He heard a car in the distance and tensed. He shielded his eyes from the low sun. Through the scattered pine trees he could make out bits of the road that swept around the lake, three hundred yards away. There was a bright yellow hatchback moving along it. He watched. It kept going. He looked at his watch again. It was well after nine. Where was she?

He kicked his heels and walked around. This was stupid. She wasn’t going to turn up. He flapped his arms, skimmed some stones across the ice and drank some more coffee, and then he had to go and piss in the bushes. By half past nine he was freezing and the coffee was all gone. By ten he decided to give up.

He went back to the Mercedes, muttering to himself. ‘What the fuck’s the matter with her? OK, fine, if she doesn’t want to know what I know, I’ve got better fucking things to do with my time…’ He turned the key in the ignition and the heater started blasting cold air. Kinski swore again and turned the blower down.

And froze as he felt the cold steel against the base of his skull. The click of the safety resonated through his head. ‘No sudden moves,’ said a voice from behind him.

Raising himself up onto the back seat, Ben reached forward with his free hand and drew Kinski’s SIG-Sauer out of its holster. Now, at least, he had a pistol with something in it.

He watched Kinski. He was a bear of a man, somewhere shy of fifty, weathered and ruddy, with the features of a prize-fighter and a nose that had been broken more than once. He looked like he could be dangerous, but he was built more for strength than for speed. If he could land a punch it would be over. But Ben was faster.

Kinski snarled. ‘What the fuck do you want from me?’

Ben didn’t reply.

The detective wanted to whirl round in his seat and rip this guy’s head off. ‘If you’re the motherfucker who took my daughter, let me tell you that she’s safe now. You won’t get her again.’

‘Why would I want your daughter?’ Ben asked.

Kinski hesitated. It was a strange question. The gunman’s German was good, but he spoke with a foreign accent. What was it? American? British? He rolled his eyes round as far as he could, trying to get a glimpse of him. Trying to get a look at his ear. But the guy was careful to keep out of sight. Who was he?

‘Because I know you murdered Llewellyn,’ Kinski replied, probing, testing. Now for the big bluff. ‘And I’m not the only one who knows, so kill me if you like but it won’t end there.’

‘Oliver Llewellyn was my friend,’ Ben said. ‘Someone murdered him, but it wasn’t me. I’m here to find out who did it, and when I find them I’m going to kill them.’ He withdrew the empty.45 and shoved it back in his belt. The police SIG-Sauer 9mm was well cared for and fully loaded. He didn’t think he was going to need to use it.

He’d been there half an hour before Kinski arrived, hiding in the trees. The big cop’s behaviour hadn’t been that of a decoy with hidden cronies waiting to pounce. No man would chuck stones, flap his arms like a kid or take a piss in the open knowing his friends were watching. He would have been glancing around him at their hidden positions, looking hunched and nervous with the anticipation, trying too hard to seem cool. And Kinski’s reaction to the gun at his head inclined Ben to trust him.

Though not too much. It was Ben’s nature to be cautious.

‘You got any coffee left in there?’ he said.

Kinski had felt the pressure of the gun disappear. He turned round slowly and looked at Ben, his heavy brow knitted. His own 9mm was in the intruder’s hand, but only loosely.

‘I’m sorry I had to do that to you, but I needed to check you out.’ Ben pointed at the Thermos. ‘And I would appreciate some of that coffee.’ The air from the heater was beginning to warm up, but his long wait in the snow had chilled him to the bone.

‘It’s finished.’

‘Then it’ll have to be this,’ Ben said. Keeping one hand on the SIG, he reached for his flask and unscrewed it. He took a swig and then handed it to Kinski.

The cop shook his head. ‘I’m on the wagon,’ he muttered.

‘Good man.’ Ben put the flask away.

Kinski relaxed a little. At least it didn’t look as though he was going to die. Not today, anyway. ‘So what’s your relation to Leigh Llewellyn?’ he asked. ‘Boyfriend? Husband?’

‘Neither. Like I said, a friend of the family.’

‘Do opera stars usually have friends with guns?’

Ben smiled. ‘I was in the army with Oliver.’

Kinski nodded. Ex-military. That made sense, from the way this guy had sneaked up on him so easily. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked tentatively.

‘You can call me Ben.’

‘Markus Kinski.’

‘Good to meet you, Markus. Now perhaps we could drive a while, and you could tell me what you know about Oliver’s death. And then, if I’m satisfied that I can trust you, I’ll take you to meet Leigh.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

Kinski parked the Mercedes in a sidestreet in central Vienna and they walked to the Sacher Hotel on Philharmonikerstrasse, opposite the imposing Vienna State Opera House. Ben wanted a busy place, as public as possible, for their talk with the detective, and the Sacher was about the most public place in the middle of the city. Even if someone spotted Leigh here, they’d be less likely to come running for autographs. Music stars were nothing new in Vienna.

The Sacher café was bustling with people taking a break from their Christmas shopping for a morning coffee and a piece of the café’s famous cake. Ben guided Kinski to a table in the corner.

‘Where is she?’ Kinski asked, sitting down, expecting Leigh to be there. Not another damned tearoom, he was thinking. He hated these places.

‘You sit here and keep yourself occupied for an hour,’ Ben said. ‘And I’ll be back with her.’

Kinski grunted. ‘Great.’

‘I’ve got people here watching you,’ Ben lied. ‘If you make any phone calls or try to make contact with anyone, I’ll know about it and you won’t see me again until I come to kill you. Is that very, very clear?’

‘Absolutely clear. Thank you.’

Ben smiled. ‘Nothing personal, Markus.’

Left alone, Kinski glowered at the menu. When the surly waiter arrived, he ordered enough black coffee and buttery Malakofftorte to keep him going for the next hour. Then he sat back and waited and thought hard about this guy he’d just met.

Ben walked across the busy Philharmonikerstrasse, heading in the direction of the Albertina Palace. He saw a sign marked Strassenbahn and boarded a tram. Leigh was waiting for him at the cheap bed and breakfast on the other side of the Danube Canal.

Kinski was into his fourth coffee when Ben and Leigh walked into the Sacher café just over an hour later. Kinski rose to his feet as Leigh approached the table and greeted her politely. He turned to Ben. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’

‘Another coffee?’

‘Forget it,’ Kinski said.

Leigh took off her sunglasses and laid them on the table. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail and she was wearing a woollen hat. Ben sat down beside her.

She studied Kinski carefully. ‘I believe you have some information about my brother.’

‘Tell her what you told me,’ Ben said.

Kinski spent the next few minutes going back over it, explaining in detail what he knew. Leigh listened carefully as he talked. He described how he’d accidentally stumbled across Madeleine Laurent, who had then turned out to be Erika Mann, which was almost certainly another false name. The whole Laurent episode had been an elaborate cover. Then he took the little plastic bag of spent 9mm cases out of his pocket and laid them on the linen tablecloth in front of Leigh. ‘I found these by the lakeside,’ he said.

She studied them, recognizing what they were. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘My brother drowned. He wasn’t shot.’