Heaven's Light (19 page)

Liz was taken aback. This was a new Haagen, not at all the cocky young thug she’d met last year.

‘You’ve been writing her letters,’ Liz said carefully.

‘She told you that?’

‘Yes.’ Liz nodded. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

Haagen didn’t reply but got up and left the room. Next door, from the kitchen, Liz heard the clatter of cups. When he returned, he was carrying a small wooden tray. Against her better judgement, Liz at last sat down and accepted a cup of tea.

‘Well?’ she said.

Haagen was tidying the typescript into a pile. The dog had woken up and was nosing wetly around Liz’s ankles.

‘A thousand’s not enough,’ he said. ‘And I need to know about the rest of it.’

‘Rest of it?’

‘These strings of yours.’ He pointed at her bag beside the armchair. ‘What exactly am I supposed to do?’

Liz took a deep breath. She’d worked out most of it on the drive back. The rest she’d make up as she went along.

‘I’d lodge the money at a travel agency. They’d give you a ticket home and the balance in currency. I’d want you to promise me you’d stay away for at least a year.’

‘You want me to sign something?’

‘There’s no point. I’ll accept your word.’ She stared at him. ‘And I’ll expect you to keep it.’

Haagen patted the dog and adjusted the flame on the gas fire. He was wearing a green collarless shirt and a pair of nicely cut jeans. With his round gold-rimmed glasses, and his look of intense concentration, he might have passed for the kind of student Liz had always wanted Jessie to meet.

‘Where’s home supposed to be?’ Haagen was asking. ‘As a matter of interest.’

‘Germany, I imagine. That’s what Jessie always told me.’

‘You think I’ve got relatives there? Somewhere to stay? Somewhere to call my own?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You think it’s that easy? Just up and go?’

‘Probably not.’ Liz reached down for her bag, suddenly wanting to get this scene over. ‘Two thousand. I’m afraid that’s my limit.’

Haagen sat back in the chair again, his legs crossed beneath him. His smile was emptied of everything except curiosity. He gestured round: the wall-mounted spotlights, the framed poster advertising pre-war Baden-Baden, the neat rows of paperbacks on home-made shelves.

‘This is as good as it’s ever got,’ he said. ‘Why should I leave it? Why should I just bail out?’

‘I can think of reasons.’

‘Like?’

‘Like it’s not your country, not your home. And it must be difficult getting by sometimes …’ She moved uneasily in the chair. ‘I take it you don’t have a job?’

‘I’m busy. I work.’ He waved at the typescript on the floor. ‘But you’re right. It doesn’t pay.’

‘Then take it with you. Whatever it is.’

Haagen said nothing, and for a moment Liz had the
feeling she was making progress. ‘You need to be gone within a week,’ she said. ‘That’s the other condition. I’ll lodge the cheque with Thomas Cook. They’ll have instructions to return it to me if you don’t cash it in for a ticket and currency. You know how to find Thomas Cook?’

Haagen looked up at her. His eyes were the lightest blue.

‘Five thousand,’ he said quietly. ‘And we’ll shake on it.’

‘
Five
?’

‘Yes.’ He got to his feet, a hint of the old contempt back in his face. ‘This country is falling apart. It has nothing left for me, nothing. Five thousand’s cheap. You should call it an investment.’

Hayden Barnaby dialled Kate’s mobile from the private aviation terminal at Zurich airport. Through the double-glazed windows, he could see the swept taxiways, black ribbons against the startling white of the morning’s snowfall. Zhu was still aboard the little executive jet out on the apron. The pilot had already filed a flight plan for the final leg to London. As soon as refuelling was complete, they’d be off.

At last Kate answered the phone. She sounded irritable, as if she wasn’t pleased to hear from him, but when Barnaby asked her why she dismissed it. Time of the month, she said briskly. Plus one or two other little niggles.

Barnaby glanced at his watch. They’d be touching down at Heathrow around five. He could be back in Central London by early evening. He’d booked a hotel. He’d meet her there.

‘Where?’

‘The Orchid. Same as last time.’

‘I’m tied up,’ she said at once. ‘Until late.’

‘In town?’

‘Yes.’

‘How late?’ Barnaby’s impatience showed in his voice. He’d hardly slept at all on the hopscotch flight back from Singapore, bemused by the number of airports
en route
where Zhu needed to touch down to attend brief meetings.

Kate was talking about some party contacts from Blair’s private office. She knew a couple of staffers there, people she’d run into at conference. They were getting together for a drink and a meal. It could be important for her.

‘Obviously.’

