Through Every Human Heart (8 page)

On the day after the failed burglary, when Charles called at the Hotel where Irene Arbanisi was temporarily staying, he looked every inch the gentleman. The girl's phone had supplied him with a mobile number. He had given a name without adding any details, using the MacLeod girl's name as a reason for the request to meet. It was a great risk, but he couldn't think of a better line and in any case, what was life without the taking of risks?

When she opened the door, she was beautiful, in a different league altogether from the girl he'd mistaken for her, but just a little off balance. He suspected she hadn't slept well. She had done her best, but the pieces of her life weren't fitting together as closely as they usually did.

‘What's this about? How do you know Dina?'

‘Is she here?' he asked.

‘No. What's this about?'

‘So she hasn't been in touch with you?'

‘Who are you?'

He let his face fall. ‘I'm a friend of hers. I can't reach her. I thought you might know. Look, I'm sorry if this is a bad time, I'll not trouble you. Here's my card – ' he reached into his inside pocket, and selected one which identified him as an actuary for a reputable international firm. ‘You could let me know . . .' he let his voice trail off in barely-controlled disappointment.

‘You'd better come in, I suppose,' she said.

And this was all that it took. Time after time, this was all that it took. A well-made suit, a modicum of aftershave, a gentle voice and a business card. Thank God for the natural goodness and gullibility of humankind.

Following her through into the small sitting area, he caught sight of himself in a narrow mirror, and raised one fair eyebrow, as if to ask, what
are
you doing here, Charlie boy? He was not altogether sure, to tell the truth. He was a little tired, a little sore and stiff.

‘All right, I'm listening,' she said, not inviting him to sit.

‘There was a break-in at your flat yesterday.'

‘Indeed there was. How do you know? And how did you get my mobile number?'

‘Dina called me. That was about all she said before she was cut off.'

He was winging it now, which was what he liked best, watching her face for the slightest change, the most minute signal which would tell him what he needed to know.

‘She's really not here?'

‘No. I told you.'

‘Then where is she? Are the police looking for her?'

‘I believe so. Why ask me? You should be asking them. How do you know Dina?'

Good, you're getting there now. All the questions you should have asked before you let me in.

He assumed a troubled expression, ‘I don't trust them. I suppose I thought she might have tried to get in touch with you. She looks up to you so much. She gave me your mobile number once in case . . .' He lowered his head again.

Come on, lady, I want to find the bastard who kicked me in the balls and made it necessary for me to tidy up all these loose ends, something I hadn't planned on doing. And right now you are the lady of the moment, because either you know them, or your secretary does, and one way or another, you are going tell me who and where they are.

 

Irene studied the top of his lowered head. She was very tired, not having slept at all well in the hotel bed. She'd been deeply upset by the news of Bebe's death, more angry than sad. Her home had been violated, her beloved cat killed, her property stolen, her work schedule put on hold and, to crown it all, the police had more or less accused her of being incompetent.

There's been an incident.

They'd watched her, heartless, cold as dead fish, not letting Paul or anyone else stay to comfort her, talking to her as if it was all her fault, all those valuables, a safe but no alarm system, hardly any security, as if she'd deliberately sent Dina into danger, as if she should have known her flat was about to be burgled. Dina seemed to be the centre of everyone's concern. Had she run off? Could she have known the thief? She'd called 999, but that proved nothing. If she wasn't involved, where might she have gone? The same questions, over and over. And no, no, you can't go home, not yet, we'll find you a hotel, we're so very sorry.

They were still there when the phone rang. Anger had given her power. Instantly, in the twinkling of an eye, she'd managed to gain back her self-control. The word ‘Irina' had done it. A male voice, but no one called her that except her mother. She'd swung the chair round, so the two police officers couldn't see her face. She'd fooled them completely. She knew more than they did now. And now here was another stranger preoccupied with Dina. He'd called before she was properly awake, asking if he might to speak to her, and claiming to be a friend of Dina's. Did he mean ‘boyfriend'? Was this Derek's replacement? That was hard to believe. Dina was merely nice looking, but he was almost too good to be true. Six feet tall, well put together, unruly blond curls. She wondered fleetingly about body hair. She had always preferred smooth men.

