‘No, I never really found out,’ I admitted.
‘And you don’t always find the killers you’re after, do you?’
Thinking of Moura, I said, ‘For better or worse, this isn’t TV.’
‘I’ve been aware of that for a long time,’ she said, with a disgusted little laugh. ‘Look, Inspector, I had no idea Jean intended to come here or I’d have stopped him.’
‘Did he say whether anyone else was here when he spoke to your husband?’
‘He didn’t mention it.’
I told Senhora Coutinho I wanted her to get Morel on the phone. After she explained to him who I was, she put me on the line. His English was pretty good. He confirmed that he’d met Coutinho at his home the day before, at just after ten in the morning, having driven up from the Algarve in his rental car. Pedro hadn’t seemed nervous or ill at ease. He’d left without winning any concessions. He had no idea whether a girlfriend of Coutinho’s might have been hiding in the house while they spoke.
Morel confirmed that he’d caught the TAP Air Portugal flight to Paris at eleven forty. He added that he’d called his old friend from Lisbon Airport to apologize for provoking a quarrel, but Coutinho’s phone had been off. He tried again on reaching Paris but was still unable to reach him.
Was Morel devious enough to have called a dead man twice in order to throw a future police inquiry off the track?
I told him I wanted him to come to Lisbon as soon as possible, and he said he’d already booked a TAP Air Portugal flight for the next morning. He was scheduled to arrive in Lisbon at 12.45 p.m. On hanging up, I asked Senhora Coutinho if she knew where her husband’s cell phones might be. She was picking a hole in the sponge cake with sloppy hand movements. ‘If they weren’t with him or on his desk in the library, I haven’t a clue,’ she told me. ‘Haven’t you found them?’
‘No, the murderer seems to have taken them.’
‘The murderer . . .’ Tears squeezed through her lashes. After wiping her eyes, she jiggled her head, as though to make light of her grief, and smiled, an effort that seemed quietly heroic.
‘I think you should drink something other than whisky,’ I told her.
‘And I think your wife must tell you fairly often to keep your opinions to yourself!’ she declared, but with good humour in her expression.
When I admitted that she was right, she said, ‘At this point, Inspector Monroe, I believe you’re expected to give the grieving widow a few words of comfort.’
‘Maybe you should call up a good friend as soon as I leave and ask her to stay with you.’
‘If I had a good friend, I’d do just that.’
‘There has to be someone you trust.’
‘Christ, Monroe! Haven’t you figured out yet that when people learn what it is you most need, they do their best not to provide you with it? Look, what if Jean and I are telling the truth?’ A new possibility made her start, then hold her head in her hands. ‘Oh, God – and what if Sandi keeps thinking she’s responsible?’
Bent over her fears for her daughter, she began to cry silently. I went to the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the ash curling on her cigarette. In profile, she seemed older – and to have just understood that she’d been carried too far away from all she’d ever dreamed of for herself to ever make it back to where she wanted to be.
As for me, while I watched Nero snoozing under the palm tree, I realized – in contrast – that I didn’t want to be anywhere else. That might have seemed a strange conclusion to have reached, but I’d noticed before that I felt most at home when speaking to people at the worst moment of their lives. They seemed real to me then in a way they almost never otherwise did. Maybe it was even the most important reason I’d become a cop.
I sat down opposite her again. Her face – lost and helpless – moved me to speak. ‘My mother died in a car accident when I was eleven,’ I told her.
I surprised myself with that admission; in fact, it didn’t seem to have come from me.
She nodded, as though hoping I’d say more.
‘There are days, even now,’ I told her, ‘when I still can’t believe it. I’ll be walking down the street and the finality of it – and how it has determined the whole rest of my life – will stop me dead in my tracks. So you see, the truth is I’m the last person in the world who could give you advice on how to get past a trauma like this.’
‘And yet you went on with your life.’
‘I didn’t have a choice. I had a younger brother.’
