The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) (40 page)

He was shivering, but not just with cold. In fact, suddenly the cold didn't seem so bad after all.

The wind began to moan about the house, as if it were a lover, moaning in a deathly cold passion.

He decided to wait in the house until morning.

*

The tavern didn't have a name. Nor did it have much paint on the woodwork, a carpet on the floor or a welcoming atmosphere. When they walked into the single public room, silence didn't quite fall but there was a definite diminuendo, and they had the feeling that more than a few pairs of eyes fell upon them. It was cloudy with smoke, and old brown stains adorned every flat surface including the floor. There were perhaps twenty people in there, all men, of all ages. Behind the bar was a shortish man, completely hairless, rather shabby in appearance, and wearing an eyepatch. Around his neck was a silver chain, from which hung a curious, shrivelled and yellow object that proximity showed to be a finger.

Eisenmenger felt it incumbent upon him to take the lead.

"Mr … Marble?"

The man behind the bar nodded but didn't actually articulate. Eisenmenger found himself wondering what was wrong with these people. Why did they never use their God-given gift of language?

"Could you put us up for a few nights?"

He eyed them. He was cleaning a glass and Helena noticed that his left forefinger ended rather abruptly. There followed a period of silence between them in which their host presumably considered the prudence of taking in people such as they. Then, another nod. He put down the glass, gestured with his head to a door to their left in the comer of the room, and turned away from them.

"Sam!"

The unexpectedness of this bellow colluded with its loudness to startle them both. From a doorway at the back of the bar a young girl of perhaps twenty came into the bar. "Look after the bar."

She nodded meekly and Marble allowed them through to the back of the tavern. He led them up a flight of stairs that creaked noisily, thence onto a small landing above which a single lightbulb, weak and feeble, cast shadows far deeper than the dark.

Their room was off this landing, and contained a high double bed. A wardrobe whose doors didn't quite close, two wooden chairs and a dressing table.

"Bathroom's next door, on the left." Having concluded the sales pitch he said, "Twenty a night, in advance."

"Breakfast?"

"Fiver extra. Each."

It was Eisenmenger's turn to pay. He gave Marble fifty pounds, notes that were received with relish. As if this bestowed on them some legitimacy, he seemed to relax slightly, even volunteering the information that, "You can 'ave tea in the morning, if you like."

The possibility that the delightful Mr Marble might appear before their bed in the morning, even if he were bearing a tray of tea things, was alarming for both of them. They declined.

He left them and as the door closed behind him they stood staring at each other before bursting into stifled laughter. They held each other, exhausted, glad and not glad to be there. Too tired to wash, they undressed, checked the bed for unwanted occupants, and climbed in.

"What have we done?" asked Helena.

"Probably nothing useful, but we've got to try."

"Did you see his finger?"

Eisenmenger sighed. "The psychology must be fascinating. I wonder where he keeps the eyeball."

The room was cold and draughty and outside the storm was increasing. They held each other tight for warmth and for comfort. Eisenmenger fell asleep with Helena's perfume softly touching him.

*

Beverley drove through the night, wondering why she had a feeling of sick dread settling in her stomach.

*

Eisenmenger came slowly out of sleep, bathed in a feeling of happy tranquillity. It was as if he were back in a perfect childhood that he had never known — that no one had ever known — a world where negative emotion was gone, where there was bright illumination over all things physical and spiritual.

Contentment.

And gradually this dreamlike state came to encompass the fact that Helena was beside him, warm, smooth, asleep. She was positioned on her side facing towards him, her right arm stretched towards him, the hand resting on his shoulder. Her mouth was slightly open, the regular whiteness of her teeth slightly exposed. He felt an intense feeling of love that bordered on incapacitating.

And then reality precipitated around him, its sharp angles puncturing what he now saw as a reverie, a place where actuality was a disguise worn by hopes and desires.

They were on Rouna, a place where Carlos had run, where he suspected Stein was hiding.

He moved his hand to look at the time, in the process causing Helena to open her eyes. He saw incomprehension yield to memory as she realized where she was, why she was there.

"Come on," he said. "Time to get up."

She took a deep breath, then lay back on the pillow. "What time is it?"

"Seven."

She looked pained but said nothing. He put back the covers and swung round to sit on the edge of the bed. They were both naked and, in truth, he found some embarrassment in this, not because they had made love, but because they hadn't. He pulled on some clothes, then risked a glance back at her.

"I'm first for the bathroom," he said.

"Fine." She stretched lazily exposing her breasts and he had to force himself to look away. It was too much like a love tryst, not enough like a desperately serious search to find answers. He found his washing things and left for the bathroom.

When he returned, Helena was dressed enough for decency and she took her turn in the bathroom. By half past seven they were on their way downstairs.

Marble had retreated to his taciturnity, leaving their breakfast to be served by his daughter. It wasn't too bad either; not brilliant, but not inedible. Kippers, eggs and bacon, coffee and toast, served in the bar room. In the light of morning the room seemed somehow barren of soul, the impression not helped by the stacks of glasses on the wooden top of bar, and the odour of smoke that persisted despite the open windows and breeze flowing through. They sat in the corner of the room, on old, cracked leather seats, at a table that wobbled just enough to mean that their coffee was never still, indeed often leaped from cup to saucer. It was while they were wrestling with the problem of retaining any liquid in the cups while sawing through a particularly obstinate piece of bacon that Sam returned and Helena, tiring of the labour, asked, "Do you get many visitors?"

She had already guessed the answer to this but it was at least a way into the business at hand.

"Not really. The odd one now and again. Usually bird-spotters." She pronounced the last word with an inflexion that was less than complimentary.

