‘Yes. He always visits the cemetery on the anniversary of his mother’s death. I can contact him if that’s not suitable for you.’
‘No, it’s not a problem. You can tell him I’ll be there.’ Teschmaker hung up the phone and turned to Viola. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Well enough to go home.’
He didn’t look it. Norman and Edwards had done a fair job of cleaning him up, but he was still pale and washed out. Against the white skin, the cuts and bruises appeared worse than they probably were. He was also sporting a black eye.
Teschmaker sat down on the bed beside him. ‘Do you live alone?’
Viola nodded.
‘Then I want you to stay here for a few days.’
‘Why?’ He sounded alarmed but he turned back from facing the wall and curled himself up in a foetal position. ‘What will Master Francis say?’
‘I’m not going to tell him.’ Then a thought struck Teschmaker. ‘Do you want to go back to your master? Is that what you want?’
Viola’s hand shot to his neck, his fingers probing then dropping limply away. A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘He’s not my master any more. He’s taken my collar away.’
Of course. Teschmaker wondered why he hadn’t noticed before that the collar was gone. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the significance of the collar.’
‘I don’t belong to anybody now. There’s nobody to look after me.’
Viola’s lips were trembling and Teschmaker mentally urged him not to cry. He was finding the man difficult enough to deal with without the added stress of his emotional baggage.
‘Then if Francis is not your master now it’s none of his business.’
‘But he would be very angry that I’m with you.’
‘I think I can deal with that. You can stay here,’ he said gently, ‘but Viola, I need you to help me. I need to know why Francis had Sydney Morris hidden away in the country with you guarding him.’
‘I wasn’t guarding him.’ He looked at Teschmaker in disbelief. ‘Would you ask me to guard anything?’
‘Okay, I used the wrong word. What were you doing with him?’
‘Mr Morris is a sick old man. I was giving him his medicine and looking after him.’
Teschmaker still couldn’t make sense of the scenario. ‘But why out there? Why not in the city where he could get medical attention?’
‘Master Francis told me that there is no cure for what Mr Morris has and that the country air is better for him.’
‘Locked up in that room? Come on!’
‘Truly. That’s what I was told.’ Viola looked pained that he should be disbelieved.
Teschmaker decided to take another tack. ‘How long has he been there?’
‘I don’t know. There is another man who stays with him most of the time. I just fill in when he has to go away.’
‘Who is the other man?’
‘I don’t know. Master Francis doesn’t introduce me to people. But I have seen him a couple of times when he visited to ask Mr Morris some questions.’
‘Really?’ This sounded hopeful. ‘What kind of questions?’
Viola rolled his eyes as though Teschmaker should know the answer. ‘They were gabbling on in some foreign language, and anyway they made me wait outside and only come in when they wanted tea. I remember thinking that the man was very angry with Mr Morris.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He was shouting at him and banging his hand on the bedside table. It was not very nice.’ Viola screwed up his face at the distasteful memory.
‘Does Mr Morris’s daughter visit him?’
‘I didn’t even know he had a daughter,’ Viola replied meekly, apologetic for his lack of knowledge. ‘I’ve never seen a woman there.’
‘We’ll talk more about this later, Viola.’ Teschmaker got up from the bed and straightened the covers over him. ‘You get some rest now. I’m going out for a while. You’ll be safe with Gerard and Norman.’
‘I don’t like them.’
‘Sorry.’
Teschmaker turned to walk out of the study then stopped. Maybe it didn’t hurt to be a little softer. ‘I’m making a quick coffee, you want one?’
‘Tea. I only drink tea.’
‘I’ll ask Gerard to make you one.’
After coffee and a slice of toast Teschmaker began to feel a little more human. He asked Gerard to keep an eye on Viola and went out to his car. Norman was sound asleep in the back seat of the Merc and for a moment Teschmaker was tempted to wake him, but decided against it. The ground was still very wet underfoot but, apart from a few ragged remnants of cloud, the day was looking better than he had expected. The wind had downgraded itself to a northerly breeze and the air felt clean and freshly washed.
