The Mozart Conspiracy (20 page)

‘I know a guy.’

They drove on for a while. Then Kinski asked, ‘So what’s the story with you and Leigh?’

Ben hesitated. ‘There’s no story.’

‘I can see there is.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I’ve known her for a while. She and I were close once, that’s all.’ He didn’t say anything more.

‘OK, I’ll back off,’ Kinski said. ‘None of my business. I just wanted to say—’

‘What?’

‘That if you and Leigh have something going between you, don’t waste it.’

Ben turned to look at him. The cop’s face was hard as he drove.

‘Just don’t fucking waste it, Ben,’ Kinski said again. ‘Don’t throw something like that away. Make the most of it.’ He was quiet for a minute. His hands gripped the wheel in the darkness. He added in an undertone, ‘I lost my wife.’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Amstetten, Austria

The next morning

Freezing rain was spattering hard on the pavements by the time Ben found the place. It was a plain terraced house in a winding street, ten minutes’ walk from the railway station at Amstetten.

He knocked. Dogs barked inside. He waited a while and knocked again. He heard the sound of someone coming. A figure appeared through a dimpled glass inner door. It opened, and a man stepped into the entrance porch. He unlocked the outer door and stood in the doorway. He was heavy-set, bleary-eyed, with puffy cheeks and straggly grey hair. An odour of cheap cooking and wet dogs arose from the hallway.

‘Herr Meyer?’

‘Ja?
Who are you?’ Meyer peered at Ben suspiciously.

Ben flashed the police ID he’d stolen from Kinski’s pocket. He kept his thumb over most of it. He held it up just long enough for the word POLIZEI to register, then he jerked it away and tried to look as officious as he could. ‘Detective Gunter Fischbaum.’

Meyer nodded slowly. Then his eyes narrowed a little. ‘You’re not Austrian.’

‘I’ve lived abroad,’ Ben said.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Your son, Friedrich.’

‘Fred’s dead,’ Meyer said in a sullen voice.

‘I know,’ Ben replied. ‘I’m sorry. I have a couple of questions.’

‘Fred’s been dead almost a year. He killed himself. What more do you people want to know?’

‘It won’t take long. May I come in?’

Meyer didn’t say anything. Down the hallway, a door opened. A scrawny woman appeared behind Meyer. She looked worried.
‘Was ist
los?’

‘Polizei
,’, Meyer said over his shoulder.

‘May I come in?’ Ben repeated.

‘Is this a criminal investigation?’ Meyer asked. ‘Did my son do anything wrong?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ Ben answered.

‘Then I don’t have to let you in.’

‘No, you don’t. But I’d appreciate it if you did.’

‘No more questions!’ the woman yelled at him. ‘Don’t you think we’ve suffered enough?’

‘Go away,’ Meyer said quietly. ‘We don’t want to talk any more about Fred. Our son is dead. Leave us alone.’

Ben nodded. ‘I understand. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ He turned to go. The rain was hammering down and he felt it trickling coldly across his scalp.

The tickets.
Two opera tickets. One for Fred. Who was the second one for? Oliver? No, that didn’t make sense. Why would Oliver have given him both tickets? He’d have kept his own and given just one to Fred. Two guys going to the opera together wasn’t Oliver’s style anyway. Oliver wouldn’t go out anywhere without a girl, usually a nice one. Maybe it wasn’t Fred’s style either. So who was the other ticket for?

Ben stopped on the bottom step. He turned back to the door. Meyer had half-closed it, watching him with a guarded look.

‘Just one question, then,’ Ben said. ‘One question and I’ll leave you alone. Can you do that?’

Meyer creaked the door an inch wider. ‘What?’

‘Fred had a girlfriend, didn’t he?’

‘What about her?’ Meyer asked. ‘Is she in trouble?’

Ben thought for a moment and then said, ‘She might be, unless I can help her.’

That was his final shot. If Meyer shut the door now, he had nowhere else to go. That worried him.

Meyer stared. There was a long silence. Ben waited. Cold rain dribbled down his neck.

‘We haven’t heard from her lately,’ Meyer said.

‘Where can I find her?’

He took a taxi to the place. He pushed open the door and went inside. The cyber-café was quiet, almost deserted. There was a long stainless-steel counter, with a till and a bubbling espresso machine. Cakes and doughnuts sat in a row behind glass. The place was neat and clean. There were framed movie posters on the walls:
Oceans 13, The Bourne Ultimatum, Pans
Labyrinth, Outcast.
Ben smiled at that one. In the back of the room, a couple of teenagers were giggling over something they were typing up on a computer. Soft music was playing in the background: modern classical, minimalist.

