‘Of course. I appreciate that you were a little distracted last night so in the interest of full disclosure, I’m Inspector Reis and this is my colleague Inspector Voronov. Mr Soares, for your information, you’re also in the presence of a Gifted officer, which would be myself.’ Isabel takes out her ID and slides it across the table. She isn’t sure if he just didn’t notice yesterday. Either way, she doesn’t want to take any chances considering today’s visit from Soares senior.
This time, Julio pays attention. He picks up Isabel’s ID and takes a good long look at it before glancing back up at her. He flips it back closed and holds it out to her, not a flicker of anything on his face. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘We understand you worked closely with Gil,’ she says and tucks away her ID.
‘Yes. Our work overlaps quite often and the NTI does a lot of work with my university. We partner up more often than not.’ Soares resettles in his seat, slipping his hands into his pockets and crossing one leg over the other. Despite what Isabel can sense, he looks the picture of composure. The polo and khakis make him look like he’s about to walk into a lecture or onto a golf course.
‘What is it that you do, exactly, Mr Soares?’
‘I’m a neuroscientist specialising in Gifted development. I lecture at the university twice a week and work as a consultant for the NTI and other institutions.’
‘That’s a lot of years of study,’ Isabel says, ‘how long have you been working with NTI?’
‘A very long time. I’ve been involved with the NTI since graduating and then more extensively throughout my PhD. A good seven or so years.’
‘And you’ve been working with Gil recently on a project, correct?’
Julio shifts in his seat and rests his elbows on the table, steepling his hands together and looking from Isabel to Voronov. ‘No. Wrong. There is no project. I’ve been consulting for them on a round of tests for a pharmaceutical company.’
Isabel shares a look with Voronov and he comes forward, pulling out the empty chair next to Isabel and taking a seat too.
‘Mrs dos Santos said there have been some tensions between you and her husband recently. That this was causing Gil some stress,’ Voronov says. ‘Can you tell us why Mrs dos Santos might have got that impression?’
‘No idea.’
Voronov narrows his eyes and leans forward, mirroring Julio.
Isabel waits, ready to pick up whatever emotion might come out of this, something that might give her more clues as to what is going on here. Because something is, even if Julio doesn’t want to admit it.
‘Does Mrs dos Santos have a reason to make this up?’ Voronov asks.
Julio’s expression remains blank. ‘I’m not saying that she made it up. I’m saying that I think she’s made a mistake. Which is understandable considering the circumstances.’
‘You know them quite well don’t you. Old family friends?’ Voronov asks.
‘Our families are close, yes. But the relationship between our families was long-standing before I came along.’
‘It sounds like you slid right in, if you know them well enough to comment on their relationship.’
‘I suppose. How is this relevant?’
Isabel cuts in, voice soothing. ‘As we explained yesterday, Mr Soares, we’re trying to paint a bigger picture of Gil and his life. It’s helpful to know as much as possible, even something that might seem inconsequential.’
The look Julio turns on Isabel is sharper, his whole body tight now as his placid mask slips. ‘Don’t patronise me, Inspector. This isn’t building a bigger picture. What do you think I’ve done here?’
‘Nothing,’ Isabel asks, ‘why? Do you feel that you’ve done something that we would be concerned about?’ She leans forward. ‘You were his last phone call, the day before he died. What did you talk about?’
It’s as if the emotions that have been rolling off of him, irritation, resentment, just go still, like ripples on a lake disappearing and leaving nothing but a glassy surface.
‘I don’t really recall,’ he says.
‘You don’t?’ she asks. ‘It wasn’t really that long ago. A couple of days.’
‘My days have been busy.’
Voronov tugs his notebook out and flips back a couple of pages. ‘The call was about ten minutes long. Mr Soares, you’re sure you don’t remember what you discussed?’
And like that, the stillness of that lake is broken and a ripple breaks out on the surface again. It’s fast, there and gone before Isabel can pin down what kind of emotion it was.
