‘I care.’
Perhaps more for Claudine’s sake than Christophe’s. I didn’t trust her, but I did like her.
‘I know.’ She squeezed my hand and brushed away a tear. ‘I’m sorry to have left you to fend for yourself this afternoon. It must have taken you forever to get back.’
Guilt stabbed at me; I’d been enjoying myself while she . . .
‘It’s of no matter. I just wanted to check in on you.’
‘That’s kind of you. I’m afraid I’m not very good company. Why don’t you take the car? Do a bit of exploring while the sun’s still out.’
It was the sort of offer that I’d hoped for, an opportunity to drive down the coast and look for a quay, similar to the one I found on the trip to Sagres, that might be used for smuggling. It was a long shot, a vague hope that if smuggling was as prevalent as Matthew led me to believe, there would be evidence of it nearby. But under the circumstances how could I accept?
‘You’ll come with me?’
‘Too many calls to make. Go ahead, Solange. The keys are on the sideboard.’ She gave me a gentle shove towards the door. ‘Go.’
As long as no one recognised the Deschamps’ Peugeot, I was safe enough. Claudine had provided me with an excuse, should the PVDE or anyone else stop me. I drove without any idea of where to start looking and only a vague assumption that it was possible that with such a coastline, the smugglers would have an outpost in the resort towns between Lisbon and Estoril.
Driving slowly, I chose random paths to investigate. The first ended in front of a small cottage where a child played with a dog. The second ended at a beach, where a courting couple appeared to be doing more than courting. Convinced that sooner or later I would find something interesting, I continued on. No car passed me twice, although the number of people honking their horns and advising me – in several different languages – to learn to drive became tedious.
The sun was sinking to the horizon when I got lucky.
Three hundred yards after turning from the main road, I came to a barrier – the sort that guards a level crossing. The sort that guarded the quay at Cabo de São Vicente.
A young sergeant emerged from a small hut beside the barrier. He tossed the magazine he’d been holding through the open door and strode towards me. He looked at the car’s plates, noting the diplomatic tags.
‘This area’s restricted,’ he said in the halting French that came from a list of phrases. With the shoulders of a bull and the face of a labourer, he didn’t look local. ‘Not allowed to pass.’
Behind him, the warehouse door opened and another man emerged. He stretched in the sun and stared at us. Moved towards us, pulling a pistol from its holster. The last thing I needed was a pair of handcuffs and a PVDE escort. I smiled, hoping it looked engaging.
Hidden behind the dark glasses, I noticed a solitary speedboat moored to the jetty. The sun still shone – albeit barely – and the quay, little as it was, should have been busy. Surely if it were a genuine dock there would be the loading and unloading of cargo, with workmen bustling about?
‘Oh, I don’t want to pass,’ I told the man, my voice blasé. ‘What I want are directions. Can you tell me the way to Sintra?’
He relaxed. ‘Go back to the big road. Turn left. Stay on road for . . . I do not know. Half hour? Less. You will find it, no problem.’
‘Obrigada.’
This was what I’d been searching for. I noted the landmarks and turned the car around. By the time I crawled into bed, a plan had begun to form that started with another visit to Bertie Jones.
I closed my eyes and dreamt of scorpions driving speedboats.
*
The wine was sweeter than the vinho verde I’d developed a taste for. Sweet and warm, but the glass was clean and the café had a clear view of Bertie’s safe house. To avoid standing out in the not-very-fashionable neighbourhood, I had donned too much make-up, a black wig and low-cut dress, and placed pads in my cheeks that gave them a fuller look. A foreign look, to be sure, but with my height and colouring, that was unavoidable. And would exempt me from the three hundred escudo penalty a Portuguese woman would be fined for dressing inappropriately.
The tourist book open on my lap was Spanish, pinched off a careless couple an hour before, just before Bertie escorted Mrs Willoughby out of the door. He blew the battleaxe a kiss as she departed, suitcase in hand and a thunderous expression marring her face.
Grateful for a rare dose of good timing, I knew that Mrs Willoughby had been given her walking papers for a reason: Bertie was about to disappear. It was sensible; too many people knew where he was. And with those injuries, he would be easy to find. Nonetheless, Bertie was well-trained; he’d have a safe house somewhere.
Within minutes, Bertie emerged from the flat, his head hidden under a battered fedora, a small case held in his hand. He walked gingerly, but looks could be deceptive. When he turned the corner, I threw a handful of coins on the table and followed.
For twenty minutes, he led me a merry dance, up steps, down hills, through more alleyways than I’d seen in my life. Bertie was good, and he knew how to shake a tail. Only this tail wasn’t about to be lost.
Not until I allowed myself to be distracted by a woman arguing with a shopkeeper, then Bertie was gone.
‘Damn,’ I muttered, standing in front of a major intersection.
Motor cars of every sort flew past, but there was no sign of the little thug. I backtracked again, this time finding a passageway too small to be an alleyway, heading off from a flight of steps. It
