The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  Behind her she heard Richard replace the receiver, but when she turned round, he had retreated into the shadows beyond the circle of lamplight again. But Moira caught the vivid blue of his eyes. They were the most expressive part of him.

  ‘Did you get her?’

  ‘I got her partner,’ said Richard. ‘Kate was out. She was out because she’d gone to keep a business appointment.’

  He stopped, and Moira said horrified, ‘Vogel. Wasn’t it? She went to meet Vogel?’

  ‘Yes. It was in her diary quite clearly. She was meeting him at twelve-thirty for lunch,’ said Richard. ‘And she hasn’t got back.’

  Moira stared at him. ‘But – it’s almost five.’ Below them there was the sound of the Range Rover’s boot slamming shut. They looked at one another, and then Richard crossed the room, and dragged a jacket and scarf out of a large wardrobe.

  Moira said, ‘You’re going after him. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Richard seemed to hesitate, and then said. ‘He might have Kate or he might not. There might be a perfectly ordinary explanation. But I’ll have to find out. And I’ll have to move very, very fast.’ He turned to face her and met her eyes. ‘Moira, I don’t think I can do it on my own.’

  He stopped, and Moira thought: he wants me to go with him. After Vogel. He’s afraid he won’t be able to cope with the world after so long. Yes, but what he doesn’t know is that I can’t cope with the world either. Or can I? Oh, God what do I do? I don’t know whether I can trust him. I don’t even know if he’s sane . . . He’s been shut away up here . . . And Kate pretends he’s dead. No, pretends is the wrong word, she implies it. He tried to shoot his face away and it isn’t sane to do a thing like that . . . I could pretend I don’t understand. Because he hasn’t actually put it into words. I could let him go by himself and I could phone the police.

  But she was not surprised when she heard her voice say, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  The relief in his eyes was instant and unmistakable. It was as if his entire means of expressing emotion had been channelled into his eyes. ‘Thank you, Moira,’ he said.

  ‘What do we do?’ It was good to discover that she sounded perfectly calm and practical.

  ‘The minute we hear him drive off,’ said Richard, tumbling a bureau drawer open and scooping up a cheque book and credit card, ‘we’ll have to be down the stairs and after him. It’ll take a minute or two for him to manoeuvre that thing into the traffic at this time of day, but it won’t take that long. Kate left her car here, didn’t she? – yes, I thought she had. Does she still keep the keys on the hook by the cooker? All right, I’ll get the keys while you snatch up anything you want.’ He sent her a twisted grin. ‘I never knew a woman who’d go out of the house without her handbag,’ he said, and then, without warning, ‘have you got any cash?’

  ‘Well, some—’

  ‘Good. I’ll pay you back afterwards but we don’t know how far we might have to drive, and if we need petrol, cash is quicker than a cheque.’ He stopped, and Moira heard the sound they had both been waiting for. The throaty growl of the Range Rover’s engine firing.

  They went down the stairs and across the hall to the back of the house almost without thinking about it and as Richard grabbed the car keys, Moira dived into the hall for her handbag and the jacket that was thrown over the banisters.

  As Richard unlocked Kate’s car, he said suddenly, ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you? That probably means Catholic? Then pray to every saint in heaven that I can still remember how to drive!’

  He flinched as the fading daylight and the street sounds hit him, but he remembered perfectly well how to drive. He pushed Moira into the passenger seat and fired the engine, swinging the car into the stream of traffic.

  ‘He’s still in our sights,’ he said pointing. ‘See? Four cars ahead. At least a Range Rover is easy to follow. Flashy, but distinctive. Did you bring the note of the registration number—? Oh, well done. Hang on to it, we might need it.’

  Moira glanced covertly at him. He had pulled on a plain black jacket in the attic and had jammed on to his bright hair a wide-brimmed hat, a bit like a jazzed-up homburg. From a distance he would look a bit eccentric but no more than a great many people Moira had seen since leaving Curran Glen. As they merged with a double line of traffic, he gestured to the glove compartment. ‘I used to keep sunglasses in there. If Kate hasn’t thrown them out they’ll give me even better concealment.’