‘You look pale, Miss Arbanisi,' he said. ‘I shouldn't have come.'

‘I haven't slept,' she said.

‘I know the feeling,' he said, with a woebegone smile.

‘I'm sorry, please sit down,' she said.

He took the other tub chair. His socks perfectly matched the dark grey of his pinstripe suit. His brogues marked him as a traditional man, but the bright tie suggested otherwise.

‘They don't know what's happened to Dina,' she told him.

‘They?'

‘The police. They came to my office. They think a man was burgling my flat, but then Dina came in, and they think he attacked her and she managed to stab him and call for help, but then she ran away before the police got there.'

She watched carefully to see his reaction.

‘
She stabbed someone? Dina stabbed someone? I can't believe it.' The blue eyes fixed on her, imploring her to make it not true.

‘He died. He bled to death apparently.'

His mouth froze, mouth open in horrified disbelief.

‘I know. It's impossible. That's what I told them. Dina's a dizzy little butterfly of a thing. She spends her every waking moment helping people. She flits and flutters, she couldn't hurt anyone. She'd never touch a knife. She'd faint if she saw one.'

He was holding his hands to his head. She hesitated. Was she being unfair? Should she put him out of his misery and tell him the truth? Or should she twist the knife a little more and mention the other idiotic police theory that Dina might have been part of the crime from the start. Perhaps he was suffering enough.

‘They're just being horrible. They won't let me go home because it's a crime scene.'

‘I know how lovely your place is. Dina's told me about it. We were supposed to go out for a meal last night, you see,' he added.

She felt a flush of jealousy. How on earth had Dina attracted a man like this? Where had they met? Why had she said nothing about it? It wasn't like Dina to keep anything secret.

‘There's only one problem . . .'

He looked up questioningly.

‘Some of my property is missing. So there might have been someone else there. Unless Dina took it.'

He looked so miserable, she felt almost like slapping him. All this for Dina.

‘I should have asked, did he do much damage? To your house? I've never been burgled, so I won't lie and say I understand, but I do realise this must be dreadful for you.'

His eyes were so blue. Could he be wearing contact lenses?

‘The worst thing really was, my cat was killed.'

‘Why? Oh, this is awful. This just gets worse and worse.' He moved to the couch where she was sitting, though not too close. He took her hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Then he made a face, as if feeling that he overstepped himself, and went back to his chair.

‘Well, in fact, I know one or two things that the police don't,' she found herself saying. ‘Things I haven't told them.'

She had his full attention.

‘I got a phone call last night,' she said. ‘Well, two actually, there was one before that.' She stopped. How would he react? What would he think of her? She didn't want him to think badly of her. Not when she hardly knew him.

‘It was a foreign man. At least, he sounded foreign. He said his name, but I don't remember it. He said that he'd come to see me, got into the fight by accident and the knifing wasn't deliberate, and he had Dina with him. He wants me to come and get her.'

He digested this slowly, saying finally, ‘What did you tell him?'

‘Well, I didn't know what to say. I told him I'd think about it. He wouldn't let me talk to her, but he said she was fine, not hurt at all, that it's all been a misunderstanding. Of course, it could all be a pack of lies. I haven't told the police yet. I suppose I ought to.'

The blond man raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if he was thanking God, then lay back in his chair, both hands over his face. She noted how his shoulders shook ever so very slightly with relief.

The village street was busy, but Lazslo saw a space and pulled in.

‘It's a double yellow line,' the girl objected. ‘You can't stop here.'

‘It's fine. This will do,' Feliks said.

‘You'll get a ticket. A small place like this is a traffic warden's dream come true.'

