Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

Fitzduane wanted to reach out and touch her, to slide black silk off a golden body, to take her there and then. Her physical impact was overwhelming. It was a power over men, a power that was relished, enjoyed, and used. He recognized this, but it made little difference; his desire was strong and immediate. Now he understood why von Graffenlaub had married her.

She gently seized a tall, energetic-looking man by the arm and playfully spun him around to face Fitzduane. It was obvious she was not in need of assertiveness training.

"Simon," she said, "let me introduce you to a famous combat photographer who is visiting our town for a few days. Simon Balac, meet Hugo Fitzduane. Simon is my greatest friend – when he is being nice – and a very successful painter."

"And you, my sweet Erika," said Balac, "are a treasure – at times – and always the most gorgeous woman in Bern."

"Erika von Graffenlaub," said Fitzduane.

She nodded.

"Your photographs do not do you full justice," said Fitzduane. "How did you know my name?"

Erika smiled. "Bern is a small town," she said. "Thank you for being so good about Rudi. It can't have been easy."

Fitzduane felt somewhat nonplussed. It appeared that she was talking about the finding of the body and not about the events of earlier in the day. And there was no sign of her husband.

Erika took his hand in hers and held it for a moment; then she pressed it to her face. "Thank you again," she said.

Fitzduane could still feel the heat of her body as she moved away from him and the fullness of her lips when they briefly brushed the palm of his hand. Simon Balac lifted his glass and winked. "Bern is a very small town."

"I wish it were suicide," said the Chief Kripo into the phone. He looked at his watch. Ten past seven. A thirteen-hour-day already, and he was still in police headquarters. He was late for Colette, who did not like to be kept waiting, for anything, especially bed.

The tips of the Chief's ears turned pink at the thought. She really was gifted sexually, an unrecognized talent. In earlier centuries they would have built a fountain to celebrate her skills. Really, murders were damned inconvenient.

"You're not the only man with a sex life," said the examining magistrate, who was too smart by half. "Now cut out the wet dreaming and concentrate. There's no way that this one took his own life. Consider the following: stabbed seven times with a short, broad-bladed instrument, eyes put out, ears cut off, genitals removed – and, incidentally, not found yet. I suppose they are still bobbing around in the Aare. Then bear in mind evidence of both oral and anal intercourse prior to his death."

Buisard nodded gloomily. "Doesn't sound too much like a suicide. More like some kind of ritual."

"A bit more than wife kills husband with frying pan anyway," said the magistrate. "I don't like it at all. It smells too much of the kind of thing that could happen again."

"Don't even think things like that," said the Chief Kripo. "I guess I'd better put out an all-points bulletin for the guy's balls. How will we identify them?"

"They should be the only pair in Bern working independently," said the magistrate cheerfully. "Not too hard for one of your brighter policemen to spot."

"That's disgusting," said the Chief Kripo, "and unkind." Subconsciously he did a quick check with his right hand. All was in order but, considering his earlier thoughts of Colette, surprisingly subdued.

Just as Fitzduane was beginning to feel pleasantly mellow after his third glass of wine and almost enjoying looking at thirteen black rectangles, the allocated time was clearly up. The crowd didn't dwindle over a period, leaving behind the harder-drinking stragglers, as would have been the case in Ireland. Instead, as if on a secret signal, there was an orderly but concerted rush for the door. Within three minutes, apart from gallery staff and Fitzduane, the place was empty. The wine was highly drinkable. He emptied his glass with some slight regret and headed for the door.

Erika was outside talking with friends. She left them and came toward him. She had donned a high-collared cloak of some golden material. She was mesmerizing and sexy. She took him by the arm.

"We must talk," she said. "You will come with me, yes?" Fitzduane did not feel inclined to refuse. He could feel the warmth of Erika's body next to him as they walked. The smell of her was in his nostrils. He felt himself growing hard.

"I have a small apartment near here," she said.

"On Junkergasse?" said Fitzduane, remembering the address in his von Graffenlaub file. He wasn't sure the timing was right for another meeting with the lawyer – especially with the man's wife practically wrapped around him.

Erika laughed and squeezed his arm. "You are thinking of Beat's apartment," she said.

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand," said Fitzduane. "I was under the impression that you lived with your husband."

She laughed again. "Yes and no," she said. "We have an arrangement. I need space and privacy. My apartment is close – it is indeed also on Junkergasse – but it is separate."

"I see," said Fitzduane, who didn't.

"I will cook us a little supper, yes? We will be private, and we will talk," said Erika.

The building was old. The apartment, reached through some formidable security at its entrance, had been lavishly remodeled. It reeked of serious money.

Fitzduane had found it hard to imagine Erika sweating over a hot stove. He was not disappointed. She removed a Wedgwood casserole dish from the refrigerator and inserted it in a microwave. A scarlet-tipped finger pressed buttons. Fitzduane was asked to open the already chilled champagne and light the candles.

They sat facing each other over a small round dining table. It had already been laid for two on their arrival. It occurred to Fitzduane that he was spoiling someone else's fun and games – or had he been expected? Perhaps Erika had been a Girl Scout and just liked to be prepared.

"I can call you Hugo, yes?" said Erika, looking straight into his eyes. The casserole had something to do with rabbit. Fitzduane had had a series of pet rabbits as a child and found the juxtaposition of associations confusing. Erika ate with gusto.

Fitzduane nodded. Erika licked her lips in a manner that even a blind man would have noted as sexual. "I like this name," she said. "You want to talk about Rudi?"

"It's why I'm here," he said.

Erika gave a long, slow, knowing smile and reached over the table to brush the back of his hand with her fingers. The sexual electricity was palpable. "There is little to say," she said. "Rudi was a very troubled young man. Nobody is surprised at his suicide."

"What troubled him?" said Fitzduane.

Erika shrugged dismissively. " Boeuf! " she said, her arms raised in a gesture. "Everything. He hated his father, he quarreled with his family, he disapproved of our government, he was mixed up about sex." She smiled. "But is all that so unusual in a teenager?"

Fitzduane endeavored to pursue the matter of Erika's recently hanged stepson but to virtually no avail. The conversation turned to other members of the family. Here Erika was marginally more forthcoming. After coffee and liqueurs she excused herself. Fitzduane sat back on a sofa and sipped a Cointreau. Regarding Rudi, anyway, he wasn't getting very far with the von Graffenlaubs.

Erika had turned out most of the lights. The two candles on the dinner table cast a golden flickering light. Erika came back into the room. He could hear faint footfalls on the carpeted floor, and he could smell her musky perfume. She was standing behind him.

He turned his head to see her and started to speak. "It's getting late," he said. "I think I'd better…" The words died on his lips.