The Colours of Death

by Patricia Marques

  ‘Your colleague called ahead. I’ll walk you through.’

  Mrs dos Santos is a heavy silent presence at their back as they walk. Her face is pallid, and her fingers rigid where they hold her clutch bag. Her eyes are downcast. Isabel doesn’t think the woman’s looked up since they got out of the car.

  Voronov follows behind Mrs dos Santos and his eyes meet Isabel’s.

  Isabel can sense the woman’s pain.

  It had started to affect her halfway through the ride back. People experienced emotions differently. Mrs dos Santos’ sorrow is a rusted brown red that seems to fleck the air around them, Isabel breathing it in with each inhale. Isabel checks her watch, mindful of how long it’s been since she snuck in another pill before they’d left the precinct. Its effects will start waning soon. The barrier the pills provide tends to last for four hours or so. The funny thing is, the headache is still lodged right there, tucked against her left temple and clinging with a stubbornness that lets Isabel knows it’s not going anywhere soon.

  Right now, there’s a deep-seated weight of pain that’s weighing Isabel’s stomach down and clenching at her chest. Something that doesn’t belong in her body and mind and that has Mrs dos Santos’ signature all over it. It had got gradually worse on the drive over and now it’s as though the other woman’s pain is a physical thing that Isabel can feel as if it were her own.

  Isabel follows the coroner into the room and holds the door open for Voronov and Mrs dos Santos.

  Mrs dos Santos stops when she gets inside the door. Her spine snaps straight and her sharp intake of breath is audible in the cold room.

  The coroner heads to the slot furthest away from the door. The room is chilled and maybe it’s Isabel’s imagination, but it feels as if the room drops further in temperature when the coroner tugs the door open and pulls out the slab, revealing the body covered in a white sheet.

  Isabel braces herself, mind flashing back to Gil’s wrecked body and ruined face in the train carriage.

  Mrs dos Santos’s eyes are fixed on the covered body on the slab and she doesn’t even seem like she’s breathing.

  Cautious, Isabel draws closer.

  ‘Mrs dos Santos?’ Isabel says, voice as soothing as she can make it. She’s afraid the woman is about to bolt on them. ‘Do you need a moment?’

  Mrs dos Santos clears her throat and strides further into the room. Her shoulders are up tight around her neck, both hands clasping her bag in front of her. Isabel looks at Voronov and follows Mrs dos Santos until they’re both standing beside the body.

  The coroner glances from Isabel’s face to Mrs dos Santos and Isabel watches the coroner’s expression soften in sympathy. ‘I’m going to pull the sheet down now.’

  Mrs dos Santos takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, before giving a sharp nod of assent.

  ‘I need to warn you, the nature of his injuries means that the face looks significantly damaged. If you need to take a moment just let me know.’

  ‘Okay,’ Mrs dos Santos says, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The coroner looks to Isabel and Voronov for confirmation. Voronov motions for her to go ahead. The coroner folds the sheet back.

  Isabel has to take a deep breath at the sight of the body.

  Gil has been cleaned up and there’s no longer one open eye staring out at her. The cuts, scrapes and scratches to the face distort his features, the bad bruising making his face discoloured.

  Mrs dos Santos flinches. She turns on her heel, a muffled sound escaping her that makes Isabel think of a wounded animal as she rushes out of the room, tripping over her feet and almost going down before she makes it to the door.

  ‘Merda,’ Isabel says and moves to go after her. ‘Voronov—’

  ‘Go.’

  Mrs dos Santos hasn’t gone far; she’s sitting on the steps outside the morgue, head in her hands, and drawing in large gulps of air.

  Isabel kneels in front of her. She touches her shoulder and if the pain emanating from the woman had been a heavy weight to bear before, now it robs Isabel of her breath, weakening her knees. Isabel grits her teeth and pushes through it. She needs to stay on track here. ‘Mrs dos Santos?’ Isabel watches the other woman’s face, concerned, hoping she isn’t going to start hyperventilating right there on the steps. ‘Mrs dos Santos?’

  ‘It’s Gil,’ she says.

