by D K Bohlman
Your father,
Marton.
Peter looked up, to be met by David’s gaze.
‘Anything I need to help you with, Peter?’
Peter grimaced. ‘No thanks, David. I’ll talk to you about the will tomorrow maybe. For now, I have something else to do for my father. I need to leave straight away. I’ll be in touch.’
He rose with a weariness borne out of travelling and apprehension from what he’d just read.
Peter took his seat back in the waiting taxi. The driver raised an eyebrow, looking for his next instruction.
‘I need to go to the hotel Idral to drop off the luggage then to Dob Street. You can leave me there.’
As the driver turned the wheel and swept out into the street, Peter dialled the number on the jeweller’s receipt.
Time for a watch
____________________________
Alfred Nemeth had been expecting the call. The old network had kicked into life … what there was left of it after all these years. He was nervous. Funny at his age, he thought. He asked himself why it mattered really. Same reasons as Marton thought he had, he supposed. Honour. Pride. The worry for his family left with the aftermath. And Peter was Marton’s family. Even so, what came first was his own family. And the worst thing that could happen would be if Peter heard the truth.
He should have done it straight away when Marton gave him the envelope, but he’d steamed it open now and withdrawn the note he suspected would be within. It was risky. He didn’t know what Peter might be expecting in the envelope … but he’d needed to examine it, that was clear now he’d read the note. He put the envelope on a radiator to dry it out as quickly as he could. At least he’d put Peter off for an hour, saying he couldn't be at the shop so quickly. Peter didn't know he lived above his business, of course.
When Peter finally rang the door buzzer, Alfred’s old heart gave a little jump. He went through from the back of the shop where he’d been waiting, wound the security screen up and opened the glass-panelled front door.
‘Come in, Peter. Sorry to meet you for this reason. Come through to the back room.’
Peter shook Alfred’s hand and followed him through, sitting in the same position opposite Alfred as his father had not many days beforehand.
Alfred cleared some phlegm from his windpipe, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
‘I think you have a receipt for me, Peter? Sorry to ask but your father insisted.’
Peter harrumphed with some indignation, then produced the receipt from his jacket breast pocket.
‘Thank you. Here is the watch.’
He passed Peter the white envelope. It was dry and he had sealed it with some red tape.
‘It is as your father gave it to me.’
Peter pulled the tape off and emptied the watch onto the desk. He looked inside the envelope, shaking it gently upside down.
Alfred felt his pulse rise in ragged jumps. He was aware he probably looked unsettled. He wasn’t sure he could trust his voice right then, so said nothing.
‘Nothing else? Father said there was something else besides the watch.’
The air between them became thin. Alfred could suddenly smell his own anxiety. It was sour, like salt and old wine.
Alfred raised a wrinkled eyebrow, drawing upon decades of deceit in a struggle to appear calm. ‘I don’t know,’ he croaked. ‘I don’t know what was in there, apart from the watch.’
He shrugged his shoulders to underline his innocence, but Peter didn’t seem to be buying it.
‘I think there’s something wrong here Alfred. There should be something else. Something that father needed me to see urgently. Why would he want me to see an old watch with such haste that you opened the shop for me late at night? You’re lying, old man.’
Alfred quickly realised he was losing the tussle of persuasion. He swallowed some phlegm and looked down at his hands, desperately trying to think of the best response.
Peter wouldn't hurt him, would he? Surely not, in a search for something he had no idea of the shape of? It was close by, though, he hadn’t thought to hide it better. He’d chosen badly as it turned out.
‘I have no idea, Peter. I’m an old man, like your father. I don’t know why this was so urgent for him. He didn't tell me that. All I can do is give you the envelope.’
Peter stood up and backed away from the desk. He stopped, leant against the door into the room, well away from Alfred. He scanned the room carefully, side to side, keeping Alfred's face in his peripheral vision, watching for a reaction.
He got what he needed. As he looked left, Alfred threw a quick glance towards a metal filing cabinet.
‘In the cabinet then?’
Alfred shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Peter.’
His voice was reedy, frightened, and Peter seemed to take some perverted energy from that. He took a couple of steps forward and wrapped one of his massive hands around Alfred’s throat.
‘Tell me, Alfred, or I’ll wreck your office looking for it!’
A squeaky yelp came out of Alfred’s throat, but he was still shaking his head in denial.
Peter’s patience snapped and he threw Alfred against the wall with a hard shove and turned to the cabinet.
As his head banged against the stonework, Alfred knew he was in trouble, his head swam and waves of pressure rolled onto his brain, forcing him down.
He slipped sideways, the thin hair at the back of his head scraping against the rough wall. He was only barely aware of the pain the graze caused to his skin.
Sliding towards his end, he could only think of one thing. He shouldn’t have hidden the note. Katalin needed to be freed. It didn’t matter anymore now. Peter needed to get her out of there. He mustn’t take any other course. It would all be for the wrong reasons. For the first time in his life, he started to feel real guilt about Marton’s predicament. It was all his fault after all.