  ‘They’ve still here,’ said Moira, after a minute.

  ‘Thanks. God, I’d forgotten how loud everything was and how people rush—’ He put the glasses on and Moira thought he would pass as very nearly ordinary now. ‘That,’ said Richard, making her jump, ‘is the idea. If we’re to follow that monster without being spotted I can’t chance being noticed. How much do you know about all this, by the way? You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to: I trust Kate’s judgement completely – I always have.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we’re out of this,’ said Moira. ‘But I know about Ahasuerus and the music, and the Hampstead Concert.’ She paused, and said, ‘Kate said there had been a shotgun—You don’t have to tell me either,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know much of it to tell,’ said Richard, intent on driving. ‘I tried to kill myself. No, that isn’t at all what happened: I was ordered to kill myself. I can’t put it any better than that, even after all this time. I certainly haven’t an explanation. Suicide was the last thing in my mind that day. I was researching the Serse cult and the music – Kate told you about all that, did she? – yes, good. I was looking forward to talking to the Serse People, and I was enjoying the concert – dammit, I was enjoying life.’ His voice changed suddenly and he said softly, ‘I was married to Kate. Who would want to opt out of that?’ He frowned and Moira waited. ‘I ought to have died, of course,’ said Richard. ‘I only survived because the barrel of a shotgun’s so long: apparently I jammed it under my chin and forced my head too far back. The bullet ploughed upwards. But Vogel intended me to die.’

  ‘Because you resisted the music?’

  Again the quick, sidelong glance. ‘Yes. That’s perceptive of you.’

  ‘It was Kate’s conclusion, not mine.’

  ‘Kate,’ said Richard, and the twisted smile touched his lips. ‘She half bullied, half seduced me through all the operations: I lost count of the number. I lost track of time as well. There were repairs and bone surgery and skin grafts. But she wouldn’t let me give up. She’s a witch or a saint – maybe she’s both. I hope she finds a bit of discreet consolation here and there,’ he said unexpectedly. He glanced sideways, and Moira, unsure of how this ought to be answered, but hearing the desolation in his voice, suddenly understood what he must have been like before the music destroyed him. I believe it’s all right, she thought. He’s clever and nice and intuitive – all the things Kate said he was. He’s bitter and sad as well, but what else would he be, for heaven’s sake? I’ll take him straight for the moment and I’ll only worry if things change.

  ‘Where’s Vogel going?’ she said, after a few bewildering turns through London. ‘Do we know?’

  ‘Not in the least. I’m just following blindly,’ said Richard. ‘This traffic’s awful, isn’t it? I’d truly forgotten how raucous and impatient the world was. I feel like a monk emerging from solitude and—What have I said?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I’ve touched a nerve,’ said Richard. ‘Oh, there’s the River – see? Over to your right. A whole world in itself, the Thames. Very interesting, River people. I once wrote a—Hold on, he’s turning off. I don’t think he knows he’s being followed; this car’s pretty anonymous.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’ said Moira, as they shot forward. London seemed to be a huge confusing city, filled with traffic and people and cars all in a tearing hurry, and with bewilderingly complex road systems. Richard had flinched several times from the streams of cars, but he was coping.

  ‘Docklands, by t
he look of it,’ said Richard, and sent her another of the skewed smiles. ‘We’re going into the land of converted wharves, and millionaire teenagers from the City, Moira.’

  ‘Millionaire teenagers—’

  ‘They used to be called yuppies,’ said Richard. ‘At least they did the last I knew.’ He gripped the steering wheel. ‘I’m not sure what’s going to be at the end of all this, Moira, but I’ve got a feeling that it wouldn’t hurt to cross your fingers. And you could keep praying as well.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kate had left her office at twelve o’clock, picking up a taxi in Charing Cross Road, partly because she was unsure of the exact location of Vogel’s office and partly because she wanted to present an unflurried appearance when she got there. It was not very likely that he would see her arrive because his office was at St Katharine’s Docks which meant it would probably be too high up, but if he did look out, he must not see his twelve-thirty lunch appointment trundling up and down the street, windblown and dishevelled and squinting at numbers. He must see an efficient lady, emerging coolly from a taxi, attending an everyday business meeting. As she paid off the taxi, she glanced at her watch. Twelve-twenty-three. Exactly right. She should be entering his office at two minutes before the half hour.