Even though he drove slowly north-west along the road that followed the meanderings of the Charlotte River, Teschmaker still made good time. He arrived at Freeholm with fifteen minutes to spare before the agreed rendezvous. There were several cars in the parking area, none of which looked like something that Oliver Sinclair might drive. Teschmaker had assumed that Oliver would already be at the cemetery paying his respects, but it seemed this was not the case. He looked at the locked vehicle-access gates and wondered if someone with Sinclair’s money was able to drive inside the grounds. Probably, but the ground staff would have left the gate open for his return.
Graveyards had never been high on Teschmaker’s list of priorities, but neither had he a particular dislike of them, so he filled the time with a stroll through the plots nearest the gates. He had only visited the cemetery a few times before. Aleksandr Shlyapnikov’s son had died many years ago and Teschmaker had twice accompanied the old man and stood uncomfortably by while his friend placed flowers on the grave. It was completely overgrown; even the headstone, a distinctive slab of purple marble, was partially obscured by long grass. On the first occasion Teschmaker had offered to give him a hand weeding the plot, but Aleksi had turned on him angrily and told him not to touch it. He never offered again.
Teschmaker had not asked the Russian what had happened to the boy, but from the little that Shlyapnikov had volunteered it appeared he had been thirty-two years old at the time of his death some twenty years before: a man really, not a boy. Shlyapnikov had only mentioned his son on a couple of occasions and Teschmaker couldn’t recall Zoya Nikolayevna ever speaking of him. He racked his brain trying to remember the young man’s name, but it escaped him. Anyway, the grave was further in, in a newer section, and he had no inclination to walk that far on this particular morning.
An area to the north had been Freeholm’s first burial ground, used by the city’s earliest inhabitants some two hundred years before. It had been closed and then, just over a century and a half ago, had reopened. None of the graves from the initial period remained, but the oldest of those around the Western Gate were from the reopening period. Folklore had it that the original graveyard had been abandoned after the Charlotte River burst its banks in the devastating flood of 1809, at a time when the city was not much more than a country town struggling to establish a foothold in the swamp beneath its feet. Coffins had floated to the surface, so the stories went, and drifted down the town’s main street to the Western Gate where the receding waters had left them high and dry. The town priest decreed that the good Lord had ordained that the place where the coffins rested was to be the new cemetery. As an added precaution he quietly had every subsequent coffin drilled with enough holes to make sure the dead never rose again.
Teschmaker crossed the footbridge over the river that still ran like liquid history through the cemetery. Today that history was clouded, opaque, a consequence of the overnight rain, and there were no iridescent flashes from the large fat trout that could usually be seen from the bridge. He walked on and found himself in front of one of the older and more ornate marble memorial stones. Monica Opazo. The name was clear but time and the elements had erased dates and epitaph. Teschmaker gave her one: ‘She loved the Schottischer Dudel
sack.’ He laughed out loud at the absurdity his mind was capable of. Well, it was better than having no epitaph. She had probably been one of those hardy pioneers who had tramped through the mountain passes to settle on the coastal fringe, living to a ripe old age on a diet of swamp berries, honey, swedes and wild mountain trout. Their descendants proudly referred to themselves as swampies, though the use of the term had now expanded to cover everyone from derelicts to gypsies.
Teschmaker nearly missed the next grave. The remnants of a foot-high metal fence struggled to be seen through the dense mat of weeds and thistle. A feral poppy had gone to seed and wild briar was devouring the tombstone. Stepping over the remains of the fence, he knelt and gingerly closed his hands around the weeds obscuring the small headstone. The foliage was cold to his touch, still wet from the previous night’s storm. Feeling that there were no thorns or prickles in his grasp, he tugged the weeds away. The revealed headstone wasn’t fancy — a field stone propped above a grave that had long since been swallowed by the relentless seasons. But around the sides of the stone there still clung a wreath, braided from barbed wire and decorated with leaves of beaten metal. In places the strands had rusted or corroded away but enough remained to display the skill of the long dead metalworker. In the centre of the stone was hewn: Elena Dymond sleeps here. Born 1807; murdered 1828. The Lord will avenge.
