A Small Death in lisbon by Robert Wilson Page A
Authors: Robert Wilson
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Police Procedural, Lisbon (Portugal)
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Carlos, innocent as his hair, 'that wouldn't be fair.'
Chapter VII
Saturday, 13th June 199–, Dr Aquilino Oliveira's house, Cascais
We were shown into the sitting room which, judging by the furnishings, was not Dr Oliveira's side of the house. There was natural light in the room, fancy ceramics and no dark corners of books. The art on the walls was the sort that demanded comment unless you happened to be a police inspector from Lisbon in which case your opinion didn't matter. I took a seat on one of the two caramel leather sofas. Above the fireplace was a portrait of a skeletal figure in an armchair as seen through lashes of paint. It was disturbing. You had to be disturbed to live with it.
Under the thick plate glass of the coffee table was
Senhora
Oliveira's more human side. Magazines like
Caras, Casa, Maxima
and the Spanish
¡Hola!.
There were plants in the room and an arrangement of lilies but just as the eye relaxed it came across a dark metal figure scrabbling out of the primordial slime or a terracotta head, open-mouthed, screaming at the ceiling. The safest place to look was the floor which was parquet with Persian rugs.
Dr Oliveira showed his wife in. She was probably the same height as her daughter but her hair gave her another ten centimetres. It was big, pumped-up and blonde. Her tanned face looked tight, still puffy from barbiturate sleep and she'd tried to mask it with heavy eye make-up. Her lips were pink and she'd added an extra dark line to the rim of her mouth. She wore a cream blouse and a bra that created cleavage where none naturally existed. Her short silk skirt was five shades off matching her blouse and she was chained with gold about the waist. We shook hands. The jewellery felt crusty.
'We'd like to talk to your wife alone,
Senhor Doutor.'
He was going to make a stand, a man in his own home, but the
side of his wife's face said something to him which I missed and he left the room. We sat. Carlos took out his notebook.
'When did you last see your daughter,
Dona
Oliveira?'
'Yesterday morning. I took her to school.'
'What was she wearing?'
'A white T-shirt, a mini-skirt, light blue with a yellow check. Those big clumpy shoes they all wear these days studded with rhinestones. She also had a thin leather lace choker with a cheap stone strung on it.'
'No tights in this weather?'
'No, just bra and pants.'
'Any particular make?'
She didn't answer but squeezed her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger and then rubbed them together to disperse the grease.
'Did you hear the question,
Dona
Oliveira?'
'I just...'
Carlos leaned forward and the sofa creaked underneath so he stopped halfway.
Senhora
Oliveira blinked her slightly enclosed brown eyes.
'Sloggi,' she said.
'Did something else occur to you then,
Dona
Oliveira?'
'A horrible thought ... when you asked about the underwear.'
'Your husband's already told us that Catarina has been sexually active for some years.'
Carlos sat back. She dabbed at her smudged lower lip with a finger.
'Dona
Oliveira?'
'Was there a question, Inspector Coelho?'
'I wondered if you'd tell us what's on your mind, it might help.'
'It's every mother's fear that their daughter might get raped and killed,' she said, automatically, as if that hadn't been what she was thinking.
'How have you been getting on with your daughter over the past couple of years?'
'He's told you...' she started, and held herself back.
'What exactly?' I asked.
She darted a look at Carlos who didn't help.
'How we haven't been getting on.'
'Mothers and daughters don't always...'
'...compete,' she finished for me.
'Compete?' I asked, and she picked up on my surprise.
'I don't think this will help you find Catarina.'
'I'd like to know more about her psychological state. If she was likely to get herself into a difficult situation. She's a confident girl. That could have been the start of the...'
'Why do you say she's confident?'
'She fronts a band ... that needs
Chapter VII
Saturday, 13th June 199–, Dr Aquilino Oliveira's house, Cascais
We were shown into the sitting room which, judging by the furnishings, was not Dr Oliveira's side of the house. There was natural light in the room, fancy ceramics and no dark corners of books. The art on the walls was the sort that demanded comment unless you happened to be a police inspector from Lisbon in which case your opinion didn't matter. I took a seat on one of the two caramel leather sofas. Above the fireplace was a portrait of a skeletal figure in an armchair as seen through lashes of paint. It was disturbing. You had to be disturbed to live with it.
Under the thick plate glass of the coffee table was
Senhora
Oliveira's more human side. Magazines like
Caras, Casa, Maxima
and the Spanish
¡Hola!.
There were plants in the room and an arrangement of lilies but just as the eye relaxed it came across a dark metal figure scrabbling out of the primordial slime or a terracotta head, open-mouthed, screaming at the ceiling. The safest place to look was the floor which was parquet with Persian rugs.
Dr Oliveira showed his wife in. She was probably the same height as her daughter but her hair gave her another ten centimetres. It was big, pumped-up and blonde. Her tanned face looked tight, still puffy from barbiturate sleep and she'd tried to mask it with heavy eye make-up. Her lips were pink and she'd added an extra dark line to the rim of her mouth. She wore a cream blouse and a bra that created cleavage where none naturally existed. Her short silk skirt was five shades off matching her blouse and she was chained with gold about the waist. We shook hands. The jewellery felt crusty.
'We'd like to talk to your wife alone,
Senhor Doutor.'
He was going to make a stand, a man in his own home, but the
side of his wife's face said something to him which I missed and he left the room. We sat. Carlos took out his notebook.
'When did you last see your daughter,
Dona
Oliveira?'
'Yesterday morning. I took her to school.'
'What was she wearing?'
'A white T-shirt, a mini-skirt, light blue with a yellow check. Those big clumpy shoes they all wear these days studded with rhinestones. She also had a thin leather lace choker with a cheap stone strung on it.'
'No tights in this weather?'
'No, just bra and pants.'
'Any particular make?'
She didn't answer but squeezed her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger and then rubbed them together to disperse the grease.
'Did you hear the question,
Dona
Oliveira?'
'I just...'
Carlos leaned forward and the sofa creaked underneath so he stopped halfway.
Senhora
Oliveira blinked her slightly enclosed brown eyes.
'Sloggi,' she said.
'Did something else occur to you then,
Dona
Oliveira?'
'A horrible thought ... when you asked about the underwear.'
'Your husband's already told us that Catarina has been sexually active for some years.'
Carlos sat back. She dabbed at her smudged lower lip with a finger.
'Dona
Oliveira?'
'Was there a question, Inspector Coelho?'
'I wondered if you'd tell us what's on your mind, it might help.'
'It's every mother's fear that their daughter might get raped and killed,' she said, automatically, as if that hadn't been what she was thinking.
'How have you been getting on with your daughter over the past couple of years?'
'He's told you...' she started, and held herself back.
'What exactly?' I asked.
She darted a look at Carlos who didn't help.
'How we haven't been getting on.'
'Mothers and daughters don't always...'
'...compete,' she finished for me.
'Compete?' I asked, and she picked up on my surprise.
'I don't think this will help you find Catarina.'
'I'd like to know more about her psychological state. If she was likely to get herself into a difficult situation. She's a confident girl. That could have been the start of the...'
'Why do you say she's confident?'
'She fronts a band ... that needs
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