A Time to Lie

by Simon Berthon

  ‘You enjoy westerns?’

  ‘Sure, I learnt my English from Clint Eastwood.’

  Quine chuckled, relaxing as flat fields floated by, dotted by the odd tree and low farmhouse, sheep and horses, but disappointingly few cattle.

  Kovacs finally broke the silence. ‘Thirty minutes to Pusztaszabanya.’ Kovacs had located four villages in Hungary beginning with the first four letters identifiable from Coulthard’s archive entry. All were within two hours’ driving distance from Budapest and he had visited each one. Only in Pusztaszabanya was there evidence of the family Takacs.

  ‘Good.’ Quine checked his jacket pockets for his iPhone and a separate mini-recorder.

  ‘School finishes at four p.m.’

  ‘And you’ve made no approach.’

  ‘No, I only asked at the post office if there was anyone called Takacs in the neighbourhood as a friend wanted to contact them. That’s where they told me.’

  ‘Will they be suspicious?’

  ‘Maybe curious. Nothing ever happens in places like this.’ At 3.55 p.m. Kovacs parked his dented Škoda on the main road running through the village. The school was easily identifiable, its main building, resembling a three-storey Dutch barn, the largest in the street. At 4 p.m. excited children burst through the gates, some into the arms of waiting mothers, others old enough to walk home alone. Within a few minutes, they had all vanished, followed at intervals by teachers leaving in ones and twos. Quine assumed that the deputy head would be among the last. They waited.

  A dumpy figure came into sight, whitened hair gathered in a straggly ponytail hanging well below the shoulder. She seemed a far cry from the slim young redhead in the photograph. Her walking speed suggested she might be no more than fifty-ish. The right age. Yes, this must be Andrea Takacs. Quine could hardly believe it. The entire story was about to be turned on its head. A triumph of good over evil.

  As she exited the school gate, they intercepted her. Kovacs addressed her with the agreed introduction. ‘Takacs Kisasszony?’

  She stopped, her face creased in puzzlement. ‘Igen?’

  ‘Van egy látogatóm Angliából, aki szeretne találkozni veled. Beszélsz angol?’

  ‘Yes, I speak some English.’ Kovacs nodded to Quine.

  ‘Miss Takacs, my name is Joseph Quine. I have been asked to try to make contact with you by someone who was a friend of yours in London when you were briefly there in 1991. You may remember her. Roisin Osborne. She is still at Coulthard’s bank – she now keeps the archives. She is trying to track down everyone still living who ever worked there, even for a very short time, for a company history.’

  With each succeeding word he spoke, Quine noticed a cloud of incomprehension gathering in the plump round cheeks and grey eyes of the short woman rooted to the spot opposite him.

  ‘Excuse me, I was never in London,’ she said quietly.

  Quine’s elation gave way to a sinking in the stomach. ‘You are not Miss A Takacs? Miss Andrea Takacs?’

  The cloud on her face suddenly cleared. ‘No, that is – sorry, was – my sister. My younger sister. I am Abigél Takacs.’

  ‘And you were never in London?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Then I am very sorry about this mistake and to have troubled you. You may remember your sister Andrea was briefly in London. The friend I mentioned would be very grateful to know what happened to her.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Abigél Takacs, her words and face devoid of any expression.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Quine. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I do not think any friend of my sister will want to know.’

  The buzz of the village seemed to turn to silence. All three heads bowed. Kovacs turned to Quine. ‘I think perhaps we should leave Miss Takacs alone and go.’

  She suddenly raised her head. ‘No!’ The word came out burning with anger. ‘You follow me.’

  She walked briskly along the pavement until they reached the town’s modest church, its walls rendered grey and featureless, a short bell tower overlooking low-slung electricity cables. She led them through a wooden gate and around the church. In the foreground were neat rows of headstones; beyond lay the flat, unyielding expanse of the plain. Nowhere could have been more quiet or more distant from London.

