The Unexpected Guest

by Hania Allen

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

It was a quiet day for the funeral. Until the bomb went off...

Midwinter in Poland, and Dania Górska and her brother Marek are in Warsaw, attending the funeral of her old piano teacher, Jakub Frydman. At the graveside is rabbi Salomon Steinberg and several former pupils.

As the service draws to an end, a figure is glimpsed through the mist throwing a wreath into the open grave. And as the mourners file out of the cemetery, they hear an explosion: the grave of Jakub Frydman has been destroyed and the perpetrator - the unexpected guest at the graveside - has made a clean getaway.

But who was the intended victim? Was it an antisemitic attack - but against the old teacher, or the rabbi? Or was it drugs related... and Dania and her investigative journalist brother the targets? Now Dania has to trade Dundee for Warsaw to follow up leads on an international drugs syndicate - and find a resolution to this most unexpected and deadly of crimes.

Praise for Hania Allen

'Nicely nasty in all the right places . . . The story rattles along until bringing the curtain down with an unnerving twist' Craig Robertson

'A fresh new find for crime fans ... the plot is intriguing, the characters are well drawn, and the end comes with an unnerving twist. Extremely readable' Sunday Post

'Captivating characters and an intriguing plot. A great new find for crime fans' Lin Anderson

'Pitch-perfect . . . a witty, tense crime novel written in a highly readable style' Russel D McLean

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

It had been a quiet day for the funeral. Which made it all the more surprising when the bomb went off.

Dania and Marek had arrived an hour earlier, and had been directed by the stoop-shouldered custodian in the moth-eaten fur coat to the part of the cemetery still in use. The woman had given them clear instructions; without them, they’d never have found the location among the crowded headstones, which listed alarmingly, like crooked teeth. What had made things worse was that, the previous day, a mist had descended and now lay like a pall over the city. Without the woman’s insistence they follow the path, regardless of how it meandered, Dania doubted they’d have made the service on time. The word ‘path’ was a misnomer, as it had a tendency to disappear, and their route would suddenly be blocked by a weathered headstone or ivy-covered tree, leaving them not knowing which way to turn. Fortunately, other guests had arrived minutes earlier and, provided Dania and her brother kept the blurred, shimmering shapes within sight, they wouldn’t go far wrong, although it didn’t stop them losing their footing in the matted undergrowth.

Dania had visited the cemetery once before. At school, she’d studied Warsaw’s wartime history and learnt that Adam Czerniaków, the head of the ghetto’s Jewish council, was buried there. Even in bright sunshine, it had taken her a while to find the grave, which she knew was not far from that of Ludwik Zamenhof, the creator of Esperanto. That was the trouble with ancient cemeteries: no neat rows of identical headstones, no well-kept straight paths. This necropolis was more of a design by committee, which, given the changes in Jewish customs over the past two hundred years, was unsurprising. And yet, despite the difficulty in navigation, she’d found the place fascinating and haunting. She’d spent so much time examining the carved symbols on the headstones that she’d lost her way and arrived home late.

But this second visit to Okopowa Street had been unplanned. She’d been in Warsaw for three days when she’d received the notification about the funeral. There was no question but that she’d attend. Marek, who’d been in the city for nearly a week, had also been invited. She stood at the open grave, listening to the rabbi’s muffled voice reading in Hebrew, pausing to translate the text into Polish. Although he was standing a short distance away, he appeared as a dark stain in the fog. Most of the guests huddled round the grave had their heads covered, and their faces were indistinct, so it was hard to distinguish the men from the women.

A gold-tasselled red cloth embroidered with Hebrew lettering lay over the simple wooden coffin, which had been lowered into the ground before the service began. As there were no family members, each guest had taken a shovelful of soil and sprinkled it into the grave. The rabbi was speaking in Hebrew again, and Dania sensed the ceremony was coming to its end. She was listening to the language, wondering how easy it would be for a non-native speaker, when she felt a movement behind her. There was a sudden rush of cold air. Something had been thrown upwards. In the stunned silence, she saw a wreath of lilies disappear into the foggy whiteness. It reappeared and landed with a thud on the coffin.

There was a growing murmur of disapproval – flowers at a Jewish funeral were typically prohibited. And throwing them? The rabbi had paused, then continued with his speech. Dania glanced at Marek. He was staring after the figure with a frown of disapproval. As he turned his attention to the service, he caught her eye and shook his head in distaste.