‘And I’ve got Sandi. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘It wasn’t my intent, but it’s probably what I would say if I were to risk offering you any advice.’
‘Life has so often been a disappointment,’ she observed. ‘And when it hasn’t been a disappointment, Monroe, it’s been even worse.’ Holding my glance – as if to say watch this! – she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and wiped off her lipstick, creating pink streaks across her cheek.
As she took off her earrings, time seemed to come to a halt, because I saw so clearly that she needed me to know that she’d never again be the same person she was before her husband’s death. Tossing them to me, she said, ‘Give them to your wife.’ With a wry smile, she added, ‘She deserves a present now and again for putting up with you!’
I set them down on the table. The black pearls were slightly oval, like small dark eggs. ‘We’ll just keep them here for now,’ I said.
‘Avoid a quarrel, like a good boy, and put them in your pocket.’
I did as she asked, though I decided to keep them at my office in case she wanted them back in a week or two.
‘Gosh, how I hated lipstick when I was a girl!’ Senhora Coutinho told me. ‘Took me years to get used to it.’ She laughed in a reckless burst and joined her hands in prayer. ‘May Susana Coutinho rest in peace. Long live Susana Lencastre.’ She toasted her transformation back into the woman she’d been before marriage with her glass raised high. ‘Which reminds me, Monroe, aren’t I supposed to identify my husband?’
‘Senhora Grimault identified him. But I can make arrangements for you to see the body when you feel up to it.’
She breathed in sharply. ‘The body . . . God, that sounds awful!’
‘I’m afraid the other possibilities sound even worse.’
She held up her hand to stop me from telling her what they were, though that hadn’t been my intention. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever believe what’s happened unless I see Pedro.’ She looked toward the wall tiles. At length, she asked, ‘Was there a lot of blood?’ She spoke as though from very far away.
‘I’m afraid so, where the bullet entered.’ I patted my gut.
‘And that Japanese writing on the wall, was that made with Pedro’s . . .?’
‘We think so.’
Senhora Coutinho winced. ‘Do you think Pedro made it while he was dying? A last message?’
‘You tell me – does it look like his writing?’
‘I’m not familiar enough with how he wrote in Japanese to identify his handwriting. Have you found out what it says yet?’
‘No, but I’ll research it today. Did Pedro ever mention anything bad happening to him in Japan – any enemies he might have made, business problems he got into?’
‘No, nothing. He always spoke of his time there as if it had been his greatest adventure.’ She shook her head. ‘Jean couldn’t possibly have killed him, you know,’ she said, and softly, to imply that it was a simple fact. ‘And I didn’t either. I’m not only good at running away from an argument, Inspector. I also know how to wait if I have to, and waiting four more years for a divorce wouldn’t have made my life any more difficult than it already was.’
‘I believe you,’ I said, and I did, but maybe Morel had lied to her about what he’d done. If he failed to fly in to Lisbon tomorrow, we’d know the truth.
‘Tell me more about what the killer did to Pedro,’ she requested. The tight, fearful hunch of her shoulders reminded m
e of her daughter.
‘Maybe you should wait until tomorrow,’ I suggested.
‘So it was bad?’
I nodded. Letting out a moan, she dropped her drinking glass, which shattered. Ice streaked across the floor. When she looked up, I expected to see despair in her eyes, but anger was flashing. ‘You make damn sure you question my husband’s business associates,’ she said.
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Everyone in particular!’ she shouted. She was vibrating with rage. ‘Inspector, let me pass on one of the useful things that Pedro taught me – presume that every transaction in Portugal is shady until proven otherwise.’
‘So did your husband make payoffs to get building contracts?’ I asked.
‘Don’t be such an idiot! Of course he did! Talk to Rui Sottomayor, his accountant. He knew Pedro’s business dealings back to front, and they’ve been friends since they were kids.’ With savage amusement in her voice, she added, ‘Though if you want to save some time, just write down the name of every politician whose signature is required to build a shopping mall in this fucking banana republic. The list of officials that Pedro had to bribe should be just about the same.’
