Dancing With Mortality (12 page)

‘Fine, I’ll make that an additional question, shall I? And
how do you know she did sleep with him?’

‘We tracked O’Reilly as far as Kilburn. But before we could
move in, something spooked him and he left rather hurriedly. When we searched
his flat we found letters between the two of them, with enough intimacy to
conclude they were lovers. We dropped our pursuit shortly afterwards, because
it became apparent that we weren’t the only people looking for him. We thought
if we left well alone the problem might be resolved without us. And then we got
sidetracked onto more important things, so unfortunately we don’t know what
happened.’

‘Who else was looking?’

‘IRA colleagues. He was on their hit list apparently. We
don’t know why though.’

‘Seems to be quite a lot you don’t know.’ Harry was
intrigued, in spite of his earlier misgivings. ‘He could be dead then. You’re
shooting in the dark, Jack, it seems to me. Incidentally, why do you want him
now?’

Jack gave a short laugh. ‘You don’t need to know that. Let
me summarise it for you. Sabine Maier is the only link we have. O’Reilly may
well be dead, and if that’s the case it would be a good result for us, I can
tell you that much. Just ask your questions, find a way of meeting her again,
and see what you can find out.’

‘I see. It seems harmless enough. Can’t quite see her
confessing all though.’

‘To an extent I agree with you, Harry. So there’s one last
thing. We’ll give you a key to her apartment. At some point you’ll search it
for any sign of contact between them. We’ll also give you a couple of CDs with
some pre-loaded software that will let you download the contents of her
computer, assuming she has one. You’ll probably need no more than an hour.’

It was Harry’s turn to laugh, but it was devoid of mirth.
‘Christ, that’s all I need. And if she just happens to walk in?’

‘She won’t. You’ll do it when she’s in Munich. She has a gig
there the week after the Heidelberg interview. There’s no risk at all, Harry.’

What am I getting into, he wondered. Whatever it was, it
didn’t stop him from deciding there and then. ‘Ok, Jack. I’ll do it. And while
I’m in Frankfurt, get me somewhere nice to stay. An apartment, not a hotel.’

‘Already done. Welcome back, Harry.’

The day following his conversation
with Jack, he was summoned to a meeting with the head of the bank’s Programme
Office, who was responsible for overall management of resources and budgets for
all the projects currently underway in London. Looking somewhat bemused, she
informed him that the German branch wanted him to kick off a process initiative
in Frankfurt.

‘Totally out of the blue, Harry. I know it’s short notice,
but can you do it?’

Harry looked suitably surprised. ‘I think so, Gina. I’ll
need to discuss it with my wife of course.’

‘Let me know as soon as you can. I’ve told them they can
have you for a month, tops. You speak German, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Been a while, I’ll be quite rusty to start with.
I bet most of them speak better English than I do. Shouldn’t be an issue.’

He spent the next fortnight at work ensuring that any
outstanding processes and documentation were ready to be handed over to a
temporary replacement. It was time consuming, and at home there was still no
sign of Sophie, or even any sign that she’d been in the house. He called her
mobile several times, but got only voicemail. He missed her.

He was due to fly out in two days. He would call her again
this evening, and if it was still bloody voicemail he’d have no option but to
leave a message, and hope she bothered to listen to it. Maybe he should just go
round to Fulham and find out what was on her mind. No, she’d just use Clive and
Susanna as reinforcements if it came to an argument. He could do without that.

That evening he left the office at a
reasonable hour, politely declining Neil’s invitation to join him for a drink.
He wanted a clear head tonight. He arrived home around 8ish, and was surprised
to see lights on as he pulled into the drive. He had a moment of doubt –
hopefully that was his wife inside, and not a team of burglars turning the
place over. Could be Sabine Maier of course, mounting a pre-emptive strike.
Only one way to find out.

It was Sophie. She rose from the sofa as soon as she saw
him, walked across the room and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight.

‘Harry, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a bit of a bitch. Forgive
me?’

For a quiet moment he revelled in the warmth and smell of
her. ‘I missed you. Are you ok?’

She raised her head and kissed him. ‘Yes, you?’

‘Sure. What about your test?’

‘I’m clear Harry. I just freaked out when you told me,
that’s all. Needed time to think.’

‘Thank god you’re ok. And now you’ve had time to think,
what’s the verdict?’

She gently thumped his ribs. ‘You’re not on trial. I was
worried that I wouldn’t be able to make love to you. But I was being stupid. If
we both had it, what difference would it make? And if you picked it up years
ago, and I’m clear, then it amounts to the same thing. Apparently I’d have to
be pretty rough with you in bed for the risk to be real.’

