Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Neither man said anything for several moments. Finally, Plaschke spoke. “So, why did you really go to see Felicity Blake? You had to know she wasn’t going to confess.”

  “I know. But I had to talk to her, to look into her eyes at just the right moment and ask if she had killed her lover.”

  “And did you get your answer?”

  “Oh, yes, I got my answer. She killed Wilson Talbot. I’m as sure about that as I’m sure I’m talking to you.”

  He expected Plaschke to ridicule what he had just said. But the flic just picked up his coffee, took a sip and watched people stroll by.

  It seemed Felicity Blake and Wilson Talbot belonged to the past.

  The world was moving on.

  Epilogue

  It was just past 8 a.m. but the sun was already warm as Burke sat at one of the two outdoor tables that his friend Jean, the newsagent, offered customers.

  Back three weeks from the Danube trip, Burke was embracing his normal routine, waking early, going down with his dog Plato to Jean’s for a coffee and the newspapers, going for a bike ride and then working on a blog or researching a topic for an upcoming TV panel show. Sometime during the day, he’d visit Hélène at her Café de Neptune. In the evening, he’d take Plato for a long walk in the village, sometimes chatting with a neighbour, often just following the stream that ran through the west side of the village. It wasn’t a routine that would excite many people, but, for Burke, it was perfect.

  “I hear Claude has a lady friend,” Jean said, sitting down opposite Burke with his own coffee since the shop was quiet. Plato, as was his routine, was resting a couple of metres away in the foam bed that Jean had long before provided him.

  Burke smiled. He had learned just the day before from Claude that Renata Hable was in Nice, spending a few days with his friend on a kind of test run. If it worked out, she would stay. FWC Specialty Tours still prized her talents and was offering her a job as an administrator in its head office not a kilometre from Claude’s apartment.

  “Claude sounds over the moon,” Burke said. “And for good reason. Renata Hable, who’s his friend, is a special person, smart, pleasant, brave and attractive.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “The Netherlands and, according to Claude, she’s in love with the idea of not spending another wet, chilly winter in her homeland ̶ if their relationship gets that far. By the way, how did you find out about them?”

  “I saw them yesterday walking along the promenade, arm in arm.”

  “Well, it’ll be interesting to see what Claude’s like when he’s in love.”

  “By the way, have you heard the latest about your child-pornography people?”

  “What’s happened?”

  “You can read the details in one of your papers, but the gist is several of them have pled guilty and been sentenced.”

  “That’s fast. It’s only been three weeks.”

  “It seems the politicians wanted to look tough on such crimes. It also looks like the child-porn bunch cut deals for themselves. I expect that if they hadn’t, they’d have been looking at much longer sentences if they’d gone to trial and been convicted which, as you’ve said, was likely.”

  “What did they get?”

  “Four of them got 20 months. The German got three years.”

  “Why did he get longer?”

  “It seems he pled guilty to helping produce child porn. The others were convicted only of accessing and distributing.”

  Burke wondered how the investigators had determined who had done what. He was also curious about how much information the group had given investigators. “Do you know anything about the Swiss who was charged, Niklaus Gast?”

  Jean, who usually read four papers before Burke showed up, nodded. “It seems there was a change in the case resulting in him pleading guilty to second-degree murder and several child-porn charges. He won’t be sentenced for a while.”

  Burke was shocked. After talking to Plaschke weeks before, he was sure the prosecutor’s office wouldn’t negotiate anything and that Gast would be facing a premeditated murder conviction. What had the Swiss given investigators at the last moment that he hadn’t offered them before? They certainly had enough information to prove he’d planned Blake’s murder well in advance. Whatever he had tossed at the prosecutor had to have been of considerable value – and carry political weight.

  Jean opened one of Burke’s newspapers and turned to an inside page. “From today’s reports, the number of people charged in different countries in connection with that child-porn ring is almost 350. This story says almost all the ringleaders are in custody although more people are expected to be charged. Your child-porn people were just small fish in a big, dirty lake.”

  “If Claude’s right, they’ll have a rough time even as small fish,” Burke said, not surprised by the scope of the arrests. “He tells me child molesters and people convicted of child pornography are usually despised, harassed, and abused by other inmates who call them ‘dirty’ prisoners. Sometimes inmates will attack them or even kill them because they think it’s better for society. Weird but true.”

  “Have you heard anything since you left Vienna about that woman you suspect was involved in the death of that other man?”

  Burke knew his friend was talking about Felicity Blake. “Nothing. I’ve checked the news in Vienna from time to time, but there’s been no mention of her so I expect she’s off the hook.”

  “I also saw a sidebar story this morning involving Worldwide Events Consulting and corporate espionage – and your ship, the Sunna.”

  Burke was stunned. “What?”

  Jean looked to the bottom of the page. “Here it is. A member of the Worldwide Events Consulting administration team, based out of Tokyo, has been charged with corporate espionage.”

  “Who?”

  “Hoshiko Kimura. Do you know her?”

  “I do,” said Burke, recalling her reaction when the police had demanded her phone the second time. She had looked frightened.

