The Concealers

by Janet Pywell

  ‘He must be almost seventy, so I guess so.’

  ‘Are you making a cake?’

  ‘He mentioned a golf theme, but who knows? I’m still waiting to hear back on the list of menus I’ve suggested for the whole weekend. I’ve just submitted the fifth suggestions.’ I rub my tired eyes.

  ‘Once you’re there and you’ve met everyone in person, you’ll be fine.’

  I grin. ‘You know me, once I’m in the kitchen I’m at my happiest, it’s all the other crap you have to deal with that I’m not good at.’

  Tina drains her glass.

  ‘Another one?’ I ask. At least I can afford it now. With the promise of earning a month’s salary for working a long weekend, I suddenly feel like celebrating.

  ‘Of course.’ She smiles and hands me her empty glass. ‘And, don’t get me any of that crappy diet tonic.’

  It’s been a long-standing joke between us that she drinks ordinary tonic and is a dress size smaller than me.

  ‘I think I’ll go for the full-fat tonic now that James isn’t here to remind me constantly that I have to lose weight. By the way, how’s Graham?’

  ‘Graham and I are having a break for a while. It’s been a bit intense and working in the same office, you know, it can be a little claustrophobic.’

  ‘Is he still jogging with you?’

  ‘I take a different route most mornings now.’

  ‘I wish I was like you, Tina. You juggle your work and men so effortlessly.’

  ‘You need to practise, Ronda. Maybe you’ll find a handsome Scotsman and fall in love.’

  ‘Knowing my luck, Herr Schiltz’s family and friends will be equally as obnoxious as he is, and the kitchen staff at the castle will be rude and difficult, and I’ll come back exhausted vowing never to cook again.’

  ‘Think of the money,’ Tina says, laughing. ‘You’ll be able to give it all away to the next man you meet.’

  I poke my tongue out at her.

  ‘I can’t help it if I’m over-generous. It comes from years of being financially controlled by Brigadier Charles George.’ I give a mock salute. ‘All the years of hearing my father say he wasn’t giving me money, and it doesn’t grow on trees, and everything had to have a monetary value… I’m rebelling, Tina.’

  ‘You should have escaped to Australia like Francis.’

  I smile, thinking of my younger brother who I chat with regularly on Skype, looking happily sun-tanned and, like me, still single.

  ‘Think positively, Ronda. Since your father passed away three years ago, you’ve left the army, and you won Masterchef. Stay focused. Don’t put yourself down. Remember, that inside that reticent and thoughtful head of yours is a kind and loving friend – sometimes too trusting but nevertheless generous.’

  ‘I’m not falling in love anymore. I’m staying celibate for five years and that way I don’t have to trust anyone.’

  ‘See that bloke at the bar is staring at you.’ Tina nudges me, and we both know full well that the older, handsome stranger – probably European – can’t take his eyes off Tina. She’s stunning.

  ‘Then you’d better get the drinks,’ I say, opening my purse. ‘I don’t trust myself to be nice to him or anyone.’ I pass her a twenty-pound note.

  Tina stands up and pulls down the hem of her skirt. She whispers seductively and giggles, ‘I won’t be long, baby.’

  But before she can move the good-looking man is already standing at our table. He’s dressed casually in navy chinos and a crisp linen shirt, and his dark eyes are bewitching. He holds his hand out to me and speaks with a trace of a Spanish accent.

  ‘Ronda George, forgive me for approaching you in a pub like this. My name is Inspector Joachin García Abascal.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.’

  Alfred Lord Tennyson

  ‘May I buy you ladies a drink?’ he asks.

  Tina twists her long blonde hair flirtatiously between her fingers. Old habits never die. But Inspector Joachin García Abascal is looking directly at me.

  ‘We were just leaving,’ I lie.

  He looks amused and pulls out a stool to sit beside me. ‘I would like to speak to you on police business. I’m not here to, er, how do you say? Hit on you?’

  ‘Police business?’ Tina’s criminal and legal experience kicks in, and she sits down quickly, so the three of us are seated around the small table. ‘What does that have to do with Ronda?’

  ‘Well, this is what I wanted to speak to her about, confidentially, of course.’

  I’m uncomfortable under his gaze, but I can’t take my eyes from his face. He seems too kind, open and friendly to be a police officer.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Tina nod seriously, encouraging him. Why doesn’t she ask him to leave us alone?

  ‘If you’ll spare me a few minutes to explain, Ronda, I’d be grateful, please?’

  I can’t breathe, and I’m tongue-tied. I gaze at my hands in my lap.

  Fortunately, Tina doesn’t share the same traits as me because she leans forward and whispers, ‘Do you have any identification, inspector?’

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a worn leather wallet with an ID card. ‘Of course, and please call me Joachin.’

  ‘Europol?’ Tina questions as she scrutinises the ID card.

  ‘Yes. I’m with the International Crime Squad at Europol. Mostly, I specialise in tracking down stolen antiquities in Europe, but we work closely with all the criminal intelligence agencies within the European police forces. We have no jurisdiction here in the UK, and we can’t arrest anyone or carry out investigations without the approval of each country’s authorities.’

