The Doll’s House (32 page)

A worm of excitement began to stir in his belly. He hadn't smelt fear in anyone for a long time. All his frustrations, his dislike of his companions and his surroundings, concentrated into a surge of cruelty. He wiped his hands on a handkerchief and sipped at his wine.

He was sweating. Harry's mistress would pay for Harry's jibes at his expense. He let his imagination run backwards to the days when he was the most feared interrogator in the service of the State; when he was powerful and respected. Nobody dared so much as contradict him then.

Now he was the butt of that insufferable Englishman's sneers about his sexuality. He liked boys and young men, but he liked nothing better than to inflict the worst subtleties of pain upon a helpless woman.

Zarubin looked round Rosa's bedroom. Apart from the unmade bed, it was tidy. The bed had been shared, he noted. There was a diary lying on the dressing table; he left that till the last … He began with the chest of drawers, searching through the neatly folded underclothes. A lady of expensive tastes, he thought, fingering lace and ribbons. The next two drawers yielded nothing either.

He was skilled at his task, although he hadn't searched a suspect's room for many years. It was basic training for a KGB student to know how to strip a place down to the electric wiring for a rip-out job, or go through personal effects without leaving a trace. Zarubin hadn't forgotten the art.

He turned to her wardrobe; handbags were ranged on the top shelf. He opened them one after the other. A soiled handkerchief, a few bills, receipted with a London address on them, a sachet of soluble aspirin. Nothing. He looked in pockets of dresses and a long lightweight coat without success. Underneath, neatly stacked in rows, were half a dozen pairs of shoes.

He found what he was looking for in the toe of a casual slip-on. It was smaller than a packet of cigarettes, a narrow oblong with a tiny zoom lens, capable of taking clear-focus photographs from quite a distance. Zarubin examined it carefully. A very sophisticated accessory. No toy for an amateur taking holiday snaps. His expression was very grim. That was what he had seen flash behind her book in the morning sunshine, a reflection caught off the tiny lens in the second it was exposed. That camera was a spy's tool. His own agents used similar models, some even tinier for close up photography. He was right about Rosa Bennet.

There was a roll of unused film inside. He slipped the camera into his pocket. She wouldn't get a chance to use it again. Quickly he checked through her diary, looking for something like a disguised code. The early part was full of entries, this appointment, that embassy reception, meetings, and then – he caught his breath as he read it.

17 August. Seminar. Branksome. He knew what kind of seminar the British Intelligence Service ran jointly at Branksome.

She was a new recruit. A diplomat, yes the diary proved her official status. But attached to a specialized section. ‘C', headed by Air Marshal Sir Peter Jefford. Zarubin knew the names and ranks of every senior Intelligence chief in Britain and the United States. He'd made a study of them and their methods. Like posing a chess problem and playing your opponent's part.

Someone had decided to keep Oakham under surveillance, and they'd sent a new face along to do it. And Oakham had fallen into the trap.

It must be already on file that an Irish group had paid a visit; if their faces were on the computer as known IRA suspects, then the whole operation was likely to blow up at any moment. It all depended upon how much the woman had discovered and reported back.

He glanced round him to make sure everything was as he'd found it. He felt for the camera in his pocket and his hand trembled with rage. It was time to ask Rosa Bennet a few questions. He took the ‘Do Not Disturb' sign off the door, slipped the catch and let it lock behind him. He went to his room through the back corridors and put a call through to Croft Lodge. Rilke's dry voice answered. ‘Yes?'

‘Is he there?'

‘No, he's just left. Did you find anything?'

‘What I expected,' Zarubin snapped. ‘Keep calm, I'm going to bring the lady down to visit you. As soon as I can. Leave it with me.'

Rilke said slowly, ‘I'll be ready for her.'

Rosa couldn't find a tie, gaudy or otherwise. She changed her mind about going into the hairdressers; it was crowded and she didn't want to sit waiting for an appointment. She wandered through the lovely old village, and found herself by the handsome church.

Rosa had time to spare, and the sense of leisure that was new to her. No need to be busy, to prove she was doing something useful. Time to waste if she felt like it. This, she decided, was part of being in love for the first time.

