Nightfall Berlin

by Jack Grimwood

  The old man removed his cigar, blew smoke from the side of his mouth so that it didn’t drift over Charlie, and smiled.

  ‘Of course you are. You have your father’s eyes.’

  ‘And my mother’s nose.’

  The man peered closely. ‘That’s possible,’ he said.

  ‘Have we met?’ Charlie asked. He hoped that was polite enough; sometimes it was hard to be sure.

  ‘At your sister’s funeral.’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ The old man’s voice was matter of fact. ‘No one ever remembers who’s at a funeral. Are you ready to roll?’

  Charlie looked at him.

  ‘I thought a pub. Or there’s an old-fashioned hotel ten miles from here, with very uncomfortable chairs, where we’ll have to sit quietly and they’ll scowl if we ask for more jam to go with our scones …’

  He smiled and Charlie smiled back.

  ‘Or we could go to the house.’

  ‘You live near here?’

  ‘I live lots of places,’ the man said. ‘One of them is near here. It belonged to a friend but he doesn’t need it any more. Red-brick thing. A Victorian copy of an Elizabethan country house. Built for a sugar baron.’

  ‘Our Moscow embassy was built for a sugar baron.’

  The old man with the cigar looked at him.

  ‘Daddy told me,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Then I’m sure you’re right. Scalextric or model trains?’

  ‘Model trains,’ Charlie replied firmly.

  ‘How very traditional. That’s a compliment, by the way. The house has an exceptionally large train set. Most of its engines are original.’

  ‘You sent me the toy cars, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did you like them?’

  ‘Very much,’ Charlie said carefully. That wasn’t true because the mechanism that drove the ejector seat of the first one was surprisingly clunky and the bullet screen could have fitted its slot better. And the second had made him feel uneasy. And the third one had that note about Daddy. A note saying Daddy was in big trouble. Saying thank you was the right response to most things, however. So that’s what Charlie did.

  ‘Daddy …’

  ‘Needs your help.’

  ‘You’ve seen him. Recently?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the old man said. ‘Very recently.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  The old man looked amused. ‘Wearing someone else’s clothes.’ Leaning over, he pulled a handle to open the door of the Rolls.

  Charlie hesitated. Other boys were watching and even Michaelides looked impressed. His father had a big Rover. One of the old-fashioned ones with a Viking face on the bonnet. It was cream. Charlie knew. Michaelides was leaning against it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ the old man said.

  Mr Marcher was approaching.

  ‘My housemaster.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘Didn’t like my housemaster either.’

  ‘Six for the bigger boys,’ Mr Marcher said. ‘Three-thirty for the littles. If you could have him back by then …’

  ‘Of course.’ The old man examined the end of his cigar. ‘Should you talk to Charlie’s father, could you remind him that he has a book of mine?’

  ‘If I talk to –’

  ‘Only if you do,’ the old man said.

  The car door closed behind Charlie with a satisfying thud, and the gap between door and frame was tight, as it should be.

  The engine sounded nice too.

  It purred into life and Charlie sat back and shut his eyes to feel the sun on his face as the car turned a surprisingly tight circle. When the sunlight dappled, Charlie knew they were passing under the oaks along the drive. He felt the Rolls-Royce turn on to the road and accelerate with a roar.

  As ways to escape went, this was a good one. Charlie had spent the whole term not having the courage to run away. He wondered who the man was, how much trouble Daddy was in, and what would happen if he never went back.

  68

  Tom found the gym easily enough. The one where Frederika taught children who’d represent East Germany in the next Olympics or the Olympics after. He recognized it from the tendrils of ivy moulded into the brick either side of its windows. Germany had been an empire when the hall was built, then at war, a republic, a fascist state, at war again, conquered, occupied and split down the middle.

  The more I see of people the more I like my dogs.

  The French writer Madame de Staël had been exiled to Berlin for being too intelligent for Napoleon to stomach. Tom agreed with her, provided you swap buildings for dogs. So maybe Anglicanism was perfect after all. All those lovely churches, with no need to hammer on about faith and doubt.

