The Stolen (10 page)

‘Will I see you again?' she wondered out loud.

‘Would you like to?'

‘Yes. It will be our secret. Our secret from the rest of the world.'

‘I'd like that,' Destin replied, shifting gears with a triumphant air. ‘Now where do you live?'

 

Küsnacht was cold but the air was fresh and there was forest around and between the elegant, expensive houses where Latcos knew he could disappear against the shadows of the trees. He'd been watching the house, with its large glass square windows and flat wooden roof, for hours. What he was watching for he didn't exactly know.

Keja had sent him, but he had felt the calling himself, although he would never admit it to her. It was more an impulse, the sense that whatever had drawn him there would manifest when it was ready. There was a right timing for everything, his mother had always told him, but you have to put yourself in the way of it. This was Luck; this was Fate. Latcos wasn't sure whether he really believed in such matters. The Rom were lucky when they were free, but at the last Springfire festival he'd heard stories of arrests, torture and murder, in Romania, Hungary, Poland and Russia. Heard of young Rom men beaten to death by gangs of youths, caravans driven off farms they had visited for decades. Was this Luck? Was this Fate?

And what about his uncle's murder?

They'd buried Yojo the day before; a gypsy band had walked ahead of the coffin loaded onto a van covered in flowers, while Keja and Latcos and Rom friends followed wailing and grieving. Back in Romania Yojo's house had been closed up, the door painted so that his spirit would not recognise it if he decided to return home. His possessions had been sold as was
marime
and it was now forbidden to mention him by name. All had been properly executed according to custom and the thought gave Latcos some comfort. Nevertheless, some of his uncle's soul had entered him. He could feel him now, under his skin, wanting him to find the taken child, to reclaim what had been theirs. He shivered. The first fingers of dawn had begun to climb up from behind the pine trees and he was just about to walk away when a white sports car turned into the quiet cul de sac. Latcos stepped back into darkness. There were two figures in the car, a man and a young girl. He watched as it pulled up several houses down from the one he was watching. The young girl climbed out, unsteady on high heels. To Latcos's eyes she looked like a prostitute, with her skin-tight T-shirt, her short skirt and torn stockings, as she tottered drunkenly down the pavement towards him. Latcos held his breath as the girl walked past only inches away, the sweet musk of her perfume drifting across. Somewhere behind him there was a sudden rustling in the low scrub – a bird scrounging for its breakfast. Liliane swung, stumbling, a bangle slipping off her wrist as she steadied herself against a tree trunk. It fell silently into the snow, unnoticed. Latcos found himself staring at her face as she looked blindly back, not seeing him at all in the shadows. The sight made his heart leap in his ribcage; he knew her as he might know his own sister – he knew that beauty.

Holding his body and his beating heart as still as he could, Latcos watched the girl turn back and ascend the steps leading up to the front door. Just before she stepped into the house she paused and looked back as if she might have sensed his presence after all. It took all his willpower not to call out to her.

After the door was closed, he steadied himself against the tree trunk; he'd found the right house.

Carefully, he retraced the girl's footsteps. The bangle was halfway along the path, edge up in the snow, its gold a glinting half-circle. Latcos reached down and slipped it into his pocket.

The morning breeze was still coming off the mountains. A shivering Klauser stared up at the apartment. It was characteristic of the houses built for the bourgeoisie in the Hottingen district. A mansion that had seen better days, Klauser noted as he climbed up the steep steps, the book he'd found hidden in the priest's mattress now under his arm carefully wrapped in brown paper. He reached the top out of breath and stared at the tiny typed names next to each buzzer. There had to be at least four flats in the one building; squinting, he saw that Frau Neumann's was at the top. He sighed. It was going to be a long climb.

Earlier he'd driven over to Rindermarkt 56, only to discover a kebab shop had replaced the Eberhard Neumann Galerie. The Turkish owner, still in his dressing gown and annoyed at being disturbed at eight in the morning, relaxed only after Klauser reassured him he wasn't from the Department of Immigration. He claimed he had originally taken over the lease from a widow, who sold him the premises after her husband had been murdered. With a shrug, the man told Klauser he'd initially carried on running it as an antiques gallery, selling Turkish rugs and artefacts, but had to downgrade to kebabs as they sold better. Klauser had left with Frau Neumann's address and a free lamb and sauerkraut kebab for breakfast that was still repeating on him as he pressed the buzzer.

 

‘So, has some new clue turned up?' Frau Neumann, a diminutive woman in her late fifties squeezed into a tight day dress, asked as she opened the door. She didn't seem happy at the intrusion to her morning.

‘Not exactly,' Klauser answered, waiting to be invited in.

‘But when you rang and said you were a detective…'

‘I
am
a detective.' Klauser flashed his badge. Taking the initiative, he pushed past her into the tiny entrance hall. Somewhere further in the apartment a door was slammed shut. ‘I won't be long, Frau Neumann. I just need to ask you a few questions about your deceased husband and something that might have once belonged to him.' He tried smiling but she scowled back, unresponsive.

‘Do I have a choice?'

