The Redbreast(149)

Harry knew that their arguments were weak and,

quite rightly, the Public Prosecutor had answered

that he at least wanted to see something that

resembled circumstantial evidence before he

would give the go-ahead.

No clues. It was time to start panicking.

Harry closed his eyes. Even Juul’s face was still

imprinted on his retina. Grey, closed. He had sat

slumped in the armchair in Irisveien with the dog

lead in his hand.

Then the wheels touched down, and Harry could

confirm that he was among the thirty million

fortunate ones.

The policeman whom the police boss in Vienna

had kindly placed at his disposal as driver, guide

and interpreter was standing in the arrivals hall

with dark suit, sunglasses, bull-like neck and an

A4 piece of paper with mr hole written on it in

felt-pen.

The bull-neck introduced himself as Fritz

( Someone has to be called Fritz, Harry thought)

and led Harry to a navy-blue BMW which a

moment later was whizzing north west on the

motorway towards the city, past the factory

chimneys spewing out white smoke and past well-

behaved motorists who tucked into the right as

Fritz accelerated.

‘You’ll be staying at the spy hotel,’ Fritz said.

‘The spy hotel?’

‘The venerable old Imperial. That’s where the

Russian and the Western agents defected during the

cold war. Your boss must be floating in funds.’

They arrived at the Kärntner Ring and Fritz

pointed.

‘That’s the spire of Stephansdom you can see

across the rooftops to the right,’ he said.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Here’s the hotel. I’ll wait

while you check in.’

The receptionist at the Imperial smiled when he

saw Harry eyeing the reception area with

admiration.

‘We’ve renovated it at a cost of forty million

schillings so that it’s exactly as it was before the

war. It was almost completely destroyed by

bombing in 1944 and it was fairly run down a few

years ago.’

When Harry left the lift on the second floor it was

like walking on springy peat, the carpets were so

thick and soft. The room was not particularly big,

but there was a broad four-poster bed that looked

as if it was at least a hundred years old. On

opening the window he could smell the bakery of

the cake shop across the street.

‘Helena Mayer lives in Lazarettegasse,’ Fritz

informed him when Harry was back in the car

again. He hooted at a car switching lanes without

signalling.

‘She’s a widow and has two grown-up children.

She worked as a teacher after the war until she

retired.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘No, but I’ve read her file.’

The address in Lazarettegasse was a property that

must have been elegant at one time. But now the

paint was peeling from the walls in the spacious

stairwell, and the echoes of their shuffling steps

mingled with the sound of dripping water.

Helena Mayer stood smiling by the entrance to

her flat on the third floor. She had lively brown

eyes and apologised for the stairs.

The flat was slightly over-furnished and full of all

the knick-knacks people collect over the course of

their lives.

‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘I only speak

German, but you may talk to me in English. I can

understand well enough,’ she said, turning to

Harry.

She brought in a tray with coffee and cakes.

‘Strudel,’ she explained, pointing to the cake dish.

‘Yum,’ Fritz said and helped himself.

‘So you knew Gudbrand Johansen,’ Harry said.

‘Yes, I did. That is, we called him Uriah. He

insisted on that. At first we thought he wasn’t all

there. Because of his injuries.’

‘What sort of injuries?’

‘Head injuries. And his leg, of course. Dr

Brockhard was on the point of amputating it.’

‘But he recovered and was sent to Oslo in the

summer of 1944, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, that was the idea.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well, he disappeared, didn’t he? And I don’t

suppose he turned up in Oslo, did he?’

‘Not as far as I know, no. Tell me, how well did

you know Gudbrand Johansen?’

‘Very well. He was extrovert and a good

storyteller. I think all the nurses, one after the

other, fell in love with him.’

‘You too?’

She laughed a bright, trill laugh. ‘Me too. But he

didn’t want me.’

‘No?’

‘Oh, I was good-looking, I can tell you – it wasn’t

that. Uriah wanted someone else.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, her name was Helena too.’

‘Which Helena is that?’