He nodded, satisfied, and as he left she sighed with relief.
As soon as I walked into Magda’s living room after taking a shower I sensed she was worried. But when I asked her what was wrong she just smiled sadly and shook her head. I hadn’t mentioned that I’d seen her doing that photo shoot thing the day before, because as soon as she’d invited me into the apartment we’d started to kiss, then, before I knew it, we were making love and the moment was somehow lost. But, still, I needed to know how she’d become involved and who the man was. Every time I thought of his smug, vulpine face I felt anger rise inside me like a wave of nausea.
I thought that my anger might affect my performance in bed, but if anything, it probably improved it. Magda had no complaints anyway.
I must say I didn’t think much of her flat … or of the bloke who lived upstairs. She said his name was Vaclav; he looked the sort you don’t argue with. I didn’t like the way he looked at Magda but, if everything went to plan, I’d soon find a job in Prague and we’d find somewhere nicer to live. It was time to say goodbye to my old life and make a new start. And this time I wasn’t going to let anything stop me.
I was going to watch Magda doing her tourist guide bit. As we left the flat I saw Vaclav watching from the top of the stairs. I didn’t trust him one little bit.
Magda could see police cars outside Bedrich’s apartment building. The area had been cordoned off with tape and her tourists were staring at it, full of curiosity. A large American man in a baseball cap asked her if she knew what was going on; she said there must have been a robbery. Prague in general was a safe city and such things were unusual – although it was always wise to beware of pickpockets on Charles Bridge, she heard herself saying, her mind racing. She saw Timothy watching her and she felt herself blushing. She wondered if he’d guessed her secret; but if he knew, surely he would have said something last night.
As she led the way out of the Old Town into the Jewish Quarter, Magda held her purple-and-white umbrella aloft to prevent her flock from straying. There were always dawdlers who didn’t make the effort to keep up – she was used to that by now. But she wasn’t used to the devoted presence of Timothy, watching her adoringly, hanging on her every word. She was starting to feel like a prisoner under his rapt gaze. But it wouldn’t be for long, she told herself.
When she reached the next place of interest she stopped to let the stragglers catch up before she spoke.
‘On your left is the Old-New Synagogue,’ she began. ‘Built around 1270, it is the oldest synagogue in Europe.’ She glanced at Timothy and saw he was listening intently, like a child enjoying a favourite bedtime story. ‘In the late sixteenth century Rabbi Low, a Jewish scholar who was said to possess magical powers, made a man out of clay and brought it to life. The creature was supposed to defend the community from attack but it turned on Rabbi Low, who was forced to disable it and hide it in the rafters of the Old-New Synagogue.’ She paused for effect. ‘The creature was called the Golem and, according to legend, its remains are still up there, in the attic of the Synagogue.’
The usual question followed. Has anybody been up there to have a look? Magda gave the same evasive reply she always did: it was a good story; and nobody likes to douse a good story with the icy water of fact.
They walked on through the Jewish Quarter and then across Charles Bridge to the other side of the river, where the tour would wind up at the castle. Timothy never left her side. Another day or so and he’d be gone. And she’d be free.
I enjoyed the tour and I thought Magda really brought the history of the city to life. I liked the bit about the Golem. To create a creature to guard you from attack seemed like every inventor’s dream. But stories like that never end well, do they?
When the tour was over we walked back from the castle. She hardly said a word. In fact she’d been subdued ever since we saw the police cars parked outside that man’s apartment. The punters couldn’t tell, of course, because she did her job so professionally. But I felt I knew her so well. Soul mates, that’s what we were. I’d never had a soul mate before, and it felt so brilliant to know I wasn’t alone anymore and that she loved me. I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost her, I really didn’t.
When we got back to her flat she asked when I was going back to London, and when I said I wasn’t going back she seemed surprised. I can’t deny that I was disappointed; I’d expected her to fling her arms around me and tell me how glad she was that we’d always be together. Maybe she just needed time to come to terms with the fact that I’d always be here for her.
