When the snowman’s body was about four feet high, Ben rolled him a head and stuck it on top. ‘We need a carrot for a nose, a woolly hat and an old pipe to stick in his mouth,’ Leigh said.
Ben stuck two finger-holes in the head for eyes. ‘That’ll do. Come away from him now.’
‘I get it,’ she said as they trudged back towards the tree where the shotgun was propped.
‘What do you get?’
‘You’re going to shoot him, aren’t you?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Honestly. You men.’
Ben loaded a cartridge into the right-side breech and snapped the action shut. He shouldered the old gun and pointed it at the snowman from thirty yards away. Leigh stood with her fingers in her ears.
He thumbed back the right-side hammer, pointed and fired. The stock of the gun kicked back against his shoulder and the booming echo rolled around the mountains.
Leigh took her fingers out of her ears. ‘An exterminating angel,’ she said.
Ben looked at his target. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘Looks like the snowman lives to fight another day.’ The shot had scooped a channel out of the side of the snowman’s head. He frowned at the shotgun. ‘Throws to the right a bit. Barrels could be slightly out of true.’
‘Let me try the next one,’ she said. ‘That looked like fun.’
‘I thought only immature men liked this kind of thing,’ he replied, handing her the gun.
‘Immature women do too. How do you work it?’
‘Like this.’ He showed her how to break open the action and eject the spent cartridge from the smoking breech. She loaded a second round and he placed her hands on the gun, making sure the stock was well pressed into her shoulder.
‘Does it kick a lot?’
‘Not too much. Go for it.’ He stepped back.
She clicked back the hammer, aimed, wavered a little, took a breath and squeezed the trigger. The snowman’s head exploded into a shower of powder snow.
‘Good shot,’ he said.
‘I got him!’ she yelled. She spun round, dropping the gun and hugging him. It had been so spontaneous, so natural, that she hadn’t even realized she was doing it.
Ben was caught off balance. They tumbled into the snow together. She was laughing. For a carefree instant they were back to the way they’d been fifteen years ago. She brushed her hair away from her face. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy and there were snowflakes on her eyelashes.
They stopped and looked at one another. ‘What are we doing?’ she asked softly.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. He reached up and stroked her face.
They came together slowly and their lips touched. Their kisses were uncertain and quick at first, then he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her nearer. They embraced for a long time. She ran her fingers through his hair, pressing her mouth hard against his. For a moment everything else was forgotten, and it was as if they’d never been apart.
But then Leigh broke away and scrambled to her feet. Ben stood up with her. They dusted the snow from their clothes. ‘This can’t happen, Ben,’ she said. ‘We can’t go back, you know that.’
They stood for a few moments, feeling awkward in the silence. Ben was angry with himself. The old shotgun was lying deep in the snow. He picked it up and wiped it clean. He touched her arm. ‘Come on, let’s head back to the cottage.’
That kiss hung over them for the rest of the day. There was a strained atmosphere between them-neither of them knew what to say. They’d crossed an invisible line, and they were stuck. They couldn’t undo it, and they couldn’t move forward. Ben blamed himself. Unprofessional. Undisciplined. Stupid.
He avoided thinking about it by spending time with Clara and Max outside. The big dog was quickwitted, and Ben taught him to sit while Clara ran and hid. If he had been a few years younger, Max would have made a perfect police or military dog. He learned wait in three goes. He would sit trembling with anticipation on his haunches, eyes alert and completely keyed into his surroundings. Ben would wait two, three whole minutes, longer each time to build the dog’s concentration-span. Then he would give the quiet command ‘Find Clara’ and Max would be off, hurtling through the snow. Wherever she went, he knew exactly where to find her. He loved the game as much as the little girl did.
Evening came. Ben was strapping up his bag when he sensed a presence behind him. He turned quickly and saw Leigh there. She had a sad smile and her eyes were a little moist.
‘You take care,’ she said. She put her arms around him and drew him close. She pressed her cheek against his ear, her eyes tightly shut. He was about to stroke her hair. He patted her shoulder instead.
