Yesterday's Sins

by James Green

  ‘I have to get back to my wife. I can’t give you much time but I understand that you must ask me some questions. She’s sleeping but I’d rather she didn’t wake up alone. So, if you could be as brief as possible ...’

  Moustache looked at him with dead eyes and ignored what he had said. It was the other man who answered and his eyes were anything but dead, they were the eyes of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘It was a bomb, Mr Bronski. I understand your concern for your wife but I’m afraid ...’

  Charlie feigned surprise. ‘What? A bomb?’

  ‘A bomb.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why would anyone put a bomb in my car?’

  ‘Why indeed? The same question has occurred to us. Why would anyone put a bomb in your car?’

  Charlie switched to baffled amazement. Baffled amazement wasn’t easy but he gave it his best shot.

  ‘I don’t understand ... are you sure?’

  ‘Very sure.’

  ‘I’m afraid I just don’t understand.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Bronski. Please, return to your wife immediately. It was insensitive of us to intrude. One doesn’t get blown up every day and I’m sure it can be, well, most upsetting. We understand,’ he looked at Moustache, ‘don’t we, Sergeant?’

  The concern in the voice and the understanding smile were so false they were almost as comic as calling Moustache ‘Sergeant’. Charlie had to work quite hard to keep the smile off his face and out of his eyes. Moustache just kept on looking at Charlie. He was the straight man, it was the other one who was the comedian. Charlie looked at the Comedian.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He was about to turn away.

  ‘My sergeant will come with you and wait outside your wife’s room.’ Moustache walked towards him. ‘In case you need anything.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Oh, one never knows. One wants something and finds it easier for someone else to get it. Doesn’t one?’

  The urge to say, ‘Does one?’ was almost overpowering. This guy was going to be a handful. Moustache was pure routine but he hadn’t expected anyone like the Comedian. Moustache stood beside him looking at him with the same dead eyes and his hands hanging by his sides. Charlie knew what he was thinking. It was a job, nothing more. If he made a wrong move Moustache would flatten him. But Charlie knew the moves and he would be careful not to make any wrong ones.

  They walked together back to Elspeth’s room. Charlie went in and closed the door. Moustache waited outside. By the time Charlie reached the bed, the door was slightly open again. It was a small room, Moustache wouldn’t need perfect hearing to eavesdrop on any conversation. But he probably had it anyway. From now on privacy was something Charlie would have to work for.

  OK, we all know the game, so let’s play it and see who gets the last laugh. He tried to smile to himself, but it didn’t take. The Comedian was going to be hard to get past and there was still ‘Bang, you’re dead’ out there somewhere. The odds weren’t great but he had some things on his side, things he might be able to use. He looked at the bed. He had Elspeth, he had himself and he had his ace in the hole, if he could reach it. Two days at most to work things out and he would be ready. Then, if he needed it, he would go and get his ace in the hole. If there still was an ace. And if it was still in the hole.

  FIVE

  The man sitting across the desk from Charlie really was a police officer. But the pretty blonde sitting at the end of the table certainly wasn’t. She might have been a secretary except she sat there with nothing to do, no notepad, no anything.

  There were just the three of them in the interview room and no obvious recording device, but Charlie knew others would be listening. The policeman began.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Bronski.’

  ‘Did I have a choice? I didn’t get the feeling I had a choice.’

  At the hospital, Elspeth had woken about half an hour after he had returned to her bedside. She seemed better, more in control but still tearful and afraid. Charlie told her she would have to stay in hospital for a couple of days for observation and asked her what he should bring her from home. He helped her to make a short list. Even that small task visibly tired her. He said he would go and get what she needed and be back as soon as he could.

  ‘You’ll come straight back, won’t you? You won’t leave me here on my own.’

  The tears were flowing again.

  ‘Of course. Close your eyes, count to ten slowly and when you open them I’ll be back here.’ She tried to smile but the fear was still too strong and tears continued to run down her cheeks onto her hair. Charlie bent down and kissed her gently. ‘Close your eyes, darling. Rest.’

  Elspeth closed her eyes. Charlie waited for a minute. She would sleep again. To anybody listening it would have all been very natural. Why not? Elspeth wasn’t acting.

  When he left the room Moustache silently fell into step alongside. Outside the hospital there was a car waiting. Moustache didn’t have to tell him to get in.

  Now here he was in an interview room. Simple and effective.

  ‘I was brought by the officer you left at the hospital. I wasn’t asked if I wanted to come. I was brought.’ A bit of fear, a bit of petulance in his voice and manner. It sounded good. He felt he was doing it quite well and the policeman seemed convinced.

  ‘It should have been explained to you that your visit is entirely voluntary. I apologise. You are here of your own free will to assist us in our enquiries in what is a very serious matter. Once you have answered a few questions you will be free to go.’

  Charlie shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know anything except what happened, but ask away.’

  ‘Your neighbour, Mr Larsson, says you thought the explosion might have been caused by petrol which you kept in the garage. Is that correct?’