He smiled. ‘How rough, exactly?’

‘Rough enough to draw blood. Not exactly my style, is it?’

He moved his hands to caress her waist, and she pressed her
body against him. ‘I’ve forgotten your style, actually.’

She laughed. ‘Time I refreshed your memory then. Let’s go
upstairs.’

They ordered a takeaway, Chicken
Jalfrezi with dhaal and chapatties, washed down with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc.

‘Tesco’s finest, quite nice too,’ remarked Harry as he
filled Sophie’s glass.

She took a sip. ‘Mmm, not bad. You know that people with
hepatitis shouldn’t drink, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I’ve had the lifestyle advice. No alcohol, but sex is
ok in a monogamous relationship. I’ve told the other women it’s over, so you’ve
nothing to worry about in that department.’

She gave him a quizzical look, but didn’t bite. ‘Some
changes might be a good idea, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘No, you’re right. I’m not ignoring it. When I get back from
Germany we’ll organise a program of pure living, with minimal indulgence.
They’ll probably canonize me.’

‘You didn’t tell me you were going to Germany. When?’

‘In two days. Which is one of the reasons I was trying to
call you. They want me to do some work in the Frankfurt office. No more than a
month. Sorry to spring it on you, but it was sprung on me too.’

She considered for a moment. ‘Well I suppose I can spare
you. I’ll take a few days leave and come and see you. I’m sure there are lots
of pretty German towns we can visit.’

‘I’m sure there are.’ His stomach flipped at this first
unforeseen complication. ‘That’s a great idea. Let’s drink to it. Prosit!’

Harry stood on the Old Bridge
spanning the Neckar River, looking up at Heidelberg Castle. It was dark now,
but the famous old castle in its elevated position in the foothills above the
town was clearly visible. Its fortifications and towers were illuminated by
unseen spotlights, which imparted a soft golden glow to the aged brown stone.
It formed a singular and imposing structure on this side of the river, with
only the blackness of the surrounding forest for company.

The Old Town lay at its feet. He’d walked nearly a mile from
the tram stop at Bismarckplatz, down a wide, straight Main Street, or
Hauptstrasse, to get to the bridge. The place was buzzing with tourists,
snapping the sights and each other, before almost invariably ducking into one
of the many bars or traditional sausage and sauerkraut restaurants. The day had
been mild, but the night wind blowing across the river held a sharp chill
heralding the approach of winter.

Maybe it’s just normal October weather, he thought, wrapping
his scarf a little tighter. He took a last look at the castle and then walked
off the bridge and back into town. Turning left at the Hauptstrasse he
continued on, scanning the side streets until he found the one he wanted. The
Jazzhaus was halfway down.

He went down some stairs to what appeared to be a converted
beer cellar. It was a narrow and intimate venue, with a stage at one end and
groups of small tables filling the rest of the space, with a bar behind them.
He decided to sit as far back from the stage as possible, and was glad he’d
come early. The place probably couldn’t hold much more than 50 people, and it
was half full already. He checked his watch. Sabine was due on stage at 9pm,
one hour to wait. He found an unoccupied table near the bar, and signalled the
waitress.

She took his order. ‘Are you alone?’ she asked. He nodded.
‘You won’t be for long. We have a very good group tonight, and by 9 we will be
full up. Hope you don’t mind sharing.’ She smiled and went off to fetch his
beer.

She was right. By 9 it was standing room only. A couple
who’d driven across from Mannheim had joined him, both jazz enthusiasts. When
they found out he was from England they regaled him with tales of visits to
Ronnie Scott's club in London, and some of the famous names they’d seen there.
He was pleased that he actually knew some of the names, if not their music. He
decided not to pretend he knew more than he did.

‘I’m no expert, but tonight’s group was recommended to me,
especially the sax player.’

‘Ah yes, Sabine Maier. That’s why we are here. You will like
her.’

The band’s instruments were already
on stage, all that was needed was the appearance of their owners. At the
appointed hour, three men rose from the table they’d been occupying closest to
the stage and took their places – drummer, electric bassist and guitar player.
He wondered where Sabine was. At that moment there was a round of polite
applause as a woman entered the room, straight from the street he assumed. She
lifted her hand briefly in acknowledgement. The sax diva had arrived.

She walked to the stage and faced the audience, smiling.
‘Sorry, I’m a little late.’

Now he had a good chance to observe her. She didn’t know
he’d be here tonight, the magazine had simply arranged the interview and made
no mention of attending gigs. He was to confirm their meeting tomorrow morning
by phone from the hotel. From his perspective it gave him the advantage of
sizing her up in advance, without her knowledge.

