The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  ‘Listen to me. Can you find your way to St Mary’s Church?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. Go there. Wait for me. I’ll be there within the hour.’ He paused. ‘Is there anything you want me to bring? From the house?’

  ‘No, Dad. Just you, and Mum.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Budapest

  Now

  With his eyes closed, the rising sound beneath him could have been the hum of some vast human machine. Whispers, coughs, smothered laughter. The creak of seat backs. The rustle of paper.

  Then, stirring, the orchestra. A solitary oboe note at first, long and mournful. The vibration of horsehair on string announcing violins. Viola, cello and double bass adding their voice. A swell of trumpet, trombone and horn. Somewhere a breathy flute arpeggio, leaping among them.

  Lorant Vince opened his eyes and breathed in the golden magnificence of the Budapest Opera House as its orchestra tuned its instruments. He sat alone in the royal box, on a straight-backed chair of maroon velvet. Above him, the auditorium’s huge chandelier lit the ceiling frescos of Károly Lotz: startling images of Olympus and the Greek gods. Three golden storeys of private boxes curved away from him in a horseshoe around the stage. With the exception of the Royal Palace, the Opera House was Lorant’s favourite building in Budapest.

  As the orchestra continued to tune its instruments, the door behind him opened and Lorant heard someone enter. ‘You’re late,’ he whispered.

  The chair beside him scraped. Lorant turned in his seat. He had been expecting Károly Gera, and while he could muster little love these days for the signeur, Lorant found the man beside him far more disquieting

  Benjámin Vass looked down at the orchestra, at the audience in the stalls, the gilt and velvet splendour of the auditorium. Then he turned to Lorant. Vass’s face was fleshy and placid, empty of expression, eyes hooded by drooping lids. His breath smelled of spiced meat, as if he had just eaten a plate of gyulai kolbász.

  ‘Károly sends his apologies, Presidente. He asked me to attend you instead.’

  ‘Károly requests a meeting with me and then sends his second?’

  ‘His illness has worsened. I’m acting in his interest.’

  Lorant felt his jaw tighten. No one acted in the interest of the Eleni’s three ülnökök. No ülnök acted in his own interest, either; an ülnök acted in the sole interest of the Eleni Council. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

  It was true. Károly was an old man, nearly as old as Lorant, dying from a disease he had spent the last six months battling. While Lorant would not grieve his death when it arrived, he would grieve for the man Károly had once been. What really concerned Lorant was that Károly’s death increased the threat of Vass’s elevation to signeur. As Presidente, Lorant could veto that appointment, but if the remaining ülnökök voted for Vass, his own position would become untenable.

  Do I even want this burden any more? Probably not. I’m too old, too tired. And what, after all, have I achieved in all this time?

  Regardless, he knew that if he did nothing else before stepping down, he had to do everything possible to prevent Vass from rising any higher. The man would twist the Council’s manifesto, warp its objectives, tear it apart.

  ‘Károly demands to know—’

  ‘He demands?’

  Vass hesitated. Then he smiled. ‘Károly begs, he grovels, to discover why you’ve flown Dániel Meyer and others to London and have not deemed it pertinent to inform him.’

  Lorant stared at Vass, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. Meyer was the only ülnök whose judgement Lorant could still trust. It was why he had sent him. ‘You may tell Károly that I feel no pressing need to answer that.’

  ‘He asks me to remind you that if the ülnökök majority raise a question, the Presidente is obliged to answer.’

  ‘I see no ülnökök majority before me. I see no ülnök at all, nor the likelihood of one.’

  If Vass was stung by that, he gave no sign. ‘I will remind you, Lorant. I am acting for Károly. Which means I’m acting with the full authority of the signeur and—’

  ‘You have no authority!’

  ‘And I’m sure when I speak to Földessy he’ll be equally keen to find out what is going on. There are your two ülnökök, Lorant. There is your majority.’

  ‘You speak for Földessy now, too?’