  He was with St Francis.

  ‘Preach the gospel. If necessary, use words.’

  Their approaches differed, however.

  It was too early in the day for many students to be around and the doors at ground level were shut. The door at the top of the fire escape he’d used last time was slightly open though. Tom climbed its rusting steps quietly.

  She was there all right, tongue-lashing a child who stood hands folded in front of her. Brutal as a punishment beating, the scolding lasted another minute. When the child raised one hand to wipe away tears, Frederika screamed at her to stand properly. Looking up, the child saw Tom on the fire escape and her eyes widened.

  Tom put his finger to his lips.

  She looked at him for a second, then nodded to Frederika and began backing towards the door. She kept her stare on Frederika, who answered with a glare, her shoulders rigid at what she saw as insolence. Reaching for the handle, the child dropped an almost mocking curtsy and slammed the door behind her. Frederika opened her mouth to shout.

  ‘Hello, Frederika,’ Tom said.

  She spun round, eyes wide.

  ‘Shout,’ he said, ‘and you’ll get hurt.’

  Walking to the inside door, he locked it, pocketed the key and returned to the fire escape, his eyes fixed on her the whole way. Locking that door, he dropped the blind. He pressed Play and Record on the tape recorder in the corner, set the spool running and fixed his glare on Frederika the way she’d fixed hers on the child. ‘Murderer,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘You are.’

  Her gaze met his and her jaw tightened.

  ‘You killed Cecil,’ she said. ‘You killed my chance of escaping this.’ Her face for a second looked hollow, her eyes dark, seeing nothing.

  ‘You know I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Liar.’ She spat the word at him. ‘You did. It’s all your doing.’

  She meant it too. Her face was white with anger. It was in her voice. She held Tom accountable for Sir Cecil’s death.

  ‘Frederika. I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ she said furiously. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Frederika –’

  ‘Your fault,’ she said. ‘It’s your fault I’m trapped here. He was going to take me to London with him. I was going to be free.’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ Tom said. ‘He was leaving you behind.’

  ‘That’s a lie. He promised me.’

  ‘His daughter was travelling with him, his wife was going to meet the plane. He was going back to his family, Frederika. He had no intention of taking you to London. In fact, he’d been told he couldn’t.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Tears filled her eyes and she turned away. ‘It was you,’ Frederika muttered. ‘You shot an old man and strangled his bodyguard. Now you’re going to kill me.’

  Shot? Tom froze.

  He thought of Sir Cecil’s battered body. Evgeny dead just inside the door, the back of his head bloodied, a cord around his neck.

  ‘How do you know Evgeny was strangled?’ Tom demanded.

  She stared at him. Not yet understanding. ‘I saw the body,’ she said.

  ‘No, you didn’t. Both caskets were se
aled.’

  ‘Then I read the reports.’

  ‘Those said both men were shot.’

  Frederika shook her head crossly. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Because you’re lying,’ Tom said.

  It was there, lightning fast. A flicker of doubt.

  ‘You were lovers, weren’t you?’

  ‘You know we were. I adored Sir Cecil.’

  ‘Did Evgeny tell you he was General Rafikov’s nephew?’

  Frederika looked slightly sick. ‘I don’t know why you’re talking about Evgeny. I don’t know what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘Was being lovers why he let you close?’

  ‘Fascist,’ she said. ‘Sent here to shoot a sweet old man. That’s what you are. A fascist. You’re all fascists. You couldn’t even let Cecil die in peace.’

  ‘Did Evgeny shoot Sir Cecil?’

  ‘Of course he bloody didn’t …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got it all wrong. Fascist.’

  ‘You’ve done that bit.’

  She launched herself at him and Tom stepped aside.

  Her fingers hooked for his face and he blocked them, knocking her hand away. He could feel blood on his cheek. She was breathing heavily, her mouth open and nostrils flared. Her face white with fury.

