300 Days of Sun (26 page)

 

iv

I
went with them to Lisbon and picked up the rental car I'd abandoned. Eduardo insisted that he would deal with it, get it returned to a Hertz office in the capital for me, but I thanked him and declined. After the past few days, I wanted some independent thinking time, and an undemanding drive to Faro, on an underused toll road with nothing to hurry back for, was just what I needed.

I took it easy, listening to music on the radio, which gave way to a current affairs hour. It was all the same old: public anger, scandals, cover-­ups, the ever rising cost of living, unemployment, declining living and social conditions, discontent and distrust of the political elite. My Portuguese was good enough now to get the gist. I switched it off.

It was mid-­afternoon by the time I dropped the car at the airport. I couldn't think of any reason to keep hold of it now. The bus into Faro centre was almost empty except for a few travellers with luggage and some ­people returning early from the beach. The sky had gradually become overcast. I went straight back to the studio. I felt a few drops of rain on my face, as I fumbled for the keys. The red main door on the Rua da Misericórdia swung open as usual. My footsteps echoed on the stone stairs. It seemed a long time since I was last here.

A cup of tea, that's what I wanted. I remember imagining the comfort of its taste and steam as I put the key into the lock and pushed open the door. The studio looked a lot more untidy than it should have been. This time there was no room for doubt.

“You took your time.”

The voice came from the wall behind the door. I froze. I should have slammed the door and run back down the stairs but I wasn't quick enough. The door was kicked shut behind me and a small man with receding red hair stood in front of me.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked.

He gave a smirk. “I think you know who I am.”

“I really don't. I want you to get out, whoever you are.”

He remained stock-­still. The threat was real. He may not have been all that tall but he was strong and wiry. The rolled-­up shirtsleeves showed the muscles on his forearms.

Another offensive smirk. “You've been trying to find me. Now you have.”

Terry Jackson sprang forward, knocking the breath out of me. I was up against the wall with his hand around my throat. His white, freckled face was close to mine. “You have no idea who you are dealing with. I have got some very bad friends, you know what I'm saying? Unlike me, they have no manners. And they really don't know when to stop.”

He released his hand, though I still felt the finger marks on my neck.

“Where's the boy?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“The police had to let him go the other night, but he's not at his place and he's not here, so where is the little fucker? He wants to see me—­well, I'm here now.”

I tried staring him out, but when I didn't reply he came back at me, pushing his right forearm into my throat.

“I don't know where he is!” I cried. “He's not here.”

“Wrong answer.”

“He's in Lisbon.”

Jackson released me. “What's he doing there?”

“He's with the Waldes,” I said. “He's found his family. You won't get him now.”

“Wrong again.”

A shrug, as defiant as I dared.

“The Waldes are not his family,” he said.

“It's too late now. There's nothing you can say to stop him.”

“You believed all that bull, did you? Haven't you worked out yet that bloke of yours is a waste of space?”

I knew I had to stay calm.

Jackson sniffed, looked around and then back at me. “He's not the Walde boy.”

“The Waldes think otherwise.”

There was a long pause while he took his time lighting a cigarette, then assessing the burning tip. I hoped he wouldn't use it to give me burns.

“He's been lying to you, hasn't he—­to you all. Naughty boy. Like 'em younger, do you?”

I let the insult go.

“The Walde boy is dead.”

Again, I made no response, though my mind was working overtime.

“He was done away with more than twenty years ago.”

Could it be true? Did Jackson know for certain because he was there when it happened?

Jackson took a ­couple of paces across the room, sucking on his cigarette. The smell of it filled the confined space.

I had to treat this as one of those chess-­move interviews: act confidently, as if I knew far more than I did; offer a degree of empathy; appear to give good information of my own in return for answers; show independence, not blind loyalty. And my initial response was genuine enough.

“Seriously—­he's been lying about all of this?”

“Pants on fucking fire.”

