Then, with his usual curt nod, he turned and disappeared again.
***
We had ten minutes to kill before lunch. Some of the students headed straight for the library, but I needed some fresh air. I grabbed my jacket and slipped out through the main doorway, trying not to shiver at the cloak of cold that instantly wrapped itself around me.
It was just before noon and in theory the sun was at its height. In reality it was practising low-level flying techniques, barely skimming over the tops of the trees to the south of me.
I stuck my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket and hunched down into the collar, trying to make a windproof seal. It didn’t work particularly well.
There was a selection of cars on the forecourt, most of which apparently belonged to the instructors. There was one motorbike among them, a black Honda CBR900RR, a FireBlade, and I felt myself irresistibly drawn over to have a closer look.
The bike was a nearly new model, with less than four thousand kilometres on the clock. I didn’t know who owned it, but whoever it was they certainly rode it with more guts than I would have done.
The back tyre was worn right to the edges on both sides and the hero pegs on the ends of the footrests were roughed up. You don’t get them like that unless you’ve been scratching them on the road surface round every available corner.
With a regretful thought to my RGV sitting abandoned in my father’s garage, I straightened up and strolled across the gravel towards the corner of the house. I had no particular aim or destination in mind, and I took the opportunity to get a feel for my surroundings in daylight for the first time.
Now I could see it properly Einsbaden Manor was a magnificent old place, imposing and severe, in grey stone that hadn’t weathered enough to lose the detail of the original carvings. Two large flat-roofed wings extended outwards from a semicircular central tower, with three rows of evenly spaced windows laid out with almost military precision.
I realised as I looked round that I had no more idea now about who had shot Kirk dead and why, than I did when Sean had first told me about it. Where on earth was I going to start looking? I had to admit that I didn’t have a clue.
Round the corner the gravel scattered onto a concrete path that followed the contours of the house. The air smelt clean, faintly of wood and pine needles.
Another ribbon of concrete stretched away across the grass towards a group of buildings about two hundred metres away, on the edge of the trees. As I watched, a man emerged from a doorway in one of the buildings, carefully locking it behind him. I was too far away to recognise who it was.
As casually as I could, I carried on further round the house. Towards the rear it lost its architectural neatness, became more random. The ground behind it dropped away sharply into what I should imagine were once formal gardens, but they’d been covered over with an all-weather surface. This was scored with tyre tracks. A group of slightly battered-looking, dirty vehicles were parked, haphazard, to one side. Ah, the dreaded defensive driving arena. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to cope with that one.
Reaching out from the ground floor at the back of the house was a walled terrace, raised a couple of metres off the ground so that it overlooked this glorified car park. Several of the students were already occupying this eyrie, despite the cold. As I drew nearer, I realised why.
All of them were furtively smoking. Gilby had made it clear from the outset that the whole of the Manor was strictly a smoke-free zone. It was a sign of their dedication to their habit, I thought, that they were prepared to brave such cold to enjoy it.
The bitter wind whipped over the exposed terrace, dragging the smoke with it. The last vestiges blew over me, tainted my nostrils. I decided not to advance any further.
All the ground floor windows had deep external window ledges, and I settled myself onto one. At least it was partly shielded from the weather.
As I watched, Jan came out onto the terrace. She had the collar of her coat pulled up with one hand as a windbreak, trying unsuccessfully with the other to light the cigarette in her mouth. After she’d made a few failed attempts I saw Hofmann lever himself away from the balustrade and offer her his lighter.
There was what seemed to be a long pause while they just looked at each other, before Jan reached out and took it. From the little I’d got to know of her, I’d worked out that Jan was the kind of girl who didn’t like accepting help from anyone, but least of all from a man.
Whatever make of lighter Hofmann owned, though, it was designed for outdoor use. It sparked and flared first time. She gave it back to him quickly, with a reluctant nod of thanks, before hurrying away.
Elsa was the next person out onto the terrace. She arrived with the only Norwegian student on the course, a surprisingly small guy called Tor Romundstad. I’d always thought the Norwegians were all strapping individuals, descended from Vikings, but he was a good six inches shorter than Elsa. He’d attempted to compensate for his lack of stature by cultivating the most enormous bushy moustache, like a seventies porn star. Elsa must have come out for the conversation rather than the nicotine, because although Romundstad was smoking, she was not.
Elsa’s attention wasn’t completely on her companion, though. I noticed her head kept turning towards Hofmann, who was still standing by the edge of the terrace, staring out over the grounds. After a minute or two longer she excused herself and went over to him.
I was too far away to hear their voices. The wind brought occasional snatches, but too faint and few to piece any words together. I had to work on body language instead.
From that I got the impression that Elsa asked Hofmann a question. One that he either didn’t know the answer to, or didn’t want to give it. Whichever, he met her enquiry with a dismissive shake of his head. She persisted, and it was then that Hofmann’s manner changed. He bent his head, leaning in to her and speaking fast.
I saw Elsa’s body jerk with the shock of his reaction, her face blanking. No one else on the terrace seemed to have noticed what was happening. I started levering myself forwards, but as quickly as it had started, it was over.
Hofmann threw down his cigarette end, stamped it out, and headed back inside, leaving Elsa standing forlornly behind him on the mossy flags.
I hopped down from my window ledge and walked the rest of the distance onto the terrace, crossing to the German woman. She didn’t seem to notice my arrival until I was almost on top of her. I touched her arm.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
She nodded vaguely, then glanced at me and seemed to pull herself together. “Yes, Charlie, thank you. I am OK.”
“I saw you talking to Michael Hofmann, and he didn’t look happy about it,” I said. “What happened?”
“I thought I knew him,” Elsa murmured. Her glasses had darkened in the light so it was difficult to read her eyes, but her voice was off-kilter, almost a babble, and her face was too pale. “You know how it is, you think you recognise someone and then you feel foolish when you are mistaken.”
She looked up at me again, as if to see how I was swallowing the lie. Not well, she realised. “Please excuse me,” she said. “It is time for lunch and we must prepare our little talk for afterwards, no?”
Before I could stop her, she’d hurried inside, letting the partly glazed door slam behind her. Romundstad also watched her go and he turned and raised an eyebrow at me, as though I was the one who’d upset her.
“Well now,” I muttered to myself, “what the hell was
***
The Major was right about the Manor’s library. There was indeed all the information we could wish for on the subject of assassinations – failed and successful. I decided to go for the attempt on US President Ronald Reagan by John Hinkley Jr in March 1981.
Not only was it well documented in the library’s files, but I felt it gave me plenty to talk about on the subject of his close protection team – both good and bad. After all, Reagan’s secret service bodyguards had missed the fact that his would-be assassin had been hanging around all day outside the Washington Hilton Hotel looking highly suspicious.
On the plus side, when the attack did happen they’d reacted textbook fast. Three of them, including Reagan’s Press Secretary, had even managed to get themselves shot in the process.
The members of the team who were still left standing had bounced on Hinkley, while another had thrown
