The Stolen (46 page)

‘I targeted the one thing he cared more about than his research.'

‘But why?'

‘He's a moral man, your pap
a
.' He stressed the last vowel, making her father sound like a figure of ridicule. ‘In very immoral times, idealists never thrive. In other words,
ma chérie
, he should have taken the money. Better for me and, as it turns out, better for you. Now don't cry, you have at least another twelve hours of my company…' The sound of a telephone rang out. Frowning, he looked at her. ‘I'll be back in a minute.'

As soon as he left the room, she worried at the cords binding her wrists, but they were impossibly strong.

Twisting her body, she tried to take in as much of the room as possible. It appeared to be some kind of storeroom; she saw a few cardboard boxes stacked against the far wall, but no markings on them. The concrete floor was cold, as were the walls, and she had the impression that they were near water – a river or the lake perhaps.
Could that be the sound – a waterfall or dam
?

‘The job's almost done,' came Destin's voice from the next room.

 

 

The fury, frustration and betrayal in Janus Zellweger's voice was unmistakable.

‘The physicist has disappeared! Do you know anything about this?'

‘I wouldn't panic if I were you. I have an appointment with him tomorrow.'

‘What are you playing at?'

‘Herr Zellweger, you must trust my techniques. I have a sterling record.'

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Destin could almost hear Janus's brain churning, absorbing the information to work up another strategy. The man was a real chess player but he lacked imagination, the ability to see four moves ahead then one laterally. Finally Janus spoke. ‘You tell me Holindt made his great discovery just before he went on this theoretical killing spree?'

‘He did and I will be able to deliver the goods as promised.'

‘That will be some compensation.'

‘That's an understatement, don't you think? We both know what superconductivity at room temperature is worth on the open market.'

‘Don't tell me my own business! Do you know where Holindt is?'

‘No, but I have something he wants very, very much.'

‘That's enough. I don't need to know the details. And I expect a call from you as soon as you are ready to deliver.'

The line went dead. Destin went to the chipped sink in the corner of the empty warehouse. A wrapped cheese and a couple of pieces of fruit lay on the washboard next to it. He picked up the cheese and the apple, took out the hunting knife he had slipped into the back of his belt and, whistling, began peeling the apple. The blade, still stained with blood, was pleasingly sharp.

It was an average winter morning at Zürich's main railway station and commuters hurried through the grey, slanting drizzle. It was only when they drew close to the station and heard the trailing bars of a violin sounding through the rain that they were compelled to walk towards the gypsy band: a motley, brightly coloured group of four men – two violinists, a cellist and curiously a flute player, assembled by the clock tower, protected from the rain by the station's portico, playing as if it were the last waltz of their lives.

Destin drove past the front of the station slowly. He could see nothing unusual except for a band of gypsies playing by the clock tower. They were playing ‘The Blue Danube'. Destin hated the waltz; it had been his mother's favourite tune and she'd played it incessantly until she finally walked out on him and his invalid father. And now here it was again, the motif that had shaped his childhood. Liliane, sitting beside him in the passenger seat, had both hands handcuffed to the car door, hidden from the street. He'd cleaned her up as much as he could, and, concerned about the bruises on her, he had covered them with make-up then bundled her into a clean coat, a scarf pulled up high and a woollen hat. It had been like dressing a life-size doll and he found that he liked it. As they drove past a woman pushing a pram, the girl made a small noise in the back of her throat; he couldn't tell whether it was voluntary or involuntary.

‘If you want to live you stay silent, understand? Completely silent,' he told her as he swung the car into the car park. She nodded mutely, her eyes wide. He pulled into a space and switched off the engine. His watch said ten to nine.

 

The replica was between Matthias's feet, cloth-wrapped inside a plastic bag. Its presence seemed to radiate unease and fear, like a heat clawing at his gut. He'd never been more conscious of an object.

Two policemen stepped out of the station's entrance and started walking towards the gypsies. Matthias looked at the pavement and began playing enthusiastically, praying they would not recognise him.

‘You have a licence for playing in the street?' the older one asked, forcing Matthias to look up. The taller of the two policemen stood squarely in front of him, holding his hand out for the papers. Matthias shrugged as if he didn't understand Schweizerdeutsch, and Latcos, his face wreathed in a broad smile, bustled over.

‘Papers? Officer, sir? Of course we have papers.' He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a greasy folded sheet of paper with some official but faded stamp at the top. The more senior policeman took the offered paper and began studying it sceptically. Over Latcos's shoulder Matthias caught sight of Destin and Liliane walking from the car park towards the station and the clock tower. Latcos, sensing the change in his half-brother, glanced in the same direction to where Destin, his hand firmly grasping Liliane's wrist, stared over the road towards them.

