Eyes on the apparition, speaking to Blackman, ‘I’ll never find the soldier that shot my father. Probably he died in some hole in the mud and blood.’ She angled her head towards the Englishman, eyes still fixed on her reflection. ‘I lost my faith many years ago. I don’t believe in God. Any god. How could I, after what happened to my family? But then, against all the odds, I get a gift.’ She broke away from her other self, rose, stepped towards Blackman. ‘I got sent here. And I found her. I found Volkenrath. The woman that murdered my mother. I watched her, learned about her. I even met her, at a gathering at Weber’s house. You remember him? The one that died. I think it was she who killed him. In fact, I’m certain of it. She hated Weber’s boy, called him a half-breed. Weber confided in me. He and I, we were…close.’
The Norwegian walked across the room, her bare footsteps like those of a stalking jaguar, to a pair of tennis shoes. Inserting her feet, tying the laces. She reached for the black woollen coat hanging from the door, lifted it from the hook, put it on, then walked back across the room, glancing at Blackman.
‘It wasn’t only my mother that she took from me.’
She crouched through the hole in the false wall, picked up a small knapsack from the floor, reached inside as she walked back towards the Englishman.
She pulled a heavy black object from the bag. A small pistol. The Walther. She yanked the slide open, checked that a round was chambered. Glanced at Blackman, who looked back at her, unblinking.
‘Don’t worry, Harry. It’s not for you. I have never wanted to hurt you.’
She slipped the gun back into the knapsack, slung it over one shoulder.
‘My brother had a camera. I bought it for him when he turned sixteen, from a secondhand shop in Oslo. It had some scratches on it, but we were poor and it was cheap. I painted over the scratches, to make it look nicer for him.’
Her fingers dropped to the buttons on her coat, started fastening them one by one. Top to bottom.
She smiled at a distant, warm memory. ‘David took that camera with him everywhere. When it broke, he’d get it repaired. It was silly, really. Once he was working, he could afford a much nicer one. But he always kept that camera. The camera I bought him.’
Johansson pulled a handkerchief from the coat pocket, dabbed it on her tongue, then, to a small cut upon the side of Blackman’s eye.
He grimaced.
‘I’ll clean you up properly when I get back.’
She glanced towards the radio. Hesitated, but only for a moment. Peered back at Blackman, into his eyes.
‘David disappeared two years ago, but I found the camera. Or, rather, it found me. The boy, Conrad. Joseph Navarro’s son. When he was here, this summer. His father had asked me to give him some work, I told you. He was at your house when you first came. You remember? Of course, you do. You made me fire him.’
Her eyes drifted from Blackman’s.
‘Conrad took lots of photos of the villa. Inside and out. He had a camera just like the one I gave David. I asked him to show it to me. I saw the scratches. The scratches I had painted black.’
She placed her hand on Blackman’s cheek, caressed his skin.
‘I bought that camera for my brother. The nurse. She gave it to the boy. To Conrad. She told him to take photos of the stranger’s house. It was David’s camera. That bitch Volkenrath had David’s camera. You understand what that means?’
A tear ran down the Norwegian’s cheek. She snapped her hand away from Blackman’s face, wiped the tear away. Stood up straight.
‘The Israelis promised me they’d go after that bitch if I helped them get Krügel. They promised me they’d put her on trial, that she’d hang. But I see now, it was all lies. They were just using me. They didn’t care about some lowly German nurse. Not when they could get the Butcher of Riga. And they didn’t care about me. Some lapsed Jew, a Norwegian with blond hair and blue eyes who looks more like their former oppressors than them.’
She walked to the door, opened it. ‘We could leave this place, you and I. Together. We could get a boat to Morocco. Then…anywhere. We’d be safe.’
She glanced to the ceiling. Steeling herself. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours. We can talk about it then.’
52
Dark deeds
One day earlier.
It was dark when Johansson returned.
How long had he been asleep?