Teschmaker squatted back on his haunches. For some reason he felt himself touched by the unkempt grave and its stubborn survival. What story lay beneath the dirt and stones? Who was Elena Dymond? By whose hand had she been plucked from life? There was something about the wreath of cruel barbs that moved him. Had her parents commissioned that? No, he thought, more likely the gesture of a lover. There was no mention of a husband. Did Elena really sleep, or was she a driven soul amongst the legions of hungry ghosts?
‘Do you think the Lord did avenge her?’
Teschmaker started and turned to find a slightly plump, middle-aged individual standing at the edge of the grave. Despite the warmth of the morning the man was wearing a heavy coat, as though he expected the previous night’s storm to return.
‘It’s kind of sad, don’t you think?’ Teschmaker responded.
‘Life is often short and cruel. In a cruel life, shortness can be a blessing.’ The man spoke wistfully, his voice deep with a pronounced Slavic accent. He was wearing rather old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses which he pushed back at the bridge of his nose. His hair was full, its darkness flecked with a peppering of silver.
‘But she didn’t get to choose.’ Teschmaker stood up and stepped back over the broken fence. ‘And she will never know if she was avenged.’
‘Ah, so it is the unfinished, the unknowing — that is what moves you?’
The man opened his coat and took out a silver cigarette case. With a practised one-handed gesture he flicked it open and proffered it to Teschmaker.
‘I usually only smoke when I am abroad,’ Teschmaker said half-heartedly, but wavering only a second, took a cigarette.
‘I’m under doctor’s orders to cut down. So I share.’ The man’s laugh was pleasant. ‘So do you often spend time uncovering old murder victims?’ The man produced a lighter and held it out for Teschmaker.
‘No. I’m just filling in time. I’m meeting someone.’ ‘I’m afraid your friend won’t be coming,’ the man said quietly.
For a moment Teschmaker thought he had misheard. The man was looking at him, waiting for a response. ‘What?’
‘Mr Sinclair. Oliver. No, Mr Teschmaker, I’m afraid he won’t be coming along.’
‘He sent you?’ Teschmaker was confused. ‘Sorry, I’m not clear what you mean.’
‘Mr Sinclair doesn’t even know about this meeting. You see, I owe you an apology. I indulged in a slight amount of dishonesty so that we could meet. Why don’t we go and sit down and have a chat over a cup of coffee?’
‘So the message wasn’t from Sinclair’s secretary?’ Teschmaker flicked the half-smoked cigarette away. There was no way he was going to drink coffee with this man.
‘Personal assistant. I asked my colleague to say “personal assistant”.’
‘She did.’
‘It was imperative that I got to speak with you.’
‘Then speak.’
‘You wouldn’t like a coffee?’ The man looked genuinely disappointed, almost hurt by the anger in Teschmaker’s reaction. He shrugged. ‘Let that be. I just wanted to warn you that following Jane Sinclair is not a healthy occupation. This is not personal, Mr Teschmaker, simply a — what is it you say — a word in time?’
‘And just how is this anything to do with you?’ Teschmaker didn’t bother to hide his anger at the implied threat.
‘Jane Sinclair’s security is my number one priority.’
‘Security!’ Teschmaker snorted. ‘And you know something about security?’
‘I pride myself on it.’ The man drew deeply on the last of his cigarette and dropped it on the ground.
‘And if I decide to ignore your warning?’
‘Mr Teschmaker, I am sure you’re a good man. Believe me, I have no grudge against you. But if you don’t desist I will probably have to kill you.’
Teschmaker was about to walk away but he knew he couldn’t dismiss the man as a crank. The tone of his voice was casual but, perversely, that made the threat credible. Then, just as quickly, Teschmaker realised what was happening. The mist cleared from his eyes and he knew who the man was.
He turned back to him with the biggest grin he could muster. ‘Of course we should have coffee. There is much I want to ask you.’
