Kossuth Square Read online

  KOSSUTH SQUARE

  Adam LeBor

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Adam LeBor, 2019

  The moral right of Adam LeBor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781786692733

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781786693280

  ISBN (E): 9781786692726

  Typeset by Divaddict Publishing Solutions Ltd.

  Cover design: Daniel Benneworth-Gray

  Cover images: frankie’s / Shutterstock.com / Andrew Shiva / Wikipedia

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Adam Lebor

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  For Kati, Daniel and Hannah

  There are such things as false truths and honest lies

  —Gypsy proverb

  PROLOGUE

  Buda hills, 1995

  She stood at the side entrance to the villa, watching her father’s car head down the hill towards the Margaret Bridge, grey smoke trailing from the exhaust of the rusty blue BMW saloon. There were no other vehicles on the road. The house was painted a dark yellow and the walls glowed golden in the soft light of dusk. The party sounded inside: muffled voices, distant laughter, snatches of music. The air was fresh and cool, notably fresher than at home, even in the local park. She was sixteen years old and for the first time in her life, or at least as long as she could remember, she was alone. She looked around. A dog barked in the far distance but the pavements were empty. Where was everybody? Did people actually live in these houses? Her home in Jozsef Street, in District VIII, was barely twenty minutes’ drive away, but she felt like she was in another world. It was a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. No little or big brothers or sisters jumping on her, demanding that she read to them or play games. No parents giving her chores. No meals to cook or clear, no plates to wash, no ashtrays to empty, no little ones to be washed and put to bed. No shouting, crying, laughing. No favourite cousin, either – well, favourite distant cousin, distant enough for everything to be proper – giving her secret smiles or those smouldering looks.

  The BMW vanished from sight and she patted her long black hair again, needlessly. Freshly washed, it felt soft and silky under her fingers. A hair wash was a rare treat. There was no running hot water at home. Instead Anyu, Mother, and Marta neni, Auntie Marta, had filled the biggest pan in the kitchen and boiled the water on the cooker, washing her long tresses as she had stood over the sink, the suds running down her back. She turned to face the door. It was dark brown, thick and glossy with varnish. There was a heavy brass door knocker, polished and gleaming. She had never seen a house like this from the outside, let alone stepped inside one. There were two gardens and she could see them both: one in the front where a narrow path led between two manicured lawns. French windows opened on to a much bigger garden in the back, which had more lawns and flowerbeds. There was even a swimming pool. She couldn’t swim; even shallow water made her nervous.

  She was nervous now, of course she was. When she left, Anyu had walked downstairs with her, down all five floors – their building had no lift. That was something because Anyu was quite overweight, had to go back upstairs on foot, and didn’t like to leave their flat. Anyu had cried a bit when she got into the car with her father, and she asked why but Anyu said it was only because she was so proud of her daughter and she was going to have a big adventure. The two of them had been to Buda before, window shopping at the new shopping centre where the security guards had followed them at every step, but they were used to that, of course. She had sung at a couple of bars around Moszkva Square with Roma Drom, her uncle Melchior’s band, but she had never been this far up the hills. This was her first solo performance. No wonder her mother was proud. It was unusual, to be sure, for her to be allowed out on her own, to sing for strangers without Melchior, or any other male relative there to chaperone her. But her parents had arranged it, so she was sure it would be all right. And she would not be completely alone: apu, Father, had promised her that a couple of Melchior’s musicians would be there to accompany her.

  She looked herself up and down, pleased at what she saw. She was wearing her best outfit: a long black-and-silver skirt with a flower pattern, a plain black blouse, and a black–and-silver shawl over her shoulders, silver earrings with black gemstones. She glanced at her skirt, patted it smooth. The photographer that morning had said she looked beautiful. She had never been in a photographer’s studio before and could not wait to see the pictures. If any man bothered her, she would swing her skirt over him, make him mahrime, unclean. That was one of the greatest shames in Gypsy culture. She frowned for a moment. Did mahrime work with gadjes, non-Gypsies? She was not sure, but even if it didn’t, her brothers and cousins would deal with anyone who caused trouble. And she had big plans for the future, beyond singing. Hungary was a free country now. The old ways were changing, and not just for the gadjes. So far, only two people knew of her dream to be a teacher: her mother and her favourite cousin. The problem would be her father, she knew. But even he, she was sure, could be persuaded.

  She savoured the moment, the air and the quiet and quickly looked herself up and down before she went inside. A touch of mascara highlighted her eyes, the colour of emeralds, he had once told her. She blushed at the memory, pulled the shawl tighter, for comfort, wishing he was there. But he had promised to take her for ice cream again, to celebrate once she was back. There would be so much to talk about. A bird trilled somewhere nearby, as if to approve.

