Death in Focus

by Anne Perry

  “We?” She leaned closer, cradling him in her arms. She knew tears were running down her face, but it hardly mattered. She knew Roger Cordell from years ago, but there was no time to say that.

  “The Brits,” he said so quietly she could only read his lips. “MI6. Please…you must get to Berlin and tell Cordell. He’ll…he’ll know what to…do…” He grasped Elena’s hand and pushed a folded piece of paper into it.

  “Ian!” she said fiercely. “No! Please…” But she knew it was too late. His eyes were closed, there was blood thick on his body, and his face was ashen. There was not even a flutter of breath.

  Elena held him closer, as if she could force her own strength of life into him. She knew there was no point, but she could not let go. “I will,” she whispered. “I will…I promise.”

  Then she could not hold back the agony. She clung to him and sobbed uncontrollably.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Elena kneeled on the floor, holding Ian’s body as closely as she could, unaware of time. It could have been minutes, or only seconds, before she heard the sound behind her, and even then she did not turn.

  “Oh God! What happened?” A man’s voice.

  She heard the compartment door shut and felt a strong grip on her shoulder. Gently, but very firmly, someone took her hands, first one, then the other, and pulled them away from Ian, then slowly and with great effort drew her to her feet.

  Nearly blind with tears, she turned and saw Walter Mann. His face was white and he looked shattered, although he was more composed than she was. But then, he had not loved Ian, and she knew now that she had.

  He looked her up and down, and she realized for the first time that she was covered in blood: Her hands were scarlet and blood was all down the front of her dress. Ian’s blood.

  She swayed, dizzy and sick.

  Walter looked past her to the body on the floor, then back at her. “What happened?” he said again, his voice scratchy, as if he could not control it.

  “He’s…” She, too, found words too difficult. Her mind was numb, out of control.

  “We must get out of here,” he insisted with more strength. “There’s nothing you can do to help him now, and you don’t want to get caught by the railway police. They could keep you for hours, maybe more. I suppose you don’t know who did this?”

  Her thoughts were confused. “Did this? No…no…who would…?” She had no idea what else to say. Her mind would not function.

  “Then they’ll blame you,” he pointed out. “You were with him. They’ll think you have to know.” He looked at her blood-soaked dress. “When the corridor’s clear, we’ll get you to the lavatory. You must wash as much of that blood off as you can. You’ll be freezing cold, I know, but no one will stop you. Take your whole dress off and put it in the basin. Get all the blood out, or as much as you possibly can. There’ll be soap in there. Then wring it out and put the dress back on. Where’s your coat?”

  “What?” She was confused. What did it matter?

  “Where’s your coat? Is it in the baggage rack in your own compartment?”

  “No…I…no, it’s on the seat next to me. There was no one else in the compartment.”

  “Good. I’ll go and get it. I’ll be in the corridor by the lavatory. We must get out of here, pull the blind down, and close the door. It’s not far to the next station. We’ll get off there and catch another train. Just…just get rid of that blood. And don’t speak to anyone. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him.

  “Elena! Do you understand? There’s nothing you can do to help him now. And there’s someone on this train who did that to him! You’ve got to escape, or you could be next! You’re a witness.”

  His voice was insistent. It helped her to be calmer now, rational. She must keep her promise to Ian. That was the only thing left. She must get control of herself, stop behaving like a child. Her legs felt shaky and she was cold all the way through, but that was of no consequence. All that mattered was she had made a promise to Ian to finish for him what he could not.

  “Elena!”

  Walter’s voice was sharper. She could hear the fear in it now, too. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, I’ll go and wash. Please see if the lavatory is vacant so I can use it. I can hardly stand in the corridor waiting for someone to come out.”

  He gave a tight, painful little smile. “No,” he agreed. “Wait here. Close the door behind me and don’t answer it to anyone else. Do you understand?”

  “Yes…yes, of course. Be quick.” It was a plea, not an order.

  He touched her on the arm gently, but he did not speak again. He went out and closed the door hard behind him, so she heard the latch click. Then she was alone. The paper was still clutched in her hand. She opened it and found the name and room number of a hotel in Berlin.

  She could not bear to look at Ian’s body. She was horrified by it, and yet she still wanted to hold him in her arms, as if he could feel her there and know he was not alone.

  Were the dead any more alone than the living? Her parents went to church most Sundays. But then, her father was a British diplomat, a very senior one. It was expected of him. They had never discussed what he really believed; it was one of the many things they did not talk about. Was that because he was so sure? Or because he had no belief at all? Or was religion just something proper Englishmen did not speak about? Too private? Too important?

  Or of no importance at all?

  Her mother was different. But then, Americans were more open about such things, even well-bred New Englanders like Katherine. But what did that mean, beyond that she wanted to believe? Perhaps “needed to” would be more accurate.

