CHAPTER SEVEN
Following Rupe to Berlin had its ironical side, since I’d followed him there once before, when we were inter-railing round Europe in the long, hot, sweaty summer of 1984. Berlin had definitely been Rupe’s idea. He’d always had more of a sense of history than me. I’d not shared his curiosity about life behind the Iron Curtain and the dismal train journey across East Germany to reach West Berlin had only strengthened my view that we’d have been better off going almost anywhere else. We’d made the standard tourist foray into East Berlin, but I hadn’t exactly been in a receptive frame of mind. Tacky commercialism on one side of the Wall and drab uniformity on the other were about the only memories I’d taken away.
Arriving by plane in a smartened-up, unified capital city with too many complimentary drinks inside me was a vastly different experience, of course. So different that I had some doubts about whether it really was the same place. The taxi from Tegel Airport to our hotel sped through an autumnally golden Tiergarten with no Wall looming ahead, crossed the vanished border and whooshed beneath the Brandenburg Gate into Unter den Linden. Hashimoto had booked us into the Adlon, which he’d been told was the best hotel in Berlin. It looked to me as we were ushered across the vast and sparkling lobby that he’d been well informed. What with club-class travel and grande luxe accommodation, I was beginning to think that escort to Kiyofumi Hashimoto was a job I could be persuaded to take on a long-term contract.
High altitude imbibing had left me needing a serious kip. I suggested we meet up in the bar at seven o’clock and Hashimoto seemed happy with that. So, leaving the unpacking (all five minutes of it) till later, I stretched out on the enormous double bed in my lavishly appointed room and let the distant murmur of traffic on Unter den Linden lull me to sleep.
It was dark outside when I woke, woozily identifying the persistent warbling in my ear as the telephone ringing on the bedside table. I couldn’t read the time on my watch, but reckoned the caller had to be Hashimoto.
It was. ‘Lance. You must come quickly.’
‘Start without me, Kiyo. I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘I am not in the hotel. I am in a call-box on Mehringdamm.’
‘Oh yeh?’
‘Near the Townleys’ apartment.’
‘For Christ’s sake. Couldn’t that have waited?’
‘You must come here now. I have an idea.’
‘What sort of idea?’ (Crazy was my bet.)
‘I have no coins left. I will wait for you outside Mehringdamm U-Bahn station. Get here as soon as you can.’
‘Yeh, but—’ The line went dead. I allowed myself a heartfelt sigh. ‘Great.’ (It was, of course, anything but.)
As soon as I made it into a vertical position, a dehydration headache announced itself with several mule-kicks inside my skull. And this mule was a powerful critter, unappeased by a pint of Berlin tap water. I left the hotel in something short of tiptop condition.
The taxi drive was a short and fast run south along broad and empty streets. At some point we passed the site of Checkpoint Charlie and returned to what had been West Berlin. Peering at the map I’d cadged from the hotel receptionist, I could see the Mehringdamm U-Bahn station was just round the corner from Yorckstrasse. I found myself wondering if Rosa Townley’s family had always lived in the area. Checkpoint Charlie, after all, had been the gateway to the American sector.
Not that I had much time to do a lot of wondering. We were soon at the station. Hashimoto emerged from the shadows round the entrance to greet me as I stumbled out of the taxi. ‘Are you OK, Lance?’ he asked, squinting at me through the lamplight.
‘How do I look?’
‘Not particularly good.’
‘You amaze me.’
‘There is a café at the next corner. We will talk there.’
‘We could have talked in the bar at the Adlon.’
‘But there is more to do than talk. Come.’
He steered me across the road and down to the next junction. The turning to the right was Yorckstrasse. Hashimoto caught my glance at the sign, but didn’t explain until we were huddled round a table in the café, with tea and beer ordered. (The tea wasn’t for me.)
‘I decided to see where the Townleys live. It is a little way along Yorckstrasse.’ He nodded in the general direction. ‘An apartment block. Expensive, I would say. The main door opened when I turned the handle, so I—’
‘You went in? You mad impulsive devil, you.’