  “Does the story say what happens next in the case?”

  Jean read for a few seconds. “Only that if she’s convicted, she could go to prison for 20 years.”

  Burke shook his head, disgusted by the idea that she could wind up with a much longer prison term than all the child-porn people put together. The morning was full of surprises.

  Jean had more information from the story. “It says the charges are complex and could take years to be settled.” He looked up at Burke. “That was some trip you were on.”

  “It’s one I’ll never forget.”

  Three hours later, as Burke cooled down in his apartment after a bike ride to nearby Antibes, he was surprised to see he had a text from Karl Plaschke, saying Burke should phone him around noon if he was still interested in the aftermath of what had happened with the Sunna’s passengers.

  Burke hadn’t heard from the flic since their last coffee and conversation near Stephansplatz when Plaschke had reprimanded him for accosting Felicity Blake. Several times since returning to Villeneuve-Loubet, Burke had thought about contacting Plaschke, but each time he had opted against doing so because the Sunna and its passengers belonged to the past.

  But now Burke was curious. So, at noon, he phoned Plaschke who answered on the first ring.

  “It’s been a while, Monsieur Burke,” Plaschke said. “I’m surprised you didn’t contact me earlier.”

  “When I left Vienna, I left all that mess behind.”

  “So, you’re not curious about new developments?”

  “I know about the inner circle. And I’ve read how Gast got his premeditated murder charge dropped to manslaughter.”

  “Yes, that was unexpected, I admit.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I’m not privy to that, but Gast had to provide the prosecutor with something very special to get that deal. There’s speculation he offered to implicate some political oppon
ents of the Swiss government in the scandal and the Swiss government in turn applied some pressure on our Austrian government in a bid to capitalize on that innuendo. Our government got the prosecutor’s office to reconsider the charges in exchange for getting something juicy from the Swiss. And so Gast played his last card, talking and talking. It obviously worked because he got a better deal. It was all about political favours.”

  “What’ll he get for a sentence?”

  “Maybe 10 years. Maybe less.”

  “I also heard about Hoshiko Kimura.”

  “That didn’t involve me, but I can say she was part of a strategy put into place by another international company in direct competition with Worldwide Events Consulting.”

  “Will she get prison time?’

  “One of my bosses says at most she and her company will be fined a substantial amount. The real penalty for them will be through civil litigation. They may have to pay a bundle to settle a lawsuit. We’re talking big numbers, maybe in the millions of euros.”

  “Incredible.”

  Plaschke paused. “No interest in what’s happened to Felicity Blake?”

  “Has she been charged with murder? I hadn’t heard about anything although I haven’t been paying too much attention.”

  “She hasn’t.”

  “But something has happened, right?”

  “As soon as the Sunna’s child-porn people pled guilty, Worldwide Events Consulting launched several civil lawsuits against people connected to those men. Some were staffers, a couple were family members.”

  “And Felicity Blake was one of them?”

  “She was indeed. Worldwide says the family members and a few staff had some degree of prior knowledge about the child-pornography acts and, in doing so, they damaged the reputation of the company. Worldwide is trying to show it’s rehabilitating itself and one way is to punish the individuals who caused such grief. The company is after millions and ready to battle a long time in the courts to get it.”

  “If that’s the case, Felicity and the others better have deep pockets.”

  “I expect their legal fees will be astronomical. It might be enough to drive some of them, or maybe all of them, into bankruptcy. Whether that’s fair or not is another matter. But the company wants its pound of flesh.”

  Burke thought that if the connection to child pornography wasn’t bad enough, possible bankruptcy would be enough to crush Felicity Blake’s hopes of returning to a life of respectability.

  “Madame Blake has other problems as well,” Plaschke added. “I checked into her physical status two days ago since she’s still in hospital in Vienna with her injuries. She’s had one surgery to repair the damage and now it seems she’s going to need a complete knee replacement. And it’s likely she’ll need another surgery to put some plating to hold her femur in place. She’ll walk again, but probably with a limp since one leg will be shorter than the other by two or three centimetres.”

  “That’ll end her days of running.”

  “And those injuries to her face? I haven’t seen them, but a fellow officer interviewed her the other day in connection with the ramming attack and said Blake’s scars don’t look like they’re going to disappear anytime soon. She needs some plastic surgery, but, faced with a lawsuit, she might not be able to afford it for a long time.”

  “What about the sympathy she was getting from your superiors for her so-called misfortune?”

  “That sympathy seems to have disappeared. Word has somehow circulated that she might have had an affair with Wilson Talbot and that there’s significant evidence to prove it. There have also been suggestions she might have a darker side to her character.”

  Burke had a notion where that information might have originated, but he said nothing.

  “And now you’re up to date,” Plaschke said.

  “Why are telling me all this?”

  “As I said a while back, you gave me some direction when I needed it. And when it comes to Felicity Blake, I’m now like you – she’s behind Wilson Talbot’s death. I did some more poking around, but I couldn’t dig up enough to press for charges. But I believe she murdered Talbot – and I’m as sure of that as I am that I’m talking to you.”

