‘Which I’m not,’ she concedes, ‘so then I’d say they’d have to be fairly strong. I mean, quite the coincidence to have someone who is a powerful telekinetic in the same room as two of the people involved in our investigation, no? An investigation where the only person who could’ve committed the crime has to be on the higher Gifted levels. Once the Registry come through for us then we can know for sure who in that room could’ve pulled a move like that. But for now, it’s good to look at the possibilities.’
That’s when she hears a commotion.
Frowning, she looks round, aware of Voronov doing the same at her side.
Bento Soares has stormed through the station, into the room full of busy police officers, all of them a little too cautious and surprised to tell a senior politician to calm the fuck down. He’s walking at a click ahead of Laura, the station’s front-facing officer, who has chased him into the room. She looks equal parts worried and pissed off. Bento glances down at Laura and hisses something at her that Isabel can’t hear. Even from the other side of the room, Isabel can see the hard look Laura gives him before turning to sweep her eyes over the occupied desks.
Isabel catches her attention and gives her a small nod. ‘I think this one’s for us,’ she says, easing away from her laptop and stretching her arms above her head to try to work out the tension slowly pouring in between her shoulder blades.
Voronov gets to his feet, face placid and polite as Bento Soares makes a beeline for them, his sharp steps cracking on the glossy polished floor over the commotion of the station.
Isabel ignores the trepidation she feels trickling down to her stomach and keeps a calm mask on her face. This is not a man you want to show weakness in front of, not when he hates the very thing you are and is actively campaigning to have you locked up for being born.
‘Mr Soares,’ Voronov greets him smoothly, intercepting Bento and bringing the threatening stride to a halt.
Voronov is taller than Soares, and the politician has to tilt his head back to look at him. He narrows cold grey eyes on Voronov but otherwise shows no outward reaction.
‘How can I help you?’ Voronov asks.
Isabel rises from her seat and leans back against her desk, crossing her arms over her chest.
‘Inspector Reis?’ Soares snaps.
Isabel smiles. She hopes it looks like a smile anyway. ‘That would be me, Mr Soares.’ She sticks out her hand for him to shake.
Soares looks from her to her hand and reluctantly takes it. His hand is clammy, his grip tight and meant to cause discomfort. Isabel works to suppress a grimace, not at the strength of his grip, but at the unpleasant emotions that come off the man like one giant wave of negative energy. It seeps in through their connecting palms and Isabel wants to yank her hand back and go stick it in a basin full of sanitiser.
‘And you are?’ Soares asks, when he releases her hand, eyes flicking to Voronov.
‘Inspector Voronov. I’m Inspector Reis’ partner. What can we do for you?’
Soares sends a cool look around the room. ‘Is there a private place where we could have this conversation?’ He manages to keep the sneer from taking over his mouth completely.
Isabel just stops herself from suggesting that if he’s so worried about the press then maybe barging into the police station might not have been the best way of keeping a low profile.
‘Of course,’ she says instead, nodding. ‘Please follow me.’
The room Isabel chooses is down a long corridor at the back of the building and far away from prying ears. They pass the Chief’s closed door on their way.
Someone’s left the windows open, which would normally piss her off but, as she doesn’t really want to offer Bento Soares any type of comfort, she’s happy to let it slide. There are a couple of desks pushed up against the side of the room, chairs tucked underneath, and an old landline phone sitting on a table, its wires running behind it and into the wall.
Once they’re all inside Voronov pulls the door closed.
‘Mr Soares, would you like a seat?’ Isabel asks, gesturing towards one of the uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs.
‘No, thank you,’ he says, biting out the words. ‘I want to know why you’re targeting my son in a murder investigation.’
Voronov comes over to Isabel’s side and sits on the table, fingers curling around the edge as he stares calmly at the irate man in the middle of the room. Isabel remains standing, her hands in her pockets, trying her best to keep a look of concerned interest on her face. She badly wants to tell him to fuck off.
