300 Days of Sun (22 page)

“Show me another photo.”

I found one taken at O Castelo that did justice to his smile.

“Where is he now?”

“Faro police headquarters, I assume. The police said they wanted to interview him again about Ian Rylands' death. But if they say they have evidence, they are lying.”

“Did they declare him
arguido
?”

“Not in front of me. But maybe when they had him pinned down in the car.” I felt a jolt of fear.
Arguido
was a word known to anyone who had followed the Tilly Stern child abduction case. It meant “a formal suspect,” and it had been applied by the Portuguese investigating authorities to the little girl's distraught parents. If Nathan was now an
arguido
in the Rylands case, he needed help even more urgently.

“Okay . . . we don't know that yet. The first thing he needs is a lawyer.”

Nothing had been said, but I could tell that everything had changed.

W
e took Eduardo Walde's car, a chauffeur-­driven Mercedes, into the centre of town. He called someone on his mobile. The brief conversation sounded clipped. From the comfort of the limousine, the red suspension bridge over the Tagus loomed, giving a sense of grandeur to the estuary, then we turned away and left it behind.

“This is the Lapa district,” said Walde. “Quiet and safe, near the foreign embassies.”

Perhaps I should have been more wary of getting into his car. I knew nothing about him beyond what I had read and assumed. This was no small, barely consequential risk I was taking. This was a serious gamble. If I had called it wrong, the consequences could be disastrous, not only for me but for Nathan, too.

We passed several imposing properties with flags and ornate polished plaques before the Mercedes pulled up outside a modest yellow building with green shutters. It had a plain, modern façade with a Juliet balcony on the upper storey. The only other ­people in the immediate vicinity were the guards standing outside the diplomatic missions.

The chauffeur opened the car doors and Walde led me inside. He put his head round the door to an office, and said something to the person inside, then we followed a passage to a room with the air of a gentleman's library. “Take a seat,” he told me. “This is where I work when I'm in town. We'll have a coffee and then my lawyer will join us.”

Walde came round the desk and stood in front of the leather chair where he had placed me. I shifted uneasily. “Nathan Emberlin,” he said. “Did it occur to you it was a strange name?”

“I didn't think so . . . at first.”

“A name with a message, no?”

“I worked out that it was a false name.”

“But not what it meant?”

I could hear the echo of Ian Rylands saying, “I know the significance of the name Emberlin. The question is, do you?”—­his words carried away with the squeal of gulls on the wind.

Walde went over to one of the bookshelves and ran a finger across a line of office files. “Nathan—­from the root word meaning born. Emberlin—­a German name. Berlin.”

“What is the importance of the name?”

“I will tell you, but first I want you to tell me as much as you know about the man you call Nathan Emberlin.”

As succinctly as I could, forcing myself to keep my voice even, I explained how Nathan had come to confide in me, how he had arrived on the Algarve looking for answers to what he had found in his adoptive mother's possessions. How from the moment he started asking about Terry Jackson, one incident had led to another.

“And you believe what he says.”

“At first—­to be honest—­no, I didn't. Not really. It seemed like an incredible story. Perhaps one that he wanted to believe. But as I got to know him better, and became more involved in the story myself . . . it began to seem more plausible,” I concluded carefully.

Noises in the passage gave way to footsteps. A slight man, a blade of grass next to Eduardo's solidity, entered the room. The two greeted each other as old friends. “This is Fausto Ribeiro. Our family lawyer.”

He and I shook hands and exchanged guarded looks.

“We are going to speak in English,” said Eduardo. “I don't want any misunderstandings among us. First, I want you to tell Fausto, slowly and clearly, what you have just told me.”

I did so, looking from one to the other, trying to read their expressions. As was only to be expected, the lawyer returned the favour with interest, and then bent his head to write in a notebook. I understood, of course I did. They were right to be cynical. For all they knew this could all be a cruel and elaborate ruse designed to extract money, or to cause more pain.

“Have you ever heard of Terry Jackson?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

The pause gave it away.

“Jackson was a small-­time fixer used as a middle man by . . . certain elements in Albufeira,” said Ribeiro.

“Would you consider him dangerous?”

“Not really.”

“Are you sure?”

Walde cleared his throat. “What exactly do you know about Terry Jackson?”

“Only what I have already told you. He was involved in the deal that saw Nathan—­let's call him Nathan—­adopted by the Harris family in South London. Jackson may or may not have been involved in the abduction of the child. He was certainly the middle man. The boy was delivered to an agency in Malaga and Jackson arranged for friends of his to adopt him. He saw the boy from time to time as he was growing up. The boy knew him as a friend of the family.

