to a chair at the head of the table. ‘You mind?’
‘Please.’
The man stares at him. ‘English?’
Marantz looks up. ‘From just one word? That’s impressive.’
The man smiles, as if he knows it is, but he says, just too blankly; ‘I’m a famous detective.’
Marantz holds out his hand. ‘John Marantz.’
‘Vaughn de Vries.’
Marantz echoes, ‘A famous detective?’
De Vries tops up his glass, gestures at Marantz’s, says disparagingly, ‘An infamous policeman.’
Marantz frowns. ‘I know the feeling.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Same sort of gig, in London, but I’ve been retired. Play a bit of poker . . .’
‘Married?’
Marantz expected a shock; a moment when his breath might catch, but his reply came smoothly, almost nonchalantly.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Like that, eh?’
‘No. Not like that. They’re gone. Lost.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘By-product of the job. You have a family?’
De Vries chuckles knowingly to himself. ‘Two amazing daughters; dissatisfied, ambitious wife; no time, no energy, no motivation, no interest. You had kids?’
‘I . . . had . . .’ Marantz shuts his eyes, feels such agony well up inside him, a band of pain wrapped around his head, covering his eyes and ears. He waits maybe ninety seconds for it to become bearable. He looks up at de Vries, expecting confusion, perhaps revulsion. He sees a man waiting for him, accepting, but not asking.
Marantz mutters, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I interrupted your escape.’
‘No.’
A waiter appears with a bottle on a silver tray. He bows at de Vries. ‘Your wine, sir.’
De Vries scoops it off the tray, examines the label. ‘If I’m still here in one hour, I want another.’
The waiter bows again and begins to climb the stone steps back to the big house.
‘You have them well trained.’
De Vries tilts the bottle at Marantz’s empty glass and then fills his own, almost to the brim.
‘Escort’s perks. She’s only here for the career.’
‘I’m with my best mate’s wife. Same reason.’
De Vries gestures at the candelabra with his glass, then up at Marantz. ‘Moths drawn to the flame . . .’
They meet to drink, to talk in stilted sentences and long silences. Marantz cries as he tells de Vries how he lost his wife and daughter, and he sees nothing in de Vries but compassion, devoid of judgement. That is the purest reaction he has witnessed.
One single day in 2008: the square grey concrete room, bare fluorescent tube, blatantly crude, a plain steel table, bounded on one side by a rudimentary iron chair, on the other by two plain steel armchairs. He is sitting next to a colleague, opposite a man with a Russian accent; three aliases in an anonymous room. The man is shackled to his chair, both his eyes purple, his nose broken. This is the third hour of the third day they have spoken to him. The man repeats his story, precise words. Marantz knows that it is a script, but nothing they do encourages him to depart from it.
The prisoner turns his head to his right, addresses Marantz’s silent partner. ‘You don’t say much.’
Marantz waits; his colleague, by arrangement, mute.
‘You have wife and children?’
The man turns back to face ahead, his stare dissecting them.
Marantz says: ‘You may never see yours again, Mikael.’
A tiny smile appears at the corner of the man’s mouth, his fat lip showing bright red.
‘At least,’ he starts slowly, facing Marantz and staring hard at him, ‘I know where my wife and daughter are.’
Marantz thinks of Caroline and Rosie, wonders whether this man has merely guessed at the make-up of his family, glances to the fourth finger of his left hand, sees that his ring is, as he would expect, absent. The man catches the glance, smiles broadly now, splitting open the corner of his swollen bottom lip.
‘You won’t need it any more.’
A sharp tingle in his fingers: Marantz reads not stoic bravado, but a reflection of knowledge. He stands, his
‘Please.’
The man stares at him. ‘English?’
Marantz looks up. ‘From just one word? That’s impressive.’
The man smiles, as if he knows it is, but he says, just too blankly; ‘I’m a famous detective.’
Marantz holds out his hand. ‘John Marantz.’
‘Vaughn de Vries.’
Marantz echoes, ‘A famous detective?’
De Vries tops up his glass, gestures at Marantz’s, says disparagingly, ‘An infamous policeman.’
Marantz frowns. ‘I know the feeling.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Same sort of gig, in London, but I’ve been retired. Play a bit of poker . . .’
‘Married?’
Marantz expected a shock; a moment when his breath might catch, but his reply came smoothly, almost nonchalantly.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Like that, eh?’
‘No. Not like that. They’re gone. Lost.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘By-product of the job. You have a family?’
De Vries chuckles knowingly to himself. ‘Two amazing daughters; dissatisfied, ambitious wife; no time, no energy, no motivation, no interest. You had kids?’
‘I . . . had . . .’ Marantz shuts his eyes, feels such agony well up inside him, a band of pain wrapped around his head, covering his eyes and ears. He waits maybe ninety seconds for it to become bearable. He looks up at de Vries, expecting confusion, perhaps revulsion. He sees a man waiting for him, accepting, but not asking.
Marantz mutters, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I interrupted your escape.’
‘No.’
A waiter appears with a bottle on a silver tray. He bows at de Vries. ‘Your wine, sir.’
De Vries scoops it off the tray, examines the label. ‘If I’m still here in one hour, I want another.’
The waiter bows again and begins to climb the stone steps back to the big house.
‘You have them well trained.’
De Vries tilts the bottle at Marantz’s empty glass and then fills his own, almost to the brim.
‘Escort’s perks. She’s only here for the career.’
‘I’m with my best mate’s wife. Same reason.’
De Vries gestures at the candelabra with his glass, then up at Marantz. ‘Moths drawn to the flame . . .’
They meet to drink, to talk in stilted sentences and long silences. Marantz cries as he tells de Vries how he lost his wife and daughter, and he sees nothing in de Vries but compassion, devoid of judgement. That is the purest reaction he has witnessed.
One single day in 2008: the square grey concrete room, bare fluorescent tube, blatantly crude, a plain steel table, bounded on one side by a rudimentary iron chair, on the other by two plain steel armchairs. He is sitting next to a colleague, opposite a man with a Russian accent; three aliases in an anonymous room. The man is shackled to his chair, both his eyes purple, his nose broken. This is the third hour of the third day they have spoken to him. The man repeats his story, precise words. Marantz knows that it is a script, but nothing they do encourages him to depart from it.
The prisoner turns his head to his right, addresses Marantz’s silent partner. ‘You don’t say much.’
Marantz waits; his colleague, by arrangement, mute.
‘You have wife and children?’
The man turns back to face ahead, his stare dissecting them.
Marantz says: ‘You may never see yours again, Mikael.’
A tiny smile appears at the corner of the man’s mouth, his fat lip showing bright red.
‘At least,’ he starts slowly, facing Marantz and staring hard at him, ‘I know where my wife and daughter are.’
Marantz thinks of Caroline and Rosie, wonders whether this man has merely guessed at the make-up of his family, glances to the fourth finger of his left hand, sees that his ring is, as he would expect, absent. The man catches the glance, smiles broadly now, splitting open the corner of his swollen bottom lip.
‘You won’t need it any more.’
A sharp tingle in his fingers: Marantz reads not stoic bravado, but a reflection of knowledge. He stands, his
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