‘No.' Klauser, abandoning the last vestiges of protocol, stepped into the small living room that led off the entrance hall. Despite the worn carpet and décor there was an antique case with several expensive-looking old volumes on the walnut shelves and a rather fine candelabra on the mantelpiece. He sat down on a leather armchair, the wrapped book resting on his lap.

‘Make yourself at home,' Frau Neumann said sarcastically as she sat opposite on the couch. He noticed a large old teddy bear propped up in its corner. With one glass eye missing, it seemed to stare back at him with the same aggressive expression as Frau Neumann.

‘Thank you,' he said, ‘I will,' then pulled out his cigarettes. ‘Mind if I smoke?'

‘Yes.'

Fingers itching, he reluctantly replaced the packet back into his pocket. ‘Your husband was an antiques dealer. Murdered in 1963, wasn't he?'

‘The detectives working on the case decided it was a robbery gone wrong. But he was shot at close range, in the gallery. The door hadn't even been forced.'

‘He was German, your husband?'

‘Naturalised in 1934. He loved Switzerland. He didn't deserve to die like that, like a dog.' She crossed her arms over her large bosom, her face settling into a mask of defensiveness. ‘He wasn't just an ordinary antiques dealer, you know; he had a doctorate specialising in theology and history – once upon a time he was one of the foremost suppliers of holy relics and
objets d'occult
in the whole of Switzerland. And yet they dismissed his case as an arbitrary accident.'

‘You obviously think it wasn't.' The woman's face tightened even further, and she chose not to reply.

Klauser pulled the book out from its wrapping. ‘Do you recognise this? The address on the cover suggests it was once your husband's property.'

She stared at it, startled. ‘Where did you get this book?' She failed to keep the emotion out of her voice.

‘That's not important. I just want to know whether you recognise it.'

‘Recognise it? It sat on that counter over there for twenty years until two weeks ago. We had a burglary and the strange thing is the only thing taken was that book.'

‘Did you report it?'

‘No, I have low expectations of detectives. I did however find a strand of yellow cloth caught on an old nail near the counter.'

‘The kind of material a man's kerchief might be made of?'

‘Exactly.'

The gypsy Yojo,
Klauser thought; the kerchief he was wearing at the time of his murder. He must have tracked the book down somehow, tied it to Christoph von Holindt – but why? Frau Neumann continued, ‘The book is Eberhard's all right, but what it means I can't tell you – there was always so much stuff going through the gallery. And Eberhard never told me much about the business. I had my hands full, you see, looking after our son.'

‘Do you know whether any evidence was taken from the scene of the murder?'

‘No, but surely it's all in the file.'

‘Well, that's the strange thing, Frau Neumann; when I checked on your husband I discovered that he had been murdered, but the investigation file was missing from the archives.'

‘Missing? That's appalling. My husband just wiped out like that? Like he never existed?'

‘Which is exactly why it's important to get all the facts down now.'

She sighed. ‘My husband was killed in the gallery at around four in the afternoon; my son was with him – he was only ten at the time. Eberhard had seemed agitated that morning, but I'd just assumed he was worried about some business deal.'

‘Your son was a witness?'

‘Not exactly. He was in shock by the time the police arrived. All he could tell me and the detective who interviewed him afterwards was that there had been a ring at the door, and my husband had told him to wait in the back and not come in until the visitor was gone. Fritz saw nothing but he heard everything. He was out of his mind with fear when they found him.'

‘Was that usual? For your husband not to allow him to be there when there were visitors to the gallery?'

Frau Neumann looked down. ‘Yes, Eberhard was ashamed of him. He was old-fashioned that way.' She looked up, a plea in her eyes Klauser couldn't quite interpret. ‘You have to understand my husband was a lot older than me.'

Klauser studied her. She seemed to be telling the truth, yet he sensed she was holding back information. He thought about the bloodstain in the book, possibly the record of a murder captured in fatal ink.

‘Do you know whether your husband had business partners?'

She leaned forward. ‘A man used to come from Germany.' She was whispering now, clearly frightened of being overheard. ‘He stopped coming before Eberhard was murdered. His last visit was in 1961, I think – I never met him, but I had a feeling he was coming from Berlin, from the East side, just little things Eberhard would say.'

‘The wall went up in sixty-one.'

‘Exactly. I always knew when he was going to arrive because Eberhard would get nervous the day before. He once said to me if anything should happen I should look for Wilhelm Gustloff. After his death I tried the directory once but there is no Wilhelm Gustloff.'

Klauser looked at her incredulously. ‘You don't know who Gustloff was?'

‘Eberhard was a whole different generation…'

‘Wilhelm Gustloff was the German leader of the Nazi Party in Switzerland. In 1936 he was assassinated in Davos by a young Jewish student, after which Hitler made him an icon, a martyr for the Nazi cause.'

‘Detective Klauser, my husband was a Jew. Nobody knew, but he was a Jew nevertheless. Perhaps Gustloff was a metaphor for something… There is something else, just before Eberhard was murdered there seemed to be a lot more money around, as if he'd made some big sales. He never talked directly to me about it.'

‘Was it possible he was selling stolen art objects?'

The woman immediately closed up. ‘I have said too much already…' Just then they were both startled by a noise at the door.

