'Fiona and the old man.'
'Fiona?'
'That's not why you're here?' said George, and for a moment we floundered in mutual confusion.
'Fiona?' I said.
'You didn't see the letters?'
'What letters?'
'Fiona has agreed to help me track down the murderer. We've exchanged long letters about it and we are keeping in touch by phone. I spoke with her this morning, and she will be keeping her father informed now that she's back living in London.'
'Wait a minute, George. You spoke to Fiona this morning? Do you mean that Fiona is encouraging you in this crusade to avenge Tessa's death?'
'Crusade?' For a moment he seemed as if he was going to take offence, but then he said: 'Very well. Crusade. Yes, let's call it a crusade. She's Tessa's sister, isn't she? When you said you weren't here officially, I thought Fiona had sent you with a message. That's why I got rid of Ursi.'
'No one sent me. I told you that.'
'The old man is putting one hundred grand into the hat.'
Persuading my father-in-law to contribute such a vast sum to a project without prospect of financial return was an amazing feat. Now I was even more confused. 'As a reward?'
'Reward; bribe; lobbying; other types of political pressure. Money will be needed. We must try everything. Her death was no accident. The authorities will not come clean unless they are pressed. You know that, Bernard.'
'Who are you approaching?'
He didn't hear me. 'Yes, Fiona is as keen as I am.' He paused to reflect upon that extravagant claim. 'At least she's not putting up a lot of objections.'
'But how are you tackling it?'
He suddenly became wary. 'I can't tell you any names or other details, Bernard. You'll understand that, I'm sure. But we have a reliable lawyer working for us in Berlin. Fiona gave me the contacts and I eventually found an experienced man and started the ball rolling. I've promised him a fifty grand bonus if there is a witness, named culprit and convincing evidence.'
'You're playing with dynamite, George. How do you know you won't be swindled?'
'Fiona knows what's what. She worked in the East, didn't she? We're using a man she's worked with.'
'A man she worked with? I hope not, George. I've spent my whole life dealing with these people a the KGB and Stasi and all those other hoodlums. They play rough, George. It's no game for an amateur to get into.'
He smiled. 'I know, Bernard. I've seen it on the movies.'
'Yes, but these guys don't use stunt men with tomato ketchup.'
'I was brought up in the East End of London, Bernard. I know how to look after myself.'
He brushed a hand along his head as if smoothing his hair, which was not out of place. He was calmer now, but I knew it was no good trying to make him see sense. 'I should be pushing along,' I said. 'Can you call a taxi for me?'
'No problem.' He dialled for a cab. 'Five minutes,' he told me. 'Do you want a plaster on that bad cut?'
'I heal quickly,' I said. 'Look, if things go sour, call me. I plan to be in London for the next few weeks.'
'Thanks, Bernard. And since Fiona seems to have been taking me literally, about not telling anyone, perhaps you'd wait until she breaks it to you.'
'Yes, it's probably better like that.' I looked at him and worried. 'And forget what I said about the clicks, George. Maybe you are right.'
'I'd already forgotten, Bernard. Anyway, on the day after tomorrow I'm getting an electronics expert in to check the line.' He laughed. Talking about his plans seemed to have a salutary effect upon him. He was very cheerful now, very relaxed and confident, but in his circumstances that was the very worst way to be.
7.
Fiona loved to go to bed ridiculously early and then spend hours reading. In the old days I remember countless times when I arrived home late to find her sound asleep: propped up in bed, lights on, head lolling, clasping some heavy tome of tedious official material that her conscience had demanded she read. So when I got back from Zurich, late at night, I was quite prepared to find her tucked up in bed. But I could not have been more wrong; I had never seen her more animated.
Not having a key to our new luxurious home in Mount Street, I had to ring the doorbell. Fiona opened it wearing a white chef's apron over a bright cobalt-blue acrylic vee-neck and dark blue pleated skirt. On her feet she had pumps, and her hair was clipped back in a severe style that I'd seen her apply when working in East Berlin. But there any resemblance to the woman I'd seen in her communist office ended, for tonight Fiona was radiant and bubbling over with joy.
