Dancing With Mortality (13 page)

‘Yes, I’d like that. And then I can ask all the questions.
Deal?’

He cursed himself inwardly. This was probably not a good
idea. But he heard himself answering despite that. ‘Deal. This is your town, so
you can pick the restaurant. See you soon then.’

After she’d shut the door he took a few moments to
scrutinise the lock and memorise the maker’s name. Once Jack Hudson had that
information he would courier a skeleton key post haste, and Harry could return
next Wednesday to visit the apartment undisturbed. He felt a pang of guilt at
what he was doing. But as he descended Panorama Strasse he knew he wanted to
find out what had happened to O’Reilly as much as Jack did. If the answer was
inside that apartment, then guilt was a price well worth paying for the
deception involved. And Sabine would be none the wiser. Armed with this
rationale, he sauntered back past the cemetery and into town. Everything would
be just fine.

The key arrived at the Frankfurt
office the following Monday. He now had everything he needed for Wednesday
night. He had a small digital camera, and all he needed to do with the CDs was
turn on Sabine’s laptop and slot one into the drive. According to Jack one
should be enough, but if he needed both he’d see a message telling him to load
the second one. The pre-loaded software would do the rest, effectively cloning
the contents of her hard drive.

He’d told his project leader in Frankfurt that his visits to
Heidelberg were part of a brief given to him by the London office. The bank had
targeted a private client there, with whom he was discussing the pros and cons
of investing his considerable wealth. For reasons of confidentiality he
couldn’t identify the client either. As long as nobody talked to Gina in London
that story should hold up. And after this week his ‘client’ would regrettably
decline the opportunity, and Harry would have no further need to be out of the
office.

He took the train late Wednesday afternoon, and at 6pm he
was back once more at Heidelberg Central Station. It was a little early in his
estimation to be carrying out a burglary, so he took a tram into Bismarckplatz.
He would eat first and then, when it was completely dark around 8pm, he could
walk to the apartment. In and out, then back to Frankfurt with no taxis or
hotel stays to mark his presence. The meal would provide an opportunity to
compose himself and calm the nerves, and a couple of glasses of wine should
help too. He knew he was about to violate her space, and right now he didn’t
like himself too much for doing it.

It was quiet in Panorama Strasse. Sabine’s apartment was in
darkness, as was the one below it. The hedge bordering the block offered cover
for his approach, but he was exposed on his way up the steps to her front door
on the upper level. He paused when he got there and quickly surveyed the area.
The nearest neighbouring building was some 20 metres away, and he saw nothing
in that direction to concern him. Now, all he had to do was open the door.

The key fitted perfectly, and with a sigh of relief he was
inside. Now, he thought, do everything as quickly and efficiently as possible.
First the computer. He extracted a pencil torch from his coat and entered the
living room. The laptop was as he’d last seen it on the dining room table. He
turned it on and inserted the first CD as instructed. Apparently the computer
would read the CD before doing anything else, and then the normal boot up
sequence would be bypassed, which meant no log in and no password to worry
about. Very clever, he hoped it worked. He’d been told to photograph as much of
the apartment as possible, and he began to shoot the living room from all
angles. No need for flash in the darkness with this camera either, it was
equipped with an ultra sensitive lens for all but the most pitch black of
conditions. He wasn’t shooting completely blind, there was enough light from
the street to assist his aim.

He photographed every room, including the bathroom, which
struck him as overkill, but he might as well be thorough. The bedrooms, of
which there were two, didn’t seem to offer potential for any correspondence,
but there was a study leading off the main bedroom. It was small, but there was
enough space for a writing desk and chair, and a small filing cabinet. This
room might yield something of interest. He closed the door, and as the room had
no window, turned on the light. He began to investigate the contents of the
desk drawers, taking care to replace everything as he’d found it. He’d been
engaged in this task for a minute or two, his senses on high alert, when his
mobile rang.

‘Shit!’ He almost leapt out of the chair. He quickly found
his phone and glanced at the incoming number. It was Jack Hudson, who knew
exactly where he was right now and what he was doing. Maybe it was a warning.
He took the call.

‘Harry, how are you getting on?’

‘Is everything all right, Jack? You do know where I am I
assume.’

‘I know where you should be. Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here. I don’t want to be here talking to you
though, in fact I don’t want to be here one second more than I need to be. What
do you want?’ This unwarranted interruption was not helpful.

