The John Milton Series Boxset 4

by Mark Dawson

  He went through the warehouse door, climbed the stairs, and made his way into the office. It was empty. He climbed down the stairs into the basement and closed the door behind him. He took out the key to the lock and opened the crawlspace.

  Alícia was sitting with her back to the wall, reading one of the books that Paulo had brought her that morning. He left the light on all the time now and she was able to read in order to pass the time. She was an intelligent girl; he had started out with some of the books that Eloá liked to read, but it had quickly become apparent that she was able to read at a more advanced level. He had gone down to the second-hand bookshop at the bottom of the Hill and bought a selection of books, and he had been pleased to see the wide smile on her face when he had given them to her.

  She was reading O Pequeno Príncipe, one of the books that Paulo remembered from his own childhood. She put the book down on the floor and crawled out of the space and into the basement. Paulo knew that Garanhão would not like the thought of her coming outside like this, but she was a six-year-old girl; what was she going to do? And, more important even than his fear of displeasing the don, Paulo couldn’t stand the thought of her inside the damp and fetid crawlspace for a moment longer than was necessary.

  “Did you bring them?” she asked him.

  “I did.” He took a deck of cards out of his pocket and held them up. “What shall we play?”

  “Mau Mau,” she said.

  Paulo sat down with his back to the wall and took the cards out of their pack. Alícia sat opposite him and waited as he dealt five cards to them both, laying the rest face down between them.

  Paulo had brought her dinner with him, too: a paper bag of chicken and cheese coxinha that he had bought from a street vendor on the way up the Hill and a bottle of chocolate milk. She ate the croquettes as they worked their way through the pack of cards. Paulo was pleased to see that she was unloading hers faster than he was; she laid down her last at the same time as she finished the final croquette.

  “Well done,” he said. “Too good for me.”

  She took a swig of the milk and then placed the bottle on the floor next to her. “Paulo?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to see my mother.”

  “I know you do,” he said.

  He didn’t know what he should say to the girl. He wanted to be honest—it was the least she deserved after what had happened—but, at the same time, he didn’t want to upset her. They had a precarious relationship at best, and he didn’t want to jeopardise it. That, at least, was what he told himself. He knew that he was being cowardly, just like always.

  “When will I be able to go home?”

  “Soon,” Paulo said, hating himself for his lie.

  Paulo had seen Garanhão in the warehouse yesterday and this morning, but the don had not acknowledged him, let alone shared his plans. Yesterday’s O Globo had reported that Alícia had been kidnapped, but there had been nothing about a ransom. Perhaps, Paulo concluded, there was no ransom. He knew that the girl was the daughter of Judge Saverin, and he wondered if perhaps she was being held here to ensure that he did not prosecute the cases with the same vigour that had made him into a national hero. That seemed possible, at least. But, if that were true, what motivation was there for them to let Alícia go home? Paulo had told her it would be soon, but that was a lie. He hated himself anew. It could be weeks. It could be months. It might be never.

  The girl looked as if she was going to say something, but she bit her lip and raised the bottle to her mouth again. She looked so small and helpless. Paulo wanted to put his arm around her and tell her that it would be all right, and to know, when he said it, that it was true. But he couldn’t say that. The longer she stayed here, the more likely it was that something terrible would happen to her.

  The thought started without him even being aware that he was thinking about it: if he really wanted to look after her, if he really wanted to ensure that nothing bad could happen, then he should take matters in hand. It was no good telling her that she would be able to go home soon, when he knew that was not true; he needed to make it happen.

  He caught the thought before it had a chance to develop and stamped it down. What was he thinking? What was he going to do? Take her out of here, somehow get her away from the Hill, and deliver her to the police? He wouldn’t get more than ten paces before they put a bullet in his back. And, even if he did get away, assuming that he could dodge the guards and the snitches and then find a cop who wasn’t on Garanhão’s payroll, what would happen to him then? The police would arrest him for his part in her abduction. His family would be punished. Garanhão would make an example of them, and then, when he was in Carandiru or Bangu or some other shithole prison, another inmate would visit him with a shiv and a message from Garanhão.

  This is for crossing me.

  Paulo blinked his eyes, trying to send the thought away.

  “Paulo?”

  He opened his eyes. The girl was looking at him. “Yes?” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking about something, that’s all. It’s fine.”

  “Why am I being kept here?”

  She had asked that before, too. This time, Paulo tried to answer it in a different way. “Because your father is an important man,” he said. “The men who took you want him to do something that he doesn’t want to do. They know he loves you very much—they know that he will do what they ask if he knows he can have you back at home again.”

  “But what if he doesn’t do what they want them to do? He is very stubborn.”

  “But he loves you more.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then you don’t have anything to be worried about.”

