The Mozart Conspiracy

Chapter Sixty-Two

The Bristol Hotel, Vienna

Three days later

Ben walked in off the Kärtner Ring and entered the lobby of the luxury hotel. His clothes felt too new and stiff, and every time he moved a stab of pain jolted his side.

The place was milling with journalists and photographers. He already knew that Philippe Aragon and a small army of his people had occupied a whole floor as their base for the series of press conferences that the media were screaming for everywhere. The police raid on the von Adler mansion was the biggest news event for years and Aragon was right in the centre of the frenzy. Ben had deliberately avoided TV and radio for three days but even he hadn’t been able to escape it.

Behind the scenes, Aragon had been pulling more strings in those last three days than most politicians pulled in a lifetime. He had the kind of high-level influence that enabled certain details to be smudged for the media. The deaths at the mansion had been attributed to Kroll’s own people. As for Ben and his team, they had never been there.

It had taken forty-eight hours to clear up the carnage. Nothing remained of the burnt-out helicopter except blackened fragments scattered across the forest floor by the explosion.

No trace remained of Jack Glass, either. At the kind of temperature generated by blazing aviation fuel, human tissue, even teeth and bones, would be reduced to fine ash. Ben had seen it before.

He pushed through the throng filling the hotel lobby and was met by a man in a pinstriped suit. He was around the same age as Ben, but balding and on the scraggy end of thin. He offered his hand. ‘I’m Adrien Lacan,’ he said over the buzz. ‘Philippe Aragon’s personal assistant. Glad you could make it, Monsieur Hope.’

Lacan escorted Ben through the lobby to the lift. Some cameras flashed as they walked. Ben kept his face turned away. Security men pushed back the journalists who had started crowding them, and they stepped into the lift alone. Lacan punched the button for the top floor and the lift whooshed quietly upwards. ‘It’s insane,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve never known it like this before.’

Aragon’s plush rooms were bustling noisily with his staff, people coming and going, talking into headsets, the sound of more phones ringing in the background. TV screens were set up on desks playing different news channels while people clustered around to watch. A tall stack of newspapers sat piled on a table, two women sifting through them and scrutinizing the front pages. Ben walked into the busy room and felt several pairs of eyes on him wondering who he was.

In the middle of it all, Aragon was perched casually on the edge of a desk, flipping through some papers while talking to someone on a mobile. His shirt was open at the neck and he looked fresh and energetic even with the plaster over his eyebrow covering up his stitches. He smiled broadly as Ben approached, ended his call and snapped his phone shut. He laid the sheaf of papers down on the desk and greeted Ben warmly.

‘Don’t forget you have a press interview at quarter past,’ Lacan warned him. Aragon waved him away and took Ben’s elbow.

‘I’m sorry for all this chaos,’ he said. ‘It’s quieter in here.’ He guided Ben through the milling crowd of staff and into a smaller room to one side. He closed the door, shutting out the noise. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

Ben watched the politician. He’d bounced back like a fighter. He looked relaxed and confident but there was an edge to him now, a competitive fierceness Ben hadn’t seen in him before. He looked primed and ready for battle.

‘You said it was important,’ Ben replied.

‘It is. A matter I need to clear up with you before you leave. Your flight’s today?’

Ben nodded. ‘In a few hours.’

‘Ireland,’ Aragon said. ‘I’ve never been. What’s it like?’

‘Green,’ Ben said. ‘Empty. Quiet.’

‘There’s a part of me that would love to be able to retreat to a tranquil place,’ Aragon said, nodding towards the door and the crazy bustle on the other side. ‘Right now, I’d probably never want to come back. You’re a lucky man.’

Ben didn’t feel much like a lucky man. ‘You could always just give it all up, Philippe,’ he said. ‘Go back to your old career. Architects don’t attract the wrong kind of attention. They don’t get kidnapped or executed.’

‘You talk like Colette, my wife.’

‘Sounds like a sensible lady,’ Ben said.

‘You like to live on the edge yourself, though.’

‘I do what I do.’

‘You’ve been a big help to me,’ Aragon said. ‘I won’t forget it.’

Ben smiled. ‘I didn’t do it for you.’

‘I appreciate your candour. But I’m grateful to you nonetheless.’ The politician reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a small white envelope. ‘Which brings me to the reason I asked you to meet me here,’ he said. ‘I wanted to give you this.’

Ben took the envelope from Aragon’s outstretched hand. His name was printed in neat writing on the front.

Aragon waggled a finger at it. ‘Open it.’ He leaned on the back of a chair with a look of amused anticipation as Ben tore it open.

There wasn’t much inside, just a slip of paper. Ben took it out. It was a signed cheque from Aragon’s personal account, and it was made out to Mr Benedict Hope. He ran his eye along the figure. A one with a whole line of zeros after it. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, looking up. ‘What’s this for?’