She ambles past him. The soles of her plimsoles are filthy, encrusted with an iron-red mud. She glances at him as she passes, sees he is looking at her, but looks away and goes to the dresser where she places down her gun. And then something else. A knife. A hunting knife in a sheath - the one he had found when he had searched through her things.
She walks to the white basin.
He watches as she flicks on the light above the basin, turns on the hot tap, staring at the water as it gurgles into the open plughole; as if looking into a portal to another place.
And then he sees the blood. On her hands, her arms, her torso, her legs. His eyes narrowing as a cold wave envelopes him, making him shiver.
She inserts the plug, and the basin begins to fill. She kicks off her shoes then peers down to her blouse, once white but now splashed in dark crimson streaks, and she starts to undo it. One button, and then another until it falls to the floor. Her hands drop to the buckle of her belt which she unfastens, then releases the metal rivet on her jeans, pushes the trousers down to her ankles, then steps out of them. She stands there in her undergarments, angles her head towards him slightly. She knows he is watching her, but if she cares, it does not show. Her slender arms reach upward and she pulls at the silk camisole, lifts it over her head, her breasts exposed to the cold air. She stares into the basin. Her face dead, her eyes vacant. Her hands move to her waist and she pulls down her panties, kicks them to one side, then leans forward, cups her hands into the water, lifts it to her face. Then again, and again.
He notices the bruises and scratches as she stands working on her pale, naked body. Remembering how it felt when he had touched her. Held her. Tasted her. He wondered how she could have changed so much in so little time. Or whether there had been no change at all. That only now was she truly revealing herself to him.
He watches as she takes a wet flannel to her face, scrubs at her neck and shoulders, then her chest, her belly, and her groin. Her hips, down her legs, to her ankles, and to her feet.
When she is done, she dries herself with a towel, dresses in clean clothes then collects the discarded garments, pushes them into a hessian sack which she drops by the door.
She walks back to the dresser, lifts the black pistol, then turns to look at him where he remains on the floorboards on his side, tied to the fallen chair, his torso numb from the pain.
She moves forward then lowers herself down before him to sit cross-legged. She places the gun down to her side, peering at it, then angles her head to face him.
‘I wonder, Harry,’ she says, her voice soft, uncertain, her eyes searching in his. ‘I wonder what will become of us now?’
53
The horror
Police Station, La Mesita Blanca.
All Saints’ Day, 1970.
7:15pm.
Inspector Garcia sat behind his desk staring into an empty glass, its former contents still warming his throat, when Officer Ramos pushed the office door open. The look on the young man’s face told Garcia that this dark day was about to get even worse.
‘Something’s happened up at the old compound,’ the policeman said, panting, one hand on the door handle, the other steadying himself on the door frame. ‘Miguel and Javier just called in for backup.’
Garcia placed the glass down. ‘Go get the car. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
The younger officer hurried away. Garcia pulled open one of the desk drawers. His service pistol lay there in its black leather hip holster. He pushed it to one side, reached for something else. A photo. He picked it up and gazed at the black-and-white image of his youn
ger self and a striking woman, his Rosa Maria; he in his dress uniform, her in a white, lace wedding dress. He touched at the woman’s face, lost in memories. Sweet memories, cherished. Then painful recollections he had tried to expunge through years of heavy drinking.
The bright blue light from the police car pulsed through the gaps in the window blinds. Garcia placed the photo back into the drawer, closed it, and pushed himself out of his chair.
When they pulled up at the entrance, having been waved through by the solitary Spanish soldier manning the small checkpoint, they were confronted by several members of the German community, some of them openly carrying weapons. One of them, a middle-aged man with cropped brown hair, pounded on the window of the patrol car while pointing to the locked gate behind which stood a second soldier, his rifle in his hands and a panicked look on his face.
The Inspector rolled down the window. ‘What is happening here?’
Speaking in Spanish, but with a heavy German accent, the man stabbed a finger towards the gate. ‘Tell that toy soldier to let us in.’