 

Destin couldn't see Matthias, and there were now policemen talking to a couple of the gypsies right next to the clock tower. He glanced up: the clock face read five to nine. At that moment Liliane tried to pull away and he jerked her back towards him.

‘Keep still!' he hissed. ‘We stay here until it's time, then we will walk slowly and calmly to the clock tower, like I am your uncle, or sugar daddy. And we know you like sugar daddies, don't we?'

 

The policeman handed the papers back to Latcos.

‘They appear to be in order, but be gone in an hour, otherwise I'll book you.'

‘Thank you, officer, sir, thank you, and may God bless you,' Latcos fawned.

The officer turned back to Matthias and studied him. The gypsy's face looked curiously familiar and he cast his mind back to the sketches of criminals that had been circulating round the station that morning. He focused on the petty criminals, low street life.

As the officer continued to stare at him, Matthias's heart dropped right through his body.

‘What's wrong with him?' the officer finally asked Latcos.

Latcos pointed to his own mouth. ‘Mute. Born that way. It's the will of God.'

The officer took one last look, trying to match Matthias's high cheekbones and rugged jawbone to a particular profile. The gypsy's face did not fit. He must be mistaken. Reluctantly he turned away, his colleague hurrying after him. Matthias looked back at Liliane and Destin, struggling with the overwhelming desire simply to break away and run over to his daughter.

‘They're here, just across the road,' he said.

‘Stay calm. Let the hunter walk into his own trap. Remember you are invisible,' Latcos said under his breath.

‘Tell the violinist to play the
Carmen
theme – it's Liliane's favourite tune,' Matthias murmured back, and a moment later the tune drifted over the square as the clock tower began to chime nine o'clock. As Destin and Liliane crossed the road the girl looked at the gypsies, noticing the tune they were playing.

 

‘If your father lets me down, you pay,' Destin hissed at Liliane and in that moment she recognised Latcos. The Rom shook his head as if to say
don't react
and Liliane held her nerve. Then the tall flute player looked up from under his hat and met her gaze. As she recognised her father, her stomach lurched and she struggled hard to keep her expression neutral. Oblivious, Destin walked them under the clock tower, with his back to the band.

‘I hate this kind of music,' he said. ‘I give him three more minutes…'

‘I'm here.'

Matthias's voice came from behind, startling Destin. He turned round, gazing in astonishment at the dark-haired gypsy who was holding out a plastic bag.

‘Papa…' Liliane murmured, too frightened to speak loudly.

‘Are you okay?' He kept his voice friendly, as if they were just having a normal conversation and Liliane nodded.

‘I'm a gentleman; I keep my word.' Destin spoke softly and carefully.

Matthias held out the bag. ‘The statuette. Now give me my daughter.'

Liliane moved towards him, but Destin pulled her back sharply. ‘How do I know it's the right statuette?'

Matthias led the two of them into the shadow of the tower. He put the bag on the ground and held out his left hand. Sitting in the palm was the fragment of metal he'd taken from the original statuette and he quickly placed a small magnet over it. It floated a few centimetres above the metal. Destin looked stunned. Keeping a poker face, Matthias indicated the bag sitting on the pavement between them.

‘Look inside – you'll see it's made from the same material.'

Still holding onto Liliane's wrist, Destin knelt down and pulled open the bag, then folded back the cloth covering the statuette. He caught a glimmer of the distinctive surface and Matthias knelt and held the fragment against the exposed portion; the surfaces looked identical.

Destin stood.

‘The girl's yours.'

He released Liliane, who went straight to her father's side. Destin zipped up the bag and by the time he'd turned back round, Liliane, Matthias and the gypsies had disappeared.

 

Latcos steered the van through north Zürich, out towards Glattbrugg and the camp. Already the morning traffic had thinned, and the van, one of the Sinti's, a battered Volkswagen with little acceleration, struggled to compete with transport trucks, many of them with German or French number plates. He looked in the rear-view mirror; the Sinti family he'd borrowed it from normally used the van to transport all kinds of goods and a pair of ducks, alive and quacking, sat in a bamboo cage hanging from one of the corners. Every time he swerved they would quack in fright and the cage would swing dangerously.

‘Are we all alive in there?' he shouted over the blaring horn of an overtaking fourteen-wheeled juggernaut. The two other band members sat tightly against the rocking side: a gypsy of about thirty with his arms wrapped round his cello trying to protect it from being bumped, and a thin youth with his legs drawn up shyly, busy trying not to look at Liliane, who was nestled between Matthias and Keja, her face buried in her father's shoulder.

