30
Nancy had slept deeply for the first time since Hans had gone missing. Madame Morceau’s revelation yesterday had been shocking, and it hadn’t stopped her worrying about where Hans was, but at least it was less likely that he was lying dead in an alley somewhere.
She got out of bed and almost fell over as she walked into the lounge.
Olivia rushed over to grab her. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I came over all faint.’
‘That’s not surprising, considering you haven’t eaten properly for two days. I’ll cook you some scrambled eggs.’
‘Oh god, no. I can’t face that. Tea will do.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, honestly.’ She headed for the dining table and dropped into one of the chairs. Deep breaths, Nancy. You’ll be fine.
‘What’s the plan then?’ Olivia asked while she filled the kettle.
‘I’m going to go to Fischer Exportations before I go to work. Ingrid’s coming with me, in case I need her German skills. We’re going to demand to know what’s going on.’
Olivia put the tea in front of Nancy and sat opposite her, nursing a cup of coffee. ‘Is that wise?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to know why they’ve sent my boyfriend away without giving him enough time to leave me a note.’
‘He might be planning to write to you from Berlin or wherever he’s gone?’
‘If you suddenly had to drop everything and go home, wouldn’t you get a message to Pierre somehow? Not leave him wondering whether you were alive or dead?’
‘It is odd. But that’s not the only odd thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I probably should’ve said this before, but you don’t think Hans is a spy, do you?’
Olivia had outrageous ideas sometimes, but this one was at a whole new level of ridiculousness.
‘What on earth makes you say that?’
‘It’s just I have a feeling his friend Dieter is.’
‘What? Cute little Dieter?’
‘Cute little Dieter has Ingrid eating out of his hand. She’s even more besotted with him now they’re married. I’m surprised she makes it to work some mornings after her accounts of what they get up to every night. I think she’s been smuggling out papers for him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She accidentally dropped some on the pavement when we were walking back from work together last week. I helped her pick them up before the wind blew them away. It looked like she’d folded them up and tucked them in her bra.’
‘What makes you think they were for Dieter?’
‘We aren’t supposed to bring work home. Any work you haven’t finished by the end of the day is supposed to be locked away in your drawer until the following morning.’
‘Not tucked down your cleavage?’ Nancy said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Did you ask her why?’
‘She said she was behind with her translation work, and she needed to do some at home to catch up.’
‘Ingrid always complains that her boss is a slave driver. I can imagine she might have to sneak work home with her to make sure she doesn’t fall behind. What’s that principle - Occam’s Razor? The simplest explanation is usually the best one. And Dieter’s a biologist. Why would a biologist want papers about missiles or whatever it is you’re working on there?’
‘He wouldn’t. Unless he’s not really a biologist.’
‘It all sounds far-fetched to me.’ Nancy tried to process it all. Could it be true? ‘Let’s just say your theory is correct, and Dieter is a spy. Who’s he spying for? The Russians?’
‘Christa says he has a Berlin accent. What if he’s from East Berlin?’
Nancy’s mind started racing. Dieter couldn’t be East German. He’d known Hans since they were children. Whenever they were together, they exchanged those sorts of knowing looks that you only shared if you’d been friends for years. Surely they couldn’t be faking that? Though they could have lived on what were now different sides of the wall. ‘Even if Dieter is a spy, it doesn’t mean Hans is as well. Let’s face it. He’s not getting any useful information from me. I haven’t got access to NATO secrets. Why didn’t he make a play for you if that’s what he and Dieter are after?’
‘I don’t fancy him. And I’ve always been in a relationship with Pierre since Hans gave up pursuing Christa’s affections. You might not have access to military secrets, but you’re very good at describing the men who frequent Madame Dubois’s private apartments.’
‘Why would Madame Dubois’s kinky clientele be of any use to the East Germans?’
‘We know at least one of them is a government minister. I can imagine the threat of exposing someone’s taste for being tied up and whipped could make them give up some very useful secrets.’
Nancy was stunned. Hans always liked hearing about the men who visited the bookshop. He made a point of asking her most days what had happened and who had visited. Was that why he’d come into the bookshop the day she first met him? All these weeks, she’d been falling in love with him, and she thought he’d been falling for her too when really he was just pumping her for information. ‘So you think Hans is blackmailing them?’
‘Not necessarily Hans. In fact, it’s very unlikely to be Hans. I guess he feeds the information back to his East German handlers, and they do the rest.’
An image of the woman with the white streak in her hair floated into Nancy’s mind. Could she be his handler? ‘No! I refuse to believe it. You’ve read too many thrillers.’
‘You’re the one who reads spy stories. I prefer a good old-fashioned bodice ripper myself.’
As outlandish as Olivia’s idea was, it did make sense of a lot of things. Had Hans been using her? He was a bastard if he was.
‘Are you still going to his offices?’ Olivia asked.
‘Absolutely. I need to know what’s going on.’
Nancy and Ingrid had no trouble finding Fischer Exportations’ address. It was a single tatty black door next to a barber’s.
‘I can’t see a name plaque,’ Ingrid said.
‘No, it’s very nondescript,’ Nancy said. Just the sort of door a spy agency might hide behind. For god’s sake, even her inner voice had signed up to Olivia’s theory now. ‘Their offices must be upstairs. Let’s see, shall we.’ Nancy went up to the door and pressed the bell next to it. They waited for a minute, but no one answered.
‘Wouldn’t you have a warehouse if you were an exporter?’ Ingrid asked.
‘They might have one of those as well.’ Nancy pressed the bell again, holding it down this time.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ a frustrated voice yelled in French. ‘Does nobody have any patience any more?’ A man holding a broom opened the door. Nancy released the bell push. ‘We’re looking for Fischer Exportations.’
The man shrugged. ‘They’re not here any more. They moved out yesterday, and I’m having to clear up the mess. Bits of shredded paper everywhere.’ He went to shut the door, but Nancy was too quick for him. She put her hand out and held the door open.
‘Do you know a Hans Schmidt?’
‘No.’ He looked fed up.
‘Or a Dieter Lehrmann?’ Ingrid asked.
‘No.’
‘Did they leave a forwarding address?’
‘Unfortunately not. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’ He slammed the door in Nancy’s face.
‘What next?’ Ingrid asked.
‘I have absolutely no idea.’