Three more men stood outside the gate, glaring at the young Spaniard, one of them brandishing a hunting rifle, another a shotgun. Garcia peered through the trees inside the compound towards the old house a hundred yards further back, the facade of which was being illuminated by intermittent blue lights.
Garcia reached for the radio. ‘Miguel? Javier, what’s going on in there?’
The radio crackled for a moment, then a reply. It was Officer Javier Gomez. ‘We’ve got a body, Sir. The ambulance is here already.’
‘Copy that.’ Garcia handed the receiver to his younger colleague, opened the car door, and clambered out to address the German man.
‘Well?’ said the German.
‘You and your companions are going to have to remain here.’
The German, it seemed, was not used to taking instructions from a Spaniard. ‘Now, you listen here.’ He pointed once more to the gate. ‘This is private property. Our property. If something has happened in there—’
‘If something has happened in there…if a crime has happened, then it is a police matter and must be investigated. Properly. By me and my officers. Now tell these men to step away from the gate so we can get in there and do our jobs.’
The German’s eyes, blue-grey and angry, threatened to pop from their sockets. His mouth curled tight, his nostrils flaring. ‘Do I need to remind you, Inspector, who I work for?’
Garcia leaned towards the man, and in a calm tone said, ‘And do I need to remind you that you and your countrymen are only here in my town…in my country, because we allow it?’
‘You dare to threaten me?’ the German snarled.
‘No. As I said. I am reminding you. So how about you go and do something useful, like help the army with the search for the Navarro boy?’
The German glared at Garcia for a moment, laughed like a man who is not laughing, nodded like one who is not in agreement. ‘You will regret this, Garcia.’
‘So people keep telling me.’
The man signalled to his companions to allow the patrol car through and the soldier reached forward to unlock the gate, pulled it open and beckoned frantically at officer Ramos to hurry through.
Garcia walked through, then watched the soldier secure the gate once more. ‘Do not let them in. You understand?’
‘But what if they try something?’ The soldier glanced at one of the Germans who stood on the other side of the gate, listening.
‘In that case,’ said Garcia as he climbed back into the patrol car. ‘You have a weapon. Use it.’
As Officer Ramos pulled the patrol car up outside the old house, next to the other police car and the ambulance, Garcia saw officer Alonso striding towards them.
‘Go on then, tell me,’ Garcia asked as he got out of the car and started towards the building.
‘There’s a body upstairs in one of the bedrooms. A woman. The one that runs this place.’
‘Ruth Volkenrath?’ asked Garcia as he mounted the steps, although he already knew the answer.
‘Yes, sir. At least, I think so. The body is…well, you’ll see when you get up there.’
Garcia glanced at his colleague, steeling himself once more. Dead men and women. Dead children. He remembered thinking, several years previous, that his days of witnessing such traumas had long passed. How naïve he had been.
He started towards the stairs, but the younger policeman tapped him on his arm, directed him to a bench behind him. ‘We found a boy. One of the German kids.’
Garcia followed his colleague’s stare to where a female medic was attending to a blonde teenager, his legs and shoulders bare, a blanked wrapped around him. ‘The Navarro boy?’ he asked. Hoped.
Officer Alonso shook his head. ‘No, sir. One of the others. We found him tied up in the room. He must have been there for a day, at least. It seems that he witnessed the whole thing.’
And still the innocents suffer. ‘Stay with him. And keep him here. I’ll need to talk to him before his people do.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where’s the body?’ said Garcia.
The officer started to answer, but Garcia had already spotted the first of the bloody footprints.
‘It seems I will find it easily enough.’
He started up the stairs, taking care to avoid the dark marks on the wooden steps. Noting the size of footprints and the pattern. Was it a tennis shoe? The viscous liquid was already dry. Whatever had taken place had done so several hours earlier. He reached the first floor, began to follow the bloody trail to a part-open door, but even before as he approached it, the sickly sweet aroma of death slipped into his nostrils, into his mouth. He could taste the suffering. Memories from the civil war - of the horrors of Sevilla, Baldajoz, Toledo, Madrid, Ebro flooded his mind. He shook his head to regain his focus, moved to the door, took a deep breath, then peered inside.
