Swan chuckled. ‘Not exactly.’ He then explained his actual role to the Portuguese officer.
Ferreira gave a confused nod of his head. ‘Ah, I understand. So, this man Danvers, who was found in your London hotel, you are convinced that it is the work of our mutual lady friend, señorita Menendez?’
‘The prints sent by your department match the ones on the banknotes. So, I would have to say “yes” to your question, inspector.’
Ferreira nodded. ‘That is good, we have had her on our files for quite some time. In fact, I knew her father, before he was interned at Peniche. I met her a couple of times, also. She was very young then. Her mother had just died and each month she would visit her father in the prison, right up to his death.’
Swan recognised this. ‘Yes, I read in the records you sent me, he got badly injured in a prison riot and the acting governor would not allow him to be taken to hospital.’
Ferreira nodded.
Swan continued. ‘So, I can imagine why his daughter would turn out the way she has. She was what, nineteen, when he died?’
The two men fell silent, as Janet cut into their conversation. ‘Which will be ten years exactly, tomorrow,’ she stated.’
Swan turned to Ferreira. ‘Do you think that we will be able to apprehend her?’
‘If she is here in Portugal, then we will close the net on her, but I am still very much puzzled as to why she has come home.’
‘Perhaps this was her last job, with a good pay off, and now she has finally decided to retire from the killing industry,’ Swan suggested.
Ferreira nodded. ‘Perhaps.’ He then turned back to Janet, smiling at her appreciatively. ‘So, you work with your husband, Señora?’
Janet gave her husband a curious look. ‘Yes, I think you can safely say that I keep him organised.’
Swan gave his wife a scathing, but embarrassed look in return. The police officer laughed loudly. ‘In Portugal, it is the husbands who keep their wives organised. I am thinking that English men are maybe weak in marriage.’
The rest of the journey consisted of Ferreira answering Swan’s questions about the country’s April coup. He explained to him that after it, the military had formed a civil police force as well as a judicial sector, the latter also being responsible for home security. Ferreira informed that during the Estado Novo regime, he himself was a member of the secret police. It was a time that he no longer wanted to talk about. Since the coup on 25th April, the former security police had been disbanded, with the more brutal members being interned and now awaiting trial for various misdemeanours they had committed with their principal power which had lasted over four decades.
Ferreira gestured to the spectacle of a large suspension bridge out on their right side. ‘This was the Roberto Salazar Bridge — up to the 25th April this year. Now, it has been re-named: the Twenty-Fifth of April Bridge. In fact, a lot of things have been renamed, with reference to Estado Novo.’
‘It sounds to me as though the Portuguese want to forget their past,’ suggested Swan.
Ferreira nodded. ‘You are correct, señor. But how can you forget forty years of political madness?’
Janet remained silent, studying two elderly women in long black dresses and headscarves as they picked carnations from a plot of grass by the roadside. Arriving at the police headquarters, she took in the white-washed two-storey building of which was the hub of the country’s law enforcement. She then noticed a woman in a sleeveless yellow dress sitting outside, smoking a cigarette.
As they all climbed out of the Corolla, Ferreira walked over to greet her, kissing her full on the lips, and as the British couple approached, he turned and introduced them to her. ‘My dear, this is Alex Swan and his lovely wife, Janet. They are here from the British security services in London to help me on a case. This is my wife, Estella.’ The woman greeted them with kisses on both cheeks.
Ferreira then suggested that she take Janet into the city to see some sites and do a little shopping. The two women then climbed back into the unmarked car and were driven away from the police station by the other officer. The two men watched as the car disappeared around the corner, then Ferreira turned to Swan.
‘Come Alex, before our police business, we will go for lunch at a café that I love.’
The café was a short walk from the station and lined with parasol-sheltered tables. Ferreira gestured to one of them and they sat down.
Swan picked up a menu, noticing that dressed crab was available and in many varieties. ‘I take it that the dressed crab is popular here then, Carlos?’
Ferreira confirmed and clicking his fingers, Swan watched as a waiter in an immaculately pressed white shirt and black slacks approached them, his hands already hugging a small black notebook and pencil. They ordered their lunch and the Portuguese officer recommended a glass of white port to go with it.
While they waited, Swan observed the streets. A red tram trundled by the café and he studied it as its passengers alighted, before the tram trailed off further down the road. More talk of the recent changes was exchanged by the men. Swan also wanted to know more about the political prison at Peniche.
He listened, as Ferreira explained the place to him, and in conclusion, the Portuguese officer came up with an ideological suggestion. ‘I tell you what, my friend, why don’t we go there tomorrow and you can see this place for yourself? There are also some excellent fish restaurants, where we can eat for lunch what was caught that very morning.’
Swan agreed, liking the sound of this, and to finish off their lunch, allowed his host to recommend a dessert of local pastel de nata cakes and coffee.
It was later in the afternoon that Janet walked into Ferreira’s office with Estela Ferreira, having also had lunch in the city and now sporting a new powder blue outfit with matching shoes.
‘Looks like you had a good time with Estella!’ Swan quipped, clutching her hand and giving her a peck on the cheek.
Janet spent the next ten minutes recounting her time in the city and then Swan explained what he had done following his excellent lunch.
Ferreira had given his guest a little tour of Lisbon, culminating in a short drive out in a marked police car to the famous Hotel Palicio Estoril, the notorious haven for spies in World War II. Swan had told him that, in 1941, Ian Fleming — while working for British naval intelligence, had played Baccarat in the hotel’s casino with Nazi spies, thus the venue could easily have been the inspiration for his first James Bond novel.
In the plush bar, with its brown high-back leather chairs, chequered floor and mirrored walls, Ferreira had jokingly ordered a vodka martini, asking Swan if he preferred it shaken or stirred, but noticing the acidic look that the Englishman gave him, hastily decided that his new associate should instead taste a vinho verde, Portugal’s speciality ‘green wine’.
On their return to the judicial police headquarters, they looked through an extensive file on Menendez, picking out various points of interest, such as her involvement with ETA and her suspected work for other terrorist factions, including the Shining Path.
It was early evening when the Swans were escorted to their hotel and, following nightcaps at the bar with the Ferreiras, eventually retired to their room, after a thoroughly exhausting day.
Chapter 13
Donovan Tremaine tapped impatiently on the steering wheel of his gleaming white Pontiac Firebird, waiting for the two black iron gates to open up before him.