  Isabel sits on the cold steps beside her, leaving her hand on the woman’s shoulder. But beneath Isabel’s headache, which is making her want to nail her own head through a wall, she feels the static chaos of the widow’s emotions bombarding her, bursting like morbid fireworks in her chest. Snatches of Mrs dos Santos’ thoughts slice into Isabel’s mind and stick to it like shards. Isabel digs her thumb into her own temple.

  ‘Reis.’

  Isabel looks up. Voronov towers over them, a questioning frown on his face.

  Isabel forces herself past Mrs dos Santos’ tumultuous thoughts and the dull throb of the headache. ‘Can you get Mrs dos Santos somewhere warm?’ she asks, standing. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Isabel heads back inside, and every step between her and the grieving woman is like a breath of fresh air, their connection stretching thin, and then snapping altogether when Isabel locks herself in the morgue’s cramped bathroom. She takes a moment, breathing through it, before pushing away from the door to go and splash some water on her face, grounding herself by slowing her breathing and not letting herself focus on anything but the sting of cold water on her skin and the rise and fall of her own chest.

  The small mirror above the sink reflects her face leached of all colour, the squint of pain to her eyes. She stays there a few moments longer, just existing in the absence of outside emotions, the rush of the running tap another layer to soothe her senses. Then she forces her back straight, pieces back together her wards as best as she can and heads back to her waiting partner.

  Someone has wrapped a blanket around Mrs dos Santos and put her in the warmest room at the precinct.

  It’s only been a few hours since they walked into the dos Santos’ home, but she couldn’t be more different from the woman who greeted them at the door. Now, she sits curled in on herself, a hand clutching the lapels of the coat closed at her throat, eyes fixed on the wall in front of her, unmoving.

  ‘Irina,’ Isabel says, ‘Gil. Was he an unhappy man?’

  That seems to do it. ‘No. No. He has his work, we’re—’ She chokes, coughs and presses the back of her hand to her mouth. ‘We’re happily married. We have friends and a good family. I don’t understand. What happened?’

  Isabel looks to Voronov, handing it over.

  ‘We were called to the station this morning over a disturbance,’ he says. ‘As we understand it so far, your husband was injured during the commotion. From witness statements and also the nature of his injuries’ – Mrs dos Santos’ face loses another shade of colour at that – ‘we need to determine whether your husband had a reason to harm himself.’

  ‘What?’ Mrs dos Santos chokes out something that sounds like a garbled laugh but there’s no real mirth anywhere on the woman’s face. Her hands curl tighter around the mug. The diamond rings littering the fingers of her left hand gleam. ‘Are you trying to tell me Gil committed suicide? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘You don’t think that’s possible? That it’s something he may have considered?’ Isabel asks, voice still soft, still coaxing.

  And Isabel gets what she’s looking for. It’s sharper than it should be considering that Isabel isn’t even touching the subject. The pill’s effect is fading. The emotions swell and the projected image is clear, a swell of affection and contentment all condensed into two hands holding each other, one bigger and long-fingered, wedding ring glinting in the light.

  So, happy, Isabel thinks. At least from the wife’s point of view. For all Isabel knows, Gil felt differently.

  ‘No, Inspector.’ Irina dos Santos sighs, her shoulders slump and she pushes her finger
s through her hair, dragging it back from her face. It leaves the once-perfect hairstyle in disarray. ‘I don’t think that sounds like Gil. He was a driven man; his work took more time from him than it should have.’ She can’t quite meet Isabel’s eyes. Probably a point of contention between them, Isabel thinks. ‘No. I don’t think he killed himself.’

  ‘Is there anything of note you can tell us? Anything that you know may have upset him recently or caused him any significant problems?’ Voronov leans forward, all sympathetic face and unthreatening posture.

  ‘So that you can prove he committed suicide? I’m telling you that’s not Gil. He has—’ She catches herself. Her mouth trembles, but then it’s back under control and she stares at them both hard. ‘He was in a good place in his life, Inspectors.’ She’s building a wall around herself; doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, but Isabel can feel it, like cement pouring into a mould.

