The Doll’s House (30 page)

Jan said slowly, ‘I don't want to think about it, Harry. We shouldn't have done it. She murdered that man.'

‘That's what she was paid for,' Harry said quietly. ‘You know what she was – she'd have done it for nothing. Just for kicks. Don't think about it any more. How about a Mogadon? Give you a proper night's sleep.'

‘Why don't we stop, Harry? You don't care about the money, you said so. I don't either. Let's stop now.'

‘We'll talk about it tomorrow,' Harry Oakham said. ‘But you get your head down now. Here,' he unscrewed the top of the bottle and handed Jan the sleeping pill. The Pole held it for a moment.

‘You will think about it? Stopping?'

‘I already have,' Oakham answered.

‘Why did you choose Vaclav Havel?' Rosa asked. Vassily Zarubin shrugged.

‘My publishers chose him. I don't find him very convincing as a politician.'

‘Then why write about him?' Zarubin wasn't dull, she decided, he wasn't a bore either; he just wasn't very appealing the more you talked to him.

‘Because I was offered a lot of money,' he said, ‘and all this luxury to work in. Why should I refuse?'

‘It depends what sort of biography you're going to write,' she countered. ‘Is it a hatchet job? If you don't think much of your subject, how can you be impartial?'

‘It's easy to be impartial about someone you don't admire. Your emotions aren't engaged.'

Rosa had nearly finished her glass of wine. He was on his third vodka. ‘But he is remarkable,' she couldn't help arguing with him. ‘He's a playwright, a poet; he's been a political prisoner and now he's the president of his country. Maybe he's not a conventional politician, but that's surely in his favour when you look at most of them.'

‘I think you should be writing my book.' He gave a narrow smile. ‘I don't have heroes, Mrs Bennet.'

‘How sad,' she said.

He leaned a little forward. ‘Tell me about your heroes then? Are they diplomats?'

‘I'm afraid not. Mine are not necessarily important or well known. Just people who believe in truth and decency, and have been willing to fight for them. Like Sakharov and Solzhenitsyn.'

‘Russian heroes,' he said still smiling. ‘But not unimportant or unknown.'

She looked at him. ‘They stand for all the others,' she said. ‘So does Vaclav Havel.'

‘I really think you should write my book.'

Rosa finished her wine. She actually disliked him. Honour was satisfied. She had redeemed her bad manners outside the wood. But she didn't have to make the move. Harry Oakham was coming over to them.

‘Good-evening,' he said to her, smiling, and then turned to Zarubin. ‘Good-evening to you. How is the book going along?'

‘I'm nearly finished,' the Russian answered. Rosa felt the antipathy between them.

‘Congratulations,' Oakham said. ‘Mrs Bennet, there's a telephone call for you—'

‘Oh? Thank you.' She got up quickly. Zarubin got up to his full height.

‘I hope you'll come back; I'm enjoying our conversation.'

‘I'm afraid I can't,' Rosa didn't make an excuse. She hurried out of the bar.

Oakham didn't move. Zarubin sat down again.

‘What the hell are you playing at?' Harry said very low. The Russian said, ‘You spent the night with her when you should have been here. Where's Jan?'

‘Jan's OK. He's asleep. You leave Jan out of it.'

‘How much do you know about her?' Zarubin asked.

‘What I know,' Oakham said it very quietly, ‘is that she's none of your business. I told you to lay off once. This is the last time.'

‘She was walking through the Adventure Trail,' Zarubin said. ‘I watched her go in. She lied about only being there a few minutes. She was inside for half an hour. I timed it. Why would she do that?'

‘Because she didn't want you picking her up,' Harry snapped at him. ‘She told me.'

The Russian said softly, ‘And you believe her?'

Oakham stared at him. ‘What are you getting at?'

Vassily hesitated; Oakham was involved with her, so involved he'd taken off during the run up to a high-risk operation. Jealous if anyone spoke to her. He couldn't share his suspicions with Oakham. ‘I find her very hostile,' he said.

Oakham smiled down at him. ‘That just shows what a good judge of character she is. I want a meeting with you and Rilke tomorrow.'

