by D K Bohlman
On to Marton Kovacs then. She crossed the fingers on her left hand for good luck and punched out the number with her right.
After half a dozen rings, the call was answered. An old man’s voice.
Her heart leapt. This could be the man.
‘Is that Marton Kovacs?’
A pause. ‘Yes. Who is this please?’
‘My name is Sarah McTeer, Mr Kovacs. I’m Scottish, please excuse my lack of Hungarian. I wanted to tell you what I am doing and why I’m calling you.’
The response came back slowly.
‘Oh. Well I speak some English, so I can try that, but first please tell me why you are calling.’
Sarah took a quick, deep breath. ‘I’m a university researcher. I’m doing a Master’s degree. The topic is around the Arrow Cross party in Hungary. I’m trying to understand more about what was behind it. Ideas. Motivation. Aims. I was hoping you might be able to help, as I understand you worked for the party when you were young?’
Fingers crossed again. She heard a soft sigh. Another pause, longer this time.
‘It was a long time ago, young lady. I’m not sure how much I can remember. Also, I’m very sick now, I’m afraid. But I can see you for a little while if it helps, I suppose. Yes. OK.’
Sarah let out a breath of relief, tried to stifle it and it became a cough.
‘That’s wonderful. Maybe tomorrow? Are you in the city centre?’
‘Sorry, not tomorrow, I’m busy and my doctor is coming to see me. The next day. At two in the afternoon? I am at the Hotel Cristal. Ask for me at reception. They will show you up. I am the owner. All the staff know me.’
‘Ah, OK. Well, yes that would be lovely. Until then Mr Kovacs.’
A great start. Sarah turned her attention to the glass of wine. Sod the gym, she felt like celebrating now. Ninety-something-year-olds had a habit of intriguing her with the amount they knew and sometimes the surprises they held. She was already looking forward to the interview with some fascination.
Marton Kovacs
____________________________
The following morning, Marton Kovacs rubbed the top of his bald head with an unsteady hand. The skin moved loosely over his skull, somehow depressing him even more.
He knew it wouldn’t be long now. The last few weeks had dragged so much and the pain was worse than it had ever been.
He was too old and sick to deal with this. But he couldn’t say no. It might arouse more suspicion if he refused to talk to her. He always lived by the maxim “keep your friends close but your enemies closer”. He didn’t want to make a mistake now, so close to the end of his life. His son and the hotel were everything. So, he would see her tomorrow and he would need to be on his guard. Maybe he needed his son, Peter, to be here. But that might introduce other complications, of a type he didn’t need right now.
First, though, it was time to leave his watch at the jewellers. He’d meant to go before now. If he wasn’t careful, it would be too late. He wanted everything to be left as he’d planned. So many years and so much deceit. It had been a crushing load to carry all this time. At least his death would have the consolation of freeing him from that torment.
He called down to the office. Aliz picked up the phone.
‘Yes, Marton?’
‘I need a trip out, Aliz. To Dob Street. Can you get whoever is concierge today to take me, please? I won’t keep him from you for long.’
‘Of course. I’ll have him come up and help you down in a few minutes. Is that OK for you?’
‘Perfect.’
Marton replaced the receiver and wheeled himself round to his old wooden bureau. He pulled the hinged desktop down and opened one of the small side drawers inside. He lifted out a battered looking wristwatch, with a cracked and faded leather strap, placing it on the desktop whilst he looked around for an envelope.
Picking up his favourite fountain pen, he then withdrew a sheet of writing paper from the bottom of the stack in front of him and checked the pre-prepared note. All fine.
By the time he had sealed up the envelope with the watch and note inside, there was a knock at his door.
‘One moment. I need to make a call. Give me a moment please.’
A gruff acceptance filtered through the door to his room.
He wheeled his way back to the telephone and dialled, giving his name and asking for Alfred.
A wheezing voice eventually came on. ‘Yes, this is Alfred. How are you, my friend?’
‘Worse. Dying. I need to come and see you. Will you be at the shop if I come now?’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Marton. But yes, I’ll be here. I’ll ask the shop to send you straight through.’
The concierge was a swarthy young man called Andris, who Marton hadn’t really liked right from his first day at the hotel. That’s what happened when you left the hiring to the sub-manager, it seemed. He helped Marton down into the adapted sedan he’d used for nearly twenty years now since his legs had started to be more troublesome. All that smoking he’d done had left him a deadly legacy. Now it was actually killing him. By the time he was in the car his breathing was markedly ragged, not helped by the cold air.
Travelling along Kiraly Street, he felt he was back in his old town, a street lined with traditional shops. No chain boutiques here, just a tree-shaded boulevard with booksellers, cafes and old-fashioned tailors. The car turned left into Dob Street, slowing down for a pedestrian crossing near the junction. Marton studied the young man in a thick, dark coat and a woollen scarf whipped up around his neck against the cold. He felt the man’s youth stab at his spirit and wondered if this would be the last trip down the streets of his home city.
Once at the jewellers he was shown into the tiny back office, where Alfred Nemeth was waiting for him.
*
Alfred looked expectantly at his visitor.
