‘I will go straight up and see how Marty is,’ said Straub, steering him gently away from the reception desk. ‘Wait in the bar, Richard.’
‘I may as well check in.’
‘Do that later. If Marty is feeling better, he will want to see you right away.’ Straub smiled. ‘He will probably want to buy you a drink.’
Eusden was too weary from their verbal fencing match on the train to argue. And he certainly needed a drink. He headed for the bar, while Straub made for the lift.
Five minutes elapsed while Eusden made swift inroads into a large gin and tonic, which he fully intended to charge to Marty’s room. The bar was low-lit and wood-panelled, the atmosphere soothing. He began to devise a suitably barbed greeting for his friend. Then Straub walked in – alone.
‘How is he?’ Eusden asked as Straub sat down beside him.
Straub gave an enigmatic little smile. ‘I do not know.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Marty is not here, Richard.’
‘Not here? Are you saying… he’s gone out?’
‘Not exactly.’ The waiter appeared. Straub ordered a drink, then returned his attention to Eusden, dropping his voice to a confidential murmur. ‘I will explain the situation to you, Richard. But I must ask you to remain calm – and quiet – while I do so. Marty’s welfare depends on you doing that.’
‘What?’
‘I am serious.’ The intensity of Straub’s gaze left no room for doubt on the point. ‘Marty needs you to behave sensibly. His life is at stake. You understand?’
‘No, I don’t understand. What the hell-’
‘Calm and quiet.’ Straub propped his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, cocking his head slightly as he looked Eusden in the eye. ‘Are you going to be?’ The question was suffused with a threat that was all the greater for being unspecified – and uttered sotto voce.
‘I’m listening,’ said Eusden levelly.
‘Good. Now-’ Straub broke off as his drink arrived: a blood-red Campari. Coasters and complimentary nuts were adjusted by the waiter in a pregnant hush. Then he glided away. And Straub resumed. ‘Marty did not come to Cologne yesterday, Richard. I travelled here alone. I booked in under his name. I brought his phone with me. That is how I knew you would be waiting for him in Brussels.’
‘How did-’
‘Please.’ Straub silenced him with an emphatic, chopping gesture. ‘We do not have much time. I will tell you everything you need to know. Marty is in Hamburg. He is locked inside my mother’s apartment. He is tied to a chair with his mouth taped. He has been there’ – Straub consulted his watch – ‘for nearly twenty-four hours. My mother is away on holiday, you see. She will not be back until the middle of next week. So, no one will find Marty in time to save him from death by dehydration.’
‘You… must be joking.’
‘I am not. You can save him, Richard. In fact, only you can save him. I have a key in my pocket that will open a left-luggage locker at Hamburg central station. Inside the locker is a set of keys to the apartment, with a tag tied to them. The address is written on the tag. There is a train to Hamburg at twenty-one ten. It will arrive at one fifteen tomorrow morning. You should be on it. If your friendship with Marty means anything to you, you will be. Naturally, I require something in return for the key. I require the attaché case.’ Straub sat back and raised his glass. ‘Prost.’ He took a sip.
Eusden stared at him, unable for the moment to formulate a response. The man surely had to be mad to go to such lengths. Though perhaps he had not gone to such lengths. There was always a chance that this was merely a ruse to trick Eusden into surrendering the case. But why? What could the case possibly contain that made sense of all this?
‘Perhaps you do not believe me,’ said Straub, reading his mind with discomfiting accuracy. ‘If so, you will find this interesting.’ He took his phone out, pressed some buttons and held it out so that Eusden could see the screen. ‘A captured image that will dispel any doubts.’
Eusden squinted at the screen. And there was Marty, older and gaunter than he remembered, but still instantly recognizable by his mop of curly hair and the jut of his brow. He was dressed in jeans, sweatshirt and trainers and was sitting in an upright wooden chair, his ankles roped to the legs, his shoulders pulled back, his wrists bound out of sight behind him. There was a shiny smear where his mouth was covered by a strip of tape and a length of rope stretched taut from the back of the chair to an anchoring point out of shot. The setting appeared to be some kind of domestic interior. And the picture came complete with a timer display that proved it had been taken the previous night: 22:32, 04.02.07.
