Samson 05 - Hope, page 14
Billy went upstairs to the bathroom while Sally cleared away the dishes on the table. Harry began putting his swords back into the cupboard where they belonged.
‘Lovely kids, Bernard. They are a credit to you. I thought your boy would have been keen on the swords.’
‘He is,’ I said, ‘but he hates white gloves.’
‘You can’t handle them with your bare hands,’ said Harry, who was not renowned for joke recognition. ‘The acid perspiration would destroy the blades.’ Harry looked at each sword lovingly as he put it away. ‘Yes, nice kids. Count your blessings, Bernard.’ Harry’s voice was different now; warmer and more trusting. ‘I wish my marriage had lasted, but you can’t have everything. It took me a long time to realize that, but it’s true.’
‘When did the heavy-glove men come here, Harry?’ I said. ‘Am I a lot too late?’
‘Don’t be silly, Bernard.’ The shutters came down with a clang and his face was blank.
‘Yesterday? Last week? What did they say they would do? They can’t touch your pension can they?’
‘Careful how you drive, Bernard. Those Frenchmen, in the big trucks coming from the ferry, drive like maniacs. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all that vin rouge.’
‘How do they do it? I’ve often wondered. High-level, low-level, or anonymous? Do they send one of those bastards from Internal Security?’
He smiled another of those mirthless smiles. It completely prevented one reading anything into his expression; maybe that’s why he did it. ‘I miss the old man,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed my time working on the top floor. And Sir Henry is a gentleman of the old school. Even during the hectic days when your wife was coming out, he went down to pay his respects to Uncle Silas. He kept in touch to make him feel he was still a part of things.’ Harry looked at me. ‘Uncle Silas was sick. He’d fallen off a horse, they said.’
‘He was too old for horses.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Harry sharply, as if I had suddenly solved a mystery that had puzzled him.
I knew it was as far as Harry would go. In reversed circumstances with a pig farm and pension in the balance it was perhaps more than I would have risked for him.
As we were departing, Harry’s young farmhand came up the path carrying a bucket of newly dug potatoes. He was very muddy and looked perished with the cold, but he wore the same gentle bemused smile that he’d worn when showing us his favorite porkers.
‘Come along, Tommy!’ Harry shouted to him. ‘Come in and get warm. I’m brewing up some tea.’
6
Mayfair, London.
‘What a lovely idea to take the children to see your mother. How is she?’
‘She’s fine,’ I said.
It was typical of the polite exchanges that enabled our happy marriage to continue so smoothly. Fiona didn’t really think it was a lovely idea that prompted me to take our children to visit my mother. She thought it a stupid, inconsiderate exploit that was done to worry my mother-in-law and annoy my father-in-law while leaving her to soak up their dismay, anger and resentment. And my mother was not fine. She was anything but fine. She was in a nursing home that she didn’t like, and the only time I saw flashes of the mother I remembered was when she was showing her annoyance about being incarcerated far from her friends and the home she loved. But despite everything my mother said, she was seriously infirm and incapable of living on her own. I’d taken the children to visit her only because I thought she would be dead before another year was past.
‘Good,’ said Fiona, and smiled to show me that she could read my mind. She was wearing her magnificent fur coat. She became almost animal in that soft glistening sable. It made her remote and exotic; so that I found it difficult to remember that this lovely creature was my wife.
‘Shall we go out for dinner?’ she said. She’d been with the D-G almost all day, and I could see she’d had her hair done and put on her extra-special makeup for him. She was standing by the stove top reading an almost indecipherable note left there by Mrs. Dias. The indomitable Mrs. Dias had cooked our meals, minded our children, washed, swept and cleaned for us and piled up astounding hours of labor back when we lived in Duke Street, before Fiona had pulled her defection stunt. Now Fiona had tracked her down and persuaded her to work for us again. I’m sure the smart Mayfair address, in an apartment block with lords and ladies and recording stars, was an enticement for Mrs. Dias, who was, like most domestic workers throughout history, a resolute and uncompromising snob.
