One of those has to bear fruit.
A rap on the door makes her look up. Daniel’s leaning against the doorframe. ‘Some good news for you.’
‘Really?’ She sits up.
‘The witness didn’t pan out?’
‘Couldn’t wait to get out of here.’
‘Isn’t that most people who come in?’
‘True. Anyway, what is it?’ Isabel stands and tucks the chair back in. No point staying here.
Daniel walks out with her. ‘Julio Soares’ PA got back to us. You guys have a date with him tonight.’
Isabel stops. ‘Tonight?’
‘Yes. Apparently, there’s some kind of a fundraiser function he’s attending. His diary is booked up for the rest of this week and next week so this is the only point where he can fit you guys in. Try to get there early. He made sure to stress that he wants to get this over and done with before his speech.’
Isabel rolls her eyes. ‘Of course he does.’
Chapter 16
The event turns out to be not too far from the police station.
The university’s Social Sciences and Humanities building is still fairly new, and boasts one of the best rankings in Europe. Its glass front that would normally allow a visitor to see into the building shows nothing but the reflection of the setting sun.
It takes Isabel and Voronov fifteen minutes to find a parking spot among all the BMWs and Mercedes. The place is littered with luxury cars there for the charity event.
‘Looks like it’ll be a bit high-profile,’ Isabel says.
‘Looks like,’ Voronov says.
The reception area is empty apart from the security guard. He’s dressed sharp; suit black and bow tie neat and stiff at his neck. He must have been employed just for the event, Isabel thinks. She doubts that the university generally employs people to stand at the door and bow people into the building. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it again when they show him their badges.
‘Have a good day, Inspectors,’ the guard says and steps aside, holding open the door.
Right at the entrance, there’s a huge A3 programme on fancy paper with fancy writing, detailing the times and the names of speakers and other entertainment. The first speaker is scheduled for 6.30 p.m.; in about fifteen minutes.
We’re going to stand out like a sore thumb, Isabel thinks. Going by all the cars outside, this is probably nothing less than a black-tie event.
‘And to think, I have a new dress sitting in my wardrobe that would’ve been perfect for this occasion,’ she says, tone dry as flaking paint.
Voronov snickers but doesn’t say anything as they ascend the steps, following the helpful arrows telling them where the ball is taking place. ‘Maybe next time,’ he says.
They’re not even halfway up the stairs when the thoughts start to batter against her wall. She can feel the protection provided by the pill creaking under the weight of them. Too many people, too many thoughts in one place. Maybe a few months ago she wouldn’t have felt a thing after taking the pill, would have been sealed off from all the thoughts around her, but now she can feel it strain. It’s as if she’s standing at a door between her and all these thoughts, hands pressed to its surface, and against her palms, where she once would have felt nothing, the door vibrates under her fingertips with the thrum of all the voices clamouring to flood in.
She knew they were going to be in a place packed to the gills, but it’s not like she can pop a pill every hour, not if she wants to remain a functional human being. Isabel stops at the top of the stairs and takes a moment, closing her eyes and centring herself. In her mind’s eye, she’s standing, bare feet digging into warm sand, on an island only large enough for one. That island is surrounded by nothing more than green-blue waves and a velvet black sky.
A touch to her elbow makes her blink back into the room.
Voronov is looking down at her, a crease on his forehead. ‘Are you all right?’ He drops his hand from her arm.
Isabel nods and taps her temple. ‘Sometimes it’s better to take a moment to prepare before going into a room like that,’ she says, jerking her chin in the direction of the noise and music that’s now humming along the corridor.
Voronov doesn’t say anything for a moment. ‘Is there anything you need me to do?’
Isabel glances at him. She hadn’t been expecting any gesture of support. Yes, he’s her partner but as far as Isabel is concerned, she is still watching out for her own back. And there’s a long way to go before she even feels comfortable considering trusting this man, with his history.
She shakes her head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll be fine. But I think, once we locate Julio Soares,’ she says, considering, ‘it might be a good idea for you to take the lead.’
He tilts his head in question.
‘He might be more forthcoming if he’s not being questioned by a Gifted inspector.’ She’s fully expecting to meet with hostility the second she shows him her ID.
‘All right, I have no problem with that.’
The main event is in a large hall that looks as modern as the building’s exterior. They’ve built in a temporary stage where the band is situated. The music is slow jazz. There’s a microphone stand too, but at the moment the space in front of it is empty. A woman in a sweeping black dress and a man in a tux stand off to one side, speaking to each other. They’ve both got large cards in their hands. They’re probably the masters of ceremonies for the night.
Men and women in crisp white blazers cut through the swarm of people here and there, drinks and canapés balanced perfectly as they circle the room.
‘Hmm. This won’t be a quick find,’ Isabel mutters. Now that she’s in the room, she can feel the walls of her defence shake under the onslaught. She can’t hear their thoughts. Not yet. But she can feel them. It’s not unlike a stampede. The vibrations of it are there underfoot.
‘Should we split up?’ Voronov asks.
‘Yes, I’ll call you if I find him.’
