The Doll’s House (33 page)

Daniel managed to say, ‘Nobody saw me. I wasn't there.'

‘Our witness says you were,' the second man insisted.

The DCI turned his head and spoke to the constable, ‘Bring up a chair for him, will you?' Daniel stayed on his feet.

‘What witness? I don't believe you.'

‘Not a very impressive one,' the DCI admitted. ‘A vagrant, well known round the area. He was sitting in a doorway, getting ready for the night. He saw the car and he saw you. There was a street light quite close; he had a really good look at you. He said he'd been thinking of going to the window and asking for a cigarette or a few bob. The usual driver always gave him something. Blessed is the alms giver – good Muslims never say no to a beggar. You know that. He saw you jump out when the sirens started up; you threw the cap away and he realized you weren't the normal driver. And under that street light he saw enough to make a positive I.D.'

Daniel could feel the chair at the back of him; his legs were rigid. ‘A beggar? Some old drunk sleeping rough?' He actually forced himself to laugh. ‘Try that one in court. I was nowhere near the place.'

The second man came a little closer to him. He had a cold, impassive face, but the eyes were mocking him. ‘We sent the cap to forensic,' he said. ‘Some of the hairs matched the ones we got off your pillow, Ishbav. You try telling us how they got there.'

Daniel swallowed. His eyes narrowed and then opened. He held the other man's look. ‘OK,' he said. He turned and sat down in the chair. ‘What's the deal?'

‘No deal!' the DCI snarled at him, bristling.

‘OK,' Daniel said again. ‘No deal. You get me, but you don't get the others.'

The DCI raised his voice. ‘I told you, I don't deal with scum like you—'

The second man came up and touched him on the arm. He swung away, grimacing in disgust. ‘Mr Ishbav,' the tone was conciliatory. ‘Would you like a cigarette?'

The DCI and his companion made their way down the corridor towards his office. ‘I could do with a cup of coffee,' he said. ‘And something in it.'

‘Good idea. Funny, isn't it? Normally, once they start talking you can't get them to stop. But not this bastard. He's caught and he knows it, but he'll give as little as he can to try and make a deal for himself. You took a hell of a chance there, but it came off.'

‘It was our only chance,' the DCI said. ‘That poor old bugger couldn't identify his own mother, if he had to stand up in a court. But it did the trick. Jesus, what a set up, eh? Assassination to order. Wait till the Home Office hears about this one.'

They turned into his office. ‘Well,' the younger man said, ‘we've got three names for a start. And he's promised more.'

‘I'll put out an APB for Stevenson and the others. We'll have our coffee and let him sweat for a bit. Then we'll have him in again. Scotch or brandy?'

‘Scotch would be fine, thanks. Congratulations – you did a great job.'

‘Bloody boiler,' Harry Oakham muttered. The maintenance man wiped his hands on a rag.

‘I told that Bob not to meddle with it,' he said. He hated the two younger men. They were a couple of roughs in his opinion, lacking respect for a man of his age. He didn't mind putting in a bad word to Mr Oakham.

Harry recognized spite when he heard it, and doubted whether Bob had even been near the boiler room, but he didn't say anything. ‘The kitchen will go on strike if we don't get it fixed,' he said. ‘Try again, Jim, will you? Otherwise I'll have to get on to the heating engineers in Ipswich and get them to send someone out at the double …'

He was sweating in the hot, smelly space. The big boiler, gleaming new, stood silent, with a little pool of oil gathering at the base. Jim shook his head. ‘I've tried everything, sir,' he said. ‘The old one worked all right. You always get teething troubles with these new models. I said so, but—' He shrugged again.

‘I'll call Ipswich,' Harry said. ‘They'll get it fixed.'

‘Hope so,' said Jim, who was hoping they wouldn't. He'd never liked the new boiler; the old model was reliable and he understood it. But everything had to be done over when the old owners left. He followed Harry Oakham out and closed the door.

The heating engineers were not sure they had a man available to come at such short notice. Harry sat in his office and swore; it took twenty minutes and a direct call to the manager of the branch to get an assurance that an engineer would be on his way in half an hour. The phone rang and it was reception.

