Block 46 Page 2

  Where were the sons, the daughters, the wives of these men? Where were Erich’s parents? And his friends; his university colleagues? What was the destination of this hellish journey? He’d overheard the SS officers mentioning Ettersberg Forest. That meant they must be close to Weimar, in Thuringia; close to the hill where Goethe enjoyed walking amongst the beeches, thinking of Charlotte von Stein.

  The soldiers came to a halt in front of a gate. The one leading the column read aloud the inscription carved above the metal doors:

  ‘Jedem das Seine!’

  To each his own. Suum cuique. As if these men, on the threshold of death, were in a position to appreciate the irony of such a philosophical statement.

  All of a sudden, someone screeched loudly.

  Erich looked to his left and noticed a soldier standing tall, his hand raised. A naked man was moaning, curled up on the ground.

  ‘Aufstehen!’

  The man remained where he was, his body shaking with spasms.

  ‘Aufstehen, du verdammte Rastte!’ The soldier’s arm fell across his victim.

  Erich then realised what the hand was holding: a stone. The Nazi hit the poor guy until the stone was lodged inside the shattered skull, then stepped around the body and rejoined the head of the convoy.

  The walk resumed, to the enduring rhythm of the periodic beatings and the sprightly music.

  Erich tried to swallow down the ball of fear growing inside his throat. He looked down at his bloodied feet, wondering when, if ever, they would be provided with food and drink. He was already salivating at the thought of a stream of cool water running down his throat.

  Ten minutes later, they stopped in front of a large shed. Rest must be coming.

  But when Erich entered the building, he could see neither the piles of clothes nor the meal they were expecting. He froze in shock, aghast. A prisoner standing behind him nudged him forward towards a brown-haired man wielding clippers. As the implement ran repeatedly over Erich’s skull, his delicate straw-coloured hair fell with painful grace to the ground, where it joined the darker curls already spread there.

  Finished with Erich’s head, the man took hold of a razor and ran it over his armpits, his arms, his torso and his legs. When the blade reached his penis, Erich closed his eyes. The humiliation had drained all his energy. He meekly positioned his head when his ears were inspected. His mouth was held open, revealing his parched throat. His lips were dry and bleeding by now.

  He was then led, under a barrage of truncheons, towards a gigantic water tub. A strong kick to his backside pushed him into it. He immediately recognised the smell of phenol. He felt as if his skin was catching fire. He dunked himself under, as ordered by a smiling SS officer, closing his mouth and eyes, then exited the liquid the moment he got the nod. When he reached the jet of cold water that came next, he couldn’t help but open his mouth, forgetting how his whole body burned.

  The guy from the train had been right. It was indeed hell that was greeting them at the end of their journey. But a thoroughly well-organised hell.

  Hampstead Village, London

  Saturday, 11 January 2014, 16.45

  ALEXIS PULLED HER SHEATH DRESS up her thighs and almost to the point of indecency, before climbing into the cab with as much elegance as she could muster, considering the outfit she was wearing. She was still flustered from having run down the stairs from her second-floor apartment in high heels. Getting into the cab hadn’t improved matters. She heaved a deep sigh as she lowered herself onto the seat.

  ‘175 New Bond Street, please,’ she called out, adjusting the dress across her legs.

  The driver went down Fitzjohn’s Avenue and continued along Avenue Road. A few minutes later, they were crossing into Regent’s Park.

  Alexis peered through the cab window. The outlines of the John Nash white stucco terraces stood out against the soot-coloured sky. By now, the park was darkening and the London winter was taking on a Scandinavian air.

  The cab braked to make way for a few women joggers. With admiration and a smidgeon of envy, Alexis followed the passage of the trainer-clad amazons. Striding triumphantly, they braved the damp cold, running through the thin rain which, with grey streaks, shaded the late afternoon. She pulled up the collar of her coat and shivered in reaction. It brushed against her earrings: two pearls set against a red-gold pin designed by her friend, Linnéa Blix.

  She had difficulty swallowing and rubbed her throat.

