if we can spot anything there.’
‘That’s a good place to start,’ Carla says and sets down the last binder. She has a notebook out and is scribbling in it. ‘We’ll look into that.’
‘Are we getting any prints?’ Isabel asks Jacinta. They might as well dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.
‘Yeah,’ Jacinta says, ‘I left them working on it.’
‘Good,’ Isabel says and pushes her chair back. ‘Voronov and I are going to speak to the wife. Lucky for us Gil and his wife spend most of their time at their house in Sesimbra. We’ll go and deliver the bad news. If we could get a meeting with the other head of NTI that would be great.’
‘On it,’ Carla says.
Jacinta sits back, pouring some more coffee into her cup. ‘Okay, while Carla gets on that, Daniel and I will start going through his things. See what comes up.’
‘All right,’ Isabel says, getting up, ‘sounds good. You good to go?’ she asks Voronov.
The precinct is near the Anjos metro, not all that far from the main terminals of Cais do Sodré and Terreiro do Paço. Despite having seen better days, their building still looks new in comparison to the one across from it, with its fading tiles and potted plants on balconies. Beneath the balconies is a café, a bright red canopy proclaiming its name, with tables set out underneath. It’s peak time and Isabel can see in through the door to the customers standing at the counter, drinking down their quick coffee to the buzz of catch-ups.
‘Sesimbra is a bit of a drive,’ Isabel says. ‘I need something to eat now.’ She veers away from where their cars are parked and waits for an old grandpa to drive past. She crosses the road and heads straight for the café ahead. ‘Have you had anything?’ she asks.
‘Not since leaving the house this morning.’
‘Good. I’m starving.’
It’s an older café that’s been there since before Isabel started working at the PJ. Isabel likes it. They always just leave her to it and they’ve never given her shit over being Gifted. Sure, they don’t know what her Gift is, but they’ve known her long enough to know she has one and not care.
Old man Días is sitting at one of the small round tables, deep in conversation with a customer, gesturing at the TV suspended from the wall. The café is filled with conversations, people on breaks from work grabbing a coffee with colleagues before heading back in. The old man’s wife and son are behind the counter, serving and chatting with the customers drinking there.
‘Hey, old man,’ Isabel calls out, heading straight for the food. The selection of cakes is spread all along the left corner of the counter, flaky custard tarts, bolas de Berlím filled to the brim with sweet yellow cream, chocolate and confectioner’s-cream tarts and so many more. On the other side are the day’s sandwich offerings, breaded chicken, chouriço omelette, tuna mayo and other snacks. She glances over the chalkboard with its daily menu.
Old man Días twists in his chair to look at her, bushy black eyebrows standing out against his full head of white hair.
‘Ah. Was wondering about you. Haven’t seen you in a while. Took a holiday?’
Isabel scoffs. ‘Been busy.’ She stops in front of the menu. ‘What’ve you got?’ Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she tugs it out.
‘Well menina, that depends, have you eaten today?’
‘Didn’t have time,’ she says, looking down at her phone screen. Her sister’s name stares up at her. ‘And we’re on our way somewhere so we can’t stop either, it’ll have to be to go.’ She presses the ignore button and puts the phone back into her pocket.
‘Adriana,’ he calls out to his wife, who is in the middle of taking a payment. ‘Get Isabel some of the picadinho to take with her.’
Adriana looks at Isabel with a smile. ‘Anything else?’
Before Isabel can answer, old man Días calls out again. ‘And who’s that with you? New friend? No introductions? No manners these days.’
Isabel looks at Voronov, who’s been watching the whole back and forth with an amused curve to his mouth. ‘Yeah,’ Isabel says, ‘my manners. Sorry. This is Inspector Voronov.’ She slaps a hand on Voronov’s shoulder and—
—seems pretty familiar with—
Isabel drops her hand and steps back, tries not to let it show on her face as she disconnects from the unexpected flow of thoughts. ‘He’s a new face,’ she says, ‘he’ll be working with me from now on.’ Not that she has much choice in that.
Old man Días starts nodding his head vigorously. ‘Good, good. Not healthy always working by yourself,’ then to Voronov, ‘you’ll take some picadinho too. Adriana, you heard that?’
‘The whole street heard you,’ she says, rolling her eyes before smiling at them. ‘I’ll make sure they’re ready to go. What else did you want?’
They walk out of there with two tubs of picadinho, Isabel’s mouth watering from the smell of stewed pork. On top of that, they have a huge fresh bread omelette sandwich each, a slice of tortilha for Isabel and a box of assorted cakes on top of that. Two coffees and bottles of water rustle in the plastic bag old man Días has given them. Voronov looks stunned by the amount of food Isabel is cradling to her chest as he unlocks the car door.
The car, when they get in, is freezing and does nothing to help with the pulse at her temples. But Isabel is more concerned about how Voronov’s thoughts had just slipped into her mind. She’d forgotten herself. The pill holds a lot of thoughts back, but touch is like a conduit and still allows things to slip into her head if she doesn’t actively have her walls up.
Isabel shuts the door in a hurry and sets the food on her lap. The heat of the containers imprints on her thighs and the smell of the food fills the car.