  Paulo wished that he could believe that.

  50

  Milton stood on the corner of the street, close enough to the house to see the comings and goings yet not so close as to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He had bought a cheap ball cap and shades from a street vendor near where he had parked Marks’s car, but, even with the disguise, he felt a little tremor of disquiet when a police car rolled down the road past his vantage point. He was not ready to talk to the police about what had happened in Ipanema. He knew enough about the police department in Rio to know that there would be plenty of officers who were not averse to supplementing their pay packets by passing interesting information to the traficantes and vagabundos. There would be others, more culpable, who would be directly employed by the gangs. Beyond that, Milton wanted to exhaust his own investigative options before he cooperated with the authorities. He had faith in himself and was confident that, if there was a lead to be followed, he would be more effective working alone. Following due process and the law would only impede his progress.

  Milton checked his watch: twenty minutes to seven. He had been here for two hours. He was starting to wonder whether Sophia would ever show when he saw a car slow down and pull into the driveway. A woman stepped out. She was wearing a large pair of dark glasses, but Milton could see that it was Sophia. She wore a cream dress and she had a leather tote bag over her shoulder. Her long black hair was glossy in the bright sunlight. She left the car and walked to the door, pausing for a moment to find the key in her tote, and then opened the door.

  Milton crossed the street. He walked up to the front door, waited for a moment to listen for anything that might suggest that there was someone else besides Sophia inside, and then tried the handle. It was unlocked. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  He could hear the sound of movement in the kitchen and followed it. Sophia was at the refrigerator, her back turned to him.

  “Hello, Sophia,” he said.

  51

  Sophia gaped in shock until she realised it was Milton.

  “John?”

  “I’m sorry to surprise you like this.”

  She took off her glasses. Her deep, soulful eyes were different. The spark that he had found so attractive at dinner that night wa
s gone. There was a deadness there now, a loss. It lent her a hardness that Milton found unsettling.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to Shawn.”

  Her face clouded with pain.

  “Have the police told you what happened?” he asked.

  “They said he was shot, but they won’t say anything else.”

  “Did you have to identify him?”

  “They said they didn’t need me to do that.” She went to the kitchen table and sat down. “Fuck,” she said, raising her hand to her brow. “I don’t know what to think. Were you there?”

  “I was. How much did the police tell you?”

  “Almost nothing,” she said. “Most of what I know is what I saw on the news.”

  “We’d just got back to Ipanema,” Milton said. “They attacked us. There were six of them and a driver. They were heavily armed and it was well organised. Did you know the man and the woman who worked with Shawn? Berg and Hawkins?”

  She nodded.

  “They shot them first. Shawn and I were in the car with the family. We tried to get away, but they blocked us with another car. Shawn tried to get Mrs Saverin and her daughter to safety, but they shot him.”

  “But you’re still here.”

  Milton wondered whether he could detect a little resentment in her observation. It was true: he was still here, yet Shawn was not. He wondered what to say and, as he paused, Sophia shook her head and apologised.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s fine,” Milton said. “They took Alícia Saverin.”

  “The little girl. I saw her picture on the news.”

  Milton nodded. “I chased them, but they got away from me. I crashed my car and woke up in the hospital.”

  “And then you left? That’s what the police said—you were there and then you weren’t.”

  “They spoke to you about me?”

  She nodded. “They came to see me that evening. They want to speak to you.”

  “It wasn’t safe for me to stay,” he said. “I saw the men who attacked us—I’m a witness. They won’t be the sort who like to leave loose ends.”

  The suggestion evidently frightened her, and she didn’t respond.

  “They have no reason to go after you,” Milton said. “But they might be looking for me. That’s why I’m being careful.”

  “So who did it?”

  “I’m going to find that out,” he said.

  She bent her head and looked down at the table. Milton gave her a moment to compose herself and, taking advantage of the opportunity, glanced around the room. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was suspicious.

  She drew in a deep breath and looked up at him again. “This was two days ago, John. Where have you been?”

  “I had a concussion,” he said. “I’ve been staying out of the way until I felt better.”

  “Where? You said you didn’t know anyone in Rio.”

  “A hotel,” Milton lied. “It really doesn’t matter, Sophia. It’s better that no one knows.”

  Sophia opened her tote and took out a packet of tissues. She pulled one out and dabbed at her wet eyes with it.

  “I need to ask you some questions,” Milton said. “Is that okay?”

  She snuffled and wiped her eyes again. “If it helps you find them, then good. The police said they’d investigate, but they’re useless. If they’re not corrupt, they’re incompetent. They won’t get justice for what happened to Shawn. They don’t care. But maybe you do.”

  “I do care,” he said.

  “I’ll help if I can.”

