The Mozart Conspiracy

Chapter Eight

Vienna

Detective Sergeant Markus Kinski never forgot a face. And when he’d spotted the woman across the crowded square he’d instinctively followed her.

It was a cold afternoon in Vienna and snow threatened from a heavy sky. She filtered through the crowds of tourists and shoppers. She was wearing a navy-blue cape and matching beret, casual but expensive. Kinski was hanging back thirty yards, locked on to his target, his old greatcoat flapping in the December chill, when he saw her go inside the tearoom.

He paused at the entrance and watched her through the glass. It was one of those frilly kinds of joints, like an over-decorated wedding cake, which Vienna was full of and which Kinski, still an East Berliner in his heart, hated.

She took a table in the far corner. Laying her blue cape beside her, she took a paperback from her handbag and began to read. Kinski went inside and sat himself down where he could observe her over the top of his newspaper. He was too bulky for the little round marble-topped table and the slender chair felt creaky and rickety under him. Everything was so fucking dainty.

Kinski had been the officer in charge and was in the interview room when they’d brought Madeleine Laurent in for questioning, almost a year ago, after the Llewellyn drowning case. She’d been blonde, with long hair. The woman sitting opposite him now was a brunette, her hair cut in a bob that disguised the contours of her face. But the features were the same. The dark-brown eyes that were scanning the menu and then flashing up as the waiter came to her table-those were the same too. She ordered Sacchertorte and a hot cocoa with cream and a dash of green chartreuse.

Greedy bitch, he thought. And your German suddenly got a whole lot better. But it had to be her. It was her.

Kinski ordered an espresso. Straight, black, no sugar. He leaned back in his creaking chair and pretended to read the paper. He cast his mind back to the Llewellyn case.

Madeleine Laurent. Twenty-six years of age. Nationality French. Married to Pierre Laurent, a French diplomat posted in Vienna. The scandal had been neatly covered up. Laurent’s people had leaned hard on the cops to keep quiet about Madeleine’s indiscretion with the foreigner Oliver Llewellyn. Her tearful statement had been recorded and filed-and then suddenly nobody could find it any more. It seemed just to vanish from the records. By then the coroner’s report was already in, so nobody had made much of the clerical snafu.

Nobody except Kinski. But when he’d asked questions he’d been formally instructed to leave off. It was a sensitive matter. The case was closed. A few days later they’d heard that the diplomat was being pulled out of Austria and given a new three-year posting, somewhere conveniently far away. Venezuela, Kinski remembered. He’d smarted over it for weeks afterwards.

If it was the same woman, what was she doing back here? Visiting friends for Christmas? Maybe he should just give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was wasting his time.

But his gut told him differently, and twenty-six years as a cop-the first nine of those served in the hard streets of Communist East Berlin-had taught Markus Kinski not to ignore a hunch.

He went to the gents and shut himself in a cubicle, then dialled the number he’d memorized from the tearoom menu.

Kinski was back finishing his coffee when the manageress called out across the counter. ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen-is there a Madeleine Laurent here? I have an urgent message for her. No?’ The manageress scanned around the room, shrugged, and went back to what she was doing.

The woman had frozen when the name was called. Her cup stopped an inch from her mouth, then she collected herself and set it down without drinking. She looked around her nervously. Kinski smiled behind his paper. Got you.

The woman gathered her cape and bag, abandoned the half-eaten Sacchertorte. She hurried to the counter, paid, and left the tearoom.

Kinski tossed money down on the table and followed her. She slipped between the bustling shoppers and hailed a taxi. Kinski’s path was blocked by bodies. He pushed through angrily. He was twenty feet from her when she hopped into the car. A slim leg disappeared inside, the door slammed and the taxi melted into the traffic.

‘Scheisse!’

Back at the tearoom, he asked for the manageress. When she appeared he flashed his badge. ‘Polizei. A woman left here two minutes ago. She paid by card. I want her name.’

