‘The thing is, we like to cooperate with our colleagues abroad, you can understand that. Crime’s international these days. But our first duty’s still to our own people. It’s not always easy to make this clear in circumstances like yesterday, with Herr Jünger being there and all. So I thought I’d get here early and put you fully in the picture.’
He sat back, smiling, and sipped his coffee.
‘Yes?’ said Trudi.
‘Pardon?’
‘You said you were going to put me fully in the picture.’
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to do, Mrs Adamson.’
‘No,’ said Trudi firmly. ‘You’ve told me that if, or maybe when, Herr Jünger starts being nasty to me, I’m not to worry because you will be nice. But what’s it all about, Inspector? What does Herr Jünger really want from me?’
He looked at her shrewdly.
‘I think,’ he said at last, ‘that what he’d really like is for you to go back to Vienna with him to help in their enquiries.’
Trudi considered this, and Workman’s reasons for saying it.
I’m never going to trust anybody again! said part of her mind, that part most closely in contact with the reeling universe Workman’s ringing of the doorbell had summoned her from.
‘When I read that in the papers,’ she said slowly, ‘helping with enquiries, I mean; when I read that, I usually assume it means someone’s been arrested.’
‘Come now, Mrs Adamson,’ he laughed. ‘What could anyone want to arrest you for?’
‘Over here, nothing,’ she said.
‘And in Austria?’
‘Nothing again.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘Except that while I’m here, Herr Jünger can’t even threaten me with arrest, can he?’
‘But why should he want to? I mean, as you say, you’ve done nothing …’
‘Don’t treat me as naïve! I’m tired of being treated like an idiot child!’
She realized she had raised her voice to a level not much below shrieking. She took a deep breath and regained control. At least now she knew how close to snapping she was.
She said quietly, ‘I’ve done nothing, but here in my own house in my own country, Jünger can only question me with my consent and your cooperation. Even if I confessed to mass murder in Vienna, he couldn’t arrest me, could he? He’d have to get you to hold me while he applied for extradition. But in Vienna, it wouldn’t matter if I was arrested or not. I’m sure you’ve all got your local methods of keeping people “helping with enquiries” as long as you like. I don’t know what Herr Jünger wants, but I don’t fancy wasting a week in custody finding out!’
Workman produced a packet of cigarettes, offered them, said, ‘Do you mind if I do?’
‘If you must,’ she said.
‘Must?’ he said musingly, examining the cigarette he had already removed from the packet. He replaced the cigarette and put the packet on the table.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Just to show who’s in control. Look, Mrs Adamson, don’t you think you’re being just a little paranoiac? I’m not saying you should go running off to Austria this very minute. But listen to Herr Jünger at least. Trust him. OK, SO it’s obviously not just about this Fischer woman dying of an overdose of heroin. You’re not stupid, and I’m sorry if anything I’ve said suggested I was treating you as such. All I’m saying is, if you can have a nice all-expenses-paid trip to what must practically feel like your home town and help the Austrian police sort out what sounds like a very nasty business, where’s the problem? I mean, why be so suspicious? If the Austrians really wanted to get you in a dungeon under a spotlight as you seem to suspect, wouldn’t they have boxed clever and just waited till next time you visited Vienna and then pounced?’
‘What makes you think there’d be a next time, Inspector?’ asked Trudi.
‘I don’t know. Your husband’s affairs. Selling your furniture. Or simply attending Astrid Fischer’s funeral. It seems to me there could be plenty of reasons for a next time.’
Trudi finished her cooling coffee.
As far as she could recall she had not mentioned, the previous evening, the reason for her last visit to Vienna. She did not believe Workman was psychic.
The doorbell rang.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
It was Jünger, nicely on cue. Perhaps the house was bugged!
When she returned to the lounge, the inspector was smoking. He caught her glance and, peering at the cigarette in his fingers, he said with apparently genuine amazement, ‘Christ! How did that get there?’
Jünger produced a big Austrian cigar and said, ‘You permit?’
Trudi said, ‘Why not?’ and Workman, about to stub his cigarette out, paused, took a long last draw, then extinguished it.
As Jünger made himself comfortable, Trudi watched for some signal to be passed between the two men, but was unable to detect anything. On the contrary they seemed to be ignoring each other.
His cigar lit, Jünger leaned forward. To her surprise he began to speak in German.
‘I believe your German is very good,’ he said. ‘Our friend here doesn’t speak a word. First, I want to say I am sorry for having caused you such a shock last night. It was ill-mannered to say the least. Second, very quickly, before we are interrupted, I want to say I was a good friend to your husband. Say nothing of this here. But please agree to come back to Vienna with me.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Workman. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Jünger, but our agreement was, English only.’
‘Forgive me, Inspector,’ said the Austrian. ‘It was a slip of the tongue.’
‘Some slip,’ said Workman. ‘What did you say?’
