300 Days of Sun (27 page)

Now I could smell something. The interior was damp. Musty, too. It hadn't been aired for a while. Jackson closed the door behind us. The unmistakable sound followed of bolts being shot, then a scraping sound across the floor.

“Take a seat,” said Jackson. He took my shoulders roughly and backed me into a hard chair. “Right, a nice change of scene to help you to focus.”

“I never said I wouldn't help you, Mr. Jackson. You didn't need to bring me wherever this is.”

“I needed to show you I'm serious.”

“Please can you take this mask off my eyes? It's making me feel claustrophobic. I can't think with it on.”

Silence.

“Tell you what. I'm going to leave you for a while. To concentrate your mind.”

“But what do you want me to do?”

His answer was the door opening and closing again. There didn't seem any way of untying my wrists, which were beginning to hurt as much as the cut in my right arm.

I knew my phone must be losing power, so I had to take the chance. “Please help me,” I said aloud. “Terry Jackson has taken me somewhere west of Faro. We came by car on back roads—­an hour maybe? I can't be sure. Not very long. It's a musty building. I'm at ground level. I'm blindfolded. My wrists are tied. It's very quiet, no cars or anyone around.”

The black silence seemed to engulf me, the worst kind of sleepless night. Minutes stretched into—­I don't know how long. Perhaps I did go to sleep after all.

When I came to, I said it all again, several times, even though I was sure it was hopeless. I was just repeating the loop again, wondering whether I was going mad, when I thought I heard something. I stopped to listen, holding my breath. It wasn't Jackson returning. It was further away than that.

‘”I think . . . that was a horse neighing.”

The penny dropped. “I'm at The Lucky Horseshoe at Vale Navio.”

I
t was a very long night. I assumed it was night because it was cold in the damp building. Jackson had obviously decided to let me stew. The chances of anyone coming past his abandoned business were slim. Even if I screamed, in the unlikely event of anyone hearing me, they would assume it was one of the Vale Navio squatters or other undesirables, and steer clear.

I was hungry and very thirsty now. Feeling quite weak, too, though spurts of anger cut through my lethargy. I must have been dozing when the locks on the door rattled.

“Terry?” I called. I'd decided I had to behave as if we were friends, and I was going to do whatever it took to get him whatever the hell it was he wanted.

Footsteps came across the floor. It certainly sounded as if the space was big enough for a holiday bar.

“In a more helpful mood today, I hope?”

“Yes.”

“I brought you some breakfast.” The rustle of a paper wrapping was enough to make me salivate. “But first things first, eh?”

Jackson pulled up a chair.

“Now, I thought we could take another little trip together today. But first I need to make sure your friend is still in Lisbon.”

“Please can I take the mask off—­and I desperately need to go to the loo—­”

“Tut, tut. Very demanding. I thought we were going to have a nice chat before you reverted to type.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“That's better. As I say, we are going to go up to Lisbon and you are going to show me where our boy is. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“You know where you left him?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now we're getting somewhere.”

Jackson released my numb hands, which refused even to tingle for a worryingly long time, and then flicked back the eye mask. I forced myself to look him in the eye and thank him.

I was right. We were in the middle of what had once been a bar. Empty bottles stood to attention on shelves. Broken chairs and tables were stacked haphazardly. Windows were boarded up and there was evidence of an alarming leak from the ceiling.

The erstwhile landlord tossed me a custard tart in a paper bag and I was about to eat it when I remembered how Ian Rylands died. “Sorry,” I said. “Lactose intolerant. I'll be ill if I eat this.”

He stared me down, and then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He snatched it back and ate it himself as my stomach growled.

“Loo, please,” I said. “It's either here or in the car.”

He had just agreed, when there was a bleep from my bag. My mobile was warning me it needed recharging.

“What's that?” he asked.

I tensed for whatever repercussions were going to follow. Just then, there was an almighty shattering of wood and glass. An explosion of smoke. Shouting figures burst in. I was grabbed from behind, unable to give more than a squeak of protest as the breath was knocked out of me. It was only when I was clutched protectively to a black-­clad chest and rushed outside through a side door hanging off its hinges that I realised it was the police.

Two men got out of a police car waiting around the corner and ran towards me. They were Eduardo Walde and Nathan.

“Thank you, thank you . . .” I didn't know what else to say as I fell on them. I felt as if I was going to collapse.

“What's happened to your arm—­are you okay?” asked Nathan.

“It's nothing. Looks worse than it was—­I think Jackson had a knife, but it's not much more than a scratch. He won't be done for attempted murder,” I joked feebly.

“Very brave,” said Eduardo.