  Her grandfather did not believe in a life after death. Elena knew that. Any kind of organized religion met with his quiet anger for all the judgment it exercised, without right and far too often, he believed, without kindness. Kindness was what he believed in. She knew that from observing him. Kindness, and tolerance of difference, understanding that so many acts of bad behavior were caused by ignorance and pain rather than a decision to be wicked. But what comfort was that when you were torn apart by the anguish of loss, and all you needed to believe was that it was not forever? That there was a God who would take care of those who had slipped beyond your grasp, beyond your heart. Like Mike. And now like Ian.

  There was a sharp rap on the compartment door. She reached out to open it, then froze. What if it was not Walter? What if it was another passenger looking for a space to sit? Or a ticket inspector?

  She had to clear her throat to make her voice audible. “Who is it?”

  “Walter. Open the door, it’s all clear.”

  She undid the latch and threw it back so hard it wrenched her shoulder. Walter was standing in the corridor, the darkness in the windows beyond reflecting him like a mirror.

  “Come on,” he said urgently. “It’s vacant now. We must be quick.” He had her coat across his arm and her smallest case in his hand. “Come on!” he said again, even more sharply.

  She slipped out and slammed the door behind her. There was no time for goodbyes or looking back. She went past Walter, along the corridor and into the lavatory, and locked the door. It was a tiny cubicle barely large enough for its purpose, and it was awkward to undo her dress and take it off over her head, but there was no alternative. Thank goodness, the hot tap actually did run hot water, but there was no soap. First, she washed herself. There was blood on her hands and arms, and it had soaked through her dress in places onto her body. She used a handkerchief to scrub it off the best she could. It took three bowls of water, then a fourth, to wash her dress beyond the first deep, wet stains. It would not all come out. Perhaps it never would. But then, she would never want to wear it again anyway, once she had another! She should have asked Walter to open her case and find her a different one, but he couldn’t be caug
ht doing it, or that would be the end of both of them. They could hardly explain!

  She started scrubbing hard and her mind wandered. The bloodstains were coming out, but it was not good enough yet.

  She must be quick. Someone else might want the lavatory. And when they reached the station they must get off. She could already feel the train slowing down.

  She wrung out her dress, then, shaking with cold, slid the wet fabric over her shoulders. It stuck to her like icy fingers and she almost tore it, pulling it down. It must look dreadful, but anything was better than the blood.

  For a moment, panic almost suffocated her. She took a few slow, deep breaths and opened the door. She saw Walter only a yard or two away. He had her coat over his arm, and as soon as she was out of the door, he held it up and she slipped her arms into it, then fastened it in front. Fortunately, it was a full-length coat, falling a few inches past her knees, like her dress when it was dry, not clinging to her like a freezing shroud.

  The train was slowing down very noticeably now. She had her handbag with her—she would not have left the compartment without it—but what about her other cases? Above all, her camera!

  “I must—” she started, turning to go back.

  He caught her arm, holding it hard. “No! We can’t go back there. As soon as the train stops we must go—quickly.”

  “I’ve got to get my cases,” she insisted.

  He did not ease his grip. “Elena! We can’t carry more than one each. We will have to hurry. Maybe run.”

  “But my camera. I can’t leave it!”

  “I know. The Leica. I put it into this case, and some clothes back into the big one. I’m sorry, but we can’t worry about what’s lost now. You’ve got your camera and your passport, and some money. Above all, you’ve got your life. So far, the police don’t know anything about you, but they will. People will remember you, and that you were with Newton. You’re a noticeable woman.” He kept his voice low, perhaps trying to keep the anger out of it, but the fear was unmistakable.

  “I’m sorry…” She was. After all, he did not need to have done anything to help her. He did not have to believe that she had not somehow killed Ian herself! He did not ask for gratitude, but he deserved at least compliance, and some sense of preservation for herself, because she was now implicating him, too. Who knew what the police might make of her with Ian, and now with Walter? And who could blame them?

  She would have waited and explained, even if it had taken days, if she did not have a far more important promise to keep. And she could not help the police. She had no idea who had killed Ian, and she realized now she had not even searched to see if he had been robbed. Maybe the murderer was the same person who had killed the man in the hotel cupboard?

  “Come on,” Walter said more gently. “We need to be the first off the train, and be as far away from it as possible, before anyone discovers there’s been a death. Just take your handbag. I’ll carry the cases. Keep your head down, don’t look at anyone. Behave as if we’re hurrying to get the next train to…wherever. We need to know, so we make for the right platform. There won’t be a lot of choice. God knows where we are, but we can’t stay on this train.”

  “Berlin,” she said without hesitation. “I need to get to Berlin. I’ve…I’ve got some work to do there. It’s important.” Did that sound cold-blooded? Work? When Ian had just died? But she could not explain.

  “It’s even more important that we get off the platform and away from this train,” he reminded her. “But don’t worry. I’ve done a lot of traveling in this area. We’ll find a train, but it would be better if we got the very first one out of here, even if we only go one stop, then change. It’s—”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “I understand.”

  The train jolted and slowed once more.

