Chapter 22
Suicide?
Carolina drove him there. On the way, Ed tried to think, but Carolina drove erratically, which distracted him. Simone was waiting at the entrance to their block of flats, huddling against far more than the pre-dawn chill. Ed felt her shivering as she embraced him and then transmitted her tremors to Carolina before pulling away and saying to them both, in a distant voice:
“Come up and see.”
They took the lift in silence. Simone unlocked the flat door and led them in. They stood in the hall looking into the open living room. Mark’s body, clothed in smartly casual attire, lay in a foetal position, but face-down. A noose girded his neck. The noose had been attached to an improvised beam that had been set up between two tall cupboards. The beam had come crashing down. An overturned stool lay between the cupboards.
“Don’t touch the body, please. It is Mark.”
The impersonal pronoun describing his friend pierced Ed’s armour.
“Poor old Mark.” He let out a sob, then pulled himself together.
“Let’s be practical. Simone, you have to call the police. Carolina, we should leave, before we contaminate any evidence.”
Carolina was staring at the noose.
“Something is wrong here.”
“Everything is wrong here.” Simone’s voice was low but steady.
“When did you find the body?”
“Shortly before I phoned you, Ed. Some students asked me out yesterday evening. A twenty-first birthday celebration. We were all girls. I phoned Mark after class, from the School. He said go. He seemed normal, happy. He didn’t say anything that sounded like a goodbye. This is wrong.”
Ed and Carolina waited while Simone summoned the police. Then all three of them went back down to the street. Simone waited for the police where she had waited for her friends. Carolina hugged her.
“When you’re through with the police, you’d best come and stay with me. You may not want to be here.”
“Thanks. I will come.”
She was no longer shivering but stiff in Ed’s embrace when he hugged her in his turn.
“Whatever I can do, Simone, I will. Just tell me what.”
“OK.” Simone turned and went back into her dark, silent block of flats.
They walked quickly to Carolina’s car. Ed held the door open for her.
“I’ll walk home, myself. I need to think.”
“You think too much, lover boy. You were better when you were an all-action business man.”
“Drive carefully, Carolina.”
Ed walked across the city as dawn turned the sky the colour of fresh blood. He thought about what he had seen. By the time he reached Largo do Andaluz, he had come to the conclusion that Mark had been murdered, and that both Simone and Carolina had worked that out before him. They had understood instinctively that the suicide scene was a set-up. Ed had realised what was wrong: even if his body weight had not brought the improvised beam crashing down while he was still alive, the length of the noose meant that a tall man like Mark would not have hung suspended but would have stood with his feet on the ground. Not to mention the absence of any apparent motive, warning or explanatory note.
Ed checked his door and his flat carefully. There was no sign of any actual or attempted intrusion. Nevertheless, he closed and fastened every open window and shutter before making himself a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast with marmalade and half a bottle of whisky. After that, he slept until the afternoon. When he woke up, Ed wished he had not, but he got up, showered, took some aspirin and phoned first Simone then Carolina. Neither answered. He turned on the radio for the news. No mention of Mark’s death yet. Since he did not have classes to give, he spent the rest of the day planning how to expand his cult-awareness efforts at the University, in Mark’s memory and to help prevent further tragedies, if he could. In the evening, the television also failed to report the demise of its former star, Mark Rotherfield.
The next day, Ed packed a couple of bags and took them to his flat in Cascais. Seamus seemed pleased of the company.
“Stay as long as you want, mate. It’s your house, like.”
Carolina phoned him the next day. By then, Ed felt even more certain that Mark had been murdered.
“I got the message you left. Simone’s with me. The police told her it was a routine case of suicide. Kept asking her about any arguments they’d had, as though she’d driven him to it. It’s crazy, Ed. Mark had just regained his life. He wasn’t going to throw it away again!”
“You don’t buy the idea of suicide, either, do you?”
“No, of course not. No motive.”
“But the scene in the room?”
“What do you think, Ed?”
“Well, the foetal position is a defensive position. It’s a position you take up. You don’t fall into it.”
