After giving her my condolences, I asked where her daughter was.
‘Last I heard, she was upstairs in her room,’ she replied, with a caustic indifference that seemed to imply they’d quarrelled. She swept her uncombed hair off her neck with an irritated hand. Her fingernails were long and scarlet.
Anxious to get the worst question out of the way first, I asked where she had spent the day before. Annoyance twisted her lips, which were cracked and dry, and naked-looking, as though needing lipstick. ‘You don’t have any idea who killed my husband, do you?’ she asked, targeting me with a peeved squint.
And just like that, all the goodwill I’d felt from her was gone.
‘We’ve collected a great deal of evidence,’ I said, choosing my words cautiously, so as not to set her off, ‘but as of yet, we haven’t any firm leads.’
She seemed to take my precise tone as an indication that I was withholding information. ‘My husband was friends with the Minister of Justice!’ she warned me. ‘Very good friends!’
I kept the harsh replies I thought of to myself, since I saw no point in quarrelling. Also, there was a slim possibility that she meant she could get me extra troops if I needed them, though I had no way of confirming that from her expression; she was looking at the slender collar of her pale-blue blouse and fiddling with a loose button.
‘If talking to the minister will reassure you,’ I told her, ‘then you—’
Ripping away her button, she threw it against the wall. It ricocheted to the ground and tap-danced across the floor.
‘I know I’m intruding,’ I said, ‘but if we don’t get this over now, I’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
‘Great idea, come back tomorrow!’
‘If I do, you won’t be able to stay here today or tonight. This is a crime scene.’
‘You think you can kick me out of my own house?’ she said with huffing outrage.
‘Senhora Coutinho, that is exactly what I’m trying to avoid,’ I assured her.
Her contemptuous laugh opened an ache in my gut, and I took a step back from her in my mind. ‘If you want,’ I said, careful to keep my true feelings out of my voice, ‘call the minister and tell him you don’t want me here.’
I offered her my phone, but she turned it down and showed me a withering look.
‘If you’ll sit down and answer my questions,’ I continued, ‘I promise to try to get this over with quickly.’
Pushing past me, she retrieved a black glass ashtray from the counter, stubbed out her cigarette vengefully and sat down at the kitchen table. She showed Luci and me a bored look. We sat down opposite her.
Sprinklers was what Fonseca and I called the victims’ wives who sobbed through their first interrogation in order to convince us they were innocent. Senhora Coutinho was what we referred to as a dry well.
After lighting another cigarette, she took too quick a gulp of whisky and had a coughing fit. Watching her struggle for breath, I realized she’d get soused today and pass out in bed, probably under the belief that her loss would seem slightly less horrific in the morning. When I repeated my previous question, she replied, ‘I was at our beach house. Sandi, our daughter, can vouch for that. And we also had a house guest – an old buddy of Pedro’s from Paris – Jean Morel. We spent the day together.’
I asked for his number and she gave it to me without consulting her phone, adding in an annoyed tone, ‘That’s right, Inspector, I know Jean’s number by heart!’
‘Which means exactly what?’ I asked, though I’d already caught the general design of the garden of earthly delights she was about to describe to me.
‘My husband knew all about Jean and me,’ she snapped, ‘so you can spare me your show of moral indignation.’
‘I’m rarely sufficiently sure of myself to be morally indignant about anything,’ I said, hoping I might win back her good graces.
As though she hadn’t heard me, she said, ‘Pedro and I
‘Last I heard, she was upstairs in her room,’ she replied, with a caustic indifference that seemed to imply they’d quarrelled. She swept her uncombed hair off her neck with an irritated hand. Her fingernails were long and scarlet.
Anxious to get the worst question out of the way first, I asked where she had spent the day before. Annoyance twisted her lips, which were cracked and dry, and naked-looking, as though needing lipstick. ‘You don’t have any idea who killed my husband, do you?’ she asked, targeting me with a peeved squint.
And just like that, all the goodwill I’d felt from her was gone.
‘We’ve collected a great deal of evidence,’ I said, choosing my words cautiously, so as not to set her off, ‘but as of yet, we haven’t any firm leads.’
She seemed to take my precise tone as an indication that I was withholding information. ‘My husband was friends with the Minister of Justice!’ she warned me. ‘Very good friends!’
I kept the harsh replies I thought of to myself, since I saw no point in quarrelling. Also, there was a slim possibility that she meant she could get me extra troops if I needed them, though I had no way of confirming that from her expression; she was looking at the slender collar of her pale-blue blouse and fiddling with a loose button.
‘If talking to the minister will reassure you,’ I told her, ‘then you—’
Ripping away her button, she threw it against the wall. It ricocheted to the ground and tap-danced across the floor.
‘I know I’m intruding,’ I said, ‘but if we don’t get this over now, I’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
‘Great idea, come back tomorrow!’
‘If I do, you won’t be able to stay here today or tonight. This is a crime scene.’
‘You think you can kick me out of my own house?’ she said with huffing outrage.
‘Senhora Coutinho, that is exactly what I’m trying to avoid,’ I assured her.
Her contemptuous laugh opened an ache in my gut, and I took a step back from her in my mind. ‘If you want,’ I said, careful to keep my true feelings out of my voice, ‘call the minister and tell him you don’t want me here.’
I offered her my phone, but she turned it down and showed me a withering look.
‘If you’ll sit down and answer my questions,’ I continued, ‘I promise to try to get this over with quickly.’
Pushing past me, she retrieved a black glass ashtray from the counter, stubbed out her cigarette vengefully and sat down at the kitchen table. She showed Luci and me a bored look. We sat down opposite her.
Sprinklers was what Fonseca and I called the victims’ wives who sobbed through their first interrogation in order to convince us they were innocent. Senhora Coutinho was what we referred to as a dry well.
After lighting another cigarette, she took too quick a gulp of whisky and had a coughing fit. Watching her struggle for breath, I realized she’d get soused today and pass out in bed, probably under the belief that her loss would seem slightly less horrific in the morning. When I repeated my previous question, she replied, ‘I was at our beach house. Sandi, our daughter, can vouch for that. And we also had a house guest – an old buddy of Pedro’s from Paris – Jean Morel. We spent the day together.’
I asked for his number and she gave it to me without consulting her phone, adding in an annoyed tone, ‘That’s right, Inspector, I know Jean’s number by heart!’
‘Which means exactly what?’ I asked, though I’d already caught the general design of the garden of earthly delights she was about to describe to me.
‘My husband knew all about Jean and me,’ she snapped, ‘so you can spare me your show of moral indignation.’
‘I’m rarely sufficiently sure of myself to be morally indignant about anything,’ I said, hoping I might win back her good graces.
As though she hadn’t heard me, she said, ‘Pedro and I
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