300 Days of Sun (11 page)

“Let's keep walking,” said Rylands. “It looks odd for us to be standing here having a conference.”

Ours were the only human footprints in the fine sand; the only other markings had been made by birds. Looking northwards we could still see the high-­rise buildings of Faro and the hills behind, yet it felt a world apart. To the south there was nothing, a blue line that led to Africa.

“Terry Jackson,” Nathan prompted brusquely. “Do you know him?”

“I have never met Mr. Jackson. I know of him.”

“Go on.”

I held back from interrupting, waiting to hear what Rylands had to say.

“What most ­people know of Terry Jackson is that he is the owner of various businesses in and around Albufeira, none of which have ever been more than moderately successful. Several have gone under. There is a suspicion that none of this matters very much as these businesses are not all they seem. I take it you understand my meaning?”

“Just spell it out, Ian,” I said, irritated. “And by the way, Nathan, this is not what he told me the night we met.” I turned to Rylands and looked him straight in the eye. “I asked you then if you knew anything about Terry Jackson, and you said you didn't think so. Those were your words. And you asked me why I was interested. I told you that I knew he had a connection to Horta das Rochas and Vale Navio, and you wanted to know what else I knew about him.”

I stopped there. I wasn't sure, but I had a sinking feeling that I might have provided Rylands with an answer—­an answer I had no appreciation, at the time, of its importance.

Rylands smiled. “You're right. Time for some straight talking—­from each of us.”

“You first,” said Nathan.

“Terry Jackson has criminal connections. We know that. Not just the connections—­he's been on the inside of some pretty big stuff,” said Rylands. “You don't go around the Algarve asking questions about him without word getting back.”

I shivered, despite the heat. When Rylands had spoken about being watched, I'd assumed he meant by the authorities. I surmised now that he was far more worried about the criminal element.

“So what's your involvement?” I asked him.

“It started with the Stern case. A ­couple of years ago I was asked by Leo and Karen Stern to conduct my own investigation into what happened to their little girl. Tilly was only three when she vanished and they kept her in the news, made her the highest-­profile missing child in the world, and still there were no answers. All official lines of inquiry were running out of steam and they thought I might be able to look at all angles. I was on the spot. I knew how the Euro-­authorities worked. The Anglo-­Algarve Association made a pretty good front for ferretting around. The Sterns still pay me a modest retainer.”

“The Association doesn't really exist?”

“No, it does. Let's just say . . . it doesn't do much and I personally am only interested in certain aspects of expat life here. I'm sorry to say that I have never managed to uncover any tangible new evidence for the Sterns. God knows, I have tried. But that is how I first came across Esta Hartford's book.”

Nathan fidgeted impatiently. “What the hell's that book got to do with any of this—­the Stern girl, Terry Jackson? It's just some wartime love story!”

Rylands silenced him with a glacial glare. “Joanna asked me the evening we met about the collapse of Vale Navio and the cases of child murder and abduction in the region that have never been resolved. She also mentioned Terry Jackson. So that tells me something—­that you are on the same trail as I am. Terry Jackson is central to something that happened after Esta Hartford's story ends—­but one step at a time. What I need to know is why are you two so interested?”

I struggled to regain my composure. “It's a story. I'm a journalist.”

“That might just have been believable, Joanna, if our friend here hadn't been so clearly involved.”

“He's my researcher.”

Rylands seemed to be about to challenge that, then decided to leave it. “I can only say again: we must speak frankly if I am to help you. Or rather, if we are to help each other.”

“And I'm sure you will understand why we are reluctant to trust you with any of our insights, Ian. Given your lack of candour with us so far.” I said it as much with the intention of warning Nathan against total openness as making the point to Rylands. “Why did you lie about knowing who Terry Jackson was?”

“Because I had no proof you were who you said you were! You could have been sent to set me up by an associate of Jackson's or one of the other players here. By anyone who wanted to know how much I knew, and how close to the truth I was getting!”

Nathan was clearly as startled as I was by this outburst, and the contrast to the usual measured Foreign Office tone. “Why are you so interested in Terry Jackson?”

It lasted a fraction of a second, but Ryland's hesitation was not reassuring. “He's the link between the past and the present.”

“Come again?” said Nathan. I could see that had rattled him.

Rylands turned to me. “Have you read the book?”

“Yes.”

“Have you made the connection?”

I stared at him, not wanting to admit that I hadn't quite, beyond the obvious. Esta Hartford's novel was as far removed from a dodgy wheeler-­dealer from South London as it was possible to imagine, but there was one name that had leapt out, towards the end.

“Horta das Rochas,” I said. “Terry Jackson had some kind of association there and with the tourist industry here.” I didn't want to say too much.

“He was also the owner of a bar at Vale Navio, The Lucky Horseshoe,” said Rylands. “Before it closed down, it was the place he used for meeting contacts and a bit of light money laundering. Plenty of strangers wandering in and out to camouflage the hard-­core regulars. He has an apartment in Albufeira, but he's not often there. These days he is only occasionally involved in money laundering, but he is protected by powerful contacts and corrupt policemen. There's a lot of that around here.” He spoke lightly, but the warning was implicit.

“There's a lot of corruption, full stop,” he went on. “And if you know anything of the history of the place, you can't ignore the way a great deal of the . . . unpleasantness joins up to give one big unpleasant picture.”

Rylands looked from one of us to the other. “I have reason to think that Terry Jackson played a part in the kidnapping of a two-­year-­old boy.”

Nathan swayed. I pretended to stumble, caught his arm and squeezed tightly. I was still not sure how far we could trust Ian Rylands and I wanted to prevent Nathan from saying anything he might regret. “A bit more serious than money laundering,” I said, exhaling a note of surprise.

Nathan seemed to understand. “That is not good,” he said.