The rabbi finished with a few words of Hebrew. The guests stood in silence, their heads bowed, as he switched to Polish and thanked everyone for attending. He left quietly, his dark shape dissolving into the mist. He was followed by the mourners, who were still muttering to each other about the wreath. The diggers, who hadn’t yet arrived, would have to decide what to do with it.

Dania took Marek’s arm and they followed the guests, trying to avoid colliding with the headstones. It was easy to lose one’s way and, unfortunately, that was what they did. After several minutes of frantic to-ing and fro-ing, they stumbled upon the custodian’s booth. Dania paused at the iron gate to use the hand-washing cup since the water pump no longer worked, then waited as Marek did the same.

It was as they were closing the gate behind them that they heard the blast in the distance. It came from within the cemetery.

Dania pushed against the gate and rushed inside. The custodian had left the booth, and was standing clutching the collar of her coat, her arthritic fingers buried in the fur. She looked around in bewilderment, her gaze finally resting on Dania. Her eyes grew wide with fear.

For an instant, Dania thought she wanted to ask her something, but she turned and stared into the dense fog shrouding the cemetery.

‘Boże mój,’ she whispered, crossing herself.

‘How many of those glasses of champagne are you going to guzzle?’ Dania said, in Polish.

Marek smiled. ‘As many as possible. I’m celebrating, don’t forget.’ He took a sip and closed his eyes, an expression of bliss on his face. ‘I can’t remember when I’ve tasted bubbly as good as this.’

‘I suppose you expect me to carry you home afterwards.’

He opened his eyes. ‘Isn’t that what sisters are for?’

‘It’s certainly what this sister is for.’

They were in the spacious, white-columned reception area on the ground floor of DC Thomson’s Meadowside building. On display in the glass cases were the previously unknown letters between Chopin and his Scottish friend and pupil, Jane Stirling, which Marek had discovered. His research had taken him the best part of a year, necessitating several trips to Warsaw and Paris. Dania remembered this period as one of frenetic activity on the part of her brother, who was single-minded in his pursuit of the letters to the point of ignoring everything – and everyone – else. As a detective, she knew how this felt.

It had come as a surprise to many readers of the Courier that Chopin had visited Scotland not long before his death, and more of a surprise that he’d had a Scottish pupil. The two had met during one of Jane’s trips to Paris, and it wasn’t long before she started piano lessons, tutoring being something for which Chopin was in high demand. In the fullness of time, Jane became his patron, agent and business manager, arranging his concerts and supporting him financially. She was a wealthy woman, having inherited from her parents.

After a brief trip to London, Chopin and Jane travelled to Scotland. But by now, the composer’s illness was taking its toll, although it didn’t prevent him from giving concerts. Eventually, he grew so weak he had to be carried on and off the stage, so he returned to Paris where, a year later, he died. Jane remained in close contact with his elder sister, Ludwika, helping to manage Chopin’s estate and manuscripts, including the posthumous publication of some of his works.

In the few years in which Jane and Chopin had known each other, they had regularly exchanged letters. Some were displayed in museums or were in private hands. But the ones Marek had spent so much time pursuing were the subject of an anonymous tip-off from a Polish contact. This person referred to letters written in 1845, when Chopin was in Paris and Jane in Scotland. They had been in Jane’s possession when she was with him in Paris during the final period of his life. But what had happened to them afterwards was a mystery. They might be in Paris, but the contact was convinced Ludwika had had them with her when she returned to Warsaw.

However, it was not the letters per se that had fuelled Marek’s enthusiasm but what the contact claimed was in them. One letter allegedly referred to an unknown work – a third piano concerto. Could it point to the location of the manuscript? The thought of finding these letters was too much for Marek, who, having convinced his boss of the kudos for the Courier if he were successful, devoted himself to the quest.

After months of searching, he had traced the letters to a location in Warsaw. On his return to Dundee, he’d arranged for an expert to verify their authenticity. Jane Stirling was fluent in French, and had communicated with Chopin, who knew no English, in that language. An academic from the university’s French department, who was able to read the cursive script, had painstakingly translated the letters into English. DC Thomson had agreed to put the six letters and their translations on public display after a private viewing the day before. As Marek’s sister, Dania was one of the lucky few to receive an invitation. The Polish consul general and other dignitaries had arrived from Edinburgh and, above the tinkle of champagne glasses, the main language that could be heard was Polish.

