Chapter 20

When Ana and Beatrice had arrived at Gerês College of Hospitality earlier that morning, Roman, Cher and Xavier were waiting on the terrace to tell them a suspect had been arrested in the Silva murder case.

“His name is Marco Cordeiro and he’s a casual labourer. He works for the hotel every summer as a gardener,” said Xavier. “His prints match those on the window and they found Samuel’s watch in his bike pannier.”

Cher chimed in. “We don’t have much information. My gut says we need to get to that police station and find out more, but today it’s going to be pretty much impossible. Some of us are giving seminars and the rest of us need to show our faces.”

“Ana doesn’t.” Roman looked at her. “What were your plans today?”

“To hide out in Beatrice’s room and make some calls. But if you like, I’ll see what I can find at the station first. I’m guessing he was taken to PSP in Viana do Castelo?”

“I guess. They didn’t give out that information,” said Cher.

Beatrice spotted Gilchrist talking to another man just inside the foyer. “OK, let’s make a big show of saying goodbye and I’ll call you during our lunch break.”

Ana got to her feet and shook hands with each member of the party, ending with a hug for Beatrice. She walked off to her car, waving and waggling her fingers as if to remind Beatrice to email.

“Beautiful girl,” said Cher.

“Stunning,” agreed Roman.

“Very useful ally too,” said Xavier.

“Yes, yes. Have I missed breakfast?” asked Beatrice.

The bitter truth was that she had. Nothing more than coffee carried her through the dull-as-ditchwater Compliance and Governance workshop, but the Unconscious Bias session was a revelation. Especially as she looked around the room and saw the lack of diversity amongst her colleagues.

When lunchtime finally arrived, she scurried out of the seminar and shot across to the canteen. She added black pepper and Parmesan to a large plate of Spaghetti Puttanesca and went to find a seat outside. She chose a table away from the general hubbub, hoping for some privacy to check her emails and call Ana. But after one mouthful, a voice said, “May I join you?” and she looked up. Commander Gilchrist beamed at her, the sun behind his head creating a Christ-like corona, giving the impression of a divine visitation.

Beatrice swallowed. “I would be honoured, sir.”

She removed her handbag for him to place his tray beside hers. Beatrice noted the abundance of ‘superfoods’ on his plate, the majority of which she couldn’t even pronounce. He wore a pale grey suit with a pink shirt and lilac tie. Up close, he was undeniably handsome, in a slightly over-groomed sort of way.

“How was your morning?” he asked, placing his napkin on his knees.

“Extremely beneficial. Dr Ruishalme’s presentation on implicit bias was a real eye-opener. I plan to repeat the exact same session for my colleagues.”

“Ah yes. Ruishalme knows her stuff. Scientific minds fascinate me. I’m more of a people person, bumbling along on instinct.”

“Likewise. But you’ve done rather well without the science, sir.”

“Allow me to return the compliment. In fact, I have heard certain stripes say you could go still further.” He smiled his TV-friendly smile and bit into a broccoli floret.

“As I’m sure you know, sir, my plans are to retire at the end of the year. I’ve had a good run and intend to quit before fulfilling the Peter Principle.”

“Ah yes. Promotion due to competence till you reach a level at which you are incompetent? Does that ever happen in international law enforcement, do you think?” He widened his eyes in mock surprise, his smile still broad.

There was something in his manner that bordered on camp, as if he were playing to the gallery.

“It most certainly would if I were promoted any further. I’m already feeling a total fraud. A feeling which is exacerbated by having such a consummate professional and all-round nice guy as my boss.”

Over Gilchrist’s shoulder, she saw Cher, Roman and Xavier sitting at a nearby table, throwing concerned glances in her direction. She twisted strands of pasta around her fork.

“Of course,” he said. “Rangarajan Jalan, known as The Incorruptible. A rare breed indeed,” said the Commander.

Beatrice didn’t like his tone. “Do you think so? In my experience, admittedly vastly inferior to your own, I have found my British and European colleagues to have the highest integrity, often in extraordinarily challenging circumstances. There might be the odd one whose motives are penal, but on the whole, I’d say I’m proud to be amongst our number.”

Gilchrist had finished his measly portion of salad and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “A noble sentiment I wish I could echo. My experience in the higher echelons is a different story, one of politics, intrigue and backstabbing. You know, the tales I could tell are downright Shakespearean. I suspect if one were to dig deeply, even the saintly Jalan has a skeleton in his closet.”

At her feet, Beatrice’s mobile vibrated silently through her handbag.

“I’m sure many senior executives in the business world would say the same, sir. Sharks, piranhas and jellyfish swim in every corporate sea. Still, I can honestly say I have never heard a bad word against our Super, at any level.”

“You’re very loyal, Stubbs, and I admire that. As for the worlds of business and politics, do you know why our television screens are dominated with crime series, police dramas and detective stories? I’ll tell you. Because we are the front line. We are the ultimate good guys. Politicians and businessmen face the same kind of power struggles, but those worlds can never deliver the thrills of police work. The reality is that we have the sexiest job in the world!” He laughed loudly and heads turned at other tables. Beatrice laughed too, hoping she didn’t have basil stuck in her teeth.

