‘What about his friendship with Dieter Benz?’
Mathilde’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What friendship? Lars told you about Dieter?’ She stared at me as if I’d suddenly found the ability to speak fluent German.
‘You knew him?’
‘Everyone knows him. Dieter was and always will be a creep.’
‘And a revolutionary, according to Lars.’
Mathilde’s face screwed up in disgust. ‘Dieter casts himself as a romantic freedom fighter, a nationalist. It is easy, is it not, in these uncertain times, to assume such roles?’
‘So why was Lars involved with Dieter?’
‘He wasn’t,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘Lars loathed Dieter. He thought he was cunning and untrustworthy.’
‘Lars shared his radical ideas.’ I was running on fumes with this.
‘That’s crap. Lars didn’t have a political bone in his body.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Mathilde looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and derision. ‘How long did you know him?’
I shrugged. It was a fair point. Silence opened up between us. It gave me time to think. I’d pushed her hard because this woman had known Lars well. She knew his beliefs and what he stood for. Lars would have to be highly motivated to take the type of risks McCallen demanded of him. Penetrating a right-wing group prone to violence led by someone like Benz required nerve and skill, and Lars didn’t sound the type or up to the mark. I wondered in fairly graphic detail what McCallen had done to corrupt and charm Lars into doing her dirty work.
Mathilde took a long drink of beer. Her hand shook and the bangles on her wrist rattled. She looked away then looked back, as if gathering herself.
The food arrived. Mathilde picked up a fork and speared a piece of sausage. ‘Gisela mentioned that you were in Russia when Lars was killed.’
I took a mouthful, chewed and swallowed. ‘I travel often to St Petersburg. I’m principally interested in iconic art, although I have a number of artists with whom I do business who paint other forms. They get a better price through me,’ I explained. ‘What type of art do you do?’
‘Conceptual.’ To me, this meant a pile of bricks, stuffed fish and dirty knickers. Mathilde rummaged through her bag and rooted out a typically arty business card and handed it to me. I made a play of studying it. ‘Different from Lars, then.’ I’d checked him out. He’d specialised in exquisite figurative work, women in all shapes and sizes, beautiful, some exotic, each oozing sexuality, stuff I could get my head around and wouldn’t mind hanging on my walls. I briefly wondered whether McCallen had posed for him.
A fleeting smile touched Mathilde’s lips. ‘He was extremely talented.’
I pocketed the card, left another pause, hoping that she would reveal a detail that would help clear the fog in my head. She didn’t. I continued to eat. The dish was flavoursome and earthy, like McCallen’s laugh. Hell, was I going to corner her when I got back.
Eventually, I rolled the conversation on once more. ‘You remain close to the Pallenbergs?’
‘I do.’ Her voice trailed. I could see that she remained deeply hurt by what had happened to her.
‘I’m sorry.’ And I genuinely was.
She shot me an angry glance. ‘You know the damn woman never even made it to his funeral?’ She meant McCallen.
‘I didn’t know that.’ It sounded thin. I knew it. She knew it. The smiley exterior slipped.
‘How well do you know Miss Spencer?’
‘I know her professionally, nothing more. She’d passed on several of Lars’s paintings to me. It’s how I originally met him.’
‘Which pieces of work?’ There was a suspicious light in her eyes. And she wasn’t buying Lars’s ‘caught in crossfire’ death any more than the rest of us. She wasn’t buying me either. I reeled off the titles itemised in the file.
‘She is who she says she is?’ Mathilde threw me a fierce look.
I blinked and remained impassive. ‘Who?’
‘Lorna Spencer.’
‘I don’t understand.’ My fork was poised mid-air as I gave my best impression of confusion. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a stretch.
‘She looks good on paper, but that’s it,’ Mathilde said with venom. ‘The art world is small. Nobody I know has ever heard of her.’
I forced a smile. ‘I assure you, her credentials are sound.’
Her eyes met mine. She didn’t say it but I knew what she was thinking: How good are yours? I leant towards her.
‘What do you think really happened to Lars?’
‘She bewitched him.’
I understood. I’d been fairly bewitched myself and that was dangerous. Emotions kill.
Mathilde looked around the bar, dropped her voice a note. ‘She got him involved in something, something that led to his murder,’ she hissed.
I put down my knife and fork. ‘That’s a fairly heavy statement.’
She smiled without warmth. ‘How else do you explain his death?’
‘He got unlucky. The banker was the prime target, I understand.’
She cast me a look that was cool and bitter. ‘Did you know that Lars was afraid for his life?’
‘No.’
‘Ach, of course, you were away.’
In spite of her German intonation, I detected sarcasm. ‘He spoke to you about it?’
She nodded. ‘None of it made sense. He claimed that someone had stolen stuff from his studio in Berlin and that he was being followed.’
‘Here?’
‘In London.’
‘Did he say who by?’
‘It was more a feeling he had.’ She pushed her plate away. She’d hardly touched the food. ‘One night he phoned and told me that someone had tried to kill him on the Underground. I wondered if he’d been smoking too much weed.’
So Lars wasn’t lying. I floated my next question as though it was an interesting hypothesis. ‘Do you think Benz is connected to his death?’
Shock flashed across her face. ‘Why must you persist with this …’ She broke off, searching for the word, ‘… this absurdity? You have an English saying, “thinking outside the box”. Lars was a man who thought creatively. Lars had no interest in politics. He found it a distraction. Art was everything to him. At least, it used to be,’ she said, with a sigh of unhappiness.
I finished my plate of food, drained my drink. ‘Do you know where I can find Dieter Benz?’
She flicked the fingers in a gesture of frustration
‘Please, Mathilde, I’d like to help you.’
‘Help me do what?’
‘Find Lars’s killer.’
She leant across the table. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Call it justice, a British sense of fair play. The police are looking in the wrong direction.’
‘I agree.’ She eyed me carefully for a moment then picked up the fork and idly pushed the congealed remains around the plate.
‘You can meet Dieter in person,’ she said with an empty smile.