‘We said we’d economize this month,’ I said.
Fiona was still reading the note. She’d let her nails grow longer and today they were painted, albeit in a natural pink color. She looked up. ‘I can never read her handwriting. Sometimes I think some of the words must be Portuguese.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot about the economy drive. I had no time to shop, I’ll dig something out of the freezer.’
‘Do you want a drink?’ I said.
With no more than a glance at the opened bottle of Bell’s on the kitchen table in front of me, she had noted its level. ‘Not whiskey,’ she said, ‘but I’ll have a tonic water, and sit with you for a moment. I’m absolutely exhausted.’ She took a chilled can of tonic from the refrigerator, a cut-glass tumbler from the shelf and then ice from the dispenser.
This apartment, a legacy from Fiona’s wealthy sister, was extraordinary. The kitchen had been cleverly designed to conceal its function. It had fake-antique cupboards in which to hide away the saucepans and crockery so that I could never find anything. The refrigerator was disguised as well, and the twin ovens concealed behind decorative tiles. Every working surface was stark and bare, and lingering in the air there were the scented sprays with which Mrs. Dias staked out her territory. As usual she’d been through the whole apartment mercilessly eliminating all traces of human presence. Flower arrangements past their prime were protruding bent and broken from shiny black trash bags. No trace now of food or drink; of bowls of peanuts, half-read books, carpet slippers, newspapers or magazines, or any other evidence that human beings had ever passed this way. What this morning had been a comfortable apartment now looked like a set erected for a photographer fromHouse and Garden.
‘Everything all right with Mrs. Dias?’ I asked cheerfully.
‘It’s about her money, ‘ said Fiona, still examining the note. Indecipherable writing or not, this was a safe bet.
‘Sit down,’ I told her. She looked uncomfortable standing there in her fur coat, hands resting on the back of the Windsor chair.
‘I’m better standing. It’s my back again.’ As if in demonstration she arched her back and grimaced. ‘I’ll be fine if I stand for a minute.’ There came an impatient fanfare of assorted car horns from the street below. This was the penalty for living in the most exclusive part of London’s West End. Here were the nightclubs, fancy restaurants and top hotels and the never-ending noise of traffic, car doors slamming and the high-pitched exchanges of the rich and famous. Fiona gave up reading and dropped the note on the table.
‘Is there something wrong?’ I said.
‘They’ve made it official. George. We’ve notified the Warsaw embassy to request a copy of the death certificate. The D-G just nodded it through; there was no argument or discussion.’
‘Was Dicky there?’
‘For the morning meeting, yes.’
‘Dicky is obsessed about proving George Kosinski’s contacts with the Stasi. He’ll chalk it up as a success story. I suspect he’ll use the Polish death certificate to turn over everything George owned or had contact with.’
‘How?’
‘It’s in the new Police and Criminal Evidence Act. He’ll use the certified death to support a claim that an arrestable offense has been committed. On that basis he could claim that all George’s property is “of substantial value to the investigation.” His one-time property too. Nothing could stop Dicky seizing, searching and entering anywhere he fancies, and grabbing what he wants to look at.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Are you forgetting that this apartment would be included in that description?’
‘He wouldn’t dare.’ She paused. ‘Would he?’
I don’t like it, Fi.’
‘Because you don’t like Dicky,’ she declared categorically. ‘No, not because I don’t like Dicky. I don’t like it because I don’t believe this is Dicky. I think Dicky is acting on instructions.’
‘From above? Who?’
I don’t know. Who has he been with recently?’
‘No one. He came in for the first meeting and then said he was too ill to work and went home.’ She was still standing. Remembering her tonic water, she sipped some as if it was medicine, and then put the glass on the table, sliding the note from Mrs. Dias under it to prevent ring marks on the polished table top.
‘I thought that he was suddenly taken ill because the Polish beds were too hard and there was no central heating.’
‘No, it was genuine,’ she said.
