Sam sighed. If only Mitchell weren't so nice. Most people who had tried to recommend therapists to Sam had been told to fuck off, or worse. He couldn't say that Mitchell. "That would be great, Mitchell," he conceded.
"Fantastic!" Mitchell's tone brightened at once. "I'll email you their details. And if there's anything else, anything at all, just you let me know. I'll drop you a line after Hogmanay and we'll have a chat about what to do going forward. Don't you worry about a thing."
"That's great, Mitchell. Thanks." Sam let Mitchell twitter for another couple of minutes before hanging up. Then he took a lengthy puff on his cigarette. Well, he thought, no more local interest stories for a bit. Now what am I going to do to ignore the run-up to Christmas?
Sam decided that concentrating on the strongbox and its mysterious contents was his best option. He opened his search engine and looked up Schwabenland, taking a few guesses before hitting on the correct spelling. He clicked his way through link after link, flipping among sites that looked legitimate and sites that were clearly hosted by deranged conspiracy theorists. His favorites were the ones that insisted that Hitler had not died at the end of the Second World War but was still alive, even in 2012, at the grand old age of 124. Many of these suggested that he had been spirited off to Antarctica, leaving a look-alike to shoot himself in the bunker. Some even stated that Hitler was still there, cryogenically frozen, waiting in suspended animation until the Nazis regained power and revived him. The more Sam drank, the more entertaining his search became.
Eventually, countless conspiracy theories later, Sam grew curious about Dr. Lehmann. He could find nothing about the scientist online, apart from a couple of mentions in the thanks sections of academic papers. This annoyed him. He liked to find out a bit about people before he contacted them.
He also liked to be a little more sober than he currently was, so he headed to the bathroom and took a shower. The water was bracingly cold, which was good for sobering him up but also indicated that the boiler was on the blink again. He toweled himself off at top speed, threw on some nearly clean clothes and had a mug of tea and half a packet of chocolate digestives. As soon as his head began to feel a little clearer, he dialed the number on Nina's note.
It was a woman who answered. "Lehmann residence."
"Could I speak to Dr. Lehmann, please?" Sam did his best to sound professional.
"May I ask who's calling?" The female at the other end of the phone did not seem particularly friendly.
"My name is Sam Cleave; I'm with the Edinburgh Post. I'm working on a story about a scientist whom I think Dr. Lehmann might have known, so I'd like to ask him a few questions."
"Hmm. Right. I'll see if he's available. One moment."
Sam waited while the woman went to find Dr. Lehmann. The house sounded chaotic, judging by the noises he could hear at the other end of the line. Two male voices were raised in a heated argument, at least until the woman's voice cut through them, and a baby was wailing in the background. That's what Christmas is going to sound like, Sam thought glumly, recalling his sister's invitation to stay with her, her husband, and their two-year-old daughter. Maybe I'll just stay here and pretend it's not happening.
"Hello," a man's voice this time, "George Lehmann speaking." His speech bore only faint traces of his German accent. If it had not been for his pronunciation of his name, retaining the hard G, Sam might not have noticed it at all.
"Hello, Dr. Lehmann. Thank you for speaking to me," Sam said. "I'm Sam Cleave, I write for the Edinburgh Post. I was given your number by Nina Gould at Edinburgh University. She thought you might be able to give me some information about a story I'm working on."
"Indeed." Dr. Lehmann's voice remained neutral at the mention of Nina's name. "And what is this story about?"
Sam explained about the death of Harald Kruger, omitting the gorier details. Dr. Lehmann did not appear to have heard about the murder, though he admitted to a passing familiarity with Kruger's work. It was not until Sam mentioned the strongbox that a trace of excitement crept into his voice.
"And you say these notes pertain to some kind of Antarctic base?" Lehmann asked. "But no name is given?"
"That's right. Or at least, Nina says it's right. But she can't tell me more about it because the notes are partly in code. She said you might be able to help with that."
Dr. Lehmann broke into a loud, unexpected laugh. "She did, did she? Yes, that sounds like her. There's always a way to get the things she wants. Well, I would need to have a look at these papers before I could tell you how much help I can offer."
"I could scan them and send them to you," Sam suggested. "Do you have an email address?"
"Mr. Cleave," Lehmann replied with a chuckle, "I am 97 years old. How likely do you think it is that I have an email address?"
"Point taken," Sam shrugged. It was rare that he met anyone less up-to-date with modern technology than he was, but this time it seemed that he had. "Should I put them in the post?"
"No." Lehmann's tone was emphatic. "Definitely not. These are valuable artifacts, or at least they might be. If they were to be lost or damaged… No. Would it be possible for you to bring them to me, or entrust them to someone in whom you have the utmost faith? If it were remotely possible for me to come to you, I would — but I find myself less able to travel these days."
Sam considered it. His gut reaction was to say no. It was a long way to go, a journey that would cost money he didn't have. What am I doing with this story anyway? Sam wondered. I don't do this kind of thing anymore. I'm supposed to be leaving the investigative stuff to other people these days.
"Yeah, go on then," said Sam.
Chapter 4
By the time Sam had taken the train down to London, changed for a local train, and made his way to Thatcham, his emergency credit card was beginning to smolder. This is turning into a very expensive trip, he thought, as he handed over a ten-pound note for a railway station sandwich and weak tea. He got very little change. Once he had eaten, Sam went in search of a taxi. A lone minicab was waiting at the rank.
"The Old Rectory, The Ridge, Cold Ash, please," Sam said to the driver. They set off. The driver was pleasantly taciturn, leaving Sam to stare absently out of the window at the Berkshire countryside. Beyond the little town lay rolling fields, lush and green, dotted with chocolate box cottages and farmhouses. Despite its picturesque beauty, the landscape made Sam melancholy. He had not been back to England since he had moved home eighteen months earlier, and it was strange to see this kind of pastoral prettiness again.
Cold Ash was barely a village. The main street consisted of a few shops, a school, and a couple of pubs, and The Old Rectory was nowhere near the main street. It was a sturdy Victorian building with a gravel drive and seemingly endless gardens. Sam paid the cab driver, ignoring his grumbling about being given Scottish banknotes, then scrunched his way across the gravel to knock on the door.
Steven Lehmann answered the door with difficulty, holding a baby on his hip and a bottle in his free hand. "Oh. You must be the journalist," he said dismissively. "I suppose you'd better come in." Sam stepped into the cozy hallway, feeling out of place amid the expensively shabby Welsh dressers and occasional tables. I'm the wrong kind of shabby, Sam thought, shrugging off his battered black leather jacket and draping it over his arm. He was freezing after his journey, but this place was distinctly overheated.