‘Here,’ she says, handing Voronov his, along with the plastic cutlery. She sets aside the rest. ‘Adriana was born in Madeira. She makes the best picadinho.’
‘Yes, I could tell,’ Voronov says. ‘The accent.’
‘Hmm. As for the food,’ she gestures at her bounty, ‘I’m not sure how much you know about Gifted but some of us burn through a lot of energy when using our Gifts. I’m normally quite good about getting fuelled up but didn’t get a chance today because of, well, you know.’
Voronov watches her peel the lid off the food; the smell of the pork and mushroom sauce becomes stronger. ‘How fast do you usually burn through it?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ll need to eat again in a couple of hours. Longer if I don’t use my Gift for the rest of the day.’ She shoves a forkful of fried potato chunks drowned in sauce into her mouth and groans in bliss. ‘I recognise your name,’ she says. ‘But I can’t place it. Want to tell me where I know it from?’
‘You could’ve asked the Chief.’
Isabel doesn’t say anything right away, letting the sound of the car heater fill the space instead. She’s now realising how cold her feet were before. She wriggles her toes in her trainers as warmth bathes her ankles and begins to rise steadily. ‘Doesn’t sound like the best way to start a new partnership with someone.’
Voronov looks at her, head tilted, considering. He’s got his own tub on his lap. ‘No,’ he says and gives her a slow nod, ‘I appreciate that. And if you want to look into my history, that’s fine by me too.’
But you’re not going to tell me, she thinks and gives him a wry smile. ‘Fair enough. Tuck into that before it gets cold. You’ll
ruin all of Adriana’s hard work.’
They finish the rest of their meal in silence.
Chapter 7
The wind is a vicious thing, ripping the clouds from their stasis and scrolling them across the sky, solid grey and threatening. Not a drop dots the windscreen as Voronov navigates the narrow and bumpy streets of Sesimbra, the car rocking over roads that haven’t seen maintenance in too long. They don’t talk much during the ride. Isabel has no issues with not driving. It leaves her free to go into her own head and mull things over. Besides, it’s too soon to have him in her personal spaces, so his car works out fine. The low noise from the radio, with its old-school rock ballads playing as background noise, suits her too. She stares out the window. Trees tower over them from the side of the road as they go higher up.
It takes them longer to reach their destination than it should because of a few roads that have been closed off for one reason or another. They pass several people out on the rocks fishing, comfortable as anything despite the volatile weather and the steepness of the rocks.
As Voronov rolls the car to a stop Isabel thinks she wouldn’t mind doing the labyrinth of tiny streets and bad potholes every day if it gets her the view she lays her eyes on now.
She lets out a low whistle and leans forward, peering out the windscreen at the stretch of the sea before them.
The more modern builds are at the top of the hill that guards Sesimbra’s California Beach. The houses aren’t the most scenic; they’re tall, flat, modern-looking buildings that wouldn’t fit in with the old-world charm of the ones below. The way these houses have been laid out creates a stair effect, each one set higher than the one before it. Driveways divide them from each other.
‘Which number?’ Isabel asks, tugging her coat on.
Voronov is out of the car and looking at the houses. ‘Number seven,’ he says and steps back to shut the door.
Isabel follows suit and falls into step with him.
There’s an odd stillness up here. No sound coming from any of the houses, no loud TV, no pans on stoves, or barking dogs, nothing. Just the wind whistling as it sweeps past and the sound of the waves crashing below. Then again, it’s mid-afternoon on a weekday, so Isabel supposes it’s not so odd.
This location is removed from all the life going on below, where homes are all crowded together, surrounded by cafés and shops and markets and people wandering the beach. Up here, it’s all isolation and incredible views. Some are most likely holiday homes that fill up in the summer, not in these chilly months.
Isabel’s hairband has given up its fight and bits of her hair have come free, whipping against the side of her face and catching on her mouth as they walk. She pushes it back, to no avail. Why had she thought it’d be a good idea to cut it so close to winter? The back of her neck is going to be frozen before they get there. She rubs at it as she considers the house. She’s never been that great at this part of the job. Sorry is such a useless word when you’re telling someone their loved one is dead.
Number 7 has heavy potted plants with winter-defying glossy green leaves lining the base of its walls. There’s a small car in the driveway, a silver KIA, but there’s enough space for two more.
The first knock doesn’t get a response, but the second one does.
‘Just a moment!’ Loud heels clipping on the floor at a fast pace sound from the other side.
The woman who opens the door has her mobile phone in her hand and is polished to her core. Artfully dyed blond hair falls in sleek waves around her face and she has small wrinkles on her carefully made-up face. She looks from Isabel to Voronov, her expression polite but with a touch of impatience she can’t quite hide.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
‘We’re looking for Mrs Irina dos Santos,’ Isabel says.
‘Yes?’
Voronov steps up. ‘Mrs dos Santos?’
Her polite smile wavers but stays in place. ‘Yes. Sorry, who are you?’
‘Inspector Voronov,’ he says, showing her his badge.
Mrs dos Santos glances down at it, confused. The smile falls off her face.
‘This is my partner, Inspector Reis. Mrs dos Santos, would it be possible for us to speak inside?’
