300 Days of Sun (21 page)

 

ii

A
ccording to the online route-­finder, it would take three and a quarter hours to cover the two hundred and seventy-­eight kilometres between Faro and Lisbon, almost all by motorway. I asked Nathan if he wanted to drive, but he was happy to let me. That suited me. It wouldn't be a scenic route through the Alentejo region, just the fastest way.

The next morning we were up and drinking coffee by seven and left my studio before half past. The car didn't seem to be quite where I thought I'd left it, but even so, by eight we had managed to buy a motorway toll card at the airport. Nathan was in reflective mode, but navigating with helpful amounts of notice before turnings were expected. We were a good team.

We followed the signs for Norte e Oeste A22-­Loulé-­Centro and began the swoop down towards the unmanned tollbooth.

“This had better work,” I muttered.

“Police car over there. At least there's someone to ask if it doesn't.”

I drew up at the booth and leaned out of the open window to read the instructions on the machine. “Seems fairly straightforward.”

“Looks like we've got help anyway,” said Nathan.

Two police officers appeared. One bent down to speak to me.

“Would you mind getting out of the car, please?” He spoke in English, which was an immediate tip-­off that all was not well. How did he know which language to address us in?

I gave them a professional smile to show we had nothing to hide. The officers did not reciprocate. Their faces were in deep shadow under the peaks of their caps, features barely visible.

“Both of you—­out.”

Nathan swore under his breath. I wasn't sure whether they heard.

“Take it easy,” I said softly. “We've done nothing wrong.”

The lead officer motioned us to stand away from the car and to raise our hands. The other twisted his cheek into his shoulder and spoke into the radio fixed to his shirt. Nathan and I were separated and patted down.

“Your names?”

We gave them in turn. Once again, Nathan reverted to Josh.

Then the other officer pulled Nathan's hands behind his back. As he did so, the first said: “Joshua Harris. You are being arrested. You must return to Faro police headquarters.”

“Arrested—­on what grounds?” I said shakily.

“We will speak to you again about the death of Ian Rylands.”

“What?” At last Nathan seemed to have woken up to what was happening.

“I'm coming with you,” I said. “Don't worry.”

“No,” said the other officer, speaking to us for the first time. “Joshua comes alone. He comes now.”

“That can't be right,” I said. “He hasn't done anything. We've told the investigation everything we know!”

They were already walking Nathan away. He tried to pull round to look at me, but they manhandled him roughly between them to keep him moving in the direction they wanted.

I reached for my phone, but couldn't think who to call. By this stage Nathan was being pushed into the back of the police car. “We'll get this sorted. Hang in there!” I shouted.

I panicked. Who was there to call for help? The owner of the language school? Nuno Palhares? The British Consulate in Lisbon? I had to get him a lawyer, but how to go about finding a good one?

The police car was moving, pulling out and accelerating fast. It passed me and I caught a blur of Nathan looking dazed in the back. I had to calm down and think fast. I needed to contact someone who had connections, who knew from the inside how the Portuguese justice system worked, and in my turmoil I realised I already had the meeting set up. Eduardo Walde. He was our best chance, and it would be easier to explain face-­to-­face. If necessary, he would be able to call his old friend, the political candidate.

I put my phone in my bag and got back behind the wheel. If the toll card didn't work, to hell with it, let them fine me. But it did. I slipped onto the motorway and headed north, foot down on the accelerator as hard as I dared.

At a ser­vice station I stopped to check how I was going to get to the northern bank of the Tagus estuary and the Padrão dos Descobrimentos, the Monument of the Discoveries. I found a guidebook in English and bought it and a bottle of cold water and some chocolate, which I ate quickly in the car as I flipped the pages.

The monument was across the river from the Jerónimos Monastery, I skim-­read. There was a photo of the three-­sailed ship's prow in stone, frozen in the act of setting out to explore new worlds, the nation's famed explorers joined by mapmakers and monks and cosmographers among the figures scanning the horizon. It could be reached via an underpass from the monastery gardens, though I imagined the river would be wide there. That could be a backup plan, but only if I couldn't park any closer.

