Swan smiled. ‘Every man, no matter who he is, seems to have his vices, doesn’t he?’ He stopped smiling as Janet aimed an angry stare at him. Suddenly, Swan’s thoughts were back to the reason he had been brought here. He looked at the empty chair, where countless relatives had sat in conversation with the prisoners. Then, he only saw one person, a young girl who each year, became older, wiser and inside her mind, more dangerous. ‘It is ten years ago today that Menendez died, isn’t it Carlos?’
Ferreira gave him a glance. ‘That’s right, Alex.’
Swan’s face became ashen white. ‘We need to get to this place. What was it called, where this man is the mayor?’
‘Obidos. The old walled city. Your own King Richard the Lionheart once stayed there on his return from the crusades. But why should we go there, Alex?’
‘Because I believe that the mayor’s life could be in danger. Where is this hotel?’
Chapter 15
Swan clutched his wife’s hand in the back seat of the police car, as Ferreira negotiated the narrow streets. At the sound of the approaching siren, people jumped out of the way to avoid being run down.
Ferreira addressed them in his rear-view mirror. ‘Alex, there is a fully-loaded Beretta in the glove compartment.’
Swan declined the offer to take the gun.
The car pulled up outside the hotel. As Ferreira jumped onto the pavement, Swan opened his door, moving quickly around the marked vehicle to meet him. He had gestured to Janet to wait in the car, and she watched as they both rushed inside, almost running into a tall woman in a flower-patterned dress, who had to sidestep them to avoid collision. ‘Please, excuse us, Señorita,’ apologised Ferreira, glancing back at her as he continued running towards the staircase.
Outside the bridal suite, Swan had already expected from the silence within that they would not find Escovaro alive. He suddenly had thoughts of his friend, Higgins, approaching the room in the Portfield Hotel to discover Danvers.
Ferreira drew his pistol as Swan followed him into the room. The scene before them was almost a carbon copy of the murder in London, except that, where Danvers was found at the foot of the bed, the recently re-elected mayor lay upon it. On the white leather headboard, the word ‘Peniche’ had been written in blood of which the men assumed was that of the victim, and his dead eyes stared up at the glittering crystal droplets of the chandelier, hanging above the bed. The other difference was that this victim had a bleeding hole between his eyes. He had been shot. But that was not the only evidence. Sticking out of his chest was the two-pronged murder weapon used in all of the previous Praying Mantis killings. The two men saw it as being a fashioned silver hair slide; the top of it formed as a bow.
Ferreira and Swan had then drawn the same conclusion. The Praying Mantis had claimed her last victim. The one she had waited for, for ten years.
Ferreira shook his head. ‘Nasty work, Alex. We were too late.’
Swan grimaced. He suddenly recalled the woman downstairs, the one they had nearly knocked over. Without further hesitation, he vaulted for the open doorway, and Ferreira — sensing his English colleague was on to something — ran after him.
Downstairs in the lobby, Swan stared at the door, then looked at his watch.
‘She has a four and half minute head start on us. The woman in the flowery dress, who we almost ran into, do you remember?’
Ferreira nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
The two men walked out into the sunshine and then stood, looking in both directions. To the left was the hotel car park; an attendant sat in the small white booth.
Ferreira walked over to him, speaking rapidly in Portuguese, then returned to Swan, shaking his head. ‘No one has gone that way in the last twenty minutes, Alex.’
‘Then, she’s headed into the town. Come on — we still may be able to catch her.’
Half way up the hill, he paused, realising he had left his wife still waiting in the car. He shrugged. In light of what had just happened, he was sure that she would forgive him for leaving her.
Further into the town, Sapphira Menendez walked at a pace through the crowds. Every few seconds she glanced behind her to see if she was being followed. On this very day, ten years ago, she had promised herself to kill Escavaro, to avenge her father’s death. Now, she had to get away. If those men who had passed her in the hotel were the police, things could now be difficult. She looked around again then lit a cigarette. As she stood exhaling the tobacco from her lungs, she glanced down the street, searching for an escape.
Swan and Ferreira had decided to split up and search the two cobbled streets running parallel from the hotel to the castle. Marching up the hill, the Englishman studied the faces of the women he passed, recalling the flower-patterned dress. A seed of doubt entered his mind. Had she managed to elude him, yet again? After all, she knew this little town a lot better than he did. Swan also knew that if this was the case, then there was a chance she could have disappeared forever. Leaving the ‘calling card’ murder weapon, had told him that this particular killing was her swansong. If she slipped away now, she would gone — never to return, as she began a new life away from here.
The castle stood proud at the top of the hill, but this was a dead end. She wouldn’t have gone up there, he thought. Swan turned, picking out a path leading down towards the perimeter wall, and dismissing the castle, continued along this path instead.
Further along the same path, his quarry was making her way to the old gateway. If those policemen were in pursuit, she knew this would be her only remaining route out of the town. She could then break into a car or commandeer a motorcycle. Contemplating her options, she checked the exits. Two to the right, one to the left. But how close were those two policemen?
Swan came to a junction, a small wall dividing the sections of path. As he turned the corner to stare down the sloping street, something had caught his eye. Standing out from the drab beiges, and greens being worn by some of the other people, a yellow patterned dress caught his attention. It had to be her. His intuition was confirmed when he saw the blobs of red — these could only have been the bold flower print on it. Swan could now clearly see the woman who was wearing the dress. She was tall and her long blonde hair swished from side to side as she moved through the crowd.
It was her next move that convinced him he had found her. She stopped and turned to look behind her again. The typical move of a cautious professional assassin — always keep checking your six!
On this occasion, she had turned, and across the chasm of concrete and tourists, spotted a man looking in her direction.
As they locked eyes, Swan knew that despite her wig of long blonde hair, he was now staring at the Praying Mantis, the beautiful, but ruthless killer of Sahid Al Mahmoud, Jeremy Danvers — and now, the late Paulo Escavaro.
The assassin turned and quickened her pace along the path then found herself stopping in her tracks. The other policeman from the hotel, the one that had almost collided with her, was walking obliviously towards her. She remembered the thick moustache and his dark suit as he smiled his apology on the hotel stairs. What would she do now, with her one exit now blocked?
She suddenly remembered the wall and its medieval path along the battlements over the gateway. Could she climb the steps and get across? If she managed it, it would be a straight exit out of the town where she would lose them through the tree-covered lanes. She grasped at the false blonde locks attached to her head. She had done the same thing many times, but now it was like the end of an era, acknowledging that her days as a professional assassin had were over.