‘Because it is my house. I make the rules,’ said Osman, as if he was stating the obvious.
‘But why wouldn’t you let him in the house in the first place?’ asked Trave. ‘What didn’t you like about Mr Swain?’
Osman paused, thinking about his answer before he gave it.
‘My niece has always had a tendency to mix with the wrong kind of people,’ he said slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘It became a great deal worse after Ethan’s death, when she got into quite a lot of trouble in Oxford, but the problem was there before. Ethan’s death hit me particularly hard because I had thought that Katya had at last found someone suitable.’
‘But in what way was Mr Swain unsuitable?’ asked Trave, persisting with his question.
‘He was without roots, without academic background; he was living hand-to-mouth.’
‘And Ethan?’
‘He had been to university in Antwerp and done well. He’d lost his parents, but I knew why, and his grandmother, who brought him up, is a solid, respectable person. Ethan had a future — a bright one, until Swain took it away from him. I was right about Swain, you see. He turned out to be worse, much worse, than I thought he was: nothing more or less than a cold-blooded murderer. But being right doesn’t help in the end. Katya is dead, and all I ever wanted to do was protect her. You see, she was my last blood relative. Everyone else died in the war. Franz was my wife’s brother, and so he and Jana are family too, but it is not the same.’
‘And yet you were able to save other people you knew from the Nazis, were you not, Mr Osman?’ asked Trave, leaning forward. ‘People like Ethan Mendel and his brother.’
‘Yes, I was lucky: I had the money and the contacts, and so when the deportations began in Belgium I was able to help some of my Jewish friends to escape.’
‘But you couldn’t save everyone; you had to choose, didn’t you? Who to help, who to leave behind,’ Trave went on insistently. ‘Like in that picture you’ve got up there over the mantelpiece. It’s from Exodus, isn’t it? The Angel of Death going through the streets, passing over the doors of those who were to be saved, exercising the power of life and death. Is that why you bought that picture, Mr Osman? So that it would make you think of having that power again?’
Osman looked furious for a moment, fighting to retain his self-possession. But then he smiled crookedly, as if he’d thought of the perfect riposte.
‘I have the picture in here because it reminds me every day of what happened in my country,’ he said slowly. ‘And because it is beautiful, a true work of art. I wouldn’t expect you to understand that, Inspector, but Vanessa certainly thinks it has quality. She was admiring it just the other day, and I have great faith in her judgement.’
Trave seemed to flinch as if he’d just been hit. His cheeks flushed, and Clayton saw how his boss’s fists clenched hard on the surface of the desk. He remembered the rumours, the station gossip from the year before about Trave’s wife walking out on him. Vanessa was her name. Clayton was sure of it. Was that the same Vanessa whom Osman was talking about now? It certainly seemed like it.
The door opened, but not to a human visitor. It was a cat, long and sleek and black with two distinctive white markings on either side of its green eyes. It was a most beautiful creature, thought Clayton, who had never been an animal lover. Coming to a halt beside Osman’s chair, the cat arched its back, as if delighting in its own suppleness, and then jumped into Osman’s lap with an easy, precise leap and sat facing Trave across the desk.
‘Hullo, Cara,’ said Osman, scratching the cat delicately behind its ears. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’ The cat purred, blinking its eyes at the two policemen, and Clayton had a sudden sense that Trave was now the one on the wrong side of the desk, that it was the inspector who was being interviewed, not the owner of the house.
‘Cara spends much of her time outside, hunting in the woods. And I like that, that she’s independent. But today it’s no fun for her out there with the grounds full of strangers,’ said Osman, looking out through the broken window toward the sunrise. ‘Better for her to stay inside, I think. Do you need me for anything else, Inspector? If not, I’ll go and give Cara her breakfast.’
Trave shook his head, and Osman got up to leave, but at the door Trave called him back.
‘There is just one last thing, Mr Osman. Do you have a burglar alarm?’
‘Yes, but I only use it when I’m away.’