The young woman behind the counter was perched on a stool reading a book. As Ben approached, she laid it down and looked up at him. She was about twenty, twenty-one, plumpish and pleasant-looking. Her auburn hair was tied up neatly on her head under a little white cap. She smiled and spoke in fast German.

Ben didn’t show the police ID this time. ‘I’m looking for Christa Flaig,’ he said.

The young woman raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m a friend of Oliver Llewellyn,’ Ben said. He watched her eyes.

She flinched a little. Looked down. Painful memories flashed behind her face. He was sorry to bring it all back for her.

‘Has this got something to do with Fred?’

He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Can we talk?’

‘Sure, if you like. But I don’t know what you want to talk about.’

‘Can I have a coffee?’

She nodded and served him an espresso, pouring herself one too. ‘So what’s this all about?’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ben.’

‘What do you want to know, Ben?’

‘Were Fred and Oliver friends?’

‘You think there’s something strange about it, don’t you?’

He looked up from his coffee. She was sharp. He made a quick decision to trust her. ‘Yes, I do think that.’

She sighed, a sigh of relief mixed with sadness and bitter anger. Her face was tense. ‘So do I,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought I was the only one who did.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ he said. ‘But I can’t tell you everything. Maybe one day I’ll be able to. Until then, I just need your help. Ten minutes, and I’ll be out of here.’

She nodded. ‘OK, I’ll tell you. They weren’t really friends. They only met a couple of times.’

‘The first time was at a party?’

‘That’s right. Some student party. I wasn’t there. Fred told me he met this good fun English guy, a pianist. Fred was one too.’

‘I know,’ Ben said.

‘Musicians always talk to each other,’ she continued. ‘Fred loved music. It was his language. He told me Oliver loved it too.’

‘He did.’

‘They talked for hours. They got on really well.’

‘You and Fred didn’t live together, did you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I work here full-time. I’m the manager here. Fred had cheap digs in Vienna. We were saving to get married after his graduation from music school.’

‘I’m sorry to be digging this up for you.’

She sniffed and wiped a tear away. ‘No, it’s OK. If something bad happened, people need to know. I need to know.’

‘Can you tell me about the opera tickets?’ Ben asked. ‘Fred had two tickets for
Macbeth.
They were for him and you, weren’t they?’

‘Yes, they were. He was so excited about it. He couldn’t have afforded the tickets himself. He couldn’t wait. He loved Verdi.’ Christa gazed into the middle distance. Her face darkened. ‘Like he would have killed himself. It’s crap. I always said it was a pile of crap. But nobody would listen to me. People thought I was just this hysterical girl with issues, who couldn’t face up to the idea that her man had killed himself. Like I was in denial or something. They told me to see a shrink. And Fred’s parents just accepted it. I mean, how
could
they?’

‘People tend to take the path of least resistance,’ Ben said. ‘It’s easier to believe someone committed suicide than to start looking for a killer.’

‘Are you looking for the killer?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘What’ll you do if you find them?’

He didn’t answer that. ‘Did Oliver give Fred the tickets?’

Christa nodded.

‘Tell me about it,’ Ben said.

‘I don’t know all the details,’ she replied. ‘Fred used to play piano gigs here and there to make a bit of extra cash. Mostly it was bars, restaurants, anywhere with a piano. He gave classical recitals too-he had a little circuit going. He was such a great player, and he had a good reputation. One day he landed this really important gig at a private party, some big house outside the city. It was a real prestigious thing, tuxedo job. Anyway, the night he met Oliver was the week before the gig. He told him about it but Oliver didn’t say much at the time. Well done, congratulations, good luck, all the things one player would say to another if they weren’t jealous.’ She paused. ‘But later that night, hours after the party was over, Fred got a phone call. It was Oliver. He said he’d been thinking about what Fred had said. He’d found out something. Suddenly he was all excited about the gig at the big house.’

Ben listened hard.

Christa went on. ‘He wanted to know everything about it, and he wanted to go with him. He was desperate to get into the place.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. But Fred told him there was no way he could get him an invite. It was very exclusive. Politicians, people like that. Major big-wigs. A lot of security.’