‘Daniel has called in?' Zarubin asked. Harry Oakham made one of those snap decisions that can change the course of a lifetime.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Everything's under control. I told him to stay low for a couple of days longer. I'll be at Croft Lodge around eleven thirty.' He turned and walked away. Zarubin picked up his vodka and pretended to drink while he watched him go.

‘I can't stand him,' Rosa admitted.

‘I told you he was boring,' Harry said. They'd taken a small corner table in the restaurant. Business was quiet mid week but he didn't feel he could absent himself for the whole evening.

‘It's not that,' she disagreed. ‘He seems to be sneering the whole time. He has nothing good to say about living in England for a start, and damn it, we gave him asylum if he's been here for some years. He dismissed Vaclav Havel with an airy wave of the hand – doesn't think much of him as a politician – and said he was only writing the book for money … I wonder if his publishers know how they've been conned!'

She was quite flushed, she was so angry. Oakham smiled at her. Full of righteous conviction. No-one had robbed her of her ideals. He loved her for it. Loved her. He hadn't thought of any woman in those terms since he held Judith's dead body in his arms and wept. Wanted, lusted after, but never loved.

‘Why are you looking like that?' she demanded. ‘I'm not being funny. I mean it. I hate that kind of cynicism.'

‘I know you do,' Harry answered. ‘You're quite fiery, aren't you? Must be a good bit of redhead in you somewhere, darling. He's on the make; a lot of the so-called political refugees we took in were rubbish. That's why the Soviets let them go. Better off without them. Stop looking belligerent and listen while I tell you something.'

‘About the crisis that turned into a drama?' she reminded him.

‘Other way round. Drama that turned into a crisis.' He didn't even want to lie to her. He'd forgotten to make up a story. ‘It wasn't really,' he said. ‘Just hotel business, very boring but immediate. Staff problems. I don't want to talk shop. I said I wanted to tell you something.'

She let it slide away. Hotel business, trouble with the staff, so what was the big deal …? ‘So tell me then,' she said.

‘I'm in love with you, Rosa. If I do decide to chuck this in and make a new life, will you let me share it with you? On your terms?'

She had blushed and then turned very pale. ‘You really mean that?'

He said, ‘I'm a bit of a joker, but not about something that matters. I mean it. And I won't make the mistake the charming James did. I won't try to own you. You're not the type to cling or be clung to; I never was either. I think we could be blissfully happy. What do you think?'

It was the moment of decision for her too. She looked at him across the table in the gentle yellow candlelight. She knew every line of his face, the contour of bone, the roughness of skin on his jaw and the firm lips she'd traced with her fingers till they opened and gently imprisoned them. She knew his eyes and the gleam of humour in them. They were dark and very warm as he held her look with his own.

‘I think we could too,' she said. ‘If you're sure you want to try it.'

‘I'm sure,' he said quietly. ‘Now why don't we go upstairs and celebrate?'

‘Why not?' she answered. As they got up from the table she stopped and said to him. ‘Now I'll tell
you
something. I've never been happier in my life.'

Daniel shifted his buttocks. The seat was hard. There were no bright lights, no interrogator shielded from view in semi-darkness while the light burned on his victim's face. Nothing like that. Just a room in the police station, with a plain table, even an ashtray, two upright chairs, and a rug on the floor. A policeman lurked in the background – the witness demanded by law. A small tape recorder was switched on; it stood near the empty ashtray.

‘Now Danny,' the Detective Chief Inspector said patiently, ‘let's go over it again. Why were you jogging at twelve o'clock at night?'

‘I told you,' Daniel answered. ‘I couldn't sleep.' He'd lost count of time. They'd taken his watch and there wasn't a clock in the room. The DCI hadn't mentioned the time when he started the interview and switched on the tape. It seemed as if they'd been sitting there for hours.

‘Why couldn't you sleep? Something on your mind?'

‘You know what was on my mind.' He gave the big, bald-headed man a sullen look.

‘No, I don't. That's why I'm asking. Why'd you give a false name and address when you were picked up?'

‘It's the one I've been using,' Daniel said.