I didn't know what to believe. But I was beginning to understand why Jackson had tracked Nathan down to Faro to find out what kind of threat he posed, and to deal with him, whether the boy had survived after he was taken, or not. The last thing he wanted was for the twenty-­year-­old Walde case to be stirred up again by the son of an old acquaintance.

Jackson watched me carefully. “I expect you'd like to have a word with him now, eh?”

Too right I would.

“So the boy's in Lisbon. Where in Lisbon?”

I started to walk over to the window, but he pushed me back, hard. I pictured Nathan with Carolina and Eduardo at the Fortaleza do Guincho and felt sick. We had all so badly wanted his story to be true. Even looking at the photographs, it had been possible to convince ourselves that there was a family resemblance.

“I can tell you,” I said, standing my ground. “But first I want to know something. Ian Rylands. Why was he killed?”

“He was way too interested in things that didn't concern him. The resorts, the ­people who ran them, what went on in the war . . .”

“Who killed him?”

“He killed himself by refusing to give up.”

As I thought. Jackson knew. Maybe he did it himself. Up till then I hadn't wanted to admit that Jackson was capable of doing me serious harm. I wondered if I could use my mobile to get help, but there was no chance of making a call.

He must have read some of this on my face. Jackson held out a surprisingly small hand. “Phone. Now.”

I blanked him.

“Now!”

My bag was still hanging from my shoulder. I delved inside it, for the pocket where I always kept it to hand. “It always gets lost at the bottom,” I said, pretending to rummage. I found my phone and switched it on. I don't know what I thought I could achieve. Sending a text was out of the question. I swiped the screen, pressed the phone log and held my finger on the first contact, the last number dialled. “It always falls to the bottom. Big bag.”

Jackson advanced. “Give it here.”

“I'm trying to find it!” I shouted. I stopped scrabbling and looked up, hoping my phone had dialled. I couldn't think who it was I had called last, or even if I had pressed the name at the top of the list. “Patience, Mr. Jackson. Nathan is at a private clinic in the Rua da Misericórdia.” I assumed there would be a street of that name in Lisbon. It was the best I could think of in the circumstances to try to convey where I was and who was in the studio with me.

“A clinic?”

“For a DNA test. If you're right, he won't get away with it.”

Jackson grabbed my bag. I dropped the phone deep inside. He put his hand in but fished up nothing from the deep layer of old receipts, notebooks and pens, bags of nuts and scummy cosmetics.

“I must have lost it,” I said. “Flaming hell.”

“Right, you're coming with me. In fact, you can drive. Where have you left that heap of tin you hired?”

“Not far from the usual place.”

If I could only get out of the studio and onto the street, I reckoned I would be a lot safer. He obviously didn't know the Seat had been returned to the airport.

I pulled the door of the studio shut behind us, noting the lack of damage to the lock. More confirmation I was dealing with a professional. I waited until we were out in public. There were ­people around, but the ordinary scene seemed too quiet, unfamiliar. Despite the grey clouds, the heat and humidity were oppressive. Palm trees slumped and the boats in the marina were still.

“Was it you driving that car at me, the other day?” I asked. It seemed so obvious now.

“A friendly warning.”

“There were other, more polite, ways to tell me.”

Jackson held my arm firmly as we walked in light rain towards the Rua Dr. Francisco Gomes. Oleander petals were limp brown curls on the ground.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

No response.

“I think you're assuming I know more than I do,” I said to the well-­worn black trainers on Jackson's feet. “I've only just met this guy, and I only know what he told me, and if it's all rubbish anyway—­then, what can I help you with?”

“You can get him to come and see me. I don't like ­people who have no loyalty. I helped his family—­I helped him—­and what do I get for it? He comes out here and starts accusing me of all sorts. He needs to be told.”

“The Café Aliança doesn't look too busy,” I said as we passed. I prayed the phone was still on. “I could really do with a coffee before we set out.”

“You trying to annoy me?”