“But now Nathan is an adult. His adoptive parents have passed away and he has come looking for Jackson, for an explanation of the adoption papers he has found. Perhaps the papers should have been destroyed long ago—­who knows? But Jackson knows that Nathan wants to see him. He even spoke to Nathan—­a phone call, and Nathan is as sure as he can be that it was him—­the day before we went to Horta das Rochas. Nathan went there expecting to meet him.”

I hesitated. “Jackson told him to go to Villa Eleven and that's when we found Rylands dead.”

“I see.”

“The police didn't tell you that?”

Eduardo extracted a large white handkerchief and wiped it over his forehead. “No.”

The link kept coming back to Terry Jackson, the one person Nathan knew. I thought of the sequence of unpleasant events, starting with the attempted bag snatch. “I think someone has been inside the studio where I've been staying, and there was a half-­arsed attempt to run me down with a car the other day.”

“You are sure? This was deliberate?” asked Eduardo.

“Who can tell? Now I'm wondering, is Terry Jackson well-­connected enough to have police contacts who could have set Nathan up?”

“Jackson keeps a very low profile. He used to own a bar, like a classic expat, though it's gone now. It had a reputation for trafficking North African immigrants, though nothing was ever proved, of course. Money laundering and fixing behind the scenes for his associates, too. He must have some useful police connections.”

Ribeiro asked only one question. “Have you told the police any of this?”

“No. Rylands' warnings about corruption and the way the parents of Tilly Stern were treated made me wary of them.”

The two men seemed silently to exchange thoughts. Had I said too much?

“Good,” said Eduardo. “Now show Fausto the photographs you showed me.”

As I swiped to find them again on my phone, Eduardo went to the far side of the desk and unlocked a drawer. He pulled out a folder, went through it, and removed some of its contents. “Look at this, and tell me what your first reaction is.”

It was a colour photo of a lovely young woman with olive skin. The smile, the set of the lips and the shape of the face were disconcertingly familiar.

“Who is she?”

“That is Carolina, my sister. And these,” he held out a clutch of photocopies, “are pages from the original manuscript of my mother's book that were not published in the 1954 edition.”

 

 

i

A
few careless minutes in a blood-­orange sunset, that was all it took to lose a child.

As shadows stretched from the rocks across the sand, the sea and sky merged into shimmering copper and red; it was hard to tell if she was flying above the water, or standing on air. Behind her, the path up led through the rubble of rocks to the garden at Horta das Rochas, to the wildflower meadows and bee orchids.

Alva shouldn't have allowed herself to linger in this dream state, but she treasured these moments of otherworldliness, needed to feel them and give thanks. The accidental nature of being caught behind a certain border at a certain time underpinned Alva's understanding of the world and her life with Klaus. In Portugal, one of the few places in Europe where their relationship could be understood, they had become opportunists—­and optimists.

She could smell the eucalyptus and warm resinous pine sap, could taste the juice of the first apricots they had planted. It hadn't always been easy, but they had done it. They had built a life here from nothing, a home and a business. They were good ­people, the Portuguese. Many of the older generation were quite uneducated. If they had to stop to ask the way, a village elder would have to find a child to read the name of the town as shown on the map. But they were unfailingly kind and courteous, and seemingly unperturbed that they had no part in a world increasingly governed by strange symbols on pages and signs.

The younger generation, who had toiled with them in the early months at Horta das Rochas, had proved loyal as well as hardworking. The old farmhouse was now extended, with twelve large suites and a breakfast room. Corrugated roofs had been replaced by tiles. Another courtyard had been added, with bougainvillea flowing over the walls, orange trees, and flower troughs. Modern iron gates graced the entrance.

She had made a leap of faith, and had been rewarded. One era had slipped over into the next, war gave way to peace, a marriage was lost and a new one gained: a second chance, a different life, the luck of the navigator who beached upon a new continent.

Alva called the children before she turned around. Within a few seconds, she felt a sticky hand on her leg, and glanced down to see her two-­year-­old daughter gazing out to sea, equally transfixed. She felt another lift to the heart.

“Time to go back,” she said.

The boy, older by a year, was over by the rock pool where he lay for hours staring at minute stirrings. It was only a few yards away. Not more than a few steps from where she'd been standing. But he wasn't there now.

“Where's Tico?” she asked, using his Portuguese baby name.

“Gone,” said the girl.

“He can't be!” Alva called his name again, starting to run over toward the caves. They both called again. No answer. She had been stupidly oblivious, when she should have felt the prickle of danger.

“Tico!”

“Tico!”