‘The Townleys are in flat four. I thought I would . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It might have made more sense for us to plan this together, Kiyo.’ (Why I was so calm about it I wasn’t sure. Still half-drunk, I supposed.)
‘You are right, Lance. I am sorry. I did not think I could do any harm.’
‘And did you?’
‘No. No harm. Perhaps good. As I was climbing the stairs towards flat four, the door opened and a man came out.’
‘Erich Townley?’
‘I think it must be. Right age. Right . . . appearance.’
‘What is the right appearance?’
‘You will see for yourself.’
‘How’s that?’
‘We passed on the stairs, but I doubled back and followed him out into the street. Do not worry. He did not see me.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am. Trust me, Lance.’
‘I’m not sure you’re making it easy.’
‘Listen.’ Hashimoto lowered his voice and leaned across the table towards me. ‘I followed Townley to a bar a little way down Mehringdamm. I think he is still there now. It is a chance to speak to him. To ask him questions when he thinks all you are doing is—’
‘“You”?’
‘It will go better if you approach him, Lance. I am too . . . conspicuous.’
‘A second ago you were telling me how he hadn’t noticed you.’
‘But we need him to notice. You. Not me. It will be easier for you.’
‘Easier for me to do what?’
‘Just talk to him.’
Hashimoto gave me what I think he meant to be an encouraging smile, but it came out as more of an anxious grimace. Though as far as anxiety went I reckoned I might soon be ahead of him. ‘Your “plan” is for me to try to chat him up, is it?’
‘Chat him up?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Ah yes. I see. Well . . .’ Hashimoto spread his arms. ‘The thing is, Lance . . .’
‘Yeh?’
‘I think you might be his type.’
The bar was as close as Hashimoto had promised. Big blank windows somehow failed to reveal as much as a first glance suggested they might. The interior looked dark, half empty and faintly mournful. (It was reassuring, in a way, to realize that Sunday evenings in Germany weren’t much jollier than in England.) Hashimoto took himself off to hover at a bus stop on the other side of the street. Leaving me, after some hesitation, to go in.
A bloke matching Hashimoto’s description of the man on the stairs was sitting on a bar stool drinking some colourless spirit or other and smoking a fat French cigarette. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt under a three-quarter-length black coat that the sticky warmth of the place hadn’t persuaded him to take off. He was tall and thin, knees jutting, back and head bent like an anglepoise lamp. (The bar was clearly built for stockier customers.) His face was lined and drawn, his hair too grey and long for someone so thin on top. I didn’t yet know if I was his type, but I was already absolutely certain that he wasn’t mine.
The rest of the clientele was scattered around the shadow-cowled tables. Several of them looked pretty stoned. Best way to appreciate the Gothic décor, I supposed, not to mention the New Age funeral-march music seeping out of the cobwebbed loudspeakers. Maybe it got livelier later. And maybe I didn’t want to be there when it did.
I plonked myself on the stool next to Townley (he was the only customer sitting at the bar), ordered a Budweiser and ran a few possible chat-up lines past myself. I didn’t reckon I was going to be able to force any of them out until I was too drunk to remember Townley’s response – if I was lucky enough to get one. The situation had all the makings of a grade-one fiasco. (And whose fault was that?) Then a strange thing happened. Townley spoke to me.
‘You American?’ (He obviously was, albeit with a clipped vein of Mitteleuropa in the gravelly drawl.)
‘No,’ I tried to reply, but my throat wouldn’t co-operate until I’d repeated the word twice. ‘No, no.’
‘Can’t imagine why anybody who wasn’t American would order a Bud. Real horse piss.’
‘I didn’t know there was anything real about it.’
He laughed at that. ‘You’re English, right?’
‘Yeh.’ The Budweiser arrived, glassless and gleaming. I took a swig. ‘And you’re American.’
‘I’d have to own to that, yuh. Half American, anyways.’
‘And the other half?’
‘Local.’
‘You live here?’
‘Yuh. But you’re just visiting, right? Vacation?’
‘Business.’
‘What kind?’
That was a tricky one. ‘Does it matter?’ (I had to hope it didn’t.) ‘This is still the weekend.’