This caught the man off guard. Instinctively his hand came up to his coat but Teschmaker was faster. He shot his hand out and grasped the man’s wrist. ‘No. Not a good idea. Enough dead people here without us adding to the list.’
He slid his hand inside the man’s coat and removed a small pistol. ‘I’ll look after this, if you don’t mind.’
Teschmaker stepped back and released the man’s wrist. ‘So, Konstantin Ivanovich, shall we have that coffee?’
The colour drained from the man’s face as though someone had pulled the plug on his bloodstream.
‘You are working with them?’ He spoke slowly, his face suddenly contorted by a mixture of fear and bewilderment. ‘It can’t be.’
‘No, it can’t be.’
‘Then who? I thought you were just a stalker who had stumbled accidentally —’
‘And you were right. You must learn to trust your instincts.’ Teschmaker laughed, more to relieve the tension he was experiencing than because he found it amusing. ‘I’m nothing more than an old friend trying to find out what Jane Sinclair has been up to. Now, tell me who you thought I was working for.’
But Laverov shook his head. ‘I must know how you know my name. Not even my own —’
‘Not even your own people in the embassy? Sorry, Konstantin, everyone seems to know who you are and that you are operating out of the Romanian Embassy. What they don’t know is why.’
Teschmaker realised he was flying on empty. There was only so far he could take the pretence and he knew full well that a bluff was also something one could fall off. But as long as he had the advantage he was going to wing it. He started back across the footbridge towards the coffee kiosk. Laverov quickly fell into step beside him.
‘They know I’m at the Romanian Embassy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then Rusak knows.’
Time to stop bluffing. ‘Who’s Rusak?’
‘You really don’t know?’ Laverov had regained some colour but the confusion still lined his face.
‘You want me to lie to you and say I do?’
‘He is Mafia. Big-time Mafia. The boss of the bosses.’
‘Big scum is still scum.’
‘No!’ Laverov spat the word out. ‘No, he is not scum. He is educated. He gave up an elected position in the Duma to follow biznes interests.’ There was a beat, a hesitation, as he decided just how much informat
ion he should divulge. Then Laverov said slowly, ‘He is a dangerous man, that’s all you need to know.’
They arrived at the kiosk and took a table as far from the counter as possible. There were only a couple of other patrons: two elderly women, middle-Europeans, black dresses, black scarves. Something about them suggested that they were cemetery regulars. Black crows, twa corbies, Teschmaker thought, enjoying the vicarious thrill of having outlived those who lay beyond the walls.
He waited until the coffee arrived then accepted the proffered cigarette. ‘I didn’t enjoy the last one. So, Rusak?’
‘Oleg Vasilyevich Rusak. He likes to kill. Personally. Hands-on. He is impatient. Instead of waiting to build his interests he simply co-opted people to him, and those who opposed him he killed. He has his hands in everything from banking to the black marketeers and grey area traders, the shushara and tolkachi. But his big thrill is arms dealing. He would sell guns to the Chechens if they could be trusted to pay.’
‘You’ve lost me.’ Teschmaker inhaled on the cigarette, enjoying what felt like partaking of an illegal substance. ‘What the hell has this got to do with Jane? Or, for that matter, you? What’s your game, Comrade? What’s your big thrill?’
For a moment Laverov stared at the end of his cigarette, watching the paper burn and the ash lengthen. Opposite him Teschmaker had taken a paper napkin and was absentmindedly cleaning a spot from the table. What did he want? What did any of them want? Contentment, maybe. Peace and quiet. Was that a universal thing? Did the man across the table want the same things? Or did he want order and certainty? Laverov mused as he watched Teschmaker fold the napkin and place it neatly beside his cup. The man’s fussiness irked him. He looked Teschmaker straight in the eye. ‘I just want to make it through to retirement age in one piece. Then I want to find a house near a salmon stream in a forest with good mushrooms.’
Well, you couldn’t beat that for an ambition. Teschmaker stubbed out his cigarette and carefully moved the ashtray to one side. Salmon and mushrooms sounded pretty good, but none of this was taking him any closer to understanding what was going on. As if reading his thoughts Laverov started to speak.
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