‘Yes, of course,’ Jean said. ‘So Langner wasn’t a wealthy man when Ingrid was born.’
‘Far from it,’ Tayte said. ‘Seems he wasn’t anywhere near wealthy enough to have bought her that house, even back then.’
‘She also said that Langner had paid her a tidy sum of money as well.’
Tayte nodded. ‘She was clearly lying. And even if Langner had somehow paid Trudi off, barring her having made some very lucky investments over the years, it was a long time ago. Where’s she getting the money to maintain all this from?’
‘Where else could the money have come from?’ Jean asked, and they both stared at one another, clearly thinking the same thing.
‘Volker Strobel,’ they said together, although Tayte had to remind himself that Tobias Kaufmann already suspected as much and had been unable to prove it.
The taxi arrived and Tayte gave the driver the name of the restaurant Trudi had mentioned, thinking it would be good to go somewhere that the subjects of his self-assignment had once been.
The driver, an older man in his sixties with grey stubble on his face and a leather flat-cap on his head, turned back with a blank expression.
‘It’s a restaurant in the city,’ Tayte added, speaking slowly in case the driver was having trouble understanding him, but it seemed he understood well enough.
‘You mean the Osteria Italiana on Schellingstrasse. It hasn’t been called the Osteria Bavaria since the war ended. They say it’s the oldest restaurant in Munich.’
‘I guess that’s the place then,’ Tayte said. He turned to Jean. ‘You like Italian, don’t you?’
Jean smiled and nodded and the taxi took off, heading for the city centre. Settling back for the ride, Tayte put his hand on the back of Jean’s and said, ‘I’m glad you’re okay. You had me so worried this morning.’
Jean leaned in and kissed him. ‘And I’m glad you’re not going to jail,’ she said with a smirk.
‘Yeah, me too. Let’s try to stay out of trouble for the next twenty-four hours, shall we? Nice meal . . . Early night . . .’
Jean laughed at him. ‘Did you just wink at me?’
‘I think I had something in my eye,’ Tayte said, and Jean slapped his arm.
At that moment, their frivolity was interrupted by Tayte’s phone buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and checked the display. There was a number, but he didn’t recognise it.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Jefferson Tayte.’
‘Mr Tayte, it’s Tobias Kaufmann. Is it all right to talk?’
‘Sure,’ Tayte said. ‘It’s good timing, actually. We’ve just left Trudi Strobel. I was going to call you later to let you know how it went, although we didn’t really learn anything new that’s likely to help with your hunt for Volker Strobel.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Yes, it is. Look, I told her we wouldn’t say anything about Langner being Ingrid Keller’s father. I know I’ve already told you, but I don’t see how we have anything to gain from telling anyone else.’
‘You might not feel the same way once you’ve heard what I have to tell you.’ Kaufmann said. ‘Since our last conversation about Trudi’s wealth, I’ve been following the money, so to speak. At least, some associates of mine have. We’ll talk more when I see you. Is now a good time?’
‘What, right now?’ Tayte said, thinking about a bowl of pasta or a pizza, or maybe both.
Jean had been listening in. She gave Tayte a nod, and Tayte couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed with the timing.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll be right over.’
‘I’m not at the office at the moment. One of the staff, Amir, is working late. He’ll let you in if you arrive before me. I shouldn’t be long.’
‘Great,’ Tayte said. ‘We’ll see you soon.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Because of the hour, the tree-lined avenue that was home to the offices of Kaufmann und Kaufmann was markedly changed from Tayte’s previous visits. The various offices were mostly now closed, the people who staffed them having gone home for the day, and the car-parking spaces that had made the road appear all the more narrow during office hours, were now largely vacant. The taxi pulled up in front of a line of motorcycles and Tayte paid the driver as he and Jean got out.
‘I can’t wait to hear what Tobias has found,’ Tayte said as they approached the entrance, but in his next breath he realised he might have to. A familiar feeling of unease churned through him as he looked at the door. It was ajar, just like the door to the premises he’d visited the night he was framed for murder, only this time the doorframe was splintered. It looked as if it had been kicked in. He put his arm out to hold Jean back. ‘I think our “friends” have been here.’
‘Maybe they’re still here,’ Jean said, drawing Tayte’s attention to the motorcycles. She was holding out her phone.
‘What are you doing?’