  ‘So you’d need the British authority, here in England?’

  ‘That’s right.’ His smile is disarming, and I smile back, impressed with the way he speaks. ‘But we work closely with the British police to fight international crime; human trafficking, money laundering, terrorism, cybercrime and drugs, things like that.’ He shrugs and raises his shoulders in the Mediterranean way of speaking. ‘We want to keep everyone safe.’

  He turns his attention to me and smiles.

  ‘So why do you want to speak to Ronda?’ Tina asks, determined not to be left out.

  ‘We know that you have been asked to cater for a small party next weekend at Castle Calder near Aberdeen.’

  I gasp, surprised and flattered that I’m of interest to someone. ‘You know about that?’

  He smiles reassuringly. ‘We haven’t been following you or anything like that, but we are concerned about the man who has employed you, Herr Schiltz.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘He’s no good.’ I shake my head.

  The inspector tilts his head to one side. ‘Why do you say that?’

  I glance at Tina for support, but she’s staring at me with her legal gaze, and I stumble over my words when I explain.

  ‘Well, I found him intimidating, not friendly, not nice or …’

  Tina adds helpfully, ‘He’s like her father, who was a narcissistic bully. A brigadier in the army. He wasn’t a kind man.’

  The inspector nods in understanding. ‘I can imagine, my father was also a complicated man.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask eagerly; it seems surprising that this charming Spaniard could have had anything awful happen in his life.

  The inspector clasps his hands together and rests his elbows on the table. ‘I’d like to tell you a little about Herr Schiltz, if I may?’

  ‘Only if you buy us a drink – gin,’ Tina quips, but without missing a beat, and smiling, the inspector rises to his feet and walks to the bar.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss, ‘I thought we were trying to get rid of him.’

  ‘I want to speak to you, Ronda. I need to know what’s going on?’ Tina whispers urgently.

  I lean across the table, and before I reply, I glance over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t looking at us.


  ‘I know as much as you,’ I say.

  ‘What do you know about Herr bloody Schiltz?’ she insists.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You haven’t Googled him, or read anything about him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I never thought about it. I went to his office in Canary Wharf. There didn’t seem to be any need to Google him too.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  I shrug. ‘Investments? Property? Banking?’

  ‘Oh God, Ronda. I thought you were much smarter than this. Shush, here he comes.’

  The inspector places the small tray on the table and hands out the gin and tonics. ‘I ordered us doubles, as they’re not worth drinking otherwise.’ He smiles and sits down. ‘Salud.’

  We raise our glasses.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So, let me tell you about Herr Schiltz without boring you too much.’ He wipes his top lip with his slim fingers. ‘The Schiltz family made a lot of money after the Second World War in Germany. They rose quickly to the top of high society, financing new projects and buildings in different German cities. They helped repair many of the country’s cultural sites that had been destroyed by the Allies and, by the time Friedrich Schiltz – the man you met – was born in the 50s, his family was already wealthy. Since then Friedrich has continued, successfully growing the family business. He has become a well-known philanthropist in Germany and maybe in some other parts of the world.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I nod at Tina as if to say, Herr Schiltz can’t be that bad, and I didn’t need to Google him after all.

  ‘However…’ The inspector leans forward. ‘His wife was found dead in their home in Berlin.’

  I cover my mouth with my hand and say, ‘But I’m cooking for his wife’s fiftieth birthday.’

  ‘You are, but you are cooking for his second wife, Louisa. Rumour has it that they were having an affair years before his first wife was found dead.’

  ‘How did wife number one die?’ asks Tina.

  ‘Iris was murdered. Shot. But unfortunately, the murder weapon was never found.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Five years ago.’

  ‘Who did it?’ Tina’s like a dog with a bone and I can imagine her thoroughness at work.

  The inspector shrugs. ‘The police don’t know. A man was arrested. He was a friend of the family and the gardener. Friedrich maintained that his wife was having an affair with him. He suggested that she wanted to end their relationship, but the man was jealous of her living with her husband, so – this man shot her.’

  ‘Did he get a prison sentence?’

  ‘Yes, he got fifteen years, but he died after one year in prison. He killed himself.’

  ‘Goodness.’ I take a gulp of my strong gin, grateful for the refreshing lime.

  ‘He maintained his innocence until the end.’

  ‘That’s tragic,’ I whisper.

  ‘So, why are you here?’ Tina toys with the slice of lime in her glass and the inspector watches her fish it out. She proceeds to bite into the bitter flesh as she asks, ‘What does this have to do with Ronda?’

  ‘We’ve been watching Herr Schiltz for a while. He’s made most of his money with investments and, over the years, he has invested in several valuable artefacts—’

  ‘Like paintings?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly. He purchased many valuable objects; paintings, statues and similar things, as investments on behalf of several banks.’ The inspector sips his drink, and the ice cubes rattle noisily against the glass.

  ‘However, that’s not all. Last year, you may remember there was severe flooding in many parts of Europe and in Germany, some houses and properties were washed away. Unfortunately, several businesses were also affected, and in particular when the Rhine burst its riverbank, ironically it swept away several properties including – a bank.’

  ‘One of the banks that Herr Schiltz’s had worked with?’