Too little, too late, though.
*
The cabinet was locked. Peter turned back to the desk. No key visible there. Alfred was slumped against the wall, slid to a sitting position, still as stone. Peter crouched down and rifled the old man’s pockets. A small bunch of keys jangled in one of them.
Peter looked up slowly, sensing a change in Alfred. He stared at his chest. He wasn’t sure it was moving. It was hard to tell, though, what with his own heart pounding away like a jackhammer and his ageing muscles unable to hold him steady on his haunches. With one hand on the wall, he steadied himself and focused. Alfred’s shirt was almost perfectly still. No mistake.
He leant forward and rested an ear on the bony chest. A desolate, raspy sigh, irregular pulse … weakening.
‘Szar!’ he cursed. This wasn’t what he’d intended.
He stared at Alfred for a few long minutes before deciding not to try to help him. That dragged less heavily on his professional principles than it should have, but he let Alfred slide sideways to the floor and then stood up. He tried the keys one by one until he got the drawers open. He didn’t need long to look. A small folded note in the front division of the first drawer. Peter … scrawled in his father’s handwriting on the front fold. He unfolded it turn by turn.
It wasn’t a long note. He read it once, then again, just to be sure he had grasped what it said. And to know that he really could have read such a thing.
His father was a monster. He knew his father had a secret. He’d sensed that in lots of different, sometimes quite subtle, ways over the years. But this was something more. A problem, a huge problem he didn't want. Within the matter of a minute, his father had become the most hated thing in his life.
He stared at it again, in disbelief, rubbing his eyes in frantic contemplation.
Dear Peter,
This is the hardest part, I’m afraid. I’m sorry for this further note for you, but I needed to take precautions. Alfred is aware of what I am to tell you, but my solicitor David is not.
I don’t know how to start. It�
�s almost as much to bear to write this down, as it has been to deal with it for the last few years. Whatever you think of what I am going to tell you now, please consider I always thought of your dear mother, yourself and all your family when I chose to do what I have done. Peter, I am not a bad man. I truly believe that. What happened all those years ago … I can’t understand it still. It does not feel like I did those things with Arrow Cross then, but I know I did and I’ve learnt to live with that part of it all.
You have stood by me despite that. I hope you can help me one final time. But you need to act fast. There is something else.
I have been holding a girl hostage for a number of years now, in our hotel. She is in the room below my apartment. The door from the next room is boarded up and hidden behind wardrobes, but there is another way in, via the dumb waiter in my own room. This girl, she found out a secret. Something from the war. I didn’t know what else to do, to protect our family and business and, of course, our reputation. Also, our freedom may well have become threatened by the girl. I always intended to find another way. But over the years I could find none. I am not a bad man like I said. So I could not harm her. Or let her go.
You must decide what to do now. I was the cause of all of this, so it may not be a problem for you if you release her. Please go to the hotel quickly and speak to Aliz. She knows about the girl: she is called Katalin. She will need to be fed, Aliz will help organise this at first.
I can say no more. I can only hope you make the right choices for everyone. My love is with you.
Again, your father,
Marton.
He sat down heavily on the desktop and closed his eyes. The room was full of silence. He couldn’t move for a moment or two as it weighed him down and pressed against his chest.
He let out a breath, the first for five seconds or so. Suddenly he needed to get out of the room and find some fresh air. He had to think, hard and fast.
He checked through the scene in front of him. What had he left there for someone to find? He pocketed the watch, envelope, and the note before taking out a tissue and wiping the desk and cabinet around where he thought he may have left fingerprints. He locked the cabinet and put the keys back in Alfred’s pocket. Except for one. He tried the bunch for the front door and left that one in the inside keyhole before switching all the lights out. Then he looked carefully up and down the street before breaking the upper door glass pane with his jacket spread roughly over it to muffle the noise. A quick rub of the key with his tissue again and he pulled the door shut.
He set off walking down the street. It was well past one a.m. the city deep in slumber, as he headed for the small hotel where he’d booked a room. He could have gone to his father’s hotel and demanded a room … but for now, he wanted to be away from there, with space to think. It only took him ten minutes before he arrived and collected his key.
As he sat down on the wide bed, he felt like he continued sinking past the mattress, his head in his hands, glasses thrown aside. His head dropped lower, as he propped his elbows on his thighs, and his mind carried on falling to a depth he’d never felt before.
A choice lay before him. To carry on doing what his father had been doing for these years … to keep this girl captive, with all the risks that would carry. Or to free her. All manner of different issues would come with that option. As his thoughts bounced around those two choices, the stress it all generated was stopping him from thinking clearly. He supposed he could delay the decision for a little while, just feed her and let his thoughts settle.
Feeling comforted by that idea, he felt very weary too and pulled himself into bed, not bothering to undress. It was a while before he started to drift into sleep. As he did so a third, darker option started to appear in his mind’s eye.
