In Muhammed's ahwa the thin boy behind the counter explained that the boss had suddenly decided to take the day off and go for a walk. Beate asked when he would be back, but the boy, at a loss, shook his head, pointed to the sun and said, 'Trancoso.'
The female receptionist at the hotel said the thirteen-kilometre walk along the unbroken stretch of white sand to Trancoso was d'Ajuda's greatest landmark. Apart from the Catholic church in the square, it was also the only one.
'Mm. Why are there so few people around, senhora?' Harry asked.
She smiled and pointed to the sea.
* * *
That was where they were. On the scorching hot sand stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see in the heat haze. There were sunbathers lying in state, beach pedlars trudging through the loose sand, bowed beneath the weight of cooler bags and sacks of fruit, bartenders grinning from makeshift bars where loudspeakers blasted out samba music under straw roofs, and surfers in the yellow national strip, their lips painted white with zinc oxide. And two people walking south with their shoes in their hands. One in shorts, a skimpy top and a straw hat which she had changed into at the hotel, the other still bare-headed in his creased linen suit.
'Did she say thirteen kilometres?' Harry said, blowing away the bead of sweat hanging off the tip of his nose.
'It'll be dark before we get back,' Beate said, pointing. 'Look, everyone else is coming back.'
There was a black stripe along the beach, an apparently endless caravan of people on their way home with the afternoon sun at their backs.
'Just what we ordered,' Harry said, straightening his sunglasses. 'A line-up of the whole of d'Ajuda. We'll have to keep our eyes peeled. If we don't see Muhammed, perhaps we'll be lucky and bump into Lev in person.'
Beate smiled. 'Bet you a hundred we don't.'
Faces flickered by in the heat. Black, white, young, old, beautiful, ugly, stoned, abstemious, smiling, scowling faces. The bars and the surfboard hire stalls were gone. All they could see was sand and sea to the left, and dense jungle vegetation to the right. Here and there, people were sitting in groups with the unmistakable smell of joints wafting over.
'I've been thinking more about that intimate-space stuff and our insider theory,' Harry said. 'Do you think Lev and Stine Grette could have known each other as more than brother-and sister-in-law?'
'You mean she was involved in the planning, and then he shot her to cover his tracks?' Beate peered at the sun. 'Well, why not?'
Even though it was past four o'clock, the heat had not noticeably relented. They removed their shoes to cross some rocks, and on the other side Harry found a thick, dry branch the sea had washed up. He stuck the branch in the sand and took the wallet and passport out of his jacket before hanging it on the makeshift hatstand.
They could see Trancoso in the distance now and Beate said they had just passed a man she had seen in a video. At first Harry thought she meant some semi-famous actor until she said he was called Roger Person, and that in addition to various narcotics charges, he had done time for robbing the post office in Gamlebyen and Veitvet. He was suspected of robbing the post office in Ullevĺl.
* * *
Fred had knocked back three caipirinhas at the beach restaurant in Trancoso, but still thought it had been a senseless idea to walk thirteen kilometres just–as Roger had put it–to 'air their skin before it started to go mouldy, too'.
'Your problem is you can't sit still because of those new pills,' Fred whined to his friend, who was lolloping ahead on tiptoes with his knees raised.
'So what? You need to burn off a few calories before going back to the smorgasbord in the North Sea. Tell me what Muhammed said on the phone about the two police officers.'
Roger sighed and reluctantly searched his short-term memory. 'He talked about a small woman who was so pale she was almost transparent. And a big German with a boozer's nose.'
'German?'
'Muhammed was guessing. Could have been Russian. Or an Inca Indian or…'
'Very funny. Was he sure they were cops?'
'What do you mean?' Roger stopped and Fred almost walked into him.
'I'm just saying I don't like it,' Roger said. 'As far as I know Lev didn't do bank jobs outside Norway. And Norwegian police don't come to Brazil to nab one stinking bank robber. Probably Russian. Fuck. We know who sent them. And it isn't Lev they're after.'
Fred groaned. 'Don't start all that gypsy shit again, please.'
'You think it's paranoia, but he's Satan himself. He doesn't think twice before plugging people who cheated him out of a krone. I never thought he would find out. I just took a couple of thousand for pocket money from one of the bags, didn't I. But it's the principle, you know. If you're the leader of the pack, you've got to have respect unless—'