  She shivered for a moment, from excitement perhaps and also because the breeze was picking up and the air was starting to cool. The party, she could see through the windows, was in full swing. It looked very fancy: there
were waiters and waitresses moving back and forth in black trousers and grey blouses, holding trays of drinks and snacks, and all the guests looked so elegant. One of the windows opened and a young couple stepped out. The sound of jazz drifted out into the summer evening. He was handsome, in his early twenties, looked almost familiar. She had seen him on television a couple of times, she remembered, talking about something or other. Her father had switched the TV off when he’d found her watching it, muttering about ‘lying gadje politicians’. The woman, his girlfriend she guessed, as they were holding hands, was younger, a very pretty blonde wearing a black dress that would get the wrong kind of attention on Jozsef Street. The music ended and there was scattered applause, which meant it must be a live band. For a moment she frowned. Melchior’s musicians did not play jazz.

  Never mind, she told herself. They were probably having a drink and a cigarette somewhere, waiting for her. She would make it work, whoever she was singing with. Her real worry was how would she fit in at such a posh place, with such a posh crowd? Would they look down on her, the Gypsy girl from Jozseftown? Perhaps they would point and mutter, even snigger. She didn’t care. She was used to that, and worse. And none of them, she knew, could sing like she could, with a voice that could soar like an eagle, whisper like a lover and stop dead every conversation in the room.

  She touched her hair once more for luck, lifted the heavy door knocker and rapped it twice.

  ONE

  Loczy Lajos Street, 6.00 a.m., Thursday, 10 September 2015

  The dead man was on his knees in the centre of the bed, naked and still bent at the waist. His backside pointed high in the air and his spine sloped down to a jowly face resting on one side. He had brown skin the colour of mahogany, and thinning black hair that seemed too dark to be natural spread across a shiny scalp. A dark urine stain had spread out underneath him onto silk sheets the colour of blood.

  Balthazar Kovacs pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves, touched the side of the man’s neck under his jawbone, waited for half a minute. Nothing moved. Even through the glove the man’s skin was cold. He took out a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket, slid it under the man’s right arm where the palm joined the wrist, and lifted his hand. The palm drooped down, manicured fingernails dangling in the air. Balthazar lowered the pen, let the man’s hand back down onto the bed and stripped the latex glove off his right hand, before holding his fingers in front of the dead man’s mouth and nose. The air stayed still.

  Balthazar put the glove back on, turned to the young woman standing nearby watching him. ‘He’s definitely dead.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded. ‘Very.’

  ‘He’s not just unconscious or something like that? Maybe he is in a coma,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘No. He’s dead.’

  Kinga Torok’s grey eyes widened. ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘Not if you tell me everything that happened. Did anyone give you something to give him?’

  He watched her carefully as she answered. She wore a blue silk robe over black lingerie. Her fine blonde hair was mussed and her mascara was smudged. But she held his gaze, eyes open and as innocent as they could be. ‘No. Nothing. Really.’

  ‘Drugs, powder, something to drink? It’s much better if you tell me now, Kinga.’

  ‘You mean, to kill him? Of course not. Why would I do that? I earn good money here. I send half of it back home. I don’t want to mess that up.’ Her voice was confident, almost disdainful.

  Balthazar stepped away from the bed, looked at the dead man again. Was she telling the truth? The part about not wanting to mess things up, almost certainly. The dead man’s arms were splayed, as though he had been trying to wave or call for help. A killer in the room would not have left Kinga alive. Death was probably caused by a heart attack or some kind of seizure. He glanced again at Kinga. She returned his gaze, unsettled certainly – who wouldn’t be? – but not fearful or anxious. At first Balthazar thought the dead man might be a Gypsy. He was dark enough. Balthazar knew all the city’s Roma power brokers and pimps, businessmen and wheeler-dealers who could afford a night with Kinga in the VIP salon. This was not one of them, but he could be from out of town. Either that, or he was a foreigner. There were, he supposed, worse ways to go.

  Balthazar asked, ‘Do you know who he is?’

  Kinga shrugged. ‘No. An Arab, maybe. He told me to call him Abdi.’

  Balthazar yawned, ran his fingers through his thick black hair, felt the weight inside him grow steadily heavier. Abdi, or whoever he was, was the reason why Eszter, the brothel’s manager, had called him an hour ago, begging for his help. Balthazar knew that the brothel had dealt with a couple of dead punters before, overweight middle-aged men who had died of heart attacks. Only last summer a visiting German pastor had expired in the arms and legs of a pair of nineteen-year-old twins. Dead punters were always bad for business, but could be managed. Enough 20,000-forint notes would grease the wheels of officialdom to move the body out of the brothel, alter the reports to save reputations and relatives’ memories. But a dead foreigner was much more complicated.