“And that improvised beam couldn’t hold a body’s weight.”
“If it ever had to. That noose looked a bit short to hang a tall man like Mark from the height of a kitchen cupboard.”
“So you agree. Here, Simone wants to speak to you.”
Simone’s voice had changed. It had become strong and determined.
“I tell you, Ed, I’m going to nail those bastards. You know they killed Mark.”
“Yes.”
“They killed my husband and I’m not going to let them get away with it! They got Mark, but they didn’t manage to steal most of his money, and I’m going to use it to get them. I’m glad they’ll rot in Hell, but I want to see them burn on Earth first, and I’ve got the money to make that happen. They think they’re untouchable. Well, they are going to find out different! First, they took my husband from me. Then they tried to take his money. Then, when he finally saw the light and came back to me, they took his life. I’m not going to rest until I make them pay! What else is there for me to live for?”
Your child, Mark’s child, thought Ed, but he kept his counsel and again offered Simone whatever help she might feel she needed.
To clear his head, Ed went for a long walk along the cliffs that led north out of the town. The breeze off the sea was cool. Ed filled his lungs and limped on, thinking of cults and killers and Ção and Carolina. On his return to the quiet street in which he was now staying, Ed saw a Ferrari parked outside his house. Paulo stood leaning against the passenger door.
“Hello, Mr. Scripps. Long time, no see.”
Ed shook his hand.
“Good to see you, Paulo. How did you know I was here?”
“Well, you weren’t at Largo do Andaluz, so I came over here on the off chance. Seamus told me you were staying here now. He’s out, by the way. Went off to see Antônia or whatever her name is.”
“Something like that. Come in.”
Paulo reached in through the car’s open window and pulled out a bottle of French cognac.
“Brought you something.”
Ed made coffee to go with the cognac, and started to take the cups from the kitchen out onto the back patio. Paulo stopped him.
“No. This is business. Best stay inside and be sure it stays just between ourselves.
“OK. I’m comfortable here. What’s new?”
“Always something new out of Africa, as old Aristotle said. Things change.”
“Usually for the better, in Portugal.”
“Not always. I’m sorry about your friend Mark.”
“Thanks. I’m devastated, if you want to know, just devastated. Still can’t believe he’s dead. Mark Rotherfield.” Ed shook his head. “Did you read about it?”
“It isn’t in the papers. I heard about it on the grapevine.”
“Long tentacles your grapevine’s got. Did it tell you who was responsible?”
“Mark himself, one way or another. Work it out.”
“I have, and it all comes back to Jorge. Omomnos.”
“Leave it alone, Ed, if you know what’s good for you. It’s bigger than you. Much bigger”
Paulo looked uneasy, for once.
“There is something else. Ed, you’re going to have to start thinking about money again.”
“That’s all right. I used to do a lot of that.”
“So you won’t mind too much. Though I mind, because this is not my style. Unfortunately, I’ve been forced out of my main line of business, and that has had a negative domino effect on my turnover. To put it bluntly, Ed, I need the money I lent you back.”
“What? Paulo, you can’t mean that! You’ve got to be joking! I’m your long-term security, right?”
“No, you never were. I was just being friendly, trying to help you.”
“Oh, I see. For your sister’s sake?”
Ed still harboured good memories of Lourdes’ body, except for her tongue.
“No, for mine. I’ve done rather a lot for you, Ed, if you think about it, and you haven’t given a lot back.”
“If you need money in a hurry, why don’t you sell your flash motor?”
“Yes, I could sell the Ferrari and a few properties. If you were to give me some incentive.”
Paulo’s confidence was back. He smiled suavely.
“Moisés also did you a big favour, got you that degree from Lourenço Marques University. At my request. You’re a good-looking lad, Ed.”
Ed emptied his cognac into the coffee cup and swallowed it. The coffee gave him a burst of energy and he savoured the way the liquor smoothened its tang in his mouth.
He met Paulo’s gaze.
“I like it when things are clear. I’ll get you your money.”
As he listened to the sports car roar off down the habitually quiet street, Ed felt energised not only by the coffee but also by having himself to save once again.