‘Good to see you, my friend. You look tired.’
Marton dipped his head, shaking it gently up and down in agreement, before turning to his driver. ‘You can wait in the car.’
The driver nodded, with a mixture of acceptance and annoyance on his face, and left the room.
Marton looked back at Alfred. He withdrew the envelope from his coat pocket, placing it on the jeweller’s workbench which doubled up as Alfred’s desk.
‘So, my friend. It is becoming close to the time we spoke about. My life does not have much longer to run, I fear. Here is the watch. As we know, the receipt has been with my solicitor for a long while now. He’s called Pasztor, David Pasztor. Please keep the envelope with the watch safe until my son comes for it with the receipt. You must insist on the receipt. You may not recognise Peter now.’
Alfred sighed his agreement.
‘My friend, we have been like brothers for so long, we have done some good and some bad things together. Some would say very bad … but those sorts of people were not there with us back then, were they? And we have lived our lives since then, worrying each day about a knock on the door, or a telephone call, which would drag us back to those days. We have been very lucky, unlike some. Now we are old men and we don't need any more trouble in our lives. You can rely on me. I won’t ask you any more about this matter … but I hope it will end well.’
He looked sharply at Marton, who suddenly looked very weary. Alfred knew there was a risk that Peter Kovacs would not respond favourably to the watch and the note he assumed Marton had included in the envelope. A risk that could also draw himself into difficulty. He needed to think very carefully through how he would prepare for any unfavourable consequences. And in all of this, Marton was suffering. It was all so wrong. He wasn’t sure how he could make it right though.
Whether it was his own sense of frailty and the keen understanding of how unimportant worldly things are when death approaches … or just the sight of his dying friend in front of him, which caused him to make a snap decision, he wasn’t sure. But he made it. He needed to tell Marton what really happened on that fateful night in the winter
of 1945.
‘Marton, there is something I need to tell you now. I can't let myself keep this from you anymore. Listen to me, my friend, and try not to be angry.’
*
As Alfred lowered his voice and began to tell, Marton leaned into him, to hear better. Their heads were close and their eyes locked tightly as the story unfolded.
Five minutes later, Marton felt that he had never had a friend in Alfred Nemeth.
Burton receives some news
____________________________
Alan Burton ran the last of his exercise yard laps and stopped his run conveniently in the corner farthest from the main block. The yard was shaped irregularly so he could squeeze himself out of view around a small pillar formed by a derelict external chimney breast. As far as he could make out, the CCTV didn’t scan into this tiny area. It had become the ideal place for drops.
He pulled out his smuggled mobile and texted the contact number. Thirty seconds later a reply appeared on his screen.
One minute hold tight.
He listened for the telltale wasp-like buzzing, as his breath spumed upwards like smoke into the chilly air.
There it was. Faint but there. He readied himself. A couple of the prisoners were up this end of the yard, leaning against the wall, getting their breath back after their runs. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. Unless they were squealers. And they could be dealt with if they made themselves too obvious. The single warder was down the other end of the yard. The lack of staff had some benefits at least.
Then it was over him, a small web-like structure of eye-pod cameras, white struts and rotor blades. It hovered quietly above him and dropped down slightly until he could reach the small black plastic bag hooked to one of its struts. He pulled out a razor blade and quickly slashed it free. The drone’s controller reacted and it spun upwards twenty feet or so before slipping back the way it had arrived.
He ripped a hole in the bag and looked at its contents. A folded note, a pack of cigarettes and a SIM card. He pushed the SIM and cigarettes into his pocket and opened the note quickly.
First try failed. Will try again soon. Don’t worry, she’s a goner.
He pulled his lips tight and spat out a reaction. ‘Pah, dumb idiot.’ Spittle sprayed over the note and his hand.
He turned back towards the yard, pushing the note into his pocket, heading back for a shower. The sweat had rapidly cooled on him and he was feeling distinctly chilly.
His mood became even colder as a warder walked across his path and stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
‘Need you to come with me, Alan Burton. This way please.’
Burton frowned.
‘Why, what’s up?’
Warder Stark didn’t really ever show any emotion on his face. A hard-bitten prison service veteran, who just got on with the job and was too wise to get into “conversations” with inmates. He set his blank stare on Burton.
‘Not here. Just follow me.’
Burton knew he’d get no further and wasn’t in the mood to goad Stark. So he followed him into the main block and down a couple of short corridors into an interview room. A table, two chairs. Burton walked to the far side and stood. Stark sat down in front of him. Looked up with a deadpan face.
‘We saw the drone. Turn your pockets out.’
Burton’s heart lurched. Damn. That was his mobile gone for a while then. How the hell had they seen him? Maybe just the drone, when it was approaching the prison walls.
He sighed. There was no point arguing. He did as he was told. The note, SIM card, cigarettes, mobile phone and razor, together with a twenty-pound note were thrown onto the table. His pocket linings hung limply outside his trousers.
Stark gave a wry smile, picked up the items in front of him and looked thoughtful.
After a few seconds, he pulled the cellophane from around the cigarette packet and removed a single smoke.
