by Mark McKay
The band’s instruments were already on stage, all that was needed was the appearance of their owners. At the appointed hour, three men rose from the table they’d been occupying closest to the stage and took their places – drummer, electric bassist and guitar player. He wondered where Sabine was. At that moment there was a round of polite applause as a woman entered the room, straight from the street he assumed. She lifted her hand briefly in acknowledgement. The sax diva had arrived.
She walked to the stage and faced the audience, smiling. ‘Sorry, I’m a little late.’
Now he had a good chance to observe her. She didn’t know he’d be here tonight, the magazine had simply arranged the interview and made no mention of attending gigs. He was to confirm their meeting tomorrow morning by phone from the hotel. From his perspective it gave him the advantage of sizing her up in advance, without her knowledge.
He watched as the band did some preliminary tuning of their instruments. She was prettier than the photo, he decided. Dressed quite casually in jeans, boots, and white cotton blouse, she looked poised and relaxed as she exchanged a few words with the guitarist. The smile had that same element of mischief that he’d noticed in the photo.
Then they launched into their first number, a slow ballad that alternated the melody between guitar and saxophone. She played with a deep rich tone that filled the room, and he leaned back in his chair as the bittersweet tonality of the piece caressed his senses. If this was modern jazz, he was fast becoming a fan. He had a moment of alarm when he realised he might need to discuss this music with her tomorrow afternoon, and he didn’t even know if this piece was a standard or an original composition. To hell with it, he thought. The die is cast, and the worst that could happen is that she would see him for the fraud he undoubtedly was, and he would slink back to Frankfurt a chastened man. Right now, he would enjoy himself.
They stopped for a break an hour later, leaving the stage and occupying a small table to one side of it. The waitress brought them a tray of drinks, and various members of the audience wandered over to exchange pleasantries. The couple he was sitting with, Gerhardt and Kristina, asked him to save their places while they went to have a word.
‘We’ve been following her progress for many years,’ announced Kristina. ‘Back in a minute.’
Harry ordered another beer. While he waited he cast his glance around the room, checking out the clientele. There was an even mix of old and young. The groups of twenty-something men scattered throughout were casually dressed and clean shaven, with mostly shortish hair. Their girlfriends looked scrubbed and smart. Probably a lot of students, as this was a university town. In contrast, everyone over 45 of both sexes seemed underdressed and undergroomed – all beards, longish hair, the odd corduroy jacket and even a few colourful, ankle-length, hippyish dresses in evidence. He grinned to himself. An eclectic mix, to say the least.
He returned his attention to Gerhardt and Kristina, who had now found Sabine. As there was nowhere else to sit at her table, Sabine had stood up to chat, and he had a good view of the three of them. Kristina was doing most of the talking. Suddenly she gesticulated towards the back of the room, looking directly at him. Sabine followed her gaze, and their eyes met. He swore inwardly, but nodded and smiled.
She smiled back for a moment, then, as he watched, he saw the smile replaced with surprise, quickly followed by perplexity. It was all over in a split second and then she turned away. He thought he’d imagined the whole thing, but as Gerhardt and Kristina made their way back she gave him another thoughtful look, before returning to her own table. He was as perplexed as she appeared to be.
The incident left him with a vague sense of unease, which he tried to ignore for the rest of the gig. The pace picked up for the second set, with a couple of frenetic solos that saw her playing phrases of harmonics that sent the audience into rapturous bursts of applause. The energy levels in the cellar went up a notch. The drummer rode on the buzz and contributed a five minute solo that pushed it up again. To bring everyone back to earth they finished the evening with something sedate and bluesey, the guitarist leading. Harry had thoroughly enjoyed it from start to finish.
He got up to leave, and threaded his way through the tables towards the door.There were a few people on the way out, but most of them seemed in no hurry to go anywhere; they were talking and drinking. Then suddenly she was in front of him.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He tried to look unconcerned. ‘Hello. You’re very good, I enjoyed it a lot.’
‘Thank you.’ They were close, and he became aware of what he thought of later as a still and serene quality about her. It was charismatic and a little unsettling. He extended his hand.
‘Harry Ellis. I’m interviewing you tomorrow. Just thought I’d catch you in advance. I was going to call you tomorrow morning.’
She shook his hand. The thoughtful look was still there, and she didn’t reply immediately. Then the penny seemed to drop. ‘Of course, from ”Jazz Europe.” That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘I thought I knew you from somewhere. But now I realise it was the photo of you that the magazine sent.’ Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘You should have told me you were coming tonight, we could have met up earlier.’
He felt an inexplicable surge of relief. ‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry if I alarmed you. Do you have time for a drink right now?’
‘Unfortunately not, but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. You have my address don’t you? Is 2pm ok?’
‘Perfect. Talk to you soon.’ He made for the exit. On the way out he turned to get a last glimpse of her. She was looking right back at him with that thoughtful expression again. Then she smiled, raised her hand in farewell, and turned away.