‘I think she is right.' Lazslo said.

‘Then we will drive on. We have no need to stop.'

‘Excuse me. I was told at breakfast that I could shop for whatever I needed. I can't meet Irene looking like this. Not if you want to convince her you've been nice to me.'

She had a point, he thought. It was exactly what he'd said, but she reminded him of those small petulant dogs with more hair than brains. And sharp little teeth. He'd liked her better during the night when she was terrified. Perhaps he needed a supply of moths.

‘Very well. But you speak to no one. Lazslo will go with you.'

They parked eventually in a side street some distance from the shops. ‘Tell me, what is it you do for Miss Arbanisi?' he heard Lazslo ask as they walked away together. Lazslo was beginning to irritate him again. When the girl objected to his smoking in the car, he'd at once rolled down the window and flipped his cigarette into the road. When she thanked him, he'd smiled like a cat being tickled under its chin.

He studied what was visible of the main street in the mirror. Well-fed middle-aged women in trousers. Always in trousers, as if skirts were against the law. A young father with a child on his shoulders. Old men in heavy wool jackets, despite the warmth of the sun. A very large orange tractor trundled slowly and noisily past, with a queue of cars behind it. There was no way of knowing whether their car was known to the police, but most likely their descriptions were by now. The wounded man and his friend would have said all they could, to vindicate themselves if for no other reason. According to the girl, they were workmen who'd come to fix something. She had only screamed because the cat was dead. If so, the whole thing was a farce. He and Lazslo had intervened quite unnecessarily. But workmen with knives? That seemed unlikely.

What was taking them so long? He watched a pigeon attack a piece of cardboard on the pavement. It had more wisdom than he did. At least it stopped when it saw how pointless its actions were.

Well, what was done was done. The mistake was his, it had been his decision to go in. If it had been a decision at all. And he would pay for it. But for now, what else was there to do but go forward? All he asked for now was the chance to speak to the Arbanisi woman. Once the message was conveyed, he would let the police find him. In fact, he might find them first.

He was here in this strange country by his own choice; he had agreed to come because his father had agreed to his terms. Which he might or might not fulfil. Lazslo had been a sly and dirty trick on his father's part. He was useful, of course, and not merely as a driver. Despite his limited language skills, his perfect memory retained everything: their base, this new meeting place and all the route details. Then he wondered if Lazslo had been Janek's idea. It fitted his twisted sense of humour. Janek was arguably the crueller of the two. Boris had been less inclined to indulge in sadism. In the past.

But who could be sure? He smiled grimly. The past had much to answer for. Like this driving business. One more fault on his part. He would never be able to drive a car again. Lazslo had left the keys in the ignition, knowing there was no chance that Feliks would take the driver's seat.

At last they reappeared. Lazslo, in his new role as slave and pet cat, was bearing two large white plastic bags. The girl's face was flushed for some reason. Was she angry? Maybe he hadn't given Lazslo enough cash. He didn't look all that cheerful either. Once in the back seat, she pulled a lipstick out of the bag and began applying the bright paste to her lips. Then she began brushing her hair.

‘Shall we move on? If you're not too busy watching the show,' he said to Lazslo, in their own tongue.

They arrived at the ancient castle well ahead of the appointed time. The approach road was narrow, with high grassy banks on both sides. Beyond the open entrance gate there was a wide grey-gravelled parking area. Two cars sat there already, basking in the late morning sunshine. Both Volvos, one red, one silver. German number plates.

‘Do you recognise those cars?' Feliks asked her.

‘No,' she said. She had tidied herself up reasonably well, he thought, viewing her in the mirror. She would never be a beauty, but she looked all right. She was wearing a different blouse. When had that happened? Blue material with stripes, like a man's shirt. It made her look sensible.

‘Wait here, please,' he told her, motioning to Lazslo to get out.