  ‘Of course not. But I think it’s a safe assumption that he’ll want to know what’s happening as much as I do.’ Vass smiled. ‘As much as Károly does, I should say.’

  Vass was correct. It was a safe assumption. Földessy had become impatient in recent years: impatient and hard-line. It was exactly the reason Lorant had confided in Dániel Meyer alone.

  Below them, the notes of the orchestra faded. The audience settled, expectant.

  ‘Well?’ Vass asked.

  Forcing his voice to remain calm even as his fingers clutched the arms of his chair, Lorant said, ‘If the signeur wishes to force my hand, he knows what he needs to do. I will not negotiate with a messenger.’

  Vass held Lorant’s stare. He blinked his hooded eyes twice. ‘Enjoy the opera, Presidente.’

  The cab took Benjámin Vass across the city, circling the Városliget and dropping him outside the entrance to the Széchenyi Baths. He paid the fare, walked up the steps of the building’s neo-baroque frontage and passed its enormous stone pillars. Against the night sky, its spotlit walls glowed a rich egg-yolk yellow. Vass showed his card to a guard in the marble-floored entrance lobby and walked through an archway to the three huge outdoor baths.

  Illuminated by lamps on wrought-iron posts, two semi-circular pools book-ended a central oblong bath. Surrounding them rose the colossal towers, domes, balconies and fountains that dominated the building’s architecture. Doorways led to a further fifteen indoor baths, all fed from two artesian wells tapping the thermal spring deep below the city park.

  Steam coalesced on the surface of the water, obscuring the features of the hundred or so bathers. The smell of the minerals sharp in his nose, Vass walked across the stone paving to the furthest semi-circular pool. He found Károly Gera soaking near the steps, following a chess game two patrons had erected on a plinth jutting into the water.

  Flesh hung off the man like melted candle wax. The skin of his face was a stained hessian, unable to soften the sharp ridges of his hairless skull. His eyes blinked from sunken sockets. Each rib of his liver-spotted torso strained against skin like the spines of a bat’s wing.

  Recognising Vass, Károly eased himself away from the chess players, moving through the water to a secluded spot at the edge of the pool. Vass squatted down opposite him.

  ‘You saw him?’ the signeur asked. He held a glass in his right hand. It contained a measure of spirit and a single cube of ice.

  Vass nodded.

  ‘Well? Out with it, then.’

  Vass smirked. ‘He’s scared.’

  ‘Nothing new there. Lorant’s always been scared. What’s he up to? Why has he sent Meyer to London?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  Károly’s face puckered into a scowl. ‘That’s outrageous. Have you spoken to Földessy?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I gave you very specific instructions.’

  ‘I wanted you to see this first.’ Vass unsnapped the clasps of a leather satchel and removed a clear plastic sleeve. It held an English newspaper clipping. ‘I found this. It was published two days ago.’

  Károly snatched up the document and squinted at it. He was silent for a minute and then he thrust the sleeve back at Vass. ‘Suspected murder. Missing persons. So what?’

  ‘The missing person is Anthony Pearson. Isn’t that one of the identities Lorant arranged for Charles Meredith? After his wife’s death?’

 
Károly lurched forwards. ‘Te jó ég!’ he said, eyes glittering. ‘Balázs Jakab. He’s found them.’

  Vass moved the signeur’s wheelchair to the edge of the pool and helped the old man out of the water. In the moonlight, Károly’s body was a milk-white membrane, sloughing off steam. Vass slung a robe around his shoulders and eased him into the chair.

  Leukaemia was survivable in many of its forms. But once the cancer passed from the blood to the central nervous system, as it had with Károly, the prognosis was dismal; the median survival rate was one hundred and eight days.

  The signeur’s fingers twitched at the air. He swung towards Vass. ‘We need to intercept. You have to arrange flights immediately.’

  ‘We need to find out exactly where Meyer’s gone first. We don’t even have a contact over there.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me,’ Károly snapped. ‘Remember our deal.’

  Vass stopped himself from smiling. ‘Yes, signeur. Can I ask this, then? Do we have a contact?’