'It's bliss, Bernard,' she said. 'Pure bliss. Two floors. I'd forgotten all the rooms upstairs. It's vast.'
We embraced and kissed. 'I missed you,' I said. I knew she'd noticed my bruised face but she didn't remark on it. She knew I would talk about it when I was ready: we understood each other very well.
'I so wanted us to sit down and dine together,' she said. 'But you probably had dinner on the plane.'
'What can I smell: not ossobuco?' I put my coat on a hook and looked around at our new home.
'You'll think me an imbecile, Bernard,' she said, breaking away from me while still holding one of my hands. 'It's such a heavenly kitchen that I simply had to cook something. Can you truly eat again?'
'Yes,' I said. Fiona never got excited in the frenzied way her sister did, but I could see that being in London and in this flat had had a powerful effect upon her.
'We must give a party here,' she said. 'A house-warming. Look at the dining-room. George replaced the dining-table that he took away with a far superior one.' She slid back the door to reveal the tiled dining-room where I'd enjoyed more than one spectacular dinner party. There were two places set, as for a formal dinner.
'He took the old table because it belonged to his parents,' I said. 'It holds memories for him.'
'I couldn't resist using Tessa's lovely china. Shall we eat here?'
'Wonderful idea.'
'Open a bottle of wine,' she said. 'There's a mysterious wine cupboard with a temperature control. George left six cases of wine and spirits, and masses of lovely linen and lots and lots of china.'
I followed her into the kitchen. She snatched hot bread rolls from the double oven, dropped them into a basket and gave it to me. 'Take these, and put one of those tiled stands on the table for the hot casserole.'
'What timing.'
'I phoned the airport. I knew you'd landed.'
While I opened a bottle of George's Barolo Riserva Speciale and poured it, she opened the second oven and using kitchen gloves pulled out an orange-coloured iron pot from which came a rich aroma of veal and lemon and anchovy and all the other exotic ingredients of which Fiona's special recipe was composed.
She put it on the metal pot-stand on the table and sat down. 'Do serve it, darling,' she said, and picked up a glass of wine and sipped some. As I began, she used a concealed switch to dim and douse the lights in the adjoining drawing-room, so that the only illumination came from the tiny spotlights over the table. 'More romantic,' she explained, and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. I saw us reflected in the big mirror at the far end of the darkened drawing-room; it was like a few frames from a movie that used to be our life.
'What a surprise,' I said, looking at her shining eyes. 'If I'd known how happy it would make you, I would have bought you a luxury Mayfair apartment years ago.' I used a large silver spoon to serve the veal knuckle slices. One each. 'Wow! How long since I tasted this?' I served the rice and cabbage too.
'How many years have we wasted, darling?' she asked rhetorically. She tasted a forkful of veal, but seemed more interested in studying me as I ate, as if her enjoyment was gained entirely from my pleasure, as a mother might feed a favourite son returning home after a long absence.
'I saw George,' I said. 'I had to be in Zurich so I dropped in on him.' I drank some of the beautiful wine. George always served expensive wine. It was going to be a major let-down when we finished the bottles he'd bequeathed us.
'Dear George,' she said. 'He's such a dedicated Londoner; I can't imagine him ever settling down in that funny little house in Switzerland.'
'He has his consolations,' I said.
'In what form?'
'In the shapely form of a twenty-year-old blonde named Ursula.' In response to Fiona's raised eyebrows, I said: 'He swears she's just there to stir his muesli.'
'But you don't believe him?'
'I think he's dipping into her fondue,' I said solemnly.
'I hate you,' she said and offered a playful clout at me, but she laughed while doing it. 'Seriously,' she said. 'Is George all right?'
'No. He says he's fine, but anyone can see he's taking it badly. Very badly.'
'He's a passionate man,' she said. 'But his religion must be a comfort for him.'
'He didn't mention religion.' I was remembering George's unrestrained vows of vengeance. 'Did he write to you?' I asked her.
'George? Oh, yes.'
'About Tessa?'
'Of course.'
'There was some wild talk about pursuing some kind of vendetta.'
