Blackwater Lake and the pine woods beyond, disappearing down into the distant valley. This was what Osman woke to every morning, thought Jacob with disgust, while those he had wronged lay buried in the dirt, seeing nothing.
‘All right, where is it?’ he demanded, raising the gun threateningly toward Jana’s head. Petrified, she pointed over to the picture between the wardrobes with a trembling hand.
Jacob’s eyes flicked over to the wall and back to Jana. He gestured with the gun, and, following its instruction, she backed away to the front window. Then, keeping the revolver trained on her with one hand, he lifted the picture from off its hook, revealing a steel wall safe surmounted by a small black-and-white number dial. His eyes lit up and he audibly exhaled, sensing how close he was now to the summit he had been struggling towards for so long.
‘I don’t know the code,’ said Jana in a whisper, pre-empting his question. He went up close to her again, but this time she held his gaze and he knew she was telling the truth. He returned to the safe and began twisting the dial this way and that, trying every combination of significant numbers he could think of — Osman’s birthday, the date the war ended and when it began, the registration number of Osman’s Bentley. Nothing worked. Finally, maddened with frustration, Jacob took aim and fired his revolver at the safe, but the bullet just ricocheted off the silvery surface and embedded itself in the opposite wall.
He would have shot again, but from down below there was the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Jacob and Jana both froze. Jacob was the first to recover. ‘Get away from the window,’ he ordered, but she did the opposite, flattening herself back against the glass, refusing to obey. Jacob advanced on her, seizing her arm, trying to drag her away, but she took hold of the curtain and stood her ground. She was surprisingly strong, and Jacob pocketed his gun, realizing he would need two hands. Straight away, Jana took advantage of the momentary loosening of his grip to twist around and bang on the window with one of her hands, trying to attract the attention of the man in the courtyard down below.
When he heard the noise Adam Clayton was just walking back to his police car. He’d requisitioned it from the station earlier that morning when he had gone in to try and track down Macrae, who was still nowhere to be found. Now, turning around, he looked up and saw Jacob Mendel locked in a struggle with Jana Claes. For a moment they were framed, silent and contorted in the first-floor window on the far left of the house. And then they disappeared, as if they had never been there at all.
Clayton looked about wildly for something with which to break a window, and then thought of the wheel jack in the back of the car. He’d got it out and was about to use it when Jana reappeared in the window above his head, pulling it up open wide. ‘He’s gone,’ she shouted, leaning out. And at that moment, to his left, out of sight and round the side of the house, Clayton heard the sound of another sash window opening; seconds later, he caught sight of a figure running fast across the wide lawn towards the trees. Clayton reacted instantly. He ran to his car, reversed it into a three-point turn with a screech of tyres, and set off up the drive, arriving at the fence where the path from the boathouse met the road long before Jacob could have got there on foot. Mindful of Jacob’s gun, Clayton moved his car further down the road out of sight and radioed in for reinforcements. Then he got out and stood behind a tree, watching. He knew his job wasn’t to arrest Jacob but to keep track of him until armed police arrived.
A minute passed and then another, but nothing happened. Everything was still and silent. Clayton was sure he was in the right place — from where he was standing he could see the bushes where Jacob had hidden his scooter the previous day. Cautiously, he crossed the road and climbed over the fence. He searched all the nearby undergrowth carefully at first and then with a rising panic, but there was no sign of the scooter. He looked anxiously down the path leading to the boathouse. It was narrow and uneven, unsuitable for riding, but perhaps Jacob had wheeled his scooter down there this time. Nervously Clayton started walking, stopping at each corner to check the way ahead. But there was nothing, until he came in sight of the boathouse and looked out across the lake to where a rowing boat was fast approaching the weeping willow trees lining the bank on the other side. There was one solitary figure pulling on the oars, and Clayton didn’t need the man to turn his head to know who it was.
