A Traitor to Memory

That's what I've remembered, Dr. Rose, that remark about Katja's love life. And I've also remembered what my parents said next.

“She's not interested in anyone in this house, Eugenie.”





“Please don't expect me to believe that.”





I look between them—first at Dad then at my mother—and I feel something in the air that I can't identify, perhaps a sense of unease. And into this unease comes Katja in a rush. She is filled with apologies for having slept through her morning alarm.

“I please to feed the little one,” she says in her English which must become more broken whenever she's under stress.

My mother says, “Gideon, would you take your cereal to the dining room, please?” and because of the undercurrents in the kitchen, I obey. But I pause to listen just out of sight and I hear my mother say, “We've already had one talk about your morning duties, Katja,” and Katja says, “Please to let me feed the baby, Frau Davies,” in a clear, firm voice.

It is the voice of someone unafraid of her employer, I realise now, Dr. Rose. And that voice suggests there are very good reasons for Katja not to be afraid.

So I went to my father's flat. I said my hellos to Jill. I dodged certificates, display cases, and trunks containing my grandfather's belongings, and I homed in on my grandmother's desk, which Dad has used as his for years.

I was looking for something that could confirm the connection between Katja and the man who'd made her pregnant. Because I'd finally come to see that if Katja Wolff maintained silence, she could have done so for only one possible reason: to protect someone. And that someone had to be my father, who had kept her photo for more than twenty years.

1 November, 4:00 P.M.

I did not progress far in my search.

In the drawer that I'd opened, I discovered an accordion file of correspondence. Among the letters therein—most of which comprised subjects having to do with my career—there was one from a solicitor with a North London address. Her client Katja Veronika Wolff had authorised Harriet Lewis, Esq., to contact Richard Davies with regard to monies owed her. Since the terms of her parole forbade her to contact any member of the Davies family personally, Miss Wolff was using this legal channel as a conduit through which the matter could be satisfactorily settled. If Mr. Davies would be so kind as to phone Ms. Lewis at the above-listed number at his earliest convenience, this matter of money could be handled expeditiously and to everyone's satisfaction. Ms. Lewis remained yours truly, et cetera.

I studied this letter. It was less than two months old. The language in it did not appear to contain the sort of veiled threat one would expect from a solicitor with future litigation on her mind. It was all straightforward, pleasant, and professional. As such, it fairly screamed the question Why?

I was pondering the possible answers to this question when Dad arrived at the flat. I heard him come in. I heard his voice and Jill's coming from the kitchen. Shortly afterwards, his footsteps marked his progress from the kitchen to the Granddad Room.

When he opened the door, I was still sitting there with the accordion file open on the floor at my feet and the letter from Harriet Lewis in my hand. I made no attempt to hide the fact that I was going through my father's belongings, and when he crossed the room, saying sharply, “What are you doing, Gideon?” my reply was to hand him the letter and say, “What's behind this, Dad?”





He flicked his gaze over it. He returned it to the accordion file and returned the file to the drawer before he replied.

“She wanted to be paid for the time she spent in remand prior to the trial,” he said. “The first month of the remand period constituted the notice we'd given her, and she wanted her money for that month as well as interest on it.”





“All these years later?”





“Perhaps a more pertinent remark would be: ‘After she murdered Sonia?’” He pushed the desk drawer shut.

“She was very sure of her place with our family, wasn't she? She never expected to be sacked.”





“You've no idea what you're talking about.”





“Have you answered that letter, then? Have you phoned that solicitor as requested?”





“I've no intention of doing anything to revisit that period, Gideon.”





I nodded at the drawer where he'd returned the letter. “Someone apparently doesn't think so. Not only that, but despite what someone's supposed to have done to devastate your life, someone apparently has no compunction about re-entering it even via a solicitor. I don't understand why, unless there was something more between you than employer and employee. Because don't you think a letter like that indicates a sense of confidence that someone in Katja Wolff 's position ought not to have with regard to you?”





“What the hell are you getting at?”