‘A murder investigation?’ Voronov asks. ‘And I’m afraid we can’t disclose the details of the case with you, Mr Soares, unless you are personally involved with it yourself. I can assure you no one is being targeted.’
‘My son is involved.’
‘Your son, yes,’ Voronov says. ‘And he invited us to meet with him. He was fully aware that we were going to be present at that function.’
She’d been wrong when she’d thought that his son had the same energy as the father. No. Bento Soares fills the room with how he holds himself alone.
The thing with Bento Soares is, he’s not your typical politician. He’s not a man who sweats it out in suits, folds of neck fat spilling over his collar and buttons straining at the middle, as is the case with most of Portugal’s politicians – they’re more attached to their big expense accounts than they are to the people they’re meant to serve. Soares isn’t like that. Strong bone structure, body filling his expensive suit perfectly and salt and pepper hair neatly trimmed. A quick glance down and Isabel sees that even his nails are manicured.
It’s amazing how much poison people will swallow when the face of the one holding it out to them is pleasing to look at.
So there’s no red flush or heaving breaths as his anger builds. In fact, most people wouldn’t even be able to tell that he was anything other than mildly displeased right now.
But Isabel senses it.
It reminds her of inhaling fumes at a petrol station. That lingering smell of fuel. That’s what his anger tastes like as it transfers over to her. It’s not quite a rage. He’s not at that stage. But he is angry. And indignant.
‘If I may,’ she says, oozing as much calm as she can, ‘I can assure you that your son is not being targeted in any way, shape or form within our investigation. At the moment we are just trying to gather as much information as possible, as is the case with any investigation.’
Bento Soares slides his cold gaze to her. The anger changes into something else, thick and full of smoke.
‘Inspector Reis. I am on very good terms with the PJ. I know exactly what this case is about. It would do you well to think whether you are the best person to be put on this case. We wouldn’t want an inspector who cannot remain impartial.’
Fucker. ‘I don’t understand what you mean, Mr Soares.’
‘People talk, Inspector Reis. I’m very well aware that this is an investigation on a Gifted crime and that you yourself are Gifted.’
‘Ah, I see. I’m sure the department appreciates your concern, but you can rest assured that Inspector Voronov is here to make sure that impartiality is maintained. Just as it’s my job to do the same. However, should you still have concerns, I’d be happy to direct you to my superior. Is there anything else we can help you with? I’m afraid we do have a case to get back to.’
Soares looks from her to Voronov and back again.
‘Try not to step on any toes, Inspector Reis.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
With that, Soares gives them each a nod, sends one last icy glance Isabel’s way and then turns to the door.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Voronov says.
Isabel sends him a sharp look, but he isn’t looking her way. Instead he’s opening the door for Soares.
Isabel leans back against the table and sighs. She rubs at the bridge of her nose, eyes scrunched shut and tension vibrating in every muscle of her body.
She�
�d known this was a possibility. That someone high up the food chain would throw her Gift in her face during this investigation. She hadn’t expected it to be the man doing his level best to drag Portugal back into the dark ages. She’d never expected to actually come face to face with the arsehole, and it has left her off-kilter.
She looks up when she senses Voronov come back into the room. She wonders what he said to Soares as he escorted him out. She wonders if she can trust him.
She wishes she hadn’t taken that pill this morning, so she could find out.
But those are not things she can do anything about. So, she stands instead.
‘Let’s get back to work,’ she says, then walks past him and leaves the room.
Chapter 19
The woman who Monitoring sends to meet them is Dr Nazaré Alves. Her glasses are round and swallow up half of her face and her hair looks like it’s been pinned up in a hurry. She’s dressed in an oversized pale-pink soft sweater, grey trousers, and white Converse. She’s a bit flushed in the face as she shrugs out of her big Puffa jacket and sets a steaming paper cup that reeks of strong black coffee on the table.
