Chapter 23

Entering the bar for pre-dinner drinks, Beatrice scanned the scene and noted several points of interest. Cher having a flirtatious chat with one of the hotel staff. Roman with a group of men in the humidor, laughing at someone’s joke. Xavier in earnest discussion with André Monteiro, walking in the direction of the dining-room. Two plain-clothes officers feigning nonchalance by the door, fooling no one. Gilchrist was doing his usual butterfly act, gliding from table to table until he spotted her and excused himself.

“Good evening. Lovely dress. Can I get you a drink?”

Conscious of her mission, Beatrice opted for a lime and soda. While he ordered, she checked her phone.

Message from Adrian: No news. Everyone tense as hell just waiting.

Gilchrist guided her in the direction of the dining-room. She passed Cher, who looked up with a friendly acknowledgement. Beatrice returned the smile but pushed on, fearful of what signs even the blandest small-talk might reveal.

The menu offered some cheer. Chicken and cherry tomato skewers with chilli oil, followed by pork with clams and a dessert of chocolate salami. Gilchrist’s table was similar to that of a head teacher – elevated above the crowd and occupied on one side only, leaving its occupants exposed. Gilchrist sat on her left, and her neighbour on the right was a pleasant surprise. Dr Ruishalme, whose workshop on implicit prejudice she had enjoyed, greeted Beatrice with a strong handshake.

The two women dispensed with small talk and fell into intense conversation, ignoring the men either side of them. Beatrice could have happily chatted to her all night. But as the starters were cleared away, Gilchrist slanted his head towards her and tapped her arm.

“Can I suggest a glass of wine to accompany the main course? I know you fancy yourself a connoisseur. Try this one.”

Beatrice registered the patronising tone but accepted the glass. As she sniffed, she surveyed the room. Xavier sat beside the Monteiro boy, while Roman seemed to be in the thick of it with the Russians. Cher was nowhere to be seen.

Gilchrist claimed her attention once more. “This is one of my favourite Portuguese reds. Light yet full of flavour. I believe it would complement the pork perfectly.”

“Just the one. If I’m to be interrogated tomorrow, I’d like to keep a clear head.”

Gilchrist smiled, an attempt at reassurance. “It’s not an interrogation. Just a clarification of your connection to the victim.”

“Commander, I had no connection to Silva whatsoever. I met him for the first time here, on Friday night.”

“I was talking about the boy. Marco Cordeiro. You certainly had a connection to him. It was you who brought him to my notice.”

Beatrice swivelled in her chair to address Gilchrist face on. His smile had vanished and his expression gave her every reason to feel that he was the predator and she was his prey. A vision of Sandra Cordeiro floated into her mind, a mother fighting back tears as she defended her son.

“Indeed. Due to the diligent work of my friend, we met his mother and found out a few basics about the young man. Any element of which should have been obvious to the police. We did the correct thing and brought the information to you. I fail to see why myself or Ana should be under any kind of suspicion.”

“Oh come now, no need for melodrama. The police want you to share what you know, that’s all. As do I, to be honest. You may remember I did make a point of asking delegates not to investigate by themselves or involve any external parties, especially journalists.”

“I remember and I followed your edict. I had no idea Ana was already on the trail. She reads the newspapers and when she found out I was representing Scotland Yard at the conference, seized her chance. You can hardly blame her. What else would a good journalist do?” Beatrice tasted her wine.

“Her doing her job is one thing. Your compromising the police investigation is another. Nevertheless, I appreciate your confidence and shall say no more about it. I’m assuming no one else apart from the three of us knew the boy was due for release?” Gilchrist looked pointedly across the room to where Xavier sat, fork in his right hand, gesticulating with his left.

The waiter placed two steaming plates in front of them. Beatrice inhaled, giving herself a second to think.

“Thank you. That smells delicious!” she told the waiter.

Returning her attention to Gilchrist, she added, “Not unless my room is bugged. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be flip. This is not a Bond movie. Bon appétit.”

“Bon appétit. No, it’s not a Bond movie. Real life is far more dramatic. If the general public knew half of what goes on in our world, they wouldn’t believe it.”