He thought of asking Simone to lend him enough money to pay off Paulo. He knew she would let him have it at the drop of a hat, if she had it, but it was distasteful to Ed to ask under her present circumstances. Lourdes had been his only other rich friend. He had never asked his parents for money; he doubted their savings could match his present needs.
Ed was still ruminating when darkness settled over the seaside town and the patio where Ed sat. His position was not so bad. At worst, he could approach a loan shark, buy himself some time. Or save all that trouble and give himself to Paulo. A bit of homosexual experience would not kill him; it might even teach him something he could use in his regular love life. But Paulo was the type of person who liked to show off, and Ed baulked at the idea of being paraded as Paulo’s latest conquest.
A shadow briefly fell from the living room window. Ed thought he heard footsteps inside. No light went on. He catapulted himself from his chair on the patio to the kitchen door and crouched there outside it, hidden, he hoped. Silence. Darkness. He eased the door open. He was glad the hinges did not creak. Ed rose and entered the kitchen. He picked a meat knife from the cutlery rack beside the sink and crept to the door to the corridor. It was ajar. A shadow flickered towards him.
The chorus of Seven Drunken Nights started and ended in quick succession. Seamus stood before him.
“Bloody hell fire, man! Look at you!”
Ed relaxed his grip on the knife.
“Bloody hell fire! Can a man not come quietly into his own house without being threatened?”
“Sorry, Seamus. I’m sorry. I’m not threatening you. Here, let’s sit down and have a bevvy.”
They did. Ed apologised again, and tried to explain.
“I’m a bit over-wrought these days. And it is my house, if you remember. Although – ”
“Tell me you want to sell. I thought you’d come round to it.”
“Can you pay cash?”
“Only if I have to.”
“You do. Can you pay soon?”
“If the price is right.”
“Are you sober enough to talk business?”
“As much as you are.”
“Good man. Let’s have some light in here, and hammer out a fair price.”
Less than an hour later, they were toasting their deal with vinho verde. Then they strolled down to the bay to eye the talent taking the evening promenade. Ed felt like a bachelor again, in charge of the life ahead of him.
Mark Rotherfield’s burial took place at the Protestant cemetery on one of Lisbon’s many hills, not far from the English Council. They laid him to rest within shouting distance of Henry Fielding. The novelist had come to the city to improve his health, and been disappointed.
Ed wanted to talk to Simone, and to Carolina, but Carolina was physically supporting Simone, who was weak and wan and weepy, amid a group of women that included Mark’s mother and sister, who had flown in together from England. Ed had not weathered the days since Mark’s death well. Every night now he lay awake for hours thinking of Mark’s cruel end. Perhaps because of the insomnia, he felt as though a hammer was regularly crashing into his brain; the pain of it disrupted his powers of reasoning.
As the clergyman from the Protestant church attached to the cemetery, whose presence Mark’s family had insisted upon, drew the ceremony to an end, and Mark’s coffin was covered with the dark earth of his adopted home, the hammer in Ed’s mind finally left his brain in peace.
Ed was last in the line to pay respects to the widow, and Simone asked him to accompany her over to the adjoining park, where Carolina and some members of the erstwhile rescue group had set up a refreshment table below trees that sheltered it from the heat of the afternoon sun. Simone seemed to gain strength with every step.
“Ed, I’m going to get those bastards.”
“Simone, whatever you do, don’t put your baby in danger. Your baby is Mark’s last gift to you.”
“Apart from all his money. And I can’t help thinking that my baby and I are already in danger. A little more will not make any difference.”
Ed left Simone to the attentions of other sympathisers, who had turned out for her in force, whereas few of Mark’s one-time hangers-on had come. Trying to get close enough to speak to Carolina, who was elusive, Ed found himself on the edge of a group that Simone was addressing in determined tones.