In the beginning, she had used her skills constantly: patience and observation, subtlety and guile. She had needed them, they both had. Vigilance was vital. When had she stopped being vigilant? How could she have forgotten?

They shouted across the beach, but he had vanished.

“Come on, Cara,” she said urgently, swooping back to take the girl's hand.

The wind-­carved caves were dark and damp. Their voices echoed as they called.

This can't be happening, she thought. He wasn't in the water; she would have seen him, the cove was so small, so private. He couldn't have been taken; they had seen no one else all afternoon. She turned on herself, tearing into her own stupidity and carelessness.

The sunset reddened as she hauled the plump toddler up the cliff path, stumbling in her fear and haste, still calling the boy's name. Shadows twisted in the wind. Up the rocky steps to the garden, across the drift of gold coin daisies, mocking in their gaiety, legs heavy with dread. “Klaus!”

No sign of him either.

“Klaus?”

Was anyone here? The house was drained of life. She spun around in panic, was about to run out into the grounds when she heard a groan. She stood still, trying to listen. In a scullery room off the kitchen, Klaus lay on the floor, clutching his stomach.

“What's happened?” cried Alva. “And where's Tico? Have you seen Tico?”

“The guests—­I thought they were guests . . .”

“What?”

Klaus was gasping for breath. He clutched at his chest and stomach.

“Who—­what have they done to you?”

“Beat me . . . two of them . . . I didn't recognize at first . . .”

How to tell him she had failed in her most important job, to keep the children safe? She felt sick and scared, as if she, too, had taken a punch to the stomach.

“Go after . . . go to him . . .”

“Where—­?”

Neither of them was making any sense.

Klaus hauled himself up on his elbows. “Call Dinis . . . ! We have to stop them. They have Edmundo!”

“Stay with Pappi,” cried Alva, pushing Carolina toward him. She ran outside, calling for the groundsman, running in the only logical direction, towards the path leading to the Albufeira road.

Dusk was closing in. Her sandals slipped on the stony track. Past sentinel stalks and seedheads summer-­bleached to shades of bone.

“Tico! Dinis!”

Gasping and lurching like a drunkard, she blundered on. What if she was heading in the wrong direction? Where was her boy now? Images shuffled into her consciousness: the inlets cut from the rocks by pounding waves, leaving secret caves and beaches; the sinister holes gouged from the edge of the land where the sea was a white rim of churned foam, waves roaring. The winds were unpredictable. The quick sea could change in an instant, from apparent calm to violent wave patterns crisscrossing and overwhelming the undertow. Not far away was the inlet known as the Cauldron, a deep noisy chasm clawed by the furious sea.

She turned around, called again wildly, and began to haul herself back into a run. Who were these ­people who had done this? What did they want? Or was it cruelty for sick pleasure?

“Dinis! Are you there?”

But it was her fault, too. She should never have taken her eyes off the children, not even for a minute. She couldn't move fast enough. It was as though she was weighted down. Her son. How she had longed for a child when she was married to Michael, and how the war had denied her the choice. When they left Rome she thought she might be expecting, only to find when they pitched up at the hotel in Paris that she wasn't. The joy, the elation, when her newborn son was placed in her arms, Klaus at her side. She could feel that joy still, pulling up through her body. She could not let this be the terrible, wave-­throwing, wind-­howling dead end.

“Tico! Dinis!”

Silence, roaring in her ears.

It felt like hours before she heard an answering shout. Dinis emerged slowly from the pines. At first she thought the groundsman was alone; but as he came closer she saw that he had the boy in his arms. He carried him so tenderly that Alva understood immediately. A mother knew. Her son was no longer alive.

She fell forward, feeling her face contort.

“He was left by the gate . . . like a foundling child . . .” said Dinis. He was a large man, a woodcutter in a fairy tale. His lilting Portuguese should have reassured her, but it could not.

Hands shaking, Alva scrabbled to touch her son, to take him in her own arms. He was still warm. “Tico! My Tico!”

Then, the miracle. The boy stirred. He was wriggling against her. She could hardly see him in the matte darkness but she could feel the life of him.

“
W e have to tell the police.” Alva still shook. Edmundo, elfin face ribbed with tears, clung to her.

Klaus seemed too still. “We carry on as normal. We have to.”

She loved him for his steadiness and stubborn practicality, but this was too much. “We must tell the police what's happened.”

“There's no point.”

“What do you mean, no point? What happened today?”

Klaus seemed diminished. “They have found us.”

“Who have?”

“This was a warning.”

“Who?”

“It was only a matter of time.”

Alva tried to console him. “They've gone now.”

“Dinis is sure?”

“He saw them off with his pitchfork.”

