Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “I’m flattered and I’d love to do that.” Burke meant it. Moreau was a smart, likable person. He had no romantic interest in her, but she was always good to talk with. “I wonder what Felicity Blake is going to do next,” he added, mostly to himself.

  “After she buries her husband, I’d say she’ll run in some races and go to some more social events.”

  “Do you like her, Carmen?”

  “She’s polite and pleasant enough to talk to, but I think she’s also a snob. I always get the feeling when I’m with her that I’m some kind of a servant. I think Renata and Monsieur Delisle have the same feeling, too.”

  Just as she mentioned Renata Hable and Thierry Delisle, the two strolled into the dining room and Burke remembered they were supposed to meet to discuss what to say in the conference call later with head office. With all his theorizing about Felicity Blake, he had forgotten.

  Then his phone buzzed with a text. It was from Plaschke and said in French: “Let’s meet in a half hour at the entrance to St. Stephen’s Cathedral. We need to talk.”

  Burke replied he’d be there. He stood just as Hable and Delisle came to the table. “I’m sorry, but I have an emergency and have to go.”

  And without another word, he left.

  A half hour later, he showed up at the cathedral’s entrance, spotting Plaschke in plainclothes as soon as he arrived. Plaschke was businesslike and suggested they go to a nearby café and talk over coffees.

  “What have you been up to, Monsieur Burke?” Plaschke asked once they were settled at a table in a corner of the café.

  Burke was amused at how their discussions switched from language to language. This time, Plaschke wanted to talk in French, maybe because he didn’t want anyone nearby to understand their conversation.

  Burke told the flic his thoughts about Felicity Blake and Wilson Talbot. He added Carmen Moreau’s observations without identifying her. Plaschke didn’t take any notes, but Burke saw his interest.

  “Why are you going to such lengths about Wilson Talbot?” Plaschke asked.

  Burke wondered what Plaschke was looking for, but told himself to be patient. The flic would get to the point soon ̶ maybe.

  “A few years ago, I wouldn’t have done anything and probably wouldn’t have cared much,” Burke said. “But I’ve discovered that murder, besides being a highly personal matter, affects other people beyond the killer and the victim. So when I’m close to one, I want to know what happened.”

  “So you’re not after a topic for your next blog?”

  “I might write something later as the case continues, but, no, I’m not curious about what happened just so I can blog about it. I want to know what happened to Wilson Talbot at those castle ruins.”

  “That’s what I thought. And that’s why I’m here.”

  “OK, so now what?”

  “First, I’ve never been completely convinced by Madame Blake’s conversations with us. I’ve always had the feeling she’s hiding something. But I’m the only one who feels that way.”

  “What’s Inspector Martin think about her?”

  “He considers her to be an aloof woman, but an honest one whose husband was a jerk. I think it helps her case that she’s young and beautiful. Between us, Martin has a thing for the ladies, especially the pretty ones.”

  “What about testing Talbot for her DNA? If she was with him at the castle in Dürnstein, they might have kissed. Maybe they even had sex.”

  “That’s true, but it would still be circumstantial. Even if she admits they were having an affair, it doesn’t mean she killed him. The DNA, if there is any, would just tell us they were intimate. That’s not a crime.”

  Burke hadn’t thought about that and realized it was true. He felt frustrated. “I understand that, but there are just too many odd aspects about her,” he said. “For example, I’d wager everything that she was having an affair with Talbot. And I’d make the same bet that she believed Talbot was a real threat to her way of life if he leaked anything about her husband’s involvement in child pornography. Her husband would be ruined, but she knew she’d be disgraced by association and that horrified her. I don’t think she liked the idea of losing access to his money either.”

  Burke paused and studied Plaschke’s response. The flic didn’t say anything, but Burke thought he was making all kinds of mental notes.

  “That was her motive, at least in a nutshell,” Burke continued. “Then there’s opportunity. She knew Dürnstein from a previous visit so she knew about the castle ruins and when they might be quiet. On the evening when Talbot died, she was missing. You can check through the photos and video for that time taken by Carmen Moreau and you won’t see her. I doubt if any of the other passengers knew where she was.”

  “So you’ve seen Mademoiselle Moreau’s photos and video.”

  “I have and if you look at the photos of Felicity Blake in the two days before Talbot’s death, she looks depressed; she clearly has something on her mind. A few days after Talbot’s death, she’s back to her normal self. Whatever was bothering her is gone.”

  Burke stopped talking and waited to see Plaschke’s reaction. The flic was frowning. A moment later Plaschke told Burke to continue.

  “OK, then there’s the fact that Wilson Talbot always did his daily runs in the morning before his day got hectic. He logged his runs into his calendar somewhere between 7 and 9 a.m. He told me he stuck to that plan because he doubted he’d get any other free time during the day or evening. He was diligent about it, almost fanatical. And yet one evening, he broke from that routine and went running ̶ and ended up dead. Who else could lure him up to the ruins but Felicity Blake?”

  Plaschke leaned toward Burke. “Now I’ll provide you with some interesting information about Madame Blake. She made a phone call to her lawyer two days before Wilson Talbot died.”

