The meal goes smoothly enough, albeit with a lot of negotiating the rapids and under-currents of good manners and courtesy.

Beth’s pregnancy proves a safe topic of discussion, with none of the pitfalls and booby traps lying in wait if we talk about anything closer to home. Mitch is a star, repeatedly shifting the conversation back onto the imminent birth of Beth’s and Richard’s new son.

Later, in a quiet moment with Michael, “My apologies,” I say. “Tact isn’t one of Georgie’s virtues. It never was.”

His answering smile is wry. “Like father, like daughter.”

*****

Klempner

Two weeks and… nothing…

Not a whisper. Nothing I can find.

Sitting in the corner of Antonio’s, I’ve spent a pleasant afternoon, but frustration gnaws at me. Hickman reports that all is well, but…

Has Juliana given up?

?

Not fucking likely…

Antonio’s cafe has become somewhat of a routine. Misgivings nudge me, reminding me that I shouldn’t develop such habits…

… Making myself vulnerable…

But, with nothing to go on, what the hell else can I do?

On the other hand, there has to be some reason for the address to have been used in Finchby’s invoices.

Perhaps I just need to wait.

But what am I waiting for?

How long can I keep doing this?

Still, in the meantime, while I wait for my mystery to unravel, the old man is genuinely good company. And also, a mine of local information.

Finishing a cup of the excellent coffee, I consult a local guide, comparing my list of addresses to a local map, looking for some pattern, seeking inspiration…

Access to road…

Access to the ports…

Whereabouts of police stations…

the poorer end of town… the red-light

Nothing hangs together.

elbow, nodding down to my empty coffee

“Sim. Thank you.”

stabs a finger at my page. “You not go this place. Is bad place for nice English cavalheiro like

I ‘can’t speak the language’… “What’s

bad. Many bad men

Que tipo de

many years, this city….” He sweeps his arms out in circles all around…

I say.

nods vigorously. “Sim, muita violência.

again he nods. Then I mime

the book from me, closes it, then slaps it down on the table. “Bad place,

said bad woman too?

then up again, nodding. “Prostitutes, sim.

bad woman.

not die…” Fingers spread, he rocks his hand… “… Not so many. Bad men gone. Not like other cities. Since two years, bad men here again. And this woman is baddest. She is…” He splutters for a moment… “She same as prostitute. She has man. Then other man.

is sounding

Juliana…

name? What does she look

at me

bad woman… A mulher má… Her name?

shrugs. “Ninguém sabe. Ela

What does she look

Again, that blank stare…

head… “Tall?” … Then lower…

he waves a forefinger at me, then at my city guide, repeating, “Bad place. Bad

riffling through. “You like o museu de arte, Senhor Hughes?

on, nodding as he jabs fingers at places where ‘Nice turista man is safe.’ But my

a variety of Brazilian newspapers, or at least, their English editions. I can read Portuguese, but it doesn’t come so naturally as

now, delving into the newspaper archives,

in an experimental search term… Sao Paulo organised crime… Then as

results,

Hmmm…

Narrow it down…

in another search. Names of criminal

but some more useful

gang is enticing recruits

The Evolution of the Most Lethal Criminal

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