‘All right to put your calls through, Mr Oakham, or are you going out?'

‘I'm going across to have a shower and clean up,' Harry said. ‘Mr Pollock can take anything till I come back.'

It would keep Jan occupied. He locked his office and went off to his house and the comfort of a hot shower. Then he remembered the boiler. He grinned. All right, a cold shower. Outside his door he found the corn dolly. There was a note pinned to its straw chest.

He went inside and tore the envelope open. ‘My Darling, it looked so like you I couldn't resist it! I'm longing for this evening. All my deepest love, R.' The foolish face grinned at him under the lop-sided little hat. He laughed and held it for a moment. Judith would have given him something like that.

No, he corrected himself firmly. He mustn't compare her to Rosa. They weren't alike. Rosa was serious, independent, much more intelligent. And suddenly it wasn't disloyal to think like that.

It was strange to realize that Judith's memory was less sacred, her image less clear. At last he was going to bury his memories after all these years. Rosa had done that for him. He put the corn dolly on his bed. He stripped and went under the shower. The water was lukewarm and then freezing. He came out towelling himself and shivered.

He heard the rapid knocking on his door. He called out, ‘Who is it?'

‘It's me,' Jan's voice was hoarse. ‘Let me in, for Christ's sake!'

Harry went to the door at a run and wrenched it open. Jan stood there. His face was a sick grey. ‘I've been ringing,' he mumbled. ‘You didn't answer … They said you were in your house so I came over …'

‘I didn't hear it, I was in the shower. What is it, Jan? Come on, what's happened?'

Jan sagged at the knees on to Oakham's bed. He looked up at him. ‘Werner called. They've got Daniel. And he's talking.'

Harry Oakham lit a cigarette. His hand was steady. He'd listened while Jan repeated what Georg Werner had said, ending with the anguished accusation that he was ruined along with the rest of them, before he had rung off. ‘The shit,' Harry said quietly. ‘The little shit.'

Jan said, ‘You knew we couldn't trust him.'

‘I didn't trust anyone except you,' was the answer. ‘So Werner says he's making a deal … That means he'll try and spin it out to get the best terms for himself. Immunity from prosecution.' He laughed suddenly. ‘Much bloody good it'll do him. If he stands up in a court, the Mossad boys'll be in the public gallery!'

‘What are you going to do?' Jan asked. He was calmer now, because of Oakham. Oakham never panicked. Danger brought out the best in him. Jan knew that.

‘Get the hell out as fast as we can. Daniel won't give them any big fish to start with. And I'll be the last. His ace. We've got our passports, cash in the hotel safe, and we can make Heathrow and get a direct flight to Switzerland. Then we disappear.'

He came over to Jan and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘We were going to do it anyway; we're just going early, that's all. So nothing to worry about.' He looked at his watch. ‘I'll call up and find out the flight times. Then we'll put a few things in a bag and slip away.'

‘What about Rilke and Zarubin? Aren't you going to tell them?'

Harry didn't hesitate. ‘Daniel will end up by spilling his guts out. I don't have a bleeding heart for either of them. Let them take care of themselves. He travels fastest who travels alone. Now let's see about the flights.'

The time passed slowly. More slowly than Rosa could remember. Perhaps it was always like this when you waited for a lover. The hands on your watch couldn't move fast enough. She thought of James when they first met, and she had imagined herself to be in love. She was in love, but not like this. There had always been a part of her that held back. She used to think of it as independence. She accepted the reserve as natural, healthy in a modern woman.

Now she was so restless with excitement and the desire to be with Harry Oakham that she couldn't watch TV or read a book.

She went for a walk in the grounds, skirting the lake which was grey as the sun started dipping, and ruffled by a cold wind that sprang up.

The lovely autumn day was fading; winter's chill was in the clouded sky. Rosa felt cold suddenly, and hurried back to the hotel.

She wondered if he'd found the little corn dolly, and smiled at the idea. Upstairs in her room she went through her wardrobe, wondering which dress to wear that evening. Something he hadn't seen before. Love made her vain, coquettish. She felt sensual, excited by thoughts of making love to him. She brushed her hair until it shone and let it hang loose because he'd said he liked it best that way.

