1989, page 26
They swallowed their beer in slow silence, waiting for Fredi and her friend to drink up and leave. They were deep in conversation; she seemed to be giving him instructions that he was responding to. Eventually, she drained her glass and clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a smile of maximum wattage. Dieter gave her a moment, then went after her. The man at the bar took another few minutes over the last of his beer then, with a frown, he picked up his bag and left.
Allie followed him to the end of the street to a wide boulevard with tramlines running up the middle. He crossed to the tram stop and joined a short queue. Allie dithered, not sure whether to wait for someone else to join the queue and risk missing the tram, or to go for it right away. In the end, the decision was made for her by the arrival of a tram and she had to run across the tracks to climb aboard at the last minute. Thankfully the man was further down the carriage with his back to her. If he and Fredi really were involved in the kidnap and ransom, they’d either taken steps to protect themselves or else they were ridiculously over-confident. But in her investigative experience, Allie knew only too well how often criminals considered they were much smarter than those trying to catch them.
Five stops later, the man stood up and made for the door. He didn’t even glance at Allie as he passed her. As the tram drew to a halt, she got to her feet and exited behind him. Still he paid no attention to his surroundings. He turned into a narrow street of tall apartment buildings, stopping abruptly about halfway down. Allie carried on walking as he put down his bag and struggled with the front door. She registered the house number as she passed and continued to the corner.
She stopped and took stock. The houses seemed to contain eight apartments, two on each floor. There was no way of telling which apartment the man had entered. There was no obvious vantage point from where she could look up at the building and see in through the windows. Frustrated, Allie decided to call Dieter’s wife. Now all she had to do was find a phone.
Ace Lockhart had always been good at snatching opportunity from the jaws of defeat. He thought of himself as a winner, even when the dice all seemed to be rolling against him. And by sheer force of will or personality, he’d managed to overcome odds and obstacles to reach his present pre-eminence. Sometimes it was by dint of smoke and mirrors but so far he’d succeeded in replacing them with substance.
The trouble was that this time the smoke was dissipating and the mirrors were tarnishing before his eyes. There would never have been a good moment for his daughter to be held to ransom, but this was the worst possible time. There was something inherently catastrophic in a situation where his only escape route lay in the hands of Allie Burns.
There had to be another way.
He had come to Ranaig to escape the background noise of running Ace Media. He needed to think. He hadn’t even summoned his staff. There was food in the freezer and the pantry, there were logs enough to see him through a bitter winter and the window that had been broken by that bloody seagull had long since been repaired. He could survive perfectly well on his own with the satellite phone.
It had been raining when the helicopter had landed, but he’d barely noticed. He was already dressed for Ranaig – wide wale corduroy plus fours tucked into gaiters, stout shoes with nailed soles, fisherman’s sweater and an outsize waxed coat, topped with a tweed deerstalker. It was a caricature of a Highland laird, but nobody had ever dared laugh. Not in his presence, at least.
The house closed around Lockhart like a comfort blanket. It was the only place he treated with respect. He hung up his clothes, he loaded the dishwasher, he emptied his own ashtrays. Now, he went through to the den and poured himself an uncharacteristically large whisky. He settled in front of the wide picture window in the living room and stared out at the sea. Great slabs of steely water swelled and broke on the rocks in a scatter of spray. There was no visible separation between sea and sky, the horizon lost in a haze of grey. It matched his mood perfectly.
He took the Polaroids from his back pocket and flicked miserably through them again, as if he could will them to transform themselves. Tears welled up at the thought of his beloved Genny in such a cruel predicament. And all because he was Wallace Lockhart, media baron and multimillionaire.
And that was the terrible irony. In the eyes of the world, he was rich beyond dreams of avarice. The truth was hideous and he didn’t have enough time to make it beautiful again. His daughter’s life was at stake. But the cupboard was bare.