Straub withdrew the phone and slipped it back into his jacket. ‘The case, Richard. I must have it.’
‘You won’t get away with this.’
‘I think I will. Marty will not want you to go to the police. Take my word for that. Better still, ask Marty when you see him.’
‘He’s not a well man. You know he isn’t. How’s he going to stand up to the ordeal you’re putting him through?’
‘Go and find out.’
‘You’re a cold-hearted bastard, aren’t you?’
Straub looked as if he found the accusation faintly flattering. ‘The case, Richard. I will have it now, please.’
Eusden hesitated for a moment. But the simple if unpalatable truth was that he had no choice. He picked up the attaché case and handed it over.
‘Thank you.’ Straub laid it on the table in front of him. From his pocket he took a small key and unlocked the catches. Eusden could see nothing of the contents when he raised the lid. There was a sound of papers being riffled through, then Straub gave a frowning nod. ‘Good,’ he said, closing the case and relocking it. He smiled. ‘Excellent, in fact.’
‘You have your… collectable?’
‘I do.’
‘I hope you think it’s worth what you’ve done.’
‘There is no doubt that it is.’ Straub delved in another pocket. When he reached across the table and opened his hand, Eusden saw a different key resting in his palm, larger and chunkier than the one that had opened the case. ‘Locker number forty-three, Richard. Time you were going, I think. You need to catch that train. They empty the lockers after twenty-four hours. I engaged it this morning at eight o’clock. So, you need to be there before eight o’clock tomorrow morning. The twenty-one ten is the last train tonight. You cannot afford to miss it. I suggest you start for the station. Now.’
HAMBURG
SEVEN
Eusden was unsure in retrospect how he endured the four-hour journey to Hamburg. The train was old and slow and grubby, the route a grim haul through industrial towns and stretches of countryside veiled in darkness. Most of the passengers looked about as happy to be aboard as he was. They were travelling, like him, because they had to.
Eusden had been sorely tempted to call Gemma and offload some of the concern he felt for Marty and the anger that filled him at being put in such a position. But there was nothing Gemma could do except worry. And it was not her fault that Straub had laid a trap for one of them to walk into. Eusden suspected it might at least partly be Marty’s fault, however, a suspicion he intended to voice once he was sure his friend had come to no harm. All he could do meanwhile was stare out at the night-blanked North German Plain and stifle his frustration.
Hamburg central station was thinly populated at 1.15 in the morning, a deadening chill invading its cavernous, empty spaces. Eusden, drained by sleeplessness and anxiety, tracked down the left-luggage lockers as swiftly as he could and opened number 43.
The keys were there, as Straub had promised. And so was the tag. The address written on it in bold block capitals meant nothing to him. He could only hope a taxi driver would be able to find it.
The night he walked out into was still and numbingly cold. He clambered into the lead cab in a short queue of more or less identical cream Mercedes and proffered the tag to the driver. A glance and a nod was
all he received in return. Then they were on the move.
A ten-minute surge through a deserted city centre and they were there: Brunnengasse, a pedestrianized link-route between a main road and a residential side street. Modest but reputable apartment blocks lined the route, prettied up with window-boxes and Juliet balconies. The address on the tag was number six: a single door serving twelve flats, each equipped with electronic bell-pushes, speakerphones, and mailboxes next to the entrance. There was, however, no way of telling which flat belonged to Straub’s mother.
Eusden let himself in with one of the Yale keys and started checking the names displayed alongside the front doors of the flats. He had reached the third floor before he found what he was looking for: FRAU B. STRAUB. He rang the bell. There was no response. He tried again, pressing his ear to the door. Was that a muffled groan he heard? Maybe. Maybe not. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The picture on Straub’s phone had prepared him for what he would see. But what he could actually see was very little. The flat was in darkness, a wedge of amber lamplight from the street illuminating only a portion of carpet in a room ahead of him. There was that groan again, apparently emanating from the same room. Eusden groped for the light switch and pushed it down. Nothing happened.