“If the general public knew half of what goes on in our world, they’d die of boredom. Let’s face it, Commander, ninety percent of what we do is dull and dreary paperwork. About as gripping as watching stains dry.”

Gilchrist cut his pork into small strips. “Oh I don’t know. You’ve had a few adventures yourself, so I hear. Ever thought of putting your escapades on paper?”

On paper? Beatrice chewed, shaking her head with emphasis, trying to control her amusement. He must have heard the rumour and was doing exactly as she had been instructed to do by Ranga. Sniffing, trying to find out who was writing that book. However, he was rather less than subtle.

The waiter topped up their glasses.

Ranga’s words echoed in her mind. In your shoes, I’d be unimpressed and under awed. She swallowed and responded to her host’s question, consciously casting a lure. Patience, Beatrice, is the angler’s friend.

“Oh God, no. Sharing some of the situations I’ve encountered would result in calls for my resignation as a result of gross incompetence. No, I think the old adage holds true. Everyone may well have a book in them, but most of them should stay there. Unless of course it’s question of sharing practical knowledge and expertise, like Samuel Silva. His work I would have loved to read. It’s a real shame.”

“How do you know what he was writing?”

Beatrice dabbed her mouth to hide a smile. The fish approaches the hook.

“He told us at dinner on Friday night. That’s one of the reasons I switched sessions on Saturday. He was so fascinating on the subject, I had to hear more. It pains me to think he won’t be able to finish it. Oh, this is a super combination, don’t you think? I’d never have paired pork with seafood, but it works a treat. And you were right about the wine. Perfection!”

Gilchrist nodded with a hum of assent but said nothing. Moments passed as they continued eating and Beatrice was considering throwing out another worm when Gilchrist put down his knife and fork.

“Yes indeed, Portuguese cuisine is underrated. This place was an inspired choice, if I say so myself. As for Silva, I always found him rather dry. Great on science but not much of a one for entertaining stories. My view is whether you’re expounding a theory or spinning a yarn, you have to draw the reader in.”

Either the man was feigning literary ambition or trying to trip her up. Reel him in sideways. No sudden movements.

She took another sip of wine. “I’m sure you’re right, Commander. I know nothing about his writing, but he was one of the best speakers I ever heard. I wonder how far the two skills cross over.”

“Depends what you’re writing, I suppose. Presenting slides and statistics must be pretty similar to writing a textbook. Creating a full-length narrative based on fact is a wholly different proposition. Have you read Rimington’s stuff?”

“The fiction, yes. Very enjoyable. But I’m afraid I abandoned the memoir. Even if the thing hadn’t been so heavily censored so far as to make it moth-eaten, it seems impossible to me to write your own life story with any kind of objectivity. It would be a constant clash between facts and ego, surely. Not my sort of thing.”

Across the room, she watched as Xavier walked over to whisper something in Roman’s ear. She didn’t miss Roman’s meaningful squeeze of Xavier’s hand and the exchange of looks. Neither did Roman’s companions, judging by the good-natured nudges and winks around the table.

The waiters cleared the plates and presented something resembling a Yule log. Beatrice accepted a portion but excused herself briefly for two reasons. She wanted Gilchrist to stew and come to the boil. She also needed to check her phone.

Ten emails in her inbox and three messages awaited.

Matthew: Still no news of Luke. Wish you were here. Mx

Dawn: Mr Leon Charles is very interesting. Emailed with detail

Ana: Arrived Paris CDG. RU OK?

She replied to each and took her time getting back to the table, composing herself and packing all these issues into the ‘Nothing you can do, worry later’ compartment of her brain.

Her chocolate salami was still there, but Gilchrist had gone. She had just picked up her fork and resumed her conversation with Dr Ruishalme when a waiter hovered at her elbow.

“Excuse me? Commander Gilchrist would like to see you in his office. Please will you follow me?”

Beatrice abandoned her dessert and companion with some reluctance to follow the young man through the dining-room. An uncomfortable sense of threat dogged her and she opted for an insurance policy. As she passed Xavier and young André Monteiro, she stopped.

“Gentlemen, I know I promised to join you for a digestif after dinner. I intend to fulfil my promise but first I have to meet the Commander in his office. I shan’t be long. See you in half an hour?”

Xavier’s expression showed full understanding. “We’ll look forward to it.”