‘I mean it. The parliamentary selection meeting’s in a couple of days. Every contact counts. Believe me.’

Barnaby was watching the fuel bowser beside the tiny jet. The driver was disconnecting the hose and wiping the drips of fuel from the crescent of fuselage beneath the filler pipe. In a couple of minutes they’d be ready to leave.

‘Maybe you should go straight home,’ Kate was saying. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’

‘Home?’

‘Portsmouth. I could see you tomorrow. There might be time for lunch.’

Barnaby frowned, trying to clear the fog of indecision in his brain. A night at the Orchid had been part of their plans since he’d learned of the trip to Singapore. They’d have the evening in town. The’d have a meal, the chance to catch up with each other, the chance to talk. Going home was inconceivable.

‘I’ll see you at the hotel,’ he said briefly. ‘Whenever you can make it.’

*

Owens was trying to manhandle the dog out of the back of his estate car when he heard the knocking at the upstairs window. He stood upright in the icy drive, the golden retriever sagging in his arms, seeing the shadowy outline of his wife behind the net curtains. She had one hand raised to her ear, their private semaphore for an urgent phone call. Owens stepped back, breathless, trying to close the tailgate with his foot. The sudden adjustment as he nearly lost his balance made the dog stir. Still sleepy after the anaesthetic, it raised its head and looked round, bemused.

Owens struggled indoors. He could hear his wife coming downstairs. She was wearing his plaid dressing gown, tightly belted, and he was glad to see a bit of colour back in her face. She passed him the cordless phone. ‘The office,’ she said, bending to inspect the dog.

Owens lifted the phone. For once in his life he’d formally booked a day off, and he’d made a point of asking his oppo to be sensible about calls. Only real emergencies, he’d said. And only if there’s no other bugger around.

‘DS Owens,’ he grunted.

He heard an unfamiliar voice at the other end. He thought he caught the word ‘Commander’ but he wasn’t sure. Finally it dawned on him that he was talking to someone from the Met.

‘Who are you on about?’

‘Schreck. Haagen Schreck. Your guv’nor said he was down to you.’

‘He is. Sort of. Why?’

‘Long story. Your guv’nor’s got the details. Give him a ring, will you?’

The line went dead and Owens looked at the phone. His wife and the dog were locked in a sloppy embrace
across the kitchen table. In the absence of kids, the dog had always been the target for some heavy rapport.

Owens took the phone next door. The lounge was dominated by trophies from his fishing expeditions. As well as photographs and the odd cup, there was a big scrapbook full of press cuttings. Owens sank into the armchair beneath the 15-pound mounted pike, not bothering to undo the buttons on his raincoat. He’d been through leave days like this before. He knew the pattern only too well.

The superintendent answered his call on the second ring. Bairstow wasn’t a man to soften a conversation with anything remotely domestic. As far as he was concerned, Owens could have been in an office downstairs.

‘The Met were on,’ he said.

‘I know. Bloke just phoned.’

‘About that German kid? Our Nazi friend?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK. Got a pencil handy?’

Owens found a biro on the mantelpiece. In the absence of paper, he used the palm of his hand. Schreck had been under surveillance for a couple of days. The guys involved had been from London, not local. They’d staked out his flat and this afternoon they’d followed him to the nearby shopping precinct. There, he’d collected £2,800 in foreign currency, plus a rail ticket.

Owens frowned. His hand wasn’t that big and he was fast running out of space.

‘Where to?’ he said.

‘Amsterdam, via Brussels. Eurostar for the first bit.’ Owens could hear the shuffle of papers on the superintendent’s desk. ‘The currency is part guilders, part US dollars. I’ve got the breakdown here. It’s mostly dollars.’

‘So where is he now?’

‘Back in his flat. According to the travel agency, the Eurostar ticket’s booked for tomorrow. Ten thirty-five out of Waterloo.’

‘And what do the Met boys say?’

‘Which Met boys?’

‘The guys who’ve been doing the leg work? The ones you mentioned just now.’

‘Ah, now there’s a thing.’ The superintendent’s voice hardened. ‘Turns out they weren’t Met boys at all. They were MI5. The Yard’s been trying to sort it out all afternoon. Latest I hear, we’re taking precedence. Not only that but the Met wants us to handle it this end. Must be desperate, trusting us. I’m looking at the currency now.’

‘What currency?’

‘Yours, son. He’ll take the train to Waterloo. Bound to. You’re with him on the Eurostar as well. Same carriage.’ He erupted, a bark of derisive laughter. ‘First bloody class.’