Another groan, louder this time. He headed for the wedge of amber and entered what various hummocked shadows suggested was a lounge, with a pair of windows affording a view of the flats opposite. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, one shadow resolved itself into a figure lying on the floor. It was Marty. He had toppled the chair over at some point, but was still tied to it, slumped on his left side.
‘It’s me, Marty,’ said Eusden, stooping over him. He caught a pungent whiff of stale sweat and urine. Marty turned his head and rolled his eyes. ‘Hold on.’ Eusden located one end of the strip of tape and pulled it free as gently as he could.
‘Good to see you, Coningsby,’ said Marty in a hoarse whisper. The use of Eusden’s college nickname was reassuringly spirited. It was a reference to his family’s supposed descent from the eighteenth-century poet laureate Laurence Eusden, sometime rector of Coningsby, in Lincolnshire. The pair had driven up there from Cambridge one Saturday in pursuit of the poet’s shade, but had only succeeded in becoming so drunk in the village pub that they had had to stay overnight before driving back. ‘Not that… I can actually see you.’
‘The lights don’t work.’
‘Werner turned them off at the mains. Just as well the block’s centrally heated, otherwise I’d have frozen to death. The fuse box is in the hall cupboard.’
‘OK. Hang on.’
Eusden retreated into the hall and opened the cupboard. After collapsing an ironing board on himself, he succeeded in feeling his way to the fuse box. He pushed up all the switches. Overhead lights came on in the hall and lounge. He hurried back.
The scene was stark. Marty lay trussed and crumpled. There was far more grey in his hair than when they had last met. And he had lost weight. He looked like an old man, lying where he had fallen. But he still sounded like the younger version of himself Eusden recalled. ‘If you’re still as good at untying knots as you were in the Scouts, it’d be quicker to fetch a knife from the kitchen.’ A nod pointed Eusden in the right direction.
The kitchen, like the lounge, was fitted out in an old-fashioned style. Frau Straub did not appear to be an enthusiastic modernizer. Eusden discovered several formidably bladed knives in one of the drawers, however. He chose what seemed the sharpest.
‘For Christ’s sake be careful,’ croaked Marty as Eusden set to work. ‘I don’t want to bleed to death after surviving twenty-four hours bound and gagged in this hellhole.’
‘I am being careful. There.’ He released Marty’s wrists and started on his ankles. Once those ropes were also free, he pulled the chair away and watched Marty roll slowly forward, groaning and grimacing as he gradually straightened his arms and legs. ‘How d’you feel?’
‘Oh, tip-bloody-top, thanks.’ Marty gasped as blood coursed back into starved limbs and joints. ‘How do I feel? How do you think I feel?’
‘Sorry.’
‘No need. At least you came. Where would I be if you hadn’t?’
‘What’s this all about, Marty?’
‘Didn’t Werner tell you?’
‘Hardly.’
‘No. I suppose he wouldn’t.’ Marty coughed and sat up gingerly, supporting himself against the chair. ‘Any chance… of a drink of water?’
‘Of course. I should’ve thought.’
Eusden filled a glass from the kitchen tap. Marty gulped the contents down and handed it back for a refill. ‘I’d never have thought German tap water would taste so good.’
‘You shouldn’t drink too much too fast.’
‘OK, nurse. I’ll sip the next one.’ Marty ran a hand along the rope that still fastened the chair to a radiator pipe. ‘Then I might think about standing up.’
Eusden refilled the glass. Obediently, Marty drank slowly this time, the glass shaking in his hand as he did so. He gave Eusden a pained smile. ‘Sorry about the state I’m in, Richard.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Eusden sat down in a nearby armchair. ‘We’ll soon get you cleaned up.’
