He crossed the street and ducked into another alleyway. Matthew might not approve of Special Operations, but their trainers were effective. Blending into the crowd, I followed him to another bordello. The paint on the side was peeling, but the woman at the door smiled and kissed his cheeks. I sat down heavily on the kerb. This made no sense. He’d just left one whore; surely he couldn’t still be feeling amorous?
Pushing away my shock, I ordered a cup of coffee from a reasonably clean café and, certain no one had followed me from the Chave d’Ouro, sifted through the facts.
Why is Matthew Harrington, renowned for his charm, visiting whores?
Stupid question. Why does any man visit a woman of questionable integrity?
Because a whore lacked the expectations a mistress might have?
Wait. Why ‘integrity’? Why not ‘morals’?
I sat up, accepting the chipped cup of coffee. Tapped my finger against it, cringing a little as it stuck to the handle. Why was one word was more important than another? What did my subconscious understand that I didn’t?
Integrity. Honesty. Honour. Reliability.
What made them unreliable?
They sold their bodies to the highest bidder. A courtesan might have a choice, but these women were bought by the hour.
Or forty-six minutes.
A pair of sailors swaggered past with their distinctive rolling gait. The din of the crowds was nothing compared to the ringing in my head. Whores provided comfort – a safe port. And when a man feels safe, he won’t be careful about what he says.
In London, there was a poster of a beautiful woman surrounded by men. Be careful, it warned. She’s not as stupid as she seems. It cautioned viewers not to disregard women, although it should have suggested thinking twice about relaying any confidential information to anyone.
The penny dropped. Matthew wasn’t rogering the whores – he was running them. An intellectual pimp. I wanted to find that distasteful, but this was the Spider. Tension ebbed from my shoulders and I leant back until I noticed that the waiter and two old men he’d served breakfast to were watching me. No wonder; I was a lone, well-dressed woman in a dodgy part of town.
Bufos, they are everywhere.
‘My husband,’ I said in Spanish, schooling my features to the hard, betrayed expression one would expect on a jealous wife. ‘He likes whores.’
Their interest waned. I sipped the coffee, gagging on the bitter taste. If Claudine thought my coffee was undrinkable, she should try this swill. I pushed it aside and waited. Twenty minutes later, he slipped through the shadows, his fedora pulled low. He moved past the Bairro Alto, doubling occasionally. Passed Rato Square and headed towards Estrela, turning left on to the Rua de São Bernardo and skirting the gardens before halting at the gate of the British embassy.
Almost directly across the street stood another impressive building, with red swastikas flying from the windows. I chuckled to myself, wondering if each embassy stationed a man with binoculars on an upper storey.
I backed against a tree, dropped to one knee behind a bush, ostensibly to adjust the strap of my shoe, but careful to avoid watchers from either building noticing my face. Just beyond the gates, Matthew paused to speak to another man, and I was due my second shock of the morning: it was the same horsey man with an enormous Adam’s apple that I’d seen with Christophe Deschamps.
Within moments, Adam’s Apple adjusted the strap of the leather holdall on his shoulder and reached into his pocket for a pair of dark spectacles. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, put on the glasses and walked out on to the street.
Spurred on by curiosity, I followed him. At least Matthew had taken some precautions against being followed; this man didn’t, taking a taxi to the railway station. Three people stood between us in the queue; close enough that I heard him tell the man behind the counter that he wanted to see the sunsets over Cabo de São Vicente.
The tourist books mentioned the cape on the south-western point of Portugal, although I couldn’t recall more than a photograph of a lighthouse and far too many birds. Closed my eyes and tried to envision the map. What was the nearest town, damn it?
Someone cleared their throat and I stepped forward, almost at the front of the queue. What was it?
Adam’s Apple purchased a paper and a pack of Lucky Strikes, lit one and looked around. Lucky Strikes, and the same seersucker suit he’d worn the other day. He looked like a Brit trying to be an American. And failing miserably.
I dipped my head, hiding my face under the brim of my sun hat. The couple in front of me shuffled forward and bought tickets to Faro. It wasn’t far from there. What was it? It started with an S. São, San.
A gentle nudge pushed me forward and the man at the counter raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Sim?’
The word came out in a rush. ‘Sagres, please. I’d like to purchase a ticket to Sagres.’
‘Sim,’ he repeated, sliding it across to me.
I reached the platform ahead of Adam’s Apple. Bent down to adjust the strap on my shoe to allow him past. He took his seat in the front compartment of the third carriage. I entered the next compartment, sitting with a view of the corridor. If he was going to leave, I’d see him.
I opened my book and pretended to look engrossed, hoping it would deter anyone from sitting beside me, or even worse, distracting me with their conversation.
Cabo de São Vicente. I doubted that was his final destination, and I didn’t believe his story about sunsets. Something was going on, and I was determined to find out what it was.
*
The heavy man across from me snored, his sonorous boom overshadowing the soothing clickety-clack of the train. He batted away a fly and jerked himself awake with a loud snort. He mumbled something and subsided back to sleep.
I
