A Small Death in Lisbon

‘I always start with those closest to the victim . . . it’s a sad fact.’

‘Ask your questions, then I must go back to my wife.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘When did you finish in court yesterday?’

‘About half-past-four.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘To my office. I keep a small office in the Chiado on Calçada Nova de S. Francisco. I went by the Metro from Campo Pequeno, changed at Rotunda and got off at Restauradores. I walked to the Elevador, took that up to the Chiado and continued on foot to my office. It took me maybe half an hour and I spent half an hour there.’

‘Did you speak to anybody?’

‘I took one call.’

‘From who?’

‘The Minister of Internal Administration asking me up to the Jockey Club for a drink. I left my office just after half-past-five and as you may know it’s only a two-minute walk to Rua Garrett from there.’

I nodded. It was cast-iron. I asked him to write down the names of the people who were with him at the Jockey Club. Carlos gave him his notebook for the purpose.

‘Can I talk to your wife before you tell her what’s happened?’

‘If you follow me back there, yes. If not, I won’t wait.’

‘We’ll be right behind you.’

He gave me the paper and we walked back towards the cars.

‘How did you know to come here, Senhor Doutor?’ I asked, as he threaded his way back to his Morgan.

‘I spoke to a friend of mine, a criminal lawyer, he told me that this is where they bring the bodies of those who have died in suspicious circumstances.’

‘Why did you think she’d died like that?’

‘Because I’d already asked him about you and he told me you were a homicide detective.’

He turned and walked across the cobbles to his car. I lit a cigarette, got into the Alfa, waited for the Morgan to pull away and followed.

‘What did you make of that?’ I asked Carlos.

‘If it had been my daughter in there . . .’

‘You were expecting more distress?’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘What about numbness? Trauma leaves people numb.’

‘He didn’t seem numb. The look he had on his face when we came out, he was galvanized.’

‘Concerned about himself?’

‘I couldn’t say . . . you know, I only saw him from the side.’

‘So you can only tell me what I’m thinking about when you look at me head-on?’

‘That was just a bit of luck, Senhor Inspector.’

‘Was it?’ I said, and the boy smiled. ‘What did you think of Dr Oliveira’s accountancy? The mathematics between him and his wife.’

‘I thought he was a bloodless son of a bitch.’

‘Strong feelings, agente Pinto,’ I said. ‘What does your father do?’

‘He was a fitter with LisNave. He installed pumps in ships.’

‘Was?’

‘They lost some contracts to the Koreans.’

‘Your politics might be to the left of centre perhaps?’

He shrugged.

‘Dr Aquilino Oliveira is a serious man,’ I said. ‘He’s high calibre ordnance . . . 125 mm cannon, no less.’

‘Was he a colonel in the artillery, your father?’

‘The cavalry. But listen. The lawyer has used his brain all his life. It’s his job to use his intelligence.’

‘That’s true, so far he’s one step ahead of us all the way.’

‘You saw him. His instinct was to check the body. His brain always operates in front of his emotions . . . until, perhaps, he remembers he’s supposed to have feelings.’

‘And then he leaves the room to go and collect them.’

‘Interesting, agente Pinto. I’m beginning to see why Narciso put you on to me. You’re an odd one.’

‘Am I? Most people think I’m very normal. They mean boring.’

‘It’s true you haven’t said a word about football, cars or girls.’

‘I like the way you see the order of things, Senhor Inspector.’

‘Maybe you’re a man of ideals. I haven’t seen one of those since . . .’

‘Nineteen-seventy-four?’