The Night Watchman (34 page)

‘I like the painting Pedro Coutinho gave you, I said, pointing to the portrait.

‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ she said, but without feeling.

‘The woman might be you – if you had lived in the nineteenth century.’

‘Yes, Pedro thought the resemblance was . . .’ Failing to find the word she wanted, she gave up with a shrug.

‘When did he give it to you?’ I asked.

‘About month ago.’ Tears squeezed through her lashes.

‘I’ll get you another tissue,’ I said, standing up.

‘No, it’s better to let them fall.’

To give her a pause, I studied the painting again. I decided that the woman was about to dash towards her unseen child. The artist had wanted to capture the moment before she rushed away. In so doing, he had also painted her about to go back to her real life and abandon her status as the subject of a painting. It seemed a theme worth telling Ernie about.

At length, she said, ‘I’m ready for more questions.’ Her effort to smile reminded me of Senhora Coutinho.
We are a country of brave women, if nothing else,
I thought.

‘Did you have any idea that Sandi had suicidal feelings?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘But you noticed she was troubled?’

‘Of course, but I didn’t question her. Like I told you, my affair with her father made things very awkward.’

‘You didn’t even ask her what was wrong when you had her over to this apartment just after spring break?’

She started. ‘How did you know she came here?’

‘Her friends Joana and Monica told me.’

‘No, I didn’t question her about herself, though I obviously should have,’ she said remorsefully. Standing up, she added, ‘Sometimes I think I’ll become a monk and never talk to another human being for the rest of my life.’ Challenging me to doubt her frankness, she added, ‘What do you think of that?’

‘I think this has been the worst week of your life.’

She looked at me as though she’d just realized I wasn’t the insensitive fool she’d taken me for. After gazing again at the Om on her hand, she closed her eyes and whispered a brief chant. Stepping quickly to the same window I’d stood at, she hid herself in the folds of the gauzy white curtain and looked out.

‘I’m betting he’s long gone,’ I said, guessing at her concern.

‘Why do you think that?’

‘I suspect he came from France to kill Pedro. By now, he’s probably back home. I’ll let you know for sure after I get the names of the passengers on all the flights to Paris since last Thursday.’

‘Thank you. That would be very helpful.’

On scanning my notes, I came up with a final question: ‘On your last morning together, did you notice whether Pedro had either of his cell phones with him?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘So, is there anything more you can tell me about the murder?’

She shook her head.

‘Just to be safe,’ I said, ‘if you see anything suspicious, call me right away, day or night.’ I held up my card, saying, ‘My number is here,’ then put it down on her table. ‘Maybe you should ask a friend to stay with you for a few days. There’s no need for you to go through this all alone.’

‘But that’s just it!’ she shot back. ‘We are
all
alone – always. And this just proves there’s nothing we can do to help one another!’

Dias and I shook hands at the door. Hers was frozen.

On walking down the stairs, I heard the shattering of pottery. A life with Ernie gave me a good idea of what she was breaking – her lotus flower of spices – and why: because it was the most beautiful thing she owned.

Inspector Quintela met me at my office with the news that there was no record of either a Bernard Mercier or a François Savarin on any of the flights to or from Paris over the last two weeks. He leaned against my doorframe, gnawing at his thumbnail. Eager to check my logic, I said, ‘Listen, Manuel, if you wanted to murder someone in Paris, how would you get there?’

Manuel’s eyes shone with the competitive eagerness of a young man accepting an older man’s challenge. ‘Who am I going to kill this time?’ he asked, since we’d played this game before.

‘A wealthy builder you met a few months ago.’

‘And why am I going to murder him?’

‘He got you fired from your job by lying about you stealing a valuable book.’

‘That’s not very nice.’

His naiveté seemed sweet rather than infuriating, as it usually did. ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘So how would you get to Paris?’

‘I’d drive – there are no border crossings these days, so nobody could later prove where I’d been.’ He dropped down in the chair in front of my desk. ‘I wouldn’t use any credit cards and I’d avoid the Spanish and French teller machines. I’d take out plenty of cash in Portugal, but slowly, over a period of weeks, so nobody who went over my bank statements would spot anything fishy.’

‘Maybe even over a period of three months,’ I said.