It was a good choice of meeting place. Public, but not at all crowded, with good visibility all round. The courtyard surrounded the two towers of the ancient sandstone building. Tall beech trees in bright leaf, just beginning to turn, pines much like those at home, other smaller trees he didn't recognise. Three picnic benches, well-tended flower beds full of red and yellow roses. Their sweet perfume was just perceptible. Over to their left, a small green shack bore the universal signs for male and female, one at either end. There was another shack with a ‘Private' sign and a padlock. A flagstone path led to the doorway of the tower.

‘How much did you spend on her?' he asked.

‘Not so much. She said she needed clean things to wear. And new shoes. ‘Keep her happy' was what you said. ‘We have to keep her happy.''

She didn't look happy, watching them keenly through the closed window. He tried a smile. She looked away.

‘What do we do now?' Lazslo asked. He'd lit a cigarette and with his free hand was flicking his index fingernail back and forth against his thumbnail, making tiny clicking sounds. Feliks felt a sudden pang. The intervening years vanished. It was the old Lazslo, wanting to be helpful, nervous as hell, waiting for the roof to fall on them.

‘We're supposed to meet inside. I'll take her in. You wait here,' he said. All at once he wanted Lazslo out of his sight.

‘Shouldn't we stay together? What if Miss Arbanisi's already inside?'

‘I don't think she is. The cars mean nothing to the girl. And we're early. Relax. It's going to be ok. When Miss Arbanisi comes, the girl will come out and wait with you. But you don't even need to speak to her.'

‘What if the police come with her? I'd rather we stayed together. I don't feel . . .'

‘No, you're the lookout. You were always my lookout man, ok?'

He held out his hand. Lazslo clasped it in the old way.

‘What's wrong?' Apart from his own so very smooth hypocrisy . . .

Lazslo was looking back toward the entrance, shading his eyes against the sun. ‘That lane's too narrow. I was sure there was another one. I'm positive there was on the map. I've a bad feeling about this.'

‘Relax. We're only the messengers, right? Twenty-four hours from now we'll be on the plane home.'

How impressive and sincere he sounded. Lazslo fell for it, managed a faint smile as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. His tongue showed between his lips. Another old familiar sign of anxiety. Would it all happen so easily? The British police were not fools. Miss Arbanisi might indeed be bringing them with her, despite her promises not to.

‘Come on, pretend you're a tourist. Go sit at one of those benches and have a smoke. Count the hairs on the sparrows.'

It was a joke from the old days, advice given by anyone to anyone else who was worried about anything, a confusion of bible verses about sparrows being valuable and the hairs on one's head being numbered. Lazslo remembered, and smiled again.

His own smile fading, Feliks watched him walk away towards the trees.
What happened to you?
he wondered.
Damn Janek to hell for whatever he did to you.

Despite his instructions, the girl had got out of the car. She was looking up at the ancient towers. There was a low parapet around the top of the nearest one, at least sixty feet above the ground. No guard rail.

‘Come, we'll go inside,' he said. ‘Lazslo is going to sit in the sun and have a quiet smoke till Miss Arbanisi arrives. Perhaps you could smile,' he added. ‘The woman at the door is looking at us with great curiosity.'

‘Why do we have to go in?'

He was so tempted to say, in a deep, menacing voice, ‘So that I may lure you to your death, and Miss Arbanisi also.' But really, she had been through enough, and none of it her fault. In her world, so completely unlike Janek's, moral choices still existed, with moral consequences. Quite possibly she had never even questioned this.

‘I am going to make her very rich and happy,' he said. It was still possible. And the police might not come. Anything was possible.

The custodian was a buxom woman with white hair struggling to free itself from a chignon. She told them they were just in time for the next tour, so they followed her broad rear up a narrow winding stair into a large empty room with high, mesh-covered windows. A group was waiting for them. Two men, two women, three bored-looking teenagers. One of the men was filming the wooden beams of the ceiling.

The guide began her talk. Feliks watched the girl beside him. She was looking intently at the other people. Was she thinking of speaking to them?