The manager went coolly over to the stack of credit-card slips on the counter. She handed him the topmost one. Kinski glanced at it.

The name and signature on the credit-card slip wasn’t Madeleine Laurent. It was Erika Mann.

Chapter Nine

Langton Hall, Oxfordshire

Ben spent a restless night in the draughty passageway outside Leigh’s bedroom door. She’d tried to persuade him to sleep in one of Langton Hall’s eight empty bedrooms, but he’d wanted to stay close to her and this was the closest he could be without sleeping in her room.

As he sat there leaning uncomfortably against the wall, his mind was full of thoughts of Leigh. It was strange to think that she was just on the other side of the wall. They’d been so close once, and it saddened him to be near to her now, yet so far away.

He managed to stay awake until sometime before six, chain-smoking his way through most of a pack of Turkish cigarettes. As the dawn light began to creep across the hallway through the dusty window, he was thinking about the phone call from the police the night before. He went back over and over the details in his mind. Leigh’s flat in Covent Garden could have been ransacked any time in the last five days. The neighbours had returned from a holiday to find her door ajar, and had called the police when they saw the damage.

It had been no ordinary burglary. They’d lifted carpets and floorboards, ripped through every piece of furniture, even slashed pillows and cushions. But nothing had been stolen. The police had found her string of pearls, gold watch and diamond earrings on her bedside table, just where she’d left them. He couldn’t make sense of it.

He got up and stretched, folded away his sleeping-bag and went downstairs. He was making coffee when Leigh came in shivering, her hair tousled. They drank mugs of hot coffee and spoke little as they watched the sunrise from the kitchen window. Leigh was clutching her mug with both hands to warm her fingers. Ben could see from the pallor of her face that she felt almost as tired as he did.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. ‘Are you sticking around, or making that call?’

‘I’d feel better if you had the right kind of protection,’ he said. ‘I can’t be with you twenty-four-seven, going everywhere you go, watching your back every moment.’ He paused. ‘But I want to know what’s happening here.’

‘So you’re staying?’

He nodded. ‘For a while, at least.’

She laid down her cup. ‘OK. And if I’m going to be stuck here for a while, I might as well get started on unpacking some of the stuff in those boxes. I’ve got some jumpers in there and it’s freezing in this house.’

Ben fetched more logs and kindling from the woodshed and carried them into the study. Leigh watched as he quickly cleaned out the cold grate and piled up the sticks of kindling. He lit the fire and the orange flames began to roar up the chimney. He sensed a movement behind him. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked, looking up at her.

She stopped jumping up and down. ‘This reminds me of years ago in the old house in Builth Wells,’ she said, laughing. ‘We were so strapped for cash, Dad would have us jumping and running around so he could save on the heating. He’d take us on long walks, and when we’d come home all rosy-cheeked that freezing old place seemed nice and warm again.’

Ben piled on a couple of logs. ‘Sounds like the army,’ he said. ‘I think they call it character building’

Leigh gazed out of the window. The sun was rising over the treetops. ‘I wouldn’t mind a walk, you know. I’ve been cooped up for days. D’you feel like some air?’

‘Sure, you can show me around your estate.’

She shut the heavy back door and put the key in the pocket of her tan suede coat. She raised her face to the sun, closed her eyes and smiled sadly.

They walked in silence for a while. The grounds of the house sloped gently away over lawns and an ornamental lake into a rambling stretch of woodland. They followed a path that was strewn with fallen twigs and dead leaves softened by the winter rains, and passed through an evergreen tunnel of arching cherry laurels. Cold bright sunlight sparkled through the gaps in the canopy overhead.

‘This is my favourite part,’ she smiled, pointing ahead. As they turned a corner the lush green tunnel opened up to a clear view across the meadows and a glittering river beyond. Some horses were grazing by the riverbank in the distance.

‘Come the summer, I’m going to have some benches put here,’ Leigh said. ‘It’s such a lovely spot.’ Her smile faded as she gazed across the valley.