‘I won’t keep you long, Harry. Tell me, did your interview
reveal anything?’

‘Nothing, as expected.’

‘Ok, then it’s absolutely necessary you get the contents of
her computer and anything else you can find. She doesn’t have any suspicions I
take it?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I had a bad moment though when I went
to her gig last week. She seemed to recognise me from somewhere, but when I
told her I was from “Jazz Europe” she realised she knew me from the photo they
sent her. Unnerved me a bit.’ There was a silence. ‘You there Jack?’

‘They didn’t send her a photo, Harry.’

‘What?’ His mouth felt suddenly dry.

‘I suggest you finish up as soon as possible and get out of
there. Our best bet is her computer, so make sure the transfer finishes. You
should get a message to that effect when it does. Call me when you’re safely
out. I’m hanging up now.’

Harry turned the phone off, trying not to panic. He
concentrated on nothing but his breathing for ten seconds, slowing it down. He
hadn’t completed the inspection of the writing desk, but he decided it might be
better if he finished up now and got the hell out. He turned out the study
light and retraced his steps into the living room.

There was a message on the laptop requesting the insertion
of the second disk. He quickly did so then fidgeted impatiently as another five
minutes passed. Finally it was done. He extracted it from the machine, which he
turned off, and took one last look around. He was pretty sure nothing had been
disturbed. Then he quietly left Sabine’s apartment and slipped into the night.

He had plenty of time to think on
the train back to Frankfurt. She’d lied to him about the photo, obviously to
cover the fact that she did recognise him from somewhere. And the only place
that could be was St. James’s hospital in Dublin. He didn’t remember her, and
even if she had seen him then, why would she recall it all these years later?

He called Jack on the journey to discuss this hypothesis.
Jack was inclined to agree.

‘She was nursing Siobhan O’Reilly at the same time you were
admitted, so it’s certainly possible. Both incidents were IRA related, so that
may be the reason you stuck in her memory.’

‘Can’t be any other explanation. But why go through with the
interview?’

‘Curiosity perhaps, or just wanting to understand your
motives. I think we can only assume you’ve been rumbled Harry. It won’t be too
hard to work out that O’Reilly is the common denominator in all this.’

Harry felt a twinge of regret at the prospect of foregoing
another meeting with Sabine.

‘Guess you’re right. So Ms Maier is off limits then?’

‘Not necessarily. Wait till we’ve checked the data you
downloaded. If there’s nothing there to point her to O’Reilly you can simply
come clean and ask her about him.’

‘But if I mention the intelligence services she won’t admit
anything.’

‘You don’t know that. She knows already that you’re not
quite the man you appear to be. Whatever you tell her, I would be interested to
know her reaction.’

Me too, thought Harry. He promised to get the photos and CDs
off to London first thing in the morning. If there was anything incriminating
to be discovered, they’d know it by Saturday. Until then, nothing to do but
wait.

Sophie flew in on the Friday, just
for the weekend. He’d booked a hotel in Freiburg for the occasion, and they
drove down on the Friday evening. The route took them right past Heidelberg.

‘We could have gone there, Harry. I’ve heard it’s gorgeous.’

‘It is. But as you wanted picture postcard Germany I thought
Freiburg was the better option. It’s even more gorgeous, and right on the Black
Forest. You won’t be disappointed.’

They spent the next two days exploring this most picturesque
of German towns, sauntering the streets enjoying the numerous examples of
historical architecture. They took the longest cable car ride in the country,
some two miles, up to the Schauinsland mountain in the Black Forest. The day
was cold and clear, and the views spectacular.

‘We should come back at Christmas, Harry. Do they have a
Christmas market here?’

‘Be surprised if they don’t. They have one in Heidelberg, we
can always go there.’

The hotel was close to the town centre, with easy access to
restaurants. They succumbed to traditional German cuisine, dining on Bratwurst
and Sauerkraut on Saturday evening. With so many different varieties of sausage
on offer it was difficult to know where to start. They gave up and asked their
waitress what she liked.

‘This is rich food,’ remarked Harry. ‘It needs plenty of
good German beer to wash it down.’

‘Light or dark?’ enquired the waitress.

They settled for light. Harry remembered the dark beer as
being so dense he’d found it difficult to get past two pints in earlier
encounters.