  The blonde secretary just sat there in her tight white blouse, open at the neck, and a black skirt. His imagination had to supply the good legs but it wasn’t a hard thing to do. It was a nice touch. No threats, no pressure, just something to sit on the edge of your attention, something to distract you. If you were from the outside you weren’t being scared unnecessarily and if you were from the inside, well, you would expect pressure. What you didn’t expect was a sexy blonde, so your attention wandered, maybe just enough. There was an original thinker behind this. The policeman called Charlie back from his thoughts. Already she was doing her job.

  ‘Petrol in the garage, Mr Bronski?’

  ‘Did I say that? I don’t remember.’

  ‘Do you think the explosion might have been caused by petrol in your garage?’

  ‘I don’t keep any petrol in the garage.’

  ‘So you no longer think that petrol in the garage was the cause?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Do you say so? That is my question.’

  ‘I no longer think petrol was the cause.’

  ‘Did you ever think that petrol might have been the cause?’

  ‘No, not even at any time.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  His English was excellent, but only in a formal way. He could be tied in knots.

  ‘Not even for ready money.’ Confusion put a crack in the stone front, he was human after all, and now he was getting out of his depth. ‘Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest. “No cucumbers, not even for ready money”.’

  The stone healed. His English was good enough to recognise piss-taking, but only if you pissed right in his face. ‘This is not a matter for laughing. I request you most firmly to answer directly the questions I put.’

  His English was falling apart. In effect, the show was over. Charlie wondered what rank he was. Senior certainly. What department? Not that it mattered. He was one of the plodders, a by-the-book man, but that didn’t mean anything. The best policemen were the senior plodders, they got the work done.

  ‘So what do you think it was, Mr Bronski?’

  ‘A mistake?
A practical joke? Maybe it was the car. Has it happened to any others of that model? Shouldn’t they do a recall if the model blows up like that?’

  A rebuke froze on the policeman’s lips and he stared at Charlie. He was asking the questions, but he wasn’t the one in charge. He sat with frustrated anger on his face but he didn’t speak, he was trying to get himself back under control before he carried on. Then the door opened and a man came in. It was the Comedian.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’m afraid you’re needed. Something rather urgent has come up.’

  The ‘sir’ nearly got a laugh from Charlie and the Comedian noticed it. Yes, you noticed, and you’re probably as clever as you are sharp, thought Charlie.

  The policeman got up. The Comedian came to the desk and sat down.

  ‘I’ll finish talking to Mr Bronski, sir, I’m sure he doesn’t want to be kept waiting. He wants to get home to collect things for his wife and then get back to the hospital.’

  The policeman had his orders, so he left. The Comedian looked at the secretary.

  ‘You can go too, my dear, we won’t need you any longer.’ The secretary, if she was a secretary, stood up. She hadn’t been called ‘my dear’ by a man since she was a little girl and she didn’t take it well. She stood up and paused as if she was going to do something about it, thought better of it, and left.

  They watched her go.

  ‘Did I upset that young lady? I have the distinct impression she had taken offence. She seemed to leave in a most marked manner.’

  Charlie liked this Comedian. He was unorthodox, an original thinker. More importantly, perhaps he was someone who would do a deal if he possibly could.

  ‘Maybe she wanted to stay and listen.’

  The Comedian registered surprise. ‘Surely not? I hardly think so.’

  ‘Maybe it was me. Maybe I fascinate women.’

  ‘Do you, Mr Bronski? It really is Bronski, is it?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘Yes it is. Charles Stanislaus Bronski.’

  ‘Stanislaus? Isn’t that overdoing it somewhat?’

  Charlie shrugged. A Dane who said ‘somewhat’ wasn’t going to have problems with his English.

  ‘It’s a Polish thing. My father was Polish.’

  ‘If you say so. Shall we begin?’

  ‘Begin?’

  The Comedian was gone, switched off at the plug. Now it was business. The voice was flat and direct.

  ‘I presume you have something to tell me, so why not just tell me? We don’t need to wrap it up in games of questions and pretence, do we?’

  Charlie thought about it. He had decided not to use the police, to keep them totally out of it. But this man might be useful and whatever he was it certainly wasn’t the police. He was different. If he was a sample of Danish Intelligence then they were good, bloody good. He would have to be very careful, but one question wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘Who am I talking to?’

  The man raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. The Comedian was back.

  ‘Why, the police of course. Who did you think you were talking to?’

  ‘You’re a policeman?’

  ‘Very much so. I’m in the Traffic Division of Copenhagen Police Force. Nyborg comes under our jurisdiction – for the purposes of traffic, that is.’

  ‘Traffic! You’re Traffic like I’m ...’

  Charlie stopped in mid-sentence and waited.

  ‘Yes, Mr Bronski. Like you’re what?’ But Charlie was silent. He wasn’t about to get suckered in again, so the Comedian went on. ‘Your car blew up, so technically this could be classed as a Traffic matter. A car being driven on the road or sitting in bits in a garage is still a car.’

  The Comedian’s way worked very well. He had almost been careless and joined in without thinking. Now he would join in, but carefully. This man made the rules so you had to play by them, but you didn’t have to play his way.