  She stopped by a headstone rising from the tip of a grave covered with white gravel and marble edging. A small oval frame showed the photograph of a pretty, smiling teenage girl with waves of deep red hair. Below was written:

  ANDREA LILIANA TAKACS

  SZÜLETETT 1971. MÁJUS 20-ÁN

  MEGHALT 1992. JANUÁR 1

  Beneath was a short inscription. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Takacs,’ said Quine. ‘Are you able to tell me what this says?’

  She stood with tears in her eyes, staring into the fields. ‘It says, “In loving memory, a life cruelly cut short.”’ She took a handkerchief from a pocket, wiped her eyes and turned to face him. ‘She was twenty years and seven months old.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Could you tell me what happened to her?’ There was no reply. ‘I think her friend would wish to know. They were very fond of each other.’

  ‘There is a bench.’ She walked towards it; Quine gestured to Kovacs to hang back. They sat while she prepared herself. Quine needed the fullest account possible and kept silent. For several seconds, while she stayed rigid, he pleaded with whatever spirit inhabited this place that she would go through with it.

  ‘When Andrea arrived home,’ she finally began, ‘it took her some weeks to tell me. I wanted her to go to the police here. She said there was no point. Nothing would ever be done. London was far away. She would not tell our mother. And then it was too late.’

  ‘Too late?’

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the gravestone. ‘And why should I trouble my mother with it then?’

  ‘Have you told others what happened?’

  ‘Later I went to the police myself. They said there was nothing they could do. No evidence, no witnesses, just – what do they call it in English…’

  ‘Hearsay?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Hallomás. If your friend knows anything about Andrea’s time in London, maybe she can tell the police there.’

  ‘I will ask her,’ said Quine. He tried to imagine a circumstance in which he could ever reveal what was to come to Roisin Osborne.

  ‘Good. Then I shall speak.’ She looked away from him, as if finding some distant presence to address. ‘Andrea was my only sister. We had no brothers. She was pretty – much more than me. She was curious about the world. When the chance came for people like us to travel, she wanted it. The year before she went to an island in Greece with a friend. She loved it. Above all, she wanted to go to London. The most glamorous city. She had a schoolfriend who had been there. She told her it was easy – there were many places with noticeboards with jobs and flats. Two weeks after she arrived we had a postcard. It was all “great”, she wrote. She had a job in a bank and was living in a youth hostel. That was all we heard until the phone call.’

  She fell silent, looking towards the sky, holding back tears. ‘Phone call?’ he prompted gently.

  ‘Yes. She said, “I am at Budapest airport. Can you come?” She sounded scared. My father died the year before but we kept his car. My mother had gone by bus to visit a friend. I was still learning to drive but I took the car on my own. I drove as fast as I could. She was sitting on her suitcase. She did not smile. I knew there was something bad from the phone call. She managed to stand and walked to the car. She wouldn’t tell me what happened. We arrived home, my mother was angry. She did not know where I was. We fed Andrea and put her to bed. I said to my mother that she seemed to have caught some illness. Over the next few days, she was eating better, getting up, but she was quiet, staring out of windows, not wanting to do anything. Then one day, she came into my room and sat on my bed. “My life is over,” she said.’

  Abigél Takacs stopped, turning her
head away from Quine.

  After a few seconds he spoke. ‘There’s no hurry.’ This time he was not lying. In one sense, he already had enough. Andrea Takacs had left London alive, not dead. The headless skeleton with the severed hand was not her, but another unfortunate young woman.

  ‘I wish to say everything.’ She swivelled, now looking him straight in the eye. ‘She told me the bank she worked in was good. She made friends with a girl from Ireland called Roisin. They went out for drinks. She and Roisin were talking to a boy called Robbie. She said he was nice. He was with his flatmate – he was called something like “Jet”. He was quieter, not handsome. It was getting quite late and Roisin said she would go home. This Robbie invited everyone to his flat for a last drink. She thought, why not? They got a taxi and went across the river. They reached the flat, she didn’t know where, but not too far. She was not used to drinking too much and asked for something like lemonade. The other boy went to the kitchen to bring drinks. She and Robbie kissed. She drank some lemonade and was a little sleepy. The other boy said he was going to bed and left. Then Robbie took her into his bedroom. She said she was so sleepy, a little faint, the room was going in and out of focus.’

