'I have bought a jar of English coffee,' he confided to her. 'I know the German coffee is very strong…'
'That was very thoughtful of you,' she told him.
'It is nothing. I turned on the kettle before I came down. I will fetch it now. Yes? Make yourselves comfortable. Sit down everyone. I fetch the kettle. I have the papers for you, Herr Tweed…'
Before Tweed could ask what papers he was referring to, Kefler had trotted off into the kitchen. Relaxing in her armchair, Paula looked round the room. You can tell a man from his study. On a large old desk, which didn't look German, was a fax machine, a computer, a printer – and an ancient Remington typewriter which looked out of place. She also thought the modern equipment looked very new, hardly used. Along one wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She stood up to look at them.
'Not my choice of armchair,' Newman whispered.
'You're too tall,' Paula whispered back.
Which was true. The armchairs had low seats and Newman had to stretch out his legs in front of him. It struck Tweed, who was just about comfortable, that Kefler with his short legs had chosen furniture that suited himself. An understandable lack of thought for guests – domestic matters would be a nuisance to him.
'He's got six old volumes on the history of the Frankenheim Dynasty,' Paula observed, indicating the bookcases.
'I am so sorry I take so long time,' Kefler began as he reappeared and laid a tray on a low table. The coffee pot, the cream jug, the cups and saucers were Meissen. He's got out the best china, Paula thought. 'You serve yourselves, please? Then you have the coffee the way you like it,' the German suggested, smiling all the time. Paula did the honours.
'You know something?' Kefler said as he perched on a stool. 'You noticed the two new locks on my front door, Mr Tweed?'
'Yes, I…'
'Refugees. Turks, Croats, Kosovars – God knows who else or why we ever let them in. Many are criminals. A house near mine was burgled a week ago. They take everything. And would you believe it…" Once again the teddy bear was in full verbal flood. '… they take a parrot!'
'A parrot? Difficult to take away…' Paula began.
'No, not at all…' Kefler gave a bubbling laugh. '… It was a cheap piece of pottery. Now where they sell a thing like that? Crazy. Is the coffee any good?'
They all agreed sincerely it was marvellous. Kefler nodded dubiously as though he thought they were just being polite.
'You're well equipped,' Paula remarked, looking at the old desk.
'I don't use any of it. I do like my Remington, though. Scientists are dangerous. They invent things without first thinking: what will be the consequences? That time bomb, the Internet. Great, they say. Brings the world closer together. Nations get too close to each other, disagree, quarrel, then make war.'
'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Tweed slipped into the pause. 'Now, earlier you mentioned some papers.'
'Ach! The Zurcher Kredit Bank is the best, the most honest in the world. It is notl Miss Grey, you were looking at my old desk. Not so German, eh? I bought it in your Portobello Road in London. I love it. But I divert…' Kefler stared at Tweed as though making sure he trusted him.'… Vast sums of money are being laundered through that bank – or they do the walk with the money from rich clients, maybe send it to a secret account at Vaduz in Liechtenstein…'
'You know that definitely?' Tweed interjected.
'No, nein. I only know three hundred million marks walk off.'
Paula did a quick calculation in her head, was stunned. Very roughly, one hundred million pounds sterling. Hardly chicken-feed.
'I give you papers now,' Kefler decided.
He jumped off his stool, stooped down under the cherished desk from the Portobello Road. Reaching under the knee-hole, his pudgy hands jerked, brought out a small leather folder which had obviously been attached with sticky tape. He carefully removed the tape before handing the folder to Tweed.
'Open it! Please do!'
He was almost dancing with enthusiasm. Tweed extracted a sheaf of folded stiff papers, unfolded them. They appeared to be German bank statements with Zurcher Kredit printed at the top of each sheet. The contents on the sheets baffled him – lists of figures with code letters such as GT.
'You don't understand them, of course,' Kefler advised. 'So you show them to the clever Keith Kent. He will decode… Did I say three hundred million marks?… My British numbers go wrong. I should say seven hundred million marks walk.'
Paula did another quick calculation in her head. Roughly ?230,000,000! She stared at Newman, who obviously had also converted marks into pounds. He had a blank look.
'Dr Kefler,' Tweed said calmly, 'are these papers really for me?'
'Of course! I tell you. Keith Kent decode, show you.'
'You haven't a briefcase – or something like that – I could carry this folder away in?'
'The docks. I know your meaning…'
Kefler reached down the side of his desk, produced a briefcase of a type no longer in fashion in Britain. He opened it, fumbled inside and clearly it was empty. He lifted both short legs up and down, in need of exercise, Paula realized. He walked over to the window.
'In the daylight the view is interesting. Great barges come here. Large freighters. The ferry from Newcastle in Britain will arrive at 12.30 the pm – in the-'
The report was shockingly loud. Kefler staggered, fell backwards, face up. Blood streamed over his chest, spilt over his smoking jacket. Newman dashed to the body lying on the floorboards, crouching low so he was below the sill of the window. The glass had been shattered by one star-shaped hole with another ragged hole in the net curtain – where the bullet had come through.
'Is he…'
Paula barely found herself able to frame the question.
'No pulse,' Newman reported. 'He's dead. Don't look. The left side of his head is blown away. Explosive bullet.'
'Oh, God! No.' Paula covered her face, with her hands. She stood up, looked down across the room. 'Horrible. He was such a nice man.. .'
Newman reacted quickly. Crawling, still well below the windowsill, he reached up, pulled one heavy dark curtain across the window, then the other. When he stood up, away from the window, Paula was standing beside him, staring down at what remained of Kefler.
Only half a teddy bear, she said to herself, then dismissed the thought as obscene.
She sat down in her armchair again, tears in her eyes. She looked at Tweed, choking as she spoke.
'He was such a nice man,' she repeated. 'Wouldn't hurt a fly. In life you sometimes meet someone you know is good, even at a first meeting. You like him – or her. Trust them. So rare.'
'Same technique, same situation,' Tweed said in a very quiet voice, 'as the murder of Helga Trent off Ebury Street. Night-time. A figure silhouetted against net curtains, the light behind them. I should have realized…'
'I'm going downstairs,' Newman said, his revolver in his hand. 'There should be a back door. I can get out that way…'
'Stay where you are.' rasped Tweed.
Newman was ignoring the command, heading out of the study, when his mobile buzzed. He snatched it out of his pocket, faced them, standing in the doorway.
'Yes?'
'Harry here.' The voice was very low. 'No one leaves that house till I call back. That's an order…'
Newman, still holding the revolver, repeated what Harry had said.
'We all stay here then – until Harry calls back,' Tweed replied. 'Harry knows what he's doing…'
Harry Butler, sweating from the heat in his motorcyclist's black leather kit, had been crawling on his hands and knees to get closer to where he'd seen Tweed and his companions disappear into No. 23. A short way ahead he heard a sound, like the squeak of an old wooden door being opened. Looking up, he saw a door close on the control cabin of a monster crane a few yards away.