“On which note, I will leave you now as I must catch up with Fisher,” he said. “We’re doing a repeat session on media briefing in the morning, streamed live on BluLite. You should try to catch it. Do you know Fisher? Our man from Interpol?”

Beatrice resisted the urge to curl her lip. “The name rings a bell. I’m sure our paths must have crossed somewhere,” she lied. “Well, thank you for your company today.”

“My pleasure. Oh, one more thing. Your friend I met yesterday? The young woman who works in the port wine industry. I’m rather a hobbyist wine buff, so thought I might pick her brains while I’m in Porto this weekend. How might I contact her?”

“If it’s alright with you, sir, I’ll give her your number. I follow police policy and never give out anyone’s number or email without their permission. Even to those I trust.”

Just the tiniest tightening of the jaw before the smile came again.

“Very wise. Yes, here’s my card. Feel free to pass it on. Thank you. Must dash and see you later.”

She checked her mobile. A voicemail from Ana.

“Call me when you get this. Someone here you should meet.”

The taxi dropped her and Xavier outside the Café Camões at half past one. Ana was sitting in the window with another woman. She raised a hand in greeting as she saw them arrive.

“Beatrice, Xavier, this is Sandra Cordeiro, the mother of the suspect. Sandra, posso apresentar a minha amiga Beatrice e o seu colego Xavier. O Xavier fala muito bem portugûes.”

Sandra stood, shook their hands with a firm grip and said “Muito prazer.”

Xavier repeated the words so Beatrice attempted the same.

“I just explained that I’ll need to translate for you, Beatrice. When I got to the police station, Sandra was there, pleading with them to let her see her son. They told her she should come back later, so I caught up with her as she was leaving. She is adamant her son did not kill Silva. I know, I know, what mother would say otherwise? But Sandra has some important details the local police dismissed as irrelevant, and I think someone ought to hear this.”

Ana gestured for the woman to speak.

Sandra’s demeanour impressed Beatrice. She seemed calm and dignified, with steady brown eyes in a careworn face. She spoke slowly and with emphasis, addressing Beatrice and Xavier in turn. Without understanding a word, Beatrice was already convinced by her sincerity.

Ana waited for her to take a pause then rattled off a translation.

“Marco is a migrant worker. He goes wherever he can to make money. He gets repeat employment because he’s reliable and he’s strong. In winter, he works in Andorra at a ski resort. In spring and autumn he usually gets employment on a farm, but can spend the summer at home with his family because of the hotel. He started there as a teenager and is well liked by the management. They find something for him every summer, gardening, driving, painting, anything that doesn’t involve dealing with the public. He’s not good with people.

“He works five days a week and Saturday mornings. On the day Silva died, Marco went to work as usual and came home for his lunch. Sandra says she shouted at him for leaving bits of grass all over the floor and the green stains on his trainers. He said he’d been mowing the hotel lawns. After lunch, he played football with the village team and came home for dinner because it was his sister’s birthday.”

Xavier made a note and Ana opened a palm to Sandra. She spoke in a rush, a mellifluous waterfall of whispery sounds, intense and emotional, almost like a song. Finally, Beatrice saw the tears build and her eyes redden, but she did not cry. She stopped, inhaled deep breaths and waited for Ana to catch up.

“Her son is well-mannered, respectful and very kind. He is always bringing home stray dogs, cats, injured birds and won’t even let her use mousetraps. He might be big and he’s certainly strong, but his soul is gentle. He lives by the motto ‘Do No Harm.’ There is nothing that will convince Sandra her son could shoot a man. As for something as material as a watch and some money? Never. That is not her son.”

Beatrice nodded and tried to look reassuring but Sandra was speaking rapidly and with some agitation, this time directly to Ana.

“He’s not a good communicator. Being under interrogation will make him stressed and he will panic. She wants to get him out, but if that’s not possible, she needs to be with him. She can’t bear to leave him on his own.”

The tears escaped, but with great dignity, Sandra Cordeiro pulled a tissue from her sleeve and patted them away.

Beatrice took a deep breath and turned to Xavier. “None of us has any authority here. All we can do is talk to the local police and ask for a sympathetic hearing.”

“Could we get any of the senior officers at EPIC to use their influence?” he asked.

“Gilchrist is the obvious choice,” said Beatrice. “He handed them this case and asked all of us to keep out. The thing is, if we go to him for support, how do we explain how we found Sandra and why we were digging in the first place?”

“Me,” said Ana. “Tell him the partial truth. I’m a journo and I’ve sniffed out a story. When I find me old mate Beatrice is involved, I probe her for intel. A total pro, she gives nothing away, so I go snooping alone. When I meet Sandra, I take the info back to Beatrice, my professional police connection, and ask her advice. She does the responsible thing and passes it upwards.”

Sandra’s focus switched from one face to another as they cogitated.

“Gilchrist won’t swallow that. He’s already fishing for info on you,” said Beatrice.

“So confess. I don’t work in port wine caves, I’m a hack. You deflected all my enquiries but when I came back with a story, you felt it incumbent upon yourself to fill him in. You regret telling half-truths but ethics are more important than face-saving.”

“He won’t believe me.”

Ana folded her arms, a challenge in her eyes. “He will if you play it right.”