She was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, and I went to help her. It’s the little things you do together that are important, after all. Thanks to my beautiful Magda – my perfect girl – I was no longer the old Timothy, the man from the coffee bar with no dress sense who was so frightened of women that he didn’t have a girlfriend until the age of thirty-six. She had created a new Timothy. And my life began here.
It was the woman in the apartment opposite Bedrich Novak’s who gave the police their first lead. She had seen the girl prancing naked down the stairs the day before Bedrich’s body was found. Bedrich had been snapping her with that fancy camera of his, and the little trollop had been giving him the come-on. The woman was the widow of a doctor, sixty-eight years old and a regular worshipper at the Church of Our Lady before Tyn. She didn’t hold with naked women flaunting themselves for all to see in the streets of the Czech capital.
She’d seen the girl there before and she knew exactly what she was up to. She was after money, as they all were these days. Bedrich Novak was rich, and there were any number of valuable paintings in that apartment, collected by his late grandfather, who had been a very wealthy man. The source of the old man’s wealth had always been shrouded in mystery, but she suspected some sharp practice in the war years. And as for the paintings, a lot of priceless art had gone missing during the Nazi occupation and not all of it had been returned to its rightful owners. But that was really none of her business.
The police knew that a number of pictures had gone from the apartment, leaving tell-tale pale rectangles on the floral wallpaper in the drawing room.
And when the woman told them that she’d seen the naked girl return later, fully clothed and carrying a suitcase, and that she knew she acted as a tourist guide because she’d seen her in the Old Town Square carrying a purple-and-white umbrella, they thanked her and continued their enquiries.
Vaclav had a buyer in London for the Renoir that Magda had taken from Bedrich Novak’s apartment, and he’d packed it carefully in the hidden compartment of the case. It was small enough to be taken as hand luggage, as was the Rembrandt. It wouldn’t be a problem.
Magda had done well. Vaclav knew she’d only spent the night with that pasty-faced Englishman to allay his suspicions. In fact, she had turned deception into an art form. She’d managed to fool that rich idiot, Bedrich, who fancied himself as some cool photographer, and once he was dead she’d taken the paintings as instructed and disposed of the camera in the Vltava. Shame about that, it was an expensive model. But some things couldn’t be helped.
From the moment Magda had moved into the flat below, Vaclav had moulded her. He’d persuaded her that he loved her and that, if she followed his plans, one day they would be rich and live happily ever after. She had become his creature. She’d even killed for him.
She had turned out to be a natural killer and that pretty, innocent face with the wide blue eyes hid a ruthlessness that sometimes frightened him. She had dealt with every obstacle in his path cleanly and efficiently.
But now he’d heard the police were looking for her. The last thing he needed was trouble, so he’d taken steps to solve the problem. Everything would be fine. He was in control.
The body of student Magda Marekova was discovered in the attic of the building where she lived alone in a first-floor apartment. She is believed to be the woman police wanted to speak to in connection with the death of wealthy photographer Bed
rich Novak.
The police now wish to interview the dead woman’s upstairs neighbour, Vaclav Janak, an unemployed fine art graduate, in connection with her death. They also want to trace an unidentified Englishman who has recently been seen with her.
It is believed that her body was found in a large travelling trunk when her landlady noticed an unpleasant smell on the landing. The young woman had been strangled. And the landlady told our reporter that she was naked.
I would never have imagined that I was capable of killing anybody, but when I emerged from the bathroom and saw her clinging to Vaclav, kissing him with such passion, I felt betrayed.
As soon as he’d gone, I tackled her and I was shocked when she turned on me. She didn’t want me, she said. I was a stupid, ugly nobody and she’d used me because I’d been convenient to her in London. If I imagined she’d felt anything for me, I was a fool. I stood there, stunned. She’d become a monster – a creature I hardly recognised. I reached out my hands to stop the flow of filthy words coming from the mouth I’d once kissed. I hardly remember the rest.