  It was impossible to pretend that this was a run-of-the-mill meeting. Her heart was racing, and she studied her reflection in the stainless steel wall of the lift. All right? She had scooped her hair into a silky twist on top of her head that morning and secured it with a thin thread of jade and she was wearing a calf-length black skirt with suede boots under it and a black shirt. Over this she had put a sleeveless green surcoat which had a vaguely medieval cut and which reached her ankles. The swish of the velvet surcoat was subtly reassuring. At the last minute she had wound a long jade and sapphire silk scarf about her neck. All right? thought Kate again, and then with a spurt of anger: this is ridiculous! I’m about to beard the purveyor of the devil’s music in his den – the monster who destroyed Richard – and I’m worrying what I look like.

  The lift doors parted and Kate took a deep breath and stepped out.

  Conrad Vogel met her in a large light room on the fourth floor, with huge windows and a view over the grey, mist-wreathed river. Kate, trying to take in everything at once, received the impression of cool austere furnishings – frosty-blues and whites – that formed a background for Vogel’s own vibrancy. He sat behind a large glass-topped table, which held only a leather-bound notebook and a crystal sphere for holding pens. Kate was given a chair facing him.

  They were in more or less the same kind of business, she and Conrad Vogel, but this up-market converted wharf was light years away from Kate’s own office on a corner of Old Compton Street, where, once you had climbed the five gruelling flights up, you had a warm, friendly view of wine bars and bistros and Soho porn cinemas, and where the walls were lined with books and records and the old framed prints of London theatres which Kate’s partner hunted out with the compulsion of an addict. Vogel’s apartments had a hushed thick-carpeted aura which felt unreal compared to Kate’s office, where phones rang incessantly and people were always calling in for a drink or a cup of tea on their way to somewhere else. Richard had once said that uncluttered austerity in a workplace was usually indicative either of immense activity or the complete lack of it.

  The potent eyes she remembered from the Hampstead concert focused upon her and she felt a lurch of something that was half fear and half blazing excitement. This is it! thought Kate. This is the thing I’ve been building up to and waiting for and looking forward to for three years. I’m about to bait the trap.

  Conrad Vogel was tall and thin as she remembered him, with close-cut grey hair and steely grey eyes and a narrow sensual mouth. But he was older than her recollection – probably in his late forties – and he was more urbane, as if he might have worn one mask for the Hampstead concert, an abrasive, aggressive, magnetism mask, but had donned another, smoother one for this meeting.

  He was dressed in conventional modern fashion, with dark trousers and a buttoned-collar tie-less shirt, but it was discreetly expensive conventionalism. Kate thought that the shirt was probably Turnbull & Asser and that his shoes would be Italian leather. The villain was turning out to be a silk-lined villain behind his mask. She had expected this, however.

  What she had not expected was smooth charm, or the impression of controlled force beneath the silk exterior, or – and this was disturbing – a strong sexual magnetism. He’s attractive, thought Kate, momentarily taken aback. He’s very attractive indeed. This is someone I’d be rather pleased to be seen with. And then, with horror: this is someone I could go to bed with. Appalled disgust scalded her mind, and for the first time since that night on the Heath three years ago, her confidence wavered. I can’t do it! I can’t possibly outwit someone like this! And then she remembered Richard – sweet, sensitive, brilliant Richard – and she thought of all those suicides – clever, creative youngsters – and she knew that somehow it had to be done.

  Vogel was asking whether she would have something to drink – a cup of tea or coffee, or a glass of wine, even, before they left for the restaurant.