‘Not that you’d know it, huh?’ He glanced around. ‘Deader than the Third Reich.’
‘How long have you lived in Berlin?’
‘Quite a while.’
‘My name’s Lance, by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Lance. I’m Erich.’ He shrugged. ‘Born Eric. Straddling two nations makes you kinda schizo.’
‘I suppose it must.’
‘Smoke?’ He offered me one of his cigarettes.
‘No thanks. I, er . . .’
‘Believe the Surgeon-General’s warning.’
‘Yeh, but . . .’ I caught his gaze and tried to hold it. ‘Do I look like I lead a clean and pure life?’
‘Not exactly. No one could in here, though.’
‘I’ve got nothing against vice, Erich.’ I unveiled a less than heartfelt smile. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘You’ve come to the right city, then. Berlin’s got it all, if you don’t mind delving into dark corners.’
‘Depends what I’m likely to find there.’
‘Whatever you’re looking for.’
‘Sometimes I’m not sure.’
‘Maybe you need a helping hand.’
‘Maybe I do.’ (This was all going too fast for my liking. What had Hashimoto got me into?) ‘There are lots of things a guidebook doesn’t tell you.’
‘Doesn’t dare to tell you.’
‘Worried about scaring people off, I suppose.’
‘Tough on those who like to be scared.’ He paused for effect. And the effect was quite something. ‘Just a little.’
‘Yeh.’
‘So, is this a walk on the wild side for you, Lance? A nibble at forbidden fruit away from the wife and kids?’
‘I don’t have any family.’
‘That’s smart of you. Neither do I. Apart from my mother. Everyone has to have one of those.’
‘Plus a father.’
‘Technically, I guess.’
‘Is your mother German?’
‘Yuh. She lives here in Berlin.’
‘And Dad?’
‘He doesn’t live in Berlin.’ Townley was still smiling, but there was a hardening edge to that smile. I was edging close to dangerous territory.
‘But this is where they met?’
‘Where people meet isn’t important. It’s what they do after they meet that matters.’
‘True enough.’ (Too true, as far as I was concerned.)
‘What shall we do? Now we’ve met.’
‘What do you recommend?’
‘I’d have to know your tastes.’
‘They tend to the exotic.’
‘Right.’ Townley took a long, thoughtful draw on his cigarette, then said, ‘There’s a place I know. Several places. I reckon you might enjoy them. Interested?’
‘Sure.’ (Horrified was nearer the mark.)
‘Let’s go, then.’
‘OK.’
‘We’ll call in on my mother on the way. She lives just round the corner.’ (They both did, of course, but I wasn’t supposed to know that. Maybe Townley didn’t think admitting to living with his mother was likely to impress me. But we were going to see her, apparently. It was a puzzle how he meant to deal with that, a puzzle I couldn’t help being drawn by.) ‘She’s expecting me.’ (But not me. No, she definitely wasn’t expecting me.) ‘Don’t worry. We won’t stay long.’
We turned left as we exited the bar and headed south – away from Yorckstrasse. Not that I could share my concern on the point with Townley. Nor could I risk looking back to see if Hashimoto was following us. I felt stone-cold sober and more than a little perturbed. Which meant, given how far from sober I really was, that I was actually very frightened indeed.
‘I had it with the States a long time ago,’ said Townley. ‘Sooner or later, you have to decide where your soul belongs.’
‘And yours belongs here?’
‘Absolutely. What about you?’
‘Still trying to decide, I suppose.’
‘Well, you’re younger than me, aren’t you? How much younger, I wonder?’
‘Er, that would depend on how old you are, Erich.’
‘So it would.’ Townley chuckled. ‘That’s what I love about strangers. There’s a whole . . . back-story . . . waiting to be told.’
We turned right at the next junction, which was a relief. Maybe, I thought, this was the quickest route to the part of Yorckstrasse the Townleys lived in. Then again, maybe not, because Townley immediately crossed to the other side of the street and started along a path that led straight into the ill-lit heart of a public park.