‘Sounds about right to me.’

‘You’ve obviously thought about this before,’ I said with a perverse lilt in my voice.

He picked up the large smooth stone from Ernie’s garden that I used as a paperweight and squeezed it hard. ‘I think a lot about finding the asshole who hit my brother,’ he told me.

His older brother, Luis, had been run down by a speeding Spanish lawyer about a decade earlier, in Sitges, a resort town near Barcelona.

‘And where would you buy the gun you’d need to shoot him?’ I asked.

‘On the black market. And in Portugal, where I speak the language well enough to not say anything that would give away my identity.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, I’d dye my hair black and buy a really nice Basque beret. The Catalans would assume the murder was carried out by an ETA separatist.’ With his hands, he showed me how he’d angle the beret at a jaunty angle over his right eye.

‘I’m beginning to think all cops have at least one murder filed in the back of their head,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s even why we pick this profession.’

‘You mean, to prevent ourselves from actually doing it?’

‘No, to learn how to do it and not get caught.’

His laugh indicated that he didn’t think I was serious, but my unswerving stare changed his mind.

‘So who would you want to kill, Monroe?’ he asked.

Manuel often seemed oblivious to a great many of the most obvious human desires – in this case, my desire for secrecy. But I told him the truth; wearing a mask in front of him no longer seemed as necessary as it once had.

‘You’d kill your dad?’ he replied in a stunned voice.

‘Or he’d kill me first.’

He rubbed his pink, youthful cheek, considering a possibility that had never occurred to him before. ‘You know what bothers me most, Monroe? It’s that that bastard didn’t spend a single day in jail. I keep his name and address in my wallet, you know.’

‘Was he ever tried?’

‘Nope. A Catalan detective told me off the record that the guy was good friends with Juan Antonio Samaranch. Remember him?’ Manuel sneered. ‘He was the Fascist asshole who ran the Olympics. The Catalan also told me that the Spanish courts were the most corrupt in Europe.’ He licked his fleshy lips with malicious glee. ‘I told the guy he obviously knew nothing about Portugal!’

I asked Manuel to get me a list of the names of passengers on all the international train routes in and out of Lisbon over the past two weeks. I also told him to look for credit card records for Mercier or Savarin at any Portuguese gas stations on the route to Paris.

Once I was alone again, it occurred to me that the killer – or killers – might have bought their brand-new Converse sneakers in Lisbon. It was just possible that they’d slipped up and paid for them with a credit card.

After I’d eliminated the first three sporting goods shops on the list I’d Googled, I got a call from Sottomayor, Coutinho’s accountant. ‘I missed you today,’ he said.

‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’

‘I’ve been having second thoughts. I’ll talk to you about bribes, but only in person.’

‘When can we meet?’ I asked.

‘I’m right outside your headquarters building.’

Sottomayor had a closely cropped beard dyed such a deep shade of brown that it made his face appear cadaverously pale. Possibly because of that, his dark eyes seemed to have the suffering appeal of a Christ in a Russian icon. His blazer was blue, but both his trousers and vest were cream-coloured linen. He wore black leather driving gloves and carried a wooden cane with a silver duck-head as a handle. Eccentricity seemed to be the way he’d chosen to make his way through the world.

As we shook hands, he said in a determined voice, ‘I won’t ever testify in court to anything of what I’m about to tell you.’

I invited him to take the chair in front of my desk. ‘Then why come here in the first place?’ I asked.

He tugged on his earlobe as though considering his options. ‘Although I don’t want you to involve me directly, I’m hoping you can use what I tell you to prosecute one or more of the corrupt officials Pedro paid off.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘Not that I think that you’ll be successful.’

‘No?’

‘When did anyone get convicted of corruption in this country?’

‘How about Isaltino Morais?’ I pointed out. He’d been the mayor of Oeiras and had been prosecuted successfully a few years back.

Sottomayor sighed while peeling off his gloves. ‘You obviously haven’t followed the case.’

‘Not lately.’

He placed his gloves down neatly on my desk, taking his time, pleased to show me his aristocratic manners, which I found curiously relaxing, as though we’d been carried back to a previous century. ‘As you may recall,’ he began, ‘Morais was convicted in 2009 of corruption, fraud and money-laundering, and sentenced to seven years in prison. This was for acts he committed in 1996. He appealed, of course, and his sentence was reduced to two years. In the meantime, he ran again for mayor of Oeiras. Do you remember the outcome, by any chance?’

