Robert Wilson - A Small Death in Lisbon

The man from the valet company who'd found the knickers said he'd been in two minds about what to do. He'd found them stuffed down the side of the seat. At first he thought they belonged to Senhor Rodrigues' daughter and he was just going to leave them on the seat. But then, because it was Senhor Rodrigues who'd brought the car in to be cleaned on the Monday morning, he thought this might be embarrassing, so he put them under the seat and decided to mind his own business.

Miguel da Costa Rodrigues was formally charged with the murder of Catarina Oliveira at 13.30. When he was asked to remove his clothing two large bruises were revealed on his chest. Photographs were taken and he was issued with standard prison clothing and taken to the cells.

I've never wanted fame. If I'd wanted to be famous I wouldn't have been a policeman. Fame has always struck me as a perverse form of prostitution. You perform, or just appear, and in return receive enormous attention, an uncomplicated love. Nobody knows the famous and the famous know nobody and yet the intensity of emotion, the wholesale adoration is bigger, more impressive than any individual's love. For me the greatest invasion of privacy was to have to accept the fame. An inability to accept it would have meant that fame had changed me and for the worse. It was the compulsory enjoyment that I couldn't stand.

I became famous. I was a hero. I was the little man from down the Linha, the one who'd shaved his beard off for charity (see how the smallest thing was changed for my benefit), took on the establishment and brought them to justice. The media loved me, but would they have loved me as much with a beard, no new bridgework and fifteen extra kilos? I learnt the value of a good suit and a permanent smile.

The feeding frenzy was ferocious. The River Tagus boiled pink with the blood of the past. Miguel da Costa Rodrigues' real identity of Manuel Abrantes, the much feared Inspector da Polícia in PIDE, who ran a network of hundreds of bufos, informers, who permeated the lives of thousands of ordinary people, and who was directly responsible for the suffering of many of the unfortunates in the Caxias prison, convulsed the nation. Current-affairs programmes and talk shows bloomed for weeks as people aired their memories of oppression, persecution and torture-the frying pans of Tarrafal on Cape Verde, the bull pens of Aljube, the flooding dungeons of the Fort of Caxias. But this angle was short-lived and, when the programmers saw the soaps reasserting themselves at the top of the league, they realized their mistake-people didn't want history. They wanted personal history.

They quickly found Jorge Raposo in his house of joy, and in a half-hour special he reassembled the PIDE infiltration of General Machedo's entourage, the trap set in the Badajoz churchyard, the killing of the General's secretary and the summary execution of the General by Manuel Abrantes. It was spell-binding television. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I got up close to see if I could find the familiar old ruined Jorge that I'd known, but his studio make-up was impenetrable, his new double-breasted suit as smooth and hermetic as armour plate. I could only imagine his crusty heels encased in their brand-new loafers. As a result of the programme the Spanish government announced an investigation into the affair as it had taken place on Spanish soil.

They found me. The heroic widower fighting against odds that I didn't recognize. They found Luísa, the committed teacher who'd become the fearless publisher and the hero's lover. They found Olivia, the hero's daughter who'd cut the tie that had given the investigation its biggest break, the new fashion designer who might have been backed, personally, by Miguel da Costa Rodrigues.

Finally, and perhaps the most damaging development for my privacy, was that, with the publication of the supporting documents for the origination of the gold, there was an immediate freeze of all the Banco de Oceano e Rocha's assets. This was followed by a raid on their offices, including the old offices on the Rua do Ouro in the Baixa, where two of the original bars of gold were found in an old wall safe. The Polícia Judiciária leapt at the chance of a publicity coup and my face appeared on the front of all the newspapers, flanked by the two bars of Nazi gold. In at least one publication appeared the legend Inspector Dourado -the Golden Inspector. This was followed by the announcement of a full government investigation into the origins, funding and affairs of the bank since its inception.

At this point I thought I was going to lose control of my life completely, but my luck turned. There were further revelations about the financial scandal that had plagued the companies which had built Expo 98 and the developers of the upmarket residential area around the site. The spotlight shifted. The media reloaded. But the Zeitgeist was the same-fat cats, acting with impunity.

By the end of June I'd been promoted. I didn't get a new job because one didn't exist at the time. I got a pay rise, which I didn't need because for weeks I wasn't allowed to buy a drink or pay for a meal. All bills were settled by others. More uncomplicated love.

I was given a secretary, temporarily, to handle all my calls which meant I hardly spoke to anyone who wasn't a journalist or a TV producer. I had little time. I did no work. The PJ rode high on the success of the investigation. I was envied and despised by my colleagues and welcomed into the brotherhood of my superiors.

It was a relief, after intense government pressure, when the trial finally took place, in record time in the middle of November. The prosecution took it seriously. I was endlessly coached and rehearsed. The defence built their case on Catarina's history: that although she was a schoolgirl from a respectable family, she was nothing more than a common prostitute and drug-user. They concentrated on her voluntarily getting into the car and her willingness to have straight sex (there was no apparent violence against her), the fact that no murder weapon was found, the lack of motive for the killing, there being no witnesses who saw the defendant hitting the girl, stripping her, loading her into the boot of the car or dumping her on the beach at Paço de Arcos. They puffed Miguel Rodrigues' good character, his charity work and that of his wife and the impeccable upbringing of his brother's daughter.

The prosecution's case hinged on whether the defendant had sodomized the girl or not. That was his motive for murder. Through my testimony, the initial interview with Miguel Rodrigues and the photographs of his bruised chest, they not only cast doubt on the veracity of anything that the defendant might have said, but also proved beyond reasonable doubt that he had sodomized Catarina Oliveira. That broke the back of the case. There was no murder weapon because the murderer had killed with his own hands, by strangling the girl. He wasn't seen stripping her, but ultimately the girl's clothes had been found in his possession. He wasn't seen dumping the girl, but it was clearly established that he was in Paço de Arcos, had left there at night and would therefore have had the opportunity. They scythed his good reputation to the ground.

On Monday 23rd November at 16.00 the judge handed down his verdict. Miguel da Costa Rodrigues, also known as Manuel Abrantes, was found guilty of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment.

I was invited by the Minister of Internal Administration to the Jockey Club, to celebrate with some editors, journalists, TV producers, presenters and high-ranking police officers. When I declined they sent Narciso after me. It was then that I realized why he was my boss. This was his territory. I was a stray cat. A photograph was taken of Luísa and me at the champagne reception and after half an hour Narciso let me know that I could leave.