Ernst Metzger

  CHAPTER 11

  So now I had it all. I knew the killer’s name and where he worked. Ernst Metzger of the German Embassy in London. Case closed.

  The reality was nothing like as simple as that. This was nothing remarkable. It was news to me, certainly, but Tremaine had been aware of it from the start, and had refused to act. Now I shared his knowledge, and I couldn’t act. And, anyway, I wasn’t certain. Metzger was the prime suspect, but there was no proof. Yet even if I could never bring him to justice, I could still take him a few steps closer to it.

  The following morning, I rang the German Embassy. I didn’t know the number but the operator looked it up and quickly connected me.

  ‘Good morning. I’d like to speak to Herr Metzger, please. Herr Ernst Metzger.’ It occurred to me, even as I spoke, that he might have a military rank, but I had no way of establishing it.

  There was a moment of silence, then the woman’s voice replied. ‘I’ll put you through.’

  I heard the clicking of the exchange, and then a man’s voice – young.

  ‘Reichskirchenministerium.’

  I tried to break it down using the little German that I had. It meant something like ‘Ministry of Churches’. It didn’t matter.

  ‘Is that Herr Metzger?’ I asked.

  ‘Herr Metzger is out of the office. May I be of assistance?’

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘His hours of work are between 10:00 and 19:00. You may call him between these times.’

  ‘Thank you, then. I will.’ I said.

  ‘Thank you. Good day.’

  I put down the receiver and turned to go upstairs. At the end of the hall, framed by the kitchen door, stood Mrs Croft, eyeing me suspiciously.

  ‘You finally got around to calling your mother, then?’

  I’d already called mum the previous evening, but there was no need to complicate matters. ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  I continued upstairs. It was about a quarter past nine but there was no need for me to wait and try calling Metzger again, not now I knew his working hours. I considered what I’d learned. Firstly, I’d established that there certainly was an Ernst Metzger at the embassy. I hadn’t doubted Marchant’s word, but Tremaine could easily have made up a name to put the policeman off the scent. It seemed unlikely that Tremaine would have much to gain by blackmailing someone from the Ministry of Religion, though, on the other hand, it might mean he had more to lose than most if the content of those photographs was revealed. And the department he was assigned to might just be a ruse. If he was a spy, he’d hardly announce it. It would explain his unconventional working hours, too, though not why his colleague should be so happy to convey them to me. Perhaps Metzger’s true role was unknown even to those who worked alongside him.

  I went into the bathroom and shaved, then came back to my rooms and put on my best suit for the second day in a row. Yesterday I’d worn it for a funeral, but this was something different. I chose a more colourful necktie than the black of the day before, emphasizing the distinction. I hoped she’d like it. I even pictured what she might look like wearing it – wearing only it. It was easy to make that slight alteration to the images of her I held in my mind. I could even make the same alterations to the drawings too, if I chose. And perhaps, by the end of the day, I’d need neither artistry nor imagination to see all that I wanted. But no, not today. Perhaps in the future but not today. I splashed cold water from the sink on to my face, but it didn’t help much.

  I walked back to Furze Croft, arriving a few minutes earlier than promised. My hand had been forced by circumstances, but now I could only see my plan as madness. And yet I couldn’t back out – nor could I allow my fears to become apparent to either of the ladies involved. I pressed the button on the intercom again, but this time I was not given entry.

  ‘Wait there,’ she said.

  She was more punctual than most women I’d known. I was only left standing for a couple of minutes before the door opened and she emerged.

  ‘So,’ she asked, ‘where are we going?’

  ‘Rottingdean,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I’d forgotten she’d not lived in Brighton long. ‘It’s a village, out to the east.’

  ‘How are we getting there?’ She was like an inquisitive child.

  ‘We’ll take the bus,’ I said. ‘My treat.’

  We walked down into town without much conversation. Summer was really starting to take hold now and I felt warm in my suit. If it stayed like this, then the town would be overflowing with tourists come the bank holiday weekend. That meant I’d be able to make good money on the pier.

  I glanced furtively at Rachael, though why I should feel guilty about looking at the girl I was taking to lunch, I didn’t quite know. Her outfit was more appropriate to today’s weather than mine – a chocolate-brown dress decorated with posies of yellow flowers. They looked like Black-Eyed Susan, but I doubted the designer had been too worried about botanical accuracy. I hadn’t advised her as to the sort of thing to wear, but it was a suitable choice for the occasion. I felt my concerns begin to ease. Over the dress was a white knee-length coat which she hadn’t bothered to button up. On her head she wore a broad, white sunhat. The only item that might lack modesty were the red patent-leather shoes, striking enough to distract even my eye from the curve of her stockinged calves. I remembered that like me – like so many other Morlocks – she would make good money from a busy weekend, but I pushed the thought into the darker recesses of my mind.

  We boarded the bus on Western Road and I watched her as she made her way to a seat towards the back. Heads turned to follow her – both male and female. In part it was because she seemed so out of place, at least in terms of her clothes and her style. But as she sat down, and then slid over to make room for me, she displayed no hint of feeling uncomfortable there.