The following afternoon was dry, bright, and cold. He decided to walk to Sabine’s apartment; it was only 15 minutes away from the hotel. He set off down Rohrbacher Strasse, past a petrol station and a cemetery, then turned left. Another left found him in Panorama Strasse, which climbed steeply into the Heidelberg hills. He arrived at her apartment block slightly out of breath, thinking a taxi might have been the smarter option. He rang the bell and waited.
She opened the door and ushered him in. She was on the top storey of a two-storey block, and as he walked into the living room he saw that Panorama Strasse lived up to its name. There was an unobstructed view of the town for miles. Not of the Old Town or castle, which lay behind them, but of a sprawling carpet of houses, schools, and shops, and one large area nearby that took his interest, which consisted of rows of grey institutional-like buildings, and a number of flagpoles flying the US flag.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘US Army barracks. They’re still here. For our protection of course. There’s a bigger one in Mannheim.’
‘That one looks big enough. Great view from here.’
‘Yes, I’m lucky to have this place. Let me get you a coffee.’
She disappeared into the kitchen. Harry looked around. The room was comfortably furnished and doubled as a dining area. Sabine’s laptop was perched on the dining table. There were two saxophones on their stands in one corner, and some photos and pictures on one wall. One photo showed Sabine with an older, bearded black man brandishing a saxophone of his own. The pictures consisted of what he thought looked like a Picasso print of a man and a guitar, and a large landscape of a lake surrounded by cloud-covered mountains, which could have been anywhere, but looked to him to be reminiscent of the South Island of New Zealand. A well stocked bookcase occupied the opposite wall. He stood inspecting the books, and wondered where she kept her letters.
Sabine reappeared, two cups of coffee in hand. ‘Some of them are in English,’ she remarked, nodding at the books. ‘But your German is very good. Where did you learn?’
‘At Uni. It was a long time ago. How’s your English? It would be good if we could speak English for the interview. I brought a tape recorder with me.’
‘That’s fine,�
�� she replied. ‘Sit with me on the sofa and ask your questions.’
He sat, perusing the list. It was drawn up on a chronological basis – when had she first picked up the saxophone, how had her career unfolded, who were her influences? It was designed to let her do all the talking, and for him to simply record the answers without discussing things he knew little about. It worked well enough. He got through the early stages of her love affair with the instrument and then asked her when she first started playing professionally.
‘Professionally? The first time I got paid was in Ireland actually. I was 20 and spent a year there visiting my relations and working. Nursing mostly. But I played some nights in Dublin and we were paid for that. Do you know Ireland?’
He decided to varnish the truth a little. ‘I visited once, but no, not really. How was your time there?’
She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Nothing to tell. I didn’t even get out of Dublin. But I enjoyed being there. It made a change from Germany for me back then.’
‘So you didn’t make any lasting connections while you were there?’
She looked at him sharply. ‘Is that a pre-prepared question?’
‘Sorry, no. Just curious. You were a young single woman. I’m just being nosey.’
She looked at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. ‘I met one or two people. Nothing worth mentioning though.’
Pretty much as he’d expected. Perhaps he should just ask her if the name O’Reilly meant anything to her. That would spice things up a little. He restrained himself, and continued with the prepared format. They covered her rise in the German pantheon of jazz musicians, and he asked what her aspirations for the future might entail.
‘I don’t do this for the money, I just love playing. I’m hardly known outside of Europe, and I’m not bothered about fame and fortune. If it happens I won’t complain of course.’ She gave a short ironical laugh. ‘Jazz musicians are like painters, no one appreciates them until they’re long dead.’
‘Maybe you’ll be the exception to the rule. When’s your next gig?’
‘Munich, next Wednesday. You should come.’
‘I will if I can make it. I think we’re done now. This will appear in next month’s issue. Is there a photo we can use?’
She smiled that mischievous smile. ‘You didn’t bring a camera? I have a photo I give to people sometimes. You can scan it. I’ll just go and get one for you.’
Harry turned off the recorder and prepared to leave. Sabine returned from wherever she’d gone with a black and white image of herself. She was sitting on a chair in some club with the sax around her neck, looking at the camera with a steady gaze and just the hint of a smile on her lips.
‘I like it,’ he said. ‘Captures you quite well. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She walked him to the door. ‘Will there be any follow-up questions?’
He paused in the act of putting on his coat. ‘Follow-up? I don’t think so.’ He thought he detected a hint of a challenge in her eyes, and reconsidered. ‘Actually, there may well be follow-up questions. Can I call you after Munich? I don’t think I’ll be free on Wednesday, so perhaps I can buy you dinner instead.’
‘Yes, I’d like that. And then I can ask all the questions. Deal?’
He cursed himself inwardly. This was probably not a good idea. But he heard himself answering despite that. ‘Deal. This is your town, so you can pick the restaurant. See you soon then.’
After she’d shut the door he took a few moments to scrutinise the lock and memorise the maker’s name. Once Jack Hudson had that information he would courier a skeleton key post haste, and Harry could return next Wednesday to visit the apartment undisturbed. He felt a pang of guilt at what he was doing. But as he descended Panorama Strasse he knew he wanted to find out what had happened to O’Reilly as much as Jack did. If the answer was inside that apartment, then guilt was a price well worth paying for the deception involved. And Sabine would be none the wiser. Armed with this rationale, he sauntered back past the cemetery and into town. Everything would be just fine.