  ‘We did. A long time ago.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His name is Sebastien Lang.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘It should, Benjámin. Lang was signeur before me.’

  ‘And you know his whereabouts?’

  ‘I have a suspicion.’

  ‘Can we trust him?’

  Károly grinned, his teeth luminous in the moonlight. ‘You don’t need to worry about that.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Snowdonia

  Now

  Hannah slammed through the back door of the farmhouse and ran through the kitchen into the hallway, flicking on lights as she went. Leah was screaming. Nate was shouting her name.

  Upstairs. Both of them.

  Sprinting along the hall, she grabbed the banister and swung herself around.

  Nate was standing at the top of the stairs. In one hand he clutched a metal poker. His other arm clasped their daughter.

  When Leah spotted Hannah her screams turned to sobs. ‘Mummy!’ She tried to extricate herself from Nate but he held her firmly, staring down the stairs with distrust in his eyes.

  ‘The meal you cooked that night in the Cairngorms,’ he said. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Chicken mole. Never again.’

  He nodded. ‘My first car?’

  ‘Volkswagen Scirocco. White, with a leaky passenger door.’

  Nate released his grip on Leah. The girl thundered down the stairs and leaped at her mother. Hannah cradled her with one arm, unwilling to let go of the shotgun, worried that she had not yet reloaded it.

  ‘It’s OK, scamp. It’s OK,’ she murmured into the girl’s hair.

  ‘He came, didn’t he? The Bad Man came.’

  ‘Yes, he came. But he’s gone now. Mummy frightened him away. You’re safe. I’m here. Your dad’s here.’

  ‘What happened?’ Nate asked.

  ‘He broke in through the back door. Pretending to be Seb.’

  ‘Your head—’

  ‘Just a cut.’

  ‘It looks bad.’

  ‘I’m OK. Really.’

  He nodded. ‘You didn’t wake me.’

  ‘I’m stupid, that’s why. I couldn’t sleep so I came downstairs, surprised him. Reckless. I could have ruined everything.’

  ‘You didn’t. We’re all still here. You might even have—’ He cursed, put a hand to his abdomen.

  Hannah dropped her gaze to the bottom of his shirt. A dark stain was spreading across the fabric. ‘Oh Nate, you’re bleeding.’

  He frowned down at his clothing. ‘I jumped out of bed when I heard the gun shots. Must have torn the stitches.’

  Blood was beginning to drip from the hem of his shirt.

  For the first time, Hannah felt truly helpless.

  Jakab was somewhere outside. And now this.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, hating the desperation in her voice.

  Nate winced. ‘One thing at a time, as always. Come on. Help me downstairs.’

  Between them, they managed to get him down to the hall. Leah opened the door to the dining room and switched on the lights. Hannah helped her husband inside. She felt light-headed. Not enough sleep. Too much adrenalin. Too much fear, panic.

  Beyond a mahogany dining table, two armchairs flanked the window. She guided Nate towards one and eased him into it. Breaking open the shotgun, ejecting the single spent round, she pulled two cartridges from her back pocket and slotted them into the breech. Hannah snapped the gun back together, closed the dining-room door, crouched down beside her daughter. She put one hand to the girl’s face. Stroked her cheek. ‘Leah, remember all those times when we talked about this moment? About a time when you’d have to be strong?’

  The girl nodded. Her pupils were huge.

  ‘Well, honey, that time is now. You know we love you, your daddy and I. More than anything else in the world. It’s vital you remember that.’

  ‘You think one of you is going to die.’

  Hannah felt a tear roll down her cheek, cursed herself. ‘No, darling. No one thinks that. But even if there’s a tiny chance, we have to prepare for it. Just so we know what to do if it happens. You’re a strong girl. Brave. Intelligent. All you need to do is keep thinking, keep questioning, keep a close watch. Trust your instincts, react fast, just as we’ve always taught you. Now, do you remember we showed you how to use one of these?’ Hannah asked, indicating the shotgun.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s this slider?’