Although the display area was bright and spacious, the lights had been switched on, as November afternoons in Scotland darkened quickly. Dania squinted at the letter in the nearby case. ‘And you have no idea where this manuscript is?’ she said, glancing at Marek.

He shook his head in frustration. ‘If it was in the possession of either Jane or Ludwika, I’m convinced the concerto would have been published posthumously.’ He gestured with his chin. ‘Have you read what Chopin says?’

‘He makes it clear he wishes to have it performed.’ Dania straightened. ‘Interesting he doesn’t say he wants to perform it himself. He might have felt too ill to play a piece as lengthy as a concerto, especially in public.’

‘When do you think he wrote it?’

‘I forget the dates, but his first two concertos were written when he was about twenty. He left Warsaw shortly after. Before the November Uprising.’

‘My history never was as good as yours. Remind me when this particular Uprising took place?’

‘It began in 1830.’

‘You think he wrote this third one around the same time?’

‘I’m inclined to think it was after he’d settled in Paris.’ Dania studied her brother. He throbbed with nervous excitement. ‘You’re going to look for it, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘Wouldn’t you?’ He smiled. ‘Of course you would. I can tell from your face.’

‘So, where will you start? Paris again?’

‘Warsaw. My contact is convinced it’s there.’

‘When are you going?’

‘At the end of the week. I’ll be staying in our parents’ apartment.’

‘What does your boss have to say? You’ve spent nearly a year tracking down the letters. The manuscript is likely to take longer. Assuming it still exists. Remember how Warsaw was obliterated at the end of the war.’

‘And yet those letters were still there. My contact was right about that.’

Dania sipped her champagne. ‘You haven’t told anyone where you found them.’

‘That’s going to be the subject of a longer article.’ He ran his index finger across his lips. ‘Until then, I’m keeping it zipped.’

‘And there was no sign of the manuscript?’

‘I searched the place thoroughly.’

Shortly after Marek’s feature had appeared in the Courier, DC Thomson had been inundated with requests from the international press. And once the letters and their translations had been published, interest had sky-rocketed. And it was interest in the missing manuscript. Consequently, Marek was now a celebrity in Poland as well as in Scotland.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Did I tell you I’ve been contacted privately, and offered a huge sum if I find the concerto and hand it over?’

‘And would you?’

‘Of course not. I intend to give it to the Fryderyk Chopin Museum. I’ve discussed this with my contact, who is warmly enthusiastic about the idea.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And I’ve received an offer of marriage.’

‘Good heavens,’ Dania exclaimed. ‘From whom?’

‘An American. She saw my photo online and said I was Chopin incarnate.’

‘She’s obviously never seen that famous photograph of him. He had dark hair. Yours is the colour of wheat.’

‘Maybe she recognised the romantic in me.’

‘Ah, but maybe she thought you’d find the manuscript, sell it and become filthy rich.’

Marek tried to look shocked. ‘When did you become so cynical, Danka?’

‘When I became a police officer.’

‘Talking of which, how are things down at West Bell Street? Are you close to catching your Polish drug lord?’

‘An interesting way of describing him.’

‘Well, didn’t you say he heads a huge syndicate?’

‘I don’t know how huge. That’s the problem.’

‘What did you say his name was?’

Dania glanced round the room to check they weren’t being overheard. ‘I know him only as Merkury,’ she said, pronouncing it in the Polish way with the accent on the letter u.

‘The Roman god? And do you know how he’s bringing in the stuff?’

‘In transported goods, or within hidden compartments in vehicles. I’ve had a breakthrough.’

‘Someone on the inside?’

‘An informant who’s infiltrated the syndicate. She’s Polish. Told me to call her Magda. I doubt that’s her real name.’

‘She’s taking a huge risk.’

‘She has good reason. Her man died of an overdose.’

‘Of drugs he bought from one of Merkury’s men?’

‘I’m sure of it. Merkury’s close to cornering the market.’

Marek said nothing. If Magda’s role as an informant were to be discovered, she’d end up floating in the river Tay. They’d pulled two bodies out that month. Merkury’s signature was the throat cut from ear to ear. As murder fell within Dania’s remit, she was liaising with the Drugs Squad to bring him to justice.

‘So, do you think Magda can discover Merkury’s identity?’ Marek was saying.

