Читать книгу The Forest of Souls - Carla Banks - Страница 9

The caller had stayed on the line long enough for a trace. The call had come from somewhere in the remote hills on the far side of the dams. It was a lonely place, used by walkers and picnickers in the summer, but isolated through the winter months. The hills tended to mask phone signals. There was only a small area in which a mobile would work reliably. The trace centred on the one building in this area, a house that was marked on the map as ‘The Old Hall’.

According to the records, the owner of the house had died recently, and it was empty, under the care of court-appointed executors.

The number of the mobile gave no clues. The house looked like the most promising location. There was a caretaker in residence and the phone was still connected. No one responded when the number was called.

But just after nine, before a car could be despatched, another call came through. This time, someone spoke. It was a male voice, incoherent with panic. ‘She’s dead! Please, you’ve got to…I didn’t…She’s dead!’ He could barely get the words out.

The operator’s training took over. Her voice became calm and matter-of-fact. ‘Where are you?’

‘The library. In the library. She’s…’

‘I need to know where you are,’ the operator said again. ‘We’ll get someone to you. Tell me where you are.’

‘It’s too late.’

The voice moved from panic to leaden certainty. For a few seconds, he was silent, and they thought they’d lost the connection, then he came on the line again and gave them the location.

The Old Hall.

It was after a car had been dispatched that the full details of the second call were checked. The first call had come through on an unregistered cell phone. It was a pay-as-you-go, and they hadn’t been able to link it to a name.

The phone on which the young man, half-weeping, had begged for help was not the same phone. It was later in the day that they managed to get a name for it. It belonged to a woman called Helen Kovacs.

Jake Denbigh checked the A-Z that was open on the seat beside him, and swung his car round the next turning, into a crescent where the houses were set back among the trees and behind tall hedges. He parked and got out of the car, checking numbers on the gateposts.

Marek Lange’s house looked neglected. The gate was open, collapsed on its hinges, pushed back against the overgrowing shrubs. The drive was rutted and muddy, last autumn’s leaves trodden into the ground. The front of the house was thick with ivy that obscured some of the upstairs windows. The ground-floor windows were under siege from privet and laurel that pressed against the glass. Lange must like his privacy. Jake rang the doorbell and stepped back, looking up at the house. Add a few thorns, a turret or two, and Prince Charming could hack his way through into the enchanted castle where the sleeping princess…

The door opened suddenly, and a woman stood there. She was short and thick-set, and her face was unwelcoming. The princess was out, but apparently the wicked witch was at home. Was this Lange’s granddaughter? It couldn’t be. This woman must be in her late forties at least. The daughter? Unlikely. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Jake Denbigh. Mr Lange is expecting me.’

‘He didn’t say anything to me about it.’ The woman shrugged. ‘You’d better come in.’

Definitely not the daughter. Not the guardian relative at all. He followed the woman–who hadn’t introduced herself–across the dim vestibule where the stairway ran up to a half-landing. The house was cold, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. A man was coming down the stairs, moving with a slight shuffle.

‘Mr Lange?’ It had to be Marek Lange. He was a tall man, well built, but with the stoop of age. He was wearing a cardigan and heavy trousers. He had bedroom slippers on his feet. Jake held out his hand. ‘I’m Jake Denbigh. It’s good of you to see me.’

The old man settled his glasses on his nose and subjected Jake to a close scrutiny. His eyes were a faded blue and his hair was white, but still thick. His face was severe, but whatever he saw must have satisfied him because he held out his hand in response to Jake’s. ‘You are early.’

‘I thought the traffic would be worse than it was,’ Jake said.

Lange nodded once, accepting Jake’s explanation. ‘You would like coffee?’ he asked. He took Jake’s coat–which Jake was reluctant to relinquish in the chill–and held it out to the woman, who must be some kind of help, Jake decided. There was no sign of the guardian relative.

He declined the offer of coffee. He didn’t trust what might emerge from any kitchen run by the grim-faced woman. Lange opened a door and led the way through. Jake followed him. The room in which he found himself overlooked the back of the house. It smelled of dust and age, but it was large and well proportioned, with French windows looking out over the garden.

The garden was overshadowed by trees, except for a small lawn and a flowerbed close to the window. Lange gestured towards two heavy armchairs that stood on either side of the fireplace, and Jake sat down, running his eyes over the bookcase that filled the alcove beside the chimney-breast. The books were without jackets, and the writing on the spines was faded, but Jake thought he could see at least one that was written in Cyrillic script. The shelves were dusty.

‘So…’ Lange’s eyebrows came together as he studied Jake. ‘How can I help you?’

Jake had been over this once already on the phone, but he was used to the forgetfulness of old age. ‘I’m writing an article about people who came to this country during the war,’ he began.

