No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 26

Cecile Wachter offered tea, and asked Riley and Palmer to sit while she made it. They were in the conservatory of a neat semi-detached house, nestling in a row of identical semis on the fringe of Streatham Common, a few miles from central London. The house, like the garden, was neat and tidy, and if there were any signs or ornaments from Fraulein Wachter’s past, or even that she had once abandoned her single status and married, albeit briefly, they were not in evidence. Beyond the windows, the quiet was marred only by muted traffic noise and the occasional shrill sound of children playing in nearby gardens.

‘I told Herr Unger all I know,’ Cecile Wachter insisted, returning with mugs of tea on a tray. Her English was very precise, although her accent was still strong enough to betray her origins many miles from this very English setting. She was as neat and conservatively dressed as her surroundings, with her greying hair pinned in a bun, and rimless spectacles perched on a small nose. Her movements were economical, too, as if she wanted to merge into the background and remain unnoticed. Riley guessed she had probably been a very good Stasi member and wondered if anyone in the street even knew she was here.

‘We’re trying to find out what happened to your brother, Claus,’ said Riley, stirring her tea. It was pale and watery, with a faint aroma of mint. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, too?’

‘Why?’ Cecile stared at them in turn, a faint frown crossing her face. ‘That was all so long ago, in the past. Why should you be interested? Are you from the government? The security services?’

‘None of those,’ said Palmer easily, peering into his mug. ‘We think the person your brother was working with was involved in art thefts from Germany and the Soviet Union. The former Soviet Union. We’re trying to establish the details because we believe this man is also involved in other crimes.’

‘What other crimes?’

‘We think he might now be bringing weapons into the country. Weapons bought from armouries and depots across the former eastern bloc.’

‘And you will do what with this information — put this man in prison?’

Palmer shrugged, wary of making rash promises he was in no position to keep. ‘I can’t say. That would be the ideal solution.’

Cecile nodded her head slightly. ‘Of course. But this man… this person who Claus worked with, he is with your British Intelligence, you know that? Claus told me. But if he is a criminal, also, how can you touch him? Where I come from, such people are beyond reach. To try to make them answer for what they have done is to invite retaliation.’

‘Things are sometimes different, here,’ said Palmer. ‘Not always… but there are ways.’

Cecile shook her head and sighed, staring down into her mug as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘I was such a person myself, for a while. I was never an official, not important, although I was trained in their ways of…doing things.’

‘Tradecraft?’ said Palmer.

She nodded. ‘As you say, tradecraft. I don’t mean I was a spy — not in espionage. But I was expected to do certain things.’ She looked up at them, her eyes steady. ‘I was a translator for many years, and worked with some important people. People who were expected to be…exposed to the West in their work. As part of my responsibilities, I was expected to listen and to report on anything unusual — anything which was not in accordance with proper thinking. Here and now, I cannot imagine why I did such a thing. But back then, so many others were doing the same.’ She shrugged. ‘It was normal. Even your closest friends might be informing on you, and you would never know. It was the way things were. We were all part of the system. But now I have left all that behind. That is why I have come to London. I wish to forget it all and become… someone else.’ She waved a hand. ‘I don’t mean a different identity, but a different person. It is not easy, however.’

Palmer waited for a few heartbeats, but when she added nothing more, he said, ‘We need to find some proof of your brother’s contact with the man he was working with. Something tangible — maybe a name. Otherwise we can’t touch him. Was there anything Claus said to you, that you recall? Any details about his movements, how he contacted this man… where the man stayed? We believe he must have travelled across the border, so did Claus ever say where they met?’

Cecile shook her head. ‘No. Nothing like that. He would not have dared, you see.’

Riley leaned forward, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

But Cecile shook her head, and it was Palmer who supplied the answer, speaking softly. ‘Claus knew she was working with the authorities. It was too risky, even among families.’

‘Oh.’ Riley felt suddenly immensely sorry for this woman, and realised the burden she was living with. Her brother must have gone to his grave wondering if it had been his sister who had finally betrayed him.

‘There is something else, is there not?’ Cecile said suddenly, eyeing them both in turn. ‘I do not think you would be here if all he had done was steal art works and ship weapons. That would be for the authorities to deal with.’

Several seconds went by, then Palmer nodded. ‘We think the man we are after told Claus that he would help him cross to the west. But he betrayed him.’

The old woman stared at Palmer, her face undergoing a whole range of emotions she could not contain. ‘‘How? How did he betray him?’

‘We don’t know. But the border guards knew Claus was coming. They were ready for him. I’m very sorry.’ He put his hands on his knees and began to rise.

‘Wait.’ Cecile raised her hand. She had a hint of tears in her eyes, and a look of dawning awareness on her face. She stood and motioned Palmer to stay where he was, then walked out of the conservatory. They listened to her walking upstairs, then came some muffled thumps, as if she was moving boxes, followed by her footsteps coming back down. She returned to the room with a cigar box, which she opened. Inside was a bundle of photographs, some of them pierced through with drawing pins, as if they had been hastily taken down from a wall and not looked at since. She withdrew the photos and knelt down, spreading them across the coffee table in front of her visitors.

‘These are all I have from…that time,’ she said quietly. ‘A few photos of our family which I kept on a board in the kitchen. It is all I managed to bring with me.’ They were a collection of standard family shots, some relaxed, some obviously posed. They could have been of any family group in the world, with a range of nervous half smiles, or tilted squints against a sunny day, save for the drab clothing and surroundings which betrayed their origins. Cecile shuffled them around, then placed her finger on one of the shots and pushed it across the table.

‘They came to our house one day. It was to meet a truck. Claus told me not to show myself, because it was better that way. I did as he asked. But a few days before, I had been given a small gift by a member of the Trade Ministry I had worked with. It had been difficult work with long hours, and he had been very pleased because he was being promoted. He had been given a camera by an American visitor, but he could not be seen to use it in his position, so he gave it to me. I took this photo. Claus never knew, of course. He would have been very angry with me.’

The photo showed a group of three men, all in long coats and hats. The ground around them was covered in snow, and they were standing at the rear of an old army truck with a canvas screen. One of the men was elderly, with a bent back. He appeared to be pulling the screen away from the truck while the other two watched. One of these two was tall and well built, and it was obvious by his features that he was related to Cecile Wachter. The man beside him, apparently smiling at something one of the others had said, was shorter, with darker skin and a thin face. He looked younger than he did now, of course, but there was no mistaking the features.

It was Arthur Radnor.