The Shadow Project bh-5

by Scott Mariani

The old man screwed up his face and peered at it, his nose almost touching the screen. ‘She might have been one of them. Might not. Hard to say, I don’t remember too good. There was a bunch of them in the place. Young people. They ran it together. Like hippies.’

  ‘You mean like a co-operative?’

  ‘Something like that,’ the old man said with a shrug.

  Ben asked if he knew who owned the building. The old man shrugged again, then shut the door and Ben heard the rattle of the locks and bolts.

  He looked at his watch. It was getting too late in the day to make the kind of calls he needed to make to track the owners down. He dragged his heels back to the car and drove off.

  So far, things weren’t looking too promising. Maybe a forty per cent chance that this was even the right place. And a ninety per cent chance that its former occupants could be just about anywhere in Europe now.

  Missing scientists. An SS general with a strange secret. A snatch attempt against a wealthy industrialist. And now some kind of bohemian commune that sold ceramics out of a semi-derelict farm shop in the Black Forest countryside.

  He spent that night staring up at the ceiling of his hotel bedroom and counting the minutes until dawn. He drifted off sometime before first light, and woke to the rays of the sun creeping up the flower-patterned wallpaper by his bed. He threw off the covers, dressed quickly and grabbed a coffee in the breakfast room, waiting impatiently for the day to start. As soon as the hands on his watch hit 9 a.m., he started phoning round estate agents.

  His enquiries drew blanks all the way. It seemed that whoever had let the co-operative make use of the building hadn’t gone through an agent – or at least not one in the region. Maybe a more casual agreement, then, cash only. Maybe the place had been rent-free. It couldn’t be worth much to live there.

  But whatever the arrangement, someone had to be paying local taxes on the property. Which meant that somewhere there was a record on file that would lead him to the owner and then – with a bit of persuasion – to the people who’d last lived in it.

  He checked a map of Offenburg and found that the Rathaus or town council office wasn’t far from his hotel. The sun had disappeared behind iron-grey clouds and there was a chill in the air as he walked through the streets. The Rathaus was an imposing red and cream building on the corner of a street of neat old timber-framed houses. He pushed through the main entrance and walked across the reception foyer to the desk, where he spoke to an austere-looking woman with thin lips and dead eyes who seemed to enjoy informing him that unless he was a police officer or a licensed private investigator with proper ID to show her, there was no way she was going to disclose the identity or home address of the owner of the former pottery outside Offenburg. He stared hard at her for a long moment, until a flicker of nervousness appeared in those lifeless eyes. With that small victory won, he turned and pushed back out of the main entrance.

  Out in the street, he looked up at the building. Below the arched clock tower was a balcony, and the stonework around the windows was ornately sculpted in classical German style. But he wasn’t admiring the architecture. He was thinking about how easy it would be to get in there after dark, and find the records himself.

  Easy enough. Fuck it. He hadn’t come all this way to be put off by a sadistic petty bureaucrat. He walked away, already putting together his plan in his head. It wouldn’t be the first government building he’d broken into.

  But until dark, all he had on his hands was more time to kill. He couldn’t bear the thought of sitting it out in the hotel, and he didn’t feel like exploring the town much either. He walked back to where he’d parked the Mini, threw himself behind the wheel and punched the little car out through the traffic into the countryside. But if he’d thought that driving around aimlessly was going to help him get his mind off things, he knew right away that it was over-optimistic. As he drove, the road in front of him became the tunnel of his thoughts and he could feel despondency wrapping its arms around him. A weight of emotion settled heavy in his chest. Had he lost Ruth forever? Was this just going to fizzle out?

  Up ahead on the winding country road, he saw a line of horse riders, four of them, moving in single file, and he instinctively slowed the car and edged out to the left to pass them without scaring their mounts. He glanced at them as he purred by in second gear. The string was led by two women on big hunters, followed by a teenage boy on a grey and a little girl of about nine bringing up the rear. She sat astride her sturdily-built pony as if it was the most treasured thing to her in the world.