  ‘He’d been stressed. For some time now. Don’t misunderstand, he was coping. But he was upset with some things going on at work, from what I could understand. It never sounded like . . . like this would be the outcome.’

  ‘Do you know what kind of issues he was having at work? Did he speak about them with you?’ Voronov asks.

  ‘No. Not much. I know it was in relation to Julio.’

  ‘Julio?’ Isabel asks.

  ‘Julio Soares. Julio’s father, Bento Soares, is a good—was a good friend of his – of ours. But I can’t say for sure. Gil didn’t discuss these things with me.’

  Bento Soares. Just the name makes Isabel’s stomach do a sickly turn. He’s the very well-known leader of the successful PNP political party, who are quite open about their anti-Gifted rhetoric and policies.

  It makes sense, considering Gil’s profession and role within NTI, that he would be involved with a high-profile politician. Having a friend like Gil would have been something that someone like Soares would never pass up.

  ‘Had Gil and Julio Soares been in recent contact?’ Isabel asks.

  ‘I’m not sure, they cross paths often, work on projects together and there are various functions that we attend where the Soares’ are regular attendees also.’

  ‘I see,’ Isabel says. Any events attended by the Soares family were not where any Gifted person would want to be. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  Mrs dos Santos shakes her head, hands spreading palm-up as if in supplication. She looks lost and like she doesn’t understand any of what’s happening. ‘If that’s all, Inspectors, I’d like to go home. Thank you.’ Her tone brooks no refusal.

  Isabel stands. ‘Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch about the progress of the investigation.’

  ‘In the meantime, if you do think of anything else,’ Voronov says and pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to her, ‘please don’t hesitate to contact us.’

  Mrs dos Santos stands up, the scrape of her chair on the floor a grating sound.

  Isabel and Voronov stand too. ‘Once again, we’re sorry for your loss. We’ll have someone take you home,’ Isabel says.

  Mrs dos Santos nods and without waiting for them leaves the room.

  Isabel sits back on the edge of the table, tucking her hands into her pockets, and stares out the door that Mrs dos Santos left through.

  Chapter 9

  Walking back to the case room after Mrs dos Santos has left, Isabel finds three missed calls on her phone, two more from her sister Rita and one from their brother Sebastião.

  She frowns down at it, not in the mood to deal with her sister, in particular, right now. The effects of the pill are fading fast and the headache has eased from being a pulsing, living thing to an annoying ache. Isabel tries to remember if she’s still got a batch of pills in her desk drawer. Taking another one will get her through the rest of the day but it’ll also drag back the intensity of the headache. It’s such a part of her daily routine you’d think she was used to it by now.

  Every day, without fail, one at each meal if she can. She tries to never go over three pills, but with long workdays, sometimes she has to go for the fourth. They only ever last for about four hours each time; five if she’s stretching it, but by then, if she’s not concentrating, thoughts start slipping in.

  ‘Go ahead and meet the others,’ she says to Voronov, ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Voronov gives her a long look. ‘Sure. We’ll wait for you.’

  Isabel makes it quick and gives the room a sweep, but no one is watching her when she sits down at her desk and yanks open her drawer, rifling through everything until she finds the spare box that has been flattened under the weight of paperwork she’d dumped on top of it. She takes out a pill and pops it in her mouth, goes to the water station and washes it down.

  When she gets back to the case room, Carla is already there and so is Daniel.

  ‘Jacinta?’ Isabel asks as she pulls out a chair and sits down beside Voronov.

  ‘She’s checking on forensics, seeing what updates they have for us,’ Daniel says.

  ‘Okay,’ Isabel says. ‘The wife says he was happy, no suicidal inclinations, and as far as we know, no health issues, but we’re still waiting for confirmation on that. Though I don’t think we need it, at this point. The only thing of note she brought up is that Gil was stressed with work and there’d been an issue with Julio Soares.’

  Carla sighs. ‘Bento Soares’ son?’

  ‘Unfortunately for us, yes. The Soares’ aren’t the most Gifted-friendly family. I’ll look into what exactly Julio Soares does that would have him working with the National Testing Institute,’ Isabel says. ‘We’re going to need to speak to him as well, see if there’s something there.’