‘They know how to make beer in this country.’ Sophie, who to
his knowledge drank nothing but wine, amazed him with her sudden capacity for
Freiburg’s finest ale. He found it hard to keep pace with her.

They returned to the hotel slightly the worse for drink, and
decided to call it a night. Harry wanted to take a drive through the Black
Forest the following morning, and wasn’t going to oversleep if he could help
it.

As he lay back in bed, waiting for Sophie to emerge from the
bathroom, he reflected on the simple pleasure they had experienced together this
weekend. No talk of babies or his drinking habits. But of course Freiburg was a
complete distraction from their lives in London. And he hadn’t thought about
Sabine Maier once.

Sophie crept into bed. ‘I think I had too much beer,’ she
whispered. ‘I might just go to sleep now.’ So saying, she proceeded to do just
that.

He lay awake for a while, wondering what next week would
bring. No more breaking and entering, which was just fine with him, and maybe
even some answers. But how enlightening would they prove to be?

He drove Sophie to Frankfurt Airport
on Sunday evening.

‘Two more weeks, then I’m back in London,’ he told her.
‘Where are you staying tonight?’

‘I’ll go to Fulham. Might as well stay there till you get
back. But let me know when you’re arriving and we can go back to our place that
night.’

He kissed her. ‘Give my best to Clive and Susanna.’

She went through to departures shortly afterwards. He
dropped the car at the Avis collection point and then made his way back to the
apartment. When he checked the fridge for some quick and easy dinner
ingredients he found nothing but a half-empty milk carton and an unopened but
rather tired slab of cheese looking back at him. He couldn’t remember the last
time he did any shopping. Not a problem, there were plenty of restaurants
nearby. But before going out he wanted an update. He didn’t know what Jack did
on a Sunday evening, but it was worth a phone call.

Jack answered, but it took a while.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ Harry enquired.

‘Not at all. I would have called you earlier, but I
remembered you were with your wife this weekend.’

‘She’s on her way back now. Is there anything to tell?’

‘Unfortunately not, Harry. I thought if we’d find anything
it would be in her emails. But there’s nothing to or from O’Reilly, or anyone
else who could be him under another name. It’s a dead end I’m afraid. You found
no written correspondence, did you?’

Harry grunted. ‘I was checking her writing desk when the
phone rang. And after that I thought it best to leave. So I did.’

Jack’s sigh of exasperation was clearly audible. ‘I suppose
I can take some responsibility for that decision. The fact remains that if
you’re right about her reaction at your first meeting then she knows you from
Dublin, and lied about it. Time to put your cards on the table I’d say.’

Harry felt a tiny butterfly of excitement spreading its
wings. ‘Ok, that’s exactly what I’ll do. And you’ll be the first to know the
outcome.’

If Sabine had any misgivings about
meeting again, they weren’t discernible on the phone. She suggested dinner at
her place on Wednesday evening. She would cook something passable, she hoped,
and he could bring the wine. And he mustn’t forget his follow up questions of
course. He assured her he wouldn’t. They just won’t be the questions you might
reasonably be expecting, he thought.

He arrived a little early, and she answered the door in a
rush.

‘I’m still preparing things. Go into the living room, I’ll
be there in a minute.’

Nice to be here with the lights on this time, he thought. No
laptop on the dining room table either, instead it was set for the meal to
come. He took off his coat and draped it over a chair.

‘I brought red and white,’ he half shouted in the direction
of the kitchen.

‘Bring the white in here, it can go in the fridge.’

She had her back to him. Her hair was up in a chignon, and
she wore a pink t-shirt and jeans, with a long kitchen apron knotted around her
neck and waist. She turned and smiled as he came in. ‘Over there,’ she said,
nodding at the fridge.

‘What are we having?’

‘It’s simple, really. Chicken with asparagus, red onion,
potatoes and carrots, with my secret herbs thrown in. All done in the oven for
45 minutes and served. The dessert is a secret too, so don’t ask.’

He peeked over her shoulder. ‘Looks good. Do you have a
corkscrew?’

‘Sure. Will you undo this knot round my neck please? I did
it too tight.’

He stood close behind her, fiddling with the knot. She stood
very still and appeared to stare straight ahead, but he was sure she was studying
his reflection in the kitchen window. He took his time, letting his fingers
brush against her neck. Then the knot was undone. Mustn’t get distracted, he
thought.

