The Night Watchman by Richard Zimler Read Free Book Online Page A

her need to keep fit, but I insisted that she eat half a slice so as not to disappoint our host.
    The kitchen was all stainless steel and white marble, except for the wall beneath the cupboards, which was ornamented with centuries-old Portuguese tiles forming blue and yellow geometric patterns. A village church had obviously been plundered.
    Senhora Grimault asked me to fetch a plate for Luci from a high shelf, and for a few seconds I was fifteen again, and happy to be needed by Aunt Olivia around the house.
    When we were all comfortably seated, I asked, ‘So how long have you worked for the Coutinho family, senhora?’
    ‘Nearly four years. Just after Dr Coutinho moved back to Portugal, he hired me.’ She explained that he’d wanted a housekeeper who could speak French, then, tearing up, volunteered that Senhora Coutinho was sure to take her husband’s death very hard. As for the daughter, she predicted a long period of silent suffering. When I asked why, she told me that Sandra and her father both tended to hide their emotions. She added that they were also both workaholics, reinforcing her point by telling me that Coutinho returned to Lisbon once or twice a week over the summer to supervise building sites. For the moment, I chose not to mention that infidelity might have been the real reason he came to the city so often.
    Unfortunately, she had no idea who the visitor was who had smoked two Gauloise Blondes. ‘Inspector,’ she said, giving me a weighty look, ‘you think the murderer was here last night and talked for a while with Dr Coutinho, don’t you?’
    ‘It’s possible, senhora, but between you and me, I doubt it. Anyone as careful as the killer we’re dealing with had to know the butts could be used as evidence. More likely they were left by a friend – and very possibly the last person to see your employer alive.’
    Senhora Grimault told me she’d arrived at precisely four minutes past ten in the morning and let herself in with her key. She’d neither seen nor heard anything odd. She explained that during the family’s summer vacation in the Algarve she came to the house twice a week to air it out, dust a bit and water the house plants. The garden itself had an automatic watering system. She’d brought along a sponge cake because she’d been told a few days earlier by Susana – in a phone call – that Dr Coutinho would be back in Lisbon for a couple of days. He had a sweet tooth and she prided herself on her baking.
    I’d been thinking that the front-door key might have been copied by the murderer, and though Senhora Grimault swore to me she’d never lent it out, she could not promise the same for the family.
    ‘The kitchen looks spotless,’ I pointed out. ‘Did you find it that way?’
    ‘Yes, when I arrived, there were no plates to wash – not even from breakfast. Dr Coutinho must have eaten out last night and not yet had his morning cereal.’
    I found one Adagio strawberry yogurt in the refrigerator, along with some cheese and milk, and two lemons.
    ‘Dr Coutinho could live on cheese and sweets,’ Senhora Grimault volunteered.
    ‘When did you first spot him this morning?’ I asked.
    ‘The moment I stepped into the living room.’ She closed her eyes and reached out a hand – slowly, straining with the effort, as though approaching a flame. ‘I touched his shoulder,’ she whispered. ‘I thought that he might still be alive, but . . .’ She lowered her arm to the table with a morose finality. ‘And then I called 112.’
    ‘Did you leave the house at any time after coming in?’
    ‘No. I sat in the foyer.’
    ‘But there’s no chair in the foyer,’ I pointed out.
    ‘I sat on the ground. I was feeling dizzy, and my first thought was to get outside for some air, but I didn’t get that far.’
    She was close to tears again, and I pressed her to take a few sips of coffee. When she was ready to talk again, I asked, ‘When did you decide to water the plant in the