  She breathed deeply; Quine prepared himself for the worst.

  ‘The next thing she remembered,’ continued Abigél, ‘she was lying on the back seat of a car. A driver and a second man were in the front. There was pain between her legs and around her parts. She felt down. It was wet. She did not dare say anything. One of the men looked round. “OK, Andrea,” he said, “we’re going to look after you. Do everything I say and it will be fine.”’

  Quine hesitated to interrupt but two questions shrieked. He might not have another chance. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did your sister know why she felt so faint and passed out?’

  ‘Pass out?’

  ‘Yes, it sounds as if she was unconscious.’

  ‘No, she said she had not drunk too much. I asked about drugs. She said no. Later I thought it myself. Maybe something was in her drink.’

  ‘Did she say whether the man in the car spoke with an accent?’

  Abigél Takacs hesitated, Quine’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘She said he was not English. She thought he was American.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I interrupted.’

  ‘It is OK. I will continue. Andrea said these two men took her to a place – she did not know where. She was allowed to rest, have a shower, eat. The American told her it was better she did not stay in London and went home. They had bought her a ticket to fly to Budapest the next day. One of them took her to get her things from the youth hostel. He said she must leave her purse behind with the other man. Andrea said she was frightened of them. If she did not do what they said, she was even thinking they might kill her. She collected her things, put them in her rucksack, and went back with the American to the flat.

  ‘The next day they took her to London airport. The American went with her all the way to check-in and baggage search. When she reached the front of the queue, he told her not to tell anyone about what happened. She said they watched her until she got on the plane. As she went through passport control, she turned and could still see him watching.’

  Abigél rose and headed back towards the grave. Quine drew alongside her, both silent, looking at the pretty girl in the photograph.

  ‘That was not the end of it,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I do not know whether to tell you this part of it.’ She walked back towards the gate leading to the next-door field and leant on it. Quine found himself dropping to his knees beside the headstone. He examined every feature of the girl in the photograph, clasped his hands together and prayed. Hearing footsteps, he stood.

  ‘She told me she was sure she was pregnant. She was crying. She said, “My life is over.” We lived in a small Catholic village in a traditional, God-fearing part of our country. I tried to encourage her. There would be no shame in having the baby after what had happened. If she did not want to, I said I was sure we could go to Budapest and find the right doctor. I needed to help her. I tried to keep discussing the possibilities with her but she would just go silent.

  ‘On New Year’s Eve, my mother, Andrea and I joined our village in the church hall to celebrate our Lord and the coming year. She was trying to look happy for us. In the early morning I heard footsteps in the house and a door open and close. I thought nothing of it, my mother was often up. It was a cold, sunny morning. I looked out of my bedroom window at our small garden and the cherry tree in the middle. I saw something terrible. I rushed down. A rope was wound around her neck and tied to a branch. She was hanging from that tree. I thought again and again of those words. “My life is over.”’

  Quine, himself now trying to hold back a tear, wondered if he should place a comforting arm round her. He sensed not. There was a residual toughness of spirit in Abigél Takacs that might not welcome it.

  ‘It broke my mother. Andrea spoke just to me. I sometimes thought I should tell her.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Quine, ‘there is nothing more anyone can do. I am sorry. I am so very sorry for what my country did to your sister and your family.’

  ‘I will go to my home now. You may go too.’ She looked up into his face and cupped one of his hands between her own. ‘It is good we have spoken. Please tell her friend.’

  Watching her disappear behind the church, Quine remembered something important. He removed his phone from his chest pocket, leant down and took a sequence of photographs of Andrea Takacs’s grave and headstone. He had journeyed here to solve a mystery. Instead, it had become darker and more impenetrable than ever.

