Horse Under Water

30 Grave trouble

They were all at the house. They were sitting in the dining-room, heads between knees, gazing at the floor, and concentrating all their attention upon breathing long, aching lungsful of air. No one looked up as I entered. Charly had made coffee and put blankets around them, but had the good sense to say nothing.

‘Giorgio’s on the beach,’ I said, breathing between each syllable.

The old fisherman got slowly to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he said in Portuguese.

‘Have coffee first,’ I said. ‘Giorgio’s in no hurry, he died as we got ashore.’

‘Who tipped up the boat?’ Singleton said, after a few minutes.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘Well, either you or Giorgio tipped us over.’

I was finding it difficult not to get angry.

He added, ‘It was someone in frogman dress.’

I said, ‘Neither Giorgio nor I came to the surface before you capsized.’ No one spoke. I eased the leather book from under my harness. A rivulet of water hit the floor. ‘Besuchsliste’, it said. I’d found the U-boat’s visitors’ book. It was not the log book. I threw it across the room with a clatter.

It took me ten minutes to dry off and change. I mixed black coffee and brandy in equal parts and poured it into my throat. I told Singleton and the old man to fetch Giorgio’s body from the beach, strip it of its gear and put it on the balcony. Then I climbed into the car.

I jangled the bell at da Cunha’s heavily and continuously until da Cunha himself came to answer it. He was fully dressed.

‘I’ll come in,’ I said, and entered. Da Cunha made no protest. I said, ‘One of my friends is dead.’

‘Really,’ said da Cunha calmly, but the oil lamp he was holding gave a little jump.

‘Died under water,’ I said.

‘Drowned,’ said da Cunha.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, ‘but I would settle for that on the death certificate if it means a quiet funeral.’ Da Cunha nodded but made no move.

‘You are asking me to help you in some way?’

‘I’m telling you to help, in my way.’

He said, ‘That attitude won’t get you very far.’ He sounded just like Dawlish.

I said, ‘I’ve got a piece of paper in my pocket. Inside it is a lock of Senhor Fernandes Tomas’s hair.’

Da Cunha hadn’t flinched.

‘When London put it under a microscope, they will find that Fernie’s black hair is ginger hair that has been dyed. Because ginger hair and blue eyes is about as English as you can get and far too conspicuous on a Portuguese. My subsequent orders might well concern you. Meanwhile a murdered corpse can cause you as much trouble as it can cause me, and I don’t think Mr Smith can help you.’

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I shall arrange for a death certificate immediately. Do you wish to bring it … him … er … here?’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘You have an unused empty grave.’ Da Cunha moved his mouth around and finally said, ‘Very well.’