  The bus rolled down to Old Steine and then up on to Marine Parade, and before long we were out in the countryside. Whether deliberately or not, she had chosen the right-hand side of the bus, so we were able to look out over the Channel, calm and wide and blue.

  ‘So you want me to tell you about O’Connor?’ she asked. ‘Or wait till lunch?’

  I glanced around. The bus was quiet, but not empty. A woman and her daughter were sitting two rows behind us, and there were two men up towards the front. ‘Maybe after lunch,’ I said. ‘When we’re alone.’

  ‘So we’re not having lunch on our own, then? I might have guessed.’

  We sat in silence, her eyes gazing out across the sea. After a few minutes she reached into her handbag and took out her spectacles. She kept them on for only a few moments, just long enough to confirm that the focused reality of what she saw was the same as she imagined it to be. Without them her view of the world must have been like an Impressionist painting. But I didn’t see that world at all – my eyes were fixed only on her. She took them off, about to return them to her bag, but I put my hand on her arm.

  ‘No, leave them on.’

  She looked at me momentarily, then perched them back on her nose. ‘So where are we going?’ she asked.

  I explained.

  *

  From where the bus dropped us on Rottingdean’s picturesque High Street, it was a short walk to my mother’s house – more than half of it taken up by the driveway. Mrs Wilkinson, the housekeeper, opened the door. She’d only worked for mum a few years, and I hardly knew her. She was wearing an apron with stains on it that might well have been blood. We’d evidently interrupted her in the middle of cooking. It was for her culinary skills that mum had employed her, not for her welcoming nature. She looked Rachael up and down, and then turned to me.

  ‘She’s in the conservatory,’ was all she said before standing back to let us through the doorway. I’d taken off my hat before ringing the bell and now I handed it to her to take from me. She jerked her head towards the coat-stand on the far side of the hallway. I went over and hung my hat on it, noting how easily, on returning home, I’d fallen back into the habit of expecting to have done for me what I could easily do myself. I took Rachael’s coat and hung it there too, enjoying how natural the action seemed – the act of undressing her. By the time I’d finished, Mrs Wilkinson had disappeared back into the kitchen.

  ‘This way,’ I said, leading Rachael to the door that led to the back of the house. We passed through the dining room, and then the room we’d always called the snug. From there a door led to the conservatory. I went in first.

  Mum was seated in a wicker armchair, gazing out across the garden. She must have heard us, because she turned. Her eyes rested on Rachael for only a moment, taking her in, before she looked to me and smiled.

  ‘Hello, mum,’ I said. ‘This is Rachael.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she replied. Her accent seemed stronger than when we had last spoken, and that had been on the telephone only the previous night. I’d always suspected that she emphasized it a little for the benefit of strangers. ‘Please, do sit.’ She indicated two chairs opposite her. ‘Lunch won’t be long. Why don’t you pour us all a sherry?’ This last remark was addressed to me.

  Rachael sat down and I went over to the table where a bottle and three glasses stood waiting. I rushed the operation, fearful of leaving the two women to talk alone, and yet excited by it too. I spilled some and mopped it up with my handkerchief, then handed out the glasses and finally sat down. I took my first sip quickly. Rachael eyed the pale liquid with some suspicion, then imitated me almost exactly in drinking it. Mum clasped hers in her hands, staring benignly at Rachael. Eventually she spoke.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t heard very much about you, my dear.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell.’ In contrast to mum’s, Rachael’s own accent seemed almost to have vanished.

  ‘Carol only mentioned your name to me last night.’

  Rachael frowned. ‘Carol? Who’s she?’

  Mum’s face formed a similar expression. ‘My son – Carol.’ It was a pretence on her part. She knew perfectly well she was the only person on the planet who called me that. Even dad had avoided it, once I’d grown old enough to express a preference.

  ‘Everybody calls me “Charlie”, mum.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ she replied with an air of assurance. ‘Some people call you “Big-Bad”.’

  I grinned. She only knew it because I’d told her, and I remembered how she’d laughed. Even so, her mentioning of the name reminded me of O’Connor.

  ‘I think Carol’s a nice name,’ said Rachael. ‘Polish, isn’t it?’

  ‘Romanian,’ mum corrected, though with less scornfulness than I heard her employ in confronting the same mistake in the past. ‘It was my father’s name.’

  ‘You were born there?’

  ‘I left in 1904, when I became engaged to Carol’s father. He brought me back here, to his home.’

  ‘It must have been terrible for you when he died.’

  I saw mum bristle. As we’d travelled here, I’d had time to tell Rachael the fundamentals of my life story, but not to warn her how sensitive an area dad’s death still was.

  ‘He died fighting for his country,’ she said simply.

  I decided to change the subject. ‘Did a parcel come for me?’

  ‘It arrived on Monday,’ she replied, pointing back at the door we had come through. I got up and went inside quickly, not wanting to leave them alone for too long. The packet was on the table in the snug. I picked it up. It didn’t seem to have been interfered with in any way. I went back to find Rachael laughing, and mum with a smile on her face. They looked up at me and fell silent, then both began laughing again.

