The Colours of Death

by Patricia Marques

  Isabel gives the waiter who greets her at the door a tight smile. Despite her not wanting to be here, the inside of the restaurant smells amazing and her mouth waters.

  ‘There should be a table for seven o’clock under Reis?’ she says.

  The waiter smiles at her. ‘Of course, the rest of the party has arrived. This way.’

  All feelings of warmth die a quick death, though, at the sight that greets her when she’s shown to her table. The only face that she’s glad to see is Sebastião’s and if looks could kill, she thinks that the rest of the table would be six feet under. Because her brother doesn’t look pleased, and it’s not hard for Isabel to see why that might be.

  Through sheer will, Isabel keeps her mouth from dropping open. She tightens her hand on the bag hanging from her shoulder and smiles.

  Her mother is watching her with a bland expression, which is better than some of the looks Isabel has got from her in the past. She is sitting with her back straight, eyes flinty behind her glasses. Rita is also sitting unnaturally straight, and when she spots Isabel, she plucks up her crisp folded napkin and starts to twirl it in her fingers. They look alike, except Rita has always worn her hair longer. Right now, it’s swept into a complicated up-do on top of her head and she’s wearing a pale rose dress that sets off her dark skin to perfection. The smile she gives Isabel is tense.

  But, more than her mother’s death glare, and Rita’s obvious nervousness, Isabel is pulled up short by the fourth person at the table.

  Michael.

  He doesn’t quite meet Isabel’s eyes and he doesn’t move the arm resting along the back of Rita’s chair, fingers brushing the bare curve of her shoulder. Isabel tugs at the scarf around her neck. It feels too tight.

  Rita’s smile is still in place and Isabel wants her to drop it.

  Isabel approaches the four, wishing strongly she’d never bothered to show up.

  ‘Mãe,’ Isabel greets her mother, and kisses her on her soft cheek. She gets nothing in return, just a stiffening of her mother’s shoulders in response.

  ‘Isabel, I’m so glad you came.’ Rita stands up and hugs her tight. Tighter than usual, tucking her face into Isabel’s shoulder like she used to do when she was little and had got into trouble. Despite everything, Isabel can’t help responding to that and wraps her arms around her sister.

  Over her shoulder, Isabel stares at Michael’s face and is stumped when he still refuses to look at her.

  ‘Hi,’ Isabel says as she pulls away and takes the empty seat between Rita and her mother. ‘Michael. Hope you’re well.’ That’s the best she can do. She doesn’t smile when she says it.

  There’s an awkward silence at first.

  ‘We haven’t ordered yet, we were waiting for you,’ Rita says, settling back into her seat. ‘You want to get something to drink?’

  Isabel doesn’t need the prompt; her hand is already in the air trying to catch the waiter’s attention. Maybe it’s because it’s not too busy, or maybe their service is just that fast, but there’s a large glass of red wine in front of her in under two minutes.

  Isabel swallows. Fuck appearances. She sets her glass down, rubs her hands on her thighs and looks around the table.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asks.

  Sebastião doesn’t speak. His jaw is locked tight, a muscle ticcing in his cheek. He hasn’t spoken a word since Isabel walked in.

  ‘Well.’ Rita looks to their mother, who nods at her, a kind smile on her face, encouraging. ‘I meant to tell you. I really wanted to tell you earlier but . . . but it’s so hard to catch you when you’re free and it felt like there was never the right time but—’ Rita drops her gaze and Isabel notices that in the time it’s taken for her drink to arrive, Rita’s shredded the napkin to pieces. ‘Michael and I have been seeing each other.’

  Isabel blinks down at her glass. ‘Oh.’ She takes another drink. ‘You’ve been seeing each other. Right.’ She considers waving the waiter back over and asking for the rest of the bottle.

  When Rita glances back up at her, her pretty face is pale. ‘I was going to tell you—’

  ‘You didn’t. But okay. So, you’ve been seeing each other.’ Isabel shoots Michael a mocking look. ‘I guess there’s something about this family tree that must be doing it for you, hmm?’

  ‘Isabel. You weren’t invited here to be crude.’