‘I don’t understand why Oliver would have been so keen to meet those kinds of people,’ Ben said. ‘They weren’t his favourite kind.’

‘From what Fred said, it wasn’t the party he was interested in. It was the house itself. He was asking lots of questions about it.’

‘Why was he so interested in the house?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘He kept talking about his research.’

‘He didn’t say more?’

‘If he did, Fred never told me.’

‘Never mind,’ Ben said. ‘Go on.’

‘When Oliver called up late that night, he made Fred a weird offer. He said he could get him a private box for two at his sister’s performance of
Macbeth
at the Vienna State Opera. The last box, the last tickets. Worth a fortune. But there was a condition.’

Ben got it. ‘If Fred agreed to change places with him? Oliver wanted to get in there as the pianist for the night?’

She nodded.

‘And Fred agreed to the deal?’

‘He didn’t really want to give up the date, and the whole idea seemed nuts. But Oliver was totally serious, and the opera tickets were too tempting. Oliver said he’d let him have the gig fee, too. Fred knew Oliver was a good player, that he’d do a good job and wouldn’t spoil his reputation. So he went for it.’

‘And Oliver gave the recital?’

‘You tell me,’ she said. ‘According to the papers, he was somewhere else. Didn’t they say he was at a party and got drunk with some woman, then drowned in a lake?’

‘So the night of the recital was the night Oliver and Fred both died,’ Ben said.

Christa let out a long sigh. ‘Yes, it was.’

‘Where was the recital?’

‘I don’t know where the house is,’ she said. ‘Just that it’s not that far from Vienna. It’s some seriously expensive, fancy place. A real palace. An aristocrat owns it. Old Viennese money, going back centuries.’

‘Do you know who the aristocrat is?’

She nodded. ‘Von Adler. He’s the Count von Adler.’

Chapter Forty

Slovenia

The same day

Clara carefully wrote down the right answer to question ten and folded the exercise jotter inside her maths textbook. Mother Hildegard didn’t have a calculator, but that didn’t matter. Clara’s arithmetic was pretty good.

The child left the schoolbook lying on the desk, slipped down from the hard chair and went off to potter about the nun’s office, looking for something else to do. She looked along the bookshelves at the rows of leather spines. Most of Mother Hildegard’s books were religious and Clara wasn’t too tempted by them. There were a couple of tatty old jigsaw puzzles in the cupboard but Clara had already done them both. Puzzles were for kids, and Clara didn’t think of herself that way. The Pope’s left eye was missing, anyway.

She looked out of the window for a while, watching the mountains in the distance. It was lovely here, and it was a nice holiday, although she couldn’t understand why her daddy couldn’t be with her more of the time. The nuns were kind to her and Leigh was a lot of fun too. But she missed her friends, her school, and most of all she missed her sitter Helga. Helga was like a big sister to her. She wondered whether Daddy would ever marry her, and they could have a real family again.

On the Mother Superior’s desk was an old phone, the only phone in the convent. It was like no other phone she’d ever seen, and it fascinated her. It was heavy and black, with a funny-shaped receiver that sat sideways on top and was connected to the heavy part by a braided cord. But the strangest thing about it was the round dial in the middle, with little holes in it. She knew from watching old movies with her daddy that you were meant to put your finger in the holes and turn the dial. Her fingers went in the holes easily. She wondered whether her daddy’s big stubby fingers would fit.

It was weird to imagine that people used to use this kind of thing all the time. She amused herself dialling 1-2-3-4-5 and watching the dial whirr back a little further each time until it reached the stop.

Then she had a thought. She suddenly wanted to talk to Helga, to tell her about her new friend Leigh, the famous singer who was on CDs and television. She looked around. She could hear singing coming from the chapel. Just a little call, nobody would mind.

She picked up the heavy receiver, remembered the code for Austria and dialled the number. Her face lit up at the sound of her friend’s voice. ‘Helga, it’s me,’ she said.

Leigh sipped a coffee and watched the crackling fire. It was so quiet here. Ben had been gone less than eighteen hours. They’d hardly spoken when he left, and the memory kept playing back in her head. There was a lot she wanted to say to him. She knew she was lying to herself when she tried to tell herself she didn’t still love him. Over the last few days she’d begun to wonder whether she’d ever really stopped. But she’d been selfish with him, and that was the biggest regret she had. She’d initiated the kiss, and then she’d pushed him away. It wasn’t fair to play with his emotions.