  The leader gave Ben a nod and mouthed a thank you as the Mini passed by. He waved back glumly, put his foot on the pedal and accelerated gently away.

  Then, fifty yards up the road, he stopped the car.

  He looked back in the mirror. Watched the easy ambling gait of the big hunter up front, the sway of the rider’s hips astride the saddle. Heard the clip-clop of horseshoes on tarmac.

  The riders came closer, and he pretended to be searching for something in the glove box but was watching them all the way. As they trotted past the car, he stared again at the little girl.

  Not at her. At what she was wearing. Zipped up tight to her neck was a little green fleece jacket with an equestrian logo on it.

  His fingers were trembling a little as he took out his phone and scrolled up the picture of Ruth standing there looking cold and windswept on the library steps in St Peter’s Square in Manchester.

  She was wearing the exact same type of fleece that the little girl was wearing. Same logo, same cut, same colour. He’d been too busy trying to make out her features to pay attention to the clothes. But now he realised that she was wearing exactly the kind of equestrian gear that the Ruth of his memories would have grown up wanting to wear.

  With Ruth, it had been horses, horses, horses. What had started out as a fun activity for her at the age of four had quickly turned into a serious passion. By the age of seven, she’d been an accomplished junior rider with a whole wall of trophies and rosettes, and the dream she always talked about of becoming a champion show jumper had been looking more realistic with every new competition. The house had always been full of little riding boots and hats, bits of tack, horse pictures and books, hoof picks and all kinds of other equestrian paraphernalia. Those were the memories that made Ben smile.

  Then his mind drifted to the ones that didn’t. The memory of coming home from North Africa as a family of three and knowing that it was his fault. Of his mother, her face a mask of agony as she lay sobbing on Ruth’s bed, clutching a little riding jacket as though Ruth was still inside it. Of the terrible months that had passed before his father had finally gathered up all the boots and riding hats, her tack and her saddle, and sealed them inside a packing case.

  Ben returned to the present. Thought of the person Ruth was now. Whatever her life story had been, whatever the reason why she’d never tried to find her lost family, was there a small part of her that was still the Ruth he’d known? A part of her that still loved horses, wanted to be around them?

  Further up the road was a little white sign on a post. He couldn’t make it out from that distance, but when the line of riders reached it they turned right up a track and out of sight.

  He slipped the car into gear and followed. The sign at the side of the road bore a picture of a horse and the name of what appeared to be some kind of equestrian centre. Pulling up at the entrance to the track, he saw the riders pass through an open gate and up towards a large yard surrounded by stable-blocks. Behind the stables was an office with a car park, and he drove in and pulled up on the gravel next to a 4×4 hitched to a trailer.

  Stepping out of the car, he looked around. He’d been in a hundred of these kinds of places with his sister. The smell of hay and straw, horse feed and manure filled his nostrils as he walked over towards the office. The two young women in boots and jodhpurs who were sitting at a desk over mugs of coffee and sharing a joke about something looked up at him as he stepped inside. One
was about seventeen, stumpy with bad skin, and gazed at him through thick glasses. The other might have been a couple of years older, more self-assured, and gave him a smile. On her jacket was a name tag that said ‘Hannah’. She had the broad shoulders and slender waist of a serious rider. An instructor, he thought.

  He showed them the picture on his phone and asked if they knew the person in it. Blank looks, an exchange of rapid German, and they shook their heads.

  ‘Can you tell me if there are any other stables or riding schools in this area?’

  The stumpy one went on staring at him through her glasses, but Hannah smiled again and said there were four. Politely ignoring the seductive looks she was giving him, he jotted down the details.

  ‘Shame I can’t drive you there myself,’ she said. ‘I’m working. But we’re having a barbecue here tonight, if you fancy coming along.’

  These German girls. He politely declined.

  It took him two hours to drive around the countryside and find the first three places on his list. More horsey smells and sounds, more young women in riding gear. No sign of Ruth and nobody who seemed to know her. The peak of energy that had surged through him was beginning to wane again.