  “What did they discuss?”

  “That we don’t know. We checked everyone’s phones once Bennett Blake was murdered and saw she’d made that call. Is it suspicious that she calls her lawyer two days before someone close to her dies? In this case, I’d say it’s definitely suspicious, but it’s not proof. As to learning what they discussed, that’s not possible. It’s privileged information between her and her lawyer who has made that point very clear to us.”

  “But if we add that information to the other things, we have quite a list,” Burke said.

  “Maybe, but everything is still circumstantial. There’s absolutely no way we can get a conviction from all of that. Impossible.”

  Burke nodded. Plaschke was right. They couldn’t prove Felicity Blake had killed Wilson Talbot.

  “I’ll look into her a little more, but I can’t promise anything,” Plaschke said. “Right now, we’re all busy with the child-porn ring.”

  “I understand.”

  “But I can tell you something about Niklaus Gast since information about him will be breaking news within the next day.”

  “What was his deal?”

  “He initially tried to make an arrangement on the child-porn charges since we’d linked him to that. He said he’d plead guilty to accessing in exchange for telling us everything he knew about the entire child-porn ring.”

  “Did the prosecutor go along with it?”

  “He was going to because of all the political pressure being applied to crack the ring as quickly as possible, but matters changed. We convinced him that Gast was involved in Bennett Blake’s death and we were going to charge him with murder. As soon as the prosecutor heard that, the deal fell apart. And then when we went ahead and charged Gast with premeditated murder, Gast and his lawyer tried to work the charge down to manslaughter.”

  “But Gast planned Blake’s death well in advance. There was nothing spontaneous about it. Is there really a chance of a manslaughter charge?”

  “His lawyer is trying to be convincing, but right now it won’t work. We did more tests and we know we can prove the premedit
ated-murder charge. You remember those shreds of clothing we found at the hotel work site in Krems? Well, the DNA results came in and we found Bennett Blake’s blood on some parts. We also found Niklaus Gast’s DNA on the clothing. But it was a close call. Another few hours and those shreds would have been covered forever by cement and the DNA would have been lost. As for the chemical Gast used, it was oxygen bleach, a nasty substance which can be effective for eliminating DNA. As for the clothes, the shreds were cycling gear just as you had thought. He’d been precise but not quite precise enough.”

  Burke nodded.

  “Once we had the clothing with his and Bennett Blake’s DNA on it, we went a step further and got hold of Gast’s computer at home. As you suggested, he had planned Blake’s murder well in advance and so, back in Switzerland, he had researched how to eliminate DNA from clothing and had come across oxygen bleach. He had cleared his history but not with enough care. The techs found it without too much trouble.”

  “That should be enough to convict him, right?” Burke said.

  “Wait, there’s more. Using witness reports including some from the Sunna’s crew, we were able to prove he wasn’t to be found during the time period when Bennett Blake was stabbed to death.”

  “That’s pretty circumstantial, though, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but when you add it to the other evidence in this case, it becomes overwhelming, not like what there is against Felicity Blake. And then there’s the matter of his involvement as a young man in the Society for Creative Anachronism.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an international group that studies and recreates medieval events in Europe. They get dressed in all types of medieval gear and stage fake battles with sword fighting and archery. It’s been around for a half century.”

  “Strange hobby, but so what?”

  “Well, Niklaus Gast was a member during his days at the University of Bern. Apparently, he was very keen, dressing in armor to fight in battles. And he was good, too. He could handle a sword well, thanks to taking a fencing class at university.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Interpol, on our behalf, talked to some of his university chums who were happy to recount the good old days. And guess what else they said about Gast’s abilities as a medieval knight?”

  Burke was getting the message. “That he was handy with a dagger?”

  “Indeed. Everyone in the club said he was very skilled with two weapons – a broadsword and a dagger, one requiring strength, the other speed. In fact, a couple of times his skill was so much better than anyone else’s that he left an opponent injured even though no one was supposed to be too aggressive.”

  “He’s finished then.”

  “I agree. He planned Blake’s murder long before the trip started and we can prove it which is why the prosecutor put aside any deal and isn’t interested in dropping the charge to manslaughter. Gast and his lawyer can try all they want to cut another deal, but it won’t happen, not now, not with all the evidence we have.”

  What’s the latest with the other ones involved in the child-porn ring?”

  “Nothing new, but the prosecutor’s office is going to push hard for a quick resolution to the various cases,” Plaschke said. “Like I said, there’s a lot of government interest in dealing with this ring, not just here in Austria but in other countries where arrests have been made. No one wants to look like they’re slow in dealing with this problem.”

  Plaschke stood and said he had to get back. “I promise you we’ll be having another conversation with Felicity Blake, at least I will. If something develops, I might be talking to you again.”

  Then he left.

  Burke watched the flic disappear. Plaschke was smart and determined, but could he pin something onto the young widow? Burke wasn’t sure.

  Chapter 69

  Back at the Sunna, Burke found Hélène and Claude sitting quietly at a table in the corner of the near-vacant dining room. They had completed their kitchen duties and were sipping coffees, a gentle breeze from the open windows keeping them cool.