She heard the cottage door open, and Clara appeared in the doorway. ‘Hi, can I come in?’ She came and sat on a chair, kicking her feet.

‘What have you been doing today, Clara?’

‘Oh, stuff. Mother Hildegard gave me some maths to do.’ Clara decided not to mention her fifteen-minute call to Helga. ‘Then I helped Sister Agnes feed the piglets and collect the eggs. I want one.’

‘You want an egg?’

‘No, a piglet. But I don’t think piglets are allowed in Vienna.’

‘They don’t stay so small and cute for long, you know. You’d soon have a great big smelly pig living in your house.’

Clara grinned. ‘I already have one,’ she said. ‘My daddy.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Clara.’ But Leigh couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Leigh?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Can I have a look at your gold locket?’

‘Yes, of course you can.’ Leigh reached behind her neck and undid the slim chain. The shiny oyster-shaped locket dangled from her fingers as she handed it to the child.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Clara turned it over in her hand, admiring the delicate engraving of Leigh’s initials. She found a little catch on the side and pressed it, and the halves of the oyster sprang open with a click. Set into the two halves, facing each other, were tiny miniature photographic portraits of three people. ‘Who are they?’ she asked.

Leigh leaned across and pointed. ‘These two people here together on this side are my parents,’ she said.

‘Your mummy’s pretty,’ Clara said. She studied the other picture. ‘The man on the other side looks like you.’

She nodded. ‘My brother, Oliver.’

‘Where do they live?’

‘In heaven,’ Leigh replied, after a pause.

Clara understood. ‘All of them?’

‘Yes, all of them. I’m the last one left of the whole family.’

‘My mummy’s up in heaven too. Do you think maybe she knows your brother and your mummy and daddy?’

Leigh smiled sadly at a child’s notion of death. ‘I’m sure they probably do all know each other very well.’

‘What do you think people do in heaven?’

‘They play, and have fun, I suppose.’

‘That’s not so bad. I like playing.’

‘You want to play now?’

Clara nodded enthusiastically. ‘Let’s go out and play the find game Ben taught me and Max.’

Leigh was glad of the excuse to quit moping and get out of the cottage. She slipped on a pair of boots and a quilted jacket, and they walked out into the snow. The sky was the clearest blue, and the sun was sparkling off the mountains. They walked through the farmyard, towards the main convent buildings. Max loved the snow and was cavorting about in it, sending up a fine spray. From the little stone chapel Leigh could hear the nuns doing their choir practice. She knew the piece they were singing, one of Palestrina’s choral chants.

‘You hide first,’ Clara said. ‘Let’s see if Maxy remembers the game.’

Leigh ran around the corner of a woodshed and squatted down behind an ornamental shrub. She heard Clara finish counting to ten and saying, ‘Max, go find Leigh! Find Leigh!’ Max instantly responded and came bounding over to her. He licked her face and she patted his big head.

Over the sweet, harmonious sound of the nuns’ singing came the steady thud of helicopter blades. Leigh looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. There were two of them, high over the convent. They seemed to be moving slowly, hovering. ‘Someone must have got into trouble in the mountains,’ she said. But as the choppers grew nearer, the thump of their rotors filling the air, she could see they didn’t look like mountain rescue aircraft. They were black, unmarked. What did they want?

Clara followed her gaze for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anyway, now it’s my turn to hide. You hold Maxy by his collar and count to twenty.’

The child ran off. Leigh was still watching the two black helicopters as she counted.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven
…
They were circling, descending, drowning out the nuns’ choir.

They were coming awfully close.

Leigh shivered. She didn’t like it.
Fourteen, fifteen
,
sixteen…

Enough.
She stopped counting. ‘Clara!’ she called out. ‘Come back!’

Clara didn’t hear, and kept running. The dog was pulling hard against Leigh’s grip, yearning to be set free. The helicopters were now only a hundred feet off the ground and the sound was deafening. They vanished from view behind the convent roofs. They were landing.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Leigh let go of Max’s collar, and the big dog streaked across the snow towards where Clara had just disappeared round the side of one of the buildings.

Clara ran on, counting as she went. Any minute now, Maxy was going to come galloping after her. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was there.

And gasped as she collided with something hard. She fell backwards into the snow.

A tall man she’d never seen before was looking down at her. His eyes were cold, and he wasn’t smiling.