I was curled up on the window seat an hour later, sipping my third cup of coffee, when I glimpsed a strange movement outside. A huge horse was the other side of the black railings of the gate. The rider bent down and stabbed at the keypad, but I knew from the way his body moved and curved it was Miklós. What in Hades was he doing with a horse?
‘Get your tracksuit on,’ he called from the open front door, and grinned like a kid up to mischief. He patted the horse who gave him back a soft breathy whinny. I tore up the stairs, scrambled into my running gear and was outside the front door in minutes. Miklós was bantering with Sándor who gave a short laugh back as I bounced through the door. Despite the chill, the day was glorious; blue sky and brilliant white winter sun. Sándor even smiled and waved as Miklós pulled me up behind him and we set off.
* * *
‘He’s a bit of a slug,’ Miklós said as the horse trotted sedately along the streets.
‘That’s no way to describe Sándor,’ I said. ‘I thought he was your friend.’
He reached back and gave me a playful slap on the thigh, but chuckled. I gave him a hearty jab in the ribs, then circled his waist tightly and laid my cheek against his back.
We reached the Prater and, on one of the bridleways, I slid off the slug with Miklós’s warning not to run anywhere the horse couldn’t go. We were ‘on holiday’, but couldn’t afford to be stupid.
Juno, the sheer pleasure of running freely was almost overwhelming; the exhilaration of moving fast under your own power. The thud of your heart in the silence of cutting through air, over grass, weaving through trees, was one of the most satisfying feelings in life. Scientists explained it with talk of adrenaline and endorphins, but even with a frozen winter breeze hitting my face, it opened the senses and cleaned the mind.
I ran on, avoiding people, lamp posts, and rubbish bins by instinct. As my breath became jerkier, I slowed to a trot, realising I was becoming tired.
‘That smile on your face is well worth riding the slug.’ Miklós’s voice drifted into my consciousness as I came to a stop and gasped for a few moments.
‘Thank you.’ I reached up and stretched out my hand to his. I laid the other on the horse’s warm neck. ‘Thank you for this.’ I made a moue. ‘I’ll probably regret it in the morning, though.’ He laughed and helped me back up behind him and we trotted back to the livery stable to collect the car, both content.
* * *
‘Don’t stop. Drive on past the house.’
Miklós was slowing down ready to turn into the recess in front of the house gates when I grabbed his arm. He shot a glance at me. I jerked my hand forwards to urge him on. He put his foot on the accelerator and turned at the next junction, then stopped the car.
‘What is it?’
‘Something’s not right. The front door was open. And Sándor wasn’t collecting the post.’
‘Burglar?’
‘With armed grumpy-guts there? Unlikely.’ I looked around. Nobody on the street. ‘Have you got your knife?’
He reached down into his riding boot.
‘Back or front?’ I asked.
‘You jog along the front if you’ve got the breath – it’ll look more natural,’ he said. ‘I’ll climb over the back garden fence.’
He grasped my hand and tilted my chin up with the other to look me steadily in the eye. ‘Aurelia, be careful. No heroics.’
I smiled briefly, then got out of the car and started a slow jog. I fished my bunch of three keys out of my pocket and, holding the fob in my palm, slotted each one between the fingers of my balled fist. At the gate, I crouched down as if to retie my running shoe. All I could hear was the murmur of somebody’s lawnmower in the distance. But our house door was open at the same angle as it had been five minutes ago.
I straightened up, jabbed at the keypad and the gate opened. I took a deep breath and readied myself. This was my first test since I’d been shot. Suppose I couldn’t cut it any longer?
Too late.
I crept up to the entrance out of direct sight line of the interior and flattened myself against the wall. I took a deep breath. I was trembling.
Pull yourself together, Mitela.
It would end one way or the other. Only one way to find out which.
I pushed the door open another few centimetres. No noise, no movement. Going for it, I slammed the door back and burst in. Dropping to a crouch, I panned round. The hallway was empty, nothing on the stairs, nothing I could see in the living room. Not the faintest sound from anywhere. But there was a sour, tinny smell, one I recognised instantly and it came from the direction of the kitchen.
When I got there, I threw up.
4
The first white police car screeched to a stop outside. Two grey-uniformed figures toting pistols, followed by a man in civilian clothes, hurtled into the house. Miklós stood slowly as one of the uniforms came into the living room. His reward was a service pistol pointing at his chest.
‘I’m the householder who called you,’ he said, holding his hands a few centimetres away from his legs. ‘And this is my wife who found the body.’
The policeman nodded, said nothing, but holstered his pistol. ‘Inspektor,’ he shouted.
Now, fifteen minutes later, the detective sat up straight in the armchair opposite us. He was tall, dark-haired and in his thirties. His beige gaberdine coat hung shapelessly, but didn’t hide a cord jacket and slacks. Curiously, he wore orange and black striped socks. He started asking the usual questions, simple to start with, designed to set a witness at ease. He scribbled everything furiously, but at length, in his notebook. We’d be here all day if we went at this pace.
‘Herr Inspektor,’ I interrupted him. ‘Shall I just give you my statement in one go?’