She put the baking dish in the oven. They returned to the
living room and Harry opened the wine while Sabine selected a CD.

‘More saxophone,’ she explained. ‘But not me – easy
listening.’

‘I thought you were easy listening last time I heard you.’

She laughed. ‘You’re too kind. So, let’s get your follow up
questions out of the way before we eat.’ She sat on the sofa by the front
window, and he moved his coat from the chair so he could sit facing her. They
looked at each other.

‘Sabine, there are some things I need to tell you. You may
not want to eat with me once you’ve heard them. Can we wait till afterwards?’

She didn’t seem worried. ‘It’s my turn to ask the questions
as I recall. You may not want to eat with me either when I’ve finished.’

He felt the sudden tension between them. Show time. He tried
to look cool.

‘Ok, go ahead then.’

‘Right.’ She said nothing then, just looked out the window,
and it was as if for a moment she had left the room entirely. He waited, and
presently whatever memory had distracted her ran its course. She fixed him with
a steady gaze.

‘I remember you, Harry. You were unconscious in a hospital
bed at the time, with a bruised face and tubes in your nose. When I saw you at
the Jazzhaus I couldn’t figure out who you were at first. I almost lost my
concentration during the second set trying to work it out.’

‘How is it you remember me at all?’

She ignored him. ‘Do you really work for “Jazz Europe”?’

He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s a part time thing –
freelance. They’re buying the interview, that’s how it works.’

Her face was expressionless. ‘Just tell me what you want from
me, Harry.’

There was no way to sugar coat it. ‘We have a mutual friend
in Michael O’Reilly.’

‘I thought so.’ She looked at the floor for a while this
time. Then she got up. ‘The subject is closed until we’ve eaten. I’m going to
the kitchen now. You stay here.’

He heard her moving around. The oven door opened and closed.
Then there was only the music, but he thought he heard her crying once or
twice. Give her some space, he thought, she hasn’t asked me to leave yet. He
half expected her to emerge with a carving knife in her hand.

She stayed in the kitchen for what seemed an eternity. When
she did come out it wasn’t with a carving knife, but with an oven glove and a
baking dish full of chicken and vegetables. She didn’t say anything, just put
the dish on the table and sat waiting for him.

He joined her. ‘You ok?’ Her eyes looked a little red.

‘I think so. I want you to tell me everything please. How
you knew about me, and what it is you want to know about Michael. Promise me
you won’t lie.’

He poured them both some wine. As they ate he told her about
SIS, their renewed interest in Michael, and how her letters had been found in
his Kilburn flat.

‘And you work for these people?’ she asked.

‘I worked for them in Dublin, translating documents. Then
after Ireland I heard nothing from them in twenty years, until a few weeks ago.
They want Michael for some reason, I don’t know why.’

She was calm and still again now, quietly assessing him.
‘You don’t know why, yet you came here and went through this...’ she paused,
searching for the right word, ‘this deception, yes? I don’t understand Harry,
why would you agree to do that?’

‘Because Michael O’Reilly killed my wife.’

‘I see.’ She didn’t seem alarmed, or indignant. She turned
her full attention to the meal, and they both ate in silence until it was
finished.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘I have dessert.’
She picked up the plates and cutlery and headed for the kitchen.

He wasn’t sure he had the appetite for dessert right now. He
sipped his wine and wondered how she maintained her cool demeanour, given the
table talk. His cards were on the table, would she now follow suit?

She reappeared with dessert, and when he recognised the
traditional New Zealand Pavlova, with its meringue base topped with whipped cream,
strawberries and kiwi fruit, he did a double take.

Sabine seemed amused at his expression, in fact he could
have sworn she was suppressing a smile. ‘I tried to make this for the first
time. I thought you might like it.’

The mood lifted a little. ‘Did I tell you I was a Kiwi?’ he
asked.

She served him a generous portion. ‘You have an accent, you
know. Is it up to the right standard?’

He tried a piece, making appreciative noises. ‘Very good.
Delicious, actually.’

She resumed her place, watching him eat. ‘Let me tell you
about Michael and me,’ she began. ‘I remember you so well because it was a car
bomb that injured you, and my first thought was it must be IRA. I couldn’t help
wondering if Michael was involved. I was looking after his sister and your room
was quite close, so I came and had a look at you. And it was all in the paper,
they said your wife was from New Zealand.’

