Adrian Magson - Deception

He entered the tour agency and showed the man behind the desk the photo of Pike. ‘I’m looking for my brother-in-law,’ he explained. ‘He stayed in the area and bought a Eurostar ticket to London, but never arrived home. His name’s Fraser.’ He had written the ticket stub number on the back of the photo.

The manager hesitated for a moment, then shrugged as if answering questions from relatives whose brothers-in-law had not arrived home was not an uncommon occurrence. He entered the number in his computer, waited for a second, then said, ‘Mr Fraser gave his address as the Monro Hostel. It is very popular with people on a budget. Go down Keizerstraat for two hundred metres, then take a left. It is not far.’

‘He paid cash?’

‘Yes.’

Harry thanked him for his help and followed the directions to the Monro Hostel, a red-brick building set back from the street with a large awning over the front. He went inside and stepped over a pile of backpacks to the small desk, and rang the bell. A large woman with bright-red hair came out through a beaded curtain and nodded. ‘ Goedemorgen .’

Harry explained about his wayward brother-in-law, and how his sister was worried about her husband. The woman listened without comment, then checked a register.

‘ Nee ,’ she said eventually. ‘ Mijnheer Fraser was here two days, but no more.’ She pointed back towards Keizerstraat. ‘Try the Continentale Cafe. I see him there two times, at night, with friends. I hope he is OK, your brother.’ Then she turned and disappeared through the curtain.

With friends. That could mean anything or nothing. Drinking buddies for the evening. . or something more focussed and deliberate.

The Continentale was sleek, modern and furnished with polished wooden bench seats and tables, and a scattering of ethnic cushions under subdued lighting. A small dais at the end was overlooked by a row of coloured spotlights and held two large amplifiers and a microphone. The barman was a spit for a young Bruce Springsteen, right down to the blue jeans and waistcoat, and nodded as Harry approached the bar. There were no other customers, in spite of it being close to lunchtime, and he guessed the place probably came alive at night.

He ordered a coffee and slid Pike’s photo across the bar. ‘Have you seen this man recently? His name’s Fraser.’ He didn’t bother with the brother-in-law; any pro barmen would automatically clam up when faced with a story like that.

The man put down the glass he was polishing and studied the picture, his expression blank. ‘Sorry, pal.’ His accent was pure American, the voice a growl nurtured on late nights and too many cigarettes. ‘Don’t remember him.’ He dropped the photo and turned to pour a cup of coffee from a percolator on the back counter. He placed the cup in front of Harry and added cream and sugar alongside. ‘Come night-time, this place rocks, y’know? People come and go all the time. Just faces, most of ’em. It’s like Grand Central. What’s he done?’

Harry wasn’t in the habit of making snap judgements. He usually had to know people a while before judging their character. . unless they were brandishing a weapon or wearing a body belt of explosives strapped to their chests, then he felt able to make all the judgements in the world. But this man was different. Whether it was his tone, body language or accent, or the knowledge that Pike had been here more than once with ‘friends’, he knew without a shadow of doubt that the barman was what he’d been looking for. He was crossing the trail of the Protectory.

It felt like stepping over a snake.

‘You never saw him.’

‘Not what I said. I said I don’t remember seeing him. Different thing altogether.’ He gave a tough-guy smile, as if pleased with his response, and picked up the glass and resumed his polishing.

‘You’re right,’ said Harry. ‘It is different.’ He sipped the coffee. It was stewed and bitter on the palate. He decided to push harder. ‘Why, if you don’t remember him, have you just polished that glass three times since I came in?’

The barman stared at him and flushed. He’ll remember this, thought Harry, watching the anger rise in the man’s face. He’ll remember and pass the word.

‘I think you’d better leave.’ The barman put down the glass again and lifted his chest. ‘Right now. The coffee’s on the house.’

The barman waited for five minutes after the Englishman had gone. Then he went over to a payphone at the rear of the premises. He dialled a number from memory, and when it was answered, identified himself.

‘Wait there,’ said a woman’s voice on the other end. ‘Keep the line free. He’ll call back.’

He placed an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the phone and went back to the bar, where he continued polishing glasses. When the phone rang, he picked it up.

‘What have you got?’ The voice was male, the accent British.

‘It’s Daniels. I just had a guy in here asking questions.’

‘About what?’

‘You know. The guy on the run. . Fraser. This fella showed me a photo. It was definitely him.’

‘What was his name? What did he look like?’

‘He didn’t say his name. I didn’t ask. Just a guy, y’know? British, forty-something, good build, not a business type, though. Smelled like a cop. Hard-nosed.’ He had his own reasons for avoiding cops; especially those from countries with extradition treaties. He recalled the way the man had looked at him, and how he’d felt a sudden chill in his stomach. Drunks sometimes had the same look. But they were rarely dangerous. Drunks he could deal with. But this one had been stone cold sober. He considered the answer he’d given the visitor, and decided on a small lie. ‘I told him I’d never seen the guy before.’

There was a short silence, then, ‘That was a mistake. Not remembering is a better answer.’

In Schwedt, Sylvia Heidl struggled into a thin overcoat and headscarf, picked up a shopping bag, then cast around for a moment before gathering together a pair of worn shoes and an old towel. She placed the phone and passport in the bag, and covered them with the towel. After checking the bag to make sure nothing could be seen, she slipped on her shoes and left the flat.

The air on the landing was cold and damp. She took a deep breath, feeling the customary stab of pain in her chest. It hurt more today than it had in a while, and she wondered if Ulf had managed to get her any more painkillers. She wasn’t sure she could take another day without them.

As she emerged from the prefab concrete block, one of the few cheap workers’ buildings that hadn’t been flattened in the wake of reunification and development, the smell from the refinery and factories engulfed her like a cloak. They had said you would get used to it, but she never had. She followed the path into town. A steady stream of heavy trucks caked in mud thundered along the narrow road, their slipstream tugging at her coat and whipping a spray of damp grit across her face.

She passed only two other women on the way. Both ignored her. The streets in the centre were quiet, with a scattering of cars and one or two pickup trucks. If there was any new wealth from the reunification, it had not yet penetrated this far in any major way, seemingly bypassing the town like the trucks.

She entered a doorway along a narrow street and climbed a steep flight of uneven stairs, her breath rasping in her throat. As she reached the landing a door opened and her brother Ulf peered out. He beckoned her in and closed the door.

‘Do you have them?’ she asked, slumping into a chair. She was struggling for breath, her face a pallid grey and her eyes narrowed to pinpoints.