Clayton walked slowly back up the footpath. He knew there was no point in hurrying now. Jacob would have disappeared into the Monday-morning traffic long before the pursuing police could catch up with him on the other side of the valley.
Osman and Claes returned to Blackwater Hall in the late afternoon, followed shortly after by Macrae. Clayton had spoken to his boss on the phone at the Old Bailey soon after he had got back to the house, but Macrae had decided to remain at the Swain trial, where he was required on a daily basis as the officer in the case, once he had established that Jana Claes was shocked but otherwise unharmed and that nothing had been taken.
‘Well, Mr Osman’s very grateful to you, Constable,’ said Macrae once they were alone, standing out in the courtyard in the gathering twilight. ‘You’re quite the hero, aren’t you, stopping an armed burglary and saving the damsel in distress? Almost worth a medal if you can just answer me one question.’
‘Sir?’ asked Clayton, feeling he had a pretty good idea of what was coming next.
‘Just this,’ said Macrae mildly. ‘How did you know to come here? What gave you the idea that this Jacob Mendel character was going to be breaking into Blackwater Hall at seven o’clock in the morning? Was it your sixth sense or something a bit more specific?’
Clayton swallowed apprehensively. He knew that he had no option but to put Macrae fully in the picture, given the seriousness of what Jacob had done and was likely to do again, but he also realized that a full report was not going to do anything to help his career prospects.
‘I saw him here yesterday watching the house,’ he began nervously. ‘And I followed him back to his flat — it’s off the Iffley Road. There were a lot of documents on the walls — photographs and newspaper articles about Claes, about him working with the Germans during the war…’
‘Ah, so that’s where all that came from,’ said Macrae, looking interested.
‘What came from?’ asked Clayton, not understanding.
‘Allegations that Swain’s barrister put to Mr Claes today in cross-examination. Just a sideshow — they didn’t amount to anything,’ said Macrae with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Carry on — I’m sorry for interrupting.’
‘Well, it was like Mendel was obsessed with Osman and Claes, and his glasses matched those that the burglar left behind last summer when he broke into Osman’s study. I was going to arrest him, but he pulled a gun and got away. And so I came out here and left a note to warn Osman, but Mendel must have removed it, and the phone line was down… I tried to call you as well, sir, but you weren’t home,’ Clayton spoke in a rush, trying unsuccessfully not to sound defensive.
Macrae looked at Clayton quizzically as if assessing whether he was telling the truth and then nodded as if temporarily satisfied. ‘All right, I understand why you came back here this morning,’ he said in the same easy-going tone as before. ‘But what I don’t quite grasp is what you were doing here yesterday when you saw Mendel watching the house. Can you enlighten me on that, Constable?’
‘I was looking for him,’ said Clayton.
‘Why?’
‘Because I thought he might be the one who broke in here last summer.’
‘So you’ve been devoting your valuable time to investigating a six-month-old failed burglary?’ asked Macrae with a sneer. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do a bit better than that. I’ll repeat the question: Why were you looking for Jacob Mendel out here yesterday afternoon?’
‘I thought he might have something to do with what happened,’ said Clayton reluctantly. He felt like he was being slowly backed into a corner.
‘Happened to whom?’ asked Macrae. There was a dangerous edge to his voice.
‘To Katya Osman.’
‘But we know what happened to her,’ said Macrae, making no effort now to conceal his anger. ‘She was brutally murdered by Mr David Swain, who’s being prosecuted for the offence up in London, while you’re busy trying to undermine the prosecution case against him down here. Just like your ex-boss tried to do, and now he’s about to become an ex-policeman. I’d say you’re in way over your head here, Constable.’
Macrae stared at Clayton, who looked away, determined not to rise to Macrae’s challenge. But Macrae hadn’t finished. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you,’ he ordered, raising his voice. ‘Were you alone when you went to Mendel’s flat yesterday? Tell me the truth.’
‘No,’ said Clayton quietly.
‘Who were you with?’
