I realized it was a question she had wanted to ask me for a long time. I thought of Luciana. I thought of Jamie with the ‘model’ on his knee at Eduardo’s party. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ I said, feebly.
Kate sobbed. I heard her sniff as she tried to regain control. I felt badly: she’d wanted the truth and I hadn’t given it to her. But how can you tell a woman that her husband has cheated on her?
Of course she knew.
‘Have you spoken to him about it?’ I asked.
‘Not directly. But he knows my feelings. I don’t like him selling his soul for some mythical million-dollar bonus. And I don’t like him messing around with other women. He’s not going to change, Nick. You know that.’
‘But he loves you,’ I said, and I really believed he did.
‘I used to love him. I still do. The old Jamie. But in ten years’ time he’s going to be a fat, crooked banker with a collection of slinky mistresses dotted round the world. And I don’t want to have anything to do with that.’
Her voice was heavy with sadness. Silence stretched across the thousands of miles between us.
Eventually she spoke.
‘I’d have been much better off with you,’ she said, and before I could reply, she had hung up.
Luís went into Banco Horizonte on Monday morning, and came back at lunch-time with a smile on his face. Nelson, Cordelia and I were sitting round the table on the balcony, waiting for him. We were all anxious.
‘Well, they’ll go for it. Banco Horizonte will be putting in a bid for Dekker Ward of twenty million pounds, subject to due diligence. KBN will support us.’
‘Good,’ I said.
‘I’ll phone Lord Kerton with our offer this afternoon.’
‘But it won’t bring Isabel back, will it, Papai?’ Cordelia looked gaunt and irritated.
‘It will buy us some more time, Cordelia,’ said her father, more soberly. Her comment had destroyed his brief optimism, replacing it with guilt that he had succumbed to his natural enthusiasm for a deal when Isabel was still in danger.
‘Did you find out anything about Francisco?’ I asked.
Luís sighed. ‘Not much. He is very secretive. But over the last couple of years he seems to have gained access to much bigger funds. He’s rumoured to have been involved in some major real-estate deals both in Brazil and the United States.’
‘Where’s the money coming from?’
‘Narco-traffickers, people say. And not just from Brazil. He’s supposed to have developed contacts in Colombia and Venezuela as well.’
‘That might explain why Martin Beldecos was murdered in Caracas,’ I said.
‘But no idea which particular drug gangs he deals with?’ Nelson asked.
Luís shook his head. ‘It’s all vague rumour. Did you hear anything?’
‘He’s been seen with most of the big players in Rio at one time or other. Any one of them could be holding Isabel. I’ve found out where he lives and works, and I have a man watching him. But he hasn’t gone anywhere interesting in the last two days.’
‘Anything on the kids who attacked me?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I spoke to a detective who was involved with the case. He had a hunch that the attack was more than just a mugging, that it was planned. No one was talking in the favela, and my contact got the feeling that they were scared to talk, rather than that they just didn’t know. The police were under pressure to keep it simple. A mugging gone wrong was bad enough. It would not look good if a foreign businessman had been injured in some drug-related stabbing on Ipanema beach.’
‘So it looks as if Nick was right,’ Luís said. ‘There is a connection between the attacks on Martin and him, and Isabel’s kidnapping.’
Nelson nodded, his round orange face grim. ‘Francisco is behind this, there’s no doubt in my mind at all.’
Luís slammed his hand on the table rattling the plates and glasses that had been set for lunch. ‘OK, but now we know that, is there nothing we can do?’
‘All we can do is try to find out where Isabel is being held,’ said Nelson calmly.
Maria brought lunch out on to the balcony — steak and a salad. We munched through it in silence, each wrapped up in our own thoughts. I shared Luís’s frustration. If we knew Francisco was responsible for Isabel’s kidnapping, surely there must be something we could do. I could see there was no point in going to the police without proof. Talking to them had almost got Isabel killed. And I could see that confrontation was a waste of time, Nelson was right. But what about negotiation? Suddenly, I had an idea.
‘We could talk to Francisco,’ I said.
28
We drove up a steep, winding road, Luís’s car shuddering over the cobbles. On either side, behind wrought-iron gates and walls dripping with flowers and greenery, stood colonial mansions, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Behind us stretched Guanabara Bay, above us hovered the statue of Christ, brushed by wisps of cloud.
‘These houses must have cost a bit,’ I said.
‘You’re right,’ said Luís. ‘Santa Teresa is one of the most expensive areas of Rio. It’s where the ambassadors’ residences used to be when Rio was the capital of Brazil. Francisco must have done well for himself.’
There were four of us, Luís, his driver, Nelson and me. Nelson’s associate had told us Francisco was at home, so we had driven straight there. We passed a shabby Toyota parked at the corner of a side-road, and Nelson got out to join his friend. His anonymity was important to him professionally, so he didn’t want to meet Francisco face to face.
Fifty yards further along the road, we pulled up outside some iron gates. Luís’s driver spoke into an intercom in the wall. We were told to wait.
It took several minutes. An old yellow tram clattered down the road behind us, brown bodies spilling out from all sides.
Finally, the intercom crackled, a motor whirred and the gates swung open. We drove into a walled courtyard in front of a newly painted white colonial house with tall, elegant windows and ornate trimmings. As we emerged from the cool of the air-conditioned car into the warmth of the afternoon, I was almost overwhelmed by the scent of the blossom all around us, purple, blue, orange and white flowers draped over the walls and urns. Delicate blue and black butterflies skipped and danced beside our feet.
A butler opened the door and ushered us into a hallway, cool once again. As we followed him to a door at the far end, a boy of about seventeen scurried down the stairs, and rushed past us out of the house, giving us barely a glance. He was tall, gangly, and dressed designer-casual.
We entered a large, airy sitting room. In one half of the room was a big dark-wood desk, and some of the paraphernalia of modern office technology, and in the other was a suite of sofas and chairs. Behind them was a small garden and a stunning view over the city to the bay.
A moment after the butler disappeared with our coffee requests, Francisco entered. He and Luís spoke quickly in Portuguese. I was impressed by Luís. He had controlled his anger completely. He was relaxed and urbane, as though this were simply a social visit with an old friend. As they exchanged pleasantries I was unable to understand, I watched Francisco. He was about forty, a bit below average height, bald and heavy. I could see the family resemblance to Luciana. But the genes that had given her a voluptuous figure had made him merely fat. His eyes were almost black, like hers, and they were hard. He had her flashing white smile, but between his thin lips it looked more like a snarl.
I heard my name and the words ‘Dekker Ward’, as Luís nodded towards me.
‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Francisco in good English. ‘Please, take a seat.’
Luís and I sat down next to each other on a low sofa. Francisco sat opposite. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, opening his hands in a friendly gesture.