He copied the link, and sent it to Adelaide.

No words, no message. Only the song, speaking for itself.

6

ADELAIDE,
2 NOVEMBER 2012

Beatriz Cardoza lived in with the McCormacks, had done for fifty years, and this made her a curiosity in Adelaide, even here, in this lush and leafy North Adelaide avenue, where everyone had money. In the early days of her residency, under Margaret McCormack’s exacting regime, she’d been required to slip noiselessly through the house in a traditional uniform of black dress and white apron, but Margaret was long gone, and for years now Beatriz had reigned supreme in anything she fancied: rainbow-coloured floral housecoats, vibrant turbans. She had three rooms upstairs that were hers alone: a small, perfectly plain bathroom, a bedroom with an iron bed, a rocking chair and Portuguese lace at the windows, and a sort of treasure trove of a sitting room, filled with porcelain knick-knacks and inlaid trinket boxes, mirrors with heavy gilt frames and a triptych in gaudy oils of saints Peter, Anthony and John. The walls, in each of her rooms, were painted the same inky blue as the River Douro on a summer’s evening.