  Maybe Rafikov would take insanity into account. Staring into the darkness of her eyes was looking into a void. Yet a soul stared out of them, damned and damaged, but a soul still. ‘You need to tell me what happened,’ Tom said.

  She looked at him and her face was hollow.

  ‘Me,’ Tom said, ‘General Rafikov, a Stasi colonel, the Kripo men on duty, a couple of paramedics. We’re the only people who know Evgeny was strangled. It wasn’t on the news. It wasn’t in the papers. We know because we were there. How do you know, Frederika?’

  ‘You can’t blame Cecil’s death on me.’

  ‘Then who should I blame?’ Tom asked.

  Her shoulders slumped and half the fight went out of her as fresh tears gathered in her eyes. She looked for a split second like the child she’d never been allowed to be. She’d reached the point he needed. Where the need to talk was stronger than the need to stay silent.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What happened in Nikolaiviertel?’

  She was crying too hard to answer.

  The reel-to-reel recorder still turned, almost silently. Someone came to the door, rattled the handle and left again. Outside a crow cawed. And Frederika wrestled the dregs of her desire to say she had no idea what he was talking about. Her need to talk won.

  ‘I was given no choice,’ she said flatly.

  To kill him? It hadn’t occurred to Tom she’d been acting on orders.

  Frederika shook her head. ‘Cecil wanted a boy. They wouldn’t give him that. I was young. Not properly developed, even then. I was to tell them everything he said. They lost interest when they realized he had nothing interesting to say. But they left me there, trapped, with a disgusting old man. I don’t even know why they gave him asylum. He wasn’t a communist.’

  ‘He wasn’t?’

  ‘He’d read Marx. He could quote Lenin, badly. Mostly he liked Montesquieu and Voltaire. Marcus Aurelius too. He liked Marcus Aurelius. And de Sade …’

  ‘He was a sadist?’

  Frederika sneered. ‘He didn’t have the imagination.’

  ‘I’m not sure you need imagination to be a sadist.’

  ‘I disagree. He was a bully though. A know-all. He disliked women. I think he was scared of them. Being a bully isn’t the same as being a sadist. Believe me, I know.’

  ‘He disliked women?’

  ‘Grown ones. Mostly, he liked teenage boys …’

  ‘I thought you said he wasn’t allowed that?’

  ‘He wasn’t allowed one at the flat. He’d find them though. Always the same type. Blue-eyed, blonde-haired, crew cut. In need of money. There are a lot of those in Berlin. He had a studio. He liked to photograph them.’

  ‘Frederika. What happened?’

  ‘Evgeny went to see a girlfriend. When he came back Cecil was on the floor in his study. He’d been shot once through the back of his head. Just here …’ She tapped the base of her skull.

  ‘No one heard the break-in?’

  ‘There was no break in. I had to use my keys and that’s when I saw Evgeny kneeling by Cecil’s body, looking shocked. He told me to call the police. He was meant to keep Cecil alive.’

  ‘Frederika …’

  ‘How could I get to London if Cecil was dead?’

  ‘You killed Evgeny?’

  ‘I hit him with the Chinese vase. Then …’ She hesitated. ‘I wrapped the rope round his neck. He was meant to keep Cecil alive.’

  ‘You made it look like a break-in?’

  Frederika nodded.

  ‘Why attack Sir Cecil’s body?’

  ‘I was angry. Evgeny said he loved me. Sir Cecil said he’d take me to England. Everybody lies. Everybody always lies.’ She blinked at Tom, looking like someone who’d woken to find her bad dreams still there.

  ‘You burnt the manuscript, didn’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did he mention Patroclus?’

  ‘That’s what he was writing about. So he said.’

  ‘He talked about the London club?’

  She stared at Tom. ‘Berlin,’ she said. ‘He said it was in Berlin.’

  Christ, Tom thought. How could he be so stupid? Of course it was. At least at the beginning.