She read me Sottomayor’s number from her phone. In reply to my next questions, she said that she’d never seen any notes her husband might have written detailing his illegal transactions. And he’d never mentioned the names of anyone he’d bribed.
‘He thought it safer for me not to know anything specific,’ she said, and she went on to tell me that she had never given her front door key to anyone, not even Jean Morel. As far as she knew, Sandi hadn’t either, but she’d ask her. We looked in the cabinet where the family kept their spare house keys, but none of them was missing.
She also told me she’d never seen her husband with another woman since their move to Lisbon and didn’t know the names of any of his girlfriends. ‘I learned to just look the other way,’ she explained.
I asked her to follow me into the living room and showed her the Almeida drawing of Fernando Pessoa. ‘Do you know if this was always here?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. Why?’
‘I think the killer moved it.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Look, Monroe, everything on the walls belonged to Pedro.’ She gazed around the room in a teetering three-sixty. Her droopy eyes closed momentarily. ‘All these beautiful things he bought, and now . . . You know what it took me years to realize? That way back when, I was his most treasured objet d’art.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘But one day, just like that, Pedro traded me in for something more contemporary. When I figured that out, I stopped giving a shit about the beautiful things he brought home. Don’t get me wrong – he was apologetic. Boy, was he ever! He cried like a baby when I first confronted him with his cheating on me. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry, I must be crazy to hurt you like this!” he told me. It took me a few months to figure out that he traded me in for good. Pretty stupid, right? Because it was simple – I was getting older. Men don’t like women who have the bad taste to age. You can quote me on that, Monroe!’
She frowned at me as if I was part of a masculine conspiracy. I pointed to the Almeida drawing and asked, ‘Would your daughter know what had been hanging here?’
‘Probably. She and her father loved going to art galleries. I’ll ask her when she’s feeling better.’
‘Please excuse another indelicate question, but the way your daughter shrieked . . . Has she ever shouted like that before?’
‘Monroe, her father has just been murdered. What do you expect from her?’
‘True, but—’
‘God, how Pedro loved that girl!’ she cut in. ‘He wanted so badly to get things right this time.’
‘This time?’
‘He was married once before. He had two kids – a boy and a girl. After the divorce, his wife turned the kids against him. He hasn’t seen them in at least fifteen years, since the kids were teenagers. That’s what he was most afraid of, I think – that I’d turn Sandi against him if we were divorced.’
‘I’d like to know why Sandi felt she’d needed to hide her ring,’ I said.
‘Look, she’s had a lot of difficulties lately. Among other things, the kids at school have been teasing her since she cut her hair. Maybe that had something to do with it.’
‘Did she cut it herself?’
‘Yeah, she just grabbed the scissors and . . .’ Senhora Coutinho made wild snipping motions in the air. ‘Sandi said she wanted a more edgy look. I had to look up the damn word in a fucking English dictionary. Edgy – have you ever heard anything so stupid!’
‘When did she do it?’
‘About three months ago.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And she insisted on trimming it again just a few weeks back. She also wanted to get a spike in her tongue, but I told her to forget it!’
‘Did anything special happen to her three months ago?’
‘Like what?’
‘Any particularly bad quarrels with you or your husband?’
‘No. Sandi never really quarrels, to tell you the truth. Not for long, anyway. Her technique is to stab you hard and deep enough to draw blood and then walk away while you’re still in shock.’
‘By any chance, did she spend any time away from you about three months ago, when something bad might have happened to her?’
‘No.’
‘Any trips at all?’
‘Christ, you really don’t give up, do you?’ she asked. ‘At Easter, she went to Jean’s house just outside Paris with Pedro for a few days. I wasn’t able to come. Jean has a big house in Normandy. It’s lovely. Sandi went with two of her girlfriends.’