‘We’ll cut through here,’ my companion said, as if it explained everything. I had an impression of a wooded slope ahead of us. Dim, widely spaced lamps shone thinly on ponds and rockeries. The way was dark and winding. Soon, we’d begun to climb. I dragged my feet, to little effect. What I wanted to do was the one thing I couldn’t afford to do: turn back. ‘Keep up, Lance. It’d be easy to get lost in here.’
‘Are you sure we aren’t already?’
‘Oh yuh. I know my way.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘What line of work did you say you were in?’
‘I . . . didn’t, did I?’
‘Maybe you didn’t at that. So, let me guess. Could it be . . . shipping?’
‘Shipping? No. What—’
I’m not sure what I saw or sensed first. A blur of night-shrouded movement. A scuff of shoe on asphalt. Something, anyway, brought almost instantly into focus by a sharp pain as my right arm was jerked up behind me. I was pulled backwards, struggling to stay on my feet. A hand closed around my throat – tight and choking. Try as I might to prise it away, I couldn’t. Townley was strong – far stronger than me. I felt the heat of his breath close to my ear and the steely hardness of his grasp. I tried to wrench myself free, but he held me fast, with a sort of practised ease that told me no amount of struggling would shake him off.
I tried to cry out for help. But all I managed was a hoarse splutter. We stopped moving.
‘You are one dumb shit, Lance. You know that? You sidle up to me, all dewy-eyed and simpering, thinking I’m about to fall for your hollow-chested English charm. Do me a favour. Do yourself one. You’re looking for your friend Rupe, right?’
His grip relaxed just enough to let me speak. ‘All right . . . Yes, I am.’
‘Well, you’re all out of luck. Because Rupe isn’t here. And you’re never going to find him.’ There was a noise behind me, thin and metallic – a blade being flicked from a handle. ‘Your search is over, lover boy.’ He released my right arm and in the same instant grasped my left shoulder and yanked me round to face him.
All I had time to do was crouch forward to protect myself. It was nothing more than an instinct. I expected Townley to come at me with the knife. Into my mind flashed the acute but unhelpful awareness that I was about to be stabbed. But I never was.
Something struck Townley under his right arm – something powerful, moving horizontally. He grunted and fell sideways, hitting the ground hard. As he did so, I straightened up and saw Hashimoto slowly lowering his left leg. He’d dealt Townley some sort of judo kick – the sort that felt like a battering ram, to judge by the effect on its victim. Townley rolled onto his side, shaking his head as he propped himself up on one elbow.
‘Stay where you are,’ Hashimoto shouted. (I couldn’t work out for the moment which of us he meant, so I played safe by standing stock-still.) ‘Are you all right, my friend?’
‘Yes. I . . .’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ rasped Townley.
‘Someone capable of breaking your arm or dislocating your shoulder – or both – should you force me to do so.’ (Hashimoto sounded hellish convincing to me, as I reckoned he probably did to Townley.) ‘You have an opportunity to walk away. I suggest you take it.’
Warily and unsteadily, Townley scrambled to his feet, breathing hard. ‘Interfering bastard,’ he muttered.
‘Go on along the path. Leave the park on the far side. We will leave the way you came in. Do not attempt to follow us.’
‘You’re a Jap,’ said Townley. ‘A fucking Jap.’
‘And you are a violent and foul-mouthed man. It would be no hardship to knock a few of your teeth out. Why do you seem intent on giving me the excuse to do so?’
Townley looked at me, then at Hashimoto, then back to me. ‘Do you know each other?’
‘Go now,’ said Hashimoto, quietly but firmly.
Townley hesitated, taking the measure of himself and his opponent. There was bluff on both sides. But who was the bigger bluffer? I wouldn’t have wanted to bet on it. And nor, apparently, would Townley. ‘Fuckers,’ he said, almost as a protest. Then he pocketed the knife, turned on his heel and strode away, with a parting toss of his head.
It wasn’t until we were back in the café at the corner of Mehringdamm and Yorckstrasse that I stopped shaking like a fever case and became capable – thanks to two large brandies – of something approximating to coherent speech.
‘He was going to kill me, Kiyo. Do you realize that?’
‘It certainly seemed probable.’
‘How can you be so bloody calm about it?’
‘It is my nature.’