He watched as the band did some preliminary tuning of their
instruments. She was prettier than the photo, he decided. Dressed quite
casually in jeans, boots, and white cotton blouse, she looked poised and
relaxed as she exchanged a few words with the guitarist. The smile had that
same element of mischief that he’d noticed in the photo.

Then they launched into their first number, a slow ballad
that alternated the melody between guitar and saxophone. She played with a deep
rich tone that filled the room, and he leaned back in his chair as the
bittersweet tonality of the piece caressed his senses. If this was modern jazz,
he was fast becoming a fan. He had a moment of alarm when he realised he might
need to discuss this music with her tomorrow afternoon, and he didn’t even know
if this piece was a standard or an original composition. To hell with it, he
thought. The die is cast, and the worst that could happen is that she would see
him for the fraud he undoubtedly was, and he would slink back to Frankfurt a
chastened man. Right now, he would enjoy himself.

They stopped for a break an hour later, leaving the stage
and occupying a small table to one side of it. The waitress brought them a tray
of drinks, and various members of the audience wandered over to exchange
pleasantries. The couple he was sitting with, Gerhardt and Kristina, asked him
to save their places while they went to have a word.

‘We’ve been following her progress for many years,’
announced Kristina. ‘Back in a minute.’

Harry ordered another beer. While he waited he cast his
glance around the room, checking out the clientele. There was an even mix of
old and young. The groups of twenty-something men scattered throughout were
casually dressed and clean shaven, with mostly shortish hair. Their girlfriends
looked scrubbed and smart. Probably a lot of students, as this was a university
town. In contrast, everyone over 45 of both sexes seemed underdressed and
undergroomed – all beards, longish hair, the odd corduroy jacket and even a few
colourful, ankle-length, hippyish dresses in evidence. He grinned to himself.
An eclectic mix, to say the least.

He returned his attention to Gerhardt and Kristina, who had
now found Sabine. As there was nowhere else to sit at her table, Sabine had
stood up to chat, and he had a good view of the three of them. Kristina was
doing most of the talking. Suddenly she gesticulated towards the back of the
room, looking directly at him. Sabine followed her gaze, and their eyes met. He
swore inwardly, but nodded and smiled.

She smiled back for a moment, then, as he watched, he saw
the smile replaced with surprise, quickly followed by perplexity. It was all
over in a split second and then she turned away. He thought he’d imagined the
whole thing, but as Gerhardt and Kristina made their way back she gave him
another thoughtful look, before returning to her own table. He was as perplexed
as she appeared to be.

The incident left him with a vague sense of unease, which he
tried to ignore for the rest of the gig. The pace picked up for the second set,
with a couple of frenetic solos that saw her playing phrases of harmonics that
sent the audience into rapturous bursts of applause. The energy levels in the
cellar went up a notch. The drummer rode on the buzz and contributed a five
minute solo that pushed it up again. To bring everyone back to earth they
finished the evening with something sedate and bluesey, the guitarist leading.
Harry had thoroughly enjoyed it from start to finish.

He got up to leave, and threaded his way through the tables
towards the door.There were a few people on the way out, but most of them
seemed in no hurry to go anywhere; they were talking and drinking. Then
suddenly she was in front of him.

‘Hello,’ she said.

 He tried to look unconcerned. ‘Hello. You’re very good, I
enjoyed it a lot.’

‘Thank you.’ They were close, and he became aware of what he
thought of later as a still and serene quality about her. It was charismatic
and a little unsettling. He extended his hand.

‘Harry Ellis. I’m interviewing you tomorrow. Just thought
I’d catch you in advance. I was going to call you tomorrow morning.’

She shook his hand. The thoughtful look was still there, and
she didn’t reply immediately. Then the penny seemed to drop. ‘Of course, from
”Jazz Europe.” That explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘I thought I knew you from somewhere. But now I realise it
was the photo of you that the magazine sent.’ Her face relaxed into a smile.
‘You should have told me you were coming tonight, we could have met up
earlier.’

He felt an inexplicable surge of relief. ‘Yes, you’re right.
Sorry if I alarmed you. Do you have time for a drink right now?’

‘Unfortunately not, but I look forward to seeing you
tomorrow. You have my address don’t you? Is 2pm ok?’

‘Perfect. Talk to you soon.’ He made for the exit. On the
way out he turned to get a last glimpse of her. She was looking right back at
him with that thoughtful expression again. Then she smiled, raised her hand in
farewell, and turned away.