Beatrice knew he had decoded her message and would act accordingly. He knew where she was going and if she had not returned in thirty minutes, he would come looking for her. She continued to the first floor and stopped at Room 1101, but the waiter kept walking.

“I think this is it,” she called after him.

The waiter stopped, surprised. “No madam, that is the Commander’s personal room. He uses a different room as his office, at the other end of the corridor. Suite 1120. This way.”

“Really? I assumed he’d have them next to each other,” she said with some disingenuity.

“He did two rooms. Unfortunately he found Room 1122 too loud to sleep, so changed his personal accommodation to 1101.”

“Oh, I see. How many nights did he spend in Room 1122?”

“Just the one, madam. Here we are.”

Gilchrist’s temporary office was crowded with police officers. Phones rang, screens glowed and a smell of stale coffee clouded the air. A small balding individual ushered her towards the central desk, where Gilchrist was ending a telephone conversation. His eyes flickered over her and he indicated a seat. Two young men in suits tapping at laptops on a sofa shifted sideways to make room without lifting their eyes from their screens. She spotted the hotel manager standing by the door, his expression concerned.

Gilchrist ended his cryptic conversation and addressed a heavy-set plain clothes detective to his right. How these men could ever call themselves ‘plain clothes’ was a joke. They were the most obvious plants you could imagine. Their conversation was incomprehensible to her but the effect was immediate. The detective made a hissing noise between his teeth and the uniforms dispersed. The laptop lads clicked their machines shut and followed, leaving Beatrice, the hotel manager and Gilchrist in relative silence.

“Marco Cordeiro died just over an hour ago. Internal bleeding,” Gilchrist announced.

“O meu Deus!” The hotel manager crossed himself and muttered a prayer. He seemed genuinely distressed at the loss of his casual worker.

“Yes, very sad. My condolences to you and your staff.” The manager shook his head in regret, wished them goodnight and left the room. Gilchrist continued, addressing Beatrice. “And in a further development, the murder weapon used to kill Samuel Silva has been found. It was in the compost bin behind the kitchens. A dishwasher-cum-dogsbody emptied the green waste this evening. The local detectives confirmed it matches their records and the case is now closed.” He looked rather pleased with the intelligence.

“And the people who killed Cordeiro? I presume the police are on the hunt?” asked Beatrice.

“I am sure they will be. But enthusiasm for finding a knife-happy thug who took out the murderer of a police professional may not be high on their list of priorities. Plus we now have Silva’s gun, dumped in a staff area, Cordeiro’s prints on the window pane and the watch in the boy’s bag. I’d say that’s our final loose end tied up. Sorry to abandon you in the middle of dinner. How was dessert?”

“It looked delicious. Why did you need me here, Commander? Seems you have it all under control.”

“Courtesy, DCI Stubbs. Given your interest in the case, just thought you’d like to know it is now closed, bar the paperwork. In the morning, I can offer your friend an exclusive quote, if you like.”

“In the morning? We’re still being interviewed despite the case being closed?”

Gilchrist looked back at his screen. “Not my call, really, but the local lads want to dot the Is and cross the Ts. Formalities, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Thank you for your excellent company at dinner. See you bright and early for the police interview. Goodnight Commander.”

She returned to her room and called Matthew. His voice was thick and slow, and he admitted to taking a sleeping tablet. She told him she approved of his getting some rest and called Will instead.

“No news, and there won’t be any till tomorrow. Adrian and I are staying awake though, just in case. I know Leon took him, I just don’t know why.”

Beatrice clenched her fists then remembered her emails. “I agree. I have some intelligence on Leon, for what good it might do. I haven’t had a chance to read it all yet, but I’ll do so immediately and forward it to you. This is confidential police data, obviously.”

“Obviously. Thank you. I have to do something. Sitting here drinking tea is driving me mad.”

“As soon as we’ve done our interviews tomorrow, Ana and I will travel up there and do whatever we can to help.”

“Good. We need you. All of us.”

Beatrice brushed her teeth and took a mood stabiliser. Her emotions in flux, she sensed an emotional downswing looming. Before she switched off the light, she set her alarm and pictured Luke’s serious blue eyes.

Keep him safe, please.