‘Only that I was sorry Frau Adamson became ill last night and hoped she was recovered. Frau Adamson, let me now explain things more clearly. Astrid Fischer died of an overdose of heroin. She had been an addict, we know that, but she had taken a voluntary course of treatment some years earlier and the puncture scars on her body were all old except the one that killed her. Why should she have chosen that moment to restart the habit? No, we do not believe this injection was self-administered. We believe you must have been the last person, other than the killer, of course, to see her and speak to her. We would like from you several things. One, a detailed account of your conversation that night. Two, an examination of Fischer’s apartment to see if there are any changes there from when you last saw it. Three, a study of photographs of possible suspects to see if you recall seeing any of them in the vicinity of the apartment that night. There are other ways you can help also, but these are the most important. Some of these things you could do here in England; all of them can be done more efficiently in Vienna. We would be grateful if you could return there for perhaps two days only to assist us. Your expenses will, of course, be taken care of and any loss of income recompensed.’
‘Income?’
‘Yes. You have a job, the inspector tells me.’
Another snippet of information from the well-informed inspector!
Trudi said in rapid German, ‘And what about my husband, what’s this got to do with him?’
‘Please, Frau Adamson, leave it till later!’ urged Jünger.
And, turning apologetically to Workman, he said, ‘The lady wants assurances that we will not keep her beyond two days. I have promised. Perhaps you will witness my promise, Inspector.’
‘Gladly,’ said Workman solemnly with a small gesture of his right hand which might have been a parody of a judicial oath-taking.
Do they really expect me to fall for that? wondered Trudi.
But she had made up her mind, with or without reassurances. Jünger’s reference to Trent had had its probably intended effect.
Also, she had a feeling amounting to certainty that very soon Janet would try to contact her in Sheffield. That was an encounter she wanted to delay as long as possible.
‘All right, Herr Jünger,’ she said in German. ‘I a
gree. I will return with you to Vienna.’
And saw from the flicker of triumph in Workman’s eyes that, as she’d suspected, it had all been a game and he understood German perfectly well.
But it didn’t change her mind.
Part Six
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
BURNS: To a Mouse
1
Jünger worked fast. It was arranged that she would be picked up that same afternoon and driven to Manchester airport where they would catch a flight to Paris with a connection to Vienna.
Left alone, Trudi picked up the telephone and rang the emergency number Stanley Usher had given her. She let the phone ring for five minutes but there was no reply.
As soon as she replaced the receiver, it rang. She hesitated to pick it up, fearing to hear Janet’s voice. It kept on ringing and in the end she snatched it from its rest, clamped her hand over the mouthpiece and listened.
‘Trudi, is that you? Hello? Hello?’
‘James!’ she cried in relief. ‘Hello. Yes. Sorry. It’s me.’
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I was just ringing to see how you were. I was sorry to have to rush off and leave you alone.’
‘I’m getting used to that,’ said Trudi. ‘Being alone, I mean. I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Good. Look, what about a spot of lunch? Could you manage that? Just a drink and a sandwich.’
It was very tempting. Dacre’s seemed the one friendly voice in all the world. But there was no time. She had to pack and be ready at two o’clock. In any case, she had a fear that if she saw James, she might break down and cry on his shoulder and put him off for ever.
She didn’t want that.
‘I’m sorry, James, I can’t,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he said neutrally. ‘Pity.’
He thinks I’m giving him the brush-off! she told herself.
She rushed to explain.
‘And so I’m off to Vienna again,’ she concluded.
‘Trudi, you’re sure this is wise?’ he said in a worried voice.
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘I don’t know. But there’s something going on, that’s clear. And you’re in danger of being sucked into it. I know you say that Jünger’s given you reassurances, but dealing with the authorities abroad is like boxing in America – you need a knock-out to get a draw!’
His odd analogy made her laugh.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said almost gaily. ‘I’m probably more at home in Vienna than I am in Sheffield!’
‘That’s not what it says on your passport,’ he answered grimly. ‘Trudi …’
‘Yes?’
‘I enjoyed … this morning. The important bit, I mean.’
‘So did I, James. So did I.’
There was a pause. She willed him to suggest he might come out to the house to have his sandwich and drink with her there.
But with an abruptness which she was beginning to suspect was habitual rather than indicative, he said, ‘Well, I hope you have a good trip, Trudi. Take care,’ and rang off.
Immediately she was furious with herself for waiting for Dacre to make the suggestion. What phantom of old-fashioned decorum had kept her quiet? None, she answered herself immediately. Not genteel etiquette (which would have been doubly absurd when you considered how they had met in the first place) but a simple, earthy fear of seeming pushy.
The trouble is, I’ve forgotten how to behave naturally, she told herself. Like a pupil in a new language, I’m so frightened of getting it wrong that I prefer to say nothing at all.
She set about her packing. Two days, she had told Jünger. Two days, he had agreed.
But she found herself dropping in little extras ‘just in case’.
Jünger was prompt, in fact a little early, which she was glad of. As he carried her cases out to the car, she said to him, ‘Can we go through the centre of town? I have to leave a message at my workplace. It won’t take a moment.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell the driver.’
The car was a black Granada with no official markings, nor was it clear whether the driver had any official standing, except for one thing. He was a young, blond-haired man with a moustache. Trudi could not be sure, but she half recognized him as the man she had suspected of watching her months earlier.