I panicked when I saw her lying there quite still on the kitchen floor, her bulging eyes staring up at me. But when Vaclav returned he stayed cool, saying everything would be fine if I did exactly as he said. I really hadn’t expected him to be so sympathetic, but he said that he could tell I’d been provoked. He understood what had made me lose control and strangle her like that, and he didn’t see why I should spend the rest of my life in jail for one moment of madness.
I was numb with shock at what I’d just done so I let Vaclav take charge. He took Magda’s clothes off, saying she’d be harder to identify that way, and he put her body in a trunk in the attic. He said it might be years before anyone found her and I wasn’t to worry.
Then he asked me to take a suitcase back to London with me and deliver it to a man he knew who’d give me a package in exchange. I’m meeting Vaclav tonight by the London Eye to hand the package over to him. When he phoned me a couple of hours ago he said he’ll have another delivery job for me next week. He said we make a good team and that, if I play my cards right, he’ll make me a rich man.
So my new life’s begun and it turns out that Vaclav’s a really decent bloke – a mate who understands me like nobody’s ever done before. And I’m totally happy to go along with everything he says because, after what he’s done for me, I feel I owe him. I really do.
Snowbird
Kate Rhodes
I quit my job and flew south with the snowbirds when summer ended, the plane from New York packed with retirees hungry for sunshine and sea air.
Key West’s beauty dazzled me right from the start: bougainvillea dripping from every porch, crab boats jostling in the harbour, a tall lighthouse marking the continent’s edge. Weeks passed before I noticed that the road along the quayside was thin as a wire, hovering metres above the ocean, waiting for the first high breaker to wash it away. Street names came from hurricanes that had ripped the coastline apart, the local topography informed by natural disasters. Compared to Manhattan’s brownstones, the wooden cabins looked dangerously insubstantial, yet my old life of rain and responsibility already seemed like ancient history.
By the end of October I had moved into a villa on Louisa Street, just as a heatwave arrived. The building was impractically large for a bachelor, but its stucco columns and old-school elegance were a feast for the eyes. One afternoon I was lazing on my veranda listening to snakebirds hissing overhead, girls’ laughter, followed by a scooter buzzing down Seaport Avenue. The air smelled of jasmine and humidity, hot enough to sear the back of my throat. When I opened my eyes again, a woman was standing in the neighbouring garden, slim back turned, watering an immaculate flowerbed. Her dark hair left the nape of her neck exposed; I waited for a glimpse of her face. My work as a plastic surgeon had trained me to analyse patients’ features with forensic care before making my first incision, the habit too engrained to shift.
When she finally spun round, her face was heart-shaped and delicate. She must have been in her fifties, but looked much younger. To the uninitiated eye, her surgery would have been invisible, just a slight elongation between temple and cheekbone. I thought she seemed familiar, but when she extended her hand across the fence her eyes were cat-like and sea green, giving no sign of recognition.
‘You must be the new neighbour. I’m Nicole Jackson.’
‘Jeff Brubaker, delighted to meet you. Your garden’s stunning, Nicole.’
‘I wish it was mine; I’m just renting for the winter,’ she replied, smiling.
A pale shadow drifted across one of her upstairs windows. ‘Are your family with you?’
‘I’m alone, which suits me fine – I get plenty of reading time.’
Nicole’s voice had a whispering quality, soft and bell-like. She explained that she was widowed; she had flown down from Maine to escape the cold. ‘Do you know the Keys well, Jeff?’
‘Not really, I’ve just moved here. I should buy myself a guidebook and go exploring.’
She gave a thoughtful nod. ‘I’ve vacationed here for years. Would you like a tour some time?’
‘That would be wonderful. When are you free?’
‘Tomorrow, around noon?’
My system was buzzing when I stepped back indoors. It had been a long time since a woman had affected me beyond the aesthetic level. I had dated plenty of pretty career girls over the years, but none had tempted me enough to sacrifice my freedom. I studied myself in the hall mirror; genetic good fortune had granted me a strong jaw and a full head of hair, with only a few streaks of grey. I felt certain the attraction between us had been mutual.