‘And why is that? You have many valuable items in this house, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Perhaps I am too trusting. But — how is it you English say? — hindsight is a wonderful thing. I’m here if you need me, Inspector.’ Osman smiled and went through the door, preceded by his cat.
‘How bloody convenient,’ Trave burst out once the door was closed. ‘The bastard might just as well have left the window open.’
‘I don’t know about that. Aren’t you exaggerating a bit, sir? A lot of people don’t use their alarms when they’re at home, you know,’ said Clayton mildly.
Trave grunted, continuing to look thunderous, and once again Clayton felt disturbed by his boss’s obvious animosity toward the occupants of the house. Questions had to be asked, but the interviews with Titus Osman and his family had seemed at times more like interrogations. Just now, for instance, Trave’s questioning of Osman’s motives for helping Jews in the war seemed like a gratuitous personal attack for which Clayton could see no justification. Trave’s approach to the case made no sense, particularly when there was an obvious suspect with motive aplenty who was now on the run from the police. There had to be an explanation. Did it have something to do with Vanessa, Trave’s wife, who’d left him for another man? Clayton remembered how Trave had seemed to get so angry when Osman mentioned her name. What was Osman’s connection to Vanessa? Clayton wondered. He knew that sooner or later he was going to have to ask his boss what it was all about. He couldn’t do his job properly if he didn’t have the full picture. But at the same time Clayton shied away from the prospect. Trave was a private man, one of the most private men Clayton had ever met, and the thought of invading his boss’s privacy on a subject as sensitive as his failed marriage made Clayton feel distinctly uneasy. He’d have to find the right opportunity, but it certainly wasn’t now, not with Trave sitting behind Osman’s desk, looking like thunder.
Later that morning Trave and Clayton went for a walk down to Osman’s boathouse, where Ethan Mendel had met his end two years before. Trave’s mood seemed to improve as soon as he was outside the front door of the house. He rubbed his hands together, took a deep draught of the fresh morning air into his lungs, and set off across the lawn at a cracking pace, with Clayton following in his wake.
Soon they entered the woods. Above their heads squirrels were running in the tall trees through which the sun shone down, dappling the ground below with a play of shadows and light. Trave and Clayton were walking on a thick carpet of pine needles that deadened their footsteps, and their voices seemed unnaturally loud in the surrounding silence. The search team had obviously moved on to the other side of the road.
Trave seemed to know where he was going. At a fork in the path he took a left turn without hesitation and then stopped dead in his tracks so that Clayton had to suddenly brace himself to avoid falling over his superior officer. Osman’s cat was sitting on a low, leafless branch of a pine tree that jutted out from its fellows, half-blocking their way. Clayton laughed uneasily. It was a ridiculous idea, but the creature really seemed like it was guarding the path. It sat entirely motionless, staring at them out of its unblinking eyes until Trave picked up a handful of pine needles and threw them at the cat’s head. With an enraged squawk, Cara leapt from her perch and disappeared into the trees.
‘Gone to report me to her boss I expect,’ said Trave morosely as they carried on down toward the lake.
‘Why do you dislike him so much?’ asked Clayton, remembering how he’d asked exactly the same question at the end of their interview with Claes earlier that morning.
‘Because he’s so smooth and insincere, because he’s a snob, because he’s so bloody pleased with himself, because he’s got that iceman, Claes, in tow. What do you want me to say?’ asked Trave angrily. His irritation seemed to have returned in spades following their encounter with the cat.
‘I don’t think he was insincere,’ said Clayton, taken aback by his boss’s venom. ‘He seemed genuinely upset about his niece. That’s what I thought anyway.’
‘He’s a better actor than the other two. That’s all,’ said Trave shortly. ‘Didn’t you notice how Claes and his sister seemed so unsurprised at the way I went after them? It was almost as if they expected it. And what about all their monosyllabic answers when you’d expect them to want to help? Jana’s more worried about the bloody ornaments than a girl with a bullet in her head at the top of the house.’
‘She’s shocked.’
‘Maybe. But I’d say they all sounded rehearsed, like they were reading from a script. And don’t tell me they’re