‘I’ll see you again soon,’ he told her.
‘Make it sooner?’ she replied.
* * *
Kinski headed back along the snowy roads. Ben liked the way he didn’t feel the need to talk all the time. Military and police guys, guys who spent a lot of time with each other waiting for things to happen, shared that quality of being able to stay quiet for long periods. It was a good atmosphere. They said little for an hour. Ben blew cigarette smoke out of the car window, deep in his own thoughts. He left the whisky flask untouched.
‘What’s the story with you and Mother Hildegard?’ he asked as they crossed the border back into Austria.
‘I knew her long before she was a nun,’ Kinski said. ‘Funny how you never think that nuns were women once. Back then she wasn’t Hildegard, she was Ilse Knecht. She was a writer in East Berlin.’
‘How does a cop get to meet a writer?’
‘You know, friend of a friend of a friend. I met her at a party and thought she was OK. Intelligent, aggressively intellectual. I like women like that. But that was her problem.’
‘How so?’
‘She was a little too smart, opened her mouth a little too wide and got in a heap of shit,’ Kinski said. ‘She wrote Christian stuff for newsletters, magazines. The Communist authorities didn’t like her. Then she wrote a novel. They decided it was subversive. They had her followed for a while. Found out she was hanging around with a bunch of people from their files. Names that had red circles around them. Dissidents, activists, people on the margin. That didn’t help. East Berlin was a fucking snake pit.’
‘Before my time,’ Ben said. ‘I joined up after the wall came down.’
Kinski nodded. ‘Lucky you. It wasn’t pretty. Anyway, that gave them the excuse they needed to vanish her. I heard through a contact that they were coming for her. I didn’t think it was right to magic her away to some fucking camp in Manchuria just because of what she wrote.’
‘So you helped her.’
‘I knew some people. We got her out. She came to Austria, did whatever it is women do to become nuns. Then, after the wall came down she got the post at the convent. She still writes, under another name. A tough old trooper.’
‘You saved her life.’
Kinski waved that away. ‘Well, I just pulled a few strings, you know. It was hard, though. You never knew who you could trust.’
‘I know the feeling. Who do you trust now?’
‘In the police?’ Kinski had already given it a lot of thought. ‘Three guys for sure. My own guys. Others I’m not so sure about.’
‘What about your superiors?’
‘I knew my Chief for nearly eight years. I don’t believe he’s mixed up in this. Someone got to him. Or else they just fast-tracked his retirement and he took their offer. That could be it. He was tired.’
The road flashed by. More quiet time passed. ‘I’m going to need some new kit,’ Ben said.
‘Like what?’
‘Ammunition for my Para,’ Ben said. ‘Forty-five auto. Copper jacketed, in clean condition. Two hundred rounds at least. No military surplus. Something quality, a good brand like Federal or Remington. Can you arrange that?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Kinski replied.
‘Or else another pistol,’ Ben said.
‘Nothing fancy, no unusual calibres, no revolvers. Nothing smaller than nine millimetre, nothing bigger than forty-five.’
‘I know a guy.’
They drove on for a while. Then Kinski asked, ‘So what’s the story with you and Leigh?’
Ben hesitated. ‘There’s no story.’
‘I can see there is.’
Ben shrugged. ‘I’ve known her for a while. She and I were close once, that’s all.’ He didn’t say anything more.
‘OK, I’ll back off,’ Kinski said. ‘None of my business. I just wanted to say—’
‘What?’
‘That if you and Leigh have something going between you, don’t waste it.’
Ben turned to look at him. The cop’s face was hard as he drove.
‘Just don’t fucking waste it, Ben,’ Kinski said again. ‘Don’t throw something like that away. Make the most of it.’ He was quiet for a minute. His hands gripped the wheel in the darkness. He added in an undertone, ‘I lost my wife.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Amstetten, Austria
The next morning
Freezing rain was spattering hard on the pavements by the time Ben found the place. It was a plain terraced house in a winding street, ten minutes’ walk from the railway station at Amstetten.