A lie
____________________________
Calum’s follow-up call and visit with Eszter was unremarkable, save for the mention she made of Beata Sandor’s helpfulness in the library. He did wonder how usual it was that a head librarian would provide a personal service to two researchers. He made a note to talk to Beata again at some point. Even after his visit to the library and this talk with Eszter, he was feeling pretty uninspired on how to progress his enquiries. He was pinning his hopes on a visit to Marton Kovacs helping him get a new perspective on events … and maybe a fresh idea for his investigation direction.
He called the hotel where Eszter had told him Marton lived. The person who took his call asked him to wait a moment while she called the manager. After a few moments, a woman who sounded like she was at least in her seventies spoke to him.
‘Mr Neuman? Yes, it’s Aliz Gal here, I am the manager of Mr Kovacs’ hotel.’
‘Oh, Marton Kovacs is the owner?’
‘Yes, Mr Neuman. Well, he was. I am sad to tell you that Mr Kovacs passed away this week. He had been ill for a long time. So I’m sorry we can’t help you with the investigation.’
Calum’s spirits plunged.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I was hoping to understand more about his discussions with Sarah McTeer, as I mentioned to your staff. I’m sorry to ask … but can you tell me anything about her visit? I believe she may have come for two appointments with Mr Kovacs around two weeks ago?’
There was a short silence before he had an answer.
‘I know she visited, yes. They were short visits. Marton was an ill man so he couldn't talk for too long, you see?’
‘Yes, I understand. So, on the second visit, do you know where she went after your hotel … did she call for a taxi or just walk out?’
A few moments of silence.
‘Yes, I recall she did ask for a taxi. To her hotel, I think.’
‘You have the taxi firm name?’
She gave him the name of a local company.
‘OK, thanks. Well if there’s nothing else you can tell me, I’ll call the taxi firm and see what they have to say. I might call again if that’s OK?’
‘Of course, if it helps. Goodbye.’
The line went dead. Calum knew she was lying.
Sarah's room
____________________________
Calum made his hotel reception the next port of call.
The Grand Danubius looked like it had been grand once. Now it seemed it was in need of some loving renovation to help live up to its name. Calum walked down the worn carpet into an equally worn reception. The staff were pleasant and efficient enough, though. The manager happily filled him in on what he knew about Sarah and her disappearance. Her room had been left with most things in it, as Eszter had told Jenna. Calum asked if he could see her papers. He didn’t exactly expect to be shown them. For one thing, he assumed the police would have taken them. But it seemed, for now, they’d been content to search the room and have the hotel lock it up.
He also didn’t expect a foreign P.I. to be allowed a look. But a flash of his Scottish accreditation and a palmed 10,000 forint note was enough to get him ten minutes in the room, so long as he left his bag and jacket at reception.
Fair enough. He made a quick scan of the room to assess what was there and soon homed in on her papers as the items of most interest.
There were a lot of them. Photocopied material and pages of notes. To understand if there was anything in the piles that might help with why Sarah had gone missing, he needed more than ten minutes.
He scooped up the lot and got himself ready for some negotiating.
It turned out the equivalent of £200 would buy him the papers for a few days. Time enough to read them and copy anything he needed. He wondered about the deepness of Susan McTeer’s pockets briefly, then agreed to go for it.
He shook the manager’s hand and sat down in the lobby. He stared out of the window at the Danube flowing steadily past.
Time for some calls.
First up, the taxi company. The Grand Danubius hotel manager had said his staff didn’t recall or have any record on her key card of her returning later on the day she disappeared. The timings lo
oked like she’d gone to see Marton Kovacs and not come back.
The taxi firm confirmed that doubt.
‘No, we have no record of a booking from the Hotel Cristal that afternoon, not in that name anyway, and no rides without a name. Sorry.’
So either Aliz Gal was mistaken … or lying. He stood up and wandered outside for some fresh air. He sat down on the steps outside the hotel and considered the implications of that train of thought.
Aliz was a relatively old woman. She sounded like part of the hotel furniture. Maybe he’d need to pay a personal visit. Or was that too obvious, to confront her with the mismatch of stories? Perhaps he needed a more subtle way to work out the truth.
He went back to his room and made a coffee, settling down to read through the papers he’d taken from Sarah’s room.
The printed material was from texts. Some of it was in Hungarian but with hand-written notes in English in the margins. An awful lot about the origins of Arrow Cross and its key leaders. Some material on what happened to them after it had all been shut down at the end of the war. Items covering new right-wing groups in Hungary that likened themselves to the old party. Then there were what looked like two peoples’ sets of hand-written thoughts, notes, questions. He guessed the two were Sarah and Eszter. He could check with Eszter later.
His mind was overloaded with detail now. He couldn’t immediately think of a clear way to analyse this information, in a manner that might spawn something useful. Just reading it straight wasn't doing anything for him. It might need recourse to the library texts to cross-check references and go through with Eszter. That wasn’t his bag really, he’d rather be talking to Aliz Gal and working out the past sequence of events more accurately.
He knew someone who could do that analysis work for him, of course. Then, if they worked in parallel they might get to the point of understanding faster. With a resigned smile, he rang her.