When Barnaby awoke in the hotel room, Kate was standing at the foot of the big double bed. ‘The door was open,’ she said. ‘I just gave it a push.’

Barnaby got up on one elbow, rubbing his face. His jacket hung over the back of a nearby chair and his shoes were on the floor somewhere but he was still fully dressed.

‘Must have dropped off.’ He swung his legs off the bed. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. How about you?’

‘Knackered. Come here.’

Kate didn’t move. Her trench-coat was unbuttoned, and underneath he could see the black skirt and low-cut scarlet top she favoured for special occasions.

‘What’s the time?’ Barnaby asked.

‘Gone nine.’

‘Good evening? Meet your chums OK?’

Kate studied him a moment, then stepped back towards the door and shut it. Crossing the room, she pulled the curtains over the dormer windows before running her fingertips over the back of the armchair in the corner, feeling the heavy brocade.

‘Nice,’ she said.

Barnaby was still watching her. The boots looked brand new, black leather, knee-length. He began to wonder who she’d dressed up for.

‘Where did you go?’

‘Belgravia. Little French place.’

‘Good?’

‘Excellent. Very tasteful. Very understated. Kind of restaurant that makes you feel… I don’t know … metropolitan, I suppose.’

‘And what was the food like?’

‘I’m not sure. It looked lovely.’

‘Didn’t you eat?’

‘No, there was no point.’ She raised a thin smile. ‘He didn’t turn up.’

‘Why not?’

‘God knows. You tell me.’

She turned away, slipped off the coat and hung it carefully in the wardrobe. Only then did she join him, sitting on the edge of the bed, her back towards him, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Barnaby kissed the nape of her neck. He could feel how cold she was, and how remote.

‘Bastard.’ She bit her lip. ‘Bastard, bastard.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Doesn’t matter, just a friend. Not even that. An associate, a colleague, someone I met at conference. He’s
highly placed, no question, a real flier and I thought… you know…’ She gestured helplessly at the boots. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’

Barnaby lay back against the pillows, disturbed now, his suspicion confirmed that the ensemble hadn’t been for his benefit.

‘When did you fix it up? This meal?’

‘Days ago. I should have expected it, I know I should, the lives these people lead. Why should I get special treatment?’

‘So what happened? Where did he get to?’

‘God knows. Some television station or other? New York? Washington? Brussels? Who cares?’

‘Did he phone?’

‘No.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, in the end I did. There’s only so much you can do with a bread roll.’ She sniffed, more anger than grief, her back still turned to Barnaby. ‘I got through to some girl in his office. She thought he’d gone to a briefing. It’s probably the standard line. When I gave her my name she’d obviously never heard of it. Bitch.’

Barnaby eyed her. When she bent over to loosen the boots, he stood up and reached for his jacket. Kate glanced round. Her face was white and pinched and her lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth. She looked, for once, extraordinarily vulnerable.

She got to her feet, uncertain, watching him lacing up his shoes. He walked across to the dressing table and checked his tie in the mirror, then he joined her by the bed. He could smell the perfume he’d left under her pillow on Christmas Eve. To his knowledge it was the first time she’d worn it.

‘Hungry?’ he murmured.

She looked up at him. Then she grinned the old grin. ‘Starving.’

They ate at a Moroccan restaurant round the corner in Knightsbridge, Kate’s choice. They had a tagine of chicken and prunes with a steaming mountain of couscous and were half-way through the second bottle of red wine by the time Barnaby finished enthusing about Singapore.

His visit, he admitted, had been conducted at breakneck speed and all he could offer was a series of snapshots, but first impressions were important and it was hard to do justice to the impact the place had made on him. OK, their democracy was a thin excuse for one-party rule, and the government came up with comic-book ideas like Courtesy Month and the National Ideals and Identity Programme, but this was a small price to pay for a society that so manifestly worked. A pulse beat through Singapore. You could feel it on the streets and in the shopping malls. These people had a pride in the lives they led, the society they’d built, the ends to which they put their working hours. He’d visited hospitals, schools and public housing projects that put Britain’s equivalents to shame. On the streets he’d seen no graffiti, no litter, no beggars. Everywhere he’d been, he’d met nothing but courtesy and a determination to make things better. To someone from the UK, with its tired culture and weary sense of personal defeat, this brimming optimism had felt, at first, like a piss-take. Could these people possibly mean it? Had they really built this gleaming city? They undoubtedly had – and, to his astonishment, by the week’s end he’d buried his cynicism and concluded that this little glimpse of the future was absolutely for real.