Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  He decided he wouldn’t think ahead. One task at a time. One thought at a time. Whatever happens, happens. He had nothing to worry about beyond a blog or two since the police didn’t consider him a suspect. At least, he didn’t think they did.

  He showered and dressed but not in any cycling attire since no one would be doing any riding today.

  With his smartphone in his pocket as always, Burke left the cabin.

  He had taken just a few steps when two uniformed police came down the passageway and stopped him.

  “Herr Burke?” asked the shorter officer.

  Burke nodded.

  “Come with us, please,” the officer said.

  “Where? Why? What’s going on?”

  “Sergeant Plaschke wants to talk with you again.”

  Burke sensed by their demeanor that Plaschke wasn’t interested in any kind of social call. These officers meant business. That told Burke he might have something to worry about after all.

  The officers led Burke through the dining room which was already busy. As they walked, Burke noticed how many eyes were watching them. Before Blake’s murder, he had moved around without attracting any attention. Now he couldn’t take a step without people watching him.

  The officers took Burke down another passageway to the cabin where the crew held meetings. Inside, Burke saw Plaschke sitting behind a table, a coffee before him, a notebook and pen at hand plus a recorder just beyond.

  Plaschke looked like he hadn’t managed much sleep. “Sit please, Herr Burke.” He motioned for Burke to take the chair opposite.

  No one else was in the room which featured two multi-person tables, eight chairs, a cabinet with books, a small television and an old DVD player.

  Burke sat. Plaschke turned on the recorder and provided information in German about the interview subject, date, time and place. “Now, tell me again about last night when you discovered Bennett Blake’s body, Herr Burke.”

  Burke nodded. The police had to be thorough with everyone, especially him since he had been first on the scene, and so he began recounting his story. Several times, Plaschke interrupted with questions, scribbling notes that Burke had no chance of deciphering.

  After an hour, Burke had the feeling he was going to be there for a much longer time.

  So much for a good breakfast, he thought.

  The questions continued. When had he last seen Blake alive? What was Blake’s relationship with his wife, the others? Had Blake ever checked on his bike in the evening?

  Burke told the flic what he could, but he recognized it wasn’t much.

  “Let’s go through last night once more,” Plaschke said.

  And so they did. Same story, new questions. Burke figured he was getting to the point where he could almost be asleep and still be able to provide the details to the flic. The process may be necessary, but it was definitely getting tedious.

  When Burke was done his latest retelling, Plaschke sat back. “What do you know about the Roma in this area?” he asked, glancing at the recorder to ensure it was still functioning.

  The question surprised Burke. “Nothing much. We saw a few of them the other day at their campsite. And some people think we might have seen some Roma kids by the roadside on our way back from a wine tasting although, to be honest, I don’t know how they could be sure since it was dark and our bus was moving fast.”

  Plaschke asked for details. Burke needed just a minute to relate the encounters.

  “Did you see any of them wandering the village last evening?” Plaschke said.

  “No.”

  Burke wondered if the focus of the investigation was indeed shifting onto the Roma as several people last night had suggested it should.

  “And have you seen anyone who might be a refugee near the Sunna?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Burke said. He decided to ask a question of his own. “Do you think they’re behind Bennett Blake’s death? Or that the Roma might be?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Herr Burke. Now, have you noticed anyone else lingering near the ship the last day or two?”

  Burke reviewed the last 48 hours. “No one.”

  “End of interview,” Plaschke said, punching the OFF button on the recorder.

  The interview had lasted almost two hours and had been more of an ordeal than Burke had expected. He was exhausted and, if he could manage it, he’d go back to the cabin and grab some sleep. However, he doubted he’d have the opportunity.

  Plaschke pulled out his smartphone which had been buzzing. He tapped on the screen and looked at Burke. “Your police friends in Nice and Arles tell me you have been of some use to them in the past. They describe you as occasionally clever and intuitive.”

  Burke smiled at the use of “occasionally.” The flics back in France had obviously felt an urge to minimize his contributions. He didn’t mind. He knew he had helped, but he had probably provided some challenges for the police as well.

  “They also suggest you can get in the way of a police investigation. Inspector Jean-Pierre Fortin says here that you can be a ‘real pain in the ass.’” Plaschke looked up at Burke. “I hope that doesn’t become the case here because I don’t like pains in the ass. Do you understand me?”

  Burke nodded, thinking Fortin had probably enjoyed himself when composing the text to the Krems flic.

  “You’re just another passenger,” Plaschke continued. “Do your blogs, but stay out of our way. You don’t want to make me or my superiors angry.”

  Expecting that was the end of the interview, Burke stood and started to leave.

  “One more thing, Herr Burke,” Plaschke said, motioning for an officer at the open door to enter. The flic came in with a small metal box, went to the table and opened it. “We need your fingerprints. You were first into the storage compartment. You also worked in there and so your prints are obviously in many areas. We need to distinguish yours from anyone else’s.”

  Burke wasn’t surprised.