‘Miss MacLeod. Dina,' he said softly, ‘please trust me for one more hour. This is nearly over for you. All will be well.'

‘You wouldn't let me go yesterday in case I told the police about you. What's different now?'

‘When I have spoken to Miss Arbanisi, what happens to me is not so important. I have to give her something.'

The guide was still talking, and the others followed her over to the far wall to examine something of interest.

‘So I can go straight to the police and tell them everything?'

‘If you want to. If you waited for just a few hours, that would be kind. You might consider that we did believe those men were hurting you, and that Lazslo wounded his assailant in self-defence.'

Like a coiled toy from a box, the questions shot out again. Workmen? If not, who were they? Sent by whom? No one was supposed to know why he and Lazslo were here. Boris trusted no one, wanted no records, nothing written or taped. Nobody was meant to know.

Leave it
he told himself. There was no time now for this. All depended on the next half hour. All the Arbanisi woman had to do was make one phone call to the number he would give her. She would surely do that. She had nothing to lose. One simple message would then wing its way to Boris.

He stared at an immense cobweb on the dusty stone window ledge.
Am I the fly? Who is the spider?

The guide and her followers were disappearing through a low doorway in the far corner of the room. He looked at the world outside. Long-legged sheep with blue paint on their rumps were feeding on lush grass. Small birds sat on the electricity wires. On the main road, a white car slowly turned into the lane.

He crossed to the window at the other side of the room. There was a red BMW beside the other cars. He couldn't see if there was anyone inside. Nor could he see Lazslo.

‘I suppose you have diplomatic immunity,' the girl said.

Did he? He wasn't at all sure. He wasn't sure of anything. Should he go out? Stay put? She turned away, as if to follow the tourists. He caught her by the wrist.

‘Let go of me.'

‘No, stay with me. Your friend is here, I think. A white Lexus, right?'

‘Irene?' Her face suffused with relief.

‘We will go down now to meet her. Once you confirm to me that it is her, you do whatever you wish.'

 

They waited in the small entrance way for a few minutes. At last there came the sound of a woman's high heels clicking on the flagstones.

‘Irene! Oh, thank God!'

The woman opened her arms to meet the hurtling figure. Feliks felt tension drain from him like grain from a sack. This was surely the real thing. Beautifully dressed, with a slender figure, hair the colour of first wheat. He let the embrace and the conversation go on for a time, delighted to hear Dina confirm what he'd told this woman, that he was no burglar, that he was in fact some kind of rescuer, but when she began to elaborate on events he interrupted.

‘Miss Arbanisi, as I said last night, my name is Feliks Albescu. First I'm instructed to give you something to establish that what I say is trustworthy.'

He took a small brown leather box out of his pocket.

‘What's this?

‘Please.'

The woman stared at its contents.

‘How did you get this?'

‘You recognise it?'

‘Of course.' She slipped the ring onto her finger. The huge emerald seemed to flash fire even in the dim light inside the entrance room. Her fingernails, he noted, were beautifully manicured.

‘Is that real?'

‘If it's what I think it is,' she held out her hand for Dina to see. ‘How did you get this? Where did it come from?' she asked him.

‘Miss Arbanisi, I am here to offer you your proper inheritance. There is much at home that is rightfully yours if you are willing to claim it.'

It sounded like something memorised, which it exactly was.

‘My inheritance?'

He went on with his script, ‘Miss Arbanisi, you will be aware that our country has almost four years ago rejected Communism. The president and people now wish to offer your family those titles and lands which your great-grandfather was forced to renounce. The Archduchess Annamaria's ring is a token of goodwill. You are to keep it, whatever you . . .'

He broke off.

‘Hey, what're you . . .' the girl protested as he pushed her behind him.

Miss Arbanisi turned to address the approaching figure, ‘Charles, I was right. Look at this! He
is
from the Old Country . . .'