He moves off in the opposite direction, tall form disappearing quickly into the crowd.
Isabel braces herself and does the same.
The close proximity of so many people makes her grit her teeth, but Isabel forges on, keeping her face blank as her eyes do a sweep of every face she sees, trying to pinpoint where the man they’re looking for might be. She’s seen a photo of him. A quick search of the university website had turned up a picture, which she and Voronov had agreed would do the job.
Professor Julio Soares, well known not just for his politician father but also for the strides he’s made working in partnership with NTI and his research work in the Gifted field. There is an entire section on the university website dedicated to his achievements. It’s an impressive work history for someone only in their early forties. Useful.
Isabel picks up conversations here and there as she squeezes past people, paying attention to anything that might be of use.
The music continues, mixing in with the buzz of a hundred conversations happening at the same time. Isabel can feel the pressure of all the thoughts swirling in the room, the way they crowd around her, butting up against her walls looking for a crack to slip through.
Isabel’s been circling for a few minutes when the song ends. There’s a brief vacuum of silence before the rush of applause swallows it whole. The woman who had been at the side of the stage is now standing in front of the mic. She’s wearing a big red smile, clapping too despite the cards she’s holding. Her salt and pepper hair is swept to the side in an elegant up-do, her long neck draped in a glittering necklace.
‘Thank you, thank you, don’t we have some wonderful entertainment tonight? I want to thank the university once again for hosting us this evening.’
Isabel tunes her out, trying not to get frustrated when the faces in front of her seem to blur one into the other.
Then someone familiar catches her eye. Célia Armindas, in a sleek red dress showcasing her delicate collarbones. Her waves of white hair have been pulled back
into a slick style that pulls into a compact knot at her nape, but her expression, which had been a mask of politeness when Isabel and Voronov had questioned her at NTI, doesn’t look so polite now. Her mouth is twisted and angry, spitting words at the man who has her by the elbow. His back is to Isabel so she can’t get a good look at him.
They’re tucked into a darker corner of the room. They must be speaking in a low tone because even though the music has stopped playing, Isabel can’t hear so much as a whisper from where they are. Isabel cuts through the crowd, eyes fixed on Armindas.
Armindas is trying to tug away, mouth trembling in her attempts to keep her face blank. When her gaze lands on Isabel, her expression morphs. Isabel isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light, but Armindas’ face seems to pale; her mouth snaps shut on whatever she’d been about to say.
Isabel continues to barrel through the crowd.
Armindas yanks her arm out from the man’s hold and turns her back on both him and Isabel before storming off. The man turns. Isabel’s eyes narrow. Professor Soares.
Isabel has almost reached the professor when she feels it.
It raises the hairs on the back of her arms. Isabel freezes.
Fingers on the back of her neck.
Isabel spins to smack the hand away.
There’s nothing there.
People mill about but they’re talking to each other; no one’s looking at her other than to send curious looks as they take in her clothes and the fierce look on her face.
There’s no one near enough to have touched her.
She tries to rub away the sensation. She feels on high alert but doesn’t know why. The barrier she put up is still in place, nothing there but the thoughts of the people around her still beating at it.
Dropping her hand, she turns back to the professor, who is now watching her, eyes wary. Isabel closes the distance between them.
‘Professor Julio Soares?’ she asks.
Julio Soares stands straighter and smooths a hand down the lapels of his suit. ‘Yes.’
Isabel leans in so that she can keep her voice low. ‘Inspector Reis. Our department contacted you about us dropping by to have a word.’
Something passes over Soares’ face then but it’s too quick for Isabel to catch. Distaste, irritation? ‘Right, yes.’
‘Do you know if there’s a quieter place here where we can go? A little more privacy. I’m positive you’d also be grateful for the discretion.’
For a moment Soares does nothing but stare at her, eyes like granite. Then he gives a curt nod. ‘If you’ll follow me.’
‘Thank you,’ she says. She takes her phone out and sends Voronov a quick message: Found him. Heading left off stage.
Voronov catches them as they exit out through a door that had been covered up by heavy drapes, which presumably had been put up as part of the decoration for that night. Soares sweeps it aside and ducks under. Isabel and Voronov follow.
The door opens and the cold envelops them. Isabel hadn’t realised how hot it was in the hallway and now she shivers as she feels the change of temperature, it bathes her throat and face and slips up her sleeves.
The corridor is dim, only emergency lights glowing green in the dark. Julio seems to know his way and he leads them on, the noise of the charity event growing quieter behind them. They stop at a door that opens to what looks like a lecture room.
The blinds haven’t been pulled down and the lights from outside throw slabs of pale yellow over the worn seats of the hall.
Julio goes only as far as the first row of seats before turning to face them.
Voronov closes the door and the relief, for Isabel, is immediate. The force of the thoughts climbing on top of one another, trying to beat their way through her defences, falls off, becoming nothing more than a feather-light weight leaning against them instead. She lets out a quiet breath and flexes her shoulders, trying to get the tension tightening up her shoulders and neck to loosen and disappear.