  The first words that her mother has spoken to her in months. Isabel schools her expression into something blank. ‘Of course.’ She tightens her grip on her glass but doesn’t drink again. She hasn’t eaten enough to keep going and not end up shit-faced. ‘Okay. Why now then?’

  ‘Isa.’ Small pieces of napkin fall from Rita’s fingers as she clasps her hands together. She presses herself into Michael’s hold, not seeming to realise she’s doing it. Michael shifts closer and she nestles herself into his side. ‘I know, and I want to explain. But this, this isn’t new. We’ve been together for some time now and,’ she glances at Michael but he’s looking at Isabel now, ‘we’re . . . we’re getting engaged.’

  Sebastião grits his teeth, face turned away from the table.

  ‘Olha-me esta merda,’ Isabel mutters. She forgets about checking her drink intake and reaches for her wine while chuckling under her breath and shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Married?’ She drains her glass, wonders why she bothered to sit down. ‘You’re marrying my ex who you didn’t actually tell me you were dating. Well, okay then.’ She smiles at Rita and Michael, razor-sharp and none of it touching her eyes. ‘Congratulations.’ She stands up; slinging the bag she hadn’t quite set down back onto her shoulder.

  Sebastião pushes back from the table as well, striding around to come and stand behind Isabel.

  Rita’s hand curls around Isabel’s arm as she makes to leave. ‘Isabel, please—’

  Isabel rounds on her, face like stone, words clipped. ‘Stop. Think carefully about what you’re about to say.’ She points at Michael. ‘If that’s what you want then you go for it. But don’t invite me here, throw this at me and expect me to act like this is okay. This is not okay.’

  Rita flinches back from her, letting go, face turned away from Isabel and hands curled into tight fists. There’s a pretty band on her ring finger.

  Isabel considers paying for her drink for a moment but then thinks, screw it. That’s the least they owe her. ‘Excuse me.’

  Neither Sebastião nor Isabel speak as they walk out of the restaurant towards Isabel’s house. Sebastião is quiet and stiff beside her. They’re not allowed to get very far before they hear her mother calling out to them.

  Isabel stops, praying for patience.

  ‘Isabel.’ Maria is breathing hard from going after them and her cheeks are red, though Isabel doubts that has to do with chasing after her.

  Isabel’s mother is a beautiful woman. She’s aged well, no sign now of the ravaged woman she had been for the first few years after her husband’s death. Isabel wonders if she misses him still. Isabel definitely does.

  ‘What you did in there was out of order,’ her mum starts.

  Sebastião lets out an incredulous laugh. ‘For the love of God, Tia Maria!’

  Isabel chokes out a laugh and points at herself. ‘What I did? Are you serious right now? What planet are you from?’

  Maria glances around and then, when she realises that Isabel is drawing attention to them, levels a glare at her. ‘Your sister wanted to tell you her happy news. You could have accepted it gracefully. Be grateful that at least someone is willing to overlook your madness, the Lord knows Michael tried.’

  ‘That piece of—’ Sebastião starts.

  Isabel waves a hand to cut her off. ‘Enough. I’m going home. I don’t have time for your hate speeches right now. Go back to Rita, wouldn’t want to make you look at the devil’s spawn for too long.’ She sneers at her mother. ‘It might be catching.’

  Her mother doesn’t need any more prompting. She spins around, delicate skirt fluttering around her dainty figu
re. All black. Her mother hasn’t worn colours since her husband died.

  For the first time, that fails to make Isabel feel anything other than bitterness towards the woman who didn’t love her enough to see beyond their differences.

  Chapter 25

  It takes two cups of strong coffee the next morning to get Isabel functioning.

  She walks into work with a third steaming cup in her hand.

  She’d stayed away from her pills after arriving home last night. She’d stayed away from another drink too. Not that it did her much good.

  After she’d left the restaurant yesterday and gone home, she’d spent most of the night staring at different parts of her bedroom. Eventually she’d given up and dragged her bedding to the sofa, where she stayed curled up and wide awake until the early hours. The last time she had looked at the clock before finally dropping off, it had been 4 a.m.

  There had been ten missed calls from Rita on her phone when she’d woken up, and three text messages. All of them went unread and unreturned.