‘I never told you about the reward I was offering,’ Aragon said. ‘One million euros for whoever helped me to find Roger’s killers.’ He smiled. ‘You helped me. We got them. It’s yours. Enjoy it.’

Ben stared at the cheque. ‘Thanks, Philippe,’ he said.

Aragon smiled. ‘That’s settled then. Have a pleasant journey home. I expect we’ll meet again.’

‘But no thanks,’ Ben finished. He handed the cheque back to Aragon.

‘You won’t accept?’

Ben shook his head.

‘You earned it,’ Aragon said.

‘Take care of Sandy Cook’s widow and kids,’ Ben said. ‘Give the rest to charity. Do something good with it. I don’t want it.’

Kinski was at home. It took him a while to hobble to the door on his crutches. ‘Good to see you on your feet, Markus,’ Ben said as he stepped inside the hallway. He was carrying something in a plastic bag.

Kinski was in a dressing gown. His hair was a mess and he had four days’ stubble growth on his face. His skin was pallid and there were dark bags under his eyes.

Ben looked around him at the small, modern suburban house. It didn’t look like the home of a big rough guy like Markus Kinski. Everything was too orderly and cared for, neat little vases of flowers on the tables. A woman’s touch about the place. Helga, Ben guessed.

The detective looked happy to see him. Ben looked down at the heavily plastered leg, stubby bare toes sticking out from the end. The plaster was covered in the autographs of well-wishers.

Kinski caught his gaze. ‘Itches like crazy,’ he said. ‘The fucking thing can’t come off soon enough.’

‘How is she?’ Ben asked as Kinski hobbled down the hallway.

‘A little subdued,’ Kinski said. ‘But she’ll be fine. She’s a tough kid.’ His eyes wandered to the plastic bag Ben was carrying. ‘What’ve you got there?’

‘I brought her something,’ Ben said. He reached inside the bag and pulled out the big floppy teddy bear he’d picked out in a hurry on his way across town. ‘I hope she likes it.’

‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’ Kinski suggested. He limped to the bottom of the stairs and leaned on his crutches. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Clara,’ he called.

A door opened on the landing and a little face peeped out. Her eyes lit up when she saw Ben standing there. She ran down the stairs and hugged him tight.

He was happy to see her smiling again. That lost look had faded from her eyes since the last time he’d seen her. She’d been through a hell of a lot, but maybe her father was right. She was a tough kid.

‘I suppose you’re far too grown up and mature for this,’ he said, handing her the teddy bear.

She clasped it to her chest. ‘I’ll call him Ben.’ She beamed. ‘I have another new friend, too,’ she said brightly. She turned. ‘Can I show Ben, Daddy?’

Kinski nodded. Clara ran happily up the hall, clutching the teddy. ‘Muffi!’ she called. A Rottweiler puppy, a black ball of fur no bigger than a rabbit, flopped out of the sitting room on clumsy oversized paws and cocked his head to one side, watching Ben with big curious eyes. He had a patch of tan above each one, just like Max.

‘Go and play with the puppy,’ Kinski told her. ‘Ben and I need to talk.’

He led Ben into the kitchen and propped his crutches against the table. He opened a cupboard and took down two tumblers and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. They sat, Kinski’s plastered leg sticking out in front of him. He poured out two full glasses and shoved one towards Ben.

Kinski groaned, tried to shove two fingers down inside his plaster. Frustrated, he gave up and knocked back half a measure of the bourbon.

‘I thought you were on the wagon,’ Ben said.

‘Fell off. Takes my mind off this goddamn itching.’

‘Aragon told me you’re heading the investigation.’

Kinski nodded. ‘I get the feeling it’s going to drag on for months. They say it’s the shit-hottest team of defence lawyers anyone’s ever seen.’ He grunted. ‘The fuckers are going to need them.’

‘You can cut down the weed,’ Ben said, ‘but the roots go deep. You can’t destroy it.’

Kinski shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right. Personally I’ll be happy to see some bastards take a fall. That’ll satisfy me.’

They drank in silence.

‘I’ll never forget what you did for Clara,’ Kinski said quietly. ‘I wish I could have been there to help you.’

‘I’m sorry about your friend Hildegard,’ Ben said.

Kinski raised his tumbler to his lips. When he put it down it was empty. He let out a long sigh. ‘Ben, when they told me about Leigh—’ His voice tailed off. His stubbled chin sank to his chest.

Ben laid a hand on the cop’s arm. ‘Thanks, Markus.’

Ninety minutes later he was leaning back in a soft armchair and looking around him at the luxurious décor of the private clinic’s lounge area. The warm room was filled with plants and flower arrangements. There was a pretty Christmas tree in one corner. Snow pattered lightly against the windows.