Ben could see her troubled thoughts clouding her eyes. ‘I know you don’t want to go over all this again,’ he said. ‘But we need to know what’s happening.’

She looked down at her feet. ‘I can’t understand it.’

‘Are you positive they couldn’t have been after something in your flat?’

Leigh sighed. ‘I told you, I only used the place as a base for the Opera House. I hardly had anything there, I didn’t spend much time there.’

‘And you’re absolutely sure that the place was empty when you moved in? There’s nothing that could have been left behind by the previous occupants?’

She shook her head. ‘Like I said, it was all cleaned out when I rented it. No, it’s me they’re after. Something to do with me, but what it is I…’

Ben didn’t reply. He reached out his arm and gently squeezed her shoulder, feeling the tension in her muscles. She took a step away from him, breaking the contact.

He looked up at the sky. It was threatening to rain. They’d been walking for almost an hour. ‘Let’s go back,’ he said.

Gunmetal clouds had passed over the sun’s face by the time they had walked the path back through the woods and up the gently sloping lawns to the manor. A thin, steady drizzle was drifting on the rising wind. Leigh opened the back door and Ben led the way up the passage to the kitchen, where he’d left his haversack. He was reaching for his phone when he froze. His eyes narrowed.

Leigh saw his expression. ‘What’s up?’

He looked at her hard and pressed a finger to his lips. She made a gesture to say ‘I don’t understand’.

He said nothing. He reached out, grasped her by the upper arm and jerked her roughly across the room. He tore open the door of the walk-in pantry and pushed her inside.

‘Ben…’ Leigh’s eyes were wide with fear and confusion.

‘Don’t move, don’t make a sound,’ he whispered, and shut her in.

He looked around him and quietly grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet from the range. He slipped through the gap in the kitchen door and moved fast and silently up the panelled hallway.

He found them in the study. There were two of them, their backs to him. They were masked and armed. Identical combat jackets and semi-automatic pistols in cordura rigs.

They’d been busy. Packing cases were overturned, their contents spilled across the bare floorboards. Music manuscripts were scattered everywhere. Letters, business documents. The guy on the left was rifling through a trunk, tossing clothes in a rough pile on the floor. The guy on the right was kneeling down near the fire place and using a double-edged killing knife to slice open a large cardboard box that was wrapped up in brown packing tape.

Neither one heard Ben step into the room.

The cardboard box fell open and the contents tumbled out-papers, books, folders. The man reached inside and pulled out a slim box-file. He studied it for a moment and waved it at his companion.

The guy on the left was half turned round when Ben buried the edge of the iron skillet in his skull. It went in like an axe and he dropped to the floor with his legs kicking.

The other threw aside the box-file and went for his pistol. Ben was faster. He hit him a blow to the throat that was meant to disorientate rather than kill. He kept a pincer grip on the man’s windpipe as he went down. ‘Who are you working for?’ he asked quietly. As he spoke he took the gun from the man’s trembling fingers with his free hand. It was a big, heavy pistol. A Para-Ordnance .45, high-capacity magazine, stainless steel, cocked and locked. It was shiny and smelled of fresh gun oil.

Ben was a believer in simple, straightforward interrogation. He flicked off the safety, then pressed the muzzle of the .45 against the intruder’s temple. ‘Tell me quick or you’re dead,’ he said.

The man’s eyes rolled in the oval slits in his mask. Ben let some pressure off his windpipe. He looked down at the slim box-file. It was lying on the floor, face-up. Written across its front in neat marker pen were the words THE MOZART LETTER.

Ben pressed the gun harder into the man’s head. ‘What’s this about?’ he said.

The door crashed open. A third intruder burst inside the room shooting. The room was filled with gunfire. Ben had nowhere to take cover. He felt the shockwave of a heavy bullet passing close by his head.