He’d always been a man who seized life by the throat. He’d done whatever it took to survive. But if saving Genny meant exiting the stage, it might be time for his final bow. The last remaining question was whether he loved his daughter more than life itself.
44
It was over an hour before Dieter arrived. She saw him from the corner café where she had settled in at a window table. She hurried outside to meet him. He’d changed his clothes again; grey cords and a cream crew-neck sweater. He made Allie feel dingy in the same outfit she’d left home in the day before. ‘No sign of life,’ she said, as they got into the car. ‘He’s not come out. Maybe he’s just an innocent guy who likes English spy fiction.’
‘But maybe he is more than that.’
‘Where did Fredi lead you?’ she asked.
‘I followed her to an apartment block near the Ku’damm. Her name is on one of the mailboxes, so it appears that is where she lives. It’s very typical Berlin.’
‘What if Genevieve’s in Fredi’s flat?’
He shook his head. ‘I know the layout of those flats. The living room is big, but the the bathroom is too small to take those photographs. There is a little park opposite and I was able to get a view of Fredi’s living room. And I looked through binoculars—’
‘Bloody hell, Dieter, that’s resourceful.’
He shrugged. ‘I keep them with me. Sometimes Fraulein Lockhart takes a walk with people she is meeting. Herr Lockhart likes me to keep watch over her.’ He pulled a face. ’It’s supposed to stop something like this happening.’
‘So what did you see?’
‘Fredi made lunch.’ His tone was wistful. ‘Also there is no blank wall where it would be possible to place Genevieve. Unless they are holding her somewhere else, I think she must be in the apartment where this man has come.’
‘First, we need to discover which flat he is in. Which I’m guessing is easier said than done . . . It’s impossible to see in the windows. Even the ground-floor flats are too high.’
‘I have an idea.’ He looked very pleased with himself. ‘My wife plays the piano for the children’s choir of the church. They always are short of money so they collect at people’s doors. She will come here on her bicycle. Someone will let her in and she will knock on all the doors to ask for contributions. Mostly they will say no but we will find out where the man is, I think?’
Allie grinned. She was beginning to understand the confidence Ace Lockhart placed in this man. ’That’s brilliant,’ she crowed, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I can describe the background in the pictures and if we’re lucky she might be able to tell whether the photographs might have been taken there.’
Dieter looked doubtful. ‘It’s much to ask.’
Allie knew better than to push. Always better to let them come to you. ‘There’s a phone round the corner, just past the café.’ He nodded and left. When he returned, they sat in silence, eyes on the apartment building, for another twenty minutes. Then a woman on a sit-up-and-beg bicycle came down the street towards them. She wore a dark macintosh, under which Allie caught glimpses of a floral dress, and blond hair peeped out from a headscarf patterned with anemones. She came to a halt alongside the car and propped her bike against the wall. She waggled her fingers at Dieter and climbed into the back of the car, carrying a wicker basket with a lid.
‘This is my wife Margarethe,’ Dieter said proudly. ‘Margarethe, may I present Frau Burns?’
‘Please, call me Allie,’ she protested, twisting round to offer her hand.
Margarethe took her fingers in a firm grip, blushing the while. ‘Hello. I am happy to be meeting you.’
‘I am so pleased you’re willing to help us,’ Allie said. ‘We are very grateful.’
Dieter translated rapidly and she blushed even harder. ‘Bitte,’ she said, nodding frantically.
He spoke to her in German, his intonation suggesting a question at the end of his little speech. He turned to Allie. ‘I told her what we needed to know, and if she could see into the apartment. She is quite clear. Alles klar, ja, Margarethe?’
‘Stimmt,’ came the response. Even Allie knew enough German to understand the reassurance of that exchange.
Margarethe opened her basket and handed them both a roll wrapped in greaseproof paper. Beneath them were a bundle of inexpertly produced flyers promoting the Chor der Kinderkapelle and a notebook with Spenden written in black marker pen on the cover. She closed the lid and exchanged a few words with Dieter. Then with another wave of the hand, she left them and walked firmly across the street.