He knocked. Dogs barked inside. He waited a while and knocked again. He heard the sound of someone coming. A figure appeared through a dimpled glass inner door. It opened, and a man stepped into the entrance porch. He unlocked the outer door and stood in the doorway. He was heavy-set, bleary-eyed, with puffy cheeks and straggly grey hair. An odour of cheap cooking and wet dogs arose from the hallway.
‘Herr Meyer?’
‘Ja? Who are you?’ Meyer peered at Ben suspiciously.
Ben flashed the police ID he’d stolen from Kinski’s pocket. He kept his thumb over most of it. He held it up just long enough for the word POLIZEI to register, then he jerked it away and tried to look as officious as he could. ‘Detective Gunter Fischbaum.’
Meyer nodded slowly. Then his eyes narrowed a little. ‘You’re not Austrian.’
‘I’ve lived abroad,’ Ben said.
‘What’s this about?’
‘Your son, Friedrich.’
‘Fred’s dead,’ Meyer said in a sullen voice.
‘I know,’ Ben replied. ‘I’m sorry. I have a couple of questions.’
‘Fred’s been dead almost a year. He killed himself. What more do you people want to know?’
‘It won’t take long. May I come in?’
Meyer didn’t say anything. Down the hallway, a door opened. A scrawny woman appeared behind Meyer. She looked worried. ‘Was ist los?’
‘Polizei,’, Meyer said over his shoulder.
‘May I come in?’ Ben repeated.
‘Is this a criminal investigation?’ Meyer asked. ‘Did my son do anything wrong?’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Ben answered.
‘Then I don’t have to let you in.’
‘No, you don’t. But I’d appreciate it if you did.’
‘No more questions!’ the woman yelled at him. ‘Don’t you think we’ve suffered enough?’
‘Go away,’ Meyer said quietly. ‘We don’t want to talk any more about Fred. Our son is dead. Leave us alone.’
Ben nodded. ‘I understand. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ He turned to go. The rain was hammering down and he felt it trickling coldly across his scalp.
The tickets. Two opera tickets. One for Fred. Who was the second one for? Oliver? No, that didn’t make sense. Why would Oliver have given him both tickets? He’d have kept his own and given just one to Fred. Two guys going to the opera together wasn’t Oliver’s style anyway. Oliver wouldn’t go out anywhere without a girl, usually a nice one. Maybe it wasn’t Fred’s style either. So who was the other ticket for?
Ben stopped on the bottom step. He turned back to the door. Meyer had half-closed it, watching him with a guarded look.
‘Just one question, then,’ Ben said. ‘One question and I’ll leave you alone. Can you do that?’
Meyer creaked the door an inch wider. ‘What?’
‘Fred had a girlfriend, didn’t he?’
‘What about her?’ Meyer asked. ‘Is she in trouble?’
Ben thought for a moment and then said, ‘She might be, unless I can help her.’
That was his final shot. If Meyer shut the door now, he had nowhere else to go. That worried him.
Meyer stared. There was a long silence. Ben waited. Cold rain dribbled down his neck.
‘We haven’t heard from her lately,’ Meyer said.
‘Where can I find her?’
He took a taxi to the place. He pushed open the door and went inside. The cyber-café was quiet, almost deserted. There was a long stainless-steel counter, with a till and a bubbling espresso machine. Cakes and doughnuts sat in a row behind glass. The place was neat and clean. There were framed movie posters on the walls: Oceans 13, The Bourne Ultimatum, Pans Labyrinth, Outcast. Ben smiled at that one. In the back of the room, a couple of teenagers were giggling over something they were typing up on a computer. Soft music was playing in the background: modern classical, minimalist.
The young woman behind the counter was perched on a stool reading a book. As Ben approached, she laid it down and looked up at him. She was about twenty, twenty-one, plumpish and pleasant-looking. Her auburn hair was tied up neatly on her head under a little white cap. She smiled and spoke in fast German.