She had no religious feeling; her parents were both liberal agnostics and they had not brought her up to believe in anything but a general code of humanist morality.

She walked round the ancient church, and paused by the memorial to Harry's ancestor. The stained-glass window glowed in the late autumn light. Poor Lieutenant Arthur David Oakham, killed on the Somme, 1916, aged twenty.

She felt a pang of sadness as if she knew the boy cut down before he had a chance to be a man. She left the church hurriedly, and found herself in the churchyard.

Jim Parker had described it to her; he'd talked about the grave of Judith Oakham. Unvisited, untended. ‘I never go near the place,' Harry had said. ‘I couldn't bear to think of her lying there.'

It was like a pilgrimage for Rosa. She didn't feel an intruder; curiosity wasn't her motive. She wanted to see it and be able to heal that old wound for him for ever.

There was the inscription and the date. Only twenty-four. She'd been so young to die in an accident like that. She had come alive for Rosa as Harry talked about her. Blonde, athletic, a sunshine girl who loved life. And he had carried her body down from the slopes in his arms.

If I can make him forget that, Rosa thought, standing by the grave, then I'm sure it's what you'd want.

She bought a cup of coffee in one of the many tea rooms, watching the tourists strolling by. She felt very peaceful sitting there. And the time passed till she paid her bill and went out to find the car and drive back at her leisure.

But she hadn't bought him a present. She wanted to find something for him, some token to say how much she loved him. She found a corn dolly in a souvenir shop. It wore a yokel's felt hat, and had a silly face crudely painted on the knobby yellow head beneath. They were pagan symbols, Rosa remembered, something to do with the Harvest Festival. They warded off evil spirits, or nonsense like that.

‘I'll take this one,' Rosa said, pointing, and the girl slipped the little figure off its hook.

‘He is rather sweet, isn't he?' she said. ‘Three pounds twenty-nine please. Shall I wrap it, madam?'

‘No thank you.' She had the exact money in her bag. He would make Harry smile. That was what she wanted. She drove back and her heart was so light that she sang in tune to a popular song on the tape.

11

‘Any messages – any crises turning into dramas?' Oakham cracked the same joke and the girl who'd taken over the afternoon shift from Jane, laughed dutifully. She wasn't his favourite and she knew it, but she played along with the routine.

‘No messages, Mr Oakham.' She glanced down. ‘I have a note here to transfer your calls to Mr Pollock. But nothing's come in.'

‘Good,' Harry turned away.

‘But,' she said, making the most of it, ‘I'm afraid we do have a problem.' She irritated him; she was the type that enjoyed bad news.

‘What kind of problem?'

‘The main boiler's gone on the blink. The kitchen can't get any hot water, and Jim says he can't find Ron or Bob anywhere. He said would you please come down and have a look.'

‘Not that I'll be much help,' Harry said. ‘But I'll certainly go and see …'

‘I wonder where they've got to?' she said.

He shrugged, making little of it. ‘Out in the grounds somewhere. I don't know what Jim's grumbling about, he doesn't like them interfering.'

He turned and went towards the back. Better keep the old man happy. Keep him from moaning about Stevenson's boys being absent. If he couldn't fix the damned boiler, they'd have to get someone over from Ipswich … He disappeared down into the cellar area.

Vassily Zarubin saw Rosa drive up between the tall avenue of beech trees. He'd taken up her vantage point on the seat facing the hotel. The same seat where she had photographed the Irish woman and the two men. He watched her arrive in the car park using the same device as she had done: a book, casually lowered as she came into view. He watched her walk back into the hotel and pretended not to see her. Rosa noticed him and quickened her step in case he got up and followed her.

To her relief, he didn't move. He looked absorbed in whatever he was reading. She went into the reception hall. The receptionist looked up briefly. Unlike Jane, she didn't chat with the clients.

‘Gorgeous afternoon,' Rosa said. She wanted to share her good spirits with someone, even the unresponsive girl behind the desk.

‘Yes, very warm for this time of year.'

‘My key please – thank you.'

The girl watched Rosa walk away to the stairs. Everyone knew she was shacked up with the manager. That silly twit Jane thought it was romantic;
she
thought it was disgraceful of him and didn't say much for her to behave like that, picking up someone working in the hotel. She'd heard about older women and young waiters in some of the London places, but down here – honestly! She got great satisfaction out of her disapproval.