‘She’s good,’ Allie observed, watching Margarethe pressing one buzzer then another, trying to gain entry. She was successful on the third try and vanished indoors.
‘She also makes a good Sülze sandwich,’ he said, looking inside his.
‘What’s that?’ Allie peered suspiciously at what looked like small chunks of meat in jelly. There was a sliced pickle laid along the centre.
‘I don’t know the English,’ Dieter said. ‘But if you don’t like it, I’ll eat yours.’
One bite and Allie was sold. ‘No chance,’ she said. It was good to have something so tasty to take her mind off the anxious wait.
What Dieter had failed to mention was that Margarethe was a leading light of the local amateur opera. Playing a part was nothing new for her. Four of the first six doors she knocked on gave her a handful of pfennigs. There was no reply at the sixth, but the seventh apartment gave her a whole Deutschmark. That only left the top-floor far door.
Margarethe knocked and waited. She heard the faint murmur of voices but no footsteps came towards the door. She knocked again, more imperiously this time. Hesitant footsteps, then a man’s voice demanding that she identify herself.
She loudly told the door that she was collecting donations for the chapel children’s choir and everyone else in the building had been very generous. Reading the name by the door, she took a chance and said that Frau Braun had always been very open-handed in her support. How she loved the children singing!
A mutter of voices. Then the rattle of locks and the door opened a few inches. She could see half a face and a flop of brown fringe. Margarethe gave her most glowing smile and thrust a flyer at him. Taken aback, he retreated and she advanced. The door swung open further and she could see down the hall to the dining table. She took in two glasses and two plates before he thrust a five-mark note into her basket and almost pushed her out of the door.
Satisfied, Margarethe almost skipped down the stairs. She’d found the man her husband had described to her. And you didn’t have to be a detective to see that whatever was going on in that top flat, it wasn’t normal.
Back at the car, she relayed the encounter in exhaustive detail, Dieter translating painstakingly. The more she heard, the more confused Allie felt. Margarethe was clearly talking about the same man. The jury was out on the apartment, since the only walls she’d seen had been crammed with framed photographs and paintings. The odd behaviour pointed in one direction, the muttered conversations in another. If Genevieve was the other person in the flat, why had she not called out for help, or made a bid for freedom? Dieter pointed out that there could be two jailers and Genevieve could be restrained in another room.
Allie groaned. ‘You’re right, of course. But someone connected with the only definite contact we have for Genevieve is behaving very oddly. And he’s definitely not Frau Braun.’
‘But the other person in the apartment might be,’ Dieter protested.
‘So why didn’t she open her own door? And deny that she’d ever given money to the children’s choir?’
They were good points, but they didn’t take them any further forward. Allie sighed. ‘There’s one thing we know for sure. The kidnappers are going to phone Ace Lockhart tomorrow at noon. UK time, presumably. Now, from what you’ve told me about Fredi Schroeder, she’s not the kind of woman to trust anybody but herself to make that call. She’s too smart to use the phone in her apartment or the Green movement’s office – she probably thinks the authorities have those phones bugged. So we need to tail her tomorrow morning. If she’s making the call, we can be pretty sure we’re on the right track.’
‘And if she’s sitting in a café drinking a mocha and eating a krapfen, we know we’re back to the beginning.’ Dieter looked glum.
‘Yes, but then I can speak to her directly. Ask her who else Genevieve hung out with when she was in West Berlin. If she’s not in it up to her neck, she’ll want to clear her people of any involvement.’
‘Are we going to wait here much longer?’ Dieter asked. ‘Only, Margarethe has to get home for the children.’
Allie looked across at the apartment. There were still at least a couple of hours of daylight. She didn’t want to give up yet. ‘Margarethe, can I borrow your bike?’ she asked.
Dieter and Margarethe exchanged a few urgent sentences. ‘You want to stay here with the bike and we leave?’ he asked.