Isabel watches her through narrowed eyes. This woman looks like she’s just stepped out of a university. Not what Isabel had expected; but still, she keeps her guard up, the mistrust of anything related to Monitoring a knee-jerk response.
‘Inspectors,’ Dr Alves says and reaches over to shake their hands.
‘Doctor,’ Isabel says. ‘Please take a seat, can we get you anything?’
Voronov has gone back to standing by the window, back resting on the wall, arms folded once more as he waits for the doctor to get settled. Isabel takes a seat at the table with her. The door to the room is closed but she can still hear the sound of everyone on the other side getting on with their work.
‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, we appreciate your time.’
Dr Alves waves it away as she reaches for her cup and nudges her glasses up her nose. ‘It was on my way, so I don’t mind. I’ve only got one more case to check on today. How can I help you, Inspectors?’
‘We just need to pick your brain for a bit.’
Dr Alves quirks a smile. Dimples pop up and Isabel finds herself feeling oddly charmed by them. ‘Literally or figuratively?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Isabel catches the sharp look Voronov tosses the doctor’s way.
Isabel smiles, amused and safely behind the comforting wall of her pill. ‘I won’t be diving into your head, with or without permission.’
The dimples stay. ‘Of course.’ Dr Alves keeps her cup in her hands and leans her elbows on the table. ‘Based on the non-disclosure forms, I’m guessing this is in relation to a case involving a Gifted?’
‘At the moment we’re just exploring all of our avenues. We’re not sure what it is yet,’ Isabel says. ‘The case we’re dealing with right now is a little odd. There’s a possibility that the victim was being controlled by an outside force.’
Interest flares, bright and focused, in the doctor’s gaze. The smile disappears and Isabel can see the scientist in the woman rush to the forefront. ‘From which ability branch? Telekinesis or telepathy?’
The kind of control over someone else that would be needed for this theory to be true is a terrifying prospect, and not one Isabel likes thinking too closely about. It makes her skin crawl. She forces herself to re-examine the memory Rodrigo shared with her. She remembers the helplessness in Gil’s eyes. He’d been fully aware.
That doesn’t mean that there wasn’t someone in his head – a telepathic Gifted, controlling his body through his mind. Was that even possible? Even if someone had taken a hold of him from within, then Rodrigo would have been able to hold him back. Isabel remembers it, the way Gil’s body was yanked around. Definitely an outside force then, not someone else guiding his body.
‘Telekinesis. Though, we’re not ruling out anything at this point.’
‘Hmm, okay.’ Dr Alves set her cup aside. ‘Talk me through the incident.’
Isabel doesn’t mention names or places; she knows the woman in front of her would make the connection to the dos Santos case in no time.
When she’s finished, Dr Alves stays silent. ‘That is . . . I mean. This is unheard of.’
Voronov moves away from the wall and takes a seat next to Isabel, hands tucked into his pockets, one leg crossed over the other and a pleasant expression on his face. ‘What classification would someone have to be? To have that kind of control over another person?’
Dr Alves considers it, pursing her lips and twirling the cup in her hand. Then she lets out a loud breath and shakes her head. ‘What you’re asking me is . . . frankly, very alarming. I’m trying to get my head around it.’ She plucks the lid off the coffee and downs the rest of it in one go. When she’s done, she takes her glasses off and rubs at her eyes.
When Isabel glances at Voronov, he shrugs.
‘Okay.’ Dr Alves says it like she’s made a decision. ‘Let’s say that this person was harmed by someone with an ability. I agree that it’s leaning towards a telekinetic Gifted. But the level for something like this is . . .’ She blows out another breath, looking as if she’s at a loss and puts her glasses back on, squinting at both of them. ‘The level necessary to control another living being is immense. A class ten.’
Isabel blinks, her heart slamming against her chest. ‘A class ten,’ she repeats.
Dr Alves nods. ‘Yes. Maybe a nine. Maybe.’
