The Mozart Conspiracy

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.’

‘You and Fred didn’t live together, did you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I work here full-time. I’m the manager here. Fred had cheap digs in Vienna. We were saving to get married after his graduation from music school.’

‘I’m sorry to be digging this up for you.’

She sniffed and wiped a tear away. ‘No, it’s OK. If something bad happened, people need to know. I need to know.’

‘Can you tell me about the opera tickets?’ Ben asked. ‘Fred had two tickets for Macbeth. They were for him and you, weren’t they?’

‘Yes, they were. He was so excited about it. He couldn’t have afforded the tickets himself. He couldn’t wait. He loved Verdi.’ Christa gazed into the middle distance. Her face darkened. ‘Like he would have killed himself. It’s crap. I always said it was a pile of crap. But nobody would listen to me. People thought I was just this hysterical girl with issues, who couldn’t face up to the idea that her man had killed himself. Like I was in denial or something. They told me to see a shrink. And Fred’s parents just accepted it. I mean, how could they?’

‘People tend to take the path of least resistance,’ Ben said. ‘It’s easier to believe someone committed suicide than to start looking for a killer.’

‘Are you looking for the killer?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘What’ll you do if you find them?’

He didn’t answer that. ‘Did Oliver give Fred the tickets?’

Christa nodded.

‘Tell me about it,’ Ben said.

‘I don’t know all the details,’ she replied. ‘Fred used to play piano gigs here and there to make a bit of extra cash. Mostly it was bars, restaurants, anywhere with a piano. He gave classical recitals too-he had a little circuit going. He was such a great player, and he had a good reputation. One day he landed this really important gig at a private party, some big house outside the city. It was a real prestigious thing, tuxedo job. Anyway, the night he met Oliver was the week before the gig. He told him about it but Oliver didn’t say much at the time. Well done, congratulations, good luck, all the things one player would say to another if they weren’t jealous.’ She paused. ‘But later that night, hours after the party was over, Fred got a phone call. It was Oliver. He said he’d been thinking about what Fred had said. He’d found out something. Suddenly he was all excited about the gig at the big house.’

Ben listened hard.

Christa went on. ‘He wanted to know everything about it, and he wanted to go with him. He was desperate to get into the place.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. But Fred told him there was no way he could get him an invite. It was very exclusive. Politicians, people like that. Major big-wigs. A lot of security.’

‘I don’t understand why Oliver would have been so keen to meet those kinds of people,’ Ben said. ‘They weren’t his favourite kind.’

‘From what Fred said, it wasn’t the party he was interested in. It was the house itself. He was asking lots of questions about it.’

‘Why was he so interested in the house?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘He kept talking about his research.’

‘He didn’t say more?’

‘If he did, Fred never told me.’

‘Never mind,’ Ben said. ‘Go on.’

‘When Oliver called up late that night, he made Fred a weird offer. He said he could get him a private box for two at his sister’s performance of Macbeth at the Vienna State Opera. The last box, the last tickets. Worth a fortune. But there was a condition.’

Ben got it. ‘If Fred agreed to change places with him? Oliver wanted to get in there as the pianist for the night?’

She nodded.

‘And Fred agreed to the deal?’

‘He didn’t really want to give up the date, and the whole idea seemed nuts. But Oliver was totally serious, and the opera tickets were too tempting. Oliver said he’d let him have the gig fee, too. Fred knew Oliver was a good player, that he’d do a good job and wouldn’t spoil his reputation. So he went for it.’

‘And Oliver gave the recital?’

‘You tell me,’ she said. ‘According to the papers, he was somewhere else. Didn’t they say he was at a party and got drunk with some woman, then drowned in a lake?’

‘So the night of the recital was the night Oliver and Fred both died,’ Ben said.

Christa let out a long sigh. ‘Yes, it was.’

‘Where was the recital?’

‘I don’t know where the house is,’ she said. ‘Just that it’s not that far from Vienna. It’s some seriously expensive, fancy place. A real palace. An aristocrat owns it. Old Viennese money, going back centuries.’

‘Do you know who the aristocrat is?’

She nodded. ‘Von Adler. He’s the Count von Adler.’