The Night Watchman Read Online Free PDF Page A

up.’
    ‘On a ranch in western Colorado,’ I replied. ‘Go to Google Maps and find Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park and move your cursor about twenty miles to the left. Unfortunately, there’s nothing at all for a tourist to do there except get stared at by a few hungry rattlesnakes and drunken shopkeepers.’
    Despite my cynicism, her face brightened. ‘I went to Rocky Mountain National Park four years ago. Filipe and I went camping in the American West for our honeymoon.’
    I almost said, I’ve been there, too, but I didn’t want to discuss my homeland with her; the Portuguese generally resented having to give up their misconceptions about America. ‘So you’re married?’ I asked.
    ‘Yes. Filipe just got his doctorate in anthropology,’ she said proudly.
    ‘Kids?’
    ‘Not yet. And you, Chief Inspector?’
    ‘Two – Nathaniel and Jorge. When we’re out of range, my wife and I call them Godzilla and King Kong. God knows what they call us.’
    Luci laughed, which pleased me – and allowed me to imagine for a fleeting moment that the events of this morning would have no lingering effect on my work.
    The neighbours were only fifty paces away now. They faced us with open, curious eyes; they’d guessed we were cops, though we weren’t in uniform. As we reached our destination, the old man said gruffly, ‘You the police?’
    ‘That’s right,’ I answered.
    He chewed over that information while eyeing me suspiciously. If my life had been the 1950s Western I sometimes wished it was, he’d have spat on the ground between us.
    Number 24 Rua do Vale was a three-storey townhouse with pink paint flaking off the stucco. A youthful PSP officer was standing outside, reading one of those giveaway newspapers that invariably end up wafting and rolling across our desiccated streets – Lisbon’s very own tumbleweed. As we shook hands, the young woman with the baby asked me if Pedro Coutinho was dead.
    ‘I’m sorry, senhora, I’m not at liberty to discuss the case,’ I replied.
    ‘If he weren’t dead, then what the hell would you be doing here!’ the old man told me with a venomous frown.
    ‘We’ll be coming round the neighbourhood later today to ask you questions,’ I said to him and the others, ‘and I’ll let you know a little of what I’ve found out at that time.’
    The front door was armoured; six dead-bolts slid into the wall at the turn of a key. After I’d joined Luci in the foyer, she asked, ‘Is your bolo tie from Colorado, sir?’
    I realized with a jolt that I’d left it out.
    ‘Yes, it’s a Thunderbird. A Sioux friend gave it to me.’
    ‘You had Indian friends?’ Her voice swelled with little-girl enchantment.
    ‘Just one – Nathan was his white-man’s name. He was a winkte.’
    ‘A winkte?’
    ‘A clown who’s also a wise man. They’re crazy by profession. They dress up in strange clothing and do everything backwards. Up is down and in is out. And to them, normal is the oddest thing of all.’
    More importantly in my case, they find what’s lost, I might have added if I’d known Luci better. Instead, I said, ‘We sometimes need everything turned inside out. Winktes are the only people resourceful enough to do that.’
    She didn’t laugh or smirk, which was a very good sign – and the one I must have wanted, or I wouldn’t have brought the subject up.
    We stepped into the foyer. The floor was dark parquet, and so polished that it reflected like glass. Two man-size Chinese vases painted with sinuous golden dragons guarded the door to the living room. Beside one of them was a droopy ficus plant in a big white pot and a red watering can filled to the brim.
    As we put on our protective coats, gloves and slippers, Pires said, ‘We had a great time in the Rocky Mountains. Except for the altitude. Filipe got disoriented while hiking at three thousand meters and we almost didn’t locate him in time.’
    ‘You have to keep hydrated at high altitude,’ I told her, but