“Maybe a bit too brave,” said Nathan, as I clung to him for support. He held the back of my head and pressed me tightly to him. “Bloody hell, Jo . . .”

“Did it work? Did you get my call? I tried to call one of you but all I could manage was the log—­last number dialled . . .”

Nathan nodded. “It came through to me. You cut out quite quickly, but I heard you going along the street talking to him. God, I'm proud of you.” He held me tightly.

“And Nuno called me, after you went into the Aliança,” said Eduardo. “As soon as the barman gave us a description of the man you were with, we came racing down here. I'm sorry we had to waste time, but we had to get the police on board.”

“But if my mobile cut out—­how did you know where I was?”

“I knew. I just knew,” said Nathan. “The Lucky Horseshoe was always where he hung out.”

“Wasn't it too obvious a place to hide me?” I couldn't understand why Jackson had been so unimaginative.

“Only to those who know him of old,” said Eduardo grimly.

They both helped me walk to the police car. Jackson was being shoved pretty roughly into another. For once I didn't know quite what to say to Nathan. I was still in shock, still processing the implications of what Jackson had said about the Walde boy being murdered not long after he was abducted.

 

v

T
his time when the police took my statement, I had the formidable Fausto Ribeiro at my side to ensure I wasn't kept for longer than necessary. The detectives' focus was now on Jackson and his associates among the Himmelreich family, the murder of Ian Rylands, and the relevance of a child disappearance case that had never been solved.

“Jackson was protected by the Himmelreichs for years, ever since he spirited the Walde child away to Malaga to be adopted in England,” said Ribeiro. “But no longer. Ever since the Stern case, when too many questions have been asked about children who have disappeared in this part of Portugal, Jackson has had to protect himself the best he could.”

“I hope he has a long and uncomfortable night ahead of him,” I said. It seemed only just.

When I was free to go, Eduardo insisted that I come back to Cascais. I accepted. I hadn't been looking forward to going back to the studio on my own.

All I wanted was a bath and a sandwich and to go to bed when we arrived back at Carolina's house. Nathan was gently solicitous and concerned. I assured him I was fine, only exhausted. But for once, I felt uneasy with him. Had Jackson told me the truth about Nathan, or was he trying to confuse me? I couldn't think about it anymore. One thing was certain, I didn't want to be the messenger of bad news. Either way, the results of the DNA test would tell the family. I slept fitfully, waking each time to vivid, absurd dreams. I was amazed to find it was almost eleven when the light warmed me and I looked at my watch. Even then I didn't get up until Nathan put his head round the door.

“How are you?”

“Good, thanks. You?” I didn't really need to ask. He seemed recharged, glowing with happiness, his lovely face no longer carved to the bone, the shadows gone.

He came and sat on the bed. “Relieved. Guilty at what I've put you through.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“No, but—­”

He reached out to me in a way I now recognised. My physical desire for him was heightened by the knowledge that what we both wanted to do, to make the world recede until it was just the two of us, skin on skin, would have been an impropriety at this moment in his mother's house. He knew that, too, but I was touched by his need to reassure me that nothing had changed between us.

I steeled myself. “Tell me, did you get the DNA results?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“All good.”

“Rafael?”

“Yes. It feels . . . I don't know . . . weird. But good.”

“Well . . . thank God for that.”

“Carolina has been . . . well, you can imagine.”

“Yes.” I had the strongest feeling I couldn't leave it there, though. Everything we had done so far had been about ­finding the truth, all of it. “Were you there, when the medics ­announced the results?”

“No. The clinic called Eduardo. He told me.”

“It must have been quite a moment.”

“It certainly was.” He paused. “What you did . . . with Jackson . . . you are pretty amazing, you know.”

“It was the last stupid risk I want to take for a while,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It will be good to finally know exactly what happened. Now the police have Jackson.”

“If he tells them.”

“Are you OK, Jo? You sound a bit funny.”

“Just . . . processing everything, you know.”

He looked hurt, so I gave him a peck on the cheek. He was so very beautiful, with that curious vulnerability, I thought sadly. No wonder the Waldes wanted to claim him, no matter what.

I
couldn't shake my downbeat mood even after the best coffee I'd ever tasted. I knew I had to speak to Eduardo. I asked where he was and a maid showed me through dark green shutters to a terrace at the back of the house. It overlooked a courtyard garden prettily planned around a series of Moorish arches. Eduardo was tapping at a laptop on a wrought-­iron table.

He stood up and asked how I was. I smiled and said I was fine, thanked him again. All I wanted was to get it over with, to ask what I had to ask, for once and for all.

In the garden below, Carolina and Nathan—­I still didn't know what to call him; Rafael made me uncomfortable—­were talking, two dark heads close together.