Zarubin got up from the seat; he slipped the book under his arm and walked with his long, steady stride towards the car park.

It was a BMW; an expensive car and a recent model. He tried the handle; it was locked. She wasn't the careless type. He peered inside, checking. He couldn't see an alarm. He paused to look round him; the car park was shielded from the main building by a row of trees. It was just visible from the seat in the forecourt of the hotel. Nobody could see him, and there was no-one in sight.

He took out his penknife; it was an all-purpose Swiss Army model and he had carried it for years. Its intricacy pleased him. It concealed little tools for every emergency, from a pick to take a stone out of a horse's hoof, to the long thin needle blade he inserted into the BMW's lock. It took less than a minute to open the car.

Zarubin slipped inside and closed the door. He smelt her scent in the warm enclosed space. Such a pretty woman, he thought coldly. Such a pretty diplomat turned spy … He twisted the little stiletto in the ignition; the engine started with a quiet hum. The radio made him jump. It took him a moment to realize that there was a tape in the machine. The pretty spy had a sentimental taste in music. He pushed a button and the tape slid out. Then the radio came on; voices in a deep discussion on the merits of Classical architecture.

In the glove compartment he found the operating manual. She'd just come back from a trip to Dedham. But just in case – he turned the blade.

He walked back to Croft Lodge and started up the Ford Harry Oakham had provided for him to replace his hire car. Zarubin had made a few trips to the village in it. He drove up to the hotel car park and slid into the vacant space beside the BMW. Mrs Bennet wouldn't be going anywhere in her smart car that night. He had disconnected the electrical system.

He looked at his watch. The sun was well up; he had a few hours to wait till he put his plan into effect. When the dusk was creeping up into the sky, he'd take Mrs Bennet for a drive in his little Ford. And introduce her to Hermann Rilke.

The door of Daniel's cell opened. He was lying on his bed reading a newspaper. He glanced at the sergeant. ‘Come to release me?' he asked. The time was up, he reckoned. They couldn't hold him any longer without a court order.

The sergeant didn't answer. He jerked his head and stood to one side. When they were outside the cell he took a firm hold of Daniel's arm. Daniel tried to pull away. The grip grew tighter. ‘You give me trouble,' the policeman said quietly, ‘and I'll cuff you!' Daniel stopped struggling. He wasn't being freed. He knew that from the man's attitude.

The interview room again. The same routine of question and answer, threats, harassment – he didn't care, he wasn't going to move on his story.

He set his stubbly jaw in defiance and prepared to brazen it out. One last try perhaps, before they had to give in and set him free for lack of evidence. He hoped so. But he wasn't sure.

The DCI was waiting for him; there were two men with him, one a uniformed police officer, the other in plain clothes. There was no chair for Daniel this time.

The room was heavy with stale air and cigarette smoke. He looked quickly at the faces in front of him and saw a glimmer of triumph. His stomach lurched and then knotted with alarm.

The DCI spoke very calmly. ‘The game's up, Danny.'

‘What game?' He had to keep going, to keep bluffing, in case they were bluffing. But his fine-honed instincts didn't think they were.

‘Your little game,' the answer came back. ‘The game of kidnapping and murder.'

‘I'm not frightened by your bullshit,' Daniel's voice grated. ‘I've done nothing and you know it. You can't hang anything on me.'

‘Oh, we know that,' the second man spoke. He had a more cultivated accent than the DCI. He was from a different branch; Daniel realized that too. ‘We can't hang you, Mr Ishbav, but we can put you away for a very long time. Can't we Dave?' The DCI nodded. He actually smiled now. If it was an act then they were giving a class performance. Daniel's heart was thudding.

‘You were in Lancaster Place the night that Arab was murdered,' he said. ‘And you weren't jogging, Danny. You were sitting in the Prince's Merc, wearing a chauffeur's cap.' He waited; he saw Daniel lose colour. He said softly, ‘I told you, the game's up. We've got a witness. He saw you in the car, he saw you get out, throw the cap into the bushes, and run for it. A positive identification, Danny. That's what we've got.'