‘Genuine hypochondria. Well, that’s a step in the right direction. Should you see a doctor about that back of yours?’
‘Dicky says George is dead. He wants to put a notice in the newspapers. What do you think?’
‘About Dicky or about George?’
‘Dicky wants them to repatriate George’s body. But I said George is a Swiss resident. What would be the legal position? Is there any member of George’s family who might be persuaded to request the return of the body you saw?’
‘We saw no body. Just a lower leg and foot.’
‘What’s the difference?’ said Fiona. ‘It’s the burial I’m thinking of.’
‘You sound like Dicky,’ I said. ‘Examining a leg is inconclusive. No one Mes away records of toe prints. And most hospitals amputate far more legs than arms, so it’s often possible to buy a leg from some unscrupulous incinerator man or theater orderly.’
‘How disgusting. Why do they amputate more legs than arms’? And why couldn’t anyone see it had been surgically amputated?’ This was Fiona as she used to be; argumentative and challenging.
‘It hadn’t been surgically amputated; it had been crudely hacked away from the upper leg.’
‘Doesn’t that rather overturn your theory that it came from a hospital?’
‘On the contrary; it strengthens it. ‘The reason hospitals amputate more legs than arms is due to the way that circulatory problems more commonly affect the legs when patients become unable to walk or exercise. Such limbs are dead and blackened, but these jokers needed a good-looking leg that means one amputated because of physical damage … in a traffic accident or whatever. But such a limb would have come complete with the trauma, the damage. To make it convincing they would have to cut it off at the knee, and that’s what they undoubtedly did. Anyway it wasn’t George, rest your mind on that. The foot wouldn’t have fitted into George’s shoe.’
She was still standing, resting her hands on the back of the chair. She stared at me for a moment: ‘No one else noticed that?’
‘That’s why they’d hacked off the big toe. And anyway it was all too phony: the flesh obviously hadn’t suffered that kind of damage while the shoe was still on it. The shoe was in relatively good condition. Obviously they got one of George’s shoes afterwards, then they saw it was too small for the foot, so they hacked the big toe off the foot. That meant they had to make the shoe look as if it had been chewed by an animal. So then they had to make the shoe look like some animal had bitten into it while the foot was still inside it. It would be a difficult piece of fakery even if it was done in a laboratory. Far beyond those jokers.’
‘Is that conclusive? Perhaps the leg you saw wasn’t George’s leg, but that doesn’t prove that George isn’t dead.’
‘I know I’m right,’ I said in a way that perhaps I wouldn’t have chosen except for the last drink or two. ‘And no killer would have had time enough to dig a grave into that icy rock-hard ground. Then he’d have to dispose of the spade. How? Worry about fingerprints and other traces? No way. You’d be crazy to think about burying a corpse when you could simply toss it into the river and let it be carried away for miles. Or hide it somewhere it would never be found. That whole forest is a tangle of old bunkers, trenches and decaying fortifications.’
‘Did you discuss all this with Dicky? He seems certain that George is dead.’
‘He didn’t ask me. He didn’t ask because it suits him to believe it.’
‘I didn’t ask you either.’ She was still standing behind the chair, gripping the back of it so tightly that her knuckles were white.
‘No, you didn’t, but I’m telling you anyway. I’m telling you because I think your ownership of this apartment might be in jeopardy.’
‘Why should you care? You hate this apartment. I can see it in every move, you make.’
‘You are my wife and I love you: that’s why. And I don’t hate this apartment.’
‘Of course you don’t. How could you? You’re hardly ever here.’
‘I’m trying to help you.’
‘This belief that Dicky is about to barge in here and ransack the apartment … Is that anything to do with the suitcase you removed and took with you yesterday?’
‘There were personal things of mine that I’ve now stored elsewhere. Things I wouldn’t want Dicky rummaging through.’
‘Things the Department might not approve of?’