I decided to make for the Avenida Brasilia. From the picture in the guidebook there was a small marina to the left with what looked like a car park. I snapped the guidebook shut and restarted the engine. Not too far now: the A2 motorway crossed the Tagus on the Ponte 25 de Abril bridge, then I needed to take the first exit that allowed me access to the road along the northern embankment.

N
ot far from the monument, I spotted an Italian restaurant with a car park. I pulled in feeling slightly sweaty and infinitely relieved. Traffic on the main road roared in my ears. I took a sip of water and let myself lean back in my seat. I closed my eyes, hoping I had done the right thing. It was twenty minutes before Eduardo Walde was due.

With ten minutes to go I got out and locked the car, and walked towards the dark blue river. As I drew nearer, the pavement became a mosaic depicting a giant compass with charts of the routes taken by the adventurous Portuguese in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Symmetrical black and white waves rippled across the cobbles, the same motif as in Faro of the sea creeping over the city. I waded across to the monument.

It was a spectacular piece of art: a ship's prow jutting over the water, stone wind in swelling stone sails, soaring upwards to a viewing platform. On board, rising behind the lead figure of Prince Henry the Navigator, the dream crew was depicted in intricate stone carvings. A welcome gust of fresh cool air from the west brought a seagull in to perch cheekily on the Navigator's hat.

Multicoloured flags fluttered around the base of the white stone sculpture. It was hard not to stare at any men who arrived on their own. I tried to imagine Alva Barton—­or Esta Hartford, rather—­standing on this very spot; tried to picture flying boats landing on the estuary, and could not. I was too wound up, questioning my judgement in coming to Lisbon when I should have followed Nathan and the police back to Faro.

My mobile rang. The name flashed up: Eduardo Walde.

“Are you the young woman in the black and white dress?” asked the voice.

I looked around cautiously, feeling wrong-­footed. Time had moved on from the days when strangers had to make awkward personal approaches. Several men had phones pressed to an ear. Most were talking rapidly. Only one was not moving, holding up a hand in general greeting.

“I see you,” I said.

We walked towards each other.

He was a man with a presence. You couldn't help but notice his height; he must have been six three at least. He moved with a sense of purpose. The jacket was held over the shoulder with a hooked finger. A beautifully laundered white shirt and pressed casual trousers held up by a leather belt. Thick pepper-­and-­salt hair. A smooth and tanned face with no deep creases spoke of good genes as well as money.

We shook hands. His eyes were pale blue, with grey flecks.

“You came alone?” he asked. His accent was a light
American.

I nodded, wondering whether he had, too.

“I thought there would be two of you.”

“Senhor Palhares called you, didn't he?”

“He did.”

It was a stilted exchange. We were testing each other.

“Shall we walk?” he said, establishing who was in charge. “I can't spare too much time out of the office at present, so I intend to take my exercise while you tell me why you needed to see me.”

He must have been in his sixties, but I could well believe that exercise was important to him. Eduardo Walde had the air of a keen golfer or sailor, a man who enjoyed healthy outdoor pursuits and could afford to indulge in the best when he was not enjoying success in other spheres. He set off briskly along the river walk, and I fell in with his pace.

I had rehearsed how to begin.

“Senhor Walde . . . as you know, I was one of the visitors who found the body of Ian Rylands. I may have some new information about the case but before I go on, I want to ask you if you believe in pure coincidence.”

He didn't miss a beat as he strode forward. “Coincidences happen.”

“And then another coincidence—­and another?” I pressed on without waiting for a reply. “You see, beyond the first one, I don't. I start to ask questions.”

“Go on.”

“I came here to ask you about some of them, but first I want to tell you something in good faith.” I turned to watch his reaction. “I met Ian Rylands before my friend and I found him in the villa. About two weeks before. He told me about Esta Hartford's book and he gave me a copy to read.”