‘Mutti, who is this?' A man in his thirties, dressed in pyjamas, stood in the doorway, peering out from the shadows.

As he leaned forward Klauser could see the distinctive features of Down Syndrome defining the man's face. Frau Neumann got up hurriedly. ‘He's a friend, Fritz. Now go back to your bedroom.'

‘Not without Teddy.' The man's voice was as plaintive as a child's.

Frau Neumann turned back to Klauser. ‘Please, excuse me a moment.' She picked the teddy bear up then ushered him back out, the quiet tragedy of the pair closing over their departure as the room shifted, like a prism, into the next moment.

Klauser glanced round then walked over to the antique writing bureau against the far wall. To his relief the top drawer was not locked. Inside were various papers shoved messily into the wooden compartments. A photograph, blank side up, an inscription visible, lay on top of some airmail letters. He picked it up and turned it over. It was of five young men at a table, three of them in military hats and jackets, mugging for the camera – one was in civvies, and the fifth man was showing only the back of his head. Klauser recognised only one of them: Christoph von Holindt, wearing the distinctive cap of the Swiss air force. The man sitting next to him was barely in profile, looking slightly younger with the cap of the infantry perched on his head at a rakish angle – there wasn't enough of his face in view to place him, but wisps of red hair were clearly visible. The third man, a tall blond also in profile, appeared to be wearing the jacket of the German navy. He looked slightly older than Christoph, though even with his face turned Klauser could see the physical resemblance between the two men. The slight man sandwiched between them Klauser assumed was Eberhard Neumann but the fifth man, turned away, wearing a military beret, was also unidentifiable. It was a strange photograph almost as if it had been taken clandestinely – like a secret record. Klauser stared down, an association resonating in his mind – Air, Earth, Water… He peered closer at the beret and recognised the emblem on it as belonging to the artillery battalion of the Swiss army.
Fire,
he said quietly to himself. Flipping the photograph back over he read the inscription:
Glücklichere Zeiten – Kronenhalle 1933
.

Somewhere in the apartment the distinctive click of a door. Quickly Klauser replaced the photograph and closed up the bureau. Within seconds he was back in the leather chair.

A moment later Frau Neumann entered the living room.

‘I'm sorry; he gets upset when there are strangers in the house. So this interview is over, Detective Klauser.' As she walked him to the front door she suddenly asked, ‘Is Engels still running the department?'

‘He is. Why, do you know him?'

‘A little. He was a good friend of Eberhard's when he was just a young inspector. That was something I never understood: you would have thought, with a friend like that, the police might have spent a little longer trying to solve my husband's murder.'

 

Klauser turned the key in the door of his one-bedroom apartment. It was still early but already the air was peppered with police sirens, the occasional domestic and the odd beat-box blaring out either disco or Turkish ballads. But he appreciated his flat, mainly for the way it was the opposite of the immaculate townhouse his ex-wife had imposed on him. His cat, a large overweight tabby, the sole survivor of his marriage, wound his furry body round Klauser's legs purring his usual greeting – a miaow that sounded suspiciously like an indignant welcome.

‘Yeah, I know, Erasmus, I'm addicted to my job and I'm a terrible father. I was a terrible husband for the same reason.' He walked through the living room to the kitchen. He placed the book on the table, running his fingers over the embossing. Three powerful men and one unknown all associated with one murder victim, except for Christoph von Holindt, who appeared to be associated with two murder victims: Eberhard Neumann and Yojo, the gypsy. Inspector Engels wanted the case buried; more than that, he wanted Klauser buried, of that the detective was sure. There was no other way, he told himself. He'd have to risk the nice retirement he fantasised about, like a shimmering oasis just beyond the dreary outlook of his office window, and continue his investigation secretly. And there was Timo to consider – the lad had fought hard to be partnered with him, but the young detective had a wife and a child on the way; could he afford to jeopardise Timo's career too?

He reached into the fridge and pulled out a carton and a tin of cat food. He emptied the cat food into a dish and put it down. Erasmus was over in a minute, vacuuming down the rabbit entrails. Klauser leaned against the kitchen bench, opened the carton of orange juice and drank deeply. The facts around the priest's murder, Galerie Neumann and the mysterious bloodstained antique book swirled in his mind, then settled in a pattern – one that required a single telephone call to expose the web that held it all together.

 

‘Bruno…' On the other end of the line Klauser heard the sound of the receiver being knocked to the ground then the familiar growl of notoriously bad-tempered Bruno Munster, historian and independent expert for the UN. An infamous anarchist, Munster was famous for his outspoken political views and his support for the Baader-Meinhof gang – a group he insisted, to the great embarrassment of his university department, on calling revolutionaries.

‘Jesus, Klauser, you again.'

‘What do you mean me again? I haven't spoken to you for at least six months.'

‘Exactly and I'm still suffering the consequences.'

‘I'm flattered I have some influence.'

‘Influence! I'm being audited. Can you believe it? Audited in Switzerland and I'm an academic, for fuck's sake. Don't ask me to research anyone else again, especially if they are associated with a corporate body, private or otherwise. So how do you want to fuck up my life this time?'