I knew my heart was going to overrule my head
I also knew that my intended actions were misguided, but that didn’t seem to make any difference.
Back in the woods of Dove Dale, and for no obvious reason other than it was my destiny, I’d memorised the address on Ingrid’s letters. My thoughts at the time had bordered on being irrational but unbeknown to me, or anybody else, I had mounted the first step leading to tragedy.
By willing myself to go to the address I’d remembered, I was merely closing the gap to the heartbreaks that awaited me.
Therefore I only had myself to blame for what might happen.
Chapter Seven
From the moment I drove into Cochem it was obvious that it was a tourist trap.
Pedestrians packed the pavements and the traffic congestion brought almost everything else to a halt. Taking a turning to the right away from the river and the traffic, towards the railway station, I followed the flow and finished up re-crossing the river courtesy of the Alte Moselbrücke.
The cars on the bridge came to a halt, and as we sat nose-to-tail I noticed a hotel on the opposite side of the river and a couple of buildings down on the right. I didn’t think I had any hope of getting a room, but more by luck than judgement I found my way to the back of the hotel where there was a small car park.
In my rather poor German I asked the receptionist whether there was a double room available – Belinda couldn’t be with me in a single room – and, to my surprise, the receptionist said there was.
“Ant how many nights vill you being staying, sir?” she asked, her heavily accented English preferable to my attempts at her language.
I had always tried to learn enough of any language to get by on my travels. Like many others, my fluency improved when I had a few drinks. I found that the French tended to make you suffer and deliberately spoke more quickly to confuse matters, whereas the Germans, unless you spoke their language effortlessly, preferred to test their English. Their poor English was better than a foreigner’s poor German – maybe Belinda had been right about German arrogance, at least the French were honest.
“Ich denke, vielleicht zwei nachten,” I replied trying to be clever and then I added, “minimum.”
Why I thought I’d be in Cochem for two nights let alone more than two nights, I didn’t know.
“Thank you,” the receptionist acknowledged looking up and handing me a card to fill in. “May I see your passport?” she asked, smiling, sticking to her choice of language.
“Natürlich,” I said, handing over my EEC passport.
She gave me a searching look before scanning various pages of my passport in confirmation of my identity.
In her mid-thirties, the receptionist wasn’t unattractive. Her blonde hair was coiled on top of her head and her blue eyes suggested that her ancestors had almost certainly been Aryan. Automatically I glanced down at her right hand and saw that she was wearing a wedding ring. When she looked up again I was smiling but not because anything amusing had happened.
The room was comfortable, spacious and tastefully decorated. It was on the third of four floors, and the small balcony overlooked the Mosel River. I began to think I had perhaps underestimated rather than overestimated my length of stay. After unpacking and although it was only four o’clock, I helped myself from the complimentary bottle of Mosel wine I found in the fridge and went back onto the balcony.
The traffic was still heavy and there were tourists galore milling around the bridge I had crossed, boarding various riverboats that were moored on the opposite side of the river.
I spread out the local tourist map that was on the small chest of drawers in my room, and tried to relate what I found to what I could see in front of me. My eyes drifted across the map to the north of the town and, by chance, fell on Landkern Strasse, the address on Ingrid’s letters:
Fraulein Ingrid Mesterom
Landkern Strasse 44
58312 Cochem
Deutchland
I looked up almost believing that I was going to be able to see through the hundreds of buildings between the Am Hafen Hotel and Landkern Strasse and, although it was a warm afternoon, I felt a shiver run through me.
Glancing to my left, I could see an extremely picturesque and intimidating neo-gothic castle perched on a hill at least three hundred and fifty feet above the River Mosel. A brochure I picked up with the tourist map told me that I was looking at the Reichsburg Cochem. Built in the early eleventh century it had survived fire and pestilence, sale and resale. In 1689 and during the War of Succession, troops belonging to King Louis XI of the Palatinate, almost sealed its fate as they undermined, planted explosives and blew it up.
After years of rebuilding and maintenance, the castle, once again, dominated the town of Cochem. Now run as a business, it attracted hundreds of thousands of visitors every year.
I stopped reading and looked up at the castle.
It seemed to be beckoning me.
Standing on the opposite side of the road from No. 44 Landkern Strasse, I tried to look inconspicuous. I had left the hotel about an hour earlier and wandered around the town for a while before heading for the street in which I believed Ingrid had lived.
The number of tourists appeared to have thinned out a little but the narrow streets didn’t help and they were still teeming with people of all ages, sizes and nationalities. I heard French, Dutch and English being spoken as well as German, and there were other tongues I didn’t recognise. I contemplated eating early but the first restaurant I tried was full so I decided to leave it until after I’d located Landkern Strasse.
I suppose what I was looking at was a typical road that I would have expected to find in the outskirts of any German town. Landkern Strasse was straight but steep, leading from the river up into the hills and towards the village of, not surprisingly, Landkern.
