Chapter Forty-Six

‘Well… Hail, Mary,’ said Frenzel, with a wave, full of surprise. ‘Or should that be Our Father?’

Anselm shut the door and came to the edge of the desk. Frenzel’s eyes were alight with pleasure at the swiftness of his jokes.

‘If I’d known you wanted all the stuff to have a swipe at Brack, well, you could’ve paid by monthly instalments. I felt sorry for him, mind, when I saw him on the telly Made me think of those show trials in the fifties. You know, the hype and the conceit. Hypocrites, the lot of you. What was it? Whited sepulchres or something? When I saw that bitchy prosecutor-’

His gaze settled hard on the oyster. Anselm had placed it carefully in the middle of his desk.

‘Sorry, I can’t. Last time round I ate a dodgy one. Sick as a dog I was and I vowed never to-’

‘I want Brack’s personnel file. Not just the first page and not just the last. I’d like the lot.’

Frenzel’s pink lips made a curve analogous to a smile. He didn’t speak at first, preferring to nod a kind of dawning avuncular support for the workings of Anselm’s mind. He approved.

‘It makes sense, I suppose,’ he murmured, scratching his paunch. ‘You lot always want the pearl of great price.

He picked up the phone, dialled and waited. After a second’s thought he seemed to spew into the receiver from a height, keeping it well away from his mouth as though it were dirty. He was talking to Irina’s son, presumably He left a message from his mother. It took an effort of will for Anselm not to lean over and thump that sagging jaw Frenzel wouldn’t expect that from someone who was meant to turn the other cheek. He clenched his fists, feeling the guilt of a bystander watching back-street violence — the frenzied kicking of the racist and homophobe.

‘You played that one well,’ Frenzel said with a wink, cleaning his hands on a wet-wipe pulled from a shiny plastic packet. ‘If you’d started off asking for the earth, you’d have paid through the nose. But you’ve shown some good footwork. Made yourself look stupid when you weren’t. Now you’ve got Brack on his knees, you want his file. Smart move. Well, you can have it for nothing. I’d like to contribute to his execution. I’ll have it sent over. Where are you staying? Don’t tell me! Same place?’ He nestled deeper into his chair. ‘Thought so. You’re all the same. Nothing ever changes.’ He paused to lick his lips. ‘You’ll be getting a brown box… Don’t go just yet, I thought we might talk about old times, you know, the days of wine and roses. What did you make of the pierogi? If you want my view, when all’s said and done, you can’t do much with a dumpling.’

On reaching the door, Anselm turned around — not to say anything but just to have one last look at the man who’d never be brought to court. By the time the European Cup kicked off in Praga, he’d be a very rich man. There’d be a wine bar called Frenzel’s or a boutique selling silk ties and brightly coloured cotton socks. He flicked open a pocket knife and began prising open the oyster.

‘I’m having this one,’ he said, smirking. ‘Even if it kills me.’

The phone in Anselm’s room rang at 8.39 p.m. Krystyna said his visitor had arrived. She was waiting in the foyer.

‘I’m on my way down.’

It was a stab in the dark, but while listening to the evidence Anselm had tuned into the voices of other witnesses, other experts on the Terror. Irina had said Frenzel used people’s mistakes; Father Nicodem had said Brack trapped people with their past. And Anselm had wondered if there might just be some handle on to Roza’s persecutor, some mistake, some element of his past that might be used to avert what he was planning.

‘Here it is,’ said Irina, holding out the brown cardboard box as if it were Christmas. ‘I don’t know what’s inside. Mr Frenzel told me it was for your eyes only’

The jokes didn’t end. He even played at spies.

‘Thank you.

She was standing marooned on the red carpet, a short distance from the entrance, exposed, it seemed, by the bright lights. She wasn’t comfortable with the opulence. She didn’t belong with decent, well dressed people. Her shapeless coat was wet again with rain. The hood was up, as at their first meeting. She’d come from work in her green McDonald’s trousers and black sensible shoes. She spoke in a rushed, sore voice.

‘Is this for the trial? Is this going to bring him down? Am I part of it again?’

‘I hope so, Irina. Do you want a hot drink? A cold one?’

‘Nothing. Will it help?’ She pointed at the box in Anselm’s hands. ‘I don’t know I want to understand him, that’s all. If we understand someone, we can reach them… far into them, even if it’s something they don’t want; often without them knowing.’

‘Why do you want to reach him? No one can reach him. I should know’

‘Because I’m concerned he might try to escape the grip of the court.’

‘How? No. It’s not possible.’

‘I’m just being cautious.’ He smiled an assurance into her darkness and glimpsed the hygienic hair net. ‘You’ve helped me again, Irina. You reminded me of a truth beloved by Mr Frenzel. A man’s mistakes, his past? They can work like a key to his future. I want to make sure Roza can turn the lock.’

She sniffed and reached into her sleeve for a handkerchief. A sneeze followed. ‘This is my trial, too, you know I’m there, watching every day Working nights. I don’t need the sleep.’ Woodenly she held out a cold hand. ‘I’ve got to go.

Abruptly she turned and hurried away out of the light and off the carpet, heading back to the queues of people wanting a Big Mac. Anselm almost ran outside after her. But he didn’t because he had nothing to offer; he wanted to give her something — so much more than a hot or cold drink — but all he had was thanks for the tip about mistakes, and he’d furnished that already.

Back at his desk overlooking the glittering skyline, he rang Sebastian. Of course, there might be nothing of interest in the brown box. But if there was… well, time was on the short side. Roza was due to give evidence at 10.30 a.m. the next morning.

Загрузка...