  Isabel’s not even sure what had hit her the hardest. That her sister had gone behind her back, that Michael had even dared to go there, or that her mother remains the same woman she became after Isabel tested Gifted, taking any excuse she can to tear her down and go against her.

  Voronov looks up from his desk as she walks in. He takes in her face.

  Isabel sets her coffee down on her desk and shrugs off her coat. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Good morning.’

  ‘Morning.’ She drapes her coat over the back of her chair and sits down, feeling like her entire body is one big weight. She takes another sip of the sweetened coffee. She doesn’t normally take it with sugar, but she can’t afford to skimp on energy. ‘Did Carla call you last night?’

  ‘Yes. She told me about the medical history.’

  Isabel sighs. She digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, rubs hard for a moment.

  Voronov arches a brow. ‘Well,’ he says slowly, ‘CCTV for the car park at Gare do Oriente came in half an hour ago. Daniel has started viewing it. The Chief is waiting on us, she wants an update.’

  Not what Isabel would’ve chosen to do on two hours of sleep. Her eyes already feel like they’ve been dipped in sand. ‘Sure, no time like the present.’

  They find a car.

  Hundreds of cars are parked in and around the station during rush hour. It’s a hub of activity and there are three colour videos of that morning, from different parts of the cark park.

  It’s 3 p.m. when Daniel calls them into the room. He’s isolated the stretch of footage they need to look at and Isabel, Voronov and Carla settle in to see.

  The CCTV isn’t that clear, too pixelated.

  Gil is already parked – they can see his Jeep in its bay on Carla’s screen – but he doesn’t get out right away. While he’s in there, an older Peugeot circles the car park three times, despite there being quite a few spaces available.

  At 6.20 a.m. on the CCTV, Gil gets out, hovers outside the door for a moment before heading towards the station. That’s when the Peugeot reverses into a parking space three down from Gil’s Jeep.

  The driver leaves the car and walks in the same direction. Shorter than Gil, with a dark jacket that hits them about mid-ankle, white, dark hair. It’s impossible to tell if it’s a man or a woman.

  The call goes through to 112 at 6.59 a.m. And five minutes later a spread of people come into the frame, some running, some speed-walking past. Jacinta had said that many people had made a break for it that morning.

  ‘All right, rewind it and pause. See if we can catch a plate number for the Peugeot,’ Isabel says, words half muffled by her hand. Her cheek aches from resting on it for so long.

  They pause the CCTV on the back of the car. There are good shots of the licence plate but the pixelated video doesn’t pick up the number properly.

  ‘How long will it take to clean this up?’ Isabel asks.

  ‘Depends, it might not even be possible,’ Daniel answers, frowning at the image.

  Two hours later, Isabel is banging on the glass of the snack machine outside in the hall; the headache feels like it’s cleaving her head in two. Voronov pokes his head out of the case room and motions for her to come back in.

  ‘It’s registered to a Luisa Delgado,’ Carla says as Isabel walks back into the investigation room.

  ‘Luisa Delgado.’ Isabel narrows her eyes. She looks at Voronov, who is staring at Carla. ‘We spoke to her,’ Isabel says. ‘She also happened to attend that function.’

  ‘Is that the witness who came back for her handbag?’ Carla asks.

  ‘Yes.’ Isabel looks at the small figure on camera where they’ve paused the video. ‘She said she called her boyfriend to pick her up because she’d left everything on the train. Said he didn’t take long to come and get her. But if she has her car there, then why would she call her boyfriend to come and get her?’

  ‘Car keys in the bag, maybe? There were keys recorded in the logged contents.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Isabel says, frowning. ‘Fast-forward it. Let’s see if she gets back in the car.’

  Isabel chews on her lip as she mulls it over. Any other person would have mentioned the car. People usually spill as much detail as they can, irrelevant or otherwise, when they’re trying to get the police off their backs. So why hadn’t Luisa done the same?

  They all watch the tape intently but Luisa doesn’t get back in her car.

  ‘She should’ve mentioned it,’ Voronov murmurs. He’s standing next to Isabel, hands tucked into his pockets and eyes on the screen.