A mixture of relatively modern houses adorned either side of the road, each built to a different design. No. 44 was on the left and setback a little further from the road than its neighbours. The front garden was immaculate. There were bushes, shrubs, rocks, gravel and patches of blazing colour divided by a path that led to a green front door. It was a double-fronted two-storey house and there were green shutters – the colour matching the front door – at each of the four windows that I could see. Elaborate lace curtains hung either side of the downstairs windows and potted plants covered the windowsills. A dark-blue BMW 3-Series parked by the house had its offside wheels up on the wide pavement.
Aware that I was staring at the house, I walked uphill passing it on the opposite side of the road before turning and walking back down the hill again. While contemplating what I should do next, the green front door opened and two people – a young man and a woman – walked out and started down the path. I couldn’t really see what they looked like because both of them were wearing the ubiquitous baseball caps and their faces were in shadow. I guessed their ages to be in their mid to late twenties.
Another older woman remained at the door and watched their progress. I thought the man and younger woman were going to get into the car but he unlocked it, retrieved a lightweight coat and then jogged after the woman who was already a few yards down the road. The older woman at the door shouted something after them and they both acknowledged whatever she had said with a wave of their hands as they continued on their way. Realising that the older woman was looking at me, I smiled in her direction and then, with a slight nod, followed the other two, remaining on the opposite side of the road.
The couple walked down into the town and into the main square by what I knew to be the Rathaus or the town hall. They stopped in the middle of the square and exchanged a few words before the female reached up and kissed the man on the cheek. It was the first opportunity I had to see their faces and to my surprise they were both Asian. The man looked as though he had some Chinese or Japanese in him, but the woman, not unlike Ingrid to look at, was more Malaysian.
After saying their goodbyes they part
ed, the man headed towards the main bridge over the river and the woman turning right, went into the narrow streets of the shopping area.
I had achieved what I wanted.
Having seen where Ingrid had probably lived, I could have argued that I hadn’t really followed this couple into town because in reality they had been going in the same direction. Now they had separated, and for whatever reason, I suddenly wanted to know more. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that they were both Asian and had come out of the house I knew was connected to Ingrid.
On impulse, I decided to follow the woman.
There were still a lot of people about but it was relatively easy to keep up with her without being conspicuous. At one stage, when she was quite close, she turned her head to glance in a shop window and I was able to get a better look at her. I had already noticed that she had long jet-black hair fastened unceremoniously with a rubber band and the resultant ponytail fell to almost half way down her back. About five feet three inches tall, her jeans, trainers and a pink sleeveless top all looked new. The baseball cap seemed slightly out of place, it gave her a tomboyish appeal but nothing could disguise her figure.
She was walking quite determinedly but something in a fashion shop window obviously caught her attention. I stopped abruptly causing somebody to run into me from behind. A middle-aged woman uttered something guttural and I smiled an apology. When I looked back towards the woman and saw her face in profile, her likeness to Ingrid was very apparent. Her hair was different but the face in profile was similar – not to the point where they could be mistaken for each other, but the similarity was intriguing.
I was surprised that I was able to recall Ingrid’s face in any detail but I had held her cold dead hand in mine and had looked down at her beautiful but bloodied face while I waited for the police to arrive.
The woman, who was now no more than ten feet in front of me, turned away from the shop window and, unaware of my close scrutiny, rejoined the column of people pushing their way down the narrow street. I paused and let her get about twenty yards in front of me before stepping out into the crowd.
Turning left into a pedestrian passageway, I had to slow down because there were fewer people about. The passageway led down to the river.
I stayed a safe distance behind her.
When she went into a small tobacco shop, I walked past the shop towards the river and waited. She came out of the shop a matter of minutes later and this time I saw her entire face. Stopping outside the doorway, she concentrated on opening a packet of cigarettes. Her skin colouring, the shape of her dark eyes and mouth, her nose and even her chin, were remarkably like Ingrid’s.
Suddenly I was aware that she was looking at me, and for a moment our eyes met, but then, with a slight smile, she looked down, slipped the cigarette packet into her pocket and carried on down the passageway towards the river.
I wasn’t sure what to do.
I hadn’t intended any covert activities: all I had wanted was to find the house and then decide whether to go and knock on the door or not. I had followed this young woman on an impulse. Perhaps now was the time to walk away. I glanced quickly to my right and saw her turn right along by the river. She didn’t look back … I assumed that she accepted I was another man with an imagination. I jogged to the corner and was in time to see her disappear into a bar.
After deciding, again on an impulse, not to walk away, I selected a table by the window.
At first I didn’t see her when I entered the bar but, after I had ordered a small beer from the waitress, she emerged from the ladies’ toilet. Stopping by the counter she exchanged a few words with the waitress before the woman I had followed came across the room in my direction. I averted my eyes and pretended to be studying a beer mat but she moved back into view as she sat down opposite me.
“I understand you are British,” she said in English.
I looked up and her jet black eyes were piercing. “My German is obviously not as good as your English.”