  Linnéa had created a collection of jewels for Cartier that was to be launched this very evening in the presence of a handpicked set of exclusive clients. Linnéa had been due to meet up with Alba at the New Bond Street store in the middle of the afternoon, but had not shown up and couldn’t be reached. It was true that Linnéa had, at best, a somewhat elastic notion of time, but she would never have missed a business meeting.

  ‘Miss?’

  The cab had come to a halt in front of Cartier’s. Alexis settled her fare and disembarked from the vehicle, making a clumsy sidestep to avoid a puddle. She barely had time to set foot on the red carpet leading to the store’s entrance before an umbrella was unfurled over her head and sheltered her as she made her way to the door.

  Paul Vidal, Alba’s husband, was waiting inside, facing another set of doors leading to an impressive staircase. He was nervously moving his weight from foot to foot, like a stilt-bird in a pond, albeit with an elegance that came as a surprise for a man of his size. When he saw her, his smile was radiant and he gave her a short but tender embrace, completed by a quick kiss on the cheek. His ‘store manager’ persona was already switched on for the occasion.

  As they separated, he whispered sombrely in her ear, ‘She’s still not here.’

  Alexis’ throat tightened again.

  Damn it. Where could Linnéa be?

  Paul’s tone quickly switched to its light-hearted, commercial mode to greet the Russian clients standing patiently behind Alexis.

  ‘Madam, may I show you the way to the boardroom?’

  The voice that said this was discreet, clear and crystalline. Alexis turned towards it. A thin-waisted, dark-haired young girl was smiling at her with genuine kindness. Alexis followed her, taking care with every step where she placed her vertiginously high heels.

  At the top of the stairs, a mirrored door opened onto a high-ceilinged room. Alexis quickly noticed Alba, in full discussion with an Asian couple.

  Alexis wanted to sit down with her friend and with undue, almost adolescent haste, talk of Linnéa – ‘gossip away like schoolkids’, as Paul often put it, in jest. She wanted to share her anxiety, add Alba’s to hers, escalate the worry, dream up ridiculous and melodramatic theories that could put Hollywood to shame; only to then burst out laughing when Linnéa made her appearance, improbably dressed, her mass of blonde hair tightened into a chignon on the top of her head, and madly apologetic at having missed her flight … But, tonight, it seemed that Alba would not be able to spare Alexis a single minute; she moved from client to client – there was no chance of speaking to her. Alexis would have to control her own stress, then. Linnéa would surely show up.

  She accepted the champagne glass a sylph-like waitress offered her and took an initial sip as she moved into the conference hall. The delicate bubbles of the champagne washed over her palate.

  Alexis took the room in. The expensive furniture, the resplendent, finely chiselled cornices, the heavy curtains brushing against the herringbone parquet floor – it all reminded her of grand old days. As if General de Gaulle was still wandering across this room, which had been, during the war and his London exile, his office. Some even believed his famous 18th of June speech had been written between these four walls.

  In the room’s very centre, a large cube surrounded by a cloak of red velvet seemed to hang, almost levitating in the air. In all likelihood it was the display unit containing Linnéa’s collection. In each corner stood golden, circular birdcages displaying the sumptuous creations of Jeanne Toussaint. After designing han
dbags for Coco Chanel, the Belgian designer had run Cartier’s high-end jewellery range for more than forty years.

  Alexis set her empty glass down on a gold platter and stepped towards the birdcage in which the more prestigious pieces from the Panther collection were being exhibited.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen…’

  Paul had begun his speech. Obediently, the thirty or so guests turned to him.

  ‘It’s a great honour for Cartier tonight to introduce to you this preview of a new collection, designed and handmade by our new creator, Linnéa Blix, in celebration of the seventieth anniversary of France’s liberation. Cartier is not just a witness to history…’

  Alexis looked around for Alba. Her friend was listening attentively to her husband’s speech. She stood by a stocky, white-haired man whose shape was elegantly flattered by a Savile Row suit. Alexis recognised Richard Anselme, a diamond merchant and Linnéa’s very own Pygmalion.

