Kingdom by Tom Martin Page B

Interior’s office.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Nancy. ‘I’m just glad to be out of there.’
    ‘Can we get you something to eat? You must be hungry. I doubt they gave you any sustenance in the police station after all . . .’
    ‘I would love something, thanks . . . Just anything . . .’
    Moments later, a woman appeared from the adjacent room carrying a tray with a large glass of water, a cup of chai and two fresh samozas. Nancy tucked in hungrily. Krishna had pulled up a chair and was watching her eat with an anxious look on his face, occasionally sipping his cup of tea. He waited for her to speak. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and tried to marshal her thoughts.
    ‘Krishna, thanks so much. Sorry if I seem a little weird . . .’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you want anything else?’
    ‘No, no, that was perfect. What I would like to do is find out more about Anton Herzog.’
    Krishna nodded cautiously. She continued.
    ‘Can you help?’
    He looked uncomfortable, as if he would much rather she had asked for a tour of Delhi, some advice on where to buy her groceries or where to eat out, or some other such triviality.
    ‘Well, what exactly do you want to know?’
    ‘You worked with him closely. Of everyone, you must know his habits, his predilections, what he was up to.’
    ‘Not as well as you might think. Yes, it’s true I’ve worked with him for years.’ He paused, hoping that she would change the subject, she thought. But she didn’t, instead she waited patiently for him to give her something more.
    He shifted in his chair and muttered, ‘Listen, Anton is a funny character.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘Well, he loves India, there’s no question of that. He believes in India, he desperately wants to tell the world about India and make sure that we get a fair hearing . . . But he’s not an easy man to get to know. He can be a little cold . . .’
    ‘Cold?’
    ‘No. Not cold. That’s not the right word. I’m sorry – I’m not explaining myself very well. I don’t mean he wasn’t friendly – he was – I’ve lost count of the times I’ve enjoyed his hospitality, and it was he who trained me. I have nothing but praise for the man; he was an excellent boss. But there was something – well, you might say unknowable about him. That is the only way I can think of to express it.’
    ‘Why do you think he’s disappeared?’
    ‘I don’t know. That is what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t really know him that well, despite all his kindness and despite having sat only a few yards away from him for all these years.’
    ‘Didn’t he ever talk about his private life?’
    ‘No. Not his feelings, not his past, not his family. I can tell you his hobbies, where he drank, which section of the Trib he read first each morning, how he would abandon coffee for three months and then drink it constantly for another three. All his foibles and rituals. But his inner self was closed to me. Right at the beginning of his time here, just after I arrived at the office, was the only time that he ever mentioned his family to me at all. He said his father had died before he was born – that he had been killed at the battle of Stalingrad towards the end of the Second World War and that his mother had emigrated from their hometown of Munich to Argentina. After that, he never mentioned anything further, and certainly I never felt I could press him.’
    Krishna rearranged some of the piled-up papers on the desk, revealing a tarnished silver frame containing a pale black and white portrait photo of a woman.
    ‘That’s his mother there: Anna Herzog.’
    Nancy leaned forward and studied the photo in fascination. The woman’s blonde hair was in a bun. She had a white shirt done up to her neck. She was middle-aged in the photo: beautiful with dark eyes and high cheekbones, and very pale, translucent skin. Nancy took the photo from Krishna.
    Bad luck to lose your husband before your child is even born, she thought. What