‘He takes no chances. No one uses real names. And they never meet in the same place twice. Phones are handed in at the door so nobody can take photos or record anything, and everyone is searched thoroughly in case they’re wearing wires.’ Dania lowered her voice further. ‘But I’ve got a physical description – wavy mid-brown hair, and pale eyes – although that could describe any of the Poles in Dundee. Magda added that he’s good-looking.’ Dania paused. ‘But there’s one thing that might help us. She happened to walk into the room when he was changing his jumper. She saw something round his neck. A chain with the Syrenka Warszawska.’

The Syrenka, or mermaid, was a symbol of Warsaw, and her statue could be found in several locations in the city. According to legend, a rich merchant imprisoned her, but a young fisherman heard her cries and came to her rescue. Full of gratitude, she promised to provide all fishermen with protection. And, armed with a sword and shield, she extended this protection to the city and its residents.

‘You think he’s from Warsaw?’ Marek said.

‘And known to the police there. Magda told me there have been long periods when he’s vanished. It’s possible he goes back and forth.’

‘Are you thinking of a trip?’

‘I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. She’s come up with a plan.’

‘To uncover his identity?’

‘To catch him red-handed. He’s taking in a shipment. I’m meeting her later to get the details.’

Marek was silent for a moment. ‘Be careful, Danka. People like Merkury don’t play nice.’ There was anxiety in his voice. ‘Look, can you not leave this to the Drugs Squad?’

‘He’s wanted for murder. I intend to arrest him.’ Dania set down her glass. ‘There’s another reason I need to be there. If we can sneak in when he’s picking up the shipment, we might hear something to our advantage.’

Marek made a gesture to indicate she was talking nonsense. ‘Why not let the Drugs Squad do that?’

‘None of the Drugs Squad speaks Polish.’

‘And his people are Poles?’

‘Most are, according to Magda.’ Dania glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go. I don’t want to be late.’

Marek gripped her arm, then released it reluctantly.

‘It’s all right, Marek. Nothing will happen to me.’ She felt her lips twitch. ‘Anyway, if it does, I’ve been to Confession, so I’m covered.’

It was the wrong thing to say. He stared at her with a stricken expression.

‘I’ll just say goodbye to the consul general,’ she murmured.

It was nearly 6 p. m. before Dania reached Kingsway West retail park. She’d arrived early but Magda had arrived earlier. Neither woman wanted to miss the other as a no-show would signal something was seriously wrong, leaving open the possibility the other would disappear. So, each had developed the habit of reaching the agreed meeting place earlier and earlier until it bordered on becoming ridiculous.

Dania let her informants choose the time and place. It was less that it made them feel trusted, and more that she’d given up trying to find suitable venues. Magda had come up with a range of locations, all large stores. They’d developed a technique where they wouldn’t speak directly, or look at one another. Their attention was on what was on the shelves, and their conversation was in snippets as they passed. They spoke in English, as Polish would have attracted attention. Magda never wavered from this protocol. And, in all the time Dania had known her, she had never used a mobile. She mistrusted technology. Whenever she wished to get in touch, she left a particular item in the window of the Dundee Contemporary Arts gift shop, where she worked part time. The item would specify the location, and the meeting was to be the same day at 6.30 p.m. The system wasn’t foolproof – on one occasion, when Magda was on a break, another assistant had sold the item, with the result that Dania missed the appointment. Today, however, the green whale indicated they’d be meeting at Tesco.

Dania spotted Magda as soon as she was through the door. That tousle of red hair, which looked impossible to comb, was unmistakable, as were the patterned jeans. She couldn’t see Magda’s face but knew the skin was heavily lined, the mark of a five-pack-a-day smoker. The woman was at the newspaper rack, flicking through a magazine and ignoring the leaflets dropping onto the floor. As Dania wheeled her trolley, she brushed against her, then murmured a rapid apology. Remembering Magda’s Tesco-based instructions, she headed towards the fruit and veg. A short while later, Magda approached and paused to inspect the satsumas. As she reached across, her face not far from Dania’s, she murmured something, her gaze not wavering from the fruit, which she picked up and scrutinised. She counted six into a paper bag, and shoved it into the trolley.

Dania selected a bag of apples, then made her way to the tinned food, passing Magda who was heading in the opposite direction. Dania picked up a tin of plum tomatoes before wheeling her trolley to the alcohol section, stopping en route for more items. As she stood gazing at the bottles of vodka, Magda passed, clanging her trolley against Dania’s. She extricated it with an embarrassed apology, then murmured the rest of her instructions. She took two bottles of Wyborowa, and disappeared down the aisle.