  “I want to know about the man Shawn couldn’t reach. One of the men who worked with him—the man I replaced. He never told me anything about him.”

  Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Jorge? No—Xavier. His name’s Xavier. What do you want to know?”

  “Anything that might be useful. What’s his full name?”

  She screwed up her face as she thought. “I can’t remember,” she said. “I’d have to look.”

  “Where is he from?”

  “Rio,” she said. “Shawn wanted to have at least one local on the books.”

  “Has he been in contact?”

  “Not with me,” she said. “But he wouldn’t be—he doesn’t know me. And if he’s tried to speak to Shawn, I wouldn’t know.” She stopped, sniffed again, and then, looking directly at Milton, asked, “You think he might be involved?”

  “I don’t know. But the one day he doesn’t show up for work…” Milton let the sentence drift. “I’d like to talk to him, if only to rule him out. Can you help me with that?”

  “I’ll have to look through Shawn’s papers,” she said. “They’re in his study. He kept good records. It shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “And anything else you can find out about him,” Milton said. “A photograph, too, if you can find one.”

  “I’ll look,” she said.

  52

  Sophia left Milton alone, and he took the opportunity to look around the sitting room. There were magazines on the table; Milton flicked through them but found nothing of interest. He went over to the sideboard and opened the doors; there was an amplifier and a DVD player, together with an untidy stack of DVDs and CDs. He closed the door and shuffled through the loose correspondence that had been left on the top. There were utility bills for the gas and electricity, but, again, nothing of note.

  He heard the sound of a printer and then, a minute later, approaching footsteps as Sophia returned. He confirmed that he had left everything as he had found it and sat down before she came into the room.

  “Any luck?”

  “I think so.” She nodded. “His name’s Xavier de Oliveira. He wasn’t in the army—it was the police: BOPE.”

  Milton shook his head. “I know them by reputation.”

  “Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais. It’s a special unit of the military police. Tough guys with a bad reputation. They’re the ones who get sent into the favelas.”

  “How did Shawn know him?”

  “I don’t know. He never really spoke about him to me.”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Here.”

  She handed him a printout. There was a photograph of a man on the paper: he was ugly and unshaven and had dark eyes and a flattened nose.

  “He’s a charmer,” he said.

  “I remember meeting him now. I always found him unnerving. He’s really into guns—he said the gangs he used to go after would have given a lot to have him killed. He said it didn’t bother him. He said he kept a shotgun in his bedroom closet and he’d use it if he ever felt threatened.”

  Milton folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “What about an address?”

  “He’s got a place in Barra da Tijuca. I’ve written it down for you.”

  She handed him a second piece of paper.

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s all I could find. I could go through the files more thoroughly tonight if that would help.”

  Milton said that it would. He folded the address and put that in his pocket, too.

  “You think he’s involved, don’t you?” she said.

  “Not necessarily. But I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Will you let me know what he says?”

  “I will,” he said.

  She hesitated. “What should I do now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Should I…” She paused. “Do I need to be careful?”

  “No,” Milton said, trying to reassure her. “You didn’t have anything to do with what happened. Just keep your eyes open.” He took a pen from the table and wrote on yesterday’s edition of O Globo. “Here’s my number. Call me if you’re worried, but try not to overthink it.”

  “What about the police? They said I should contact them if you got in touch.”

  Milton had anticipated that. “Tell them I’ve been here—I don’t wan
t you to get into trouble. Tell them I said that I’ll go in and see them myself in a day or two. I just want to look into a couple of things first. But it would help me if you didn’t mention that we spoke about Xavier.”

  Milton gave Sophia what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She put her hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. Milton told her to keep in touch, turned his back, and left the house. He paused on the drive for a moment and turned back. Sophia was looking at him through the window, and their eyes held before he turned away and moved off.

  Milton took out his phone and called Marks.

  “Progress?” the old man asked.

  “Maybe. I might need your help with something.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “You still have access to GCHQ?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need them to do some digging for me. There’s a man called Xavier de Oliveira. Used to be in the military police. Ask them to run a background check: background, convictions, associates. Full spectrum.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. Tonight if they can.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  “I think he might be.”

  Part V

  The Sixth Day

  53

  Paulo had trouble sleeping and woke early. He lay in bed, feeling the warmth of his wife’s body next to him, and stared up at the ceiling. It was the guilt that had roused him. He had been sleeping lightly, and his fitful dreams had led him back up the Hill to the basement of Garanhão’s warehouse and the crawlspace where he had left Alícia. She had been upset again last night and had asked him not to go. He had told her that he had to leave, that he had no choice, but that he would be back as soon as he could in the morning. He had hated himself as he had made his way down the Hill to his apartment, and he hated himself now.