‘About a thousand quid in foreign currency, plus fifty gold sovereigns my father left me. My father’s moth-eaten army tunic. Some forged identity papers, some documents that could incriminate old friends, or get them into bad odor. My parents’ wedding photos and a leather-bound copy of Die schöne Müllerinthat was a present from the von Munte library. A couple of handguns one of them Dad’s army-issue Webley and some ancient ammunition.’
Her face softened. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, Bernard. I’m sorry. I get upset.’ She pulled out the chair, sat down and sipped more of her tonic water. Then she gave me her attention in a softer and more friendly way. ‘What’s it a1l about, Bernard? Why would they want to sequester George’s possessions? What do you think might be behind it?’
‘I don’t know, Fi, and that’s the truth. But it’s probably something to do with Tessa’s death. That’s the only connection that could link George to the Stasi.’
‘You were there. when Tessa was killed,’ said Fiona.
‘We were both there,’ I pointed out gently. ‘But why was Tessa there?’
‘You brought her with you in the van.’
‘I know, but she was meant to be there, M. Soon after I left the party at Tante Lisl’s there was a man looking for her. He had a motorbike and he turned up at the Brandenburg exit. I think he’d arranged to take Tessa there.’
‘But why was she there?’
‘She had some strange friends, Fi, you know she did. And she was taking some kind of dope. I think it was coming to her through one of the Stasi people. Someone wanted her there and arranged for her to be there, but whether the man on the motorbike was one of our people I still don’t know. He might have been one of Tessa’s casual affairs. You know how batty she could be.’
‘I let the family down,’ said Fiona. ‘If I’d been here with her, it might have all turned out differently. Yes, she probably was on some kind of dope. I’ve been reluctant to face it, but it goes back a long time …’
‘Stasi agents talked to George in Zurich. Polish Bezpieca too, I suspect.’
‘That’s what Dicky said.’
‘George was moved so smoothly from Zurich to Warsaw. Really professional job. No trace of tickets or paper or witnesses.’
‘Dicky has our people in Berne still looking.’
‘Don’t hold your breath: Berne will find nothing. It was beautifully done; not in their league.’
‘Not so beautifully done, if you tracked him down to his brother’s house.’
Clever, logical Fiona; I wondered if she was going to bring that up. ‘A lucky guess. I picked up the trail. Suddenly I hear about him getting drunk in Warsaw bars and making a nuisance of himself. He must have broken away from his minders.’
‘Wouldn’t his minders have grabbed him back?’
‘Not if they were Germans. Germans, even Stasi, tread warily in Poland. And George’s brother Stefan is still influential there. I think George escaped from his Stasi minders, and made such a nuisance of himself that they backed off to watch what happened.’
‘And killed him?’
‘There’s nothing conclusive to say that George is dead. Everything we saw in Poland points to a lot of phony clues to make us think he’s dead. Or make someone else think that.’
‘Clues left by his Stasi minders? But you were not fooled.’
‘Pros who can spirit George out of Zurich to Warsaw without leaving a trace are not the sort of dudes who leave a wristwatch, a laced and tied brogue shoe and a decomposing foot as evidence of death.’
‘So who arranged it?’
‘It could be George himself.’
‘How could George arrange for the death certificate?’
‘Oh, Stefan is in on it, of course. Stefan has a lot of clout and Stefan’s wife is the daughter of some top-brass Party official. And this is Poland we’re talking about. Germans are not popular there, German communists are heartily despised. If a big shot like Stefan wants a death certificate so that his brother can escape the clutches of the Stasi, what Pole is going to say no?’
‘Dicky will riot when he hears all this,’ she said sadly. Despite all her experience, Fiona was reluctant to believe that death certificates could be fixed; even in Poland. Sometimes I wondered whether it was university education that produced that kind of unquestioning belief in signed pieces of paper.
‘So don’t tell him,’ I suggested.
‘But darling …’
‘This is Tessa’s husband we are talking about. If George wants to be written off as dead, he must have a good reason for it, He’s family.’
‘It’s not right to mislead Dicky,’ she said.