He looked up at me. ‘You seem remarkably composed, Frau Farkas.’
‘I’m a former Roma Novan Praetorian trained in interrogation techniques and have conducted a good number of interviews myself.’ I smiled to soften my words, but he blinked and sat back.
I told him in brief but comprehensive terms how I’d found Sándor spreadeagled on the kitchen floor with a pugio ceremonial dagger through his heart. He was lying in a large pool of blood which I estimated to be a litre to two litres. The note in Latin had been stuffed into his mouth, so that most of it protruded above his lips. I confirmed I’d entered the kitchen no more than two paces in, that we had moved nothing and had closed the door until the police arrived.
‘I apologise for the vomit. It was a reaction to the smell. I didn’t clear it up as I didn’t want to disturb the crime scene.’
The young man waved his hand as in dismissal. ‘Thank you for being so matter of fact.’ He twirled the pen between his fingers and seemed at a loss for what to ask next. One of the uniforms interrupted him with the news that the forensic team had arrived. The inspector disappeared for a few moments, leaving a uniformed officer who fidgeted by the door and said nothing.
‘Are you really okay?’ Miklós whispered, holding my hand a little tightly.
‘No, I’m bloody furious,’ I replied. ‘It’s Caius, I know it is.’
‘Sándor was as tough as iron,’ Miklós said. ‘I’m surprised anybody could kill him. He was a bodyguard for the head of one of the gangs in Budapest.’
‘How did he get away?’ Organised crime gangs usually had no formal retirement plans.
‘His boss screwed his girl, so Sándor killed him. He turned up at the camp outside Budapest where I was living at the time and I got him away. He’s lived in Vienna ever since. Until now.’
Juno. Sándor had radiated a grim strength, but I hadn’t realised he’d killed.
‘They’ll want to search his room,’ I murmured. ‘Is there anything there that shouldn’t be?’
‘I hope not. I didn’t impose border control on him when he moved in, you know.’
‘Don’t be peevish with me. I feel guilty enough.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘If he hadn’
t been here, guarding me—’
I broke off as the detective came back in the room. His face had hardened.
‘I have some further questions for you both, but I would like to continue this interview at the station. In any event, we will need to examine this house in detail. Please collect some essential personal items for a few days and be ready in fifteen minutes.’ Miklós and I exchanged glances. Surely we weren’t under suspicion? ‘A uniformed officer will accompany you upstairs.’
* * *
Past the pristine stone and glass facade, the police station looked like any other; drab colours, a bored desk sergeant, faint smell of sweat and stale coffee. Miklós was silent as we proceeded down a chair-lined corridor and pushed through a pair of swing doors. He was almost reluctant to enter the interview room. It must have seemed such a foreign environment for him, threatening even.
I touched his hand and whispered, ‘It’s okay. Leave it to me.’
He said nothing so I pressed his hand a little harder.
The inspector came back with another, older, detective who sat down and clicked his fingers at the younger man prompting him to activate a recording device. After the usual preliminaries with our names and dates, the older detective, who hadn’t given his name, pushed three photos across the table. The pugio that I’d seen sticking out of Sándor’s chest had been shot from different angles.
‘Would you like to comment on this weapon?’ he asked Miklós.
‘Never seen it before,’ he replied.
‘Really?’
Miklós tensed and he glared at the detective.
‘I know exactly where it came from,’ I interrupted. ‘Until now, it’s been in a locked display case in the Golden Palace in Roma Nova. It was in the personal collection of the late Imperatrix Justina, the previous imperatrix’s mother.’
‘And how do you know that, Frau Farkas?’
‘I’m sure you’ve done your research, Herr Inspektor—’
‘Herr Leutnant,’ he snapped.
‘You will know then, Herr Leutnant,’ I emphasised those two words, ‘that before the power grab in Roma Nova by Caius Tellus, I was the foreign minister there and imperial councillor. As a cousin of the imperial family I had the run of the palace since childhood. Moreover, in my service as a young officer, I commanded the Praetorian detail responsible for the imperatrix’s security. I think you can take it that I know exactly which case that pugio was locked in.’
He glared at me, then turned to Miklós.
‘Can you corroborate what your wife claims?’
‘Don’t you believe her? You’re a fool then.’
I kicked Miklós’s foot and shook my head at him. We couldn’t afford to antagonise this policeman.
The lieutenant narrowed his eyes, then wrote something on a small piece of paper, passed it to the inspector, who glanced at it, sent a questioning look back to his superior, who nodded. The younger man hurried off.
‘Who are you, really?’ the older detective growled at me.
‘I was born into the Mitela family and my given praenomen is Aurelia. As the head of one of the Twelve Families of Roma Nova, I hold the rank of countess, or Gräfin in Germanic, if you prefer. Currently, I am living quietly as an exile with my husband Miklós Farkas whom I married here a few weeks ago. The New Austrian foreign minister, a friend, was one of my witnesses.’ I looked down my nose at him. ‘I trust that will satisfy you.’
‘We need to confirm your identity with the Roma Novan authorities.’
Oh, gods, no.
