‘He was there researching his book.’

Ben laid down the poker and turned to look at her. ‘A book? What was it, a novel?’

‘No, it was about Mozart.’

‘A biography or something?’

‘It wasn’t the story of Mozart’s life,’ she said. ‘That’s been written about a million times. This was the story of Mozart’s death.’

‘Strange subject. Not that I’d know anything much about it.’

‘Olly was devoted to it. He was always sending me his notes, keeping me up-to-date on his research. I was funding him, so I think he felt obliged. I never had much time to read the stuff, and then when…when he had the accident, I couldn’t bring myself to look at it any more. He even posted me something on the day he died. I’ve never opened it.’ She hung her head, sipped her wine, and went on. ‘But in the last couple of months I’ve started getting the idea of carrying on where he left off.’

‘You mean finish his book for him?’

‘Yeah. I think I’d like to do that in his memory.’ She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. ‘I had all his notes sent over from Monte Carlo. They’re still packed up in one of those boxes over there.’ She smiled. ‘You think it’s a crazy idea?’

‘Finishing his book? No, I think it’s a great idea. You reckon you can do it?’

‘I’m a singer, not a writer,’ she replied. ‘But it’s an interesting subject, and yes, I reckon I can do it. Maybe it’ll be good for me, too. You know, help me come to terms with death, and loss.’

Ben nodded thoughtfully. He filled their glasses. The bottle was empty now, and he thought about fetching another. ‘Mozart’s death,’ he said. ‘I thought people already knew what happened to Mozart.’

‘That a jealous rival composer poisoned him?’ She chuckled. ‘That old theory. It’s just one of those myths that got blown up.’

Ben held up his beaker so that he could watch the dancing flames filtered redly through the wine. ‘What was Oliver’s angle?’ he asked.

‘He said his research uncovered a whole new take on the Mozart murder theory. That’s what made his book so important.’

‘So who did it?’

‘I think he believed it might have been the Freemasons,’ she said.

‘A bunch of guys in sashes with one trouser-leg rolled up.’

She looked at him hard. ‘Oliver took it seriously enough.’

‘Why would the Masons have gone and done something like that?’

‘Because of The Magic Flute.’

‘The opera you mentioned. Is there more to that, or am I supposed to guess?’

‘The Magic Flute is full of Masonic symbolism,’ she explained patiently. ‘Secrets that Masons are sworn to protect.’

‘So how did Mozart know all these secrets?’

‘Because he was a Freemason himself.’

‘I didn’t know that. So, what? He blabbed, and they knocked him on the head?’

‘That’s the idea. I don’t know much, though.’

‘Should make for an interesting read.’ Ben smiled. ‘And where was Oliver getting all this stuff from?’

‘From Dad’s discovery,’ she said. ‘Remember?’

He did. ‘The letter.’

Leigh nodded. ‘It was the centre of his research. The book’s named after it. The Mozart Letter’

He was about to reply when Leigh’s phone rang. She fished it out of her pocket. ‘Leigh Llewellyn.’

Ben could hear a man’s voice on the other end. Leigh listened, frowning. ‘I’m not at the Dorchester any more,’ she said. A pause. ‘I’m at my country house, Langton Hall…What’s this about?’

Ben couldn’t make out what the caller was saying. He watched Leigh closely.

Her eyes opened wide. ‘Oh my God…The whole place?’ Pause. She looked agitated. ‘They weren’t touched? No…OK…’ Another pause. She put her head in her hand, ruffling her hair. ‘All right,’ she said quietly. ‘I will…thanks for letting me know.’

She ended the call with a deep sigh. ‘Jesus,’ she muttered.

‘What is it?’

‘That was the police. My flat in London…it’s been torn apart.’

Vienna

Detective Sergeant Markus Kinski never forgot a face. And when he’d spotted the woman across the crowded square he’d instinctively followed her.

It was a cold afternoon in Vienna and snow threatened from a heavy sky. She filtered through the crowds of tourists and shoppers. She was wearing a navy-blue cape and matching beret, casual but expensive. Kinski was hanging back thirty yards, locked on to his target, his old greatcoat flapping in the December chill, when he saw her go inside the tearoom.

He paused at the entrance and watched her through the glass. It was one of those frilly kinds of joints, like an over-decorated wedding cake, which Vienna was full of and which Kinski, still an East Berliner in his heart, hated.

She took a table in the far corner. Laying her blue cape beside her, she took a paperback from her handbag and began to read. Kinski went inside and sat himself down where he could observe her over the top of his newspaper. He was too bulky for the little round marble-topped table and the slender chair felt creaky and rickety under him. Everything was so fucking dainty.

Kinski had been the officer in charge and was in the interview room when they’d brought Madeleine Laurent in for questioning, almost a year ago, after the Llewellyn drowning case. She’d been blonde, with long hair. The woman sitting opposite him now was a brunette, her hair cut in a bob that disguised the contours of her face. But the features were the same. The dark-brown eyes that were scanning the menu and then flashing up as the waiter came to her table-those were the same too. She ordered Sacchertorte and a hot cocoa with cream and a dash of green chartreuse.

Greedy bitch, he thought. And your German suddenly got a whole lot better. But it had to be her. It was her.

Kinski ordered an espresso. Straight, black, no sugar. He leaned back in his creaking chair and pretended to read the paper. He cast his mind back to the Llewellyn case.

Madeleine Laurent. Twenty-six years of age. Nationality French. Married to Pierre Laurent, a French diplomat posted in Vienna. The scandal had been neatly covered up. Laurent’s people had leaned hard on the cops to keep quiet about Madeleine’s indiscretion with the foreigner Oliver Llewellyn. Her tearful statement had been recorded and filed-and then suddenly nobody could find it any more. It seemed just to vanish from the records. By then the coroner’s report was already in, so nobody had made much of the clerical snafu.

Nobody except Kinski. But when he’d asked questions he’d been formally instructed to leave off. It was a sensitive matter. The case was closed. A few days later they’d heard that the diplomat was being pulled out of Austria and given a new three-year posting, somewhere conveniently far away. Venezuela, Kinski remembered. He’d smarted over it for weeks afterwards.

If it was the same woman, what was she doing back here? Visiting friends for Christmas? Maybe he should just give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was wasting his time.

But his gut told him differently, and twenty-six years as a cop-the first nine of those served in the hard streets of Communist East Berlin-had taught Markus Kinski not to ignore a hunch.

He went to the gents and shut himself in a cubicle, then dialled the number he’d memorized from the tearoom menu.

Kinski was back finishing his coffee when the manageress called out across the counter. ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen-is there a Madeleine Laurent here? I have an urgent message for her. No?’ The manageress scanned around the room, shrugged, and went back to what she was doing.

The woman had frozen when the name was called. Her cup stopped an inch from her mouth, then she collected herself and set it down without drinking. She looked around her nervously. Kinski smiled behind his paper. Got you.