A Small Death in Lisbon

A large presence came from the rear of the bar, stood over me and blocked out some of the neon in the room.

'Is this where all the old detectives come to cure their troubles?' he said, sitting himself down at my table.

I knew him. I knew that big nose, those seedy eyes. I knew that smooth, black moustache sharpened at the tips.

'I just had an accident,' I said. 'Nearly fell under a tram. I feel a bit shaky that's all. Had to sit down.'

'In a city of trams like this one, it's amazing how few people disappear under them.'

'I don't remember your name… but I know I know you.'

'You're Ze Coelho,' he said. 'I nearly didn't recognize you. You used to have a beard. Joao Jose Silva… they called me JoJo. You remember now?'

I didn't.

'I was "retired" three years ago, you know… eased out.'

'You weren't on Homicide, were you?'

'Vice.'

'Did you just say that old detectives come in here for the cure?'

'They used to… until three days ago.'

'What happened then?'

'You remember a guy called Lourenco Goncalves?'

This name is following me around.

'No I don't, but I've heard of him,' I said.

'He was in Vice too.'

'Were you partners?'

'More or less,' he said, evasive. 'He used to come in here… until three days ago.'

'I heard he set himself up in business.'

'He calls himself a security consultant now. A fancy name for private detective work. Following rich guy's wives around the place, seeing if they're doing something more than the shopping on a Wednesday afternoon. You'd be surprised.'

'Would I?'

'He was… so were the husbands, which meant he didn't always get paid.'

'So why doesn't he come in here any more?'

He shrugged.

'We used to have a drink and go and play cards in the park in summer.'

'Was he married?'

'He was. His wife went back up to Porto. Couldn't stand us southerners down here. Thought we were all Moors. Took the kids with her.'

I finished my drink. The man was depressing me. I didn't know why. The seediness of those eyes maybe.

'I've got to go,' I said. 'I don't want to get retired early.'

'You're not interested in what's happened to Lourenco?'

'You mean, after three days, he's missing or what?'

'He used to come in here every day.'

'Have you been to his office?'

'Course I have, it's right across the street, second floor. No answer.'

'Maybe he went away.'

'He didn't have the money to go away.'

'Call me if he shows up,' I said, giving him a card. 'And call me if he doesn't show up by the end of the week.'

I didn't wait for his reply. I had to get out of there before the neon split my head open. I walked up to Luisa's apartment. She was out. I went to the Policia Judiciaria building. No Carlos. I took some aspirin and began to feel stronger. Abilio Gomes put his head in and told me I looked like death. I watched him disappear down the corridor. I went into his office and opened up the Teresa Oliveira file on his desk. It was nearly the first detail on the front page. She was found dead in a black Mercedes E series 2 50 diesel, registration 14 08 PR. I closed the file.

I walked down to the Avenida da Liberdade to get some air in my lungs. It wasn't a pleasant walk. The traffic was heavy and the pollution high in the afternoon heat. I carried on down to the Pensao Nuno and up the same strip of lino, which must have been a mid-seventies vintage, up the same dark flights of stairs, which must have been eighteenth-century, to the one-metre bar of neon over the reception, the most modern thing in the place. Jorge Raposo was still there, smoking over a different newspaper. I put my hand on the counter.

'Looking for Nuno?' he asked, without looking up.

'I've heard that one before.'

'Inspector,' he said, not pleased to see me. 'It's you.'

'Your memory for faces is coming back.'

He sucked his teeth and considered that.

'Only the ones I have to remember. Troublemakers for instance.'

'Those three kids who were in here Friday lunchtime.'

'You see what I mean, Inspector,' he sighed, his eyelids closing and only returning halfway.

'Did anybody come out after them?'

'Like three went up and four came down,' he said, his shoulders beginning to shake with fake mirth. 'It takes a little longer than that, so I understand.'

I gave him a long look. He held it, untroubled.

'How many times a year do you get hit, Jorge?'

'In the last quarter of a century? Not once.'

'And before that?'

'The police force was the same, just the uniforms were different and the methods. You know-not so sensitive.'

I nipped round the back of the counter and drove my knee into the side of his thigh. He went down hard on the strip of dead carpet he had behind there. The cigarette left his fingers. I picked it up and stubbed it out.

'A bit of nostalgia for you, Jorge,' I said. 'Now when you wake up every morning you're going to say "Shit, Inspector Coelho might come and see me today. I'd better start remembering how it happened with that young girl who came in here on Friday lunchtime, walked out and got herself killed four hours later." Your memory'll have an open line to pain and just when you think you've got over it and you can walk up the stairs one at a time, I'll be back and do the other one.'

I went up to the room and looked around. The bed had been moved back to the wall. That was the only change. I sat on it and smoked, but nothing came to me. I checked myself in the mirror. Still not good.

Jorge was lying where he'd fallen behind his counter grunting. He looked up at me from the corner of his face. He squeezed his eyes shut.

'Keep trying, Jorge,' I said and left.

I called Luisa. She was in. I called Olivia to tell her I'd be late. I took a bus up to Saldanha and walked down to Luisa's apartment. The stairs felt long and hard. She let me in and sat me down with a glass of ice tea. I told her about the accident. She sat on the chair with her knees up holding on to her ankles, unblinking.

'I had a little note,' she said, when I'd finished. 'It was under the windscreen wiper on my car.'

She reached over to the table and handed it to me. It was a sheet of A4 paper. Written in red felt-tip pen was the word PUTA.

'How daring,' I said, unimpressed.

I told her about my conversation with Narciso that morning and how he'd moved me off the case.

'They know about me?'

'They saw me going into this building and they know your car now, don't they?'

'But you're not sure who "they" are?'

'I wouldn't say it's a concerted effort,' I said. 'If it was, I'd probably have been suspended by now. I think we're just talking about certain elements in the police force who have been told that influential people are not happy about how my investigation has developed.'

'All this because of Catarina?'

'She had a full sexual history. There are plenty of people out there who want to have sex with young girls. Some are persuasive, others offer money and there are a few who just take it. Catarina had been sodomized. Even in this permissive age, sodomizing a young girl is a shameful act. The thought of appearing in court on that kind of charge could have been enough for her assailant to kill her. There are some big men circling in this case. Her father, you know. And he's connected to the Minister of Internal Administration. Dr Oliveira was having a drink with him when his daughter was killed and having dinner with him when his wife committed suicide.'

'Teresa Oliveira committed suicide?'

'Sunday night… the loneliest time.'

It upset her and she had to get up and pace the apartment floors. I smoked and sipped ice tea, no closer, after talking it through with Luisa, to knowing who was applying pressure from where. Did it emanate from Narciso or was he just a channel? She kissed me to give some reassurance. I kissed her back because it tasted good. She thumped into the chair again.