  Alexis moved her weight from one heel to another to compensate for her discomfort.

  Linnéa must have missed her flight. Twice a year, she exiled herself in Falkenberg, on the west coast of Sweden. She mostly stayed out of touch during the course of these retreats, what she called her ‘spoiled brat indulgence’.

  Alexis shook her head to banish any alarming thoughts and continued listening to Paul’s speech.

  ‘…During the occupation, Jeanne Toussaint displayed a piece the colours of the French flag, and in the shape of a bird imprisoned in a cage, in the window of the Cartier shop in Paris. Unsurprisingly, this audacious gesture attracted the wrath of the occupying forces, and Toussaint had to endure several days in prison. In 1944, Jeanne Toussaint celebrated the liberation of the capital by helping the bird out of its cage. A symbol of a free France.’

  Paul marked a theatrical pause and gazed at his audience.

  ‘It’s also Jeanne Toussaint who Cartier are celebrating in the new creations we are unveiling tonight. Tomorrow morning, the collection will be introduced to the press in Paris and will go on display in the windows of our rue de la Paix store, where she who was called “the Panther” displayed The Bird in a Cage seventy years ago.’

  Paul raised his arms with all the authority of a conductor.

  ‘Please.’

  The red-velvet cloth poured down the walls of the display unit with all the quiet arrogance of a wanton woman finally undressing in front of her lover. The crowd rushed forward.

  Alexis was about to follow in their wake when she noticed Peter Templeton, Linnéa’s partner, standing by the door. His eyes were frantically scanning the crowd.

  Alexis’ heart jumped so hard she felt she would faint.

  Home of Linnéa Blix, Sloane Square, London

  Saturday, 11 January 2014, 21.00

  PETER WAS SITTING at the table in the dining room of his apartment. His empty eyes moved from his hands to the candle holder sitting in the centre of the table. He’d gone to Cartier to fetch Linnéa. But she wasn’t there. She hadn’t turned up to the event she had spent months talking about. The evening of her triumph. Maybe she’s still in Sweden? Alexis had suggested with a nervous smile. Maybe.

  He watched as Alexis, still in her evening dress and holding the mobile phone to her ear, paced an invisible line between the two sash windows. Staring at the floor, she was listening to the police officer on the other end, pinching her lips between thumb and forefinger. As he answered her, her hand ran through the air, tracing shapes like cigarette smoke.

  She wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, grabbed her notebook from the table and took note of an e-mail address. She thanked the police officer and hung up.

  ‘Peter, do you have a photo of Linnéa that we could forward to the police?’

  He looked round at Alexis. His face was twitching. In the space of a few hours, his cheeks had sunk and his normally tanned features had turned grey. He slowly rose, left the dining room and returned with his own mobile phone, which he handed over to Alexis. At the same moment, a bell rang sharply. Peter walked sluggishly to the door.

  A minute later, he came back, Alba in his wake.

  Alba was no longer wearing her jewellery and had swapped her heels for flats that looked suspiciously like slippers. Her centre-parted brown hair was tied at the back, making her look like a schoolgirl. Her make-up had all the signs of an end-of-evening battle zone: her foundation had sunk deep into the small lines circling her eyes and her mascara was frittering away, highlighting the signs of her fatigue. The short ponytail lengthened her already oblong features, and the tired make-up made her look like someone in mourning. Alba put a hand to her forehead as if checking her temperature.

  Alexis greeted her friend with a tense smile.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with the police,’ she said. ‘I’ve just sent them two photos of Linnéa.’

  ‘Have they checked if she was on the passenger manifest for this morning’s Gothenburg-to-London flight?’

  ‘They’re onto it and will call me back.’

  Alba nodded. She slowly walked to the couch, peering around at the surroundings with courteous curiosity. Peter and Linnéa had moved in four months earlier, but neither she nor Alexis had visited their new apartment yet. Her gaze settled on a frame standing on the redwood sideboard – a sketch of Linnéa’s depicting a diadem.