‘Portugal has never registered a class ten. It’s a rarity. Even if you go by continent it’s rare,’ Isabel says.
‘Yes, yes, all of this is true. The highest we’ve registered in the last ten years is an eight. But no system is perfect. There have been cases in the past where a Gifted’s ability continued to grow and wasn’t monitored correctly. It was a disaster.’
Beside Isabel, Voronov stirs. ‘You’re talking about the case from two years ago,’ he says, ‘the massacre in Colombo.’
‘That’s one example, yes.’
‘What class was she? In the end? Did they even test her for it?’ Isabel asks.
The smile Dr Alves gives her isn’t so nice this time. ‘I’m sure they did. Not that they’ll ever say. They kept those records confidential.’
‘What’s the highest registered class we have right now?’ Voronov asks.
‘In Portugal? A couple of eights. Some sevens. For specifics, you’d have to put in a special request with the Registry. I won’t be able to tell you anything more than that.’
‘Of course,’ he says, giving her a respectful inclination of his head.
‘Is it completely impossible for a seven or an eight to do something like this?’ Isabel asks.
Dr Alves mulls it over. ‘I can’t say with certainty that they couldn’t. They’d have to have superior control of their Gift, of course. For lack of a better explanation, their ability would lack the brute strength required to do something like this. It would have to be down to mastery of their Gift, and it would likely take a lot of years to achieve that and the help of a very seasoned Guide. I don’t imagine someone would be able to achieve that on their own. So, the likelihood of that happening is extremely slim.’
Still. Not impossible is still something.
‘Right,’ Isabel says. ‘Doctor, hopefully it won’t be necessary but we might need a bit more of your expertise. Would you be willing for us to put you down as a consultant for any future queries? It makes it easier on us,’ she adds with a smile, ‘to keep those non-disclosures to a minimum.’
This time the dimples are back. ‘I’d be happy to.’
A rap at the door breaks up the conversation. Isabel glances up to see Carla popping her head through the open door.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she says, flicks an apologetic smile at Dr Alves.
‘That’s okay,’ Isabel stands, and Dr Alves does the same. Voronov stays seated and waiting. ‘We were wrapping up.’ Isabel turns to Dr Alves. ‘Thank you again f
or your time. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Not at all.’ Dr Alves nods a goodbye at Voronov. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Isabel opens the door wider for her and Dr Alves slips through with one last smile.
Carla waits until she’s out of earshot, then steps into the room, easing the door closed behind her.
‘Julio Soares is here.’
‘Oh, good. I was beginning to think we were going to have to hunt him down,’ Isabel says.
Voronov joins them at the door. ‘Has he been here long?’
‘Five minutes, at the most. But apparently he’s a very busy man.’ Carla rolls her eyes.
‘All right.’ Isabel checks the time left on her bracelet. Not that she needs to. The intensity of the headache has dropped, meaning it won’t be long before the pill wears off. She’s got maybe forty minutes. Fifty, if she’s optimistic. ‘Tell him we’ll be right there.’
Chapter 20
When they enter the interview room, Julio Soares has his back to the door and is staring out the windows.
Isabel’s not sure what it is he’s looking at because the views from their building aren’t all that inspiring.
He has the same sharp eyes as his father and when he turns them on her and Voronov, Isabel can’t help the way her chin tilts up a little more, the way her chest opens and her shoulders square. Through the buffer of the pill she can feel worry, discomfort and irritation peel off of Julio. None of which are unusual for someone summoned by the police to come in for a statement.
‘Mr Soares,’ she says, ‘thank you for coming in. Please,’ she gestures at the padded chairs tucked into the small table in the room. ‘Can we get you any coffee or some water?’
Voronov closes the door quietly behind him and moves to rest back against the windows. He’s got his sleeves rolled up above the elbows, impervious to the chill in the room.
‘No thank you. I’d appreciate it if we could get through this as quickly as possible, Inspectors, my schedule is very tightly packed.’
The Colours of Death Page 11