Stranger from Berlin

Beverley Hansford

Description

When Tim Mallon unexpectedly meets Boris Smirnov, an old acquaintance from his university days, he has little comprehension of the consequences this encounter will set in motion. Tim is intrigued by Boris's partner Lena, an attractive girl from Berlin who appears to tolerate the humiliation and harsh treatment Boris heaps upon her. When Boris suggests that Lena comes to stay with him, Tim cautiously agrees to the suggestion.During Lena's stay, an idyllic relationship develops between them and Tim gradually finds that he is falling in love with his guest. One thing does puzzle Tim - Lena's reluctance to talk about her past life. What is the secret she does not wish to reveal? When Lena is abducted from Tim's doorstep and taken back to Berlin, Tim decides to travel to Berlin to try and find her and in the process solve the mystery surrounding her.When he starts making enquiries in Berlin, Tim finds he is drawn into a web of intrigue and suddenly finds his life controlled by outside forces. Who can he trust, and can he extract himself from this vulnerable situation?

Sujets

• Germany

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 21 mai 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800469228
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

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Copyright © 2021 Beverley Hansford

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador
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Edited by Helen Banks

ISBN 978 1800469 228

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To Michael Ashfield MBE
For his continued interest and support


Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26


Chapter 1
I had been waiting for Lena all afternoon. Now it was well into the evening and already dark. I was mystified by her late appearance, and my telephone calls to check on her arrival had not met with success. The telephone had rung, but nobody had answered.
Now worried and concerned, I was contemplating what my next action should be, when the doorbell did at last sound with its distinctive ‘ding dong’. I hurried to the door, full of excitement and expectation, my concern already starting to recede.
It was not Lena who stood on the doorstep. Instead a middle-aged man addressed me. ‘Taxi, guv. Ten pounds to pay.’
I glanced in the direction of his nod and gesture. In the light of a nearby street lamp I could see a taxi standing on the road outside. I could just make out in the darkness somebody I assumed to be Lena looking out of the window in our direction.
I uttered a quick ‘Just a minute’, and hurried to my den to collect some money, puzzled why Lena remained sitting in the taxi. I returned with the correct cash and then, remembering that taxi drivers normally require a tip for their services, I fumbled in my pockets for some loose change, at the same time exclaiming, ‘Oh – just a second.’
The taxi driver, clearly seeing what my intentions were, reacted immediately. ‘That’s all right, guv.’
As he swung round to return to his taxi he grinned and remarked, ‘Buy the lady a pair of shoes.’ With that he departed down the garden path, leaving me to follow him, puzzled by his last comment…

It had all started several weeks before. I had been in London visiting my agent for one of our periodic meetings. I was heading for home, deep in thought, walking through Soho, when I heard a voice.
‘Tim Mallon!’
There was no mistaking who was being addressed. The street was almost deserted, except for a few people well out of earshot. The man who had called out was sitting outside a pub on the opposite side of the street, a half-consumed glass of beer on the table in front of him. I recognised him immediately: an old face from the past and from my student days. Boris Smirnov. I guessed I had not seen him for close on three years. He was beckoning me over.
I crossed the street towards him. As I drew close he indicated the seat opposite him. ‘Sit down, old boy. Have a drink.’
I hesitated. I did not really want a drink so early in the day. It was not yet midday, but politeness made me accept. ‘OK,’ I responded, ‘but can we sit inside?’ Though occasionally a weak sun was shining, the March morning was cool, and sitting outside in the chill air did not appeal to me.
‘Of course. Why not?’ Boris grabbed his glass and jumped up at once.
I followed him into the pub. It was dark inside and few people occupied the seating. Some sort of uninspiring music was playing quietly in the background.
Boris turned to me. ‘Let me buy you a drink. What’ll it be?’
‘Oh. Just a half of lager,’ I replied.
‘Have a pint.’
I shook my head. ‘Just a half,’ I insisted.
Boris departed for the bar. I sought out a table in a corner, remote and quiet, from where I could study him. I hardly listed him as a friend. We had been at university at the same time, but our interests had been very different and we had never had regular contact, though some of Boris’s exploits occasionally put him in the spotlight. I knew he had Russian parents and spoke fluent Russian. Since leaving university we had barely seen each other. I remembered he worked in London at one of the government departments – MI5 or something like that, where, I suppose, in the cold war era we were in, his language skills were an asset.
Boris returned carrying my drink and another full pint for himself. I recalled that he had always had the ability to consume generous quantities of alcohol, very often without any apparent effect. He placed the glasses on the table and slumped into a chair opposite me. He immediately took a swig of his beer and addressed me again. ‘So, what brings you to London?’ He scrutinised me as I sought an answer.
‘Oh, I come up from time to time to see my agent,’ I replied casually, not wishing to go into details.
‘Still scribing, then?’ It was only half a question.
I nodded. ‘It pays some of the bills.’
‘You must be a millionaire by now.’
I shook my head and smiled. ‘Not really. I have to do some other things as well to make a decent living.’
‘I thought all authors made a lot of money.’
I shook my head again. ‘It doesn’t always work out like that,’ I replied. For good measure I added, ‘That’s the opinion of the general public.’ I smiled again. ‘Some do and some don’t. It’s much the same as in any profession. It’s like actors – some make it big and become household names, others just remain as supporting actors or actresses, just about earning a living.’
There was a few seconds’ silence between us. Boris was clearly absorbing what I had just said, while I waited for some sort of response. He changed the subject. ‘How’s your wife? I’ve forgotten her name… Jean, is it?’
His question brought back a little bit of sadness, but I had not seen him since my divorce over two years previously. ‘It didn’t actually work out. Jean and I got divorced. I think she’s remarried again now.’
‘Sorry to hear that, old boy.’
I nodded in acknowledgement. I decided to move the conversation in another direction, not wishing to divulge the finer points of my life. I wanted to find out a bit more about Boris. ‘What are you doing now?’ I asked.
Boris seemed surprised by my question. ‘Oh… Still working here in London. Cloak-and- dagger stuff. You know the sort of thing. Been at it for a few years now. Had a promotion last year.’
I sensed that it was a bit of a hurried reply and that Boris did not want to talk about his work life. Given what he was involved in, it was understandable. However, he volunteered another bit of information. ‘My work takes me to Berlin from time to time. My German and the old family language come in handy.’ He changed the subject. ‘Where are you living now?’
‘Ruislip,’ I replied. ‘I moved there after the divorce.’
A beam spread over Boris’s face. ‘That’s not far from us. We’re in Ealing.’
The ‘us’ bit of his comment made me curious. Ever since I had known him, Boris had never been one of those people who went overboard on permanent relationships with the opposite sex, and certainly not marriage. If his past showing was any indication, it appeared to be quite the opposite.
‘Who’s “us”?’ I asked.
‘The current girlfriend. Only been with her a short time. You’d like her. She’s your type.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know. Quiet. Docile.’
I was puzzled how Boris appeared to know so much and be able to state my preference with respect to women. I opened my mouth to reply, but he butted in quickly.
‘Why don’t you give me your address?’
Somewhat reluctantly, I rummaged in my pocket for one of my cards. I handed it to him.
He glanced at it briefly and stuck it in the top pocket of his jacket. ‘I’ll give you a ring sometime,’ he remarked, almost casually.
Out of courtesy I was about to ask him for his card or contact details, but he interrupted with a quick glance at his watch and, ‘Sorry, old boy. I’ve got to go. Work calls. I only nipped out for a haircut and then fancied a drink.’
I took the hint and immediately got up from my seat, at the same time picking up and drinking the last of my lager. Boris had alrea