  “We also need your passport,” Plaschke added.

  Burke nodded. It made sense.

  “Just so you know, we’re getting all the passengers to give us their passports.”

  So, everyone on board was a suspect, Burke thought.

  Chapter 25

  Burke walked back into the dining room, hoping there would still be some food left.

  The room was nearly full, but it was unusually quiet. Almost everyone was sitting down, chatting in hushed tones if at all. Only a few were eating and the buffet looked like it had hardly been touched. Obviously, people’s appetites had disappeared in the aftermath of Bennett Blake’s murder, but they’d come to the dining room because they felt the need to be around others.

  Burke noticed several passengers looking at him. Whatever they were thinking, Burke figured it wasn’t good.

  Then he noticed Claude at the door into the kitchen. His friend was motioning for Burke to come over. Given the reaction of the group to him, Burke was happy to comply.

  “I’ve got a plate for you in the kitchen,” Claude said, opening the door for Burke. “It’s probably a little more comfortable if you eat in here. If you ate out there, you’d get no peace, given that you discovered the body.”

  Burke didn’t hesitate. He went in and over to a small, stainless steel table where Claude had a plate loaded with cheeses, boiled eggs, sausages and cured meats. Sitting at the small table, he asked Claude what he thought about the mood in the dining room.

  “Tense, I’d say,” Claude replied. “But that’s natural when you consider one of their group has been brutally murdered. They certainly aren’t displaying much appetite although a few are managing to eat. The biggest demand on the kitchen staff is to keep the coffee urns full. A lot of people are drinking a lot of coffee. They probably didn’t sleep much last night and need the caffeine to help them function.”

  “I noticed people looking at me like I must be the No. 1 suspect in Blake’s murder.” />
  “I overheard a few of them talking earlier and that’s not the case. It seems they think you have the ear of the police and could implicate them in any investigation.”

  “Really? That’s nonsense.”

  Claude frowned. “Some of them know about your involvement in solving those murders back home and they spread the word.”

  “Their imaginations are running away on them.”

  “I expect you’re right, Paul. But are you sure the police aren’t intending to use you in some fashion, maybe as a way to get some information?”

  “I just spent two hours being grilled by a cop who warned me to keep out of their way. He was none too subtle about the warning, either.”

  Claude nodded. “Good. I hope you got the message.”

  “Sergeant Plaschke made sure I did.”

  Burke took a bite of the sausage. It was delicious. The Austrians didn’t have much of a touch with salads or sauces or fish, but they were brilliant with sausages.

  When he was done, Burke thanked Claude and left.

  The dining room was still full. And still quiet.

  He went out onto the Sunna’s top deck where a handful of passengers were seated, chatting and looking at the river. When they saw him, they nodded but didn’t invite him to join their conversation.

  The day was getting warm. It was a perfect morning for a ride. Except, Burke thought, no one was going for a ride. No one was going anywhere.

  He spotted a group of four touring cyclists, loaded with panniers on their bikes, pedaling by the dock, heading to the east. They were smiling and enjoying the day, and if they noticed the five police vehicles parked on the dock, they gave no indication.

  Burke climbed back down to the main deck and approached a police officer blocking the end of the gangplank. “May I go for a walk?” He doubted he’d be permitted, but he was intrigued by the answer he’d get.

  The officer surprised him by looking at the ship’s manifest which was on a clipboard he held. “Name, please?”

  Burke gave his name.

  “You’re good to leave,” the officer said, moving slightly so Burke could depart the Sunna.

  So, some people were free to leave the Sunna, prompting Burke to wonder which passengers were restricted to the ship. As he walked toward the nearest shops, Burke looked back. A dozen others were lined up at the end of the gangplank, giving their names to the police officer.

  Rats leaving a sinking ship? Burke doubted it. Instead, he thought it was a case of people seeking a few hours of on-shore sanctuary.

  Chapter 26

  Strolling the street with all its pastel-yellow buildings and nook-and-cranny lanes, Burke looked into storefront windows at jewelry and clothing he could never afford. One store focused on medieval-type weapons that included enormous swords with spectacular hilts; nothing seemed to cost less than a thousand euros and he expected the shop owed its existence to the castle that once held Richard the Lionheart. Even the usual tourist places were pricey.

  As he walked, Burke spotted a police van stop on the other side of the street. Two uniformed officers jumped out and, to his surprise, hauled stuffed green bags from two large garbage containers. The cops tossed the bags into the back of their van and drove off.

  Burke looked around. Was he the only one who thought the scene was bizarre? He wasn’t. Several other pedestrians seemed equally puzzled.

  Burke looked at the disappearing van.

  It stopped again. And the two police officers repeated the same action at another garbage collection spot.

  Then he understood why. They were looking for a weapon. The person who had killed Bennett Blake might have tossed it into a garbage bag, believing no one would look inside for the weapon.

  The van turned a corner.

  Burke expected the two officers would collect every garbage bag within several blocks of the dock. They’d probably check out any dumpsters, too.

