A Small Death in Lisbon

‘Compete?’ I asked, and she picked up on my surprise.

‘I don’t think this will help you find Catarina.’

‘I’d like to know more about her psychological state. If she was likely to get herself into a difficult situation. She’s a confident girl. That could have been the start of the . . .’

‘Why do you say she’s confident?’

‘She fronts a band . . . that needs something.’

‘It wasn’t a very successful band,’ she said, and switched. ‘Yes, it’s true, she can appear older than she is.’

‘Is that what you meant by competing?’

Our eyes connected but she couldn’t hold mine for more than a few seconds. She seemed to steady herself against the coffee table, rapping it with her ringed fingers.

‘I didn’t . . . I’m wondering what he’s told you now,’ she said, glancing at the door.

‘Just tell me what happened.’

‘Did he tell you I found Catarina in bed with my brother?’

‘Why would you see that as competitive?’

‘He’s thirty-two years old.’

‘But he’s your brother.’

‘I don’t see any reason to be discussing middle-age female paranoia with someone investigating my daughter’s disappearance. The fact is if she can get him she can . . .’

‘Your husband said that too.’

‘This is hopeless.’

‘Maybe your brother’s the one to help us with . . .’

‘I don’t know why he has to do this . . . now of all times.’

‘He?’

‘I didn’t find Catarina in bed with my brother. She was with my lover,’ she said, coolly, now that she’d given up the pretence.

‘Do you still see this man?’

‘Are you insane, Inspector?’

‘And your daughter?’

Silence.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, after a while.

‘I’ll need to speak to him,’ I said.

Carlos handed her the notebook. She scribbled fiercely and finished with a pile-driving dot that must have gone through to the cardboard.

‘How did your husband find out?’

She pushed up her chin like a boxer who could take anything now. Truth, part truth and lies passed behind her eyes.

‘You can imagine the atmosphere in this house . . . between me and Catarina. My husband talked to her. He’s good with words. He wrung it out of her.’

‘Did she seduce your lover . . . Paulo Branco?’

‘The delicacy of young flesh is difficult to resist so I’m told.’ She said it in a way that particularly pained her.

‘She was a drug-user. Your husband knows about hashish. Were you aware of her taking anything stronger?’

‘I wouldn’t know the difference. I’ve never taken drugs.’

‘But you know how you feel when you’ve taken a sleeping pill. Senhora Oliveira?’

‘I go to sleep.’

‘In the morning, I mean.’

She blinked.

‘Doesn’t it give you an insulated feeling, the real world kept at a distance? Did you ever notice Catarina in that state or perhaps the opposite, nervous, hyperactive, wired . . . I think they call it?’

‘I really don’t know,’ she said.

‘Does that mean you didn’t notice or . . .’

‘It means that, of late, I haven’t cared.’

It was a long silence in which the unheard air conditioning made its presence felt.

‘How did she get her money?’ I asked.

‘I gave her five thousand escudos a week.’

‘What about clothes.’

‘I used to buy her clothes until . . . until last year,’ she said.

‘Did you buy the clothes she was wearing?’

‘Not the skirt. I wouldn’t have bought her anything that short. It barely covered her knickers but then that’s the fashion so . . .’