Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [96]
It was brutal to discuss it, but neither of them could afford to be gentle at the expense of reality.
“He came over here to see Elissa . . . not you,” Monk said. “Several times.” He saw Kristian wince, and noted the confusion in his face.
Kristian shook his head. “He wouldn’t have hurt her,” he repeated, his voice hoarse.
“Her neck was broken in one movement,” Monk reminded him. “It was probably like this.” He put his arm in front of him, as if he were holding one hand over someone’s mouth, and crushing that person’s body to his chest with the other. He made a swift movement. “As if they had struggled and he had tried to hold her, wrenching around, perhaps one foot on hers.”
Kristian shuddered, and his mouth pulled strangely twisted.
“He probably didn’t mean to kill her,” Monk went on. “Perhaps only to stop her from crying out.”
Kristian closed his eyes. “And Sarah Mackeson?” he said in a whisper. “Whoever killed her meant to!” He shuddered convulsively. Imagination, or a memory too hideous to bear? Or the realization that Max Niemann could be guilty after all?
“Tell me about him,” Monk demanded tensely. “Kristian, for God’s sake, give me all you can! I need to find the truth. If it isn’t Niemann, then I need to know that. But someone killed them . . . both!”
Kristian made an effort to regain his composure and appeared to concentrate, but still he said nothing, as if the past enclosed him in its reality and the present ceased to be.
“Somebody’s going to the rope for it!” Monk said brutally. “If you didn’t kill them, don’t let it be you! Are you protecting someone?” He had no idea who. Why should Kristian die to save Max Niemann? Or to hide something that had happened in Vienna thirteen years ago? He couldn’t possibly think Callandra had any part in it. Did he even know how much she loved him? Monk doubted it.
“I’m not defending anyone!” Kristian said with startling force, almost anger. “I just don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t any idea who killed them, or why. Do you think I want to hang—or that I don’t realize that I almost certainly will?” He managed to say the words with superb control, but looking at his eyes, Monk saw the fear in them, black and bottomless, without faith to build a bridge over the void, nothing but courage. And when at the very last he was utterly alone, with his pain, and oblivion in front of him, all love and friendship and pity left behind, there would be nothing to hold on to.
“Tell me where to look,” Monk said, horrified by the vision himself, aware that the similarity between them was far more profound than any difference. “Where did you live? Who were your friends? Who do I look for to ask?”
Reluctantly, each one an effort, Kristian gave him half a dozen names and addresses in three different streets. There was no lift of hope in his voice, no belief. “She was beautiful,” he said softly. “They’ll all say that. I don’t mean her face.” He dismissed it as trivial, but Monk could not. He saw in his mind the haunting loveliness of the woman on Allardyce’s canvas. That face was full of passion, dreaming just beyond the grasp, inviting the onlooker to dare anything, imagine the impossible and love it, need it enough to follow her to the ends of the earth.
“I mean the heart of her,” Kristian went on. “The will to live, the courage to meet anything. She lit the fire that warmed us all.”
Was it memory speaking, or wish, or the kind of emotion that gilds the recollection of people who are loved and lost? Or was it guilt trying to make up for the gulf that had grown between them since then? Would Monk find in Vienna the truth about Kristian as well?
He wrote down what Kristian gave him, then tried to think of something to say in parting which would convey what he wanted to. It was impossible. Frustration. The hunger to believe that Kristian was innocent, not only for his sake but for Callandra’s, because she was in love with him, and Monk knew what it was to be in love. He had not wished to be; it