Europe in Winter (The Fractured Europe Sequence)(34)

“Me? Oh, I suppose I’m playing the postman. This is what was in the envelope.” She took another photograph from her pocket and placed it beside the first.

This one was in black and white, a grainy crowd scene of many gentlemen in old-fashioned formal dress, heavy overcoats, top hats, wing collars. At the back of the crowd was part of the fa?ade of what appeared to be quite an imposing building. In the foreground were four men, one with his back to the camera.

“I’m sorry,” Rudi said, “but I don’t know any of these people either.”

Smith laughed. “The gentleman on the left, the one with the rather impressive moustache, is Georges Clemenceau. The patrician chap next to him is President Woodrow Wilson. The man beside him – he’s the one just peeking over the chap with his back turned – is Vittorio Orlando, the Italian Prime Minister. And the jolly gent on the right who’s just putting on his top hat – or taking it off, I can’t tell – is David Lloyd George.”

Rudi looked at the photograph again. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I’m lost.”

Smith sat forward and became businesslike. “So what we have,” she said, “is a chap travelling on forged documents, with apparently no idea who he is or what he’s doing, carrying a photograph taken in 1919 during the Versailles peace conference, addressed to you.” She drank some more beer. “You can’t blame us for being intrigued.”

“I get the feeling,” Rudi said, “that you’re rather enjoying yourself, Chief Superintendent.”

“Well,” Smith admitted, “this has certainly been an interesting little excursion. Would you, for instance, have any idea how my superiors knew you would be here, keeping in mind that you’re travelling on a false passport yourself?”

“No, I would not. Would you?”

Smith shook her head. “I’ll be honest with you, we’d find it an effort to care less about you entering England illegally. England is a constant pain in the arse; always whining, European only when it suits them. Let them worry about passport control. All I want to do is find out who this poor chap is.”

“I can’t help you with that,” Rudi said. “I’m sorry.”

“One last time?” Smith said. “Passing business acquaintance? Someone you know on social media? A customer at the restaurant?”

It occurred to Rudi – not for the first time since they had sat down in the pub – that he was actually being given two messages, neither of which he understood. He really didn’t like that reference to the restaurant.

He looked at the photo again. “I don’t do social media much,” he said.

“Ah well,” said Smith, “it was worth a try.” She finished her beer and took her overcoat from the chair.

“May I keep this?” Rudi asked, nodding at the mugshot. “Just in case?”

“Of course, of course.” Smith stood and started to put on her coat. “My contact details are on the back, if you think of anything. You can keep the other photo, too.”

“Well, it was addressed to me.”

“I’m afraid it’s not the original. Evidence. Forensics and all that. You understand.”

“The envelope?” Rudi asked, thoughts of microdots crossing his mind.

Smith shook her head. “Same thing. Even I’m not allowed to touch it.” She settled the coat with a shrug of her shoulders, picked up her hat, patted her pockets to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, and smiled. “It was good to meet you,” she said.

Rudi inclined his head. “Chief Superintendent.”

“Oh, and please don’t travel in the EU on false papers. We really are quite strict about that.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She started to leave, but stopped at the door as if suddenly remembering something. For Rudi, who had grown up watching old episodes of Columbo, it was almost funny.

“Oh, I forgot,” Smith said. “Have you ever visited Luxembourg?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “I would have remembered, I think.”

She nodded. “Ever heard of a Gwendoline Katherine Craig?”

“Are you trying to tie up a lot of old cases here, Chief Superintendent?” What Rudi chiefly remembered about Columbo was that Peter Falk had simply annoyed his suspects into confessing. If they’d only managed to keep their heads his conviction record would have been a catastrophe.

“Name ring a bell, though?”

He shook his head.

She smiled. “Ah well,” she said cheerfully. “Worth a try, though. You take care now.”

After Smith had gone, Rudi sat for some minutes drinking his beer and looking at the two photographs and trying to work out what had just happened to him. One of the drinkers from the bar, an older man with a broken nose, came over and sat opposite him.

“I had to go back through the wood to get here ahead of you,” Rupert said. “I tore my trousers.”

This was Rupert’s way of saying ‘you’re welcome,’ so Rudi said, “Thank you. I appreciate the backup.”

Rupert shrugged. “I thought this was just going to be a pleasant day out and a bit of babysitting.”

“That was the plan, yes.”