“Let me try and be rational, if I can. Murder by suicide – we know how it’s done. First you dig up all the dirt you can on your victim and get it published. This establishes apparent motives for suicide. What you can’t find, you invent, of course. Then you kill him. Or her, and make it look like suicide. Hanging or falling off a bridge are old stalwarts. You have to make it look plausible, so the coroner and the public will swallow it, but you leave some detail that tells those you want to warn off what really happened. If you’ve got any kind of organisation behind you, that makes it easier. Yeah, like a cult. Which will also have plenty of money to buy those who are reluctant to swallow it. Of course, you threaten them, as well. Carrot and stick, right? Oh, yes, and if you hang him, get the press to suggest ‘auto-eroticism’. No-one loves a wanker, do they?”
Gabriela from the erstwhile rescue group was brave enough to contradict her.
“But that didn’t happen with Mark, did it? Nobody found or spread any dirt about him.”
Simone’s answer was rapid.
“No, because they wanted to keep everything out of the public eye. The strange thing is that they have succeeded, so far. That will change. You know, none of this is new, except to me. Now I’ve got money, and I’m going to reveal this murder for what it was.”
Ed realised it was not the time to be seeking the company of Carolina. It was not the time to be pursuing anybody. The tide of history that had appeared inexorable in the country and in his own life had slowed and spread, if not turned. He could no longer predict either. Even in the new Portugal, a man’s murder could go unnoticed, or be wilfully ignored, and his own wife could be reticent to return to his love. Well, he would not abandon either Mark’s memory and Simone’s thirst for justice, or Ção’s future. What he would do was resume a can-do attitude towards the direction of his own life.
Before he left the gathering, Ed went to take leave of Simone. She took him to one side and told him she would be returning to France, temporarily. Keith had offered to hold her job open for her until the October start of the academic year. She was in a loquacious mood, afire with righteous indignation.
“You know what’s underneath all this, Ed? Religion. Or rather the idea that anything that is done in the name of religion is good, that religions operate in a special sphere above the law, where reason must be kept at bay.”
Ed recalled his own family background.
“My father doesn’t think that, even though he’s a Church of England vicar, same as the chap who’s just laid Mark to rest.”
“Are you sure, Ed? When it comes down to it? Well, I can’t change that: it’ll take centuries of education, and even then, who knows? But in a country like this, I can try to make them stop applying that untouchability to just any religion. I can portray the cult that stole Mark from me and then killed him as a cult that threatens their religion.”
“Christianity?”
“Catholicism, Ed. Ninety-five per cent self-declared Catholics in this country, did you know that? I can be one, too. A devout widow. France is a mostly Catholic country, after all. Like in France, the people here won’t want false prophets and ‘pagan’ cults luring their sons and daughters away from the true Church.”
Simone saw a sceptical look cross her friend’s face.
“You want to know how one woman is going to do that. Not one woman, Ed, but one woman’s money, money to pay for everything that can be done and for what cannot officially, legally be done. To get the Church, the media, the law, all on my side.”
“That might not be enough, Simone.”
“You’re right, but even so. Have you got any friends in Sicily, Ed? I’ll stop at nothing, to make those bastards pay! You think Pangaia will still be in Portugal in ten years’ time? Believe me, Ed, it won’t!”
Before Ed finally got away, he was accosted by a lanky woman he deemed a little older than himself. She had Mark’s features and accent, though her face was tighter.
“I say, excuse me, you must be that fellow Mark was always going on about.”
“Was he? I dare say. Ed Scripps.”
“Yes, you did well, in his eyes. You went from Mr Scripps the Trader to My Best Friend, in a few months.”
Ed smiled.
“I tried to help him. A lot of us did.”
“Mark appreciated that.”
Ed’s face clouded. Guilt knotted his stomach.
“He might still be alive if we’d left him in peace.”
“That’s what Mummy and Daddy say, but it isn’t true. If you’d left him to rot, he’d be dead inside. When he really died, physically, he knew he had friends and a wife who loved him. His family – us back in England, I mean – did not one single bloody thing for him. So, thank you, Mr Scripps the Trader, my brother’s best friend.”
As Ed limped out of the park, the sun beat down on his unprotected head and neck. He hailed a taxi, thankful that he could still afford it.