'Tessa was so young, Bernard. Not in years perhaps, but so very young in her ways. She made everyone feel protective.'
'George is swearing to track down her killers.'
'Poor man,' she said. I looked at her but failed to see into her mind. Did she think that one of the rounds I fired that night killed her sister? Or were some of her memories pushed away beyond recall?
'He said you are helping him,' I prompted.
'Of course I am,' she said mildly. 'I would do anything for him. After all he's my brother-in-law.'
'Yes, well, he's my brother-in-law too,' I said. 'But I draw the line at encouraging him to declare war on Moscow single-handed.'
'He'll be all right.'
I looked at her hardly able to believe my ears. Here was Fiona, one of the most mature people I'd ever met. I'd seldom seen her anything but professional and composed, reticent and cautious. This was the woman who was constantly being spoken of as a possible Director-General, and now she was condoning some wild unlawful caper by a disturbed man who knew nothing of the hazards he faced. 'Look, Fiona, have you put him in touch with any of those KGB people we both know?'
'Do stop fussing, Bernard. Your dinner is getting cold.'
'It's delicious,' I said, dabbing my bread into the gravy.
She was giving all her attention to tearing her bread roll to pieces. Soon there were tiny fragments of bread arranged all around the rim of her plate. 'What do you expect me to do?' she said suddenly. 'Tessa was my sister.'
'Grieve for her, darling. We all do. But there is no sense encouraging George in his bizarre ideas.'
'Give him time,' said Fiona. 'I hope you didn't make him more agitated. It's better to let him think he can get revenge. He'll simmer down, I know him better than you do.'
'I hope you do. He scared the life out of me.' We continued to eat our dinner in silence after that. I was reassured to see the way she ate it all. 'That was wonderful, darling,' I said when I finished, and gave her a kiss. 'Have you been crying?'
She touched her cheek with a finger and smiled bravely: 'My eyes? It was the onions.'
'Ossobuco takes hours to cook. How long ago were you chopping onions?'
'Oh for God's sake, Bernard. I'm not going to sit here and be interrogated.'
'I worry about you. Perhaps this flat is not the best place for you to be.'
'Because of Tessa, you mean?' She took one of the fragments of bread and reaching over began dabbing it into the gravy in the bottom of the iron pot. 'Yes, before I arrived here, I worried. I thought the idea that everything here was hers a her furniture, her pictures, everything a would perhaps be more than I could bear. But it wasn't like that. The first night I stayed awake of course, but then I told myself that I had nothing to fear from Tessa's ghost. She wouldn't come back and harm me, would she, Bernard?' Having dabbed the bread into the gravy unnumbered times, she put it in her mouth and chewed it in a distracted manner.
'Of course not, darling,' I said and smiled, not sure how much of all this metaphysics was a sign that Fiona was coming apart.
'Her ghost is here of course. I see her everywhere. She's watching me. I heard her laugh even ...' Fiona frowned.
'There is nothing to fear, darling,' I said.
'I told her that,' said Fiona.
'But she wouldn't want George going off on a crusade on her behalf, would she?'
'Why not? You don't know Tessa as I do. That's exactly what she would want. Think about it. Do you believe she'd ever rest if her death went unavenged?'
'Wait a minute, darling,' I said. 'Tessa is dead. She's dead and we can't do anything to bring her back to life again. We can't hear her laughing, or know what she wants in the way of vengeance. She can't hear us, and we can't hear her. You've got to accept that as a fact.'
'But she can, Bernard.'
'Being alone in a place like this can play tricks with the imagination,' I said. 'It's quite old, this building. There are always strange noises. Hot water systems cool, the woodwork creaks and so on. It can be very deceptive. Let Tessa rest in peace.'
Fiona got to her feet. 'But that's just it, Bernard. Until she's avenged she cannot rest. That's exactly what George said to me and I agree with him.'
I said nothing. She went to the kitchen to get a bowl of fresh fruit.
'Did it all go well for you?' Fiona asked when she returned with it.
'It was a shambles,' I said. 'The man we were supposed to collect was dead. They're still picking up the pieces. And I got a kick in the face.'