‘We were gearing up for the function, which I was heavily involved in planning. As I’ve said, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember. Gil was making a trip for this presentation, I think we touched on that at some point and on whether he’d be able to attend the function. Beyond that,’ he looks hard at Isabel and then at Voronov, as if daring them to question him again, ‘a little chit-chat, which, as I’ve said, I don’t really recall.’
‘Hmm.’ Isabel lets her gaze rest on him. He knows she’s a telepathic Gifted and she lets that sit in the quiet of the room for a moment, and as the seconds tick by, despite him not wanting to show it, she spots the way he just about keeps his hands from clenching, flexing his fingers out instead before letting them rest on the table once more. She’s not reading his thoughts, can’t without his permission, and he knows that. But he knows that she could.
But she’s also aware that pushing him too far might result in her being targeted. After all, his dad has already come looking for blood.
‘Julio,’ she says, and takes a little pleasure in the displeased downward flicker of his mouth at the familiarity, ‘do the initials HSL mean anything to you?’
‘No,’ he bites out. But there is that little ripple again.
‘Nothing, at all? In relation to a time, or place perhaps?’
‘I’ve told you no, Inspector.’
Yes, you have. And you’re lying, and you’re not sure if I can tell or not. ‘Isn’t this a friend of your family’s, Julio? I would’ve thought that in a situation like this, you’d show a little more . . . willingness to help, no?’
The chair drags against the floor as Soares pushes away from the table. He doesn’t stand up but stays there, palms flat on the table, glaring at them.
‘I lost a colleague, a man I respected very much and worked closely with. I expect you to have a little respect, Inspector.’
Isabel rests back against her chair, folding her arms as she considers him. ‘With all due respect, if that is really the case, why not take the time to talk to us yesterday?’
Soares’ chin draws up like he’s bitten into a lemon and Isabel is sure that if it didn’t mean getting his ass arrested, he might’ve thrown a punch her way. ‘Inspector, I’m sure you do very good work here. But in what I do, funding needs to be secured. Maybe it seems harsh to you but I can’t afford to let projects fail; a lot of people rely on these functions to fund their departments for the next few years.’
‘Hmm. We had a visit from your father today,’ she says, ‘very well-known man. Very upset, disproportionally upset, about our wanting to speak to you.’
‘Any parent would be upset if the police were hunting down their child for something unrelated to them.’
Apparently scheduling something in with someone’s PA equals hunting someone down.
‘You said you’d been consulting with the NTI on a round of tests for a pharma company.’ Voronov hasn’t moved throughout the whole exchange, still has his attention on Soares like he didn’t just throw a very restrained hissy fit. ‘What kind of tests? For which company? And who were you working with specifically?’
A muscle ticks in Soares’ jaw. ‘The project was under Gil’s supervision, but myself and Armindas were also consulting. I’m afraid anything beyond that is confidential and I won’t be able to disclose without a court order.’
‘Okay,’ Isabel says, ‘thank you. I have one last question for you. Do you know of anyone, p
atient or colleague or other, who may have had any issues with Gil?’
‘No. I don’t.’ He looks from Isabel to Voronov. ‘Is that all?’
Voronov nods and stands up. ‘For now.’ He puts his hand out and doesn’t even blink when Soares seems to shake it far more aggressively than necessary. ‘We’ll be in touch. We thank you for making the time to come in, Mr Soares.’
Soares doesn’t reply. He shoots an unimpressed look in Isabel’s direction and stalks out of the room, back ramrod straight and head held so high Isabel wonders how his neck doesn’t snap from the weight of all that self-importance. The apple definitely doesn’t fall far from the tree.
‘What do you think?’ She chews on the inside of her cheek, going over the brief interview they’ve just had.
‘I think there’s probably quite a bit he’s not telling us,’ Voronov says, ‘but whether it’s relevant to our case or not, I’m not sure.’
Chapter 21
Tia Simone’s house always smells of bolinhos secos, all cinnamon and warmth.