‘Why did you give us the slip? What have you been doing with yourself all this time?'

The same questions, slightly altered but essentially the same. Why was he out in the street at that hour? Why did he give a false name when he was arrested? Why had he gone missing when he knew he was only allowed to stay in England provided he kept out of trouble?

He had the answers ready. They were all true and the bastard sitting opposite knew it. He was caught, but they couldn't prove anything.

He wasn't a coward; he kept his head. He'd been in much worse situations and lied his way out, or bribed his way or betrayed it. But not this time. No deals with these people. Except the deal that incriminated him. Just stay with his story line, and they'd have to release him after the statutory thirty-six hours in custody or apply to the court for a seven-day extension. On suspicion. They'd probably get it. He could last out. They'd threaten deportation, but they couldn't do that without Home Office approval. It was a game of bluff and while he cursed his luck, he kept his nerve and settled down to play them to a finish.

Monika was dead; he'd heard that much on the grapevine in the cells. If they'd picked up Stevenson or the others, they wouldn't be leaning on him without mentioning them. All he had to do was stick to his story. He spread his hands in self mockery.

‘All right, all right, you want it all again, I'll give it. I got sick of being watched. It got on my nerves. I couldn't sleep – that's what started it. You were watching me like a criminal. So I got fed up with it. I gave your people a run for their money. They weren't very good,' he sneered a little. ‘I went to friends. They took me in. I used a different name. I got a little peace for a change.'

‘Tell me about your friends, Danny. I'm surprised you've got any friends. I thought that was your trouble. You couldn't trust anyone not to tell your old Mossad colleagues where you were …' He was touching on the sore spot. Daniel looked at him. He shook his head.

‘You can't hand me over,' he said. ‘You've arrested me. I'm official. I'm on file.' The DCI lit a cigarette. He didn't offer one to Daniel.

‘Don't count on it,' he said. ‘Files can be lost. Like tapes.'

Daniel shrugged. ‘Go ahead, threaten. Intimidate me. I was out jogging and I got picked up. If that's against the law, then charge me.'

‘You gave false information to the arresting officer. That's a crime.'

‘Carries a big sentence? Don't waste your time. I've done nothing and you know it. What about the others you picked up? How about bullying them?'

‘We don't bully people,' was the answer. ‘Why won't you say where you were living? Give yourself an alibi?'

Daniel snorted. ‘And have you harassing my friends? I know you – I'm not doing that to them. I'm a grateful man.'

The DCI got up. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. He was stiff from sitting, and cold with rage inside. It was like butting a stone wall. No impression. Not a flicker. The same lies repeated with that brassy defiance he'd seen in men like Daniel since he started as a bobby on the streets.

‘You're not grateful, Danny. You'd sell your own mother, if you even knew who she was. You're a snatch artist, the lowest scum there is. You've kidnapped people and handed them over to be tortured and murdered. You're dirt, so don't talk to me about being grateful. We let you into this country and we let you stay because you traded names with people in SIS who
deal
with dirt like you. But I don't. This stinking business has your hallmark on it. I know bloody well you were involved and I'm not going to stop till I've proved it. You understand that, Danny?'

‘The best of luck to you,' Daniel said. ‘I need to take a pee.'

‘I'm fine,' Jan insisted. ‘Let me go back to work today, Harry.'

‘Don't be a bloody fool,' Oakham said. ‘You need to take it easy; another day won't hurt you. I'll cover for you with the staff. Nursing your sick father, coping with your mother – they'll be crying their eyes out when I've finished!'

He laughed encouragingly at Jan. He was due to see Rilke and Zarubin in half an hour. Jan had woken late, drowsy and disorientated, but like a guilty child who was worried about skipping school. He thought Harry looked very confident and good-humoured that morning. He'd sat on the bed chatting to him, making him eat breakfast, chasing the cobwebs away. He was right, of course. Jan did feel better but still wobbly. He remembered the psychiatrist dismissing his terrible attacks as a wobble in the course of recovery.

It was clever because it robbed the panic of significance. Nobody went off their heads because of a wobble.