“But you knew that about Jackson,” said Rylands. “That first evening, you asked me whether his name had ever come up in reports of the child abduction cases.”

I tried to recall exactly what I had said to him. I thought I'd been more careful than that. We had reached a small red-­and-­white-­striped lighthouse set on an embankment of rocks. The question was, how far could we trust Rylands?

Nathan must have been wondering about that, too. “Why did you try to trick me into meeting you at the Chapel of Bones and then not show up?”

“I wanted to take a look at you, to see who I was dealing with.”

It sounded like an honest answer. On the other hand . . . no. I decided Rylands couldn't possibly have made the link between the child and Nathan.

Nathan kicked a piece of driftwood. “Back to Terry Jackson. Are you saying that you found out about him when you were asking questions about Tilly Stern?”

“Yes. I researched as many old cases as I could of children going missing on the Algarve. There were several that happened in and around Vale Navio. His name came up, more than once, when I asked around.

“Look,” he went on, “there are the cases like Tilly Stern: a small child on holiday, an opportunist crime. I think it must have been a mistake to take her, unless the parents had some connection that we cannot find.”

“That's how some of their nastier critics see it,” I said, thinking of the abuse her parents had received for keeping the case in the news, hoping against hope for a breakthrough. “They think the parents were involved somehow.”

“For the record, I have found nothing to cast doubt on the parents' integrity. What I am saying is that in cases of child abduction, there is almost always a logical reason for it. The crime may be heinous, but it is rational.”

He paused.

“There is also the possibility, when a child disappears, that the child has been taken for sexual purposes.”

Another pause.

“This is a very distasteful area indeed. Sometimes the abuse of children in this vile way is about power and retaining power. The abusers are either blackmailed as a means of control, or a group engaged together in disgusting activities are bound in loyalty to each other.”

“You saying what I think you are?” asked Nathan. “Paedos and all that, like they reckon went on with some of the political scum at Westminster? Powerful men who thought they were untouchable? Kids in care who didn't have anyone to look out for them?”

“It wasn't only happening in Britain,” said Rylands. “You should research Belgium in the 1990s.”

Was he being sarcastic? I couldn't call it.

“Do you know about this because of your former employment?” I asked. How was it Will Venning had described him?
A disillusioned former Brussels hand, with nebulous links to the intelligence ser­vices.
If that was the case, he might have some very useful, if distasteful, information.

He dodged the question. “I get angry when I read the newspapers. I think more and more ­people feel the same. Something dark is happening. The old order is vanishing, and with it the old checks and balances. It's worse than anyone can imagine.”

“Including child abduction and abuse?”

“This is the way the evidence points, that is all I am saying.”

We walked across a bank of gold and white clamshells, all as hollow as any possible response.

“You can dismiss what I say, but don't forget that it was you who came to me, not the other way round.”

Nathan and I said nothing.

“Now, do you still want to speak to Terry Jackson?”

Nathan butted in. “You're saying you know for certain he's involved . . . in this? Have you spoken to him yourself?”

“Not personally, though I have suggested several times to the police that they question Jackson.”

“And?”

“Nothing has ever come of it.” Rylands remained implacable but his features hardened. “So, it's over to you. Do you want to speak to Terry Jackson?”

“I certainly do,” said Nathan.

“Well, I have a number for him and I would be very interested to know what happens if you call it.” Rylands produced a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his linen jacket and handed it over. “Will you keep me posted?”

Nathan gave a barely perceptible dip of the head.

“If you are going to get involved, you must be prepared
to . . .” Rylands hesitated, seeming to change his mind about what he was going to say before he addressed it to me. “Have an open mind, and be careful. Make sure you read the last part of Esta Hartford's book, and if you still want to know more, I suggest you contact a man called Eduardo Walde. You know the name, I assume?”

Nathan and I exchanged glances, shook our heads.

“Who is he?” I said, feeling ever more like a student who had been caught out trying to wing an important topic after an hour's cursory reading.

“Eduardo Walde is someone who has seen what we have been discussing from the heart of the matter. He lives in Lisbon, and he is Esta Hartford's son. Don't take it from me. Find out what happened to his family for yourselves. It shouldn't be hard.”

“Why don't you just tell us?” asked Nathan rancorously.

Rylands screwed up his face against the brightness, reconfiguring the dark patterns of sun damage. A fishing boat passed close to the beach, belching smoke as the engine stuttered. “For Mayer, read Walde.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Nathan took an aggressive step towards him. “I've had it with your fun and games, mate. If you've got something to say, just come out and fucking say it!”

“Nathan . . .” I put a hand up to tell him to calm down.

“No, I've had enough! Well, then, come on!”

Rylands was unmoved. “Oh, I tried saying it, believe me. There is more going on, all around us, than you will ever know.”

Nathan fidgeted by my side. “Right, that's it. I have had it with this.” He started walking away.

“I also know the significance of the name Emberlin,” Rylands said calmly, loud enough to stop Nathan in his tracks. “The question is, do you?”

Without waiting for a response, he, too, walked away, in the opposite direction.

“Ian! Come back, you can't leave it there!” I called after him.

“What the—­?” Nathan was a coiled spring. “That's right, you just fuck off, mate!”

Rylands pulled his shoulders square and did just that with some elderly dignity.

“What did he mean by that?” asked Nathan. “By any of it?”

“What did you do that for?” I countered. It was hard to know which of them to be angrier with.

“It was just getting stupid.”

I couldn't disagree. But as we watched Rylands' back recede up the wooden pathway and disappear, I was torn. Perhaps I should have run after him then, but Nathan moved off down the empty beach and I went with him. Waves broke on the shore and sprackled our arms and faces with sea spray. There were no beach loungers and rattan parasols here. The sun glistered. We sat on the sand, squinting.