  44

  Quine arrived back at the flat around 10 p.m. Sophie and Isla were both home. After quick hugs he said, ‘Before anything else, I’ve got to send an email.’

  JONATHAN MOORE

  To: paulabcdreynolds@gmail.com

  Re: trip

  Hi Paul

  Need to talk without delay. Not unhelpful developments. Now have jogging shoes and shorts if easier!

  Cheers

  Jonathan

  He looked up. Sophie was standing over him. ‘Drink, Dad?’

  He brightened. ‘Yes, please.’ She turned to Isla.

  ‘Me too, please.’

  ‘Do you two need to talk?’

  ‘Yes, but let’s have some downtime first.’

  ‘I’m amazed…’ began Quine as his daughter reappeared, carrying a tray laden with glasses and snacks. ‘I’ll start that again. I really admire how you manage not to ask us what’s going on.’

  Sophie smiled. ‘I’m used to it. That’s the deal. It would drive us both mad any other way. Not to mention the worry.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? I didn’t even tell you where I was flying to this morning.’

  ‘It’s up to you, not me. You can tell me what you want.’

  ‘Sometimes I do just that,’ said Isla. ‘It’s usually when I feel a moral choice. And I put it as a hypothetical question, changing the details.’

  ‘And you find that helpful?’ said Quine.

  ‘Yes, it can be very helpful.’

  ‘What about you, darling?’ he said, turning to Sophie. ‘Isn’t that frustrating?’

  ‘No. Why? It would be like me discussing every new book that comes my way. But like Isla, sometimes there’s a dilemma that makes the conversation interesting for both of us.’

  ‘It would never work for me,’ said Quine.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re a journalist. Your curiosity’s insatiable. Gossip and rumour’s the food of life. You’d be a hopeless spy and an even more hopeless partner of one.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said. ‘By the way, since you didn’t ask, I’ve been to Budapest and back in search of a missing person.’

  Sophie lowered her eyes. ‘Dad, there is no God-given kudos in being the contrarian. In fact, one might
even argue its main effect has been to make you broke.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Now, I have work left to do.’

  ‘This is a world of half-truths,’ Quine began as Sophie left the room.

  ‘Tell me something new.’

  ‘I will.’ He described in every detail the encounter with Abigél Takacs. ‘So Robin Sandford is off one hook,’ he concluded.

  ‘He didn’t actually kill Andrea Takacs,’ said Isla.

  ‘Not directly. Nobody killed Andrea Takacs.’

  ‘Except herself. It still leaves open the question of what he did do to her. Which, from his sister’s account, sounds like rape.’

  ‘Maybe. Unless it was someone else—’

  ‘Come on, Joe, Andrea told her sister she went with Sandford into his bedroom.’

  ‘Am I supposed to tell Sandford that?’ asked Quine despairingly.

  ‘That’s your call. My job is different. Andrea Takacs is long buried in Hungary. As the Hungarian police told her, her sister’s only a hearsay witness. Her evidence, particularly on something as long ago as this, is pretty much worthless. Legally, I mean. Jed Fowkes is the only eyewitness. And he is now caught lying about the identity of the skeleton—’

  ‘He may not think he’s lying, he could have been misled, either deliberately or not.’

  ‘Perhaps. The point is it’s hard to imagine a scenario where this ever becomes a cold case of rape that turns hot and ends up in court.’

  ‘So, back to my question. What do I tell Sandford?’

  Isla shrugged, offering no further answer. A ping sounded as an email dropped into the Jonathan Moore inbox. It was brief.

  PAUL REYNOLDS

  To: jonathan1234reynolds@gmail.com

  Re: update

  Repeat in the morning.

  P

  ‘Out on the streets early again,’ said Quine, closing the laptop. He looked longingly at his glass. ‘Better take it easy.’

  ‘All of this leaves a load of questions,’ said Isla, as if there’d been no interruption. ‘The most obvious being who the skeleton with the severed hand and missing head is.’