Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

But then Leigh broke away and scrambled to her feet. Ben stood up with her. They dusted the snow from their clothes. ‘This can’t happen, Ben,’ she said. ‘We can’t go back, you know that.’

They stood for a few moments, feeling awkward in the silence. Ben was angry with himself. The old shotgun was lying deep in the snow. He picked it up and wiped it clean. He touched her arm. ‘Come on, let’s head back to the cottage.’

That kiss hung over them for the rest of the day. There was a strained atmosphere between them-neither of them knew what to say. They’d crossed an invisible line, and they were stuck. They couldn’t undo it, and they couldn’t move forward. Ben blamed himself. Unprofessional. Undisciplined. Stupid.

He avoided thinking about it by spending time with Clara and Max outside. The big dog was quickwitted, and Ben taught him to sit while Clara ran and hid. If he had been a few years younger, Max would have made a perfect police or military dog. He learned wait in three goes. He would sit trembling with anticipation on his haunches, eyes alert and completely keyed into his surroundings. Ben would wait two, three whole minutes, longer each time to build the dog’s concentration-span. Then he would give the quiet command ‘Find Clara’ and Max would be off, hurtling through the snow. Wherever she went, he knew exactly where to find her. He loved the game as much as the little girl did.

Evening came. Ben was strapping up his bag when he sensed a presence behind him. He turned quickly and saw Leigh there. She had a sad smile and her eyes were a little moist.

‘You take care,’ she said. She put her arms around him and drew him close. She pressed her cheek against his ear, her eyes tightly shut. He was about to stroke her hair. He patted her shoulder instead.

‘I’ll see you again soon,’ he told her.

‘Make it sooner?’ she replied.

Kinski headed back along the snowy roads. Ben liked the way he didn’t feel the need to talk all the time. Military and police guys, guys who spent a lot of time with each other waiting for things to happen, shared that quality of being able to stay quiet for long periods. It was a good atmosphere. They said little for an hour. Ben blew cigarette smoke out of the car window, deep in his own thoughts. He left the whisky flask untouched.

‘What’s the story with you and Mother Hildegard?’ he asked as they crossed the border back into Austria.

‘I knew her long before she was a nun,’ Kinski said. ‘Funny how you never think that nuns were women once. Back then she wasn’t Hildegard, she was Ilse Knecht. She was a writer in East Berlin.’

‘How does a cop get to meet a writer?’

‘You know, friend of a friend of a friend. I met her at a party and thought she was OK. Intelligent, aggressively intellectual. I like women like that. But that was her problem.’

‘How so?’

‘She was a little too smart, opened her mouth a little too wide and got in a heap of shit,’ Kinski said. ‘She wrote Christian stuff for newsletters, magazines. The Communist authorities didn’t like her. Then she wrote a novel. They decided it was subversive. They had her followed for a while. Found out she was hanging around with a bunch of people from their files. Names that had red circles around them. Dissidents, activists, people on the margin. That didn’t help. East Berlin was a fucking snake pit.’

‘Before my time,’ Ben said. ‘I joined up after the wall came down.’

Kinski nodded. ‘Lucky you. It wasn’t pretty. Anyway, that gave them the excuse they needed to vanish her. I heard through a contact that they were coming for her. I didn’t think it was right to magic her away to some fucking camp in Manchuria just because of what she wrote.’

‘So you helped her.’

‘I knew some people. We got her out. She came to Austria, did whatever it is women do to become nuns. Then, after the wall came down she got the post at the convent. She still writes, under another name. A tough old trooper.’

‘You saved her life.’

Kinski waved that away. ‘Well, I just pulled a few strings, you know. It was hard, though. You never knew who you could trust.’

‘I know the feeling. Who do you trust now?’

‘In the police?’ Kinski had already given it a lot of thought. ‘Three guys for sure. My own guys. Others I’m not so sure about.’

‘What about your superiors?’

‘I knew my Chief for nearly eight years. I don’t believe he’s mixed up in this. Someone got to him. Or else they just fast-tracked his retirement and he took their offer. That could be it. He was tired.’

The road flashed by. More quiet time passed. ‘I’m going to need some new kit,’ Ben said.

‘Like what?’

‘Ammunition for my Para,’ Ben said. ‘Forty-five auto. Copper jacketed, in clean condition. Two hundred rounds at least. No military surplus. Something quality, a good brand like Federal or Remington. Can you arrange that?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Kinski replied.

‘Or else another pistol,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing fancy, no unusual calibres, no revolvers. Nothing smaller than nine millimetre, nothing bigger than forty-five.’

‘I know a guy.’

They drove on for a while. Then Kinski asked, ‘So what’s the story with you and Leigh?’

Ben hesitated. ‘There’s no story.’

‘I can see there is.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I’ve known her for a while. She and I were close once, that’s all.’ He didn’t say anything more.

‘OK, I’ll back off,’ Kinski said. ‘None of my business. I just wanted to say-’

‘What?’

‘That if you and Leigh have something going between you, don’t waste it.’

Ben turned to look at him. The cop’s face was hard as he drove.

‘Just don’t fucking waste it, Ben,’ Kinski said again. ‘Don’t throw something like that away. Make the most of it.’ He was quiet for a minute. His hands gripped the wheel in the darkness. He added in an undertone, ‘I lost my wife.’

Amstetten, Austria

The next morning

Freezing rain was spattering hard on the pavements by the time Ben found the place. It was a plain terraced house in a winding street, ten minutes’ walk from the railway station at Amstetten.

He knocked. Dogs barked inside. He waited a while and knocked again. He heard the sound of someone coming. A figure appeared through a dimpled glass inner door. It opened, and a man stepped into the entrance porch. He unlocked the outer door and stood in the doorway. He was heavy-set, bleary-eyed, with puffy cheeks and straggly grey hair. An odour of cheap cooking and wet dogs arose from the hallway.

‘Herr Meyer?’

‘Ja? Who are you?’ Meyer peered at Ben suspiciously.

Ben flashed the police ID he’d stolen from Kinski’s pocket. He kept his thumb over most of it. He held it up just long enough for the word POLIZEI to register, then he jerked it away and tried to look as officious as he could. ‘Detective Gunter Fischbaum.’

Meyer nodded slowly. Then his eyes narrowed a little. ‘You’re not Austrian.’

‘I’ve lived abroad,’ Ben said.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Your son, Friedrich.’

‘Fred’s dead,’ Meyer said in a sullen voice.

‘I know,’ Ben replied. ‘I’m sorry. I have a couple of questions.’

‘Fred’s been dead almost a year. He killed himself. What more do you people want to know?’

‘It won’t take long. May I come in?’

Meyer didn’t say anything. Down the hallway, a door opened. A scrawny woman appeared behind Meyer. She looked worried. ‘Was ist los?’