Little Grey Mice (20 page)

Elke moved to talk about the accident, but stopped before any words came. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink, I mean?' She felt good, sophisticated, making the gesture.

‘Scotch would be fine,' Reimann accepted. He'd wondered if there would be the offer. The files didn't talk about her being a drinker, apart from wine.

‘By itself?' Ida had prompted her.

‘Ice, if you have it.'

Elke had not thought how to stop Poppi escaping from the kitchen, if she went to get the drinks. The dachshund scuttled by, yapping and snarling, and she twisted back to retrieve him. Before she could, Reimann said: ‘Leave him. Let's try to make friends.'

Elke watched as the man offered his reversed hand, muttering inaudibly. It took a long time for Poppi to quieten but he did eventually, finally approaching with a cautious tail-wag, sniffing. Reimann didn't hurry, waiting until there had been several licking movements before putting his fingers behind the dog's ears. When that was accepted he easily lifted the animal into his lap, still rubbing its ears.

‘Do you have a dog?' asked Elke, admiringly. Otto Reimann looked more the type of person to have a wolfhound than Günther Werle.

‘It wouldn't be fair on the animal, with the sort of job I have,' said Reimann. ‘But I like them, particularly this one. What's his name?' He loathed the slimy feeling of its tongue upon his hand, and the wet warmth of its body against his leg.

‘Poppi,' smiled Elke. She'd
known
he'd be a nice man, from seeing the gesture towards Poppi in the café just after the accident that Saturday. ‘He's …' began Elke, unthinkingly, halting just before saying Poppi was really Ursula's dog.

‘What?' asked Reimann.

‘Not a puppy any more,' she resumed. ‘Five years old.' Seizing the escape, she said: ‘I'll get the drinks.'

She didn't know how much whisky to pour. Guessing at the bottle cap as a measure, she put in two, but it didn't seem enough so she topped it up from the bottle itself: when she put in two cubes of ice, the liquid came quite high in the glass. She tried the recorked white wine she had opened for Günthcr Werle, grimacing when she tasted it. It was like the wine Kissel had served at Bad Godesberg, claiming it came from Drachenfels. Elke threw it away, opened the other bottle and sipped that. It was much better.

When Elke returned to the living-room, Reimann was standing head bent by the bookshelves, the better to read the titles. The dog was still in his arms. He turned at her entry and said: ‘This is a pretty intimidating selection. You actually like Goethe!'

Elke smiled at the demand: he
was
an easy person to be with: much easier than Dietlef. Stop it! She said: ‘In all honesty, not a lot. But he's one of our greatest writers. I felt I should try.'

‘You must be master and win, or serve and lose, grieve or triumph, be the anvil or the hammer,'
quoted Reimann. It could sum up perfectly how he intended the relationship between himself and Elke to develop.

Elke was impressed that he knew Goethe well enough to recite like that. She said: ‘His philosophy always seemed very hard to me. I could never find much that was appropriate to quote.' Or circumstances in which to quote it, she thought.

Reimann came away from the bookshelf, reaching out for his drink.

‘I hope that's all right,' said Elke, the uneasy hostess.

Reimann sat again, still keeping the dog on his lap, before judging the drink. ‘Perfect,' he announced, knowing she would welcome the praise. Time they got around to his supposed reason for being here. ‘Tell me about the problems with the accident.'

As she spoke Elke was aware of his attention being solely upon her, just as it had been in the cafe immediately after the episode. She finished by nodding towards the small, closed bureau by the book-shelves and said: ‘I've got all the documentation there has been so far, if you want to see it.'

‘They're just stringing things out,' he said. ‘Keeping hold of their money as long as possible.'

‘Which the lawyer insists they can do.' Irrationally she had expected him to say something that would solve everything, not repeat what she had already been told. She felt disappointed.

‘Unless they can apportion guilt?' queried Reimann, repeating what she had said in recounting her difficulties.

Elke nodded. ‘Which isn't going to happen, is it? It was all caused by car thieves who haven't been caught. And aren't likely to be, not now.'