‘Gemma talked you into taking her place, did she?’
‘Yup.’
‘Thought she might.’
‘You did?’
‘I can read her like a book. You too, come to that. You gave the attaché case to Werner, I assume.’
‘I wouldn’t say gave. It was his price for the address of this place. And the keys. I didn’t have much choice.’
‘You could have told him to go to hell. I’m a dying man, Richard. Didn’t Gemma mention that?’
‘She mentioned it.’
‘So, saving my life is… a temporary achievement at best.’ Marty raised a trembling hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you came. See what was in the case, did you?’
‘No.’
‘But Werner opened it in front of you?’
‘Yes. He seemed satisfied with what he’d got.’
‘I’ll bet. Was he alone?’
‘Yes. Shouldn’t he have been?’
‘There was a hired heavy waiting when we came here on Sunday night. Ill or not, I might have got the better of Werner on his own. Maybe he took the bloke on for just the one job. You should be grateful he didn’t add roughing you up to the contract. Not that he needed to, of course. I guess he was confident whichever of you and Gemma showed up would cooperate. Leaving Werner in the clear.’
‘We should report what’s happened to the police, Marty. You were assaulted, for God’s sake. And I was robbed.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Forget it?’
‘I mean forget going to the police. Werner knows I can’t do that.’ Marty swallowed some more water. Then he braced himself against the chair and rose unsteadily to his feet.
‘Careful.’
Eusden was at his side. But Marty signalled to be left alone and smiled stubbornly at his success in standing upright. ‘What happened after you handed over the case?’ he asked, rubbing his sandpapery chin.
‘I caught the train here.’
‘I didn’t know there were through trains from Brussels.’
‘We were in Cologne. We travelled that far together. Straub said you were waiting for us at the Hotel Ernst. That’s where he… presented his terms.’
‘Cologne? Well, I guess that makes sense. An hour from Frankfurt airport on the high-speed line. He’ll make an early start.’
‘You think he’s planning to leave the country?’
‘No. He’s planning to meet someone off a flight from the States. Someone I was supposed to be meeting with him. Looks like I’ve been… iced out of the deal.’
‘What is the deal, Marty?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘After the day I’ve had, yes, I do.’
‘Sure about that?’
Eu
sden nodded emphatically. ‘Absolutely.’
‘OK. Tell you what. I’ll take a shower. The water’ll probably be cold, but at least I’ll smell sweeter. You didn’t bring a change of clothes with you by any chance?’
‘I came straight from the office.’
‘I should’ve guessed from the way you’re dressed. Never mind. Maybe Werner’s mother hasn’t chucked out everything that belonged to his father yet. You could check that while I shower. And see if the old bat left any food in the fridge when she jetted off for her fortnight in the sun.’ Marty set out at a totter across the room. ‘When I’m clean and less hungry, I’ll tell you what you think you want to know.’
EIGHT
Marty’s instinct about Frau Straub’s disposal policy was sound. There was a wardrobe in the main bedroom filled with suits, shirts, sweaters and trousers that could easily have come from a German equivalent of John Collier circa 1970. Eusden laid out a hopeful selection on the bed and headed for the kitchen. The pickings there were thinner: a few rye crackers in a tin, an unopened pack of Emmental and several bottles of Löwenbräu. He opened one of the beers for himself and went back to the lounge.
As he entered the room, the telephone started ringing. At 2.25 a.m. he thought the caller was unlikely to be Frau Straub’s sister in Stuttgart. Maybe it was a wrong number. On balance, he hoped so.
After ten to twelve rings, it stopped. Then, a moment later, it started again. He picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Check the mailbox.’
‘What? Who is-’
But the line was already dead. Eusden replaced the receiver and gazed out through the window into the night. Then he crossed to the light switch and flicked it to off, plunging the room into darkness. He returned to the window and peered down into the street. There was no sign of life. After a struggle with the latch, he succeeded in opening the window. He leant out for a wider view. But there was nothing to see.
Found Wanting Page 4