The feeding frenzy was ferocious. The River Tagus boiled pink with the blood of the past. Miguel da Costa Rodrigues' real identity of Manuel Abrantes, the much feared Inspector da Policia in PIDE, who ran a network of hundreds of bufos, informers, who permeated the lives of thousands of ordinary people, and who was directly responsible for the suffering of many of the unfortunates in the Caxias prison, convulsed the nation. Current-affairs programmes and talk shows bloomed for weeks as people aired their memories of oppression, persecution and torture-the frying pans of Tarrafal on Cape Verde, the bull pens of Aljube, the flooding dungeons of the Fort of Caxias. But this angle was short-lived and, when the programmers saw the soaps reasserting themselves at the top of the league, they realized their mistake-people didn't want history. They wanted personal history.
They quickly found Jorge Raposo in his house of joy, and in a half-hour special he reassembled the PIDE infiltration of General Machedo's entourage, the trap set in the Badajoz churchyard, the killing of the General's secretary and the summary execution of the General by Manuel Abrantes. It was spell-binding television. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I got up close to see if I could find the familiar old ruined Jorge that I'd known, but his studio make-up was impenetrable, his new double-breasted suit as smooth and hermetic as armour plate. I could only imagine his crusty heels encased in their brand-new loafers. As a result of the programme the Spanish government announced an investigation into the affair as it had taken place on Spanish soil.
They found me. The heroic widower fighting against odds that I didn't recognize. They found Luisa, the committed teacher who'd become the fearless publisher and the hero's lover. They found Olivia, the hero's daughter who'd cut the tie that had given the investigation its biggest break, the new fashion designer who might have been backed, personally, by Miguel da Costa Rodrigues.
Finally, and perhaps the most damaging development for my privacy, was that, with the publication of the supporting documents for the origination of the gold, there was an immediate freeze of all the Banco de Oceano e Rocha's assets. This was followed by a raid on their offices, including the old offices on the Rua do Ouro in the Baixa, where two of the original bars of gold were found in an old wall safe. The Policia Judiciaria leapt at the chance of a publicity coup and my face appeared on the front of all the newspapers, flanked by the two bars of Nazi gold. In at least one publication appeared the legend Inspector Dourado -the Golden Inspector. This was followed by the announcement of a full government investigation into the origins, funding and affairs of the bank since its inception.
At this point I thought I was going to lose control of my life completely, but my luck turned. There were further revelations about the financial scandal that had plagued the companies which had built Expo 98 and the developers of the upmarket residential area around the site. The spotlight shifted. The media reloaded. But the Zeitgeist was the same-fat cats, acting with impunity.
By the end of June I'd been promoted. I didn't get a new job because one didn't exist at the time. I got a pay rise, which I didn't need because for weeks I wasn't allowed to buy a drink or pay for a meal. All bills were settled by others. More uncomplicated love.
I was given a secretary, temporarily, to handle all my calls which meant I hardly spoke to anyone who wasn't a journalist or a TV producer. I had little time. I did no work. The PJ rode high on the success of the investigation. I was envied and despised by my colleagues and welcomed into the brotherhood of my superiors.
It was a relief, after intense government pressure, when the trial finally took place, in record time in the middle of November. The prosecution took it seriously. I was endlessly coached and rehearsed. The defence built their case on Catarina's history: that although she was a schoolgirl from a respectable family, she was nothing more than a common prostitute and drug-user. They concentrated on her voluntarily getting into the car and her willingness to have straight sex (there was no apparent violence against her), the fact that no murder weapon was found, the lack of motive for the killing, there being no witnesses who saw the defendant hitting the girl, stripping her, loading her into the boot of the car or dumping her on the beach at Paco de Arcos. They puffed Miguel Rodrigues' good character, his charity work and that of his wife and the impeccable upbringing of his brother's daughter.
The prosecution's case hinged on whether the defendant had sodomized the girl or not. That was his motive for murder. Through my testimony, the initial interview with Miguel Rodrigues and the photographs of his bruised chest, they not only cast doubt on the veracity of anything that the defendant might have said, but also proved beyond reasonable doubt that he had sodomized Catarina Oliveira. That broke the back of the case. There was no murder weapon because the murderer had killed with his own hands, by strangling the girl. He wasn't seen stripping her, but ultimately the girl's clothes had been found in his possession. He wasn't seen dumping the girl, but it was clearly established that he was in Paco de Arcos, had left there at night and would therefore have had the opportunity. They scythed his good reputation to the ground.
On Monday 23rd November at 16.00 the judge handed down his verdict. Miguel da Costa Rodrigues, also known as Manuel Abrantes, was found guilty of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment.
I was invited by the Minister of Internal Administration to the Jockey Club, to celebrate with some editors, journalists, TV producers, presenters and high-ranking police officers. When I declined they sent Narciso after me. It was then that I realized why he was my boss. This was his territory. I was a stray cat. A photograph was taken of Luisa and me at the champagne reception and after half an hour Narciso let me know that I could leave.
We drove out to Paco de Arcos. Olivia had already eaten and was watching television at my sister's house. I took Luisa to A Bandeira Vermelha and a cheerful Antonio Borrego served us his dish of the day. It was one of his favourite Alentejano concoctions- ensopado de borrego -a large tureen of lamb broth with neck chops and breast stewed until the meat has all but parted from the bone. Nobody cooked it like him. He opened a bottle of red Borba Reserva '94 and left: us to it.
I sipped the wine and ate some cheese and olives. I didn't feel like talking even. Luisa was annoyed with me for dragging her away from the party. To her it was an opportunity to network in her new role as fearless publisher, and she would have preferred to stay.
'Eventually you'll tell me what the problem is,' she said, lighting a cigarette in time for the arrival of the main course.
'I'm depressed.'
'Is that a post-trial policeman thing, like post-natal depression is for women?'
'I don't think so.'
'Maybe you've got post-event blues… now you've got to get back to real life.'
'I want to get back to real life.'
'I don't have to tell you all the reasons why you shouldn't be depressed. Promotion. Pay rise. Pinnacle of your career. A bad man put away for life.'
'None of that matters. What matters is being here, eating Antonio's ensopado de borrego, drinking red wine with you. I was not built for drinking champagne with arseholes. This is the best thing…'
'The best thing?'
'All right, we've…'
'Relax, Ze. I'm teasing.'
I sucked some more lamb bones, drank more red wine. We finished the meal. Antonio cleared everything away and brought two glasses of aguardente and two bicas. We smoked. Luisa refused to coax me out of my mood. The bar emptied. Antonio loaded the dishwasher. Tyres ripped along the Marginal. A bitter wind moved through the trees of the park.
'He didn't do it,' I said.