Isabel raps her knuckles on the door’s glass panels. That same smell wafts out of the kitchen window that’s left open all year round come rain or shine. Isabel’s headache is lighter and maybe she’s imagining it, but it feels like the familiar scent of the biscuits soothes the lingering discomfort.
She hears her aunt’s voice but can’t make out what she’s saying.
‘It’s me, Tia.’
When the door swings open though, Isabel finds her brother standing there, eyes crinkling at the corners from the smile stretched across his face. ‘What time do you call this?’
Isabel scoffs and steps up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I call it, I-have-a-job-time. Where’s Tia?’ She shuts the door behind her. ‘Have you been here long?’
Sebastião steps back to let her pass.
Her aunty’s apartment is in one of the older buildings in the area, but it’s large and not cramped like some of the older apartments here. The entrance leads down to a long, narrow corridor that takes them past the door to the kitchen and into the open-plan dining room and living room. The same dark wooden furniture that her grandparents bought when they moved in decades ago adorns the place still.
From where she stands, Isabel can see over the stretch of dining area to the heavy blankets discarded on the sofa. The TV is on, a commercial playing loudly and showing a woman with teeth too white to be natural. On the coffee table, a tea towel has already been laid out along with a small jar of sugar and some spoons.
Isabel turns in to the kitchen, where Sebastião has stolen a stool at the table tucked into the corner by the window. Her aunt is at the oven and the blast of heat as she opens it warms Isabel’s fingertips. Tia Simone tugs out a tray packed with bolinhos secos, the thick wool cardigan hanging over her shoulders. Her hair is a mass of black and white that’s been tightly tucked into a French braid.
‘Hey, Tia,’ Isabel says, laying a hand on the other woman’s shoulder and dropping a kiss on her cheek.
Tia Simone sets the tray down carefully on the stove before turning to pull Isabel into a hug and kissing her temple. ‘Então linda, you okay?’
‘I’m good, Tia, you?’ She peers over her aunty’s shoulder at the bolinhos on the tray. ‘You want me to start the tea?’
‘Sebastião is having coffee.’
Isabel rolls her eyes and spears her brother with a look. ‘Since when does that even go with bolinhos? Heathen.’
‘Watch your mouth,’ he says, grinning.
‘Why? Because you’re a man of the cloth?’
‘Isabel,’ her aunty says, drawing her name out in warning.
Sebastião’s grin is unrepentant. Isabel rolls her eyes again, shrugs out of her coat and tosses it at him. ‘Make yourself useful.’
The three of them work quietly on setting up. Atop the fridge, playing old kizomba through static, sits the ancient radio, one of the few things their grandad brought back from Angola that had stayed with the family and never quite been replaced.
‘How’s Rita? She hasn’t stopped by in a while,’ Tia Simone says.
‘Not sure, I’ve been working a case pretty hard,’ Isabel shrugs. ‘Thought work was going to calm down but it looks like I’m going to be elbow-deep in another one that might blow up in our faces.’
‘Isabel,’ Tia looks up from where she’s stacking the bolinhos on a tray, ‘I know your work is important, but you need to make time for your family.’
‘I try, Tia,’ she says, the lie slipping from her lips without any guilt whatsoever. ‘I’m here aren’t I?’
‘Oh, yes. You’re here all the time. But when was the last time you spoke to your mother?’
Sebastião winces. ‘Tia.’
Tia Simone waves it away. ‘I know Maria isn’t the easiest person to get along with, but family is family and we have to try.’
Isabel has nothing to say to this that her aunt would want to hear, so she leaves the water and the chamomile to steep and roots through the cupboard instead. She takes out three mismatched mugs.
They used to spend a lot of time here at her tia’s house when her dad was alive. And then her dad, a police officer like Isabel, had died in the line of duty. That had been nearly seventeen years ago.
This was the place that her grandparents had scraped money together to buy, so dinners and family get-togethers had always been hosted here. Along the way, people would bring gifts or things from wherever they’d gone off to – Tia Simone had spent some time in Switzerland, working in the fields there – and added to their grandparents’ collection. You’d find them displayed all over the house.