‘Thank Christ you turn out to be some kind of blackbelt judoist.’
‘In truth, I never progressed beyond the pupil classes. I was a great disappointment to my instructor. But I remember how to kick. For the rest, it is as well that Townley did not put my technique to the test.’
‘Now he tells me.’
‘Would you have preferred me to mention it in Townley’s presence?’
I released a long, sincerely felt sigh. ‘I’d have preferred not to be in his presence at all.’
‘But, Lance, think how much we have gained.’
I did think – for a moment. ‘I can’t see that we’ve gained a single bloody thing. We’ve learned nothing. And now he’s on to us. Plus my shoulder may never work properly again.’ I flexed the joint painfully.
‘You are forgetting this.’ Hashimoto slipped something from his pocket and jiggled it in his palm. It was a silver cigarette lighter. ‘See the engraving?’ He held it up to the light and I made out three intertwined and curlicued initials on the back: E.S.T. ‘Eric Stephen Townley, I believe.’
‘Where did you get that?’
‘It must have fallen out of his coat while he was on the ground. He did not notice it. But I did.’
‘I don’t remember you picking anything up.’
‘You were not at your most observant, Lance. Understandably. Fortunately . . .’
‘Your night vision’s on a par with your kick-boxing.’
‘It is Townley’s lighter. That is what matters. It is evidence against him. And I can swear that I intervened to prevent him stabbing you.’
‘Swear? What are you talking about?’
‘I am talking about how it would look for Townley if we reported this incident to the police.’
‘Are you crazy? How would it look for me? And how the bloody hell would it get us what we want – the whereabouts of Townley senior?’
‘You are not listening, Lance. If we reported it to the police. Obviously we do not wish to do so. But it is a question of . . . pressure.’
‘Well, I’ve had enough pressure for one night.’
‘Likewise Townley, I would think. Where do you suppose he is now?’
I shrugged. ‘Soothing his bruised pride in some bar or other, trying not to worry about who we are and what we’re up to – and what’s become of his precious cigarette lighter.’
‘Not home with Mother?’
‘I doubt it. He was just leading me on with that story of going round to see her.’
‘I doubt it also. Which means we have an opportunity to apply some pressure to Mrs Townley, before her son can warn her against us.’
‘You don’t mean—’
‘Yes, Lance.’ He had the temerity to smile at me. ‘We have a call to make.’
Hashimoto’s strategy, so he explained to me, was based on the reality of our situation. Rupe had been here before us, enabling Erich Townley to guess at once what I was up to. How much Erich knew wasn’t clear, but his crack about Hashimoto being a ‘Jap’ hadn’t just been a racist jibe. It meant something to him. It was significant. And it blew our cover, such as it was. Softly, softly consequently wasn’t going to catch our monkey. Which left what Hashimoto called ‘the frontal approach’.
Number 85 Yorckstrasse was a classy-looking neo-Gothic apartment block, heavy on balconies, porticoes and reclining caryatids. The door – a sumptuously carved affair – was firmly closed. (Maybe Hashimoto had just got lucky earlier, or maybe the time had come for the securing of entrances; it was gone nine o’clock, after all.) Hashimoto pressed the Townleys’ buzzer, got no prompt reply, then left his finger on it for just as long as it took – half a minute or so – for the entry-phone to splutter into life.
‘Ja?’
‘Frau Townley?’
‘Ja.’ (The admission came slowly and cautiously.)
‘Is Erich in?’
‘He is not here.’ (The mixture of German and American in her accent made her tone hard to interpret.)
‘We need to speak to you about Erich.’
‘Who are you?’
‘He is in serious trouble, Frau Townley. It will become more serious if you do not speak to us.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Then let us in. And we will explain.’
‘Go away.’
‘If we do, we will go to the police.’
‘Polizei?’ (Now she sounded worried.)
‘They will arrest Erich.’
‘What for?’
‘Let us in.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because you must. For Erich’s sake.’
There was a lengthy silence.
‘Frau Townley?’
Then the door-release buzzed.