He grasped his prisoner by the collar and swung his body up and round in front of him, using him as a shield. The man screamed and jerked as bullets thudded into him. His thrashing foot caught the box-file. It burst open and papers flew into the fireplace.

Ben aimed the Para-Ordnance over the man’s shoulder. The pistol kicked and boomed twice in his hand. The attacker twisted, slammed against the wall, slumped to the floor.

Ben let the dead body of his human shield fall. The contents of the file were strewn across the hearth. Paper curled and blackened as the flames spread hungrily. The corner of the rug was burning. He stamped out the flames and kicked the blackened fragments of paper away from the fireplace.

He strode across the study and squatted down to examine the third man. His mask, weapon and clothing were identical to the others’. The first bullet had caught him in the chest. The second, rising on recoil, had taken the top off his head. Ben sighed. None of the three would be doing much talking to him.

He tensed. A door had slammed somewhere in the house. Leigh? He sprang to his feet and ran out across the wide hallway. He could hear shouts and the noise of a diesel engine revving hard outside. Rapid footsteps across the gravel at the front of the house. He ran up the passage into the front entrance hall, slipping on the polished parquet. He ripped the front door open just in time to see a fourth intruder jump into the Transit van. It took off down the drive with its wheels spinning.

He raised the .45 and punched a line of six holes across the back doors of the van. The rear windows shattered.

The van slewed and kept going. Ben fired three more rounds at the tyres, the target diminishing now. A plastic hubcap spun across the gravel. The van disappeared down the drive. Then it was gone.

Ben swore and ran back into the house. He hurried to the kitchen and opened the pantry door.

Leigh flew at him with a scream and swung the long steel Maglite torch at his head with all her strength. If it had landed it would have put him in a coma. He dodged it and caught her wrist. She was panting. Her eyes were wild. She didn’t seem to recognize him.

He shook her. ‘Leigh-it’s me. It’s Ben.’

She came to her senses and looked up at him. Her face was white.

‘We’ve had some unexpected visitors,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now. But we need to leave quickly. More of them will be coming back here.’ He turned to head out of the room.

She was shaking. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Get your things together,’ he said. He picked up his bag and carried it to the study. Closing the door behind him, he knelt down and gathered up the fire-damaged papers. He sighed as some of them crumbled apart in his hands.

Among the documents was a small padded envelope, about four inches square, light and slim. One of its corners was singed from the fire but otherwise it was undamaged. It hadn’t been opened. It was addressed to Leigh in Monte Carlo. The postmark was Vienna-stamped just the day after Oliver’s death.

Ben tossed everything together into the box-file. Across the label THE MOZART LETTER, a spatter of blood was still wet and glistening. He unbuckled the straps of his bag and put the file inside.

He collected the two identical .45 pistols from the dead men and took the spare magazines from the pouches on their tactical rigs. Clearly these men had been professionals. He searched them. No papers, no ID of any kind.

He looked up to see the door handle turning. Before he could stop her, Leigh had stepped into the study.

She froze as she took it all in. The three dead men lying there with their eyes glazed and staring through the holes in their ski-masks, arms and legs out-flung. The pool of blood on the floor. The long smear of it on the far wall. The handle of the skillet still protruding from the head of one of the corpses. She reeled, swaying a little on her feet.

‘I didn’t mean for you to see this,’ he said, steadying her. He took her by the elbow and guided her out of the room.

‘Did you do this?’ Her voice was barely audible.

‘Look, we haven’t got time to discuss it now. Are you ready to leave?’ She nodded weakly.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes had gone by since the attackers had fled. ‘We’ll have to cut across the meadow and see where we can get some transport.’

‘I have a car here,’ Leigh said. ‘It’s in the garage out the back.’

Chapter Ten

Austria

Eve locked the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it for a few moments with her eyes tightly shut. How long had the big cop been tailing her? What was his name? She remembered. Kinski. Detective Markus Kinski.