  Burke joined them and related his conversation with Karl Plaschke.

  “I believe if Niklaus Gast hadn’t murdered Bennett Blake, there was a chance that Felicity Blake might have arranged for him to die suddenly sometime,” Claude said.

  Burke nodded. He believed she was capable of it.

  “I’m glad to hear someone from the police is still interested in looking into Wilson Talbot’s death,” Hélène said. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  “I agree,” added Claude. “You know, when we started this tour, everything was so idyllic. The scenery was beautiful, the weather was perfect, the river was fascinating and all the little communities were interesting. It seemed like we were traveling through this wonderful, secluded world. And then everything went to shit.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a police siren not too far away. Then they heard a second one and exchanged looks. The sounds of a big city, thought Burke, grateful for his quiet life in the old village part of Villeneuve-Loubet. When they heard more police sirens coming from different directions, he forgot about home. Something big was happening.

  “It sounds like they’re all heading downtown,” Claude said.

  Still more police sirens rang out, these ones close by. The three of them looked up and spotted four police vans speeding over the nearby Reichsbücke. And then even more sirens sounded but they were different. They belonged to ambulances.

  Hélène pulled out her smartphone and tapped away for a few seconds. Then she looked at Burke and Claude with concern on her face. “Someone has driven a large van into the half-marathon race, hitting dozens of runners and pedestrians,” she said. She glanced down at the phone again. “They’re saying several people are probably dead and dozens are injured.”

  Burke thought what he and most others thought when they heard about such incidents – terrorism. And then he recalled the horrific Bastille Day attack back in Nice when an ex-Tunisian had driven a massive truck along the Promenade des Anglais, killing dozens and injuring more than 100. Was something similar happening in Vienna?

  “What are the police saying?” Claude asked.

  “Nothing,” Hélène replied. “I’m reading reports from bystanders and from some media who are there.”

  “Was it an accident?” Burke said.

  Hélène shook her head. “Everyone is saying it wasn’t. They say the van crashed through a barrier and charged right into the runners.”

  Burke wondered if it was a case of someone having a sudden health issue, like a heart attack, and losing control of the vehicle. However, from what Hélène was reporting, it sounded deliberate. Maybe it was a terrorist attack after all. What did they call murder by car or truck? Burke remembered ̶ a ramming attack. Besides the one in Nice, Burke could recall similar incidents in Las Vegas, Jerusalem, Apeldoorn in the Netherlands and even one in Calgary back in Canada.

  “I’m going to head downtown and see what’s going on,” he said.

  “What for? What can you do?” Claude said.

  “If François Lemaire hears about the incident and knows I’m in town, he’ll expect me to produce some content for him, even if it’s just a couple of photos and some video.”

  Claude nodded. Hélène did, too.

  But the real reason Burke wanted to go to the race site was to see if Felicity Blake had been involved.

  Chapter 70

  The taxi driver dropped Burke off at the edge of Stephansplatz, a block from the cathedral, explaining he couldn’t get any closer. Burke paid the fare, adding a hefty tip because of the driver’s speed in getting him downtown.

  Then he jumped out into the chaos.

  Sirens were still screaming, but they were much closer. Thousands of pedestrians were rushing from the area, but just as many were moving toward the accident site, propelled by curiosity. Most held cellphones.<
br />
  Above Burke hovered four helicopters, two belonging to the police and two to TV stations.

  Thinking about Lemaire back home, Burke took a minute and snapped a few photos and some video of the scene, sending all of it to his editor. Then he jogged toward where the action was. The closer he got, the louder the noise grew. Besides the sirens and yelling, he heard screams.

  When he was a block from where police were blocking off a road, Burke spotted armed cops running around on rooftops.

  Then he heard a different vehicle approaching behind him.

  It was an army truck packed with soldiers in camouflage. A moment later, two more military trucks appeared.

  Everyone got out of their way.

  The trucks stopped at the police barricade and the soldiers leapt out, scattering to sidewalks and street corners, all of them brandishing military-assault weapons.

  Burke thought the scene was looking more and more like terrorism. What else would bring out both police and military in such numbers? But then, that was the way big cities with police forces reacted when there was the slightest suggestion of terrorism. The attacks in Paris had put the western world into a state of perpetual anxiety.

  While many of the bystanders took the appearance of the soldiers as a cue to leave, Burke worked his way toward the barricade. Elbowing his way to the front where three burly police prevented him from going farther, Burke was stunned by the sight ahead.

  At least a dozen medical teams were attending to bloodied, broken runners stretched out on the pavement, many of them screaming in agony. While the medical people worked feverishly, scores of police and soldiers were scanning the nearby buildings, most of which were massive department stores, for some kind of activity. The police helicopters kept their overhead vigil.

  Burke took more photos and videos, noticing a glare from one of the barricade cops. He glanced around. Other people were doing the same. Instant news.

  He sent off a couple of photos and one video to Lemaire. A moment later, he received a text from the newsman. “Keep them coming,” Lemaire said.