Long Time Coming (27 page)

Back to the break-in – the
alleged
break-in: could Rachel have turned the flat over herself to convince me it had taken place? The carrot was being dangled in front of my nose again. Say yes. Say
she could have skipped out of the hotel room while I was asleep, met Quilligan in the car park by secret prior arrangement and then … cut his throat.

‘Why would she do such a thing?’

‘You tell me, Mr Swan. You tell me.’

‘I can’t. Because she didn’t.’

He was unconvinced. That was obvious. But a contradiction he never directly referred to clearly bothered him. If Ardal Quilligan had brought the much mooted proof to Ostend, where was it now? And why would Rachel want to kill him? Had I seen blood on her clothes? There’d have been a lot of it. ‘Arterial spray carries a long way,’ Bequaert emphasized in his perfectly enunciated, painstaking English. I assured him I hadn’t. If he didn’t believe me, what had become of those blood-stained clothes? They must have searched our room thoroughly.

We were going in circles by now. Rachel’s fingerprints were on the knife. Mine weren’t. I could sell her down the river if I wanted to save myself. It’s what Bequaert was implicitly urging me to do. Eventually, he realized I wasn’t going to. Then, and only then, he played his trump card. There was a record of two telephone calls from our room to the Hotel du Parc. Who did we know who was staying there? The game was up. They were bound to have checked already and learnt another Swan had booked into the Parc.

‘My uncle, Eldritch Swan.’
Sorry, Eldritch
, I silently apologized to him.
I have no choice
.

‘Your uncle accompanied you to Ostend?’

‘No. He went ahead.’

‘Why?’

‘He, er … didn’t want Simon Cardale to feel … outnumbered.’ What kind of an answer was that? It was pitiful.

‘Mr Cardale was surprised when he learnt from us that your name is Stephen Swan. We knew because that was the name the hotel took from your passport. But he thought you were called Peter Fordham. Why the alias?’

‘My uncle and … Sir Miles Linley … were at school together.
They … fell out … years ago. We didn’t want Cardale to … make the connection.’

‘Where is your uncle now?’

‘Isn’t he at the Hotel du Parc?’ Obviously he wasn’t, which gave me some small cheer to offset the prevailing bleakness.

‘He checked out this morning, shortly after you and Miss Banner were detained. A porter at the Hesperis told Inspecteur Leysen later that an elderly Englishman had asked him why there were police in the hotel. The porter told him about the body in the car park. Of course, he did not know who the dead man was.’ No. But Eldritch knew. Right away. ‘So, where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where do you
think
he is?’

I shrugged. ‘Travelling back to England?’

‘Not staying here to help you and Miss Banner?’

‘How could he do that?’

‘By speaking to us, perhaps. By telling us the truth.’

‘That hasn’t done me much good.’

Silence fell. The ticking of the clock became audible. Bequaert said something to the clerk in Dutch, then stood up. ‘Take some more time to think, Mr Swan,’ he said, sighing. Then he walked out.

As far as I could judge, in the absence of my confiscated wristwatch, the second stay in the cell was even longer than my first. The thinking Bequaert wanted me to do didn’t lead where he’d have hoped. The truth, incredible though it might seem, was all he was going to get from me. I had nothing else to offer. I tried to fix Rachel’s face in my mind, to draw some comfort from knowing we weren’t far apart, even though we couldn’t see or speak to each other. And I willed her to do the same.

When they next came for me, I thought I’d be taken back to the interview room. Instead, I was shown into a smaller room, where a man who was surely too showily dressed to be a detective was waiting for me, smoking a cigarette and sipping a cup of coffee. His suit
was gigantically lapelled and gaudily herringboned, paired with a zigzag-patterned tie. He had shoulder-length dark hair and a round, boyish face. He jumped up from his chair as I entered and shook me vigorously by the hand, smiling broadly.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Swan. I’m Bart van Briel. From Oudermans. We’re getting you out of here.’

‘You are?’

‘One or two pesky conditions. They’re keeping your passport, for instance. They have no legal right to, but if you don’t agree they won’t release you, so I said you’d be willing. It’s … better than the alternative, I reckon.’

‘What about Rachel?’

‘Ah, no. Miss Banner they’re holding. At least overnight. Nothing I can do there.’

‘I’m not leaving without her.’

‘You must.’ He lowered his voice, though the policeman on the door wasn’t far enough away to miss even a whisper. ‘You’ll be more use to Miss Banner on the outside. I’ll explain when we’re on the road.’

‘The road to where?’

‘Antwerp, of course.’