  His spirits sank even more as he drove up to the last place on the list, eleven miles out of Offenburg, in the early afternoon. The establishment looked more like a country club than a riding school. The horses in the neatly-fenced paddocks were gleaming Arabs and thoroughbreds, and two little guys in uniforms jumped out to rake up the tyre tracks he’d left in the gravel.

  He thought about driving off, then shrugged and slammed the door and wandered about the buildings. A talented young rider was cantering around the sand school with her feet out of the stirrups and her arms out like a plane. Grooms were leading nervy horses up and down the yard. Everything very slick, professional and expensive.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said a voice in German, cutting sharply across the stable-yard, not too friendly.

  Ben turned to see a guy walking up to him who looked like a managerial type. Late forties, balding, gut and glasses and the angry red face of someone in a state of permanent belligerence.

  ‘Maybe you can.’ He showed the guy the picture on the phone. ‘Do you know her?’

  The manager stared at it for a second, frowned and then glanced up at Ben. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m her brother,’ Ben said. It sounded weird to hear himself say it.

  ‘You’re her brother?’ the guy echoed doubtfully. ‘You know her?’

  ‘This is a members-only establishment,’ the guy said. ‘You are trespassing.’ He snapped his fingers.

  Ten yards away in an open stable, a very large groom in a blue overall was standing up to his knees in soiled straw and piling it into a barrow with a pitchfork. He was well over six and a half feet tall, and it seemed that whatever time he didn’t spend mucking out horses, he spent pumping weights the size of truck tyres. At the sound of his manager’s snapping fingers he instantly jumped to attention and strode over, trailing bits of straw and clutching the pitchfork like a gladiator’s trident in his meaty fist. He stopped at his boss’ shoulder and grinned down at Ben. His hair was cropped in a buzz-cut and his face looked like it had been beaten out of Kevlar, with eyes so far apart it was impossible to focus on both at once.

  ‘You have thirty seconds to get the fuck out of here,’ the manager said. ‘Unless you want Johann to put his fork up your arse.’

  Ben looked up at Johann and thought about how he’d go about breaking the guy in half. Violence was one option. Reasonable was another. He decided to go with reasonable.

  ‘Johann, maybe you know her?’ he said, and held up the phone for him to see.

  Johann said nothing. The wide-set eyes darted at the picture, then back at Ben.

  ‘Now get out,’ the manager said with a smirk. ‘Johann, make sure he leaves.’

  Ben slipped the phone back in his pocket, turned and headed back towards the car park with Johann’s muscular escort a pace behind him.

  ‘You don’t have to see me out,’ he told the big guy. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble. I was just looking for my sister, that’s all.’

  Johann’s wide, flat face seemed to twitch, as though the effort of thinking was like turning over a big truck engine inside his head. Ben looked at him, and saw that behind the scowl were the eyes of a child.

  When the giant spoke, the voice was deep and slow. ‘Your sister?’ he rumbled.

  Ben had his hand on the Mini’s door handle. He nodded. ‘That’s right, Johann. My little sister.’

  ‘You look like her,’ Johann said.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ben stood and stared at the big man. ‘What did you just say?’

  Johann blinked. The wide-set eyes darted sideways at the stable-block, as if he were scared of getting into trouble with his boss.

  ‘It’s OK, Johann. You can talk to me. You know her, don’t you?’

  Johann dipped his chin to his muscular chest and gave a slow, solemn nod. Ben believed him. The poor guy didn’t have enough upstairs to tell a lie.

  ‘I take care of Solo,’ Johann said. ‘She keeps him here.’

  Ben had to hold the Mini door handle tight to stop himself from rocking on his feet. ‘She comes here to ride?’

  Johann gave another slow nod. ‘Most afternoons. She is not here yet. Maybe she will come.’

  ‘Does she drive here?’

  Nod.

  ‘What kind of car does she drive?’