‘Maybe it could be resolved in some way, even without that,' suggested Reimann. The whisky was really good: he decided upon another one before he left. Perhaps two. And decided, also, to get the the bloody dog off his lap as soon as possible.

‘How?' Elke demanded.

‘I didn't lock my car,' said Reimann, in apparent admission. ‘And I left the keys in the ignition. That made it easier to steal, didn't it? I would think it certainly makes me more culpable than you if insurance companies are trying to work out the blame between themselves.'

Elke stared at the man, not immediately able to think of anything to say. ‘I suppose … but …'

‘But why not?' said Reimann. ‘That's what I did. Which was careless. I should admit it, shouldn't I?'

‘You're very honest,' said Elke.

Which is
exactly
what you're supposed to believe, thought Reimann. ‘That's my profession; being an honest observer and commentator. And a rule I try to follow personally, as well.'

‘It makes you quite an unusual person,' said Elke, admiringly. She'd momentarily forgotten his being a journalist.

Reimann lowered the protesting dog to the floor, holding his glass so she could see it was obviously empty. The dog started to paw to be lifted again and Elke said: ‘Poppi, come away, come here … oh, would you like another drink?'

Reimann smiled his acceptance, offering her the glass. This was the first time he'd properly practised any of the intensive instruction in anything other than a training situation, where people knew what he was doing or trying to achieve. This
was precisely
what all those months had been focused upon his achieving. And Reimann liked it. He liked listening to Elke Meyer's clumsy words and watching her stiff body movements and knowing – guessing, he was sure, to within ninety percent accuracy – what she was thinking and what she would say next. He liked looking so directly at her and doing things and saying things and anticipating how she'd respond, just seconds before she gave that response. It made him feel supremely powerful, already able to do what he wanted with her. Careful, he warned himself. It would be wrong to think that: he was a long way from attaining that degree of power. It would come though. Disgusted he began plucking off hairs that stuck to his clothes from the filthy dog.

In the kitchen Elke settled Poppi in his basket and stood over him briefly, admonishing him to stay there. She was careful to make her visitor's drink just as she had before, adding the same amount of ice. She hadn't been wrong, she thought, pleased: by showing such incredible honesty, he had suggested a way of hopefully getting things moving more quickly. Was he married? It was almost inevitable that he would be. A man who … Elke stopped the reflection, irritated at herself. What possible connection could there be between what they were talking about here tonight and the man's personal, private life? It had been ridiculous to let her mind drift like that.

‘I've put Poppi in the kitchen,' she announced needlessly, handing Reimann the refilled glass.

‘He's cute,' smiled Reimann. Deciding it was tilt time again, he added: ‘He must be good company for you?' He knew he'd succeeded when he saw the flush come to her face.

Elke hoped he hadn't seen her colour. Hurriedly she said: ‘He is; very much so.'

‘Do you work?' asked Reimann, experimenting further. ‘I mean it might be difficult if you've got a full-time job, with a dog to look after.'

‘For the government,' said Elke, intentionally vague. ‘He's very well house-trained.'

So are you, thought Reimann, noting how she'd avoided any indication of what she did. Pressing to see if she would volunteer more, he invoked the cliche and said: ‘The government! That must be interesting!'

‘Not really,' refused Elke. ‘It's all dull bureaucracy.' She was sure she had no reason for caution, with someone who had shown so much integrity, but he
was
a journalist. And the stock replies were practically automatic anyway.

It's anything but dull bureaucracy, my love, he thought: perhaps it was not going to be quite as easy as he'd earlier imagined. Too soon to have doubts, just as it had been too soon to reflect about the power of anticipation over her. It was obvious she would show reticence with someone she knew as slightly as she knew him at the moment, and important that she did not consider him too curious. ‘I suppose I'd better look at that correspondence you talked about.'

Elke hurried to the bureau and produced the file. It was a compartmented dossier, with an alphabetical index inside the top cover. Everything was listed against its numbered slot in her neatly legible, well formed handwriting. Little containers for a little mind, Reimann thought.

