expectation, and her comforting his last conscious moments had come from the heart, not merely as her self-appointed duty. She had to face the possibility that his association with Weston might have been completely innocent.
In fact by this time she had all but convinced herself that it was so. However, she suddenly remembered something that Ivanov had told her and contradicted the idea. She had never questioned her superior’s opinion, and disliked doubting it now, but she had to check. The information, he had said, came from Viktor, and she was confident that whoever else in the organisation might make a significant mistake in such matters, he would not. She called him up and was lucky enough to find him available to talk for a few minutes. Without explaining why, she asked if it was true that he had gathered the information on Martin Barratt; yes, he had. Not only that, but when he reported it, he had been very surprised by Ivanov’s extraordinary reluctance to accept that there was nothing at all reprehensible in what could be found.
This was worrying, and adding to her anxiety she now recalled something that Katya had said after a recent assignment: she had met her target at his office and been astonished to notice on his desk a photograph of a particularly distinctive woman she could have sworn seeing with Ivanov in a restaurant the previous week. Olga had been distracted at the time and paid less attention than perhaps she should, but if Ivanov was beginning to mix his private affairs with legitimate business ...
An unfamiliar wave of righteous anger suddenly overwhelmed her, anger not only because she had been made to commit what now looked like a dreadful crime in her own eyes regardless of the law’s, but an even greater anger over the injustice to her victim. And perhaps not only to him; he might well have a wife and family.
She called the inn and asked if Martin’s next of kin was known. As it happened, his passport gave a Mrs. Doris Barratt of his own address as emergency contact, and the police had summoned her to identify the body. Lisl herself had telephoned her condolences, just happening to mention that she could not honestly recommend any of the accommodation near the mortuary, but the Kaiserkrone was within easy driving distance and she would gladly reserve a room if that suited Frau Barratt’s convenience. The visit was to be in two days’ time and of course there would be a room available if Miss Vishinskaya wished to meet the widow. It was not her business to ask why, though she privately wondered.
Olga spent much of the intervening time searching for some connection between Martin and Ivanov other than through Weston. To justify any irretrievable action she needed more substantial grounds than her present suspicions; she found none, but there was no great hurry.
Doris Barratt proved to be a skinny, sour-faced creature with an irritating voice and an air suggesting that it would often be raised in strident complaint. She made little attempt to conceal her pitifully unoriginal ideas of what might have passed with her husband on the fatal evening. Olga speculated what life, especially married life, tied to such a woman would have been like, and with a shock recognised a half-wish that she had completed her comforting of Martin with a full-scale seduction; still a virgin, she wondered how well she might have coped.
Out of courtesy she felt obliged to share a dinner table with Doris, and rather dreaded the prospect. Perhaps a decent bottle of wine would help. Real conversation was still difficult, but as an opening gambit before the main course arrived she mentioned that Frau Gertner had been surprised by Martin’s coming for an appointment with someone who it turned out had not even booked a room. “Oh, that Weston character!” Doris exploded in annoyance. “You could never tell what he was going to do next. I got utterly sick of him.”
This was promising; Olga refilled Doris’s glass. “Did you know him well?”
“No, but he seemed to think he could have Martin at his beck and call any time he chose.”
“In what way?”
“Every so often he’d phone up, and Martin would have to drop whatever he was doing and do Weston’s bidding.”
“I suppose he must have had a reason for putting up with it. Do you think it was blackmail or something?”
“Not exactly, but close. Martin told me that Weston had got his father out of a mess, years ago, and was still trading on it. I did wonder ...”
“What?”
“Whether there was another woman involved, but it was always a man’s voice when I took the call.”
“The same one?”
“Usually. But now I come to think of it, there once was someone different – a foreigner. Martin wasn’t in, and this character insisted he ring back as soon as possible. He sounded furious. I wasn’t at all sure it was wise to do that, but I had to pass on the message. Martin was pretty cross, too, after they’d spoken. It struck me particularly because he was usually so placid. ‘That bloody Ivanov!’ he said –”
“Oh?” The interjection came out sharper than she intended.