“How are
you
feeling?” I asked Eduardo.

He didn't respond for a while. “As if everything has come right.”

“Has it, though—­really?”

“What do you mean?”

A deep breath. “Jackson told me the boy . . . didn't survive long after the abduction.”

“I see.”

The sound of Carolina's laughter reached us.

“She has suffered greatly, and now she is happy,” I said, searching his still-­handsome face for signs of stress.

“That is true.”

Another pause.

“You see, I was wondering whether . . . maybe . . . the DNA result that you all wanted so much was not actually the one that the clinic confirmed . . .”

Eduardo looked out at the luxuriant garden, lost somewhere in the middle distance. Then he shook his head. “Come with me.”

He led me into a sitting room.

A pair of antique prints on the wall showed maps of the world dated 1511. I remembered what he said about the Portuguese and their history; perhaps he was now claiming Nathan as the famous navigators had once claimed new territories. And whoever Nathan was, though there was a dead space where his past had once been, he still had a good heart. I couldn't blame him for taking this chance—­this lucky chance, perhaps—­to change his life. What he had been through could have broken a lesser spirit.

Eduardo went over to a wall table. He picked up a piece of folded white paper and handed it to me. The name and logo of a clinic in Lisbon was embossed on the letterhead.

“I'm not sure whether your Portuguese is good enough to understand the fine print, but,” he put a finger on it, “this line is very simple. ‘Nathan Emberlin, the given name on adoption papers, is the son of Carolina de Almeida Vicente.' ”

I closed my eyes. Relief coursed through my veins. “Jackson was lying, after all.”

“He had to try all that he could to stop Rafa—­and you—­from getting to the truth. The Himmelreichs will be most unhappy for the investigation to be reopened. As it is, let us hope that the consequences for all involved are severe.”

I felt slightly ashamed, but said in my defence, “You understand I had to ask?”

“I do.” He considered for a moment. “I am glad you think I possess such a ruthless kindness.”

He brushed aside any further awkwardness with a hand through the air. “Now, you'll be interested to know that I've just opened an email from Aloisio Gambóias, the detective in charge of the Rylands case. I've heard it said that to find out who has committed a crime, you first have to know how it was committed. And how poor Mr. Rylands died is very interesting indeed.”

“I thought they knew he was poisoned.”

“Indeed. But it was not administered to him in the glass of whisky found by his side. A puncture point in his back shows it was injected. And it is the type of poison that is so telling.” Eduardo paused, enjoying the suspense. “The residues and lactates in his blood were compatible with the hydrocyanic liquids used by the Germans during the Second World War. Cyanide, in other words.”

I exhaled. “Another lesson being taught?”

“Very likely.”

“So, again, it points to—­”

“The Himmelreichs.”

“But if nothing has ever stopped them before . . . ?”

“This time I think they have overreached themselves. Perhaps they no longer have their paid influences. Perhaps that is why they were so desperate to stop Rafa and you. This time, it will come out, I think. I hear that Terry Jackson has been singing to the police like a little bird in a cage while he awaits trial.

“And there are new vested interests. With the southern European countries suffering economically, Germany is being asked to play a major role in bailing out Portugal—­as well as Greece, and possibly Spain. But if Portugal is still sitting on gold reserves of dubious wartime origins . . . Before now the question of Nazi gold has always been shut down. In 1999 a European Commission report on Portugal's gold reserves found that the country was not liable to pay compensation for looted wartime gold. But the commission was led by a Portuguese ex–prime minister, so . . .”

“Interesting times.”

“Very interesting.”

“There wouldn't be any of the wartime gold left in the bank in Faro, would there?”

Eduardo laughed. “That all went to good causes a long time ago.”

“I did wonder whether . . . maybe some went towards the cost of buying Horta das Rochas after the war?” I had come so far that I might as well ask one more intrusive question.

Eduardo answered straightaway. “I believe Calixto Palhares did lend my father funds for the purchase. But it was not a great deal of money. Horta das Rochas was an unprofitable old farm in a very poor part of the country. No one else wanted it. And the loan was paid back as soon as Karl inherited some money back in Germany. Alva eventually had family money, too, from America.”

I felt elated as we went out to join Rafa and his mother down in the courtyard garden. I thought I might be able to call him Rafa; it suited him. He looked dazzling that morning, his face lit by inner radiance. It was mirrored by Carolina's expression as they stood admiring a bronze sculpture of a stork.

“Remember climbing up to the storks' nest on the old fort wall?”

I nodded.

He reached for my hand, and I felt a shiver of excitement.

“Whatever happens,” he said, holding tightly, “don't let go.”