When I visited Nicole’s house the next afternoon no one answered the bell. The screen door hung open, so I stepped inside and called her name. She appeared on the stairs in a chic summer dress, her smile lighting up her face.
‘Come on in, Jeff. The door’s never locked.’
‘Never?’
‘People here are too laidback to steal.’ Her laughter was gentle, not mocking.
We took a rickshaw to the island’s cemetery that afternoon, searching the Garden of Remembrance for writers and movie stars. The dead lay in marble vaults, toes pointing towards Cuba, jasmine twining between the gravestones. Afterwards we ate gumbo prawns and key lime pie in a Cajun restaurant off Flagler Street, hemmed in by pastel-coloured houses with balconies yielding to rust. The island’s beauty and Nicole’s charm made the clock spin backwards, leaving me young and nervous again; she had a way of fixing me with those feline eyes that made it impossible to lie.
‘Ever been married, Jeff?’
‘Work got in the way. Maybe I was a little obsessive.’
I was too daunted to kiss her when we got home, but her hand touched my shoulder as we said goodbye.
We fell into a pattern of meeting daily after that. I was determined to fill my house with beautiful objects, Nicole helping me find glassware, paintings and bespoke furniture from local antique markets. We took boat trips together, shared late suppers. My eyes skimmed other women’s faces but never lingered. Once or twice I’d catch sight of an ex-patient, their names escaping me. The thousands of procedures I’d carried out had blurred into one; few patients had ever been dissatisfied, apart from the ones who expected their youth to be restored, perfectly intact. A businessman had taken out a lawsuit earlier that year, but it had been easier to quit before my fiftieth birthday than bankrupt myself defending my name.
‘You look thoughtful, Jeff,’ Nicole said. ‘Dwelling on the past?’
‘Not at all. The present’s far more appealing.’
‘Take me dancing. That should lift your spirits.’
‘If there’s a place with decent music.’
We ended up in a bar on Mallory Square, the band playing Tijuana jazz, her cheek on my shoulder, the intimacy between us far more intoxicating than the cocktails we drank.
Our walk home was slow and leisurely. I’d almost gathered enough courage to sa
y how I felt, when Nicole suddenly pointed ahead, her eyes startled.
‘Something’s wrong, Jeff.’
Lights burned in every window of my house, the front door gaping. I made Nicole wait on the lawn before checking inside. The place was empty, but paint had been smeared across the furniture, graffiti faces leering from the walls, glass sculptures shattered. The damage upstairs was even worse, my bedroom filled with the sharp reek of red wine, which had been poured over my bed. My visitors must have planned to desecrate, not to steal; they had found my built-in safe, but the lock was intact.
Nicole’s face was a shocked white mask when she finally surveyed the damage. ‘This is terrible, Jeff. Let me call 911.’
Two police officers walked me through the building. The intruders had entered via the garden, then jimmied a downstairs window. One of the lieutenants was so fresh-faced and awkward, he looked like he’d just graduated from high school.
‘We’ll file the report tonight, sir, so you can make a claim.’
Their guarded expressions indicated that they already knew the vandals would never be found. Through the window I saw a neighbour shaking his head blankly at the cops, explaining that he’d seen nothing. Nicole’s hand on my arm felt cool, despite the tropical warmth.
‘Sleep at mine tonight, Jeff, please. Use my guest room.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll stay here. This thing can’t beat me.’
Her offer held no appeal for the simple reason that I wanted to be in her bed, not her spare room. After she’d gone I set about cleaning the place, even though it was past midnight. The attack made no sense. Why would someone destroy my possessions, then leave empty-handed?
By lunchtime the next day my calmness was returning. Nicole’s house was empty, so I searched for her in our favourite haunts. Duval Street heaved with lobster-skinned tourists in Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts. Then, out of nowhere, a woman’s voice whispered in my ear:
Mystery Tour Page 14
