Stunned, I could only stare after them. Rank amateurs.
And thank God for that.
I edged backwards, careful not to make any noise until I could retrieve my bicycle. Dawn stretched lavender fingers across the sky as I followed the road until I saw signs for Sagres. The bicycle shop was closed but a nearby café was open. The coffee was hot, and if the roll was stale, it was edible.
Smuggling. Was Adam’s Apple involved? Matthew? Christophe Deschamps? Both had spoken to Adam’s Apple within the last week and I didn’t believe in coincidence.
I trusted my instincts. Although I was as certain as I could be that I wasn’t followed, I couldn’t help feeling that I had missed something important.
Chapter Fifteen
My second cup of coffee sat cooling on the kitchen table when an insistent knock jerked me back from the table.
‘Solange? Are you awake?’
I threw a rag over the spilt coffee and gave myself a few seconds to compose myself so that I wouldn’t punch the woman. Took a few more deep breaths and made my way to the door.
‘I’m bored,’ Claudine said by way of greeting.
‘You were born bored, Claudine.’ I stepped back to let her in. ‘Where’s Christophe?’
Her Cupid’s bow mouth tightened, white lines radiating out from her lips. Frustration as well as Nature was ageing Claudine.
‘I don’t know. Working, I suppose. He doesn’t tell me where he goes.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ I led the way into the parlour. ‘What about Julian?’
‘A new love,’ she growled.
No wonder she was in such a foul mood. Her relationship with her husband might have been strained, but her affection for the novelist was clear.
‘Oh, Claudine, I’m so sorry!’
She blinked. ‘For what?’
‘Well, Julian. You . . .’
She laughed with genuine amusement. ‘Julian? You really thought that Julian and I . . . that we . . . Oh, Solange, you are priceless!’
‘Well,’ I said, offended, ‘I don’t really care if you are or aren’t, but I am sorry . . .’
She put her hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes.
‘My dear, let me assure you, Julian is not my lover. It’s not that I wouldn’t, if I’m honest. But no. His tastes run to . . . Hm. Let’s just say they’re complicated.’
More complicated than an opinionated, alcoholic Frenchwoman with expensive tastes and dubious political leanings? Was that even possible? Still chuckling, she wandered around the room, picking up objects, only to put them down elsewhere. I moved behind her, replacing the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘Yes. A drink.’ Her voice was soft, as if she was speaking to herself. ‘I stopped by yesterday, but you weren’t home.’
‘No, I was out exploring. Is there something you need?’
‘Not at all. I just wanted to see how you were settling in. It’s been almost a week, already.’
Almost one week, hell. In the last twenty-four hours alone I’d discovered my godfather was running an intelligence network of whores out of the Baixa, almost got strafed by a trio of Focke-Wulf fighters, narrowly escaped a scorpion’s bite . . . oh, and stumbled on some sort of smuggling operation. If Buck was impressed with my exploits before, what would he say now?
Forget Buck, my godfather would be incandescent. My job was to gather intelligence on the Germans, not to follow Adam’s Apple or meddle with smugglers.
The clock was again moved to the side table.
‘Claudine, what’s wrong?’
She turned towards me, her dark eyes wide. ‘Wrong? No. Nothing. Do let’s go for a drink, but not here. Let’s go down to the beach. You like the Albatroz, don’t you? I’ll drive.’
I grabbed my bag and hat and followed Claudine to a little black Peugeot with diplomatic tags. She slid behind the wheel and jammed the key in the ignition.
‘I’m so glad to have met you, Solange. Did I say that?’
‘No.’ I stretched out my legs. ‘But it’s nice to hear.’
Claudine thrust the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb, narrowly missing a man on a bicycle. He held up his fist but his words were drowned out by the car’s engine. She veered into the wrong lane while waving at a mother with two children. The woman yanked her children out of harm’s way, almost throwing them against a fence. At the next turn, I was slammed against the door as we narrowly missed a man sweeping up fallen blossoms under a wall of purple bougainvillea.
‘Are you trying to kill them or me?’ I braced myself against the dashboard as Claudine manoeuvred around an elderly woman. ‘Let’s go to the Parque instead.’
My nails dug in to the leather as the hotel blurred past. There was no way the Peugeot could take the turn at the bottom at this speed. Claudine’s nose wrinkled.
‘Pah, too many Germans.’
‘The Palácio?’
‘Too many English. Relax, Solange. I never hit anything I’m not aiming at.’
‘There’s a first time for everything.’
Closing my eyes only made the ride worse. The shoreline was coming up fast as Claudine accelerated on to the coast road and headed towards Cascais. People and restaurants whipped past before she skidded into the car park.
‘See? No new dents – no blood spilt,’ she grinned and cut the engine.
The Peugeot spluttered before falling into affronted silence. It was a wonder Christophe allowed her to drive it. Or to drive at all. Singing came from a small church, no bigger than a garage, which stood in front of the restaurant.
‘They’re thanking God that you haven’t killed me, yourself, and half the people on the coast. Just so you know, I’m walking home.’
She laughed. Linking her arm in mine, she led the way into the restaurant.
‘A table for two,’ she asked the maître d’. ‘In the shade, please. My friend burns easily.’
‘Of course, senhora.’
He signalled to a young man in a dark suit and a white shirt who led us to a table under an umbrella on the terrace. Claudine’s eyes lingered on him as she slid into her seat.
‘Perfect,’ she sighed.
A short, round man weaved his way to
