Live to Tell (39 page)

The visitor strode past Heather and grasped Ben’s outstretched hand. He was several inches taller than Ben and seemed to dominate the room. The bastard, Ben thought, searching the newcomer’s appearance for signs of inferiority, receding hair, a bulging waistline perhaps? There were none.

“Please, please call me Jurgen,” the man said. “I have brought my Curriculum Vitae for you to have a look at.” He held out a computer memory stick. After noticing Ben’s raised eyebrows he opened his briefcase and produced a paper version. He placed both on the table.

“Heather, can you get our visitor some coffee, please, and one for me?” As she turned to go, he smiled at her. “Thanks.”

“Beautiful view,” said Jurgen sitting down, and Ben wondered if he meant the square or the woman.

Ben had worked with Germans before but it was always as part of a NATO task force never one-to-one. He looked the stranger up and down. If they hadn’t the good fortune to escape from Germany in time, my parents might have been victims of
his
grandparents’ persecution during some pogrom or other, he thought. And I’m supposed to behave in a civilised manner. I wonder if he realises I’m a Jew. Perhaps my appearance or my name will… Stop this now! You’re in danger of becoming distracted and unprofessional, he reminded himself.

Ben’s awareness of his heritage helped make his tour of duty in Sarajevo a success. He empathized with the victims of sectarian violence. To him they were members of families not just anonymous statistics. He didn’t care what religion they practised. To Ben they had the right to live in safety. He shuddered involuntarily as he thought of what fate might have befallen his own mother.

“I hope you don’t object to my nomination to serve on your working group,” the other man said, interrupting his thoughts. “That is, because I am a civilian.”

He speaks perfect English, thought Ben, almost as well as I speak German. That’s something to keep up my sleeve for now. He won’t be expecting it. You are making it sound like he’s the enemy, for God’s sake, the inner voice butted in. Get a grip!

He forced a smile. “Of course not. With terrorist threats coming from unexpected quarters, diversity is essential to my group. You speak excellent English, Jurgen. Have you lived here long?”

“Since 1986 on and off, Ben, and as my wife Emma is English, I have no excuses.”

Although the pain from his divorce was receding, two years later Ben still considered himself to be a failure. “Ah, I see,” he replied. Obviously happily married, too. Damn the man, he thought. The door opened and to his relief, Heather reappeared with their coffee.

After Jurgen Bauer left, Ben read his official résumé. Interesting, he thought. He seemed to have lived in Britain most of his adult life. Coming from Stuttgart he was an exchange student at the London School of Economics who was transferred to the Police College at Hendon. Hmm, that’s odd. After that he was retained by his embassy. Not too many details concerning the work he did there other than special ops. Right. It will be interesting when he attends his first Intelligence Exchange meeting, won’t it? See what he’s willing to tell us. So, which list do I put him on, I wonder?

It is April now, ten months exactly from the date when I changed from being a loving daughter, respectable widow, and law-abiding citizen to a renegade. Ten months since that terrible night when I killed the man and dropped his corpse in a ditch, like a sack of garbage. Ten months while I waited for something to happen. Until now, no hand fell on my shoulder and no knock at the door wrecked my fragile peace. Did I dare to hope? But despite feeling less anxious, I was pleased when Dad asked me to meet him for an after work drink. I’d still do anything to avoid going home too early from my office.

So here I was, sitting in the riverside bar at the Royal Festival Hall, in the same seat I last occupied almost three years earlier. In the semi-darkness I was feeling slightly mesmerised by the glittering lights reflected in the idly flowing waters of the River Thames below. This time I was waiting for my father, not he for me. He came up behind me and kissed the side of my head.

“This is very pleasant,” he said. “I seem to have seen so little of you lately, I was beginning to think we’d lost you. Ah, that’s good. You’ve ordered the wine. Good choice.” He smiled. Behind him a string quartet started to play something I almost recognised but couldn’t quite place. How lovely, I thought.

“Well, if I don’t know the sort of wine you like by now, Dad” I said, “I never will.”

I looked up at him brightly and held out my glass. “Cheers. Are they playing Mozart?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. But it is nice, isn’t it?” He squeezed my shoulder and sat down. “Cheers, Dear. You know, you’ve been away in Dorset so much this year, your Mum and I began to think maybe you’d met somebody there.”

I giggled. “Only the solicitor Ray Abraham and his brother Bill,” I replied. “And, of course, all of Bill’s farming friends from across the county. Most of them are middle aged and married, the others elderly and married. Did Stephen tell you what happened? Apparently Bill, who only a month earlier resented my “interference” like hell, as he called it, couldn’t wait to boast about the top firm from London that sorted out his tax problems. At the time I didn’t want to tell you the details because I knew you wouldn’t approve of his attitude. After he spread the word, they were almost queuing at Ray’s door for my services. Only God knows why. But at least Stephen was pleased. Now that the new tax year’s started, they might quieten down.”

