E. Seymour - Final Target

‘We met in London.’

‘You’re an artist?’

‘I sell art. I’m a dealer.’

‘Then you must know Lorna Spencer, his agent.’

‘Of course.’ Lorna Spencer was the name assumed by McCallen. ‘Are you an artist too?’

The smile faded a little. ‘Yes, didn’t Lars tell you?’

‘I have a terrible memory,’ I said, apologetically. ‘I don’t remember him mentioning you.’

Pain invaded her pixie features. ‘We were engaged.’ She flushed deeply. ‘Didn’t you know he dumped me so that he could marry Lorna Spencer?’

‘Do you have time for lunch?’ It was the best I could come up with in the circumstances. Underneath, I was furious. McCallen had put my life at risk so that I could investigate her dead lover. Marriage, for Chrissakes. A huge part of me wanted to knock this business on the head and catch the next flight back.

‘Sure,’ she said.

Mathilde took me to a bar off Kollwitzplatz. Dark and cavernous, with orange and brown furnishings, it was populated by an eclectic crowd of students noisily playing ping-pong on an old table, ‘arty’ types and, as Mathilde described them, ‘anarcho-punks’. I must have been the oldest there. Techno music popped out of the speakers, not enough to deafen, just enough to annoy, but the beer on tap was good and I badly needed a drink. Mathilde ordered Augustiner, a beer brewed in Munich, and plates of garlic sausage with fried potatoes.

‘How long were you with Lars?’ I said.

‘We met when I was twenty. Love at first sight, or so I thought.’ She frowned and her eyes darkened.

‘Don’t let the break-up trash your memories.’

She flicked a sad, grateful little smile. ‘We moved in together after three months and for the next ten years were inseparable.’

‘Until his move to London?’

‘ Ja .’

‘Which was?’

‘Three years ago. In the beginning, I’d fly back and forth, but he became evasive and secretive, which wasn’t like him at all. He was always so honest and open. I put it down to his increasing success and new circle of friends.’

‘He was hanging out with …’ I broke off, as if searching for the right description.

‘A lot of wealthy types with ambitious plans for him,’ Mathilde stepped in. ‘I knew straightaway that something was wrong.’

‘Because it was out of character?’

‘Totally. Lars has always been so grounded. He had nothing in common with those people.’

‘What about his friendship with Dieter Benz?’

Mathilde’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What friendship? Lars told you about Dieter?’ She stared at me as if I’d suddenly found the ability to speak fluent German.

‘You knew him?’

‘Everyone knows him. Dieter was and always will be a creep.’

‘And a revolutionary, according to Lars.’

Mathilde’s face screwed up in disgust. ‘Dieter casts himself as a romantic freedom fighter, a nationalist. It is easy, is it not, in these uncertain times, to assume such roles?’

‘So why was Lars involved with Dieter?’

‘He wasn’t,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘Lars loathed Dieter. He thought he was cunning and untrustworthy.’

‘Lars shared his radical ideas.’ I was running on fumes with this.

‘That’s crap. Lars didn’t have a political bone in his body.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

Mathilde looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and derision. ‘How long did you know him?’

I shrugged. It was a fair point. Silence opened up between us. It gave me time to think. I’d pushed her hard because this woman had known Lars well. She knew his beliefs and what he stood for. Lars would have to be highly motivated to take the type of risks McCallen demanded of him. Penetrating a right-wing group prone to violence led by someone like Benz required nerve and skill, and Lars didn’t sound the type or up to the mark. I wondered in fairly graphic detail what McCallen had done to corrupt and charm Lars into doing her dirty work.

Mathilde took a long drink of beer. Her hand shook and the bangles on her wrist rattled. She looked away then looked back, as if gathering herself.

The food arrived. Mathilde picked up a fork and speared a piece of sausage. ‘Gisela mentioned that you were in Russia when Lars was killed.’

I took a mouthful, chewed and swallowed. ‘I travel often to St Petersburg. I’m principally interested in iconic art, although I have a number of artists with whom I do business who paint other forms. They get a better price through me,’ I explained. ‘What type of art do you do?’

‘Conceptual.’ To me, this meant a pile of bricks, stuffed fish and dirty knickers. Mathilde rummaged through her bag and rooted out a typically arty business card and handed it to me. I made a play of studying it. ‘Different from Lars, then.’ I’d checked him out. He’d specialised in exquisite figurative work, women in all shapes and sizes, beautiful, some exotic, each oozing sexuality, stuff I could get my head around and wouldn’t mind hanging on my walls. I briefly wondered whether McCallen had posed for him.

A fleeting smile touched Mathilde’s lips. ‘He was extremely talented.’

I pocketed the card, left another pause, hoping that she would reveal a detail that would help clear the fog in my head. She didn’t. I continued to eat. The dish was flavoursome and earthy, like McCallen’s laugh. Hell, was I going to corner her when I got back.

Eventually, I rolled the conversation on once more. ‘You remain close to the Pallenbergs?’

‘I do.’ Her voice trailed. I could see that she remained deeply hurt by what had happened to her.

‘I’m sorry.’ And I genuinely was.

She shot me an angry glance. ‘You know the damn woman never even made it to his funeral?’ She meant McCallen.

‘I didn’t know that.’ It sounded thin. I knew it. She knew it. The smiley exterior slipped.

‘How well do you know Miss Spencer?’

‘I know her professionally, nothing more. She’d passed on several of Lars’s paintings to me. It’s how I originally met him.’

‘Which pieces of work?’ There was a suspicious light in her eyes. And she wasn’t buying Lars’s ‘caught in crossfire’ death any more than the rest of us. She wasn’t buying me either. I reeled off the titles itemised in the file.

‘She is who she says she is?’ Mathilde threw me a fierce look.

I blinked and remained impassive. ‘Who?’

‘Lorna Spencer.’

‘I don’t understand.’ My fork was poised mid-air as I gave my best impression of confusion. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a stretch.

‘She looks good on paper, but that’s it,’ Mathilde said with venom. ‘The art world is small. Nobody I know has ever heard of her.’

I forced a smile. ‘I assure you, her credentials are sound.’

Her eyes met mine. She didn’t say it but I knew what she was thinking: How good are yours? I leant towards her.

‘What do you think really happened to Lars?’

‘She bewitched him.’

I understood. I’d been fairly bewitched myself and that was dangerous. Emotions kill.

Mathilde looked around the bar, dropped her voice a note. ‘She got him involved in something, something that led to his murder,’ she hissed.

I put down my knife and fork. ‘That’s a fairly heavy statement.’

She smiled without warmth. ‘How else do you explain his death?’

‘He got unlucky. The banker was the prime target, I understand.’

She cast me a look that was cool and bitter. ‘Did you know that Lars was afraid for his life?’

‘No.’

‘ Ach , of course, you were away.’

In spite of her German intonation, I detected sarcasm. ‘He spoke to you about it?’