With the body just up the hill, the knock on my front gate was not unexpected, but I tightened the sash on my dressing gown and stepped out on to the balcony. Two uniformed officers stood on the street outside with Claudine Deschamps. I stubbed out a cigarette on the ashes of Bergmann’s burnt papers and took my time going downstairs to greet them.
‘Senhora Verin?’
‘Yes?’
They showed me their ID. They were regular police, not the PVDE – a good sign.
‘May we come in?’ The shorter of the two spoke. He was built like a barrel, but his eyes were sharp.
‘Of course. The coffee is still hot. May I offer you a cup?’
Ignoring Claudine’s look of distaste, all three followed me into the kitchen. I poured three cups and put the sugar bowl on the table.
‘I’ll fix a fresh pot,’ Claudine said.
My neighbour poured her coffee down the drain and measured fresh grinds into the bowl.
‘What can I do for you?’
Barrel cleared his throat. ‘Did you hear anything . . . ahh . . . untoward last night, senhora?’
‘Me?’ I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Claudine. Nothing to see here, officer. No answers to give . . . ‘Nothing at all. What’s happened?’
‘Someone was killed. Farther up the hill,’ Claudine piped up.
‘A man was found dead,’ Barrel clarified. ‘We are treating it as a suspicious incident.’
Keeping my eyes wide, I gasped.
‘No! So very many suspicious incidents these days. You know about Martin Billiot and, of course, Madame Deschamps’ husband? Ghastly.’ I reached for her hand and gave it a little squeeze. Felt a slight pang of guilt when she turned away to wipe away a tear. ‘Do you know who it was? Who did it?’ I kept a straight face as I added, ‘Do I have anything to worry about?’
‘No, no, senhora. I am certain you don’t. You heard nothing? Saw nothing? I am sorry, but we must ask.’
‘No.’
‘Did you know a man called Bergmann?’
That was fast; I hadn’t expected them to discover his name so soon. My frown was genuine enough.
‘I’m afraid not. Did you, Claudine?’
She shook her head. ‘The name sounds German, but he wasn’t an officer. I didn’t know him.’
The younger policeman looked at the cast on my arm.
‘An accident, senhora?’
The cast was filthy, but the area where plaster was missing was hidden by the sleeve of my dressing gown.
‘I had a nasty fall at the castle.’
They looked between us for a few moments before Barrel nodded.
‘Very well, then, we won’t waste your time.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Thank you, senhora.’
I saw them out and locked the door after them.
‘How awful.’
Claudine’s hands shook as she poured the hot coffee into a cup.
‘Do you think it was related to Christophe? You said –’
‘Claudine, I have no idea.’
I met her eyes directly, trying to assess whether she was lying as well.
‘Do you think . . . ? Would Eduard know?’
‘The man has only just died, Claudine. Besides, you know that if Eduard knew who killed Christophe, he would have already brought the man to justice.’
Her eyes filled with tears and she squeezed my hand.
‘I know he’s busy with Herr Köhler, but could you ask him to look into it?’
‘I think you think I have more sway over Eduard Graf than I do, but I’m happy to ask. What do you know of Herr Köhler?’ I kept my voice light, hoping she’d read the question as little more than idle curiosity.
‘I haven’t met him yet,’ she said. ‘But Haydn doesn’t like him. Says he’s Gestapo, sent here because Herr Hitler doesn’t trust the Abwehr, and thinks they’re plotting against him. Haydn says he’s causing problems for everyone here. Not just the Abwehr.’
‘Problems? Do you think he was involved with this Herr Bergmann?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m surprised Eduard hasn’t said anything to you.’
‘Why would he?’
‘Haydn says he knew Köhler in Germany. That Eduard Graf seems to be the only person Köhler isn’t looking at. Why do you think that is?’
I sipped my coffee and shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you. Eduard doesn’t speak of his work to me, but I can tell you this – if Köhler isn’t interested in Eduard, it’s because he knows Eduard is loyal. And if you want me to ask Eduard about Christophe, I will. But I doubt he’ll have any answers.’
Claudine nodded, seeming to believe my words.
I only wished I did. If Eduard Graf knew Köhler back in Germany, and if Köhler knew who I was, how long would it be until Eduard handed me over to him?
*
In the middle of a hot Portuguese summer, it hadn’t taken long for Laura’s body to be found, and the count was brought down to the mortuary to identify her remains.
‘He doesn’t believe it was suicide,’ a woman at the next table whispered to her friend. ‘After all, why would the countess be in that part of town?’
‘Was there any sign of . . . well, you know?’
‘Murder?’
‘As well.’
‘The word they’re not saying is “rape”,’ Gabrielle said, sipping a glass of Pernod and staring out across the beach where a sea of tourists sunbathed. ‘There will be a post-mortem of course. And then an inquest. Count Javier will see to that. And given that Laura had the morals of a street cat, they’ll find something, although I’m not so sure it’ll be rape.’
Under the circumstances, it was safe enough to ask.
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Heaven knows, Solange. There were enough people who probably wanted to kill her, including her husband.’ She raised her shoulders in a quintessentially Gallic shrug, and tucked a strand of incongruously blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Maybe it was suicide, but why kill herself?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Unless she had a secret she didn’t want let out?’
‘Maybe she was expecting?’ Claudine suggested, staring into her own glass.
‘Well, if she was, she’d have palmed it off on her husband.’ Gabrielle flipped
