A Small Death in Lisbon

'You wouldn't enjoy it.'

'How do you know?'

'You don't seem to have a very artistic temperament.'

'Just tell us how many films.'

'Three. They were silent movies. Not pornography. Sorry, agente Pinto, to disappoint you.'

'We're talking art, are we… with baby chicks, a snake, rubber dresses?'

'Take a look. I'd be interested in your opinion.'

'What were the three films of?'

'Her face… looking into camera.'

That sounds interesting.'

'She had a very special look.'

'Which was?'

'That's why it was special,' said Valentim, staring at me.

'What did this look say to you?'

'This seems to have gone from interrogation to therapy now.'

Carlos snapped.

'I'm going to bust you, you piece of shit,' he said, quietly. 'I'm going to bust you for murder.'

'Then you've got a job on your hands, agente Pinto, because I did not kill her.'

'Where's the hammer?'

'The hammer?'

'From your tool board. It was missing.'

'It should be in there somewhere. Take another look.'

Silence, while Valentim played a drum solo on the table.

'Where were you on Friday afternoon?' asked Carlos, desperation creeping in.

'I told you.'

'Tell us again.'

'I went to the Biblioteca Nacional. I stayed there until closing time which is seven-thirty. Go and ask the librarian. We had an argument. She wouldn't let me use the computer after seven o'clock.'

'Do you know anybody with a C series black Mercedes?'

Valentim laughed and frowned.

'I didn't borrow that much money from the bank.'

'How do you make your repayments?'

'I work. I sell my videos. I make money.'

'Pornography?'

'Like I said… you don't have a very artistic temperament. Perhaps it's something to do with your work. It must be quite boring…'

Carlos' fist was already closed.

'I should stop the tape recorder if I were you, Inspector Coelho. Agente Pinto wants to resort to more conventional police methods.'

I terminated the interview at a few minutes before 16.00. Carlos and I walked to Duque de Avila.

'He's involved,' said Carlos, still furious. 'I know he's involved. We should have asked him if he booby-trapped the switchbox… just to see his face.'

'I think he'd humiliated us enough by then. We'll let the fire department give us that bit of information.'

By 4.25 p.m. we were working the bus queues on either side of Duque de Avila showing photographs of Catarina. It was an advertisement for not committing crime because there's always somebody out there who's seen you. Four people saw Catarina get into the black Mercedes. One guy remembered it like it was one of the best scenes from his favourite movie. The car in front was a metallic grey Fiat Punto. The black Mercedes was a C200 series, petrol engine with the letters NT in the registration. The car behind it was an old white Renault 12 with a rusted rear wheel-arch. And the car that Jamie Gallacher fell against was… I told him that he'd given us more than we needed and took his name. I sent Carlos back to the Policia Judiciaria and told him to give the information to Traffic. I also gave him Lourenco Goncalves' name and told him to find a business address and phone number. And I did what I'd wanted to do all day-I went to my favourite apartment in Rua Actor Taborda.

Chapter XXXI

24th April 1974, Rua do Ouro, Baixa, Lisbon Joaquim Abrantes stood in the dark in front of the open window, it was late, close to midnight. His wife, Pica, lay on the chaise longue playing with the dial of the radio, trying to find some entertainment that didn't drive her husband into a frenzy. She'd almost lost the radio to the street below once already when she'd come across some foreign station and picked up the Rolling Stones singing 'Angie' at a sudden full volume.

'Turn it off!' he'd yelled. 'I hear music like that… and I think it's the end of the world.'

'What are we doing here, anyway?' she'd asked, annoyed. 'Why don't we go home and relax in Lapa. You're always like this when you're on top of your work.'

'I'm worried,' he'd said, but didn't take it any further.

She settled for a local station called Radio Renascenca. She recognized the voice of Jose Vasconcelos whom she'd met several times when she'd been in the business. Abrantes grumbled again. He didn't like music. It offended his inner workings. He smoked from one of four cigarettes he had going in various ashtrays around the room.

'And now,' introduced the quiet voice on the radio, 'Zeca Afonso sings Grandola, vila morena…'

'I don't know what you have to worry about.'

'I'm worried,' said Abrantes, crushing a butt out into another ashtray and picking up a lit cigarette from it, 'because something is happening.'

'Something's happening?' said Pica, with mock astonishment. 'Nothing's happening. Nothing ever happens.'

'Manuel told me he thought something was going to happen.'

'What does he know?' said Pica, who'd never liked Manuel.

'He's an Inspector with PIDE. If he doesn't know, nobody knows. I'm going to call him.'

'It's after midnight, Joaquim.'

'Turn that radio off,' said Abrantes, hearing the lyrics now. 'That Zeca Afonso is a communist.'

He dialled Manuel's number. Pica toyed with the volume, turning it lower.

'He's a communist,' said Abrantes, to the ceiling, 'and I won't have him in the house. Now turn it off.'

He listened on the phone. It rang continuously. Pica turned the radio off.

He's in bed and that's where I'm going,' she said.

Abrantes ignored her. He walked to the window with the phone in his hand. He disconnected and dialled another number but couldn't get a line.

Four men sat in a car just off the Eduardo VII Park in the centre of Lisbon. They were a major, two captains and a lieutenant. The captain in the front seat had a radio on his knees which they all stared at, hardly hearing it. The major leaned back in his seat to look at his watch in the street lighting. The lieutenant yawned with nerves.

'And now,' said the quiet voice of Jose Vasconcelos from the radio, 'Zeca Afonso sings Grandola, vila morena…'

The four men held their breath for a moment until Zeca Afonso began to sing. The captain turned in his seat to face the major.

'It's started, sir,' he said, and the major nodded.

They drove two blocks to a four-storey building and parked up. The four men got out and each took a pistol from his pocket. They walked into the building which had a small plaque outside: Radio Clube Portugues.

Manuel Abrantes was sleeping at the wheel of his Peugeot 504 saloon. The front right-hand tyre thumped into a pothole and he came awake to find grass scudding under the front of the car. He threw the wheel to the left and the car latched back on to the tarmac. He stopped and breathed in quick, short breaths until the scare subsided. He wound down the window and sucked in the chill air. He felt for the passenger seat and found his briefcase. He undipped it and pulled out a file, his own personnel file from the PIDE/DGS headquarters on Rua Antonio Maria Cardoso. He fed it back in. Everything was as it should be. The little anxiety dream he'd just had at the wheel was only that. He loosened his trousers which were cutting into his belly and startled himself with a loud, uncalled-for fart. His stomach still upset. He put the car in gear and started moving again, calmer now.

'Where am I?' he asked, out loud as if a passenger in the back might lean forward and tell him.

A sign loomed at the end of a long straight piece of road. He gripped the steering wheel and blinked the sleep away. Madrid 120 km.

An eighteen-year-old Ze Coelho was drinking cheap bagaco in a white-tiled tasca in the middle of the Bairro Alto with three of his schoolfriends when the owner came thundering down the stairs from his apartment above.

'Something's happening,' he said, breathless and shocked. 'I was listening to the radio… some army officers busted in on the programme. Now they're just playing music continuously.'