The key arrived at the Frankfurt office the following Monday. He now had everything he needed for Wednesday night. He had a small digital camera, and all he needed to do with the CDs was turn on Sabine’s laptop and slot one into the drive. According to Jack one should be enough, but if he needed both he’d see a message telling him to load the second one. The pre-loaded software would do the rest, effectively cloning the contents of her hard drive.
He’d told his project leader in Frankfurt that his visits to Heidelberg were part of a brief given to him by the London office. The bank had targeted a private client there, with whom he was discussing the pros and cons of investing his considerable wealth. For reasons of confidentiality he couldn’t identify the client either. As long as nobody talked to Gina in London that story should hold up. And after this week his ‘client’ would regrettably decline the opportunity, and Harry would have no further need to be out of the office.
He took the train late Wednesday afternoon, and at 6pm he was back once more at Heidelberg Central Station. It was a little early in his estimation to be carrying out a burglary, so he took a tram into Bismarckplatz. He would eat first and then, when it was completely dark around 8pm, he could walk to the apartment. In and out, then back to Frankfurt with no taxis or hotel stays to mark his presence. The meal would provide an opportunity to compose himself and calm the nerves, and a couple of glasses of wine should help too. He knew he was about to violate her space, and right now he didn’t like himself too much for doing it.
It was quiet in Panorama Strasse. Sabine’s apartment was in darkness, as was the one below it. The hedge bordering the block offered cover for his approach, but he was exposed on his way up the steps to her front door on the upper level. He paused when he got there and quickly surveyed the area. The nearest neighbouring building was some 20 metres away, and he saw nothing in that direction to concern him. Now, all he had to do was open the door.
The key fitted perfectly, and with a sigh of relief he was inside. Now, he thought, do everything as quickly and efficiently as possible. First the computer. He extracted a pencil torch from his coat and entered the living room. The laptop was as he’d last seen it on the dining room table. He turned it on and inserted the first CD as instructed. Apparently the computer would read the CD before doing anything else, and then the normal boot up sequence would be bypassed, which meant no log in and no password to worry about. Very clever, he hoped it worked. He’d been told to photograph as much of the apartment as possible, and he began to shoot the living room from all angles. No need for flash in the darkness with this camera either, it was equipped with an ultra sensitive lens for all but the most pitch black of conditions. He wasn’t shooting completely blind, there was enough light from the street to assist his aim.
He photographed every room, including the bathroom, which struck him as overkill, but he might as well be thorough. The bedrooms, of which there were two, didn’t seem to offer potential for any correspondence, but there was a study leading off the main bedroom. It was small, but there was enough space for a writing desk and chair, and a small filing cabinet. This room might yield something of interest. He closed the door, and as the room had no window, turned on the light. He began to investigate the contents of the desk drawers, taking care to replace everything as he’d found it. He’d been engaged in this task for a minute or two, his senses on high alert, when his mobile rang.
‘Shit!’ He almost leapt out of the chair. He quickly found his phone and glanced at the incoming number. It was Jack Hudson, who knew exactly where he was right now and what he was doing. Maybe it was a warning. He took the call.
‘Harry, how are you getting on?’
‘Is everything all right, Jack? You do know where I am I assume.’
‘I know where you should be. Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. I don’t want to be here talking to you though, in fact I don’t want to be here one seco
nd more than I need to be. What do you want?’ This unwarranted interruption was not helpful.
‘I won’t keep you long, Harry. Tell me, did your interview reveal anything?’
‘Nothing, as expected.’
‘Ok, then it’s absolutely necessary you get the contents of her computer and anything else you can find. She doesn’t have any suspicions I take it?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I had a bad moment though when I went to her gig last week. She seemed to recognise me from somewhere, but when I told her I was from “Jazz Europe” she realised she knew me from the photo they sent her. Unnerved me a bit.’ There was a silence. ‘You there Jack?’
‘They didn’t send her a photo, Harry.’
‘What?’ His mouth felt suddenly dry.
‘I suggest you finish up as soon as possible and get out of there. Our best bet is her computer, so make sure the transfer finishes. You should get a message to that effect when it does. Call me when you’re safely out. I’m hanging up now.’
Harry turned the phone off, trying not to panic. He concentrated on nothing but his breathing for ten seconds, slowing it down. He hadn’t completed the inspection of the writing desk, but he decided it might be better if he finished up now and got the hell out. He turned out the study light and retraced his steps into the living room.
There was a message on the laptop requesting the insertion of the second disk. He quickly did so then fidgeted impatiently as another five minutes passed. Finally it was done. He extracted it from the machine, which he turned off, and took one last look around. He was pretty sure nothing had been disturbed. Then he quietly left Sabine’s apartment and slipped into the night.
He had plenty of time to think on the train back to Frankfurt. She’d lied to him about the photo, obviously to cover the fact that she did recognise him from somewhere. And the only place that could be was St. James’s hospital in Dublin. He didn’t remember her, and even if she had seen him then, why would she recall it all these years later?