‘Here, to help you get over your loss.’
Burton’s fight response was suddenly triggered dangerously high. He pursed his lips and looked away.
Maybe discretion was the better part of valour. And he needed a smoke now.
He turned his head back and drilled a tetchy glare at his captor.
‘Thank you for your kindness.’
*
Twenty minutes later, Burton was in a different interview room with Stark and the prison governor.
The governor was running this session.
‘So, again, who is the note referring to?’
Again, no comment from a bored looking Burton.
‘Look, Alan, you know where this is headed, we’ll let the local police know, they’ll want to interview you. It will get bigger. We’ll consider loss of privileges in the meantime too. It’s bad enough you’ve all the other stuff and the drone visit. Come on man, spit it out.’
Burton looked up. ‘It’s a note. I don’t know who wrote it. Nothing to do with me. Must have got put in the wrong bag. You know, it's like fucking Amazon these drone deliveries, mistakes happen sometimes.’
Stark looked askance at his governor. No response. Just an attempt to leave a gap for Burton to fill after that comment. But Burton wasn’t biting.
Governor Walters leant forward.
‘OK. Hardball it is then. Expect a visit from the constabulary shortly and in the meantime, you can think about your answers in solitary.’
Burton’s already narrow eyes closed even further as he tightened his face muscles into a frozen grimace. He grunted acknowledgement. No more than that.
‘Off you go then.’
Another warder at the back of the room who had been providing extra security escorted Burton out.
The governor looked at Stark.
‘He’s up to something. Knowing him, something bloody nasty. He’s a devious bastard. We need to get on this smart-ish I reckon. I’ll get the boys in blue involved today.’
Stark nodded his agreement, looking pleased with himself. ‘OK, gov. Thought it worth bringing to you.’
Coast or jail?
____________________________
Governor Walters had faxed a copy of Burton’s note over to D.I. John Gregg’s office the same day. The Glasgow detective picked it up off his desk the following morning.
Gregg was a surly man at the best of times. And lazy whenever he could get away with it. His morning hadn’t been going too well. The D.C.I. weekly debrief had led to a private kicking afterwards. His progress on a recent spate of acid attacks on one of the worst local housing estates hadn’t made enough progress apparently and the residents’ group had been getting vocal on social media. Bane of a policeman's life now, that thing. Full of people who don’t understand how hard policing is, mouthing off without any restraint. And he had a hangover and a night’s growth on his jaw which made him feel tired and washed out.
He rolled his short, stout frame back into the sofa by the coffee machine and sipped from a plastic cup of cappuccino.
His follow up call to Walters had been short. Question now was, was it worth going to see Burton?
Sounded like he wouldn't get anything much out of him. Still, procedure more or less required he run through the motions on it. In the meantime, he needed to find out who Burton might have a grudge against. And if anyone had been reported as attacked by persons unknown recently.
He felt like lighting a cigarette, remembered he couldn't in the office and decided against a trip outside to the shelter where groups of sad-looking individuals stood pulling fast drags on white sticks. Too cold out there to tempt him right now.
He slipped a fruit drop into his mouth and started to drill into Burton’s records on his desktop terminal.
It didn’t take too long. Sounded like he’d taken a pop a year or so back at a private investigator he’d had brushes with and been put inside for that. He was also suspected of involvement in a murder in Italy, a woman connected with the investigator, but it hadn’t been nailed on him so far. The team in Inverness had been le
d by D.C.I. James Beerly … he made a note to call him.
The private eye seemed the obvious one to start with. A Calum Neuman, based in Plockton. Now that was a nice trip to make. He’d get onto that. Burton could wait until afterwards. Might be the right order to do it in anyway.
He picked up the phone and dialled Neuman’s number.
No reply. He left a message and pondered on whether to make a speculative four-hour drive to Plockton or a short trip to Burton’s prison. He resigned himself to the right answer. He set out for Barlinnie jail.
D.I. Gregg follows through
____________________________
D.I. Gregg sat opposite Alan Burton in a spartan interview room at Barlinnie. It wasn’t going well. Not that he’d arrived with expectations of anything better than this.
‘Look. Like I said to you more than once, I don’t know what the note means, it wasn’t for me, for sure.’
Just a roadblock. One that wasn’t showing any weak spots.
‘So, the drone just picked you out randomly, dropped on your head and you just had a razor handy and helped yourself to the contents?’
‘That’s about it, yeah. You guys should do more to stop these things flying in, they’re dangerous, I could’ve got injured.’
Gregg smirked, his usual deadpan disposition slightly amused by the repartee.
‘OK, have it your way. I’ll let the governor know you haven’t cooperated. We’ll try and track the SIM purchase down too. And look at your past conflicts. So, whatever you’re doing, just be aware we’re onto you, Burton. We won’t let go of it.’
He stood up from the table to leave.
‘OK, officer.’
Gregg wheeled round. ‘What?’
‘OK, off you go is all. Byeee.’
Gregg grimaced. ‘Let me know when you change your mind.’ He shut the door quietly on the way out. No sense in showing how pissed off he was.