Van Briel whisked me through the formalities of my release, most of them conducted in Dutch. All my possessions except my passport were returned to me. One thing made very clear to me in English was that I wasn’t to leave Belgium. I kept asking to see Rachel before I left but that was firmly ruled out. It was van Briel who finally shut me up on the point. ‘Miss Banner’s already been transferred to the local prison on the other side of—’

‘
Prison?
’

‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. She’ll actually be more comfortable than she would be staying here. But if you fuck about like this any more, the
onderzoeksrechter
might change his mind and send you there as well. He’s not like a judge in England. He’s in charge of the whole investigation. So, please, can we just get the hell out?’

He loaded me into his Porsche and we headed for the autoroute.
The loud, fast-moving world was a shock after so many hours of confinement that had felt like days in the living of them. Dusk was falling and I wondered what sort of an evening, and a night to follow, Rachel would have, in a prison cell.

Van Briel seemed to read my thoughts. ‘She’ll be OK, Mr Swan. Detainees who haven’t been charged yet get treated well, I assure you.’

‘And where are you taking me?’ I asked.

‘My place in Antwerp.’ Van Briel grinned. ‘They had to have an address for you before they’d let you go. Without a passport, you couldn’t stay in a hotel anyway. I’ve got a form for you to carry in case you’re stopped and asked for identification. We don’t want you charged with vagrancy while you’re still a murder suspect.’ Another grin. ‘That would look kind of bad.’

‘You think they might release Rachel tomorrow?’

‘No chance. They’ve got the evidence to charge her with murder any time they like. But they can hold her for five days before she has to go before the
raadkamer
for a decision on whether to charge her or not.’

‘But you said—’

‘You weren’t thinking straight, Mr Swan, so I said what I reckoned you wanted to hear.’

‘I want to hear the truth.’

‘So do I.’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means my boss sent me to do the best I could for you and Miss Banner. He chose me because I cut corners and get results.’ A horn blare and a torrent of Dutch obscenities, aimed at a driver who’d just had the temerity to pull out in front of us, provided an instant demonstration of van Briel’s attitude to life in general and quite possibly the law in particular. ‘This is where we are, right? Ardal Quilligan dead.’ He made a slashing gesture across his throat with his forefinger. ‘Murder weapon belongs to Miss Banner and has her fingerprints on it. But not yours. Which is why you’re in this car and she’s back there. Plus your uncle’s missing. And Mr Cardale—’

‘Yes. What about Cardale?’

‘Not my client. Not my business. My understanding is they let him go earlier,
with
his passport. So, probably headed back to London. Your uncle too, maybe?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me what you do know. Everything. The whole lot.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, as much as you can, anyway. My boss told me about our anonymous client, Mr Swan. Not who he is, but what he wants from your uncle. So, I’m in the picture on all that. But last night? Different story. You need to explain to me what happened. Beginning to end. OK?’

I sighed. ‘OK.’

It was dark by the time we reached Antwerp. The city was a formless presence beyond the lights of the autoroute. I was tired and depressed. I couldn’t help feeling I’d deserted Rachel, even though, according to van Briel, she’d been relieved to hear they were going to let me go. She was counting on me to retrieve the situation, of course. I knew that. I only hoped I could.

Our destination, though I was unaware of it, was Zurenborg, the turn-of-the-century residential district famous for its architectural riches, where Isaac Meridor had chosen to live when he was up-and-coming, where he’d continued to live when he’d very much arrived, and where his widow and grandson were still to be found. I realized we were in the area when I glimpsed a road sign reading COGELS-OSYLEI and remembered Eldritch saying the Meridor residence, Zonnestralen, was in the Avenue Cogels-Osy.

‘We’re near Zonnestralen,’ I said, breaking a silence that had glumly ruled since van Briel had given up interrogating me about the events of the previous night.

‘Yes, Mr Swan, we are. In fact, here it is.’

He pulled over to the side of the street and I recognized the house at once from Eldritch’s description: tall, high-windowed and balconied, with serpentine wrought ironwork and Art Nouveau styling. There were few lights showing and an air of neglect hung around it. Good times were just a memory lodged in the masonry.

‘I live a couple of streets away,’ said van Briel. ‘My place looks
very different, but that’s Zurenborg. All kinds of houses. All kinds of people. I love it. I guess Mevrouw Meridor and her grandson must too.’

‘Do you know them?’

‘Never heard of them till my boss called me in this morning. Hey, maybe he chose me just because I live round here. Anyway, it’s lucky for you. You won’t have far to go when you visit.’