Dania finished shopping, paid for her groceries, and left. Her heart was pounding. She now had the information she needed to nail Merkury.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to leave it to us, ma’am?’ the sergeant was saying. ‘I don’t need to tell you things might get rough.’

‘I understand,’ Dania said, ‘but my informant is likely to be present, and I promised her I’d be there.’

The man looked doubtful. He had a solid, muscular build, as did his companions. They were dressed in riot gear and one was carrying a heavy-duty battering ram.

‘And you’ll need someone who can speak Polish,’ she added, sensing she wasn’t making a strong enough case.

The officer ran a hand over his stubble. ‘I don’t expect there’ll be much in the way of conversation when we go in, eh,’ he said, with a crooked smile. ‘But it’s your call.’

‘Thanks. I know how important this raid is to you.’

‘Aye, well, we’ve been waiting a long time to catch this particular gang. And catching them in the act of taking in a shipment gives us a good chance of getting intel on those higher up.’

‘I promise I won’t get in your way.’

‘Best to stay behind us,’ he said. He jerked his head at his companions. They filed out and clambered into the two waiting vans. Dania joined the sergeant in the front vehicle.

It didn’t take them long to reach Hawkhill, a district where people had once hunted with hawks. The buildings gave way to trees, their leaves long since fallen and swept away. They passed the Whitehall Theatre and were soon driving through the sprawl of industrial outlets. The road led westward, and would eventually become Perth Road. But well before then, the driver signalled right and turned on to Peddie Street.

‘You know this area, ma’am?’ the sergeant said.

‘I attend Mass at St Joseph’s on Wilkie’s Lane.’

‘You think this Polish gang leader attends, too?’

‘I doubt it, somehow.’

‘You can ask him when we get the cuffs on.’

‘I’ve got more important questions,’ she said wryly.

The officer grinned, causing the wrinkles crosshatching the corners of his eyes to deepen. He had an open, friendly expression, which confused those he was questioning. Dania had seen him in action in the interrogation room. He never lost it, and therefore got his man every time.

They passed the purple-painted Hawkhill Tavern, and the NHS Day Hospital. On the left was a four-storey stone building that bristled with satellite dishes, indicating it had been converted into flats. In contrast, the single-storey brick structure opposite was part of the industrial estate.

The commercial unit they were after was roughly halfway along. The van behind stopped, and the men piled out and took up position facing the main entrance. But, according to Magda, the sale would take place at the back, where the service entrances were located, and that was where the sergeant’s van was headed.

At this time of the afternoon, the gates to the estate were open. They drove through, and turned left.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Dania murmured.

The sergeant looked hard at her. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘The shutters to these units are down. And the doors are padlocked.’

‘That’s normal,’ the driver chipped in, over his shoulder. ‘They’re only open when deliveries are made, ken.’

But Dania couldn’t shake the feeling they were sailing into disaster. The sergeant was studying her, wondering perhaps whether she’d be a liability when the moment came.

‘This is it,’ the driver said, pulling up outside a red door. The padlock was hanging open.

The sergeant glanced at his watch. ‘We’re bang on time. They should still be inside.’

He repeated his instructions quickly. And then everything happened with lightning speed. The men jumped out of the van, sprinted towards the back door, and positioned themselves on either side. At a nod from the sergeant, the officer with the battering ram slammed it into the door. It flew open and, with shouts of ‘Police!’ they rushed inside.

The large, dimly lit storage room smelt of sawdust and old wool. Sample carpet rolls in every colour were stacked against one wall in such a way that the slightest touch would bring them tumbling. Against the opposite wall were several large boxes, one of which was split at the side, spilling grey-green carpet tiles onto the floor. The only other items in the room were a desk and chairs. Behind the desk was a door, which presumably led to the visitors’ area.

‘He’s flown the coop,’ the sergeant muttered. He slammed his hand against the wall. ‘How the hell did they know we were coming?’

Dania ran her hands through her hair. ‘Maybe he changed the arrangement and didn’t tell my informant.’

‘What’s her role in the organisation?’

‘Merkury gives her packets to sell. She pours the powder down the toilet and gives him the money I leave for her in a dead drop. She’s been doing that for about six months.’

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. ‘When did you last meet with her?’

‘Four days ago, in Tesco.’

‘Could your conversation have been overheard?’

Dania shook her head firmly.

‘Could she have been followed?’