‘Just get us back in one piece,' Matthias said, as another lorry streaked past the van, terrifying the ducks.

Liliane clung to her father's arm. ‘Why aren't we going home?' she asked him, bewildered.

‘We can't, not yet.'

‘We're running away, aren't we? Did he kill Johanna?' she whispered.

He nodded. ‘The police think it was me.'

‘But can't we just tell them?
I
know it was Destin.'

‘Liliane, it's complicated. You have to trust me for now, promise? And you must trust Latcos and his mother Keja.' He indicated Keja, who smiled at Liliane.

‘And
your
grandmother,' Keja said, her smile revealing a gold tooth.

‘I know. I've seen you.' Instinctively Liliane knew she didn't have to elaborate – there was something about the expression on her grandmother's face that told her she knew about the visions, about the man at the edge of her dreams.

‘And I you.' Keja reached across and touched Liliane's cheek. ‘We have the same eyes.'

Latcos turned down the road to the camp and immediately the traffic slowed to a walking pace. Peering through driving rain he could just make out a blue flashing light ahead and the outline of several figures.

‘Police roadblock. They're searching the cars!' he yelled out to the others.

‘How long have we got?' Matthias asked.

‘About five minutes.'

Keja pulled a red headscarf from her bag. ‘Here, put this on – it will make you a married woman,' she told Liliane. Uncertain, Liliane glanced at Matthias.

‘Do what your grandmother suggests.'

Keja helped her to put it on, then slipped off her own traditional brightly coloured embroidered blouse, revealing an old jumper underneath. She held it up. ‘And this,' she instructed the girl and helped her take off her school coat. As Liliane did, Keja noticed some hair wound round one of the buttons. It was shortish and brown. She glanced back at her granddaughter – the hair was definitely not hers;
it must be the Frenchman's
, Keja concluded silently. She pulled the button and the hair off and pocketed them before anyone noticed. Then she helped Liliane put the gypsy blouse on; with both women wearing traditional headscarves, the physical resemblance between them was remarkable. Smiling at this, Keja made a bundle of the girl's coat and slipped it under her blouse so she looked heavily pregnant.

‘You, here!' Keja commanded the young violinist, pointing to a place beside Liliane. Blushing, he took his place.

‘Hold her; she is now your wife and about to have your baby, may God bless the both of you.' She turned to Liliane. ‘If the police speak to you, just groan like you're about to go into labour.'

Liliane nodded, a growing panic showing in her eyes. Matthias took her hand. ‘It's going to be all right, trust me.'

Outside they could hear the sound of the police officers searching the vehicle in front of them. The gypsy violinist shyly put his arm about Liliane's shoulders and she huddled up beside him.

Keja turned to Matthias. ‘My son, take the bird cage, put it on your lap, guard it like it's your own possession, and pull your hat over your ears. If they ask you questions, speak gibberish and we will pretend you speak Romanes.' Matthias unhooked the ducks, and took his place in the far corner of the truck, in the shadows with the cello player. He clutched the cage, trying to ignore his growing panic, the smell of bird droppings and small white feathers thrown up by the startled creatures. The van edged forward then came to a bumpy halt. In the front he could hear Latcos.

‘Good morning – is there a problem?'

‘Papers?' The policeman's voice was unfriendly. A rustle of paper followed as Latcos produced his ID documents.

‘We're a band of travelling musicians, sir,' Latcos explained, his voice wheedling and submissive.

‘Open the back, please.'

There was the thud of the van door as Latcos climbed out and walked round to meet the policeman. Keja took Liliane's hand and squeezed it reassuringly just as there was the sound of the bolt being pulled across the back. The doors were opened, letting in the freezing air and a gust of rain. Latcos stood with a tall police officer, who was clutching a torch. He immediately lifted his sleeve to his nose.

‘What's that smell?'

‘Ducks, sir. We are going to play at a farmer's wedding and the ducks are a gift.'

‘I see.' He lifted the torch and shone it into the faces of the others, huddled silently in the back.

‘A cellist and…' The beam hit Matthias's face, blinding him for a moment, and on his lap the ducks flapped their wings, one making an indignant quack. ‘And a duck player,' the officer joked. ‘And who are these three?' The beam had caught Liliane, the young violinist and Keja.

‘The violinist, his wife and her grandmother. He refuses to go anywhere without her, especially in her delicate condition.'

‘Delicate condition? The girl looks young enough to be in school. You people disgust me.' He flicked off the torch and turned back to the road. ‘You can go.'