She was amazed at how little this suspicion worried her. But what’s toothache to a woman with a cracked skull? she asked herself wryly.
She directed the car to the Class-Glass office. When it stopped, she got out, ran across the pavement and climbed the stairs. She had written a note explaining her absence to Usher and her intention was to leave it on the typewriter. But when she pushed open the office door, that went right out of her mind.
‘Oh Jesus!’ she said.
Someone had been into the office and wrecked it. Instead of her reflected face in the mirrors, all she saw now were empty frames or at most a jagged ruff of glass. As she advanced into the room her feet crunched on shards and splinters of mirror.
It had not been a wrecking job incidental to burglary. The desk with its typewriter and telephone stood untouched. As her eyes noted this, the phone rang and the sound made her start as if she were the intruder surprised.
She picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Mrs Adamson?’
The voice was familiar, reassuringly so, though she didn’t place it immediately.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh good. Ashburton here. I’ve been trying to get you at home. I thought I might as well try your office though I didn’t think this was one of your days.’
‘Oh no, it’s not.’
Quickly she explained what she was doing there and then went on to describe the state of the office.
‘The thing is, Mr Ashburton, I’ve got a plane to catch and I’m behind schedule already. Could I possibly ask you to get in touch with the police and, of course, Mr Usher?’
‘Good Lord! That’s terrible. What’s the world coming to? Yes, I’d be glad to help in any way, but I’m not sure if you should really leave the scene of the crime, so to speak.’
Despite the situation, Trudi smiled at the little solicitor’s care for the law.
‘It’ll be all right, really. Ask for Inspector Workman to be told. Workman. He’ll put it right. Look, what was it you wanted to contact me about?’
‘Just a point in connection with your claim. But nothing urgent if you’re in a hurry, my dear.’
‘Mrs Adamson! Please. We are going to be late!’
It was Jünger from the foot of the stairs.
‘Yes. I must fly. Go, I mean. And fly. Goodbye.’
She replaced the receiver, but she didn’t head for the door straightaway.
While she had spoken to Ashburton, something had been tugging at her eyesight. She assumed at first it was some kind of accidental trompe l’oeil by which one of the shattered mirrors seemed to show space behind it rather than its backing or the wall.
But the more she looked …
She went close. No optical illusion this. Where the glass had fallen out, there was a hole through which she could see a small room, only a few feet square, with a wooden chair and a doorway.
The mirror was the heart-shaped one in which James Dacre had admired himself. She removed a piece of the glass still held in the frame and turned it over. Its reverse was unsilvered and when she held it up to the window and examined it from this side, she saw that light came through.
Outside there were footsteps on the stairs.
Oh God, she thought. Let Workman sort it out!
She met Jünger as he reached the landing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘The phone rang. I got held up.’
Jünger did not reprove her, but gave her the silent disapproval treatment. This suited Trudi very well. She sank deep into her own thoughts as
the car climbed out of Sheffield and wound between the snow-freckled moors of the southern Pennines. This was the Snake Pass. Last time she had travelled over here, she had been with Janet. Her friend, her guide, her mentor. Her betrayer.
Once she saw a green Escort coming towards them and shrank back in her seat, certain it must be Janet’s. It wasn’t, of course, but it reminded her how much of this journey was really a flight.
At Manchester, Jünger took charge of everything. This was how it had been with Trent, the sharp edges of modern travel smoothed down to a few longueurs. Then she had taken it for granted. Now she found herself half resenting the Austrian’s smooth organization which was somehow more macho than any noisy, bullying bellowing could have been. She walked after him to the check-in desk. The girl had just tapped up a couple of seats on her screen.
Trudi looked and said, ‘Make one of those a non-smoker, will you. Mrs Adamson.’
The girl glanced queryingly at Jünger, who sighed and said, ‘All right. Two in the non-smoking …’
‘No!’ said Trudi. ‘Just one. I don’t see why you should suffer for me, Herr Jünger.’
‘But we should talk …’
‘There will be plenty of time to talk in Vienna,’ she said, savouring the small triumph.
The plane was on time. She took her seat by the window and stared out at the unedifying prospect of a modern airport, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She felt someone take the seat beside her but did not look up.
‘Now this is very handy,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I thought you’d be handcuffed to our Austrian friend if not actually chained up in the hold.’
It was James Dacre. The flip remark did not chime with his naturally serious mien, but it matched the feel of determined embarrassment that emanated from him.
‘James! What are you doing here?’
‘Business in Vienna,’ he said, holding up a briefcase unconvincingly. ‘I thought I might as well have some company on the flight.’
She shook her head in disbelief. Even the briefcase looked new and empty.
‘And this business has come up since midday?’ she said.
He grinned sheepishly.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no talent for play-acting, clearly. After I put down the phone, I thought about what you’d said – about going back to Vienna with Jünger, I mean – and I got to thinking. I’ve led a rather dull life, Trudi. There’ve been crises and excitements, of course, but they’ve been the conventional kind that happen to everybody. When I met you through the agency, you seemed just the right type for me.’
Death of a Dormouse Page 15