‘Stimmt.’
He laughed. ‘You will soon be fluent. You think that’s a good idea?’
‘Yes. And on your way home, you can call in at the Greens’ office. See if they have any bumf—’
‘What is “bumf”, please?’
Allie chuckled. ‘Leaflets. Newsletters . . . Anything that might have names and photographs. We need to find out this guy’s name, check out whether he’s Berndt.’
‘Alles klar. Yes, I can do this. But will you be safe?’
‘I can go back to the café. Get something to eat. If our mystery man emerges, I can follow him. And if Fredi Schroeder shows up . . .’ Allie shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s her boyfriend.’
Dieter guffawed. ‘That’s impossible. She is . . . I don’t know the word. Homosexualle Frau. Lesbisch.’
Allie gave a wry smile. ‘Lesbian. I get it. In that case, probably not her boyfriend. So, can I borrow the bike?’
Across the street, on the fourth floor, Genevieve Lockhart was still teasing Hans. ‘I can’t believe you freaked out at an old woman collecting for a kids’ choir.’ She giggled.
‘She wasn’t that old,’ he protested. ‘How was I supposed to know who was knocking? It could have been the police.’
Genevieve scoffed. ‘I told you, my father will not go to the police.’
‘It might have been a neighbour who knows Tante Lisl is away. They might have thought we were squatters. That’s not so unusual in this city.’
Genevieve helped herself to another piece of bread and spread it thickly with liver pâté. ‘But it wasn’t the police. You have to relax, Hans. Everything is going to plan. You told me yourself. Your man in Glasgow delivered the letter. When Fredi speaks to him tomorrow, she’ll give my father his instructions and he’ll deliver.’
‘Are you sure? He’s such a ruthless businessman, I can’t believe he’ll just cave in. And even if he does, he’ll want revenge, surely?’
Genevieve nibbled a cornichon in a series of tiny bites with her sharp white incisors. ‘That tape we made earlier, the one Fredi’s going to play to him? He’ll cave in all right. He’ll be so grateful to have me back, it’ll be easy to convince him that revenge might be too dangerous. That you might come after me again, and not for money. The thing you have to remember is that this isn’t business, Hans. This is family. This is love.’
‘Still, I find it hard to believe he will just accept defeat if he has to pay a ransom. Everything you have said makes me think he is a ruthless man.’
‘In business, yes. But there’s so much more to him than that. My father lost his entire family to the Nazis in the war. I’m all he has left. He won’t countenance the risk of losing me. He’ll be stamping round the house like a wounded bear, eaten up with fear and frustration. But he won’t take a chance on my life. You have to impress that on Fredi. She needs to sound truly dangerous. She has to make him believe my life really is on the line.’
Hans’s expression gave nothing away. He wondered yet again why that thought hadn’t crossed Genny’s mind. In her shoes, it would have kept him awake at night. He’d have bet Fredi Schroeder had considered it as an option if the alternative was losing her freedom.
Genevieve pushed her plate away. ‘Now, let’s go out for a drink.’ He looked so appalled she burst out laughing. ‘Why not? Nobody here knows who I am. Or who you are, come to that. It’s boring, being stuck in here all the time.’ He went to contradict her but she put a finger to his lips to silence him. ‘Even with you as a beautiful distraction. Come on, Hans. Let’s live a little.’
‘No, Genny. You have to be serious about this. You can’t be seen. Your father may not go to the police but he will have people out looking for you.’
‘What? In this obscure suburban corner of Berlin? And who? Dieter, my driver? He’s never seen me with you. Or Fredi, come to that.’
‘Everyone knows who Fredi is. If he knows you have been mixing with us, your Dieter will know Fredi. That’s why I’m here, not her. We have to stay put.’ He pulled away from her and hurried down the hall. He took the keys out of the door and put them into his trouser pocket. Then faced her. ‘You can’t go out, Genny. You have to imagine you really are a prisoner.’