  Wakefield’s words came into his head. ‘The ruins turned us all into rats … The self can be pretty vile if let off the leash.’ All those feral children. All that hunger and starvation. It must have been a feeding frenzy for someone like Blackburn. He wouldn’t have been alone either. Men like that recognized each other, hunted in packs, and protected each other. Maybe they were still protecting each other; or maybe the hunters were now hunted.

  69

  Just a couple of meetings first. Then we’ll have you out of here and safely home. That’s a promise. Henderson’s words.

  It was the safely home bit Tom hadn’t believed.

  Up ahead he could see the Volkspolizei HQ on Keibelstrasse, a stark building with red-brick pillars like prison bars. Should he walk past or turn back? Tom was trying to hold the reel of tape unobtrusively, when he noticed the playground. It had a seesaw, a slide, climbing bars and swings. And beyond the swings, just outside the fence, telephone boxes.

  Volkspolizei 110.

  Feuerwehr 112.

  Rotes Kreuz 115.

  Emergency numbers circled the dial. A slot in the top took coins. A chute at the bottom returned change. Everything the same and different. Looking into a metal mirror, Tom winced at the bleakness of his face.

  He was a fool, of course. Too tired, too hung-over, too stupid to think straight. He should have kept walking. He should have headed for KGB Karlshorst. Instead here he was, trying to get through on the phone.

  ‘Comrade General Rafikov, please.’

  ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’

  Tom hesitated. ‘Could I have your name first, please?’

  It was the right answer. The receptionist’s response was to put him through without reply. A second woman picked up and Tom asked again.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  Who is this? Her careful politeness said she was unsure of his rank but knew he spoke Russian and had asked for Rafikov. He’d heard the same caution from secretaries in Whitehall.

  ‘It’s Major Tom Fox,’ Tom said.

  There was a stunned silence from the other end.

  Then Tom heard the scrape of a chair, a question asked sotto voce and a different woman answer. ‘If you’d just hold …’

  ‘I’m in a phone box.’

  ‘Where?’

  Tom hesitated.

  ‘I’ll call you right back.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter …’ It did though. They both knew that.

  ‘Please,’
she said. She said it in English, adding, ‘He’ll be cross if I don’t.’

  He gave her the number, heard urgent pips demanding he put in a second coin and seconds later the line went dead. He was still holding the receiver in his hand when the phone rang, its tone loud and ugly.

  ‘We’re trying to find him, Comrade Major.’

  God. It hadn’t occurred to Tom that the general wouldn’t be at the compound. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Do you have a tape recorder?’

  ‘A tape recorder?’

  ‘I want you to tape this conversation.’

  The woman hesitated. She seemed to be considering saying something. When she spoke it was kindly, as if speaking to a child. ‘Comrade Major. All telephone calls to and from this office are recorded.’

  Of course they were. ‘But you do have a recorder?’

  ‘You wish this to be recorded twice?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘If possible.’

  ‘Of course, Comrade Major.’

  He could almost hear the amusement in her voice.

  If they could delete one recording they could delete two. All the same, she was ready to humour him and that told Tom she not only knew who he was but regarded him as worth humouring. He wondered what General Rafikov had said about him or if his disappearance was simply local news.

  ‘If you’d like to speak now,’ she said.

  ‘Right, this is a message for Comrade General Rafikov. Sir Cecil was shot. A single shot to the back of his skull. The other wounds were post mortem, delivered later. There was no break-in. Something I imagine the East Germans already know. Your nephew Evgeny was absent when the killing happened. He was clubbed from behind with a Chinese vase as he knelt beside Sir Cecil’s body, then strangled.’

  The woman on the other end of the phone said something. When Tom didn’t reply she repeated it, louder.

  ‘Comrade Major, how do you know this?’

  ‘I have Frau Schmitt’s confession on tape.’ Tom was about to say more when he heard a police siren. As he listened he realized it was getting closer. ‘Did you send for the Volkspolizei?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are these cars coming for me?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The woman sounded flustered. ‘Major Fox. You need to stay on the line.’ But Tom was already gone.