  “Maybe the proof will show up sometime,” said Burke although he doubted it. “Either way, Felicity Blake has a difficult future.”

  “I’d say she has years of grief ahead of her.”

  They ended the call without any suggestion they’d talk again.

  Burke looked out the window at the rooftops of the stone houses in his quiet village. He heard birdsong and, in the distance, the sound of traffic passing by the small, sleepy community. In another hour, he’d visit Hélène on her break. After that, he’d begin work on his next blog. He smiled. He was where he wanted to be – and a long, long way from the murder and mayhem that had occurred on the majestic Danube River.

  Postscript

  The references to Richard the Lionheart’s troubles in Austria are based in fact. There are several excellent books that detail those trials and tribulations, providing a fascinating study into one of the most unique and famous leaders of Europe’s Middle Ages.

  The situations involving the Roma and the refugees are also based on fact. The Roma have been around for centuries and are still viewed badly by others. The plight of the refugees is an ongoing one with politicians and ordinary people struggling to find solutions.

  The various terrorist attacks mentioned did indeed occur, tragically so.

  Finally, there’s the bike route from Passau in southeastern Germany to Vienna. I’ve ridden the route as a regular cyclist and as a tour guide, and I’ve never been disappointed by what I’ve encountered along the 325-kilometre distance which can easily be stretched to 400 with side trips. Whatever the distance, it’s a route that combines great bike paths, historically important communities, wonderful scenery and some of the best wine country to be found on the continent. And the west-to-east route actually goes five per cent downhill. There may be more spectacular bike routes in the world but for overall interest, scenery, culinary delights and history, it’s tough to beat. Unless murder happens along the way.

  Look for the fourth Paul Burke mystery:

  Chapter 1

  His mind drifting as he walked his Jack Russell dog Plato along the rocky hillside, Paul Burke was thinking it was a perfect morning.

  Until the snake whipped across their path.

  Seeing it, Plato went into his breed’s killer mode, trying to catch the long, speckled serpent. But, his heart pounding, Burke was equally quick, yanking on the leash so his dog wouldn’t find itself locked in combat with the creature.

  Burke hated snakes. He had certainly seen enough of them during training rides when he had been a pro cyclist. Some of the buggers had been poisonous, too, and he recalled one time when a viper had leapt at the front wheel of his bike, eager to attack. Here on Corsica, there weren’t supposed to be any venomous reptiles, but Burke wasn’t taking any chances.

  Pulled back from his prey, Plato wasn’t pleased, tugging and snarling to get loose, confident he’d win with a quick bite or two of his small but powerful jaws.

  To Burke, the snake seemed to slow and sneak a disdainful glance at them. Then it slithered into the bushes and disappeared. He shuddered. It had been more than a metre long with a nasty-looking head that probably housed plenty of sharp teeth. If Plato had caught it, he might not have enjoyed the result.

  Burke waited a few moments to ensure the snake was gone and then he started walking again.

  The encounter had certainly changed the mood.

  Until then, Burke had been lost in his surroundings. The rugged, jagged scenery along this east coastline of Cap Corse was indeed majestic in almost a primordial way. While farmhouses dotted the hills behind him and the pastel-coloured buildings of the village Erbalunga stood in contrast to the turquoise Mediterranean Sea, the rest of the area looked like it hadn’t changed
since time began.

  Starting to relax as he and Plato took the turn toward the village, Burke was glad he and his partner Hélène had decided to come a few days early to Corsica to enjoy a little holiday. He had a trade show for bicycles starting in Bastia in two days, but a trip around Cap Corse, which looked like an extended index finger on a map, would make for the perfect break. Burke had visited the rugged island twice before, but had never seen this part.

  For Burke, Corsica was part holiday and part work. He had to file several blogs, both static and video, for his newspaper chain based along the French Riviera. His editor wanted the latest information about developments in the industry because, after all, the French remained mad keen about cycling.

  For Hélène, who was probably still sleeping in their small hotel bed in the village, Corsica was pure vacation. She had taken a much-needed break from running her Café de Neptune in the old village part of Villeneuve-Loubet where they lived, leaving supervisory tasks to her uncle Claude. For her, Corsica was a new adventure. Despite living all of her life along the French Riviera, she had never visited the island which was a five-hour ferry trip from Nice.

  It was almost 8 a.m. and Burke smiled at the thought he might get back in time to share a coffee with Hélène on the hotel’s terrace which overlooked the small harbour. He had about another kilometre to go and it was all downhill. Barring another snake encounter, he figured he and Plato would be in the village in 10 minutes.

  Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, Burke felt the sweat pour down his face and drip down his back as he kept up the pace. The temperature was already in the mid 20s and was expected to rise into the low 30s, warm for early autumn. But it felt good to Burke who loved the heat and didn’t miss the winters of his youth when he had grown up in frigid Montréal back in Canada.

  Burke could see a handful of people moving about the lanes of the small village, not in any rush, just going about their business. And as he marveled at the sea that was unusually still, he spotted a small group of fishermen gathered by their boats at the north end of the harbour. They were peering at something in the sand, maybe three steps from the water.