  ‘Big silver car. Like that one.’ Johann raised one of his massive arms and pointed at a top-of-the-line Range Rover parked four cars down from the Mini.

  ‘Listen to me carefully, Johann. It’s my sister’s birthday today, and I have a present for her. I want it to be a nice big surprise. So when she arrives here, do not tell her that her brother was here. Do you understand?’

  Nod.

  ‘What is it you’re not to say?’

  ‘That you were here,’ Johann repeated carefully. ‘Her brother.’

  Ben took out his wallet and shelled out a couple of twenty-euro notes. ‘This is for you, Johann. You’ve helped me more than you know. You’re a good guy.’ He left the big man standing there looking at the money in his palm as he drove off.

  Back on the main road, he found a layby within sight of the equestrian centre but shaded by enough overhanging foliage to mask his car. A perfect spot to sit and wait and watch the gates. He settled back in the driver’s seat and lit the first cigarette.

  Time passed. People came and went. The Jaguar X-type turned out of the gates and disappeared down the road. A while later, a black Subaru 4×4 towing a double trailer arrived. Some riders passed Ben’s layby, returning from a hack, the horses sweated up. Ben sat and smoked, two cigarettes, then three, keeping low in the driver’s seat.

  He’d been sitting there for just under two hours and his watch was edging its way towards four thirty when he saw the silver Range Rover come up the road. Just one occupant. The car slowed for the gate and the indicator flashed, and as it turned in he got a brief but clear view of the driver. A woman, white polo shirt, short blond hair, wraparound shades.

  Ben stubbed out his cigarette. His mouth was suddenly dry and his heart felt like he’d just done a three-hundred-metre sprint.

  The Range Rover rolled up the drive towards the stable buildings, tyres rasping on the gravel, and pulled into the car park.

  His first instinct was to drive in after her, go right up to her and talk to her. Tell her who he was. Just come right out with it. ‘Ruth, it’s me. Your brother Ben. Remember me? Where have you been the last twenty-three years?’

  But that was just his heart talking. The part of him that was still able to think rationally through the swell of emotions that was surging through him knew that the situation was a little more complicated than that.

  He scanned the layout of the land. The equestrian centre consisted of the central buildings complex with the office, the stab
les and tack rooms and the main house, the paddocks and sand school, and a big prefabricated metal building that looked like it might be an indoor riding ménage. Maybe a dozen acres in all, but long and narrow. While the paddocks and riding areas were fenced with white wood, the outer boundary of the property was ringed with hedges. Most of the way round, what lay beyond the hedge was pine woodland. The trees extended all the way along the side of the road where he was parked, and there was just a single strand of barbed-wire fence between him and several hundred yards of thick, uninterrupted cover that would allow him to move unnoticed around the perimeter.

  He got out of the car, shut the door quietly and crossed the road. There was nobody about. He peeled off his leather jacket and laid it over the barbed wire. Swung one leg over and then the other, slipped the jacket back on and made his way into the trees.

  It didn’t take him long to track around the edge of the equestrian centre. Staying well back in the sun-dappled shadow of the trees, he had a good view of the place. Good enough to see the angry manager strutting across the stable-yard, yelling at one of the staff. Good enough to notice the gentle giant Johann over at the dung-heap, discreetly tucked away behind the stable-blocks, emptying his wheelbarrow of soiled straw.

  And good enough to spot the woman who was his little sister leading a shiny, well-groomed, expensive-looking chestnut gelding over towards the big metal building. She’d put on a riding hat and boots, and the horse was saddled and bridled. He watched her go in through the tall doorway. Waited a few seconds. Stepped out of the trees towards the hedge. Hesitated. Was this a mistake? Maybe, but he was way beyond recall now.

  In three seconds he was over the hedge and running low across the stretch of clipped grass to the side of the indoor space. He skirted round its edge, pressed his back flat against the shiny corrugated wall and glanced around the corner to see if anyone had spotted him. Nobody had. In the distance, the manager was walking back towards the office, talking on a phone. The grooms and other staff carried on unsuspectingly with their business.