Two big screw-ups. They wouldn’t be happy with her. First, she should have left the café the moment she recognized him. She should have acted casual, walked away. Taken a cab and got out of there before she left any traces.

The traces were the second big mistake. She’d failed to carry enough cash on her, the way they’d always told her to. She’d panicked in her rush to get out of there, and had had to use the Erika Mann credit card. That cover would be blown now. Kinski was bound to chase up the false name, and when it led him down a blind alley he’d become even more suspicious. She’d been lucky this time and managed to lose him-but if he was on to her he’d be back.

Eve’s neck and shoulders felt rigid and her mouth was dry. What was he doing following her? Was he sniffing around the Llewellyn case again? Why would he? It had been closed months ago, and as far as the police were concerned it had stayed closed. Only a small number of people knew differently.

She reached inside her handbag and brought out the tiny Black Widow .22 Magnum revolver. She turned the miniature stainless-steel pistol over in her hands. It was only six inches long and weighed just eight ounces, but the five slim cartridges in its cylinder would drill straight through a man’s skull. She’d never shot anyone with it, but she knew how to use it.

She wondered what it would feel like to point the gun at a living person and pull the trigger. She’d do it if she had to. She was in too precarious a position to risk exposure.

Maybe it would have been better to let Kinski follow her, she thought. She could have lured him somewhere. Used her charms. That was something she had done before. Then killing him would have been easy.

She thought of Oliver Llewellyn and wondered how long it would be before they caught up with the sister. There was no escape from these people. Eve knew that.

She walked to the bed, still holding the little pistol. There was something lying on her pillow, red velvet against the white silk. It was a jewel case. She opened it. It was the Lalique Art Nouveau brooch she’d admired in the antique-shop window in Vienna the week before. It was exquisite. Gold, inlaid with diamonds and sapphires. There was a note inside, neatly folded. She opened it.

It was from him. ‘Wear this tonight,’ it read.

Eve closed the jewel case and tossed it away across the bed. She lay down as the darkness closed over her.

Slowly, she brought the Black Widow revolver up until she could feel the coldness of its muzzle against her temple. She closed her eyes and listened to the snick-snack of its oiled action as she thumbed back the little hammer. Just a flick of a finger and she could be free of the whole thing.

Her fingers relaxed around the gun and she let out a long breath.

She couldn’t do it.

No escape.

Chapter Eleven

Oxfordshire

The TVR Tuscan skidded out of the drive and Ben accelerated hard away from Langton Hall. He didn’t know where he was going. Traffic was thin on the country roads and he drove fast for six miles, keeping the revs high and the gears low, constantly checking the mirrors. He saw nothing.

He pulled up in a lay-by and turned off the engine. Leigh was sitting quietly beside him, ashen-faced. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. He twisted round and grabbed his haversack from behind the seat. There was still some whisky in his flask. ‘I know you don’t like this stuff very much,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘But it’ll take the edge off.’

Leigh took a sip of the whisky and winced at the burn on her lips. She coughed. ‘Thanks.’ She screwed the cap of the flask back on and handed it back to him.

He finished what was left. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she took out her phone.

‘Calling the police.’

He grabbed the phone from her before she could finish dialling 999. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Until last night nobody knew where we were. Then you told the police where to find us, and the next thing we have company.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying I don’t like coincidences,’ he replied. ‘And there’s also the slight problem of three dead men lying in your house, Leigh. I killed them, and you’re an accomplice. I’m not sticking around to be arrested.’ He took the file out of the bag and showed her. ‘This is what they were looking for,’ he said. The spots of blood on the label were turning russety-brown.

‘The Mozart letter? Oliver’s work? But…’ She looked at him helplessly. ‘Why would anyone want—’

‘I think it’s time we had a look at this stuff,’ he said. He pushed the haversack to his feet with a dull metallic clunk from the guns inside, and rested the box-file on his lap against the steering wheel. He popped the catch and opened the lid of the file.