‘He won.’

‘Thereby proving to all of us,’ he said in a delighted voice, ‘how few people in this country care about either corruption or their own self-respect! He’ll never be brought to justice. He’ll never spend any time in jail.’

‘Did Morais ever accept a bribe from Pedro?’

‘Forget Morais! He’s a pipsqueak, an upstart, a . . . provincial zero who can barely read and write!’ he said contemptuously. With his dismissive vocabulary, Sottomayor seemed eager to let me know that his was the contempt of Old Money for New. Regaining his calm, he said, ‘I am trying, Chief Inspector, to make a very different point.’ He took out a handsome pipe and a silver lighter. ‘Do you mind?’

‘It’s against the law.’

‘Come on, have a little compassion for an old man,’ he said with a sweet, apologetic look.

‘All right, go ahead,’ I told him.

I opened my window and retrieved the clamshell I’d used as an ashtray before our anti-smoking law came into effect. Once he had his pipe lit, he undid the buttons of his blazer. Then, clenching his pipe between his teeth, he leaned back, joined his hands behind his head and asked, ‘Do you play soccer, Chief Inspector?’

‘No.’

‘But you watch a game now and then?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

He laughed, ‘I’m beginning to think very highly of you.’ Clearly enjoying his tutorial role, he said, ‘My point is, men like you and me, who believe that everyone should play by the same rules . . . We are in a small minority. Most people are very happy to win a job through a friend, or to get authorization to add an extra bedroom to their house by paying a bribe.’ He leaned towards me anxiously. ‘So are we off the record?’

I found Sottomayor entertaining but overwhelming – like too grand a fireworks display. When I gave my agreement, his eyes grew deadly serious. ‘Pedro made all his payments himself and nearly all in cash,’ he began. ‘He wore gloves, so as not to leave fingerprints. But occasionally he made a bank transfer. Start with those, Chief Inspector.’ His pipe had gone out. He lit it again, sucking in on the smoke with greedy determination. ‘The last transfers I recall were made to win a housing contract in Coimbra. Pedro made at least two payments to a corporate account in the Cayman Islands. This is in the spring of 2010.’ He jabbed the stem of his pipe at me and squinted through a cloud of smoke. ‘Check Pedro’s bank records in Portugal and France and you’ll find the name of the bank. Or check Susana’s and Sandi’s records. He might have used one of their bank accounts so he could avoid any direct association with the transfer.’

‘Did he use that strategy often?’

‘Only when a transaction required special . . . care. Now, the name on the account receiving the transfers in the Caymans should be Alcino Lima. But try to convince someone at the bank that received the money to confirm that.’ His mood of urgency broke and he winked at me. ‘If your charming American accent doesn’t get you the information you need, offer a bribe. It’s expected there. That may mean you have to fly there, of course, but it’s a lovely place. Great snorkelling! And excellent fresh fish. Try the conch salad – it’s my favourite. They marinate it in lime juice. Who would have guessed? Anyway, bring your wife and kids – they’ll love it.’

‘How do you know I have a wife and kids?’

‘Would I talk so openly to a shady cop? I did a little checking on you. A thousand euros ought to get you the documentation you need. I’ll give you the cash now if you’ll agree to go.’ He took a thick envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and offered it to me.

Was he offering me money for something more than following the trail of a couple of bank transfers? Maybe he thought he could buy my promise to leave his name out of any investigation. I waved his money away.

‘Please don’t be offended, Chief Inspector. We’re all facing lean times, and who could begrudge a hardworking officer a few days in a tropical Eden?’

‘Who’s Alcino Lima?’ I asked, anxious to move into safer territory.

‘Quite right!’ he said, putting the envelope back in his pocket. ‘But if you change your mind, let me know. I’ll make you a special gift of your airfare. As for Senhor Lima, at the time, he was the councillor in Coimbra in charge of Housing. Though it’s possible, of course, that his account in the Caymans is in a relative’s name. I’m told he has a nephew studying in Lisbon who passes money along to him.’