Klaus gave a short, savage laugh. “That won't protect us.”

“What is this?”

He looked at her steadily, as if judging how much to say. “We thought it was, but the war is not yet over.”

He had been so practical, so resourceful. So lonely in his growing fear, wanting to protect her. It was a shock to discover he had kept this to himself. The menace was not over; it lurked not in shadows, but in the sunshine. It was the mark of the man that he took it so quietly, covering his despair with hard work and faith that the world allowed for justice.

With Dinis standing watch over the children, they went out into the newly fallen night. The spiky artichoke thistles scratched her bare arm. Goat bells sang with the waves below but the sounds belonged to a simpler time. Klaus looked anemic against the yellow walls and abundant pink oleander.

“Do you remember you were once approached by a man outside the casino in Estoril who claimed to be a Swiss
businessman?”

She opened her mouth to speak.

He touched her shoulder gently. “Don't say anything. You know I was watching you, even then.”

Sweat trickled unpleasantly down her spine. Nothing felt solid anymore.

“His name was Manfred Himmelreich. He was an intelligence staff member of the German Embassy.”

“It was the night before you approached me on the esplanade while Michael slept off his hangover,” she said, remembering her fury.

“I despised Himmelreich,” said Klaus. “His trafficking of black market goods back to Germany, his cut of every transaction. The dislike was mutual, I need hardly say. When I had to leave Lisbon in a hurry, Himmelreich already suspected I knew more than I claimed about how the Nazi black market buying operation went wrong in Faro. He sent one of his associates, a man called Axel Emberlin, to hunt me down there in 1944. I shot him dead.”

He paused, as if waiting for her reaction. She said nothing.

“If I hadn't, I would have been dead myself.”

“I understand.”

Klaus pulled himself up taller. “It turned out Himmelreich was keeping it all in the family. Emberlin was a cousin. Equally vicious. The officer sent from Berlin to investigate Emberlin's death was Gerd, Himmelreich's younger brother. Each of them fanatical Nazis, well aware of the advantages of being in Portugal with the war turning against the Nazis.

“By 1944 the Germans were transferring all the assets they could to their embassies in neutral countries: looted gold, stolen art, securities, gems. Manfred Himmelreich has access to the deposits in Lisbon banks that need to be well hidden. They managed that, all right. It's quite a family business. They are very clever, Himmelreich and his brother, though they never managed to prove I was responsible for Emberlin's demise.

“Both brothers will escape trial for war crimes as Salazar continually blocks negotiations with the Allies who demand that Nazis in Portugal be returned to them. Hundreds of Nazis remain free to go about their everyday lives in Portugal.”

“But what has any of this to do with what happened today?” asked Alva.

Klaus considered, then seemed to overcome some reluctance. “Even before the war ended, the Allies' military intelligence warned it was possible that, with the large amounts of assets available to these Germans, there was a danger they would attempt to keep the objectives of the Third Reich alive. They also seemed to have the protection of Portuguese sympathizers and the State's secret police. But nothing was done. They called themselves the ‘Iron Nazis' and the Himmelreich brothers became leading members. They made what they termed the Lisbon Pact to remain loyal to one another and the wider objective of rebuilding German power in Europe. It would be achieved not by military means, but economically, using German assets of dubious origin. Much of it was looted from occupied countries, from national banks and businesses as well as property seized from the Jews. They used it to build up their business in Portugal as well as subvert trade and local politics. During the war they controlled the supply of black market goods out of Portugal and into Germany; afterwards, they subverted ordinary controls of trade across borders.

“Manfred and Gerd were so rich they took up permanent residence in the Hotel Métropole, from where they started buying up businesses, many of those with export potential. It was only a matter of time before they turned to the travel industry, especially on the undeveloped Algarve coast. Three hundred days of sun a year to be exploited.”

“And now they've found us.”

She waited for him to say something but he remained silent. “Are they just bullies? Will they go away if we don't react?” Their boy was safe. The relief made Alva believe anything was possible.

“And we live every day wondering what they will try next?”

“There's nothing we can offer them. That's what we tell them.”

Klaus shook his head. “They are ruthless, believe me: rich in assets; bankrupt of morals. But that is what has made the Himmelreichs so powerful. This was not a serious attempt to take our Tico. This was a threat. Nothing more or less. A threat to show what they could do if they wanted. To take what we value most. Believe me, I know the way their minds work.”

She wasn't going to argue.

The world outside their carefully idealized landscape was still rotten. In her happiness, she had allowed herself to forget that life could be tawdry and violent.

“Is it money they want?”

“There's always that. But no, I don't think that's what they want most of all.”