“I could do with a coffee—­and I think I might have left my phone in there.”

“Keep walking.”

“Just let me go and ask about my phone. If you want me to get in touch with Nathan, that's the only way I'm going to do it.”

Before he could pull me back, I dived towards the revolving door. He stuck with me. At the bar, João was polishing glasses.

I gave him an intense look, darting my eyes sideways to Jackson, and said quickly in English, “When I was in earlier I think I must have left my phone on the table.” I flung my hand towards a table where I had never sat. “When I was with Senhor Palhares. Is he still here?” I was counting on João to take the hint.

“I will go and ask. Wait here, please,” he said without a flicker of recognition.

Jackson was tense at my side. I could see he could hardly believe I had got him in this position. I could hardly believe it myself. I was getting used to taking stupid risks. “Do you want to get hold of Nathan, or not, Mr. Jackson?” I said.

But Jackson had had enough. I felt a sharp pain in my arm, as if it had been cut with the tip of a knife, and then he wheeled me round roughly and pulled me towards the door.

“Not another word,” he said.

My arm felt wet. I had a feeling it was blood but couldn't check because Jackson was holding on to me so closely. We bumped together through the revolving door and out into the street again. He muttered under his breath and marched me towards the street where I used to leave the car.

“Where is it?” he snarled.

“What?”

“Do you want to get hurt? The car!”

“I gave it back. Didn't think I would need it again.”

Jackson looked around. Then dug his fingers into my arm where it hurt. “Don't move an inch.” I only cried out when I saw the blood spreading.

Within a minute, he had broken into another parked car, yet another anonymous small white vehicle. He made it look so easy. Anyone seeing it done would have thought he had the keys, not a clutch of small metal prongs. He opened the passenger door and pushed me into the seat, locking the door before going round to the other side. The engine gunned and he put his foot down.

“Where are we going?”

“Just shut up, now. I've had enough of you.”

We headed west out of Faro, in the direction of the airport but avoiding the main road. I held my arm tightly, hoping the bleeding would stop soon. I felt as if I was outside myself, watching as reality distorted.

The car swerved into a housing estate of high-­rise blocks so suddenly that I felt nauseous. We pulled up sharply at a kerb and I expected to be told to get out. Jackson left the engine running as he opened the glove compartment and rummaged through the contents. The only item that interested him was a rag, perhaps for cleaning the windscreen. He shook it out, and said, “Come here. Lean forward. Arms back.” Then he tied my wrists together behind my back. “Do you want to go in the fucking boot?” he shouted when I resisted. The material was stiff and scratchy. Then, from his pocket, he produced an eye mask, the kind you get on long-­haul flights, and put it on me. “Now put your head to one side and pretend you're asleep.”

The car pulled away. After a while the road became uncomfortably pitted, which told me we were keeping to the back routes. He can't have wanted me and my eye mask to be spotted. We bounced around for some time. It felt like forever, and all the time I was trying to work out how to find out where we were and saying it out loud in the fading hope that my phone was still live.

But I didn't know where I was, or where we were heading.

T
he car stopped. The engine died. I heard Jackson open the driver's door, slam it shut, and then his footsteps around to my side. He wrenched the door open and reached in to get me on my feet.

“Why won't you tell me where we are? I thought you wanted me to help you?”

“When I'm ready.”

We stumbled along together, my bag having slipped from my shoulder and swinging from my bound wrists. I made harder work of walking than I needed to, in a vain attempt to make him take the mask off my eyes. Wherever we were, it was very quiet and he can't have been concerned that anyone might see us. Underfoot, the path was uneven. I tripped a ­couple of times and he stopped me from falling with an iron grip. I tried to register any sounds or smells that might give me a clue to our whereabouts but there was nothing, not even the cry of a seabird.

I bumped into a solid wall, painfully scraping my cheekbone. Jackson laughed. I heard a light metal jangle and what sounded like a lock being released. A door opening. I was pushed inside.