At first I thought it might have been a note from Anabela, to explain why she had taken off so suddenly. But when I had the single page unfolded, I could see it was a fax. It hadn’t come from Anabela. It was from Joaquim, my English Cemetery man. He’d spoken to his friend, it seemed. His fax was brief – a name and address, little more. I was surprised he’d followed through. I hadn’t thought he would. It didn’t matter that I’d already been given the address, by Anabela. It was always good to have a second source, and this confirmed that Regina Marinho in fact lived in Evora. And there was more: he had sent me her phone number. Not a bad way to begin my day, I thought. The woman who picked up the phone at the other end when I called through spoke good English, like everyone else I had met here in Portugal. Only she wasn’t the woman I wanted. Not Regina Marinho. Her housekeeper, maybe. Regina Marinho was out. I asked, ‘Can you tell me when she might be home?’ ‘I do not know.’ Coldly, unhelpful, as though she suspected I wanted to come and break into the house later.
