‘In the police?’ Kinski had already given it a lot of thought. ‘Three guys for sure. My own guys. Others I’m not so sure about.’

‘What about your superiors?’

‘I knew my Chief for nearly eight years. I don’t believe he’s mixed up in this. Someone got to him. Or else they just fast-tracked his retirement and he took their offer. That could be it. He was tired.’

The road flashed by. More quiet time passed. ‘I’m going to need some new kit,’ Ben said.

‘Like what?’

‘Ammunition for my Para,’ Ben said. ‘Forty-five auto. Copper jacketed, in clean condition. Two hundred rounds at least. No military surplus. Something quality, a good brand like Federal or Remington. Can you arrange that?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Kinski replied.

‘Or else another pistol,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing fancy, no unusual calibres, no revolvers. Nothing smaller than nine millimetre, nothing bigger than forty-five.’

‘I know a guy.’

They drove on for a while. Then Kinski asked, ‘So what’s the story with you and Leigh?’

Ben hesitated. ‘There’s no story.’

‘I can see there is.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I’ve known her for a while. She and I were close once, that’s all.’ He didn’t say anything more.

‘OK, I’ll back off,’ Kinski said. ‘None of my business. I just wanted to say-’

‘What?’

‘That if you and Leigh have something going between you, don’t waste it.’

Ben turned to look at him. The cop’s face was hard as he drove.

‘Just don’t fucking waste it, Ben,’ Kinski said again. ‘Don’t throw something like that away. Make the most of it.’ He was quiet for a minute. His hands gripped the wheel in the darkness. He added in an undertone, ‘I lost my wife.’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Amstetten, Austria

The next morning

Freezing rain was spattering hard on the pavements by the time Ben found the place. It was a plain terraced house in a winding street, ten minutes’ walk from the railway station at Amstetten.

He knocked. Dogs barked inside. He waited a while and knocked again. He heard the sound of someone coming. A figure appeared through a dimpled glass inner door. It opened, and a man stepped into the entrance porch. He unlocked the outer door and stood in the doorway. He was heavy-set, bleary-eyed, with puffy cheeks and straggly grey hair. An odour of cheap cooking and wet dogs arose from the hallway.

‘Herr Meyer?’

‘Ja? Who are you?’ Meyer peered at Ben suspiciously.

Ben flashed the police ID he’d stolen from Kinski’s pocket. He kept his thumb over most of it. He held it up just long enough for the word POLIZEI to register, then he jerked it away and tried to look as officious as he could. ‘Detective Gunter Fischbaum.’

Meyer nodded slowly. Then his eyes narrowed a little. ‘You’re not Austrian.’

‘I’ve lived abroad,’ Ben said.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Your son, Friedrich.’

‘Fred’s dead,’ Meyer said in a sullen voice.

‘I know,’ Ben replied. ‘I’m sorry. I have a couple of questions.’

‘Fred’s been dead almost a year. He killed himself. What more do you people want to know?’

‘It won’t take long. May I come in?’

Meyer didn’t say anything. Down the hallway, a door opened. A scrawny woman appeared behind Meyer. She looked worried. ‘Was ist los?’

‘Polizei,’, Meyer said over his shoulder.

‘May I come in?’ Ben repeated.

‘Is this a criminal investigation?’ Meyer asked. ‘Did my son do anything wrong?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ Ben answered.

‘Then I don’t have to let you in.’

‘No, you don’t. But I’d appreciate it if you did.’

‘No more questions!’ the woman yelled at him. ‘Don’t you think we’ve suffered enough?’

‘Go away,’ Meyer said quietly. ‘We don’t want to talk any more about Fred. Our son is dead. Leave us alone.’

Ben nodded. ‘I understand. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ He turned to go. The rain was hammering down and he felt it trickling coldly across his scalp.

The tickets. Two opera tickets. One for Fred. Who was the second one for? Oliver? No, that didn’t make sense. Why would Oliver have given him both tickets? He’d have kept his own and given just one to Fred. Two guys going to the opera together wasn’t Oliver’s style anyway. Oliver wouldn’t go out anywhere without a girl, usually a nice one. Maybe it wasn’t Fred’s style either. So who was the other ticket for?

Ben stopped on the bottom step. He turned back to the door. Meyer had half-closed it, watching him with a guarded look.

‘Just one question, then,’ Ben said. ‘One question and I’ll leave you alone. Can you do that?’

Meyer creaked the door an inch wider. ‘What?’

‘Fred had a girlfriend, didn’t he?’

‘What about her?’ Meyer asked. ‘Is she in trouble?’

Ben thought for a moment and then said, ‘She might be, unless I can help her.’

That was his final shot. If Meyer shut the door now, he had nowhere else to go. That worried him.

Meyer stared. There was a long silence. Ben waited. Cold rain dribbled down his neck.

‘We haven’t heard from her lately,’ Meyer said.

‘Where can I find her?’

He took a taxi to the place. He pushed open the door and went inside. The cyber-café was quiet, almost deserted. There was a long stainless-steel counter, with a till and a bubbling espresso machine. Cakes and doughnuts sat in a row behind glass. The place was neat and clean. There were framed movie posters on the walls: Oceans 13, The Bourne Ultimatum, Pans Labyrinth, Outcast. Ben smiled at that one. In the back of the room, a couple of teenagers were giggling over something they were typing up on a computer. Soft music was playing in the background: modern classical, minimalist.

The young woman behind the counter was perched on a stool reading a book. As Ben approached, she laid it down and looked up at him. She was about twenty, twenty-one, plumpish and pleasant-looking. Her auburn hair was tied up neatly on her head under a little white cap. She smiled and spoke in fast German.

Ben didn’t show the police ID this time. ‘I’m looking for Christa Flaig,’ he said.

The young woman raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m a friend of Oliver Llewellyn,’ Ben said. He watched her eyes.

She flinched a little. Looked down. Painful memories flashed behind her face. He was sorry to bring it all back for her.

‘Has this got something to do with Fred?’

He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Can we talk?’

‘Sure, if you like. But I don’t know what you want to talk about.’

‘Can I have a coffee?’

She nodded and served him an espresso, pouring herself one too. ‘So what’s this all about?’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ben.’

‘What do you want to know, Ben?’

‘Were Fred and Oliver friends?’

‘You think there’s something strange about it, don’t you?’

He looked up from his coffee. She was sharp. He made a quick decision to trust her. ‘Yes, I do think that.’

She sighed, a sigh of relief mixed with sadness and bitter anger. Her face was tense. ‘So do I,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought I was the only one who did.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ he said. ‘But I can’t tell you everything. Maybe one day I’ll be able to. Until then, I just need your help. Ten minutes, and I’ll be out of here.’

She nodded. ‘OK, I’ll tell you. They weren’t really friends. They only met a couple of times.’

‘The first time was at a party?’

‘That’s right. Some student party. I wasn’t there. Fred told me he met this good fun English guy, a pianist. Fred was one too.’

‘I know,’ Ben said.

‘Musicians always talk to each other,’ she continued. ‘Fred loved music. It was his language. He told me Oliver loved it too.’

‘He did.’

‘They talked for hours. They got on really well.’