The Mozart Conspiracy: A Novel

was a little too public. ‘All right.’

‘I’m Ingrid,’ she said. ‘Ingrid Becker.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Jesus, my head.’

Ingrid’s phone rang. ‘Ja? Hello Leonie. Yes…I can’t talk now, I’m with a friend… maybe see you later, OK? Tchuss.’ She switched off the phone. ‘Sorry about that,’ she smiled. ‘My cousin. Here we are.’ She flipped on her indicator and turned the Peugeot into a basement car park.

Ingrid helped Ben into the lift and pressed the button for the second floor. He slumped against the lift wall and watched her. She was in her mid-twenties or so. Her hair was short and dark with a few reddish highlights. She was dressed in jeans and combat boots, an Afghan coat over a check shirt, but for all that she still managed to look strikingly attractive.

The lift opened and she carefully took his arm to walk him to her door. ‘You OK?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

Ingrid’s flat was small but comfortable. She directed him to a two-seater sofa in the main room. It was warm in there, and he took off his leather jacket and laid it on the arm of the sofa. He sat down and reclined into the sofa as she hurried to the bathroom to fetch cotton wool and disinfectant. ‘This will sting a little,’ she said. She leaned over him and dabbed his head with a ball of moist cotton.

‘Ouch.’

‘Sorry I feel so terrible about this. Can I get you something to drink?’

Ben took out his flask. ‘You have some as well,’ he said. ‘I think you need it more than me.’

Ingrid fetched two tumblers and sat with him on the sofa. He emptied what was left of his Scotch into them. He looked at her face. She had a nice smile and soft, dark eyes. He could see sadness in them, too. ‘Cheers.’

‘Prost’

They clinked and drank. ‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘You like Schnapps? I have a bottle.’

‘I’d love some.’ His head was spinning a little less now, and he was beginning to feel more composed. Concussion wasn’t going to be a problem-but fatigue was. It was coming over him in waves.

‘Do you want a painkiller?’

‘I’d rather have the Schnapps,’ he said wearily, and she laughed. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK, Ben. I was worried I’d killed you or something.’

Ben drained the Scotch and she uncapped the Schnapps. She poured some of the clear liquor into the glass and he sipped it. It tasted about twice the strength of the whisky. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not that easy to kill.’

‘Smoke?’ She pulled a crumpled pack of untipped Gauloises out of her pocket. Ben took one and reached for his Zippo. Her long fingers clenched his hand as he lit hers first. He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

‘You’re a rare breed,’ she said, watching him, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

‘In what way?’

She jiggled the cigarette and pointed at the glass of Schnapps in his hand. ‘I don’t know any men who smoke proper cigarettes and drink proper drink any more.’ She smiled. ‘They’re all so concerned about their health. Wimps.’

‘My Irish grandmother smoked over a million cigarettes in her life,’ he said.

‘A million!’

‘Sixty a day, from the age of fifteen to the day she died. You do the maths.’

‘Mein Gott. What did she die of?’

‘She got drunk on her ninety-fifth birthday, fell downstairs, broke her neck.’ Ben smiled at the memory of the old lady. ‘She died happy and never felt a thing.’

‘That’s it, I’m going to start drinking and smoking more,’ Ingrid said. She laid a warm hand on his knee. It stayed there for an instant longer than normal. ‘Hey, you like music?’ She jumped up and went over to a hi-fi on a sideboard.

‘You haven’t got any Bartok, have you?’

She laughed. ‘No way. Music to chew your fingernails to. Far too intense for me.’

‘I like intense.’

‘You’re an interesting one,’ she said. ‘I like jazz. What about some jazz?’

‘How about Don Cherry or Ornette Coleman?’

‘You do go for intense,’ she said. She ran her finger along the rack and plucked out a CD. ‘I’ve got Bitches Brew. Miles.’

‘Miles is good,’ he said. They sat for a while and listened to the music, drinking their Schnapps and talking. She asked him what he was doing in Vienna, and he told her he was a freelance journalist. It made him think of Oliver.

His eyes were burning with fatigue, and his head nodded a couple of times. He’d been hoping the frenetic Miles Davis fusion jazz might help to keep him awake, but it wasn’t working.

‘You look exhausted,’ Ingrid said, looking concerned. ‘Perhaps you should sleep a while.’

‘Perhaps,’ he muttered.

‘Lie down here on the sofa,’ she said with a smile.

He was too tired to refuse. She turned off the music, laid cushions under his head and fetched a blanket from her bedroom to cover him. He drifted off.

He awoke as though it were seconds later. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, watching him with a tender expression. He propped himself up on his elbow, blinking. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Just over an hour. I’m hungry,’ she said, getting up. ‘How about you?’

He stretched, got to his feet and followed her to the kitchen. It was small and clean. ‘I shouldn’t stay here too much longer,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘No, really, no trouble. I’m glad of some company. And anyway, I’m using you.’

‘Using me?’

She giggled. ‘To practise my English.’

‘I’ve been sleeping most of the time. And your English is fine.’

‘You like Wurst?’ She opened the fridge. ‘And I’ve got some cold roast chicken.’

She took out two plates and served him some pieces of chicken with sliced sausage and some bread and salad. They sat on two high stools at the kitchen worktop and she poured him a glass of mineral water. As he ate he could feel his strength beginning to return. ‘I never asked you what you do,’ he said.

She made a sour face. ‘I work for a big company, as a personal assistant.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘No, I despise it,’ she said emphatically. ‘I wish I could leave.’

‘Sounds pretty bad. What do they make you do?’

‘You have no idea,’ she replied. Her smile was gone.

‘Maybe you should think about changing jobs.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ she said. Their eyes met for a second. She liked him. She could barely remember when she’d last spent time with a man she actually liked. She looked away.

‘I’m sorry you have problems,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Everyone has problems.’ She paused. ‘Here, why don’t we have another Schnapps?’

‘Why not?’ he replied.

She smiled at him, slipped off her stool and went to fetch the bottle from the other room. She came back a moment later with a glass for each of them.

‘One for the road, then,’ he said, taking his glass from her.

She watched the glass travel to his lips. He sipped a couple of sips. Bitch’s Brew, she thought to herself.

Ben looked at his watch. He had things to do and his headache had eased. ‘I should be getting on,’ he said. ‘It was good to meet you, Ingrid. Take care, won’t you?’

‘Good to meet you too, Ben.’ She hated herself. She felt like screaming.

‘Leave that job if it makes you so unhappy,’ he advised. ‘Find something you love.’