He was right, of course. I’d have to go and see Mrs Meridor and her grandson, Rachel’s brother, Joey. I’d have to go and explain to them what had happened to Rachel – and why I was free, but she wasn’t.

‘Leave it till tomorrow, hey? I would if I was you. Now might not be good.’

‘Do they know Rachel’s been arrested?’

‘
Ja
. They know. Leysen let her speak to them on the phone. I spoke to them also. Well, to her brother, anyhow.’

‘How did he sound?’

‘Vague. Like he wasn’t taking it in. Maybe by tomorrow … he’ll be easier to talk to.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

We drove almost literally round the corner to Velodroomstraat. Van Briel lived in a modestly proportioned but starkly uncompromising Art Deco town house wedged between grand if grubby Art Nouveau residences. He stowed the Porsche in the garage that occupied most of the ground floor and took me up to the living quarters, where starkness also prevailed, with black leather furniture and white marble tiling.

‘This thing turns into a bed,’ he said, pointing to a large couch. ‘Sorry, but that’s it.’

‘Well, thanks for taking me in, anyway.’

‘No problem. I’ll put rent on the bill. My girlfriend will be round later. Do you like Indonesian food?’

‘Never tried it.’

‘You’ll like hers, I guarantee. Now, do you want a beer? Or something stronger?’

‘Something stronger.’

‘Me too.’

Vodkas, with lots of ice but very little tonic, were van Briel’s prescription for the occasion. He lit a cigarette and I gladly accepted his offer of one. I must have looked a mess, both physically and psychologically, as I slumped on his couch, vodka in one hand, cigarette in the other. But if he was regretting volunteering to put me up, he didn’t say so.

‘After another one of these,’ he said, taking a deep swallow, ‘a shower and a bowl of Lasiyah’s babi pangang, you’ll feel better, Mr Swan.’

‘Please. Call me Stephen.’

‘OK, Stephen. I’m Bart.’

‘How do Rachel and I stand in law, Bart? You may as well spell out how bad it is.’

‘Well, it is bad. But it could be worse. They don’t have a motive for Miss Banner – Rachel – to kill Ardal Quilligan. Could be that’s why they let you go. To see what you do. Lead them to your uncle, maybe, for starters. Do you know where’s he gone?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Then you don’t have many options. That means I don’t have many either. I’ll go back to Brugge tomorrow. I’ll visit Rachel. Make sure she’s OK. I’ll try to persuade Bequaert to let Rachel out, same conditions as you. But he won’t and even if he did she could still be charged. So could you. You say Sir Miles Linley’s behind it. But tell me, I need to know: can you prove that?’

‘No.’

‘Can your uncle?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘What about Simon Cardale?’

‘He can’t help us. Even if he wants to.’

‘Is there anyone else who can?’

‘Your firm’s anonymous client, maybe.’

‘OK. I’ll talk to my boss about that. But client confidentiality is … hard to break.’

‘Yeah? Well, something’s got to break. That’s for sure.’

‘My job is to stop that being you or Rachel,’ van Briel said, grabbing the vodka bottle and topping up my glass. ‘And, lucky for you, I’m good at my job.’

Lasiyah’s babi pangang failed to work the promised miracle. My dejection didn’t lift. If anything, it deepened, as the reality of the situation seeped into my mind. Rachel was alone and frightened in a prison cell in Bruges, while I sat in Antwerp, washing down sweet-and-sour pork with Trappist beer. The contrast tasted bitter.

Lasiyah herself was a tiny, almond-eyed girl with lustrous waist-length hair and a watchful expression. She didn’t speak more than a word or two of English and something in the way she looked at me implied she wasn’t happy at having my company foisted on her.

Van Briel filled the conversational void with a personalized history of Zurenborg. It had been a toss-up, apparently, whether he became a lawyer or an architect. He’d often regretted choosing the law. Over the years, he’d talked his way inside many of the houses in the area, Zonnestralen sadly not among them, and he gloried in their diversity. He recommended particular examples I should take a look at, as if supposing I was likely to spend my time studying local architecture. He confirmed Cogels-Osylei had originally been Avenue Cogels-Osy, just as Velodroomstraat had once been Rue du Vélodrome. The street names had all been altered from French to Dutch after the War. Not much else had been altered, though. He’d proudly played a part in defeating a scheme hatched a few years back to demolish the houses and chuck up modern hotels and apartment buildings in their place. The memory of this, evidently still raw, led him off into a sarcastic monologue about the probity or otherwise of local politicians.