  ‘Yes. She should’ve.’ Isabel chews the inside of her cheek and twists her hair into a makeshift bun, thinking it over. On the screen, the image is fixed on the image of Luisa’s vehicle, lonely in its parking bay, the darkness of evening made into a grainy charcoal-black around it.

  Voronov’s still examining the frozen image. ‘We need to speak to her again.’

  Chapter 26

  They get to the bank where Luisa Delgado works just as it is closing. Despite the hour and the clouded sky, the streets are still well lit. Even in winter months, the sun sets late here. There’s a tired quietness in the air.

  Isabel eyes Voronov in disgust. She’s bundled up to the point where her chin barely clears the top of her layers, while he’s walking upright, smart coat on with a thin scarf around his neck that might as well not be there.

  One of the other bank employees is on their way out, a cigarette and lighter in hand. She startles as Isabel goes to open the front door. Throwing a cautious look over her shoulder, she pulls the door open. ‘Good evening,’ she says. Her name tag reads José Fátima. ‘I’m afraid we’re now closed for the day.’

  Isabel digs out her police ID. ‘Sorry to bother you when you want to get home. Is Luisa working today?’

  Fátima glances down at Isabel’s ID, looks up at Voronov where he’s towering behind her and then back at Isabel. ‘Yes, but we’re in the middle of closing right now.’

  Then should you really be sneaking out for a cigarette break? Isabel thinks. ‘I see.’

  Voronov steps forward, a smile on his face. ‘Actually, you might be able to help us.’

  Fátima shifts back, looking uneasy now, but there’s enough curiosity on her face that Isabel knows she’s going to cave. The curse of the Portuguese. They love a good gossip.

  ‘We have to finish setting up for tomorrow too, but I have a few minutes.’ She steps out and lets the heavy glass door swing closed behind her.

  The whole front of the bank is made out of sturdy glass and they can easily see in. It’s a wide-open space with marble flooring that reflects the bright ceiling lights. Tall potted plants dot the corners of the large room and the walls are painted maroon. A few other employees at their desks peek over, their curiosity obvious, but they keep their distance as they go about setting up for the following day.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ Voronov says, again with that smile.
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  Isabel resists rolling her eyes as José Fátima stops short of melting into the floor. Isabel doesn’t blame her really, but still.

  ‘How can I help? Like I said, Luisa won’t be available right away, she’s overseeing the cashing up.’ She lights up her cigarette. She’s dressed in a prim grey pencil skirt with a white shirt and a navy blazer.

  ‘And we’re happy to wait for her. How long have you worked with Luisa?’

  ‘Oh. A few years now. She was already a member of staff when I started here.’

  ‘And how is she, here. Good colleague?’

  ‘She’s a good manager, always friendly.’ She stops short, and then seems to think better of holding back. ‘Well, she’s been a little quiet recently. And, well,’ she shifts as she smokes, ‘she’s been having a rough time of it, which is a shame. She’s a nice woman.’

  Isabel tilts her head, interest piqued. ‘Rough time, how?’

  José Fátima’s cheeks go a blotchy pink then and she drops her eyes. ‘Um, well, just some personal things.’

  Voronov steps in again. ‘Could you explain a little more for us? Don’t worry. This won’t go beyond us, if that’s what’s concerning you.’

  José Fátima hesitates. ‘It’s just that she’s always been an immaculate manager. Rarely made mistakes and totally reliable. She knows this branch like the back of her hand. But then about a year ago things changed a little. She started becoming forgetful. A few days she didn’t show up to work and then couldn’t remember – I heard she was seeing a doctor for it and that it might be some kind of condition. I’m not sure. We get along and we’re friendly but we’re not close. She is well-liked by everyone and we worry that it might get too much for the higher-ups.’

  Odd. ‘Forgetful in what way?’ Isabel asks.

  ‘Little things. We noticed that sometimes you’d mention a conversation from a day ago or ask her about something that we’d already discussed or a particular client, and she would go blank. It was a little sad and we guessed maybe she isn’t okay but, obviously that’s a personal thing, you know? It’s her business. It’s a shame though.’