  ‘We can help there,’ Carla says, and Daniel slides a paper onto the table. Isabel and Voronov lean over to see.

  ‘What is this?’ Isabel asks.

  ‘List of numbers on Gil’s phone, recent log, takes us as far back as last month.’ Daniel leans over and taps at the last number with his pen. ‘That’s the last call Gil received yesterday. And I’ve already checked it – the number is registered on his phone under Julio Soares.’

  ‘Oh?’ Isabel looks back up at Carla. ‘Great. Let’s give him a call.’

  ‘I’ll contact him,’ Carla says, ‘he works at the university. If we have any difficulties reaching him, I can always try him there. In the meantime, we have been given the go-ahead for Célia Armindas, the other head at NTI, so she would have worked closely with Gil. If this is related to NTI she might know something. She’s expecting us at nine thirty a.m. tomorrow.’

  Isabel breathes out, rubbing at her temple absently. ‘Okay, not too bad. Any other updates?’

  ‘We’re combing through Gil’s diary commitments for today. There’s a note in his paper diary but it’s a few letters pencilled in, doesn’t say what it is. We’re also checking the papers he had on him at the time. Looks like he was making some comments on a preliminary study. It doesn’t look relevant, but we’ll keep going. Here, this is it. Take a look.’

  Voronov reaches across the table and drags the diary over. Scrawled in pencil in that day’s slot is: HSL – 14.15

  ‘All right, well that doesn’t mean much,’ Isabel mutters. ‘Maybe Armindas can shed some light tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re working on getting his laptop, check what he might have on there as well.’

  ‘Nothing on his cloud calendar?’

  ‘Not that we could see,’ Carla says.

  ‘Anything from the station?’ Voronov asks.

  Carla shakes her head. ‘Not yet. They’ve been on damage control since this morning so it’s chaos over there. I’ve requested copies of all CCTV footage, see if we can spot anything there.’

  ‘Look,’ Isabel says, and her tone has everyone’s attention on her, ‘we’ll need to be prepared for what might be coming our way, especially with the Soares’ name thrown into the mix. When,’ she crosses her arms, ‘and I do think it’ll be a when, not if, the autopsy report comes back and
we know for sure this wasn’t an underlying health condition, we’ll officially have a murder on our hands committed by a Gifted individual. From what the witnesses said, we’re looking at a telekinetic who has possibly used their powers to physically move Gil dos Santos’ body enough to kill him, something not documented anywhere as having happened before. We’ll have to be ready for the press and PNP if this gets out.’ She pauses and looks at each of them in turn, stopping on Voronov, locking eyes with him before she goes on. ‘When that happens, we are a team. Not one piece of information leaves our mouths unless it’s to each other or the Chief.’

  For a moment the room is quiet as the enormity of this case settles over them all.

  For his part, Voronov hasn’t looked away from her, and there’s a small unamused smile on his face that tells Isabel her message has been received.

  ‘All right.’ Isabel eases back in her chair, linking her hands behind her head. ‘Looks like we’re going to have to sit on this one overnight.’

  The sky is darkening as Isabel eases her way out of traffic and into the smaller roads leading to the older district. Investment in the area in recent years means that these cracked wall buildings and steep pavements are interspersed with scaffolding where renovations are taking place.

  As usual, it takes at least a ten-minute search to find parking, but Isabel manages to tuck her car into a spot off the square and then begins the trek up the long narrow street to her home. The tram, with its bright yellow and brown roof, waits at the bottom of the slope as passengers get on. People tired from work, nestling into what seats they can find. Papers crinkle open and plastic bags filled with groceries rustle as they’re set at people’s feet. It’ll be a while before the tram makes its way up and past her house, and by then it’ll be packed to the brim.

  Isabel walks up the steep cobblestone pavement, glad she’d thrown trainers on when she’d left in a hurry that morning. She hates walking up the steep road in smart shoes. It always feels too slippery even after living here for four years.

  Lisbon is built on hills, more than the seven hills of myth, and the sloping streets have always been a part of it. Isabel loves them, but in the back of her mind there’s always a voice telling her that one day she’s going to fall.