  As he walked, Burke thought it was unlikely the murderer, if he or she had been on foot, would have been able to get rid of the weapon beyond the immediate area; there simply wouldn’t have been time. However, if the murderer had access to a vehicle, the weapon could be anywhere.

  He wondered if the flics had ever imagined when they signed up to be police officers that they’d be doing garbage-collection duty as part of the job.

  A few minutes later, he saw a bike shop with rentals on the sidewalk. He had a thought and went inside, arranging to rent a hybrid bike for three hours. The bike wasn’t lightweight but it had 27 gears and was in excellent condition.

  Burke needed only 20 minutes to ride back to Dürnstein.

  He rode to the start of the hike up to the castle. Yellow crime-scene tape was stretched across two trees with a notice saying the trail was closed until further notice.

  Burke had an idea where there was another trail going to the ruins. Two minutes later, he was locking up his bike.

  The trail head was metres away.

  He took it and was quickly puffing as the incline rose sharply. But it felt good to get some exercise; he doubted the rest of the day would afford him a similar chance to stretch his legs.

  The trail twisted and turned. Burke had to be careful where he stepped because of the roots and holes that threatened to trip any unwary hiker. This was clearly not a well-used trail. Most people obviously used the one blocked off by the police barricade tape.

  He saw no one else as he climbed.

  After 20 minutes, the trail turned east and Burke walked along a flat stretch, finally seeing the castle ruins through a thatch of small trees.

  He came onto the back end of the site.

  He couldn’t see anyone working. Maybe the police had finished their examination of where Wilson Talbot had died and had forgotten to take down the tape.

  When he came around to the front of the ruins, he had a panoramic view of the village below and the twisting Danube which sliced its way through farmland and terraced vineyards. It was spectacular, one of the most stunning scenes he had ever experienced.

  “Hey, what are you doing up here?” someone called in a thick German accent.

  Burke couldn’t see anyone.

  “I’m talking to you,” came the male voice.

  Burke took a couple of steps and looked down.

  On a small, rocky outcrop about three metres below him were a man and a woman, clad top to bottom in white plastic suits, small brushes in their hands. Around them was more yellow crime-scene tape hooked to tree stumps.

  “I’m just walking around,” Burke said.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” said the man. “Didn’t you see the sign at the bottom of the trail?”

  Burke shook his head. “I came from over there,” he said, pointing behind him to the west.

  “Well, the area is closed to the public. You’ll have to leave the way you came.”

  Burke watched as the woman bent close to the ground, carefully brushing away some dirt. She was obviously leaving her partner to handle unwanted visitors.

  “You’re investigating the Wilson Talbot death, aren’t you?” Burke said, expecting he knew the answer.

  “What we’re doing is not for public notice.”

  Burke paused. He should leave them to their work, but he was curious. “Have you found any evidence that proves Talbot’s death was murder?”

  He saw the woman’s head snap toward him. Her partner frowned. “Are you a reporter?” the man asked.

  “Just a passerby. I’m with the same tour group that Talbot was with. I knew him.”

  The two crime-scene specialists exchanged a look.

  “This area is still off limits,” the woman said.

  Burke nodded and looked around. Where he was standing, the view was nothing special; the bushes and trees hid most of the Danube from sight. Where the technicians were, the view was even worse.

  So, what had led Talbot to tumble onto that spot?

&n
bsp; “Strange that Talbot fell where you are,” Burke said, motioning to where the technicians were.

  “Are you French?” the man asked.

  Burke knew he spoke German with a slight French accent. He nodded, not feeling like he wanted to explain he was a Canadian who spoke French.

  The technician grimaced, like he wasn’t fond of the French. “Well, this isn’t a place for tourists. You must leave ̶ now. We have work to do.”

  “Are you from the Krems police detachment?” Burke said, wondering how much longer he could test their patience. “I’ve talked with Sergeant Plaschke a few times about what happened here with Herr Talbot and what happened last night with the murder of another passenger.”

  Neither of the techs said anything, but the man started to dig into his pocket, probably for his phone. Burke guessed he was just about out of time. “I don’t think Sergeant Plaschke is entirely convinced Talbot’s death was an accident.”

  “I told you to leave,” the man said. “Now I’m going to call an officer and have you arrested.”

  That was enough for Burke. “No need. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Can I go back down the main trail?”

  “No. Use the trail you took to get here.”

  Burke turned and started walking the way he’d come. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the man had climbed onto the main ground to ensure Burke was leaving. The technician wasn’t searching for his phone anymore.

  Burke waved.

  The man didn’t wave back.

  As he left the ruins, Burke was convinced Wilson Talbot’s death had been no accident.

  But if he was murdered, how? And by whom? And why?

  Chapter 27

  Back in Krems, Burke returned his rental bike. Then he walked to a nearby park where, sitting on a bench, he texted François Lemaire, telling the newsman about his suspicions involving Talbot’s death. He didn’t know what his boss would do with the information, but it didn’t hurt to pass on his observations.