A Small Death in Lisbon. Robert Thomas Wilson
the hill to the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Carlos took his jacket off and revealed a long dark stripe of sweat-soaked shirt.
By the time we arrived in the Institute the lawyer was using all his training to get what he wanted – the staff, however, were more difficult to impress than a judge. I left him with Carlos and arranged for the body to be displayed. An orderly brought in Dr Oliveira, who had removed his dark glasses and now wore the bifocals. The assistant drew the sheet back. The lawyer blinked twice and nodded. He took the sheet from the assistant and pulled it back to see the whole body which he inspected closely. He drew the sheet back over her face and left the room.
We found him standing outside in the cobbled street. He was cleaning his sunglasses endlessly and wearing an expression of extreme determination.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Senhor Doutor,’ I said. ‘I apologize for not telling you earlier. You have every right to be angry.’
He didn’t look angry. The initial determination had flagged and the confusion of emotions that had followed had left his face strangely flaccid. He looked as if he was concentrating on his breathing.
‘Let’s walk up here and sit in the gardens in the shade,’ I said.
We walked on either side of him through the cars, past the good doctor’s statue which rather than being imbued with the success of the cured was, in its pigeon-shit-spattered state, infused with the sadness of those who’d been lost. The three of us sat on a bench in surprising cool some distance from the pigeon-feeders and the coffee-drinkers idling in plastic chairs around the café.
‘You may be surprised to know that I am glad that you are investigating the murder of my daughter,’ said the lawyer. ‘I know you have a difficult job and I also realize that I am a suspect.’
‘I always start with those closest to the victim . . . it’s a sad fact.’
‘Ask your questions, then I must go back to my wife.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘When did you finish in court yesterday?’
‘About half-past-four.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘To my office. I keep a small office in the Chiado on Calçada Nova de S. Francisco. I went by the Metro from Campo Pequeno, changed at Rotunda and got off at Restauradores. I walked to the Elevador, took that up to the Chiado and continued on foot to my office. It took me maybe half an hour and I spent half an hour there.’
‘Did you speak to anybody?’
‘I took one call.’
‘From who?’
‘The Minister of Internal Administration asking me up to the Jockey Club for a drink. I left my office just after half-past-five and as you may know it’s only a two-minute walk to Rua Garrett from there.’
I nodded. It was cast-iron. I asked him to write down the names of the people who were with him at the Jockey Club. Carlos gave him his notebook for the purpose.
‘Can I talk to your wife before you tell her what’s happened?’
‘If you follow me back there, yes. If not, I won’t wait.’
‘We’ll be right behind you.’
He gave me the paper and we walked back towards the cars.
‘How did you know to come here, Senhor Doutor?’ I asked, as he threaded his way back to his Morgan.
‘I spoke to a friend of mine, a criminal lawyer, he told me that this is where they bring the bodies of those who have died in suspicious circumstances.’
‘Why did you think she’d died like that?’
‘Because I’d already asked him about you and he told me you were a homicide detective.’
He turned and walked across the cobbles to his car. I lit a cigarette, got into the Alfa, waited for the Morgan to pull away and followed.
‘What did you make of that?’ I asked Carlos.
‘If it had been my daughter in there . . .’
‘You were expecting more distress?’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘What about numbness? Trauma leaves people numb.’
‘He didn’t seem numb. The look he had on his face when we came out, he was galvanized.’
‘Concerned about himself?’
‘I couldn’t say . . . you know, I only saw him from the side.’
‘So you can only tell me what I’m thinking about when you look at me head-on?’
‘That was just a bit of luck, Senhor Inspector.’
‘Was it?’ I said, and the boy smiled. ‘What did you think of Dr Oliveira’s accountancy? The mathematics between him and his wife.’
‘I thought he was a bloodless son of a bitch.’
‘Strong feelings, agente Pinto,’ I said. ‘What does your father do?’
‘He was a fitter with LisNave. He installed pumps in ships.’
‘Was?’
‘They lost some contracts to the Koreans.’
‘Your politics might be to the left of centre perhaps?’
He shrugged.
‘Dr Aquilino Oliveira is a serious man,’ I said. ‘He’s high calibre ordnance . . . 125 mm cannon, no less.’
‘Was he a colonel in the artillery, your father?’
‘The cavalry. But listen. The lawyer has used his brain all his life. It’s his job to use his intelligence.’
‘That’s true, so far he’s one step ahead of us all the way.’
‘You saw him. His instinct was to check the body. His brain always operates in front of his emotions . . . until, perhaps, he remembers he’s supposed to have feelings.’
‘And then he leaves the room to go and collect them.’
‘Interesting, agente Pinto. I’m beginning to see why Narciso put you on to me. You’re an odd one.’
‘Am I? Most people think I’m very normal. They mean boring.’
‘It’s true you haven’t said a word about football, cars or girls.’
‘I like the way you see the order of things, Senhor Inspector.’
‘Maybe you’re a man of ideals. I haven’t seen one of those since . . .’
‘Nineteen-seventy-four?’
‘A little after that, in the mess that followed our glorious revolution there were lots of ideas, ideals, visions. They petered out.’
‘And ten years later we joined Europe. And now we don’t have to struggle on our own any more. We don’t have to sweat at night thinking where the next escudo is coming from. Brussels tells us what to do. We’re on the payroll. If we . . .’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’
‘What’s changed? The rich get richer. The ones in the know go higher. Of course, it’s trickled down. But that’s the point. It’s a trickle. We think we’re better off because we can drive around in an Opel Corsa which costs us our entire living wage to run while our parents house us, feed us and clothe us. Is that progress? No. It’s called “credit”. And who benefits from credit?’
‘I haven’t heard anger like that since . . . since FC Porto came down here and put three past Benfica.’
‘I’m not angry,’ he said, cooling his hand out of the window.