The Mozart Conspiracy: A Novel

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 decor 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.’

Chapter Sixty-Three

The mountains of Slovenia

A few hours later

It was a long drive from Ljubljana airport to Bled in the north-western corner of Slovenia. Ben pushed the rental Audi hard and fast. He was anxious to see her again. The awful image of what he’d taken to be her dead face was still lodged in his mind.

The little town was nestled deep in the pine forests. The road took him around the Lake Bled shoreline under a heavy grey sky. Across the water was a tiny wooded island with a baroque church steeple poking through the trees. The snowy mountains towered in the background. The road was virtually empty and rain had washed it clear of ice.

As he reached the outskirts he checked his map. The directions she’d given him on the phone led him to an elegant chalet-style villa at the end of a quiet street. Rain pattered on the windscreen as he drew up outside the house. A polished brass plaque on the wall was inscribed with the name Anja Kovak in heavy black lettering. Beside the name was a title he didn’t understand, but it looked like the kind of plaque a doctor or lawyer would have. A professional person. He checked the address again. It was definitely the one Leigh had given him, but it didn’t seem right. What was she doing here?