  ‘And when would you say a car is not a car?’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘How about when it’s a bomb? Primary purpose would be the determining factor. A table is a table not because of how it looks but because of its tableness, its primary purpose. Not Oscar Wilde but Plato, his Theory of Forms. So, why was your car a bomb, Mr Bronski?’

  ‘But if being a bomb was its primary purpose doesn’t that rather take it out of Traffic’s hands, out of your hands, or have I misunderstood Plato’s Theory?’

  The voice was flat and direct again.

  ‘Your story, Mr Bronski. You have a story ready and I haven’t got all day and I’m sure you want to get back to the hospital.’

  He had finished trying to get some advantage, now he just wanted to get on. That was fine by Charlie.

  ‘I have no idea what this is all about. I don’t see how I can help you.’

  ‘Why weren’t you in the car?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You and your wife were far enough away to avoid serious injury but you had been in the car. The ignition was switched on, the door was open. Why did you get out of the car? Did you know there was a bomb?’

  Charlie remained silent. He knew this question would come and now here it was. Now he had to decide whether to bring this man in or shut him out. He was good and he wasn’t the police, also he was coming across as someone who would deal, if he could. And he was direct, he didn’t mess around too much, he had made his view of things clear almost from the word go. He already had a foot in the door. But he was still too much of an unknown factor. Never bet a doubt against a certainty. Charlie decided to shut him out and took on a slightly bewildered look. He did it very well. Most people would have believed him.

  ‘I didn’t know, not actually know. More like, I sort of felt it.’

  ‘Sort of felt it? Could you explain that?’

  ‘Before I retired I was in the US Air Force, working in base security. I only ever found three devices in all the security work I did, but three is plenty, believe me. In that line of work you’re always looking, you’re always careful and you’re always suspicious. It becomes a habit, you develop a sixth sense. Sometimes you notice things before you realise you’ve noticed them, if you see what I mean. One package too many, a parcel with no reason to be there, a wire too many or the wrong colour or where a wire shouldn’t be. Nothing really, but your mind notices it before you do because you have trained your mind to look in a special way.’

  ‘And you think your mind noticed something?’

  ‘It’s all I can come up with and I really have thought about it. But if it was a bomb then it comes back to, why me? Why would anyone put a bomb in my car? And for that question I have no answer. I don’t even have a guess.’

  The man sat and looked at him. Charlie let him look. The story would hold up no matter how deep they dug. There was nothing this man could get hold of, however clever or original he was.

  ‘Mr Bronski, if you were to be quite frank with me perhaps I could help. It’s not nice having people putting bombs in your car and trying to blow you up. I really do think I could help, if you were quite frank with me.’

  There it was, the offer. The man wanted to deal. He was asking the price to get inside this. But the answer still had to be no. Charlie shook his head.

  ‘I’m trying to help, believe me, but I can’t because I don’t know anything. I’m not important or high-profile but maybe it was a lone terrorist thing, someone who sees any American as a target and decided to take out his hate on me, or maybe someone who got the know-how off the internet and wanted to plant a bomb for the hell of it. Who knows?’

  ‘Who indeed? You’re sure you don’t want to change your story and take up my offer before we have to talk again?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Then I must tell you, Mr Bronski, that the “I don’t know anything” story is not one that I can subscribe to.’

  The man waited. He was making sure Charlie understood there were going to be no neutrals in this. Charlie stayed silent and his silenc
e made him a new enemy. Then the man stood up.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, perhaps it was a lunatic, perhaps a crazed cookery writer who can’t get published and is jealous of your success.’

  ‘You know I write?’

  ‘Mr Bronski, in Denmark when someone gets car-bombed we know all there is to know about them very quickly.’

  ‘You knew about me being in the Air Force, in base security?’ The man nodded. ‘Then why the hell did you let me go through it if you already knew?’

  ‘To see if you knew the story as well as I did.’

  Charlie had had enough. He decided he didn’t like this man any more.

  ‘Can I go now? I want to get back to my wife.’

  ‘As you were told before, you are free to go at any time.’ Charlie got up. ‘Oh, if our friend the crazed cookery writer has another go, you will let me know, won’t you?’ Charlie didn’t answer, he just went to the door. The man followed him out. Moustache joined them as they walked along the corridor. ‘Of course if there is a next time it may not be a bomb. I read only the other day that someone has put the details of how to develop anthrax in your own kitchen onto the internet. An American like yourself, I believe.’

  ‘I’m British. I became a British citizen just before I married my wife.’

  The man ignored Charlie’s remark.

  ‘Although with some of the kitchens I’ve seen anthrax would find itself hard pressed to deal with the local competition. Not your kitchen of course, Mr Bronski, I’m sure a professional like you has a spotless kitchen. Not a hint of anthrax anywhere.’ The trio came to the exit. ‘This officer will take you home and then if you wish he will take you back to the hospital. I regret he speaks only Danish.’

  Charlie looked at Moustache. ‘When he speaks at all.’

  ‘Ah, a little joke. That’s good, Mr Bronski, it shows you’re bearing up. Well goodbye, for the time being. As I said, I’m afraid we will have to speak again. But, for now, go and look after your wife.’

  He said something in Danish to Moustache then turned and walked away. Charlie watched him for a second then went out.