Hidden speakers were playing some kind of musical-box stuff that sounded to Ben like Mozart. He couldn’t name the piece and he didn’t care. He didn’t want to hear any damn Mozart. It made him think of Leigh and Oliver. Suddenly he missed his old drinking flask.

‘Hello, Eve,’ he said.

She paused in the doorway before she smiled selfconsciously and crossed the room towards him. She was wearing a navy tracksuit with a sleeve cut away and her arm in a sling. She was in plaster from her elbow to her fingertips. There were no autographs on her cast.

‘How’s the hand?’

‘I don’t think I’ll play the guitar any more,’ she said as she lowered herself into the armchair next to his. ‘They operated on it. We’ll see. Doesn’t hurt too bad, though. As long as I keep dosing myself stupid on painkillers.’ She smiled. Her face looked tight and pale.

He shifted round in his chair and winced a little at the sharp pull on his ribs.

‘Look at the state of us,’ she said. ‘All banged up. Are you OK?’

‘I’ll live,’ he said. ‘Just a little stiffness, that’s all.’

‘I was surprised when you called. I didn’t think I’d see you again, Ben. Thanks for coming to visit me.’

‘I’m glad Aragon’s looking after you,’ he said.

‘Real VIP treatment in this place.’ She paused. ‘I’ve a lot to thank Philippe for. It’s more than I deserve,’ she added.

‘He’s a good man,’ Ben said. ‘For a politician.’

‘He’s taken good care of me. I might have to be on probation for a while, but I can handle that. It’s a fresh start for me.’

He nodded. They both knew she’d been cut a lucky deal. Ben knew more than she did about the strings Aragon had pulled to make things work out for her. Aragon had a lot of compassion in him. He made Ben wonder about his own compassion.

‘I’m ashamed of all the things I’ve done,’ she said, looking down.

‘You never had a lot of choice. You made it right in the end.’

‘Yes, we made it right,’ she said. ‘So what about you-you sticking around a while or what?’

‘I’m catching a flight to Dublin this afternoon.’

‘Shame,’ she said. ‘I’d have liked to get to know you.’

He smiled sadly and said nothing.

‘Planning on ever coming back this way?’ she asked.

‘Maybe one day.’

‘You won’t be at the hearing?’

He shook his head. ‘I was never here.’

‘I’m the star witness,’ she said.

‘I know. You’ll be fine,’ he told her.

He went to leave. She followed him into the hallway. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I just remembered something. I had them bring it here from my place after you called.’ She climbed the stairs and disappeared through a door on the first floor. When she reappeared a moment later she was holding something very familiar in her good hand. It was his old brown leather jacket.

‘I thought I’d never see that again,’ he said.

She flushed. ‘You left it in my flat that day.’

He took it from her and slung it over his shoulder. It felt good. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered. He turned for the door.

‘You’re sure you can’t hang around for a while?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Can I call you sometime?’

On the twenty-kilometre taxi journey south-east towards Wien Schwechat airport Ben took off the new jacket he’d bought and slipped on the old leather one. He felt a little happier with it on. He found his drinking flask in one pocket, and his phone in another. He turned the phone on to check if it still had any battery life. It did.

He used it to call Christa Flaig. She listened in silence when he told her that Fred’s death had been answered for. He didn’t say too much. ‘Watch the papers,’ he said. ‘And you might be getting a call from a cop called Kinski. You can trust him.’

He had an hour to kill after check-in, and he knew exactly how he wanted to use that time. He took a stool at the departure-lounge bar and bought a triple whisky. That didn’t take too long to finish, and he ordered another. He didn’t get drunk often, not properly drunk. But today didn’t feel like a bad day for it, and now didn’t seem like a bad time to get started. He slipped the pack of Gitanes out of his leather jacket and thumbed the wheel of his Zippo. He clanged the lighter shut, took a deep lungful of the strong smoke and let it trickle out of his nose. He closed his eyes. Immediately he was seeing Leigh’s face in his mind.

The barman eyed him and came over. ‘Rauchen verboten,’ he said, pointing at the no smoking sign. Ben shot him a look that made him back away. A woman in a pinstriped trouser suit sitting along the bar tutted irritably but said nothing. He finished the whisky, twirled the empty glass on the polished surface of the bar. He thought about ordering another one.

His phone rang. He ignored it. It rang a few times then stopped.

He ordered the whisky. The barman poured it curtly.

The phone started ringing again. The woman along the bar was staring at him, as if to say either answer the damn thing or turn it off.

He sighed and pressed to answer. The line wasn’t good. The voice was female. He listened for a moment and then said, ‘What do you want, Eve?’ She’d said she would call him sometime. But not this soon.

‘Who’s Eve?’ asked the voice.

‘What?’ he said, confused. He put a hand over his other ear, shutting out the noise of the bar and the music and the flight announcement that was drowning out her words.

‘It’s Leigh,’ she shouted down the phone. ‘It’s Leigh.’