Lange waved this aside impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, you already tell me this. People who came to this country during the war–there are many such. So, Mr Denbigh, I ask you again: How can I help you?’

Jake suppressed an appreciative grin and reminded himself that old though Lange was, he had been a ruthless and successful businessman in his day. ‘I wanted the experiences of someone who’d built up a successful operation like yours from scratch, in a strange country. I wanted to talk to you about what it was like starting again.’

Lange cleaned his glasses as he thought about this. A book that had been lying on the arm of his chair fell to the floor with a thud. ‘Well, maybe I can help you,’ he said eventually. ‘But it was a long time ago. I have little to tell.’

Or little that he chose to tell. Jake raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ he said. He leaned forward and picked the book up from the floor.

Lange gave him a sharp look. ‘Maybe you had better ask your questions,’ he said. ‘We will see.’

Jake looked at the book in his hands. It had fallen open and he glanced at the page. Baba Yaga. He read on: Once upon a time, deep in the dark forest where the bears roamed and the wolves hunted, there lived an evil witch…Okay, that was appropriate. He closed it and looked at the cover. Russian Fairy Tales.

But he needed to move on. He wanted to get Lange talking while he had him on his own. He hadn’t been convinced by the daughter’s claim that Lange had been traumatized by his early war experiences and was unable to talk about them, and now that he had met the old man, he was even less prepared to accept it. Lange’s reputation spoke for itself and it didn’t look as though age had taken much of his edge. A man like that didn’t deal with trauma by hiding from it.

Jake started off with some personal background. Lange had lived in Manchester for almost sixty years. His marriage had ended in divorce and his ex-wife had died over forty years before. Lange steered away from the personal and talked about his work. He’d devoted himself to making a success of his business, making contacts in Europe when the market was there, travelling further afield as the markets changed. Like many men of his generation, he didn’t seem to have had much time for family life. ‘You’ve got just the one child?’ Jake said.

Lange paused. ‘I have a daughter,’ he said distantly. Then he smiled for the first time. ‘And the granddaughter. Faith.’

He was starting to relax his guard. Jake circled closer. ‘Your life must have changed completely when you arrived here. You went into industry–why did you choose that? I’m interested in how people adapt to these circumstances.’ He kept his voice casual.

‘Industry, yes.’ Lange’s glance at Jake was sharp. ‘The war had led to some new processes. There were opportunities for anyone who cared to take them.’

‘It’s interesting that you managed to spot them when so many people didn’t. Was it your training? In your home country?’

‘I was a peasant, Mr Denbigh, and then over here, I was a soldier. That is training enough for anyone.’ He was sitting stiffly in his chair, and his voice had become distant. Jake decided not to push it any further for now.

‘Tell me what it was like when you first arrived in Manchester,’ he said. ‘It must have been very different from the way it is now. I never saw industrial Lancashire. It was all gone before I came here.’

Lange sat in silence as if assessing Jake’s request, looking for the hook. ‘I have the pictures’ he said. ‘First people I work with, first places.’ He didn’t move from his chair.

‘I’d like to see those,’ Jake said. Pictures were always useful for triggering reminiscences. They might give him an opening to push Lange further back, to catch him at a moment when he might start talking about his past.

Lange nodded briefly, then got up and left the room. Jake heard him talking to someone and checked his watch. It was after eleven. Had the guardian relative arrived? He heard Lange’s voice: ‘…is not necessary, Doreen. I tell you this before.’ His tone was peremptory. Then the door opened again and Lange returned carrying a box. He came back to his seat. ‘Is so long…’ he muttered, half to himself as he opened it.

Judging by the dust on the lid, it hadn’t been touched in ages. Jake moved his chair across. It contained a few paper wallets, orange-brown with dark stripes, marked ‘Kodak’. Jake looked at Lange for permission, then began going through them. Lange evinced no interest. The pictures were disappointing. Black-and-white photos of factories and production lines with the occasional picture of Lange surrounded by different groups of overalled men. Jake began discreetly checking to see if anything more interesting had been slipped in at any time. He could remember his own grandfather’s habit of putting loose photographs in with more recent sets.

And his intuition paid off. Tucked away among some negatives that had been undisturbed for so long they had stuck together, were two small prints, grainy monochrome, faded and damaged. He took them out and looked at them. The first one showed a group of people–a family? It looked like a typical peasant family to Jake–standing in front of a small house. It was hard to make out the details. The woman’s hair was pulled back from her face and she wore a long dress and apron. She held a young child–about four, maybe–in her arms. Standing next to her, there was a boy who looked as if he might be ten or eleven. Lange? Jake glanced across at the old man. It was hard to tell.