  Elena nearly lost her balance and was grateful for Walter’s arm around her. She would draw attention to herself if she collapsed in the doorway. She wanted to be invisible. In fact, she wanted to wake up and discover this had all been some frightful nightmare, and she was so cold only because she had lost the cover in bed. Finding Ian bleeding to death, the horror, the grief, and now the wet clothing sticking to her—it would all vanish.

  But of course, it wouldn’t: It was real. It must be faced, and dealt with, like the deaths of Mike and Paul. Life goes on, with or without you, and that would never change.

  A woman bumped into her and apologized in Italian. Elena could not react quickly enough to reply. Walter said something, but she did not hear the words.

  She was behaving badly. Ian deserved better than this. She forced herself to straighten up. No one else knew her dress was cold, sodden wet, still stained with Ian’s lifeblood. She must not make anyone suspicious.

  The train jolted again. They were at the end of a platform, she saw the name of the station, but it went by too rapidly to read it. They were somewhere east of Paris, that was all she knew. They had to be, because Paris was the terminus.

  The corridor was filling with people. At least half a dozen seemed to want to get off here. Why? Where were they? Please God, no one would open the door to where Ian was. She felt such a traitor leaving him there alone, on the floor, as if nobody cared. She must force it out of her mind, though it was unbearable, a pain that tore her apart.

  Was it any worse or more anonymous than a battlefield?

  Yes. He lay on the floor of a railway carriage—alone—and yet his death was intensely personal: Someone had murdered him.

  There was nothing she could do about it, except pull herself together and fulfill the promise she had made him.

  The train jerked to a stop. Immediately, Walter opened the door and stepped out onto the platform. Then he put down the cases, swung around, and held out his arm to take Elena’s hand and steady her. It was a steep drop, but he took her weight for a moment; then as she straightened her shoulders and picked up her bag, he lifted the cases and started forward along the platform. It was the still of the night. She had very little idea of the time, but there were sufficient lights to see where they were going, and that there were a dozen or so other people getting on or off the train. Far ahead of them, the engine blew steam into the air, catching the light in a pale silver fog.

  Walter moved quickly, crossing to the far side of the platform, away from the carriage doors and anyone else getting off.

  Elena ran a couple of steps to keep level with him, then walked to his left so he sheltered her from sight. She was more noticeable than he, with his coat collar turned up and hat brim down a little. It was May, very nearly summer, but still at this hour most men would have a coat, especially traveling north. He could have been anyone. But with her well-cut green coat and fair hair, with its heavy wave, she would be far more easily recalled.

  He had said she was memorable—her face. Was that a compliment, normally? Right now she would rather be one of those English girls of no particular coloring or feature who one saw and instantly forgot, just like ten thousand others.

  “I’m going to the other platform,” he said, “where the light’s blinking. Looks as if there’s a train due in any moment.”

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. Right now, anywhere will do.”

  “I’ve got to get to Berlin!”

  “We’ve got to get anywhere that’s away from here,” he corrected her bleakly. “We can get off at the next stop.” He did not ask why she was going to Berlin, when they had been on a train to Paris. He probably did not care. Why should he?

  She ought to thank him properly. She would, later, when she had more breath to spare and was not so busy hurrying along the ill-kept platform, with its cracked asphalt and occasional broken lights. At least hurrying like this made her a little warmer, although the wet skirt of her dress flapped around her legs like icicles.

  They came to the steps of
a rickety bridge over the track and climbed them as fast as they could. Behind them the whistle blew on the train they had left. Doors clanged shut. Was it possible no one had found Ian yet?

  Elena was relieved, but at the same time felt an ache of loneliness tightening around her. It was frightening that anyone could die so terribly, and nobody even notice. She felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal at having to leave him.

  Walter was going faster than she was able to keep up with. He must have realized it, because he slowed a little. There was hardly anyone around, no one else on the flight of steps going down.

  At the bottom, the sign was lit, but there was no train. Why were railway platforms so windy? Was hell like this? A cold railway platform in the dark, with a train that never came? The station suddenly seemed terribly silent.

  On the far side of the track, she could see an official of some sort. The one functioning light cast a gleam on the rim of his cap. He was smoking a cigarette, the thin trail wafting upward and the end glowing occasionally as he drew the nicotine into his lungs.

  Walter went to look at a timetable posted up on a board, then returned to wait beside Elena.

  She stood still, silent and growing colder. She lost track of time. Perhaps it was really only minutes, but then there was a movement at the far northern end of the track, a distant clatter, and the man on the farther platform dropped his cigarette and stepped on the butt.

  “Are we on the right side?” Elena said urgently.

  “It’s single track,” Walter replied reassuringly. “It’s just a local train. We’ll get off at the next big station. It’s the second one along. We might have to wait half an hour or so, but from there we can catch a train to Munich, and from Munich to Berlin will be no difficulty.”

  “We? Are you coming?” She realized how much she wanted him to. Her mind was not capable of thinking clearly. Grief engulfed her.