  ‘There is a seafood restaurant near here that is very good. That would be acceptable to you?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  He spoke almost perfect English, but Kate thought he was not English. Was he German or Austrian? This was something she had not picked up in their brief telephone conversation. It would be best to keep a clear head, and so she asked for coffee. Vogel poured it from a filter machine at the far side. It was very good coffee, plainly freshly ground, and it came in expensive-looking bone china cups. Silk-lined on all levels. She drank the coffee and kicked her mind back on course.

  ‘Mr Vogel, thank you for seeing me.’ Her voice was the voice of the professional who was known in her own circles as a sharp resourceful business lady. Good!

  ‘Conrad, please.’ His voice was as velvet as the rest of him, but Kate fancied she could hear the steel beneath. The razor under the silk. The knife under the cloak. Don’t forget the knife, Kate. He was watching her, as if saying: and now it is your turn.

  She said, ‘And I am Kate.’ A pause. She met the cool, grey eyes steadily. They were cold, precise eyes. They made you think of razors, of glinting axe blades, of sinister, triangular fins slicing through cold, murky water.

  Kate said, ‘I’m currently arranging several concerts – a mixture of straight classical and some modern music – and I think you control several young musicians who could be included in my programme. Assuming we could reach a sensible agreement about commission, and assuming my backers agree, it’s more than possible that we could join forces on this promotion.’ This was a not unstandard opening, and Vogel would recognise it as such.

  He nodded, and reached for the notepad, flipping out the nib of a silver pen as he did so. Everything about him is cool and expensive, thought Kate. He said, ‘Your backers are—’

  ‘Anxious to remain nameless for the moment.’

  Vogel smiled and leaned back. ‘Tell me about your idea.’

  It was easier than Kate had expected. She went into the presentation she had lain awake most of the night devising, explaining the plan for a series of concerts at historic houses, explaining how her backers were interested in using classical and modem music in the same itinerary. The idea was to mirror their settings in the music as much as possible: baroque music for the places built during the Restoration; folk music that echoed the countryside they were in at the time and so on. It was not a particularly new idea, but they hoped to treat it in a new way, said Kate. They would be playing modem music as well, of course. It was important to call to the followers of today’s cults. She paused as she said this, trying to gauge his response.

  But Vogel was listening with apparent interest, and Kate felt her confidence returning. She was on familiar ground; this was what she knew about, this was what she was good at. She began to enjo
y explaining her ideas to him and painting her word-pictures, exactly as if this was an ordinary promotion.

  But all the time, several layers beneath consciousness, ran the knowledge that she was face to face with Richard’s destroyer, she was confronting the creature who had uncovered the devil’s music and created Serse’s People and destroyed people’s minds and lives.

  When she finished speaking, Vogel asked a number of questions and Kate realised at once that he had grasped almost all of the details instantly. He had a sharp, incisive mind and it would be difficult to fool him.

  And then without warning, he smiled, and Kate felt a shiver of apprehension. The knife glinting.

  Vogel said, ‘And now we will stop playing games, Kate.’ And produced from his desk drawer a revolver, and pointed it at her.

  ‘I am not going to shoot you,’ he said. ‘But you are going to do exactly what I tell you.’

  This was so ridiculous as to be absurd. This was the classic line: the German-accented voice saying, You will obey my orders . . .

  Kate forced anger into her voice and said, ‘I haven’t the least idea what you mean.’ Had that sounded sufficiently outraged? She reached for her shoulder bag and stood up.

  Vogel said, ‘Sit down, Kate. If you try to run away, I shall have to shoot you. I have no intention of killing you, but perhaps I will shoot you in the leg so that you cannot run away. A bullet in the kneecap is said to be extremely painful.’ He smiled, and there at last was the villain, the shark who spun the beautiful, evil music that swallowed people’s minds . . . Kate felt an icy lurch of fear. This is real.

  She said, ‘What are you going to do with me?’ and was annoyed to find herself using such a hackneyed phrase.

  The knife-smile showed again. ‘First, I am going to make sure you cannot continue your troublesome investigations into my people,’ he said. ‘And secondly, I am going to use you as bait.’