The following afternoon was dry,
bright, and cold. He decided to walk to Sabine’s apartment; it was only 15
minutes away from the hotel. He set off down Rohrbacher Strasse, past a petrol
station and a cemetery, then turned left. Another left found him in Panorama
Strasse, which climbed steeply into the Heidelberg hills. He arrived at her
apartment block slightly out of breath, thinking a taxi might have been the
smarter option. He rang the bell and waited.

She opened the door and ushered him in. She was on the top
storey of a two-storey block, and as he walked into the living room he saw that
Panorama Strasse lived up to its name. There was an unobstructed view of the
town for miles. Not of the Old Town or castle, which lay behind them, but of a
sprawling carpet of houses, schools, and shops, and one large area nearby that
took his interest, which consisted of rows of grey institutional-like
buildings, and a number of flagpoles flying the US flag.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘US Army barracks. They’re still here. For our protection of
course. There’s a bigger one in Mannheim.’

‘That one looks big enough. Great view from here.’

‘Yes, I’m lucky to have this place. Let me get you a
coffee.’

She disappeared into the kitchen. Harry looked around. The
room was comfortably furnished and doubled as a dining area. Sabine’s laptop
was perched on the dining table. There were two saxophones on their stands in
one corner, and some photos and pictures on one wall. One photo showed Sabine
with an older, bearded black man brandishing a saxophone of his own. The pictures
consisted of what he thought looked like a Picasso print of a man and a guitar,
and a large landscape of a lake surrounded by cloud-covered mountains, which
could have been anywhere, but looked to him to be reminiscent of the South
Island of New Zealand. A well stocked bookcase occupied the opposite wall. He
stood inspecting the books, and wondered where she kept her letters.

Sabine reappeared, two cups of coffee in hand. ‘Some of them
are in English,’ she remarked, nodding at the books. ‘But your German is very
good. Where did you learn?’

‘At Uni. It was a long time ago. How’s your English? It
would be good if we could speak English for the interview. I brought a tape
recorder with me.’

‘That’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Sit with me on the sofa and ask
your questions.’

He sat, perusing the list. It was drawn up on a
chronological basis – when had she first picked up the saxophone, how had her
career unfolded, who were her influences? It was designed to let her do all the
talking, and for him to simply record the answers without discussing things he
knew little about. It worked well enough. He got through the early stages of
her love affair with the instrument and then asked her when she first started
playing professionally.

‘Professionally? The first time I got paid was in Ireland
actually. I was 20 and spent a year there visiting my relations and working.
Nursing mostly. But I played some nights in Dublin and we were paid for that.
Do you know Ireland?’

He decided to varnish the truth a little. ‘I visited once,
but no, not really. How was your time there?’

She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Nothing to tell. I didn’t even get
out of Dublin. But I enjoyed being there. It made a change from Germany for me
back then.’

‘So you didn’t make any lasting connections while you were
there?’

She looked at him sharply. ‘Is that a pre-prepared
question?’

‘Sorry, no. Just curious. You were a young single woman. I’m
just being nosey.’

She looked at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. ‘I met one
or two people. Nothing worth mentioning though.’

Pretty much as he’d expected. Perhaps he should just ask her
if the name O’Reilly meant anything to her. That would spice things up a
little. He restrained himself, and continued with the prepared format. They
covered her rise in the German pantheon of jazz musicians, and he asked what
her aspirations for the future might entail.

‘I don’t do this for the money, I just love playing. I’m
hardly known outside of Europe, and I’m not bothered about fame and fortune. If
it happens I won’t complain of course.’ She gave a short ironical laugh. ‘Jazz
musicians are like painters, no one appreciates them until they’re long dead.’

‘Maybe you’ll be the exception to the rule. When’s your next
gig?’

‘Munich, next Wednesday. You should come.’

‘I will if I can make it. I think we’re done now. This will
appear in next month’s issue. Is there a photo we can use?’

She smiled that mischievous smile. ‘You didn’t bring a
camera? I have a photo I give to people sometimes. You can scan it. I’ll just
go and get one for you.’

Harry turned off the recorder and prepared to leave. Sabine
returned from wherever she’d gone with a black and white image of herself. She
was sitting on a chair in some club with the sax around her neck, looking at
the camera with a steady gaze and just the hint of a smile on her lips.

‘I like it,’ he said. ‘Captures you quite well. Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She walked him to the door. ‘Will there be
any follow-up questions?’

He paused in the act of putting on his coat. ‘Follow-up? I
don’t think so.’ He thought he detected a hint of a challenge in her eyes, and
reconsidered. ‘Actually, there may well be follow-up questions. Can I call you
after Munich? I don’t think I’ll be free on Wednesday, so perhaps I can buy you
dinner instead.’