‘I didn’t read the paper.’ Now he had definitely lost his
appetite. He pushed the bowl away. ‘And was Michael involved?’

The intensity between them was back. ‘He said not. And I
believed him. Yes, he spent a lot of time in my flat while I was at work, and
he could have gone out at any time and done something, but I believed him. He
had other things to worry about. His own people were looking for him, they
thought he was an informer. He wouldn’t tell me any more about that though. And
he was worried sick about Siobhan. He felt responsible for what had happened to
her.’

‘An informer.’ This was news. But of course, they were
looking for him in Kilburn too. Yes, it made sense, but he knew better. He saw
that Sabine was about to speak, and he silenced her with a gesture. ‘Let me
think a minute.’ It was a long time ago, and he wanted to get the sequence of
events right. She picked at her food while he thought it through.

‘There was an incident on a beach in Cork that started all
this,’ he said after a long minute’s silence. ‘Several people were killed.
There certainly was an informer, but his name was O’Riordan, not O’Reilly.’ He
realised suddenly that he’d never even stopped to consider why Siobhan O’Reilly
had been shot in the first place. How could he have been so stupid? Too
consumed with rage and grief, but now the scales were certainly falling from
his eyes. He swore softly.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ve been wrong about a few things.
Do you know where Michael is now?’

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘No, I don’t. London was
the last contact I had with him.’

He decided not to press the point. ‘Tell me how you met
then.’

He half listened as she told him about their first meeting
in the hospital canteen. Whether she knew Michael’s current whereabouts or not
had become almost irrelevant to him personally. He believed her when she said
Michael wasn’t responsible for Nat’s death, the whole idea seemed less and less
feasible, but the question that really needed to be answered was why did SIS
want him now? He suddenly became aware that she had stopped talking, and was
looking at him expectantly.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.’

‘That’s ok. I said, what will you do now? What will you tell
your people?’

He considered for a few seconds. ‘I’ll tell them what you
told me. You don’t know where he is. That should be the end of it as far as
you’re concerned.’

She looked less than convinced. ‘I hope so.’

They agreed to talk about something else, so he told her he
really did like her music, he wasn’t a complete fraud in that respect. She
cheered up a little, telling him about the Munich gig. It had been a success by
all accounts. She pointed at the photo on the wall.

‘That’s Sonny Rollins and me. Do you know who he is?’

‘I know the name, so he must be famous if I’ve heard of
him.’

She grinned. ‘You’re hopeless. He came to Berlin for a
concert, must be five years ago now. I made sure I got a photo with him. He
even knew who I was, so I was over the moon.’

She wanted to give him a CD or two, but confessed she had
nothing in the apartment.

‘Will you let me have your address? I’ll send you a
selection of my best bits.’

He wrote it down for her. Then he checked his watch.

‘It’s late. I need to go, not sure when the last train to
Frankfurt is either.’

‘Stay here tonight, Harry. Finish the wine with me, and you
can sleep in the spare bedroom.’

‘Well, I...’ No, surely after this rather painful exchange
of confidences she wasn’t thinking of seducing him. Trouble was, he knew he
wouldn’t resist too much if she tried. It wasn’t about to happen though.
‘Alright, thank you.’

It was past midnight when she showed
him to the second bedroom. And I was here just the other night photographing
it, he thought. If that ever comes out she
will
use the carving knife.
He lay in bed, thinking about their conversation and the questions it had
raised. If not Michael, who? And why was he still holding on to this after 20
years? It had bubbled away sub-consciously all that time, quietly fucking him
up. Was it resolved now? He didn’t know.

He was still trying not to think about any of it, when there
was a tap on the door.

‘Harry, are you awake?’

‘Yes, come in.’

‘I can’t sleep, I keep thinking about Ireland. Can I come in
with you please?’

He hesitated. ‘Is that a good idea?’

She slipped under the covers. ‘I’m not going to make love to
you. You’re married.’

His fingers strayed to his wedding ring. ‘Alright then, as
long as we’ve got that straight.’

‘Just hold me, then I’ll go to sleep.’ She snuggled up to
him.

He drew her close. She had a dressing gown on, and pyjamas.
He was down to his boxers so at least there was something between them. Just.
He would lie back, think of New Zealand, and do absolutely nothing. That would
work.