‘And the trip went well?’
‘She had a great time. She loves France – prefers it to Portugal. And given how depressed everyone is here, who wouldn’t?’ Senhora Coutinho combed her hand through her hair and teased out a snag. ‘You have kids, Monroe?’
‘Two boys.’
‘How old?’
‘Seven and thirteen.’
She whistled as though in warning. ‘Boys mature a little later, so just wait till the older one hits fifteen or so. Then he’ll start getting awkward and doing some really crazy things and forget how to talk to you nicely. Some of it is a generational thing, I’m told. Like vampires and YouTube and downloading crap like Lady Gaga.’
After announcing that she was thirsty, she led me back into the kitchen. While she poured herself a glass of orange juice, I took out my two evidence bags. Once we were seated again, I showed her the honey dripper. ‘This was tucked under the top sheet of your daughter’s bed,’ I told her.
‘She has a sweet tooth. Inherited it from Pedro and me, so I can’t deny our guilt.’ She held out her hands. ‘I’m ready for the handcuffs, Inspector.’
‘Where’d she get it? I’ve never seen a honey dripper in Portugal.’
‘New York, last summer. We had a brief vacation there.’
I took out the knife. ‘I found this under her bed. Any idea why she kept it there?’
She studied it indifferently and dropped it to the table. ‘I can’t see what this could possibly have to do with Pedro’s murder.’
‘I’d still like to know.’
She swept the cake crumbs scattered across the table into a pile as she considered what to say. ‘This is delicate. Please don’t put this in any official reports.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Sandi started getting her period about . . . it must be eight months ago by now, and the blood really scared her.’ She sat back, folding her arms over her chest as if to remind herself of the need for caution. ‘The poor girl was very upset. She had nightmares – monsters sneaking into the house and coming after me and Pedro and her. Her shrink told us that all these TV shows and movies with trapped young women being tormented by psychopaths have created a kind of syndrome. Some girls live in a constant state of fear these days. It’s crazy. Anyway, a few m
onths after her nightmares started, Sandi told me she wanted to keep a knife with her in bed. I hated the idea, but her shrink thought it was all right – as a stopgap measure.’
‘Did she ever tell you that someone real was threatening her?’
‘No.’
‘How long has she been in therapy?’
Senhora Coutinho looked away while doing the maths. ‘Almost two months.’
‘Are you certain no one hurt her just before that – physically, I mean? At school, maybe. One of the kids who’s been teasing her? Or a teacher?’
‘She would’ve mentioned that. At least to her father. He would’ve taken care of it. He was very good at taking care of things,’ she added darkly.
‘Just to be certain, would you ask her?’
‘Sure, but keep in mind that whenever I try to have a serious conversation with her, she glares at me and pretends she’s tapping on a keyboard. She calls it pressing delete.’
‘That seems kind of—’
‘Unnecessary?’ she interrupted. ‘And cruel?’ She laughed caustically. ‘That’s what it’s meant to be, Monroe. You asked why she needed to apologize to Pedro. That was why – she deleted him a lot of late. And me, too.’ She jumped up, opened the refrigerator and took out an apple. ‘Look,’ she said, shaking it at me, ‘I know you want me to care a lot about what Sandi is going through right now, and I do, but I also need a day or two for myself, just to go slightly insane.’ She slammed the refrigerator door closed and kicked it hard.
I pictured her daughter lying in bed, in the dark, clutching her knife. ‘It’s a bad sign that Sandi hid the ring in her own room,’ I said.
She took a big, determined bite of her apple. ‘Why’s that, Inspector?’
‘Because it means that whoever she feared didn’t respect normal limits and borders. There was no safe place. At least, Sandi didn’t think so.’
‘Then why in God’s name didn’t she talk to me or Pedro?’
‘I’m getting the feeling it involved your husband’s other life – with his girlfriends. And she couldn’t very well bring that up with either of you.’
The Night Watchman Page 10
