suddenly, as if I’d forgotten something, I twisted around, taking a long look back. A group of Chinese students, with a guide in tow, headed my way. Beyond, male and female pedestrians, young and old. Nobody looked shifty or out of place, or interested in me. No one had a suspect comma, or listening device in their ear, or talked into their cuff, or muttered to themselves or others. A glance at the road revealed nothing I didn’t already know. I could have put my anxiety down to a sudden attack of nerves. I’d been out of the game for over a year. I no longer carried. I was out of my comfort zone. But my instincts are strong and, for reasons I didn’t like to consider, my foe-detector was on high alert. Rattled, I headed straight to the nearest café.
It was dark, ratty and mostly empty. I took a table right at the back, near a fire exit, and with a good view of the door. In true Germanic fashion, a jolly, dark-haired waiter with a round face and excellent English appeared. I ordered coffee and cake and, under the guise of studying the menu, watched for anyone entering the premises. Apart from a young mother pushing a child in a buggy who came in a few moments later, the only customers were me and another guy finishing a meal. I started to chill and my order arrived.
‘There you go, sir. Are you visiting for the first time?’
‘No.’
‘You have business here?’
I glanced up, met the young waiter’s eye, and cast him the type of look that would silence a comedian on amphetamines. He got the message and scurried off.
The coffee was good – strong and bitter – the cake, which came in the form of a doughnut, less so. I ate, drank and thought about what had happened. Except, nothing had happened. I’d got spooked, that was all. My mind switched to McCallen. What exactly had she got me into?
It’s almost impossible to know a person completely. People are strange by definition. I knew bits about her, maybe more than some, her spy status making her remote and maddeningly unreachable. But one thing I knew for sure, McCallen always had a hidden agenda. She’d be looking at you one way with those big green eyes while her feet pointed in another direction. Had she been foolish enough to mention my leave of absence to someone she shouldn’t? Was she in cahoots with Mossad? If she saw a way to advance her career, she’d have no hesitation in shopping me.
I paid and, glancing both ways, set off. The two-tone sky had decided to snow and I rolled up the collar of my jacket.
Pallenberg’s grieving family lived in Prenzlauer Berg, a recently gentrified area of Berlin short on accommodation and big on bars and cafés. Artists and writers had once monopolised the area, but in the wake of redevelopment, the hard core had fled to other areas like Friedrichshain and the Turkish enclave of Kreuzberg. In recent years, Prenzlauer Berg had become a magnet for young professionals seduced by wide-open green spaces and contemporary architecture. Conversely, it had also been the target for a spate of arson attacks, a case of the ‘have-nots’ rising up against the ‘haves’, the latter eager to dance to a man like Dieter Benz’s anti-immigrant, racist tune.
My destination was a renovated factory divided into apartments. Crossing a park and threading my way through a couple of squares, I appreciated the appeal of the area. Wide streets, galleries and cafés gave the location an arty, open vibe, the odd building waiting patiently to be restored like a rotten tooth in a set of perfectly maintained molars.
Snow gusting around me, I hurried towards a glass-fronted building with loft-style architecture, including a community rooftop terrace and traditional Berlin balconies with granite windowsills. I imagined an interior of light oak parquet flooring, and white and chrome state of the art sanitary ware.
Inside the main entrance, I took an elevator to the third floor. I was hoping to get lucky and catch Mrs Pallenberg at home while her husband was at work. Stepping out, I almost collided with a young woman.
‘Sorry.’ With a heavy German accent, she spoke in English, which immediately got my attention. Small, petite, with big eyes the colour of tannin and a sweetly dimpled chin, she appraised me with a smile, as if she knew me. Did I have a label plastered on my forehead?
‘Should I know you?’ I said.
She flashed another smile. ‘You’re Stephen, aren’t you? Stephen Porter?’
‘Lars’s friend, yes.’ My mind teemed with possibilities, McCallen setting me up the clear favourite. Was it possible that this small creature in her pixie boots, layered clothing and suspiciously easy smile was about to take me out?
‘Mathilde Brommer,’ she said. ‘I’d hoped you’d show.’
I can usually cover my feelings well, but my guard was down. Call it stranger in a strange land syndrome. Mathilde glanced over her shoulder. ‘You’ll never get in. Werner is very protective of his wife. They’ve had a bad time with the press, you see.’
‘I understand, and Mr Pallenberg, is he at home now?’
‘Ja.’
‘Right,’ I said. Inside, I was uncertain. Outside, I maintained eye contact.
Mathilde tilted her head. Her shoulder-length wavy hair fell to one side, her exotic scent circling me like smoke around a fire. ‘I don’t remember Lars talking about you.’
‘We met in London.’
‘You’re an artist?’
‘I sell art. I’m a dealer.’
‘Then you must know Lorna Spencer, his agent.’
‘Of course.’ Lorna Spencer was the name assumed by McCallen. ‘Are you an artist too?’
The smile faded a little. ‘Yes, didn’t Lars tell you?’
‘I have a terrible memory,’ I said, apologetically. ‘I don’t remember him mentioning you.’
Pain invaded her pixie features. ‘We were engaged.’ She flushed deeply. ‘Didn’t you know he dumped me so that he could marry Lorna Spencer?’
‘Do you have time for lunch?’ It was the best I could come up with in the circumstances. Underneath, I was furious. McCallen had put my life at risk so that I could investigate her dead lover. Marriage, for Chrissakes. A huge part of me wanted to knock this business on the head and catch the next flight back.
‘Sure,’ she said.
Mathilde took me to a bar off Kollwitzplatz. Dark and cavernous, with orange and brown furnishings, it was populated by an eclectic crowd of students noisily playing ping-pong on an old table, ‘arty’ types and, as Mathilde described them, ‘anarcho-punks’. I must have been the oldest there. Techno music popped out of the speakers, not enough to deafen, just enough to annoy, but the beer on tap was good and I badly needed a drink. Mathilde ordered Augustiner, a beer brewed in Munich, and plates of garlic sausage with fried potatoes.
‘How long were you with Lars?’ I said.
‘We met when I was twenty. Love at first sight, or so I thought.’ She frowned and her eyes darkened.
‘Don’t let the break-up trash your memories.’
She flicked a sad, grateful little smile. ‘We moved in together after three months and for the next ten years were inseparable.’
‘Until his move to London?’
‘Ja.’
‘Which was?’
‘Three years ago. In the beginning, I’d fly back and forth, but he became evasive and secretive, which wasn’t like him at all. He was always so honest and open. I put it down to his increasing success and new circle of friends.’
‘He was hanging out with …’ I broke off, as if searching for the right description.
‘A