  ‘I was just explaining to Rachael how it’s beyond my understanding why you send packages to yourself at my address. And even more so why you try to disguise your handwriting when you do.’

  I sat back down and finished my drink. If my evident embarrassment helped to make things go smoothly, then all the better. Rachael reached up and tugged at a large hatpin in her hat, freeing it before putting it down on the table beside her. It seemed she was relaxing, though I wasn’t convinced she had ever been nervous.

  We were interrupted by Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Lunch is served, ma’am,’ she said, directing the words solely to my mother. She didn’t wait for a reply and mum began to push herself shakily out of her chair. I moved to help her, but she brushed me aside. ‘You lead the way, Carol.’ Rachael had also stepped forward to assist, and in her case the aid was accepted. We made our way back to the dining room, with Rachael taking my mother’s weight on her arm.

  *

  After lunch I suggested I show Rachael around the garden. Mum stayed in the conservatory and watched us, but we were far enough away to be unheard.

  ‘Some kind of con trick, is it?’ Rachael asked.

  ‘What?’ I genuinely had no idea what she meant.

  ‘Something to do with the inheritance. You only get it if you’re married? I’m quite happy to pretend, if you are.’

  I laughed. ‘No, it’s not that.’

  ‘There don’t have to be kids, do there? I’m not faking that.’ I could tell she wasn’t serious.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with any inheritance.’

  ‘Just trying to prove you’re not a ponce, then?’

  ‘Just trying to make her happy,’ I said. ‘It worked.’

  She took a moment to respond ‘Most men would have denied it – being queer, I mean.’

  ‘And the fact that I didn’t proves I am? Or that I’m not?’

  ‘Proves you don’t care what I think, which is very flattering.’

  Of all the impressions I might want to give her, that was the furthest from the truth. But it would be clumsy to tell her – to show her – how much I actually cared for her. ‘I don’t think you need me to help form your opinions,’ I replied instead.

  We were in the arbour now. It felt cooler in the shade. She was staring intently at the grass beneath her feet.

  ‘Penny for them?’ I asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said you were, judging by that drawing you did of me.’ She looked up at me. ‘You should do more.’ I felt my heart begin to pound, and she must have noticed my reaction. Whether her words had genuinely been intended to tease or were just a slip of the tongue, I couldn’t tell, but she soon clarified the matter. ‘Drawing, I mean. You’re talented.’

  I pointed ahead of us, probably too quickly, eager to seize the more innocent interpretation of her words. ‘You see that tree over there; the ash?’ She nodded. ‘That’s the first thing I ever remember drawing.’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  ‘You have. It’s in the dining room, behind where mum was sitting.’

  I reached into my pocket and drew out two sheets of paper. ‘Speaking of drawing, take a look at these.’

  She realized at once what they were. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘There’s nothing sordid in them. Just his face.’

  She examined them, but not for long. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Is that him?’ In one sense, it was a stupid question

  ‘Who else would it be? The profile’s better than the other one, but they’re not bad, either of them.’

  It was good to have my guesswork confirmed by someone who had actually seen Metzger in person. ‘You want to tell me what happened?’

  ‘I got a call from Spindly. Said he’d got a client who was into taking pictures. It’s not unusual. More money for less work to be honest, or it is sometimes, if he just wants pictures of you on your own. This was different.’

  ‘And this client was O’Connor.’

  ‘That’s right. Said he was a detective. Said he was working for this fellow’s wife, trying to prove he was more interested in toms than he was in her. But he’d been having trouble getting any evidence.’

  ‘Did he say how the wife knew all this?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. But I got the impression O’Connor didn’t know much either – like somebody else was pulling the strings. I went to the Metropole with him. He said this bloke always met the girls there, and liked a new one every time. Said I should wait in the lounge with a book on the table with a carnation in it, so I’d be recognized. Then he went off upstairs to hide.’

  ‘Hide where?’ I asked.

  ‘In the cupboard next door. He put the camera in a ventilator, up on the wall, opposite the bed. He told me where so I could make sure he got a good view of things. You know me – with my eyesight I wouldn’t have spotted it otherwise.’

  I remembered how in the photographs she often seemed to be looking directly into the camera, deliberately posing. ‘Did your … friend spot it?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Why would he be looking?’

  ‘Did you have to wait long for him, in the lounge?’

  ‘Half an hour? Long enough for a cuppa. And then he walked up to me. He’d obviously spotted the book and the flower. He didn’t say much. We just went upstairs and … well, you saw the pictures.’

  ‘Did he give you a name?’ I gave no credence to the ‘Blenkinsop’ that he’d checked in with.

  ‘He told me to call him Ernie.’

  Ernst Metzger – Ernie. It made sense of a sort. ‘Did he tell you anything else about himself,’ I asked.

  ‘No. He was – you know – concentrating on the job. I don’t think he said more than a few words once we got up there. It’s not unusual.’

  ‘Was he suspicious?’

  ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘He didn’t guess O’Connor was there, taking pictures?’

  ‘Why should he? Al didn’t make a sound.’