We climbed the broad, marble-treaded stairs past stained-glass landing windows to a tall, double-doored apartment entrance on the second floor. One of the doors stood ajar and peering at us through the gap as we approached was Rosa Townley.
She was no querulous, quavering old biddy, that was for sure. She wasn’t as tall as her son, but I’d have bet she towered over most German women of her generation. She held herself well too, shoulders back, jaw square, eyes glaring above high cheekbones and a broad nose. Hers was the kind of face that actually improved with age. Her hair was thick, grey streaked with black, where once it must have been black streaked with grey and before that a pure raven black. Her clothes were black too – a polo-necked sweater and trousers (cashmere and silk, I’d have guessed); simple but far from casual.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, grasping the door handle firmly.
‘My name is Miyamoto,’ said Hashimoto. (It was as much as I could do not to flinch with surprise. Had I missed the announcement that we’d be operating under aliases?) ‘This is Mr Bradley.’ (Ah, so I apparently wasn’t operating under one.)
‘You are not friends of my son.’
‘Do you know all his friends, Frau Townley?’
‘I know the type.’ (I silently thanked her for the back-handed compliment.)
‘May we come in?’
‘You have not stated your business.’
‘A cigarette lighter.’ Hashimoto held it up for her inspection. ‘Dropped by your son as he fled after I had intervened to prevent him stabbing Mr Bradley.’
‘You are lying.’
‘No.’
‘What do you want?’
‘We want to offer you a way to resolve this matter without reference to the police.’
‘Money?’
‘No.’
‘What, then?’
‘It is complicated.’ Hashimoto smiled at her. ‘Let us in and we will explain.’
The drawing room was as elegant and uncluttered as I’d have expected of Rosa Townley’s living space. Polished wood, soft leather and two gleaming chandeliers. You’d have had to call in Forensics to find a speck of dust. Even the King Charles spaniel who eyed us from a cushioned berth on the sofa looked as if he’d been recently shampooed. I didn’t doubt this was Rosa’s exclusive domain (shared with the dog, of course). Erich probably kept to his own contrastingly styled quarters. (I’d been worrying about what might happen if he returned while we were there, but, oddly, now I’d met his mother, I didn’t feel worried at all.)
There was no invitation to sit. To do her justice, Rosa didn’t show any inclination to sit down herself. She stationed herself by the fireplace and waited to hear what we had to say. I scanned the mantelpiece behind her for family photographs. Not a one. But the mirror above it looked expensive. So did just about everything else in the room. Whatever the Townleys were short of, it wasn’t money.
‘Earlier this evening, Frau Townley,’ said Hashimoto, ‘your son assaulted Mr Bradley in Viktoriapark.’ (My God, the man even knew the name of the park. You couldn’t fault him for thoroughness.) ‘He had his reasons, though he would find them difficult to explain to the police. They would probably infer . . . a sexual motive. We could encourage them to do so if we wished. But we do not wish to do that. Unless you force us to.’
‘Tell me what you want.’ Her voice was hard and unwavering, her logic impeccable.
‘We want to know where your husband is.’
She should have looked taken aback. But there was no reaction. Maybe she’d seen it coming. ‘My husband is dead.’
‘We do not think so.’
‘He is dead.’
‘How do you finance your life here, Mrs Townley?’ I chipped in. ‘Not to mention Erich’s?’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘You don’t work, I assume. And Erich certainly doesn’t seem the industrious type. So, where’s the money coming from? Oil-rich son-in-law? Maybe. Or maybe a not-so-dead husband.’
‘Rupert Alder came looking for your husband,’ said Hashimoto. ‘We know this. What did you tell him?’
‘I have never heard of Rupert Alder.’
‘Your son has.’
‘Eloquent on the subject, he was,’ I helped out.
‘It is simple, Frau Townley,’ said Hashimoto. ‘If your husband is dead, or if you continue to insist that he is, we will go to the police. But if he is alive, as we believe, and you are willing to tell us where we can find him . . .’
Without taking her eyes off us, Rosa stretched out a hand behind her to a silver box on the mantelpiece. She raised the lid on a neatly columned stack of cigarettes, took one out, put it to her lips and cocked her eyebrows at Hashimoto. He hesitated, then stepped forward, struck Erich’s lighter at the second attempt and lit the cigarette.
