‘Of course.’
‘It’s been on my mind ever since I saw all those flowers people had left. I want to know the details — and yet in a way I don’t.’
‘Best forget it, then.’
On the opposite side of the river an InterCity train bound for Bristol enforced a timely pause, long enough for Paloma to come to a decision.
‘I’m sorry. I know I shan’t stop thinking about it. You’d better tell me what you found out.’
‘Then we leave it and move on?’
‘Agreed.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I asked Ingeborg. She’s a wiz at winkling out information. Even so, it took her a while on the internet. Four years ago the body of a tourist was found in the Danube canal close to those steps. A Japanese woman in her twenties.’
Paloma’s sympathy now had more to latch onto. ‘A tourist? Poor soul. Was she travelling alone?’
‘Apparently.’
‘I wonder what drove her to do such a thing. Did they identify her?’
‘Months later, through her DNA. She’d been in the water too long to be recognised.’
‘How do they do that?’
‘DNA is unique to each individual, as you know. They take a sample from the remains and once they know of a missing person they can compare the profiles.’
‘What with?’
‘Traces found in the home — hair follicles, skin cells, blood, saliva. A comb or a toothbrush will often have DNA attached.’
‘I suppose the family reported her missing.’
‘Not immediately. She’d been away some time. Her travel arrangements were open-ended.’
Paloma took a sharp, pitying breath. ‘So easy to get depressed when you’re alone in a strange city.’
‘She must have known what to expect.’
‘Yes, but things can easily go wrong. You find you’re running through your cash, or you lose your credit cards, or you just get ill and there’s no one with you to share your troubles and laugh them off. The world can seem a hostile place.’
‘It would take more than that to make me jump into a canal.’
She didn’t take the remark as lightly as he intended. ‘We’re not all men of steel.’
‘Just trying to keep a sense of proportion.’
‘Not always so simple. You said she was Japanese. They think differently about suicide. It’s rooted in their culture.’
‘What — harry-karry?’
‘Hara-kiri, actually. No, that’s part of the samurai tradition and too gory to go into. I’m talking about the mass of the people, and the way they think. I’m trying to think of the name of the most famous Japanese dramatist. Anyway, he specialised in plays about lovers who commit suicide, and he was writing over three hundred years ago.’
Paloma’s knowledge of international drama had to be respected. She had her own company advising on historical costume for theatre, film and television.
Diamond said, ‘I heard somewhere that the Japanese are in the premier league for suicide. If you fail in your job, topping yourself is the honourable thing to do. Politicians, bankers, business managers. It wouldn’t happen here. You write a book about your failings and make another fortune.’
His efforts to raise a smile weren’t working.
‘Did this poor girl leave a note?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do they know she killed herself?’
‘They found something with the body that was almost the same as a suicide note. What are those little carved ivory things people collect? They have some sort of practical function.’
‘Netsuke?’
‘Right.’
‘They go with traditional Japanese costume, fixed to the sash of a kimono so that personal items can be suspended from them.’
‘Well, this one was found inside her T-shirt. She may have been holding it to her chest when she jumped. Two embracing figures in snow up to their waists.’
‘Chubei and Umegawa.’
His high opinion of Paloma’s expertise went up several more notches. ‘You know their names?’
‘They’re well known, almost universal characters. And now I’ve remembered the name of the playwright: Chikamatsu. He used them in one of his plays. It ends with the lovers going out into the snow to die.’
‘You’re way ahead of me. The point of this is that the police took the netsuke to be a suicide emblem.’
‘Symbolically, it does make sense,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the story represented in woodcuts, paintings and netsuke. This poor woman may have been in love.’
‘Not just missing her credit cards, then?’
She finally produced a smile, more in charity than humour. ‘Probably not. Had she met someone?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. I don’t suppose the Vienna police could, either.’
‘Aren’t you interested in why she died?’
‘The “how” matters more than the “why”. If it happened here and it became obvious she’d killed herself, with no possibility of anyone else being involved, we wouldn’t go into all the possible reasons. The inquest will do that. It’s not up to the police to find out her state of mind.’
‘Peter, you probably don’t mean it, but that sounds so uncaring.’
Smarting from that, he justified his statement. ‘We’re not social workers or psychologists. We’d be wrong to try.’
‘But you’d try if she’d been murdered. That’s where your argument breaks down.’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t think we were arguing. Besides, it’s not my case. The Vienna police dealt with it.’
‘And decided it was suicide because of nothing more substantial than the netsuke? Didn’t they go into it any more deeply than that? Someone could have stuffed the netsuke into her clothes and pushed her in.’
‘Murder, you mean?’
‘Or manslaughter, horseplay that went wrong.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Why?’
‘If they used the netsuke to delude the police the killing would be premeditated. But it wouldn’t be a very reliable way of going about it. You couldn’t guarantee the police would find the thing. It was not much bigger than a walnut.’
‘So you agree with the official line — it was suicide?’
‘I’ve no doubt they looked at all the evidence.’
‘And this was how long ago? Four years? People still care enough to leave flowers.’
‘It’s a modern custom.’
‘And a nice one. Her family must be devastated. For this to have happened thousands of miles from home — that’s heartbreaking.’
He couldn’t prevent Paloma identifying strongly with the people involved. He’d hoped she would be satisfied knowing the main facts. She’d spoken of the temporary shrine of flowers several times since returning from Vienna.
He tried one more time to draw a line under the incident. ‘Nothing we can do about it. Bad things are happening every day in this world. It’s no good letting them get to you.’
She rounded on him with more passion than he expected. ‘That’s bloody typical of a policeman, if I may say so. Cut yourself off from reality. Develop the hide of a rhinoceros. This was a tragic suicide, a young life sacrificed and probably for love, if the netsuke means anything.’
‘Paloma, we didn’t know her. I haven’t even told you her name.’
‘It’s the offhand way you said it: “Nothing we can do” — as if she’s just a statistic. I know there’s nothing we can do. It’s up to the Austrian police. But I can’t forget we were there and I picked up the flowers. Someone obviously cares about her enough to place a bunch of lilies there four years after the event, even if you want to turn your back.’
He ignored the last remark. ‘Japanese friends, I should think, or local people with more sympathy than most of us, like you.’
‘There you go again, analysing, looking for explanations. I’m saying it’s a personal tragedy. It’s real.’
No question: the very thing he’d wanted to avoid was happening. Paloma was reliving the incident and more upset than ever. Worse, it was becoming an issue between them.