She dressed in a cream silk and wool dress that she'd nearly left behind because it was too smart for a country hotel. No jewellery on the dress except gold earrings. The top was cut tight to the figure, the skirt was draped at one hip and fell almost to her ankles. She twisted her cultured pearls round one wrist. She wanted to be beautiful for him. She didn't care how exotic she looked to the other guests.

The career diplomat, Rosa Bennet, always understated. She laughed out loud at her own reflection and at that moment the telephone rang. She hurried and picked it up.

‘Mrs Bennet?' It was reception. Not Harry. Too early.

‘Yes?'

‘You've left the lights on in your car.'

‘Oh damn! I'll have a flat battery … thanks, I'll come down right away.'

She found the car keys, picked up the bag that matched her dress and started down the stairs. The young porter could switch them off if she gave him the keys.

But he wasn't there. The boy had been summoned to Zarubin's room to bring down a locked case for safekeeping. There was nobody to take the key and go to the car park. She would have to go herself. It was cold, she thought, and hurried across the gravel, turned round the corner and passed under the trees that concealed the cars from view. It was nearly dark. How stupid to have forgotten the lights … but she was driving in daylight …

She must have turned the switch on by mistake. She reached her car and exclaimed in annoyance. No lights, nothing. And then she felt the man come up behind her, and swung round.

He loomed over her and she gasped out loud. The point of a knife touched her throat. The cry died away. ‘Turn round,' Zarubin said. ‘Don't make any noise. Put your hands behind your back.'

Rosa stared at him; he saw the shock in her face. ‘Turn round,' he said again. ‘If you do anything stupid I'll kill you.'

She moved, slowly until she faced away from him. He reached out and pulled her right arm behind her, gripping the wrist. The pearls broke and scattered on the ground. ‘The other one,' he ordered. She had begun to tremble; she bent her left arm backwards and he seized it. He had a handkerchief ready with a slip knot. Her hands were tied.

She managed to whisper. ‘What are you doing …? What do you want …?'

‘Be quiet.'

He jabbed the knife into her back and she arched away from it. Zarubin opened the passenger door of the little Ford. He held her above the elbow and pushed her towards it. She couldn't resist. With her hands pinioned, she was off balance. ‘Bend down,' he snapped at her. ‘Get in.'

He forced her into the car, slamming the door shut; in a few seconds he was beside her. He looked at her; he showed her the knife and she shrank back. She saw his face in the semi-darkness and didn't dare to speak. He leaned a little towards her and brought something out of his pocket. He showed it to her on his palm.

The little camera. ‘I'm taking you to see a friend,' he said softly. ‘He's very interested in photography. He wants to ask you about this one. Are you going to scream, Mrs Bennet? Nobody will hear you if you do.'

Rosa shook her head. She managed to whisper. ‘No.' The camera. He had been to her room and found the camera.

He'd put it away; he switched on the engine and put the car into gear, the knife was in his left hand, and the hand was close to her side.

‘We haven't far to go,' he said. ‘Just a little way.' She was as pale as the clothes she wore; he wondered if she would faint.

He drove carefully out of the car park, using dipped headlights, steering with one hand. He probed her with the knife when she moved in the seat and she froze. Down the drive, no oncoming car to see them; no chance of escape for her. There was a house ahead, she saw lights in the windows, felt the car slow and turn. When it stopped she found a little courage and spoke to him. ‘Where are you taking me?'

‘To meet my friend.' He got out, came round and opened her door. He reached in and pulled her out; she almost fell. The house was only a few paces away. She glanced round in a rising terror, wondering whether at this last moment she might scream and someone, somewhere would hear. The front door opened and she saw a man silhouetted against the light.

She wouldn't have cared if the knife was at her throat. She was overwhelmed with fear and it was focused on that black outline in the lighted doorway. Zarubin felt her go rigid and then jerk violently to get free. He sensed the scream of panic and slapped his hand over her open mouth. He bent her head brutally and forced her forward, up to the doorway into the light where the man was waiting.