"And now? Are we the only ones visiting?"

"Just about." It was an answer that was no answer at all.

Eisenmenger put his knife and fork together on the plate, trying not to make the action a judgement on the cuisine. "Delicious," he said politely. "Did someone come across a day or so ago? On the ferry?"

She looked at him from a face that was impassive but clearly fronting someone who wondered what the hell it had to do with him. Helena added, "We think he might be visiting Professor Stein." Still nothing. "He does live here, doesn't he?"

Sam began collecting the plates. She had almost finished before she replied. "There's a man called Stein lives in the north. Don't know that he's a professor, though."

*

Rosenthal and Bochdalek had been dropped on the eastern part of Rouna, the emptiest part of a sparsely populated island, just before dawn. The helicopter had not even touched soil and had been gone from their hearing before they had been there a minute. They had moved at once inland, covering the ground, despite the gusting, sometimes glacial, wind and the slicing rain. By dawn they were about two kilometres from Stein's house and it was here, in a small hollow ringed by gorse bushes, that they stopped for a breakfast of dried fruit and water. For the first time Bochdalek was told what was required of him. Nothing special, just the murder of four people.

They moved off to find a spot from which they could see Stein's house and all the ground around.

Nothing special at all.

*

The old man was writing when the sound of the knock on the door came to his ears. It echoed slightly, a harsh sound that was unwelcome, almost alien. It had been so long since he had heard it, there was more than surprise in him; the feeling was more akin to panic. He looked up from his words, unsure of what to do. No one called, so what did this mean?

He guessed.

Not details, not prescience, but an overview, a conclusion.

His retreat was over.

He knew better than to try to hide, or run, or fight. He was too old to do other than acquiesce in what was to come and, accordingly, he rose from the table and went to the door. The hall was accurately named for it was bare, large, cold and harsh; merely a space. He hardly knew it, so infrequently had he been in there. He shivered, as if crossing a cold continent.

The locks on the door were not used to manipulation. His weak, aged fingers slipped off the cold metal repeatedly, not helped by the condensation. The chain proved recalcitrant; he wasn't sure quite how it worked.

Eventually he managed to open the door, at last allowing daylight into the hallway; its delight was no less when finally it fell on Tutankamun's life insurance. He peered out into the wind and water. "Yes?"

Carlos was wet. He was also cold and he was hungry, but the damp won out. "Professor?"

It took a few moments but at last he was recognized. "Carlos?"

"Can I come in? It's very cold out here."

Another consideration, as if this were the suburbs, then the face withdrew and there was more rattling of door furniture. The door opened and from halfway behind it Carlos was proffered a smile. "Of course, my boy."

*

It took Eisenmenger and Helena an hour to cross the island, although they were lucky that there was a relative lull in the weather. Only as they approached the end of the journey did the rain and wind pick up again. They came to the top of a small hill and there, two hundred metres distant, was the rear of a house. They knew that it was Stein's because Marble's daughter had described it quite accurately, especially the long narrow conservatory running along the back of the house.

They positioned themselves behind a blue stone cairn, moss and lichen clinging gamely to its weather-scarred crevices, wondering what to do. Watch and wait, or go down and make themselves known? It was difficult to concentrate on what was happening before them, for the wind took their hearing, the cold and wet took their concentration, and the drizzle took their hope.

A rhinoceros could have sneaked up behind them, but didn't; Rosenthal and Bochdalek did. They didn't hear a thing until Bochdalek pulled the bolt on his machine pistol; then they both jerked around to find two gun barrels pointing directly at their heads. Both Bochdalek and Rosenthal were wrapped up against the weather far more effectively than either Helena or Eisenmenger, but she knew at once who was standing over her.

"Alasdair." She sounded disappointed, as if she had been hoping that it might not be true. He said nothing, but his companion asked of him, "Alasdair? What kind of a cover name is that?" He laughed but Eisenmenger noticed that his eyes never left the spot on Eisenmenger's forehead that the gun barrel was also interested in. Rosenthal ignored him, said only, "Hello, Helena."

Eisenmenger heard complete uninterest in his voice and it was this that made him truly afraid, truly appreciative that this man was intent on killing him. He found his mouth suddenly thick with mucus. He glanced across at Helena, seeing fear there but also anger. She asked, "What now? Execution?" This was in a voice of sarcasm that almost completely smothered the sound of her fear.

Bochdalek grinned even more, then nodded enthusiastically. "You betcha." He pushed the barrel right against Eisenmenger's forehead, laughing; Eisenmenger knew then that he was only a few more heartbeats from his death, that this man wanted to see his flesh, bone and brain emulsified. He looked into the eyes and saw nothing but excitement. He held his breath, wondering why he was bothering to try to hide his terror. He felt a tremor in his breathing, a dampness on his skin as he waited.

Rosenthal said quietly, "Not yet." It was a command, much as he might have given to a retriever. Bochdalek looked disappointed but obeyed. To Eisenmenger and Helena Rosenthal said, "Come on. Let's get dry."

He beckoned them to stand by waving his machine pistol at them. As they complied, Eisenmenger glanced cross at Helena; she looked worried but was apparently coping far better than him.

*

Carlos had wondered what he would say when he spoke again to Professor Jacob Stein, but in the end it was easy. His fear found eloquence, his anger overcame any awkwardness that he might have felt in having to confront the man who had been his superior.

He sat down in one of two armchairs either side of the empty fireplace, Stein in the other. He looked at the old man, noticing how he had aged, how he looked thin and worn. The house was icy and draught-filled.