Reimann read the letters thoroughly, particularly those from Elke's insurance company, making a note of reference numbers on the correspondence and, most important, the name of the inspector who was handling Elke's claim.

‘Do you really think you can do something?' asked the still unconvinced Elke when he handed back the dossier.

‘We'll have to see, won't we?' Reimann let his eyes move, as if quickly appraising her body, and the pinpoints of colour came to her cheeks again. Should he manipulate another whisky?

‘What will it involve? For you, I mean?'

‘Telling the insurance companies I didn't secure the car, obviously. Maybe making a fresh statement to the police.' He wouldn't bother about another drink: he shouldn't do anything at this stage to deter her, and she might be deterred at the thought of his drinking heavily.

‘Will you get into trouble?' she asked.

It was such a little-girl question that Reimann openly laughed, although gently, not to offend her. ‘People will probably be upset,' he allowed. ‘But then it's my fault, my problem, isn't it?'

‘You've been very good about this,' she said.

He had to be the person to decide to go: it would be wrong to make her uncomfortable by remaining too long on this occasion. Reimann snapped shut the notebook in which he had detailed her correspondence. ‘I think I've got all I need. If I think of something else perhaps I can give you a call?'

‘Of course.'

Making another small experiment, to see if she would disclose a fraction more about what she did, Reimann said: ‘Shall I telephone here? Or at work? You can take calls at work, can you?

‘Here,' said Elke, quickly. ‘I'm here most…' Her voice faded at the open admission of her empty private existence. With no choice, she concluded: ‘… most nights.'

‘Here, then,' said Reimann, appearing unaware of the hesitation, which he noted at once.

‘I'll wait to hear,' said Elke.

Was she trying to prolong the encounter? It was a quick impression, but practically for the first time since he'd entered the apartment Reimann was unsure of the woman's attitude. Beware over-confidence, he told himself. Even if she was, it would be wiser to ignore it at this early point. He thanked Elke for the drinks as he stood and shook her hand (soft skinned, as he'd guessed from the photographs in Moscow), and out in the street he hurried to the concealing shadow of the Kaufmannstrasse from which he'd watched the flat earlier. He did so again, curious for any curtain flicker to show she was looking for him. There was nothing that was obvious.

He dialled their coded sequence from a street kiosk, warning Jutta when she picked up the phone that he was on his way if she considered it safe. She did. He stopped the taxi two streets short of her apartment block, so that the destination wasn't obvious and in order to assure himself – absurdly unlikely though it was – that there was no surveillance.

The drink that Jutta had waiting for him when he entered her apartment was weaker than the inexperienced Elke had made and there was only one piece of ice. They selected the covering music and Reimann sat directly opposite his wife, dictating the instructions she had to pass on, pausing to confirm that she had correctly recorded Elke Meyer's insurance details.

‘Won't the insurers here become suspicious when the Australian company accept liability?' queried Jutta.

‘Surprised, probably,' concerned Reimann. ‘And then delighted to be off the hook. From the correspondence it was obvious they were twisting every way they could to avoid payment. They're not going to launch an inquiry or argue when they're offered the very escape they want.'

‘What was she like?' demanded Jutta.

‘I've already told you what she's like.'

‘It must have been different tonight. When she was more relaxed: in charge of herself.'

‘She wasn't relaxed and she was only just in charge of herself

‘Were you attracted to her?'

‘She's a dried-up, nervous, totally insecure spinster with no sexual attraction whatsoever,' Reimann insisted, and Jutta smiled. Maybe it's easy to manipulate every woman, he thought. Too confident again!
Most
women, then.

*

‘He sounds too good to be true,' Ida judged the following day. She hoped her overlooked sister wasn't expecting too much. Or that, if something did develop, Elke wasn't hurt again: in her heart of hearts Ida was reconciled to Elke always remaining a spinster.

Elke hadn't intended to sound quite so excited. Trying to pull back, she said: ‘He's a genuinely nice man.'

‘I can't believe you didn't try to find out if he was married!'