  ‘The safety.’

  ‘How do you disengage it?’

  ‘Push it forwards.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘How will I know who he is?’

  ‘You remember how we validate each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you’re unsure, that’s how. Now, come here.’ Hannah pulled her daughter into an embrace.

  Then Nate said, ‘Car.’

  Hannah moved to the side of the window. Dawn had bleached away the darkness, sketching the landscape in shades of grey. A battered blue Defender was rattling down the track from the main road.

  The 4x4 bounced over the bridge and accelerated towards the farmhouse, headlights cutting a white beam through the shadows. It skidded to a stop twenty yards from the house. The engine idled for a few moments and then it died. Its lights went out.

  Nate twisted his head. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Sebastien’s Land Rover.’

  ‘Can you see him?’

  The windscreen was a dark slab of glass. She could feel the gaze of the vehicle’s occupant upon her. ‘No. Leah, watch the car. If it moves, if anyone gets out, shout.’

  The girl was gripping one of the dining-room chairs. Her knuckles were white. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To get the spare ammunition. I won’t be long. Count to ten. I’ll be back.’ Hannah threw open the door and ran into the hallway. She skidded around the corner to the kitchen. The back door was hanging open, slamming in the wind. Two of the windows were broken, where she had tried to shoot Jakab. A smattering of shot was lodged in the frame.

  Flinging open the pantry door, she grabbed two boxes of cartridges and ran back to the dining room.

  ‘It didn’t move.’

  ‘Good girl. Now take these boxes. Open them up. I want you to lay the cartridges in a nice long row, so I can reach them easily if I need to. OK?

  Leah nodded. She put the first box on a chair. Opening the second, she began to arrange the rounds in a neat line, brass casings upwards.

  Hannah moved back to the wall beside the window. Outside, the Defender’s door banged open. She saw a blur of movement in the gap between the driver’s compartment and the frame. Moses jumped down on to the g
ravel. He dropped his head to the chippings, turning in a slow circle. He looked up at Llyn Gwyr, then back at the 4x4. Nose close to the ground, he ran towards the farmhouse as if following a scent. ‘It’s his dog,’ she said.

  ‘Moses?’

  She nodded. The dog ran past the window, raising his head and meeting her eyes. Then he was gone.

  ‘Keep talking to me, Hannah.’

  She glanced down. Nate’s shirt was wet with blood now. The sight of it made her want to retch or scream or both.

  You have to get him to a hospital! He’s not strong enough for this!

  ‘Nothing happening yet,’ she replied. ‘No movement.’

  A bang somewhere in the house. A metal object falling over with a crash. Leah moaned with fear. She clamped a hand to her mouth.

  A skittering in the hallway outside. A thump against the dining-room door. A low woof.

  Hannah flicked off the safety on the shotgun. She took her left hand from the weapon and pried open the door a crack. Moses nosed into the room. She shut the door behind him.

  The dog dropped his head and sniffed her feet, her legs, her crotch. He moved his nose up and down her free hand and licked her. Turning away, he approached Leah, enquiring, investigating. He moved his nose all over her body, licked her fingers and then he trotted over to Nate.

  Moses stopped when he saw the blood.

  ‘It’s OK, boy,’ Nate said, holding out his hand.

  The dog turned his head away, first towards Hannah and then towards Leah. Whined.

  ‘Go on, Moses,’ Hannah said. She felt her stomach contracting, her scalp buzzing. She moved her free hand back to the barrel of the shotgun. The safety was already disengaged. Her daughter was far enough away from her husband’s chair.

  The dog took a step forwards, dropped his head and sniffed Nate’s shoes. He looked up and whined a second time. Closer now, he sniffed her husband’s legs, his crotch. Nate waggled his fingers. The dog nosed them. Then he licked them.

  Hannah sagged against the door frame, breath exploding from her.

  Nate raised his eyebrows at the animal. ‘Thanks buddy. You nearly got me shot.’