‘I don’t suppose you could bring me another pot of tea, Mrs Willoughby?’
He put on a woebegone look and, for a moment, I thought she would castigate him. Instead her expression softened and she hastened away. The little thug had the dragon wrapped around his linen-swathed finger.
Mrs Willoughby left the door open to facilitate earwigging, and as much affection as she might have for Jones, she wouldn’t think twice about reporting me to whomever would listen. When she reappeared it was with a tea tray and three settings. Rude as it was, Mrs Willoughby was taking no chances that something was about to happen to her charge without her involvement. It was as unsubtle as it was easily averted.
‘Ah, Mrs Willoughby, would you mind popping over to the chemist?’ Jones said. ‘I’m runnin’ low on me meds.’
His eyes were wide, but there was a certain flatness to them that belied the pleasant words.
Willoughby’s jaw jutted forward and she turned on her heel. Made it halfway to the door before reaching over and snatching the cigarette from Bert’s mouth. She stubbed it out and threw the butt out of the window. Her gaze locked on the second one in my hand.
‘Try it,’ I suggested.
She didn’t – her anger echoing on the dark tiles before the front door slammed.
‘Charming.’
‘Oh, she ’as her moments.’
Hubert Jones’s harsh face was ugly and criss-crossed with scars, but he had a puckish charm that made his company entertaining. And he certainly knew how to play Mrs Willoughby. There was potential in the man, and despite myself, I began to warm to him.
I rose to wind the gramophone, peering out of the window to see Mrs Willoughby storm down the street, a blue hat clinging to her wiry hair. Vera Lynn’s voice filled the room as she turned the corner.
‘Been a while since I been able to listen to English music.’ Bertie peered into my handbag, rustling through it until he extricated a silver flask. He opened the cap with his teeth and poured a splash of single malt into the teacups. ‘Wasn’t allowed in France. Caught bits and pieces from the BBC when I could. Can’t get enough of it now.’ He held the flask out to me. ‘Much obliged, miss.’
‘Keep it,’ I said. His eyes widened, calculating. ‘Call it a get well gift.’
‘Ta. So why the visit, princess?’ he asked. ‘And bearin’ presents?’
‘How do you find Portugal?’
‘Weather’s better than Blighty.’ He slurped at the teacup. ‘Not as that’s sayin’ much, mind.’
‘And?’
‘An’ I’m not bombed every night. A plus in my books. Mrs Willoughby’s accommodating, but I reckon that’s not what you want to know.’
What a revolting idea.
‘I commend you on the speed of your conquest.’ If not the quality. ‘But no. It isn’t.’
He nodded his head. This meeting was the first test, and unless he disappointed me, there would be many. He’d make me work for whatever loyalty he chose to bestow, but for now, all I needed was for him to want to work with me. I sat back in the chair and waited.
‘They say Portugal’s neutral. But there’s a lot happening. Under the surface, like. Even up here. I can’t go out much, but I sit by the window. I watch an’ I listen. That café downstairs is a gold mine.’
‘What do you hear?’
‘The tides are turning, miss. And about to wash up on Eyetie shores. The Krauts reckon we’ll invade through Sardinia. Could be. That or Sicily. Who knows?’ One burly shoulder rose in a careful shrug. ‘The local bobbies are – how would you say it? – disenchanted with Salazar.’ He enunciated the word in a reasonable facsimile of my accent. ‘Been brewing for a while, that. Let’s see if they have the ball – bottle to do somefin’ about it. You haven’t answered my question, princess.’ He leant forward, his face serious. ‘Why are you here?’
Like Matthew, I felt there was little point in prolonging the game.
‘I was wondering, Ulysse, if you’d be interested in delaying your journey home. Just a bit longer.’
His expression didn’t change, which in itself spoke of his interest. Or that he’d expected something like this.
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘You’ve noted that the war’s beginning to go our way. I was wondering if you’d be interested in keeping that trend going.’
‘What sorta help?’ His chin jutted forward in the opening moves of our negotiation.
‘Let’s keep it simple for now. I need help assessing a current situation, and would rather not go through the official channels. Can you handle that?’
With one mittened hand he batted away the question.
‘Assessing? Christ almighty, girl. At least try to challenge me!’
‘Oh, I will, Mr Jones, once I’m certain you can do what’s required. Play your cards right, and you might just have the opportunity to show off those tricks you learnt at Beaulieu.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Instead of returning to the beach at Carcavelos the next morning, I drove Claudine to the police station. Filing a missing person report for Christophe wasn’t something she should do alone, and as Matthew gracefully put it, I was trying to be a friend. Or as much of a friend as Solange could be. After twenty minutes of silence, I parked the car in front of the station and pulled the handbrake.
‘Are you ready for this?’
‘No.’ She slammed the car door, took two steps and halted, staring at the building. ‘This is real, isn’t it, Solange? This is really happening?’
‘I’m sorry, Claudine.’
She suppressed a sob and squared her shoulders. A cadaverous officer led her through a set of double doors to take her statement while I remained in the reception area. It was grim: grey walls, grey linoleum floors. Even the air felt grey – grey and grim, heavy with expectancy and despair.
A day-old newspaper was folded on a seat and I thumbed through it. My command of Portuguese was still poor, but I could understand enough. In the last few