The second one was slightly larger and cut with a deckle edge. He checked the back quickly. It looked as though something had been written on it, but whatever it was, it had faded beyond legibility. It showed a young man in uniform standing in front of a building–the boy from the first photograph? If it was, he was older now, in his late teens or early twenties. This picture was unmistakably of Lange.

He held the first picture out. ‘Your family?’ he said.

After a brief hesitation, Lange took the photograph. His fingers brushed the woman’s face, and then the child’s, tentatively, as if the picture was a reflection in water that would disappear at his touch. He stared at it in silence for a full minute, then reached for the box and started going through the envelopes himself, impatiently gesturing Jake to silence.

Jake waited. Lange’s reaction to the picture was odd and had aroused his curiosity. He kept his observation discreet, letting his eyes wander over to the French windows and the garden beyond. The rain had stopped, and the day had the brightness of early spring. Unlike the front, the back garden was carefully tended, a strange contrast to the shabby, neglected house. Someone had been working on the rose bed by the window. A spade was propped against the wall, and a fork was dug into the earth. The plants had been pruned, and the remaining leaves shone with health.

‘When we are children,’ Lange said suddenly, ‘we live in a forest. My papa go there because Mama is ill. He has to clear land, build his house. He makes the orchard–cherry trees and plum trees. I am born there.’

‘When was that?’ Jake knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what Lange would say.

‘Many years ago.’ Lange’s brows drew together as he spoke. ‘In the forest,’ he said. ‘So beautiful. And in a clearing, the timber house and cherry orchard. There was no water, so Papa build a deep well. And Mama got better. And then I was born.’ The room darkened as the sun went in. ‘It’s gone now, the orchard, the forest.’

Jake wanted to let the old man stay in this moment of quiet reflection, but time was short. He pushed on. ‘And this one?’ he said, pointing to the photo of the young man in uniform. ‘This is you?’ It must have been taken in ’38 or ’39–just before the outbreak of the war. Jake couldn’t recognize the uniform.

But the old man seemed not to hear him. His eyes were focused on the photograph that Jake was holding out to him, but his face was blank. ‘That winter, everyone is afraid. Fear makes people…made me…’ He was looking directly at Jake as he spoke, but who or what he was seeing, Jake wasn’t sure. ‘I should not have done it,’ he said. ‘The bear at the gate…I was there.’ He turned to Jake with a sudden intensity. ‘I was there. And the little one…’ Jake couldn’t decipher what he said next. At first he thought the old man was speaking gibberish, then he realized that he had lapsed into another language–Polish? But it seemed oddly familiar to Jake.

The photographs dropped from the old man’s hand. Jake caught them before they fell to the floor. ‘Are you all right?’ He remembered the daughter’s warning about Lange’s health; he hadn’t taken it too seriously up until now.

Lange seemed to have forgotten Jake was there. ‘Minsk,’ he said. ‘It was in Minsk…’ He was staring at his hand where the photograph had been.

Minsk! Jake held his breath. But then the stillness of the house was broken as the front door slammed and feet tapped briskly across the wooden floor. A woman’s voice called from the hallway, ‘Grandpapa? Where are you?’ The guardian relative. Jake cursed under his breath. There was the sound of bags being dumped, movement, disturbance in the air. The past trembled and shattered in the vitality of the present.

The door opened, and the woman came in. She stopped in the doorway, her eyes taking in the scene. Jake got a quick impression of dark hair, red mouth, cool, tailored elegance. The granddaughter. Lange was levering himself out of his chair. He looked slightly dazed but the expression on his face was unmistakably one of relief.

She went up to the old man and hugged him. ‘Grandpapa!’ She studied him, her expression anxious and puzzled. Then she turned to Jake.

Jake stood up slowly, trying to hide his frustration at the interruption. Minsk. The old man had been about to talk about Minsk. ‘Jake Denbigh,’ he said.

She looked round at the recorder on the table, the scattered photographs, and her gaze came back to him. ‘You were supposed to wait for me,’ she said.

Jake shook his head. ‘My appointment was for eleven,’ he said.

She looked at Lange, who was easing himself back into his chair. He seemed quite composed now. She looked quickly back at Jake, undecided, then moved across the room to sit down on the other side of the fireplace.

‘Okay,’ she said with an effort. ‘I was late. I’m sorry. Please go on.’

Jake kept his face expressionless. Something had just dawned on him. His mind had been processing what Lange had said. He hadn’t been speaking Polish. The language Lange had used was Russian, and Jake could remember what he had said. He let the surface of his mind take over the interview as he tried to translate what he thought he had heard. ‘You said it wasn’t difficult, getting started. Tell me about it. Tell me what you did.’ He barely heard Lange’s reply. The tape was collecting it.

Lange had looked at the photo of himself as a young man in uniform, and he had said: I should have known. I did know. It was wrong.