In September 1961, after deciding to quit the flying squad, he had been approached by Swan to join him. A new department was being set up, to handle service-related cases both military and civil, and to operate well a combination of experienced operatives would be required to run it. Gable had previously worked with Swan on cases as the Scotland Yard liaison for MI5. Instead of the retirement he had promised Annie, he was to take up this new mantle, ushering him into the world of espionage, subversion and counter-terrorism. When most ex-coppers his age would be pruning their gardens, or taking leisurely picnics with their wives along the Thames, Gable had found himself chasing Soviet spies across the continent, grappling with deadly neo-Nazi saboteurs and now chasing after a notorious female assassin.
He had known for some years now that this could not go on forever. There had been a few other occasions while sitting in this quiet office, he had taken the time to contemplate his future.
He sighed, then looked at the clock on the wall above the incident board. It was almost time to make tracks for home. He got up and walked over to the board and, taking a piece of white chalk, wrote the words ‘Café Royal’ and a line leading to the name of the killer.
He would give this some more thought in the morning. He wondered if his colleagues had made any progress in finding her.
Chapter 14
The next morning, Janet Swan looked out at the Atlantic Ocean from within the fort walls at the small picturesque fishing port of Peniche. She then turned to view a contrasting sight behind her, gazing at the oppressive white buildings of the former political prison, that for forty years had held men who had opposed Roberto Salazar and his notorious Estado Novo party; As she looked up, the barred windows reinforced her imaginings of the past incarceration of those inmates.
Beside her, her husband took in the sombre atmosphere of the courtyard. Hearing a gush of water beneath him, he turned to Ferreira, who explained the holes lining the walls of the fort, as the water rushed into them. As the waves came crashing in to the rocks beyond the wall, spray ejected up and through the vertical vents, to create a thunderous roar. To reinforce his explanation, he took the couple over to one of the raised grids scattered about the grounds and asked them to wait. In a few seconds, the sea could be heard hammering on the wall, then suddenly, a whoosh of spray shot up and cascaded over the grating. Ferreira laughed out loud as his two guests jolted in reaction to the plume of seawater. He gestured to them to follow him inside the main building.
As they entered, a guard checked Ferreira’s credentials, then listened to the judicial officer, explain the presence of the two people with him. Having grinned at Janet, the guard waved them through to the inner block.
Ferreira pointed out a map on the wall, indicating various areas of interest. ‘I think we will start our tour in the visitors’ hall.’
Swan allowed Janet to walk before him as they followed Ferreira’s guided expedition through the daunting complex of drably-decorated rooms. Swan started to imagine the place during the Salazar years. The guard they had met at the entrance had given them plenty of clues to the type of prison staff who had worked here. He could suddenly visualise how it was — in particular the sounds: the chanting, the shouting, and after the beatings, the silence.
They walked into the hall, and it was Janet’s turn to speculate on a different picture in her mind. The rows of loved ones, sitting separated from the inmates, desperate for a touch the glass screens denied. She stared at the small tables which, over the years, had had countless elbows resting on them as prisoners sat talking with their loved ones and wondering if they would ever set foot in their own homes again.
Ferreira took in her curiosity. ‘Señora, you seem to be lost in another time.’
Janet explained how she could imagine young Sapphira, first coming here when she was just nine years old to see her father, desperate to feel the warmth of his arms again and confused as to why she couldn’t. ‘I’m really beginning to see why the Praying Mantis turned out the way she did.’
Ferreira was the first to pick up on Janet’s remark. ‘Indeed, señora, she was still just a child when her father died here. But all that fury has enabled her to be what she is today — a cold-blooded killer.’
Swan turned to him. ‘What actually happened to Raoul Menendez?’
Ferreira explained the riot had been started by members of the Portuguese communist party, (PCP) following news that the principal of the prison had been called to Lisbon for a few days. ‘Left in charge, was the deputy principal, General Paulo Escovaro, a hard bastard loyal to Estado Novo, who was known for his brutal methods in dealing with the prisoners, especially when they spoke out against the party. It was just before sunset when some of the prisoners began to complain about their cells being too hot. They said they wanted to be placed on the other side of the fort, facing the Atlantic breeze. But, of course, this was all a diversion to distract the guards. A plan had already been made for a mass break-out, probably fuelled by the successful escape in 1960 of Álvaro Cunhal, the general secretary of the PCP and a few of his fellow activists, and just like that time, the guards on the west wing of the prison had been drugged.’
Swan raised a brow. ‘How on earth did they manage to do that?’
Ferreira smiled. ‘That was quite easy, my friend. You see, not all Portuguese people were loyal to Estado Novo, including the people that worked here as cleaners and caterers. So, as you can see, it was quite simple to slip something into the coffee of the guards.’ Ferreira continued with his story, informing them the riot had also been used to enable three more PCP prisoners to attempt an escape, among them, Menendez. ‘However, not all the guards drank coffee, so were able to contain the riot enough for reinforcements from the national guard to arrive from the barracks at Caldas da Rainha, and after several hours of small fires and fighting with the guards, the riot was eventually contained.’
‘So, what happened to the escapees?’ Janet enquired.
‘They were caught trying to board a boat rowed into the cavern beneath us. Menendez was suspected of being the ringleader and following his capture, was taken straight to Escovaro. After this, it was said he was given fifty days of solitary confinement, but rumours began to circulate that Menendez had actually been beaten to death on the night of the riot — a killing supervised by Escovaro.’
Janet placed her hand over her mouth. ‘What a terrible tale.’
‘A terrible tale for terrible times, Señora,’ added Ferreira.
Janet suddenly had a thought. ‘So, ten years ago today, the authorities secretly carried out the body and then covered up the situation?’
Ferreira nodded.
‘And I suppose this deputy governor got away with it?’ Swan asked.
‘That is correct, Alex. In fact, he has been the mayor of Obidos for the last four years.’ Ferreira looked at his watch. It was two minutes to midday. ‘And has just been appointed for another four years, in a ceremony held this morning.’ The officer chuckled to himself. ‘But it is what will happen after the ceremony, that he will be looking forward to much more.’
Swan shot Janet a puzzled look. ‘And what might that be?’
‘Senior Escovaro has a little habit, something he likes to do after every ceremony. It will soon be siesta time and there is nothing he likes more than to spend it in his hotel suite with a couple of whores.’