‘What can I do for you, Inspectors?’
Julio Soares is one of those perfectly turned out men, all clean-cut lines in his tailored black suit. His face isn’t as striking as his father’s, which is often plastered all over TV and campaign billboards. Julio’s is a little easier to forget. Thin mouth, a head of strong dark hair brushed back from his face. The artful touch of stubble adds a little character but doesn’t hide the cleft in his chin.
Isabel settles in, tucking her hands into the pockets of her trousers and leaning a shoulder against the closed door. ‘We’re here in relation to the death of Gil dos Santos,’ she says, ‘we understand you’d been in contact with him fairly recently.’
‘I’m not sure how you think I can help. This couldn’t have waited?’ His arms are folded across his chest and if looks could kill, well.
‘Sadly, no,’ Isabel says. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand, especially as you knew Dr dos Santos. His wife said your families are quite close.’
‘They are,’ Julio says. He doesn’t give them any more than that.
In the pictures on the website, his looks hadn’t quite marked him as Bento Soares’ son. But meeting him in the flesh is different. He gives off the same aura. It’s the way he stands and looks at someone. Like they’re not fit to lick the heels of his shoes.
‘How often did you work with Gil?’ Isabel says.
‘The university does a lot of work with National Testing. I’ve collaborated with Gil on quite a few projects.’
‘Any problems?’ Isabel asks.
‘No. We work – worked – well together.’
‘I see,’ Isabel says.
‘We’ve been to see Mrs dos Santos,’ Voronov says. Like Isabel, he’s remained standing. He’s a few feet away from her, hands tucked into his back pockets, face a calm mask of politeness. ‘She says Dr dos Santos had been feeling a little stressed lately. That you and he were having some issues. Can you tell us about that?’
Julio’s eyes flick between Voronov and Isabel but she stays quiet and waits. It will be to their advantage if Voronov does most of the questioning with this one. If Julio is anything like his father, then having a Gifted questioning him will get his back up. Isabel doesn’t want to give them an excuse to discredit anything she does.
Some people would say she’s being paranoid but she’d rather err on the side of caution.
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘No?’ Voronov asks. ‘Mrs dos Santos seemed quite certain that there was some kind of tension between you and her husband.’
‘Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply—’
Voronov puts a hand up, a small, pacifying smile on his face. ‘Professor, please. We just want to build a bigger picture of what was taking place in his life in the lead-up to Dr dos Santos’ death. We’re trying to understand what happened exactly, and so we need to know more about his state of mind at the time of death. If he had any problems, we need to be aware of them. That’s all, I assure you.’
Julio is quiet.
Although it’s faint, Isabel can just about make out the voice of the master of ceremonies who had been talking as they’d left the hall.
Finally, Julio says, ‘They weren’t issues. It was a professional disagreement, that’s all.’
‘What about?’
Julio blows out a harsh breath. He shifts, turning his face away from them. He runs a hand through his hair, a little roughly. ‘We work together on some of the Gifted who are monitored, for case studies et cetera. As I said, nothing major, we were disagreeing on a particular diagnosis. We’re both stubborn men and experts in our field. We don’t like to be wrong. Our egos got in the way. That’s it.’
‘I see.’
Although Julio sounds calm and is looking them both full in the face, Isabel thinks there’s more here. There’s a rigidness to his mouth and the line of his shoulders is a little hunched, like he’s bracing himself and can’t wait to get out of the room. Maybe because someone he knows well, a friend even, h
as died and he’s not sure how to cope with it. Maybe it’s something else altogether.
‘Were you close?’ Isabel asks. ‘Outside of work,’ she clarifies.
Julio’s mouth tightens, thinning out his lips. ‘We ran in the same social circles. And yes, our families are close. We’ve had the occasional drink after work when there was a shared project. But beyond that, no.’
Isabel nods. Then she says: ‘That was Dr Armindas I just saw you speaking to. She seemed upset.’
A rise of hostility washes over her so fast it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
Oh, she thinks, and feels anticipation lick at her.
Although Voronov doesn’t say anything, Isabel can tell his attention has been grabbed as well. Voronov shifts. It’s subtle, but his body is now facing Soares and he’s leaning forward.
‘Do you also work closely with Dr Armindas?’ Isabel asks.
Julio frowns. ‘Yes. I’ve worked closely with both Célia and Gil. Our fields have a lot of overlapping goals and theories.’
‘That makes sense,’ Isabel says. ‘The conversation you two were having out there seemed a little heated.’ And considering that Célia Armindas came across as quite a composed woman, it must’ve taken some doing to get her that agitated.
Julio straightens from where he’d been leaning against the armrest of the seat. He adjusts his suit jacket with quick sharp jerks at the hem and lapels. ‘We were discussing a private matter.’
Isabel acquiesces with a nod of her head.
‘We would appreciate it if you could give us a run-down of the last time you spoke to Dr dos Santos, when you last saw him.’ Voronov tugs out his notebook and it seems to dawn on Julio that they mean now rather than later.
The Colours of Death Page 9