What greeted Jesus Garcia was one of the most appalling scenes he had ever encountered. He froze, held his handkerchief to his face as he saw the body of Ruth Volkenath laying naked on her back, legs splayed, limbs contorted, rigid like a tree that had fallen during a powerful storm. Her eyes lasering to the heavens, her hands were tied to the iron bed frame.
He counted more than twenty stab wounds. What skin he could see was a waxy grey, although most of it was covered in shades of dirty crimson. Deep cuts to her torso, her neck. Her face, the cheek torn open - jawbone and teeth visible. A vista of crimson, puce and maroon surrounded her, telling the story of her ending; splashes of blood that had reached more than ten feet away, to the bed, the wardrobe, the wall - the death-throws of the savaged body and the maniacal rage of the killer preserved on the tiled floor, in angry ellipses of viscous red. Pure hatred, and personal, beyond any doubt - the natural outcome of an evil intent left festering for years, unleashed in a whirlwind of black vengeance and uncontrollable fury.
He backed out of the room, his stomach heaving, and wiped a cold sweat from his forehead and eyelids. He stood against the wall for a minute, his hands trembling and heart racing.
He waited, controlling his breathing, fighting to regain his composure before pushing himself away from the wall and making his way back down the stairs.
He approached Officer Gomez, who stood near the boy in the blanket who was being comforted by the female medic. ‘Has he said anything?’
The younger officer shook his head. ‘He doesn’t have much Spanish.’
Garcia approached the boy, lowered himself to his knees, reached for the boy’s hand, spoke in German. ‘Was it the Englishman who did this? Was it Harry Blackman?’
The boy, his skin pale as milk, his eyes as topaz, lifted his stare towards Garcia. He shook his head in a lethargic movement barely discernible from his trembles.
‘You are sure?’
The boy’s lips fluttered, his voice as weak as a mid-summer breeze.
The Inspector moved his head beside the boy’s. ‘Tell me.’
; The young German’s answer came as a whisper into Garcia’s ear, who then touched his hand to the youth’s cheek, kissed his forehead. ‘It is over. You are safe. You can go to your family now.’ He nodded to the medic, who lifted the boy to his feet and guided him to the front door.
Officer Gomez approached Garcia, who remained kneeling, his mind on fire. ‘What did he say?’
He ignored the question, pushed himself to his feet. ‘Stay here and wait for the coroner. I need to get back to the station.’
54
Footsteps
One day earlier.
Johansson lifted her hands to the gag around Harry Blackman’s face. She paused, eyes locked on his. Examining the left, then the right, searching for signs of his intent. Satisfied, she gently released the gag.
Blackman spat the damp ball of cloth from within his mouth, coughed. Sucked in a lungful of clean air, glared up at her. ‘What did you do?’
‘The Israelis, they were just using me. I—’
‘What did you do?’
‘What I had to,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see? She’d have gotten away. I’d never have found her again.’
‘What…did…you…do?’
A sound outside, the bolt on the metal gate at the front of the property creaking open. They both froze, listened.
She got to her feet, slipped across the room to the side of the window, pushed the edge of curtain open but no more than an inch. She peered through the gap.
Blackman, straining at his bindings, ‘Do you see anyone?’
Johansson shook her head. ‘No. But the gate is open.’
‘Untie me,’ Blackman hissed.
The Norwegian took the hunting knife from the dresser drawer, tip-toed back to the Englishman, and began to hack at the nylon cord that bound him to the chair.
The sound of slow, deliberate steps on the driveway. Slow, as if trying to disguise the placement of each foot on the loose gravel. Moving closer, ever closer.
The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies Page 26