“Why are you following me?” she asked, ignoring my attempt at humour.
The directness of her question threw me. I suppose she felt safe and confident. The waitress, although serving another customer on the opposite side of the bar, was watching us closely.
“What makes you think I was following you?” I said, my mind in a whirl. “I came in here for a drink.”
“And so did I,” she replied, smiling at the waitress as she deposited my beer and a red wine on the table. “Vielen Danke, Helga,” she said, picking up her glass of wine while still looking at me. She sipped the liquid before she spoke. “When I came out of the house in Landkern Strasse, you were standing on the opposite side of the road watching the house. You followed Michael and me down the hill and then, when we separated by the Rathaus, you stayed with me.” She took another sip of her wine. “I stopped to look in a shop window and you also stopped.” Her eyes never left mine as she pulled the cigarette packet from her pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit it. I couldn’t help but notice that she smoked the same brand as Ingrid. “I stop for these,” she said, holding up the packet, “and you are outside the shop when I come out. I deliberately come into this bar and you are also here.” She paused, taking a long drag on her cigarette. “I ask you again, why are you following me?”
She was too calm, too collected. It wasn’t normal for a young woman to manoeuvre a man she thought was following her into a corner to ask him who he was and why he was following her. She was too sure of herself and too sure that she had the advantage.
“Your English is excellent,” I observed, smiling.
Her nostrils flared in anger. “Look,” she said between clenched teeth, “all I have to do is nod at Helga and the police will be here within minutes. Who are you and why are you following me?”
For some reason the change in her mood suggested she wasn’t feeling as confident as I originally thought. Not sure what I should say, I played for time. “Perhaps it’s all a coincidence and maybe I ought to ask you the same question.”
She looked across the bar towards Helga.
Other than Elizabeth and a few nameless females in Bonn, I was closer to the woman opposite me than any other female since Belinda had died. It suddenly hit me that I had withdrawn into myself and I hadn’t really had what might be called a conversation with anybody. Bonn had been all small talk, so small that I couldn’t really remember what had been said. I had distanced myself from what had been my life before I even got there.
It had all been a formality and perhaps a charade.
No, that was unfair, it wasn’t their fault.
Some of the delegates had probably already conferred and decided that my rudeness was due to the stress caused by Belinda’s death; why else would I have resigned from such a rewarding job? Although I had spent many years away from her – earning the income I believed I needed to give her what I thought she wanted – all the time she would have been happy and content if I had simply been with her and earned a modest salary. If the twins had gone to the local comprehensive then maybe they would have been happy too.
Perhaps I had misjudged an awful lot but by the time it dawned on me it was too late.
The woman in front of me stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.
“You don’t seem to be the sort of man who might prey on single females. I don’t think I am a bad judge of character and although I met you for the first time only minutes ago, I think perhaps you had a reason for being here. You did follow me, you can’t deny it, but you followed me maybe to tell me something. If I felt threatened then I wouldn’t be sitting here, I would probably already have telephoned the police.”
She reached for another cigarette and I took the opportunity to signal to the waitress that I wanted her to bring fresh drinks to the table. Helga nodded, checking with the woman opposite me before turning away to go behind the bar.
“May I ask your name?”
She blew smoke towards the ceiling, her eyes telling me that
although she didn’t think I was a threat, telling me her name was becoming too intimate. She thought for a few more seconds and then decided in my favour.
“Marie,” she said quietly.
I reached across the table. “Hello, Marie, my name is Richard Blythe,” I said.
She took my proffered hand without any show of reluctance. Her hand was small, soft and fragile in mine, but her handshake was firm and genuine.
“Would I be right in saying that your full name is Marie Mesterom?” I asked.
Her expression didn’t change. She withdrew her hand from mine and reached for the cigarette in the ashtray.
“No, my name is Marie Schmidt,” she said almost casually. “Why did you think my name was Mesterom?”
I became a little restless.
I had made a terrible mistake: this woman was nothing to do with Ingrid. The similarities were, after all, nothing but a coincidence.
“I’m sorry,” I said, hesitantly, “I may have misread something.”
Marie frowned. “What is there to misread? Did you think I was somebody you knew?”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “I don’t, or should I say didn’t know you. No, I thought you might be related to somebody I once …” I was going to say ‘knew’, but then I didn’t know Ingrid, “… somebody I once met.”
Helga arrived with the drinks and Marie said something to her quickly and in German. Helga nodded and gave me a guarded look before picking up my empty beer glass and withdrawing back to the bar.
The frown was still on Marie’s face. “Are you in the habit of following people who resemble other people you have met?”
I smiled, feeling slightly embarrassed. “No, it’s not like that.”
“What is it like then?” She drained her wine glass, her eyes never leaving mine.
I owed her an explanation. “I met somebody in the UK who lived at the address you came out from in Landkern Strasse. Because I was in the area I thought I’d take a look – being nosey, I suppose.”
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 7