“I’m sure I’ve come across far worse, in my time and I’m glad you are appreciated. You deserve it, Dear. I know you’ll think I’m a silly old duffer, but I’m very proud of you. You have brought such joy into our lives, your Mum and I.”

What a strange thing to say, I thought and felt ashamed, knowing what I had done and the secret I kept. I leaned across the table and kissed him. He’s looking a bit tired, I thought. I wonder if he’s thinking about retirement.

“Most of all, I thought I’d lost you when you came back with that new car. It was the first time you’d bought anything like that without my help. She’s truly independent now, I thought,” he said.

I tried to smile. If only he knew the truth. I bought the car solely to give me more anonymity and for several weeks, I parked it in a street some way from home, instead of outside my front door. I reasoned that there, people might not notice me coming and going. I had no idea whether I got a bargain or a dud, and I tried not to care. “Don’t worry, Dad, you haven’t lost me and I haven’t met anyone in Dorset.”

He frowned at me. “It’s okay you know. You’re thirty two now and it’s time you moved your life on.”

Oh, here we go again, I thought. “Please, Dad; I know how old I am. There’s plenty of time. I’ll always need you.”

A brightly lit river boat full of people drinking and laughing glided past us. I took a sip of wine and leaned back in my seat. For some reason I thought about Danny. We had so little time together to do anything like this. He would have liked it here, I knew.

Sitting there listening to the music and thinking about Danny with Dad by my side, I felt sad but reassured. Maybe it was the wine, or just my father’s calm presence but I was sure that if anything awful were going to happen, it would have surely happened already. Ten months had passed and somehow I got away with the perfect crime.

It was completely dark by the time I reached home but Henry was waiting at the entrance of the mews to escort me to my front door. I stroked his head and he trotted along at my side. At the house, he slid around my legs and went in ahead of me, then bounded into the main room and jumped onto the sofa.

I followed him in, stepping over a pile of papers and mail littering the doormat. Amongst the adverts and envelopes was a piece of crumpled card almost torn in two. Bemused, I straightened it out and looked at it. It was a photograph of me. My face was torn in half and I could tell that I was unaware the photograph was being taken. I seemed to be unpacking my new car and in my arms I clutched a large shopping bag and held a bunch of lilies. They were just like the ones on my coffee table. I stared. I had never seen the picture before.

I was working in my regular office all week and had to pretend some kind of normality for which going home formed a part. Two nights later I came home and it seemed darker outside than normal. Henry wasn’t around—I guess he was visiting Mrs Jeffery. Ever the diplomat, he carefully divided his time between us.

I opened the front door and switched on the light. All was quiet and the post on the doormat was re-assuredly normal. I’m going to throw that picture away, I thought. What’s the point of keeping it? There’s never going to be any chance of me going to the police with it, is there? So what’s the point?

I tossed the print into the bin and started to make a pot of coffee. My phone rang and I reached over to take the call. “Hello.”

Apart from white noise in the background I could hear nothing. “Hello,” I said again. “Hello, is anyone there?” There was a long silence—then a click.

I went to bed each night now drenched in fear. I tried to tell myself that the two incidents were unrelated, that I was panicking without reason but I couldn’t push away the feeling of imminent danger.

What on earth should I do? I could no longer spend my life trying to manufacture work for myself all over the country—I had run out of places to go. I just had to face it out and hope that I was wrong. Hope that some satanically stupid coincidence had thrown me into this state of alarm.

The following Monday I worked late again. Since the call, nothing else had happened out of the ordinary but I spent a nervous weekend with my parents. I was beginning to wonder if I imagined the risk level had reached a critical point. It seemed to rise about me like the waters of a rip tide. Now it felt like it was receding.

Reaching my house, I let myself in and Henry ran in with me and sat down in his regular seat. I stroked his face and kissed the top of his head. He settled down and started to purr.

I tried to decide what I wanted to drink. Simple pleasures help keep me calm. I hadn’t had Jasmine tea for a while, so I searched the back of the cupboard where it usually was. The phone rang and I hesitated. What should I do? Don’t be stupid, it could be important, for God’s sake. I picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

A drawn out silence was followed by a low cough. “Did you get the picture, girlie? Did you get it?”

“Who’s that?”

“There’s someone watching your house—someone who’s going to kill you. Careful as you go,” he whispered. I dropped the phone.

The light went out on the handset and I knew I had lost the connection. It felt like every ounce of strength had left my body and I swayed against the work-top clinging to it with my finger nails. Then panic! What if I turned off the lights and hid somewhere in the dark. At least if someone broke in I’d have the advantage of familiarity. No! I couldn’t bear to be in the dark. Oh, God, what can I do?

There was a bang and someone was knocking at the front door. I had to act. Near to the security store on The Harrow Road where I’d bought the close circuit TV system, that same TV system that didn’t seem to be working any more, I’d purchased a set of antique fire-irons. I grabbed the iron poker, raised it above my head and flung open the door. Brandishing the makeshift weapon, I leapt forward and lunged at the figure standing there.