Then slowly, slowly, things had changed. After Isabel’s dad died, her other two aunts moved back to Angola, which had changed a lot in the last decade and where there was the promise of an easier life. Her Tia Simone had stayed here. Sebastião’s mum had passed away when he was two and then later, with their dad gone as well, he’d become fiercely attached to Isabel and Rita. So, Tia had stepped up to be his carer and remain in Portugal.
Isabel’s grateful for that. She wonders if she would’ve been able to survive the years after her father’s death without her aunty and her brother.
Chances were slim she wouldn’t have ended up in a Gifted ward somewhere.
‘Isa.’
‘Hmm?’ Isabel blinks to bring herself back into the room. ‘What did you say?’
Tia clucks her tongue and shakes her head. ‘All right, you two go sit down. It’s too early to start dinner and I have another batch to put in the oven.’
Sebastião follows her out, nudges her with his shoulder. ‘Have you spoken to Rita yet?’
‘I messaged her.’
‘You know she won’t leave you alone until you talk to her properly?’
‘Yes. Funny how that works. I love that when I reach out they can take their time about replying but if it’s the other way round . . .’
‘Isa.’
‘Yes, I know, Sebastião.’ She toes off her shoes and slips under one of the blankets.
Sebastião drags one of the chairs out from the dining table and turns it so that he can sit and face Isabel.
The space is large but the dining table takes up a chunk of it. It has six chairs tucked around it and Isabel knows from experience that at a squeeze it can seat more.
‘Maninha,’ Sebastião sighs and leans over to squeeze Isabel’s shoulder, ‘someone has to be the bigger person.’
‘Ugh, shut up. Just for that you can go finish making the tea.’
Sebastião smiles. ‘Of course.’
Isabel watches him get up and walk back into the kitchen, listens for a moment to the sound of her brother and aunty chatting.
With a grunt of frustration, she hitches up her hips to fish her phone out of her pocket. She scrolls through her contacts until her sister’s name comes up.
Resigned, she hits the call button.
She hates being the bigger person.
Each one of Isabel’s e
xhales manifests in little white puffs of air as she makes her way home.
It’s a quieter night; the cafés are open but their buzz is a little softer.
She sticks her hands into her pockets, curling her fingers into the warmth.
The sky is clear, free of clouds, and the stars stud the deep dark of night. She’s still warm inside from the chamomile tea they’d had at the end of the evening, full of the stew they’d had for dinner and the bolinhos they’d followed it up with. Isabel had dozed off on the sofa, tucked under the blankets.
The streetlights spotlight the way up to the turn of the road, cobbles gleaming under the yellow.
The tram sits, eerie at the bottom of the long road up with its lights off, all shadows within shadows as Isabel walks by it.
Sebastião dropped her off around the corner from her place. She left her car at the station, which feels like a blessing in disguise right now. She doesn’t relish hunting for parking spaces at this time of night and then making her climb up the hill. She really wants to duck into the shower and then slide into bed.
The road up to her place is deserted, though she can hear laughter from further up, knows that the courtyard beyond her place is probably filled with teenagers hanging out.
Isabel pats at the pockets of her jeans and coat as she climbs, fingers a little numb as she searches for her keys.
She’s maybe halfway up when she feels something, like a stirring in the back of her mind.
She hadn’t taken another pill after dinner. With Sebastião dropping her off there had been no need for the extra support. Taking pills late at night when she isn’t working guarantees a sleepless night.
But still. She hadn’t expected to sense anything.
Not now on a quiet street.
The houses along the way buzz with the low sound of the TV, the clanging of someone cleaning up a kitchen and a door closing further up the street. But there is no one outside of the barrier of their house walls, or close enough to even slip through her defences.
Isabel looks over her shoulder at the slope of the road but there’s no one there.
She digs deeper into the pocket of her coat and her keys jangle in the silence and fall into her hand, cold where they press against the centre of her palm. Isabel stays where she is, eyes seeking out the shadowed corners in the doorways because there isn’t anywhere else someone could tuck themselves into.
The Colours of Death Page 12