Tesco had been crowded. It was possible Merkury had put a tail on Magda. But why would he suspect her?

‘Sarge!’ one of the men shouted. He was standing at the door to the visitors’ room. ‘You need to see this.’ He glanced at Dania, then dropped his gaze.

She made to push past the sergeant, but he grasped her arm. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘It may not be safe.’ He disappeared into the room. A few moments later, he came to the door and beckoned to her.

The men were standing staring at a thick roll of beige carpet. Blood had seeped through the fabric onto the floor, where it had pooled in a wide circle.

The sergeant nodded at the men. A broad-shouldered giant stepped forward and, gripping the edge of the carpet, unrolled it. The metallic stench of blood grew stronger.

‘God Almighty,’ someone murmured.

Dania had seen Merkury’s handiwork before, although by the time the bodies were pulled out of the Tay, they were bloated beyond recognition. That was not the case here. And the red hair and patterned jeans, still identifiable despite being soaked through with blood, told her immediately who this was. She was familiar with victims who’d had their throats cut, and had even seen it done. The gash quickly filled with a line of blood, but was rarely deeper than necessary, especially when administered by an expert. This incision, however, was so vicious that Magda’s head was almost severed. But it was the look of terror on the woman’s face that sent a shiver racing down Dania’s spine.

‘Is that your informant?’ the sergeant said.

‘You’re right. She must have been followed.’

‘And that means Merkury will know we’re close to collaring him, right enough.’

‘He’ll be wondering how much she’s told us.’ Dania glanced at the bruises on Magda’s face. ‘Unless, of course, he managed to beat it out of her.’

‘And what do you think his reaction would have been? Apart from cutting her throat.’

‘It must have rattled him. He can’t be sure we’ve not uncovered his identity.’

‘Maybe he’ll move on and start up somewhere else, eh.’

‘Or go back to Poland. And take his people with him.’

Dania pulled on her gloves and, ignoring the blood on the floor, knelt beside Magda. ‘I remember Milo Slaughter saying the larger muscles are the last to be affected by rigor mortis.’

‘Is that the Slaughterman?’ someone said.

Professor Milo Slaughter’s surname had landed him with this unfortunate nickname. He was either unaware of it, or it didn’t bother him. Knowing the man, Dania would have put a wager on the latter.

She felt Magda’s thigh muscles. ‘Her leg’s completely rigid. I’m not an expert but I think it means she’s been dead for several hours. The blood congealing suggests it, too.’ She got to her feet. ‘He usually throws his victims’ bodies into the river. We were intended to find her.’

‘He’s laughing at us,’ the sergeant said, gritting his teeth. ‘The wee shite.’

‘I’ll call it in.’

‘You’re not thinking you’ve let her down, are you?’ he asked, in a soft voice.

‘I know I have.’

‘If she was tailed to your meeting place, they already suspected her, eh. She must have slipped up, somehow.’

‘That doesn’t make me feel better.’ Dania ripped off her gloves. She pulled out her phone and called Milo first, then West Bell Street.

‘We’ll have to search the place for drugs,’ the sergeant said, ‘although my guess is business was conducted elsewhere. Or is being conducted as we speak.’

But Dania doubted it. Something told her that Merkury, suspecting the police were closing in, had wrapped up everything and left Dundee for good. So, where had he gone? And then she remembered her conversation with Magda, and how the woman had spotted the Syrenka Warszawska round his neck. The Syrenka Warszawska – the mermaid of Warsaw.

Dania rang West Bell Street again, and instructed her staff to check recent flights from Edinburgh to Warsaw. She had her answer a quarter of an hour later. Although there were always Poles travelling to Warsaw, a block booking for eight people had been made the previous day. The flight had left Edinburgh more than five hours earlier. Direct flights took about two and a half hours. Merkury and his crew would have landed by now. And there was no point in wasting time on names. Magda had confirmed the Poles had false passports from many European countries, and several for Poland.

‘So, what will you do now, ma’am?’ the sergeant said.

‘I’m going home to pack a suitcase.’

Inspector Maksymilian Robak was slouched in the chair, his arms crossed, his head tilted to the side. His expression was not unfriendly but he was studying Dania closely, having dropped her passport onto the table. They were in an interview room in Warsaw’s police headquarters at Mostowski Palace. The palace had once been the seat of the Tsarist authorities, then the Polish army, and then the civic militia, but Dania knew it as one of the places where Chopin had given concerts. After the Second . . .