  The inspector looks at Tina and nods gravely. ‘Yes. Fortunately, some of the valuable artwork was rescued and can be restored. But the strength of the river, the flooding water, took away the foundations of the bank and the cellars. It meant the safety deposit boxes were swept off in the current and some of their contents were never located.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I whisper, imagining the resulting mess of the filthy water. I remember how our TV screens had been full of floods in the north of England, showing the devastation of houses and people’s lives. Seemingly it took years to get rid of the stench and stains left by muddy water, and many families weren’t covered by insurance.

  The inspector continues, ‘You can imagine how it is, the banks have a fundamental duty to look after the valuable items placed under their care. Many owners of the deposit boxes don’t want to tell the authorities what’s inside the boxes because sometimes they contain illegal items, or they have been acquired under, what shall we say…’ He looks at Tina and adds, ‘Mitigating circumstances.’

  I realise that the inspector has done his homework. He’s approached us when we are together, and he knows that my best friend, Tina, is a criminal lawyer. I also think he knows that he can trust us both.

  He takes a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you; not everyone even tells their family what’s inside the vaults. It could be money, a painting, jewellery or something of similar value. Perhaps even a stolen object, bought on the black market, that they keep safe in the bank deposit boxes. They wait for the fuss to die down before they can bring it back out again and try and sell it on. Some people often exchange stolen artefacts for drug money or human cargo—’

  ‘Do you mean trafficking?’ asks Tina.

  ‘Unfortunately yes, many groups or operations that specialise in bringing workers from one country to the next for illegal work, do so by forcing or coercing naive people. They pretend they are going to better lives. They are invariably coerced into the illicit sex trade, or swapped for drugs or some awful life in another country or on another continent where they don’t even speak the language.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes, Ronda. It’s terrible, and it’s my job to stop it.’ His chestnut eyes with their long dark lashes are intensely serious.

  ‘Is Herr Schiltz muddled up with all this?’ Tina asks.

  The inspector smiles and raises a hand. ‘No, we have no proof that he’s involved in the illegal trafficking of drugs or humans.’

  ‘Then what do you want with me, inspector?’ I ask.

  ‘Please, call me Joachin.’

  ‘Joachin.’ His name rolls off my tongue like delicious rich, dark, seductive chocolate.

  ‘Well, as I said, one of the deposit boxes that Herr Schiltz registered as missing, and this wouldn’t normally be anything to be concerned about, but the contents of the box were insured for a large sum of money—’

  ‘Which he claimed?’ Tina asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Nine items were listed, and only eight were claimed on the insurance.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Tina asks.

  Inspector Joachin smiles when he replies, ‘Unfortunately, I can’t tell you.’

  I say, not wanting Tina to get all the attention, ‘So you’re looking for something Herr Schiltz had in a deposit box – in a bank safety deposit box – that has gone missing, swept away in the flooding last year.’

  ‘Potentially swept away… exactly.’

  ‘And what is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, this is our problem – we’re not sure. But we do believe it’s one of the reasons he’s organising this party next weekend, for all his family and friends. We believe that the missing item is relevant to them all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Again, we don’t know. It’s a shot in the dark admittedly, but what we do know is that eight missing items have been traced and recovered.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m surprised. �
��How?’

  ‘Because he was willing to give the insurance company a detailed description of those articles and the recovery team have been diligent in the process of their rescue.’

  ‘So why worry, it’s just one more thing, isn’t it? And besides, if he doesn’t want to claim on the insurance, then it doesn’t matter. He must have lots of money anyway.’ I finish my drink, place the glass on the table and check my watch. ‘Molly needs to go out,’ I say to Tina, but she ignores me.

  ‘What’s the ninth item?’ she asks.

  The inspector’s eyes are dark and serious when he answers. ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  ‘Is it stolen?’ asks Tina.

  ‘Yes and probably extremely valuable.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ I bite my lip.

  Joachin smiles, and his wedding band glistens in the sunlight streaming through the pub’s open window.

  ‘Nothing dangerous, I’d like you to simply be my eyes and ears.’

  I smile back, and for some peculiar reason, I think this has to be the most straightforward task in the world. Nothing will happen in a kitchen.

  * * *

  The early morning flight lands effortlessly with barely a small bump and squeal of brakes at Aberdeen airport. As the propellers whine and the plane taxis to the terminal, I pull out the itinerary for the Schiltz’s Scottish birthday weekend. Tonight, Friday night, there’s a welcome dinner – a buffet – and on Saturday night is Mrs Schiltz’s birthday celebration. The last time I’d attended a birthday celebration for a friend of James, he’d been very drunk, and I’d found him kissing a young girl in the bathroom.

  It didn’t bode well and for some reason, the thought of being here in Scotland, in the middle of the summer, suddenly fills me with dread. I have a fleeting suspicion that something is going to go terribly wrong.

  I collect my bags and head into the arrivals hall. My mouth is dry, and my head is thumping from the tension spreading across my shoulders.

  What if I can’t cook?

  ‘Ronda George?’

  I turn at the sound of my name pronounced with a Scottish accent.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’m Mac. I’m here to collect you.’