‘Do you have another one?’ I asked the boar.
He looked at me stupidly.
‘May I have a cigarette?’ I clarified.
His grin revealed yellow teeth and the remnants of his lunch, but he reached into his jacket and handed me a battered pack. I allowed the nicotine a few moments to reach my head before I sighed.
‘Now what?’
The short man inclined his head as the second of my two erstwhile chaperons closed the door and disappeared down the road.
‘Now my turn to drive you.’
He wouldn’t say where or why; just grinned. I sighed and leant back. It didn’t really matter.
*
The taxi stank of garlic and unwashed male. An icon of Jesus and a photograph of António de Oliviera Salazar, the prime minister, looked beatifically down from the sun visor. The driver produced a flask and unscrewed it.
‘You want?’
‘No, thank you.’
The driver hummed tunelessly to himself as small towns and villages flitted by. Brown grass was punctuated with dark green trees and houses painted in pale shades of cream and yellow, pink and peach, with red tiled roofs. After the greys of London and Paris, the colours were blinding. I tried to watch where we were going, in case I needed to find my way back, but we moved fast, frequently changing direction, vehicles and drivers. Whoever had summoned me, wanted me there without tail or trail. And they appeared not to care if I was armed: my Luger and PPK had been returned, hidden in the false bottom of my valise. The latter was now stashed in my bag. Just in case.
The sun was setting as we skirted the capital city and entered a town called Estoril. I caught glimpses of the ocean with its faint salty tang, like the tears shed for a gruff Scotsman.
The driver stopped halfway down the hill in front of a high stone wall.
‘Your home,’ he explained.
‘Oh.’ I brushed aside a tear under the pretext of a yawn. ‘What do I owe you?’
It was a silly thing to say; this wasn’t a black cab, and I hadn’t sanctioned this trip.
‘Is taken care of,’ he said, although he made the motions as if I’d just passed him a note. Instead of change, he pressed a pair of keys into my palm. ‘For the doors,’ he explained.
‘Fine. And who do I need to thank?’
He seemed to think this amusing.
‘You thank me for driving.’
He cleared his throat and hurried around the car to open the door for me. He took my case to the gate, watching while I unlocked it and admired the cottage. As much as I appreciated the high wall, I was delighted by what lay behind it. Two jacaranda trees guarded the front door and purple bougainvillea crept up cream-hued walls. A large blue and white tile of a mermaid basked next to the door.
The driver set down the case and tipped his hat. His voice was low as he warned, ‘Be careful. Bufos watching.’
The term was unfamiliar. I was fluent in French and German and passable with Spanish and Italian. Portuguese, on the other hand, was a mystery.
‘Buffoons?’
His eyes were sad as he shook his head.
‘Watchers. Informers. Everyone is bufo in Lisboa.’
He pronounced it Lishboa, making even the name of the city seem evil. He tipped his hat again and drove off.
I closed the gate and, hidden between the stone wall and the jacaranda, slipped my hand around the PPK. Just because the house was dark didn’t mean it was empty. I toed off my shoes to prevent them from making noise on the tiled floor and eased the door closed.
The dining room lay to the right of the foyer, with a long mahogany table, eight chairs on either side and a silver candelabra stationed in the middle, the candles unlit. The room smelled of beeswax and fresh flowers. Behind it, the kitchen was just visible, with a small wood table and clean countertops. There were no unwanted guests in the pantry, just a plethora of consumables. More than I had seen in years.
I returned to the hallway, isolating each sense and allowing it to expand until I was able to detect a faint hint of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. Whoever it was was foolish. Gun firmly in hand, I followed the trail down the hallway to a parlour.
The curtains had been drawn against the evening air and the eyes of the bufos, but the red glow of the cigar gave away the man’s position – a dark silhouette sitting in an armchair. My hand was steady as I aimed the gun at the centre of his chest. I counted out half a dozen heartbeats before speaking.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘Do put that away.’ He consulted his watch, although the room was too dark to read the time. ‘You’re late.’
English, and with an accent that spoke of privilege. That could have been faked, but there was something about it that scratched at the back of my memory. I tightened my grip on the pistol and opted to play along.
‘For what?’
He ignored the question.
‘You were supposed to be here an hour ago,’ he drawled.
If I had problems seeing his face, he was equally disadvantaged.
‘Blame the driver.’
He stood up and took a step towards me.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lisbet, put that away. If you couldn’t shoot me five years ago, you’re not going to do it now.’
Memories crashed over me. The young friend of my father’s who had pushed me on a swing. Always encouraging me to learn more, do more, laugh more. Until the day he relayed my mother’s ultimatum. He still wore the same cologne. I should have remembered that.
‘Why don’t you turn on the lights, Lisbet?’
‘Turn them on yourself.’
Seconds ticked by before Matthew Harrington flicked the switch on the wall. Not much had changed; his dark hair was Brylcreemed back from a tanned, aristocratic face, although the widow’s