  Alba looked away and unbuttoned her coat, then kicked her slippers off and curled up between the cushions, drawing her heels back under her body. Peter took his place at the table again while Alexis, like a sleepwalker, continued pacing between the two windows. Each was imprisoned inside their own silence. Like actors frozen on a stage, waiting for the curtain to be raised.

  Then, suddenly, the phone in Alexis’ hands vibrated and she brought it to her ear.

  When she hung up a few minutes later, Peter and Alba were anxiously looking back at her.

  ‘Her flight landed at Heathrow this morning, but she wasn’t on board.’

  Silence fell on the room like a lead weight.

  Alba straightened out. The leather couch beneath her groaned.

  ‘Have they—’

  ‘Yes,’ Alexis interrupted her. ‘They’ve checked. She wasn’t on any of the day’s other flights. Or any of yesterday’s either.’

  Heathrow Airport, London

  Sunday, 12 January 2014, 18.45

  ALEXIS BUCKLED UP and took hold of Peter’s hand. Normally charismatic, Peter was now like a helpless child. Anxiety had undermined his self-assurance, bowing his shoulders. His eyes were fixed on the plane’s window. Hailstones hammered against the wing as if kids with pebbles were using the A320 Airbus for target practice. Alexis looked over at Alba sitting on the other side of the aisle. They stared for a moment, each giving the other a hopeless smile.

  The previous evening, the British missing-persons bureau had been in touch with the Falkenberg police, and the Swedes had immediately despatched a patrol to Linnéa’s home. No one had answered the door. They had managed to peer through the window, but nothing appeared to be out of order. Swedish police were now about to set in motion a preliminary enquiry into Linnéa’s disappearance; then they would decide whether to break in or not.

  Unwilling to remain in London awaiting news of his partner, Peter had decided to travel to Falkenberg as soon as possible. Neither Alexis nor Alba had been keen to let him make the journey alone.

  They’d had to wait until they could find seats. It was as if all twenty-five thousand Swedes living in London had decided to fly home that same weekend. They were due to land in Gothenburg around ten and were expected at the Falkenberg police station on Monday morning at eight.

  Peter’s hand held Alexis’ in a tight grip.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he asked, his eyes fixed on the tarmac outside. ‘What am I going to do if…?’

  His mouth was dry and his voice muted. He fell silent.

  Alexis stroked his arm to cheer him up. She could have reassured him by declaring that she was convinced that Linnéa was OK. B
ut she was tired of reassurances. Riven by anxiety, the words felt untrue. There was still no news and it augured badly. That was the evidence. The mere thought of it was like fingering a scar. Best give him an affectionate touch, Alexis thought. It was less hypocritical.

  ‘That’s the way she is, you understand,’ he said, his eyes staring at the armrest separating them. ‘She enjoys her “me time”. When she goes to Sweden, it’s to enjoy the rest. She does send me messages from time to time, but … if I’m the one to call … well, you know the way she is when she’s there…’

  He rubbed his hand against his frowning forehead.

  ‘Do you think I should have been more worried, Alexis? That I should have called the police earlier?’

  ‘No, Peter, not at all. There was no reason to worry. None whatsoever.’

  It was the answer he was hoping for. Absolution.

  He nodded, reassured by her words, leaned his neck back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

  Alexis turned towards Alba. Her friend was dozing, her head nodding from side to side.

  She looked at her watch. Just about 19.00. Another thirteen hours to go before they would know. Thirteen hours before any answers might be revealed.

  Torsviks småbåtshamn, Falkenberg, Sweden

  Sunday, 12 January 2014, 21.00

  UNAFFECTED BY THE WIND beating harshly against his face, Kommissionar Lennart Bergström was rushing down the snowy dune two steps at a time, his path lit up by his torch.

  Further down, frozen and empty, the small pleasure marina was as unrecognisable as an old friend who’d long lost contact: winter had scared the boats away and swallowed up the banks of reeds. Huddling against a wooden shed, a wide white tent had been erected. Two police officers stood on either side of it. The picturesque landscape of the småbåtshamn was quite spoiled by this intrusion.