We waited. Rosa inhaled deeply and exhaled with studied slowness. There was one more, shallower, draw on the cigarette before she said, ‘You do not understand.’
‘Make us,’ I challenged her.
‘Mr Alder came here, as you say, wanting to know how he could find Stephen.’
‘I thought you’d never heard of Rupe.’
‘That was untrue. I apologize. But your threats . . . confused me.’ (She had a funny way of seeming confused.) ‘He came. Without threats.’
‘Really?’
‘Without threats to Erich and me. As for Stephen, how can you threaten a dead man? I told Mr Alder what I have told you. Stephen is dead.’
‘Did he believe you?’
‘No. No more than you.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘He wanted me to pass on a message to Stephen.’
‘What message?’
‘He said he had a letter containing damaging information about Stephen’s activities in the summer and fall of nineteen sixty-three. He refused to say what the information was. If Stephen wanted to prevent the contents of the letter becoming public, he was to contact Mr Alder.’ She shrugged. ‘I told him there was nothing I could do. I told him Stephen was dead. He asked for proof. He expressed the same doubts as you.’
‘And you could prove it?’
‘No. I have had no contact with my husband of any kind for the past thirty-eight years.’
‘Then you can’t know he’s dead, can you?’
‘I know, Mr Bradley.’ She did her considerable best to stare me down. ‘To my satisfaction.’
‘Based on what?’
She devoted a lengthy moment to her cigarette, then treated us to a heavy sigh. ‘Very well. I told Mr Alder. I will tell you. I have a friend from childhood – Hilde Voss. She came to my wedding. She knew Stephen well. She knew him before he . . . lost himself.’ (I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but it seemed best to let her continue.) ‘Hilde still lives in Berlin. I see her often. She is a good friend. But there is something you must understand about her. She has . . . second sight.’
‘Oh for God’s—’
‘It is true. It has many times been demonstrated. Whether you believe it or not is unimportant. It is true. Hilde wrote to me a long time ago, when I was still living in the United States, to tell me that she had . . . seen Stephen’s death.’
‘Where?’ asked Hashimoto. ‘When?’
Rosa looked at him witheringly. ‘I did not mean seen literally. Hilde has . . . astral vision.’
‘Well,’ I prompted, ‘what did she see . . . astrally?’
‘Stephen died. Violently, nearly thirty years ago.’
‘Care to be more precise?’
‘I cannot be. Hilde wrote to me . . . some time in nineteen seventy-two. That is all.’
‘And that’s all you told Rupe?’
‘There was nothing more I could tell him. He still did not believe me, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, he went to see Hilde. She told me later of his visit. I did not hear from him again.’
‘Come off it.’
‘I did not hear from him again, Mr Bradley.’
‘What did Hilde say about his visit?’
‘She said she thought she had convinced him.’
‘Convinced him? Come on. You surely don’t expect me to swallow that.’
‘I have no expectation either way.’
‘We will see Frau Voss,’ said Hashimoto.
‘Please do. I can give you her address and telephone number. As I gave them to Mr Alder.’
‘Hold on.’ It was all too pat. And in one important respect it just didn’t fit. ‘Why was Erich so hostile if Rupe’s visit turned out as innocently as you say?’
‘Perhaps you annoyed him. Erich is . . . easily annoyed.’
‘He tried to kill me.’
‘No, no. He must have meant merely to frighten you. That is all.’
‘You weren’t there.’
‘No. But you are here, alive and well.’
‘Only because—’
‘Excuse me,’ Hashimoto interrupted. ‘This is pointless. We will speak to Frau Voss. After that . . . I do not know. We still have Erich’s cigarette lighter. Do not forget that, Frau Townley. If you leave us no alternative, we will go to the police with it.’
‘I understand.’
‘I doubt Frau Voss will be able to convince us.’
‘And I doubt she convinced Rupe,’ I put in.
‘You doubt,’ said Rosa, giving me a contemptuous glare through a plume of cigarette smoke. ‘Yes. That is certainly clear.’