Fortunately Doris was too immersed in her own memories to register the suddenly heightened interest. “– and he wasn’t normally one for swearing. I asked what was up. It seems that this Ivanov fellow was connected in some way with Weston, and that was how Martin had met him. I don’t understand these things, but apparently there was a venture going that Martin thought particularly risky but if it worked out would give a good return on a little flutter. Ivanov had ignored the warning and put in more than he could afford to lose, then blamed Martin when it went wrong.”
So that was it, Olga thought. It seemed to clinch the matter.
Doris was nervous about driving on the continent and had taken a cab from the town, so in the morning Olga was able to discharge a fraction of her debt to the woman by taking her to the police station specified in her “invitation”. From there she went on to Salzburg where a friend in a Vienna choir was performing that evening. Over coffee after the concert, Annelise commented that Olga seemed unusually subdued.
“Sorry, I’ve got something on my mind.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Not really, but thanks. I’ve made a frightful mistake. I can’t explain, but there’s no way it can be put right.”
The conversation fizzled out after that, and Olga returned to her hotel. As a rule she would sleep easily, but the problem she faced kept going round and round in her head, the more so as she tried to banish it. Eventually she gave up and made herself a coffee. She might as well try to work out a plan. She now had a new target, Ivanov himself, and an idea was beginning to take shape.
He was a persistent womaniser with blatant designs on her virtue, while she had been equally forthright in defending it. If the pretence of succumbing was to succeed she would have to disarm suspicion by weakening gradually, but she was confident of making it convincing enough; she had plenty of practice. Besides, lust was a powerful antidote to caution. He would almost certainly be off his usual guard, and it should not be too difficult.
The plan inevitably meant her own death too, of course, but she regarded it with almost her usual detachment. In a way, it would be welcome: she owed it to Martin.
With that decided, she slept like a log.
Return to Contents
COMMAND PERFORMANCE
“Who the hell is Miranda Wayneflete?” called Lucy from the front door.
“No idea,” I replied (I’m afraid rather brusquely) from the kitchen, amid attempts to change the bulb holder in the ceiling light. It had probably been there since the house was built, the Bakelite had cracked, the screw had welded itself to one of the terminals and I had to cut the wire. That revealed the brittle state of the insulation, maybe just due to local overheating within the holder but the whole length had better be replaced. I had some spare 5-amp flex that would serve and fervently hoped, with little optimism, that the screws in the ceiling rose were still functional, otherwise I could see myself having to change the cable right back to the junction box, assuming that I could get at it which was not at all certain. It was not the moment for obscure questions.
Lucy came through waving a p
ostcard, from one of the Greek islands by the look of it. It had a fairly conventional greeting (“Having a splendid time - you’d love it here” or something of the sort) but in unusually elegant handwriting and the signature was perfectly clear, more than could be said of the postmark or of the address which was in a different hand. I was nonplussed for a time; the only Waynflete who came to mind was the 15th-century Bishop of Winchester, while I could think of no Miranda at all. Then I peered more closely at the address. “Look, it’s 37, not 57. I’ll take it round when I’ve finished this job.”
My fears about the wiring proved all too well founded and it was unsafe to leave as it was, so it was evening before I delivered the card to number 37. It had been up for sale for months and only recently occupied by people I hadn’t yet met, so it was a good opportunity to make their acquaintance without intruding.
The door was opened by a young man in sweater and jeans with a pleasant “Hello?”, but as he spoke a rolled-up sock came sailing over his shoulder and hit me squarely in the face. Too startled for the moment to say anything, I fumbled it and was about to hand it over.
“Who’s that?” came a feminine voice from behind, whence appeared a girl who on realising the situation was covered in confusion. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do
Skiddlethorpe and other stories Page 7