Walde stopped and we faced each other. “You're talking about
The Alliance
?” His tone was still neutral.

“Yes.”

“And that is your strange coincidence?”

“It's the first one,” I said. “Ian Rylands told me you were Esta Hartford's son and that the book is essentially a true story. It was because I recognised his family name in it that I spoke to Nuno Palhares in Faro, and he confirmed it.”

“I'm not sure where this is leading.”

“Senhor Walde, did you know Ian Rylands—­or know of him, at least, before he was murdered?”

A breeze ran over the estuary, making crepe of the surface. “I understand that you are a journalist, Miss Millard. Tell me, will this conversation appear as an insider's account of the crime for a newspaper?”

“No, that's absolutely not the reason I'm here. I give you my word. I need your help,” I said. “Urgently. Not for myself, but for Nathan—­I mean, Josh, the friend who was with me that night. He's been arrested. That's why he's not here.”

A long pause.

“I knew of Ian Rylands,” he said at last. “But I never met him.”

“But he tried to speak to you?”

“A few times.”

“About the book?”

“It seemed to be some kind of obsession with him. I saw the articles he was putting online for his expat association. But there was nothing to gain by getting involved with him. I had to think of the Horta das Rochas image. It was better to leave it.”

“Did he ever let you know that he had any kind of information that went beyond the book?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I came into contact with Ian Rylands—­I was the one who initiated our meeting by calling the Anglo-­Algarve Association—­it was because I had been asked . . . to find out about the seedy side of Vale Navio.” I kept it vague, carefully fixing on his pale blue eyes, trying to show my sincerity as well as search for reciprocity. “When we met, we ended up talking about circumstantial evidence that linked . . . to cases of child abduction, going back many years.”

He blinked first.

“I have very little to go on here,” I went on, pressing home my tiny advantage, “but both Rylands—­and Nuno Palhares, when I found him—­hinted that your family knew something about this.”

“Be very careful what you say . . .”

“There is a very serious reason I ask.”

I could feel him evaluating whether or not he could trust me, and whether any information he shared would suit his purposes. It didn't occur to me—­at least not for longer than a few rapid heartbeats—­that I might not be able to trust him.

He started to walk again, moving briskly.

“And the biggest coincidence of all,” I said as I plunged on after him, “that now seems to be nothing of the kind, is that my friend Nathan—­that's what he's been calling himself since he's been here, not Josh Harris—­should be the one to find Ian Rylands at Horta das Rochas, of all places.”

“Where is this leading . . . what do you want from me, Miss Millard?”

I took a deep breath. “Have you seen a photograph of Nathan?”

“What?”

“Some of the reports named us. Maybe the newspapers managed to find a picture, I don't know. I didn't see them.”

“I don't recall seeing any pictures of either of you. As far as I am aware you were witnesses not suspects. Unless you are about to tell me differently.”

I was in free fall. It was all coming out in a rush of instinct. “I may regret doing this. And I may be wrong. But please would you look at this.”

I reached into my bag for my phone. I swiped the screen and held out a photo of Nathan at the beach on the Ilha Deserta. Part of me felt as if I might have lost my mind.

“Nice-­looking young man. I can see why you want to save him.”

“What else do you see, Senhor? Or do you honestly see nothing?”

He took the phone and assessed it.

“Nathan Emberlin,” I said. “Adopted aged two, rubber stamped by a barely legal agency in Malaga in 1992. Brought up in London by known associates of a man called Terry Jackson, an old friend of the family. Terry Jackson was the man Nathan came to meet at Horta das Rochas. Who left a message telling him to go to Villa Eleven, where he found Ian Rylands dead.”

“He was two years old in 1992?”

“Correct.”

There was a long silence, then, “Nathan Emberlin. That is his name?”

“The name on his adoption papers, yes.”

“He was coming here with you, today?”

“Until we were pulled over at the motorway tollbooth leaving Faro. Nathan was arrested.”