Mrs dos Santos pulls her hand away and some of the sleekness disappears from her posture as she takes an uncertain step back. ‘What is this about?’ She opens the door wider, moves aside and gestures them in.
‘Thank you,’ Isabel says and walks in ahead of her and Mrs dos Santos closes the door behind them, shutting out the sound of the wind. It’s all dark wooden floors, the hallway they go through into the living room a long and shadowed thing, curtains open but lights left off.
‘Please have a seat,’ Mrs dos Santos says. ‘Sorry, I just got home myself, can I get you both anything to drink?’ She’s smiling at them but it’s strained, the corners of her mouth not quite steady.
‘No, thank you.’
Voronov murmurs something along the same lines as he takes a seat next to Isabel.
Like the outside of the house, the inside is pretty modern too. Minimalist in a way that’s still not seen often in Portuguese homes. Everything is in its place, as if ready for a photographer to come by and snap pictures for a home magazine.
Mrs dos Santos would’ve fit right in with that photoshoot on any other day, but today isn’t one of those days.
She’s wearing all black and the longer she stands there, the more the illusion of the make-up on her face fades away and the woman beneath shows through. The lipstick can’t hide the downward curl of her mouth when the smile slides away and the red of her eyes becomes more prominent. Tiredness rolls off her and Isabel can feel it soaking in through her own skin.
That Isabel can feel it so effortlessly is worrying.
‘Mrs dos Santos,’ Voronov says, ‘I’m afraid we come with bad news. There was an incident this morning in Gare do Oriente terminal and a person was killed. Your husband has been identified as that person. I’m very sorry. My condolences.’
Mrs dos Santos seems lost for a moment, eyes searching the room around them as if waiting for someone to jump out and yell out that it’s a joke.
‘I . . .’ She sits down in a chair across from them as if in slow motion. She frowns and shakes her head. ‘What? That doesn’t make any sense. He—’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Isabel says. ‘He was identified by his ID.’
Isabel isn’t sure that Mrs dos Santos is listening any more. She’s staring at an empty spot on the wall and Isabel feels a compulsion to look away, switch off from the first inklings of grief. Seeing it always unsettles her, pulls Isabel towards memories she’d rather stayed wrapped tightly and out of sight.
‘Mrs dos Santos,’ Isabel tries again, ‘could you tell us where your husband was going this morning?’
‘Work,’ Mrs dos Santos says, her voice hollow and slow like she’s coming to them from very far away. ‘My husband left for work this morning. He had a meeting at ten fifteen.’ She looks at them then, eyes alive and fierce. ‘Have you called? Have you checked to see if he’s arrived? He could’ve dropped his ID. Maybe this person randomly picked it up. Do you have it? Can I see it?’
It would be a stretch. Even in the state that they’d found Gil, it had been easy to connect him to the picture of the man on the ID card.
Before either she or Voronov can say anything else, Mrs dos Santos is on her feet again, pacing around the sofa and tapping one-handed at her phone before putting it to her ear and turning her back on them.
The phone call that follows is brief and furious and it’s followed by a silence that has Isabel watching their late victim’s wife cautiously.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs dos Santos says. Her arm hangs loose at her side; her fingers are white around her phone. ‘I don’t understand. He was fine when he walked out of the house this morning.’
‘Irina,’ Isabel says.
That gets a reaction. Mrs dos Santos looks at Isabel and her
eyes have the clarity of a mad person.
Isabel settles back in her seat and waits it out, lets Voronov lead so she can steady herself and her wards.
Soft as dew gathering on grass, Isabel allows her Gift to unfurl and reach for the woman sitting stiffly across from her, hating this part of her role here. Everyone is different, but willingly seeking the emotions of a person who has recently been given this kind of news is never a pleasant thing.
It’s like there’s a fog around Isabel’s senses though, too dense for her to break through. She needs a trigger, something to make Mrs dos Santos’ thoughts spike enough for Isabel to capture a snapshot of them, even if only a sliver.
‘Irina,’ Isabel says again. She leans forward, clasping her own hands together and meeting Mrs dos Santos’ gaze. A grieving woman. That’s what she has to remember here. It doesn’t matter what her husband did for a living. The woman sitting in front of her is a woman who can’t even comprehend the change her life is about to go through. Shock hasn’t had a chance to settle in yet. Isabel gives Voronov a pointed glance. ‘Maybe you should come with us. I think you need to see this for yourself.’
Chapter 8
The coroner at the sign-in desk frowns at Isabel when she looks up at the window and sees her standing there. She peers over Isabel’s shoulder at Voronov and Mrs dos Santos.
‘Busy day?’ she asks Isabel. ‘Sorry, we’re a bit short-staffed so we’re having to man the desks as well.’
‘Sure,’ Isabel pencils her name in for the second time that day, ‘we’re here for the deceased that came in earlier from Gare do Oriente.’ It feels surreal that she was here just this morning. The day has taken a toll and Isabel is trying not to think about face-planting into her sofa when she gets in. Shut her eyes, feel her headache fade away along with the clinging emotions of terrified witnesses and a newly made widow in shock.
The Colours of Death Page 4