‘I’m a political refugee, granted asylum with full rights,’ I retorted. ‘I also hold Hungarian citizenship. I showed your colleague my passport earlier.’ I took a deep breath. ‘My status is not in question. The main concern is the murder of my, no, my husband’s driver. We are here to assist with that, not to be browbeaten on settled matters.’
‘Very well. I have asked for guidance from my senior command as this goes well beyond a standard murder enquiry.’ He stood up. ‘I will send in coffee and sandwiches.’ He flicked the tape recorder off and left.
I let a long breath out.
Miklós stood up, grasped the back of his chair for a few moments, then started pacing around like a wolf shut up in a zoo compound.
‘How long do you think we’ll be here?’
I tracked him as he circled the small room.
‘I don’t know.’ I caught his hand as he passed by me. ‘Stop. Come and sit down.’ I dragged him back onto his chair and bent over to whisper in his ear. ‘They’re probably watching us and listening in, so sitting calmly as if unconcerned is best.’
‘Well, it’s all right for you – you’re used to it. I’ve never been held in a police station.’
‘Never?’ I stared at him.
‘No, never. Don’t look so surprised.’
‘Sorry.’ I laughed, more in relief than humour.
He smiled back, and raised his eyebrows, making a comic expression. I pressed his hand.
‘Try to endure,’ I whispered. ‘They can’t hold us on anything. Playing the system and cooperating will get us further than not.’
* * *
Half an hour after a silent young policewoman had brought us sandwiches and coffee, the lieutenant returned with the inspector in tow and followed by an elegant suited man in his mid-forties who looked like a lawyer. He scanned our faces with an intense measuring look, then held out his hand and shook mine and then Miklós’s. His grip was firm, but brief.
‘Good afternoon, Frau Gräfin Mitela, Herr Farkas. My name is Goss, from the foreign minister’s private office. He sends his warmest regards and apologies for any awkwardness to which you have been subjected.’ He shot an almost venomous look at the two detectives. ‘I understand that for technical reasons you cannot return to your house at present. The police service assures me they will have completed their forensic work within the next twenty-four hours. In the meantime, the minister asks if you will consent to be his guests at a government hospitality apartment. I have a car waiting outside to take you there.’
He hadn’t paused for a single breath. I exchanged glances with Miklós. He shrugged.
‘Thank you, Herr Goss. We accept. However, we would be more than pleased to cooperate with the police investigation. Sándor was my husband’s friend as well as employee.’
‘Of course.’ Goss stretched his hand out in the lieutenant’s direction without looking at him. ‘The note,’ he said curtly. The lieutenant thrust a transparent plastic bag containing an A5 sheet of paper at him. Goss smiled at me. ‘Would you mind confirming what is written on this? I’ve made a rudimentary attempt at it, but I yield to your superior knowledge of Latin.’
Superior was a word he looked well acquainted with. I picked up the bag with the crumpled piece of paper, stained from saliva and spotted with blood. My mouth was dry as I read and translated it.
WE’LL HAVE YOU NEXT TIME. YOU’LL NEVER BE SAFE.
* * *
‘At the expense of being obvious, this looks to be an overt political assassination attempt.’ The immaculate Herr Goss sat across the dining table in the bland but comfortable apartment we’d been moved to.
The inspector wriggled in his seat. Goss had insisted any further police interview be held at our convenience at our temporary home.
‘You don’t agree?’ Goss looked down his nose at the detective.
‘Well, sir, it’s a murder of a foreign national by persons unknown. We’ve sent the fingerprints to both the Hungarian police and the Roma Novan vigiles for their comments.’
I snorted at him. ‘You’ll get a negative answer from Roma Nova, no question of it. Do you think they’d dare assist with a murder committed by their own state political police?’
‘We don’t know that,’ the inspector replied. ‘We only deal in facts.’
‘The note in Latin and the pugio, which could only have come from the palace collection, are strong indicators, I would say.’ I failed to keep the sarcasm out
of my voice. Miklós clasped my hand and pressed it. He gave me a tiny smile and shook his head. I took a long breath to calm myself. ‘I apologise, Herr Inspektor, you are quite right, but I hope you can understand my frustration.’
He looked up, his face still grave. ‘I can imagine why you would feel very frightened, Frau Gräfin.’
‘It’s not fright, it’s anger. How dare that bloody man keep trying to kill me?’ I stood up and went over to the window, staring down at the midday traffic but not seeing it.
I heard the door open behind me. Goss murmured something, then the door closed.
Miklós came to stand by me. ‘Caius will keep trying until one of you is dead. And I think you know that in your heart.’
I almost shrugged his hand off my shoulder, but he was right.
A discreet cough broke the tension. I turned to face Goss, who was gathering his papers together.
‘I will send a formal note to the Roma Nova legation for onward transmission to the Roma Nova authorities expressing our concern and so on,’ he said. ‘Have you been in contact with the nuncia?’
'No, I—’ I swallowed. ‘To be honest, Herr Goss, I haven’t wanted to. When a regime changes, you have to assume the legations will change with it. Knowing Livilla Vara, I'd say she’ll switch according to the prevailing wind.’
Retalio Page 3