Ben didn’t show the police ID this time. ‘I’m looking for Christa Flaig,’ he said.
The young woman raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m a friend of Oliver Llewellyn,’ Ben said. He watched her eyes.
She flinched a little. Looked down. Painful memories flashed behind her face. He was sorry to bring it all back for her.
‘Has this got something to do with Fred?’
He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Can we talk?’
‘Sure, if you like. But I don’t know what you want to talk about.’
‘Can I have a coffee?’
She nodded and served him an espresso, pouring herself one too. ‘So what’s this all about?’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Ben.’
‘What do you want to know, Ben?’
‘Were Fred and Oliver friends?’
‘You think there’s something strange about it, don’t you?’
He looked up from his coffee. She was sharp. He made a quick decision to trust her. ‘Yes, I do think that.’
She sighed, a sigh of relief mixed with sadness and bitter anger. Her face was tense. ‘So do I,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought I was the only one who did.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ he said. ‘But I can’t tell you everything. Maybe one day I’ll be able to. Until then, I just need your help. Ten minutes, and I’ll be out of here.’
She nodded. ‘OK, I’ll tell you. They weren’t really friends. They only met a couple of times.’
‘The first time was at a party?’
‘That’s right. Some student party. I wasn’t there. Fred told me he met this good fun English guy, a pianist. Fred was one too.’
‘I know,’ Ben said.
‘Musicians always talk to each other,’ she continued. ‘Fred loved music. It was his language. He told me Oliver loved it too.’
‘He did.’
‘They talked for hours. They got on really well.’
‘You and Fred didn’t live together, did you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I work here full-time. I’m the manager here. Fred had cheap digs in Vienna. We were saving to get married after his graduation from music school.’
‘I’m sorry to be digging this up for you.’
She sniffed and wiped a tear away. ‘No, it’s OK. If something bad happened, people need to know. I need to know.’
‘Can you tell me about the opera tickets?’ Ben asked. ‘Fred had two tickets for Macbe
th. They were for him and you, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, they were. He was so excited about it. He couldn’t have afforded the tickets himself. He couldn’t wait. He loved Verdi.’ Christa gazed into the middle distance. Her face darkened. ‘Like he would have killed himself. It’s crap. I always said it was a pile of crap. But nobody would listen to me. People thought I was just this hysterical girl with issues, who couldn’t face up to the idea that her man had killed himself. Like I was in denial or something. They told me to see a shrink. And Fred’s parents just accepted it. I mean, how could they?’
‘People tend to take the path of least resistance,’ Ben said. ‘It’s easier to believe someone committed suicide than to start looking for a killer.’
‘Are you looking for the killer?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘What’ll you do if you find them?’
He didn’t answer that. ‘Did Oliver give Fred the tickets?’
Christa nodded.
‘Tell me about it,’ Ben said.
‘I don’t know all the details,’ she replied. ‘Fred used to play piano gigs here and there to make a bit of extra cash. Mostly it was bars, restaurants, anywhere with a piano. He gave classical recitals too-he had a little circuit going. He was such a great player, and he had a good reputation. One day he landed this really important gig at a private party, some big house outside the city. It was a real prestigious thing, tuxedo job. Anyway, the night he met Oliver was the week before the gig. He told him about it but Oliver didn’t say much at the time. Well done, congratulations, good luck, all the things one player would say to another if they weren’t jealous.’ She paused. ‘But later that night, hours after the party was over, Fred got a phone call. It was Oliver. He said he’d been thinking about what Fred had said. He’d found out something. Suddenly he was all excited about the gig at the big house.’
Ben listened hard.
Christa went on. ‘He wanted to know everything about it, and he wanted to go with him. He was desperate to get into the place.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. But Fred told him there was no way he could get him an invite. It was very exclusive. Politicians, people like that. Major big-wigs. A lot of security.’
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 52
