Within ten minutes they had all dispersed, leaving Henry and a Detective Sergeant sat in the canteen.
By 6.30 the teams were all in place. Five minutes later the first door went through.
It was a good feeling.
The Jacaranda da Funchal was one of the most pleasant complexes he had ever seen; if he hadn’t been there for some other reason, Karl Donaldson could easily have succumbed to the hard sell which was actually disguised as a soft message.
He had walked the two miles to it from his hotel: west out of Funchal, beyond the rather staid but magnificent Reid’s Hotel, and to an area known rather unoriginally as the Tourist Zone. It was a fairly unprepossessing part of town, much of which reminded Donaldson of a bomb site with many open tracts of wasteland, some with half-demolished buildings, others nothing but rubble and dust. Oh, and tourist hotels.
When he found the Jacaranda it was pure oasis. Set in about ten acres of gently shelving land, it had everything someone who wished to buy a timeshare could dream of: health club, tennis courts, two pools (one indoor, both heated), and the apartments themselves were luxuriously equipped to a very high standard.
Donaldson was very impressed. He stood there and surveyed the place, dressed in his best tourist shorts and shirt.
The sales patter made him want to sign up there and then — but he had been trained to resist brainwashing, tough though it was.
He could imagine Karen’s face to be told they now owned a timeshare in Madeira.
Eventually, begrudgingly, the salesman gave up on him and handed over his free gift — a flight bag — and turned his attention to other, more responsive clients.
Which gave Donaldson a chance to break off and wander round the complex alone.
He was armed with the compact camera which he’d bought to photograph Sam’s body. He made his way to the posh reception area where a pretty Madeiran lady was busy behind a large desk, inputting on a PC.
‘ Ajude-me, por favor,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Fala ingles?’
‘ Sim,’ she nodded. ‘I do.’
‘ Bom,’ he replied, relieved. ‘My name is Donaldson. I’m from the United States and I believe Scott Hamilton works here?’
‘ Yes, Mr Hamilton owns the Jacaranda.’
‘ Oh, great. We’re pals from way back when. I’m here on a kinda short visit and thought I’d drop by and say howdy.’
The direct approach. He was under no illusions this would work. He expected nothing, so was pleasantly surprised when the opposite happened.
The receptionist, Francesca, whose name was on a badge pinned to her blouse, immediately picked up the phone, punched in a short number and spoke very quickly. The name Hamilton came up several times, but Donaldson did not manage to catch much of the conversation. She put the phone down and smiled. She had pitch- black hair and her beautiful white teeth contrasted spectacularly to produce a very alluring effect which was not lost on Donaldson.
‘ He will come and see you,’ she said.
‘ Obrigado, Francesca.’ Donaldson noticed her eyes were a wonderful shade of brown which was in keeping with her lovely olive complexion.
‘ Please sit down.’ She pointed to a comfortable-looking sofa on the other side of reception. He obeyed, completely dominated by her — in his dreams. She returned to her console and began tapping away, occasionally glancing across at him.
A few minutes later a man in his late twenties appeared from a door behind Francesca’s desk. He was dressed in a silk, cream-coloured, short-sleeved shirt with an open neck, blue chinos and black open-toed sandals, no socks. He wore plenty of jewellery, mainly gold. His hair was black, combed away from his face and his sideboards sloped and tapered past his ears. A minor goatee was stuck onto his chin like- a slug. He looked very slick.
And to Donaldson, very much like a player.
He approached Donaldson, a quizzical look on his face.
Donaldson stood up, not wishing to be disadvantaged. He held out his hand, which the man ignored.
‘ I don’t normally see salesmen,’ he said, ‘but you asked for me personally. I gotta say, you don’t look much like one.’
‘ I, er…’ Donaldson began. He glanced quickly at Francesca, who studiously avoided eye contact. He recovered quickly. ‘It’s always possible you wouldn’t have seen me if I’d been completely honest. You are Scott Hamilton, I take it?’
He nodded and rolled his tongue around his mouth with a slurping noise.
‘ I’m Karl Donaldson. I’m an FBI agent. You knew a colleague of mine, Samantha Dawber, now dead.’
Hamilton was totally unfazed. His bottom lip pouted while he considered the name. He shook his head. ‘Nope, I think not.’ Super fucking cool.
‘ She wrote your name down on a piece of paper before she died, and as she passed on in mysterious circumstances, I’m obviously investigating. I think she may well have visited the Jacaranda. She had some of your literature in her possession.’
Hamilton shrugged. ‘Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Lotsa people visit the place. But I don’t know her anyway.’
‘ She obviously knew you. Otherwise why would she have written your name down?’
‘ I’m the manager of the place. My name’s on all the literature we produce. Not unusual. People write my name down.’
He hadn’t spoken too many words but Donaldson gave him a Brooklyn origin, tainted and watered down by some time in LA. He also gave him credit for being a hard-nosed son of a bitch. He had a desperate urge to grab the man’s goatee and rip it out of his chin and make him squeal like a kicked puppy. In fact, he promised it to himself.
‘ She put four exclamation marks after it. Why in hell would she do that, pal?’ Donaldson was on the edge of losing his own cool. ‘It seems damn odd she’s gotten your name down on a piece of paper and she’s ended up dead soon after.’
‘ What the fuck you implying?’
‘ Nuthin,’ said Donaldson innocently.
‘ I don’t much like your tone, mister..?’
‘ Donaldson. Karl Donaldson. FBI. London office.’
‘ And what exactly is your jurisdiction in Madeira?’
‘ I’m empowered worldwide to investigate offences committed against American citizens on foreign soil.’
‘ Well, here’s one you’d better start investigating then,’ said Hamilton, leaning towards him. ‘I’m an American citizen and I’m being harassed unlawfully by the FBI. Fucking investigate that!’
He got closer and closer to Donaldson as the words tumbled out of his mouth. The FBI agent remained impassive and said with a click, ‘Pal, you’ve just cooked your goose.’
‘ Get off this property.’ Hamilton turned to Francesca. ‘Call Security. I want this man removing.’
She scrabbled for the phone.
‘ I’m going,’ said Donaldson.
Hamilton turned away and stalked towards the door.
Donaldson called out, ‘Just one more thing.’
Hamilton spun back, an angry look on his face — which Donaldson captured for posterity with a flash of the camera.
Henry sat hunched at his desk at Blackpool Central police station. In true detective fashion he was easing the last crusts of a meat pie into his mouth with one hand, the other cupped underneath to catch anything that didn’t make it. Hot gravy dribbled painfully down his chin. He had nothing to wipe his mouth with, other than his hands. Then he had nothing to wipe his hands with, other than his desktop blotter.