  Balthazar asked, ‘Abdi what?’

  Kinga shrugged. ‘Who knows? We didn’t talk much.’

  Balthazar glanced at the body on the bed. Abdi. Probably short for Abdullah. That could mean nothing. Rich Arab tourists were pouring into Budapest nowadays. The city’s high-end brothels were doing more business than ever, few more than his brother Gaspar’s place. But not all the Arab visitors were moneyed, able to afford a night in the VIP salon. Some were camped out at Keleti Station, travelling on fake papers as they steadily made their way to the west. Hungary’s borders had collapsed, the prime minister had resigned in a corruption scandal connected to Gulf investors and the Ministry of Justice was entangled in a people-trafficking ring channelling Islamic radicals to the west. Perhaps Abdi, or his death, was telling him something.

  Balthazar brought himself back to the room, turned to Kinga. ‘So what did you do?’

  She laughed. ‘How much detail do you want?’

  His question, Balthazar realised, could have been better phrased. ‘I mean, was there anything strange, out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No. At first, just the usual. He booked me for the whole night. Although he wanted… you know…’ She paused, blushed, suddenly bashful, looked away for a couple of seconds. ‘He offered me double, but I said I wouldn’t do that. It hurts.’

  Kinga Torok was twenty-two, a slender, pretty blonde, recently arrived from a tiny village near the Serbian border. Her father was unemployed and her mother worked as a cleaner. Smart and very ambitious, Kinga spent her daylight hours studying law at Budapest’s ELTE university. At night she earned more in a few hours than her mother took home in a month, especially when she was the queen of the VIP salon. The room was the most expensive in the house. It had wall-to-wall dark-purple carpeting, near full-length mirrors on both sides of the bed and a further mirror on the ceiling. The bed was a rococo extravaganza with a carved, oversized gilt footboard and headboard, both upholstered with crimson padding that matched the sheets. A small matching cabinet stood next to it, its surface piled high with freshly laundered thick, white hand towels. An antique Biedermeier wardrobe stood in one corner, where the client and his company could leave their clothes. Facing it stood a black-lacquered Japanese cabinet with a built-in fridge, with the remains of the night on top: two bottles of Moët et Chandon champagne, one empty, one unopened, two flute glasses cut from Bohemian crystal, one almost full, one empty, and a packet of blue, triangular pills.

  The room might be luxurious, but it stank: of sweat and semen, spilled alcohol and urine and the slow ripening of a dead body. Balthazar stepped aside and opened the window. He breathed deeply as the cool, fresh air of a Buda morning seeped inside, then walked over to the cabinet, glancing up at the ceiling as he went: the minimalist overhead lamp, with six sprouting metal arms, each with a steel bulb on the end, was oddly modern and did not fit with th
e rest of the baroque decor. Balthazar picked up the strip of pills: two empty blisters. Enough for a night, he supposed, assuming that they were indeed Viagra.

  Balthazar turned the pills over in his hand, still wearing the blue latex glove.

  ‘How many of these did he take?’

  Kinga shrugged. ‘Dunno. Just the two, I think.’

  ‘Food? Did you or he eat anything?’

  ‘Nothing. He drank most of the champagne. But I saw him open it.’

  ‘Did you have any?’

  ‘Just a few sips. We are not supposed to drink.’

  ‘Which is yours?’

  Kinga pointed at the glass that was three-quarters full.

  ‘Sure?’ asked Balthazar.

  ‘Positive. It’s too dry for me.’

  Balthazar thought for a moment. It would be difficult, but not impossible, to adulterate the champagne. But then Kinga would have been affected as well. ‘How do you feel? Dizzy, weak or anything?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Did he take anything else?’

  He watched her as she spoke. ‘No,’ she said, ‘nothing,’ but this time she looked to the left and her pink tongue flicked over her upper lip for a second. Balthazar walked over to the cabinet. Amid the party debris there were several patches of fine white dust. ‘Come here, Kinga,’ he said. She walked over. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Talcum powder?’

  Balthazar turned to her. She still carried the smell of sex, a musty tang overlaid with sweat. He could see her body move under the flimsy gown, the top of a lacy black bra. He tapped his forehead. ‘Do you see anything here?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘No.’

  ‘Does it say “stupid” or “dumb cop”?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Kinga looked down for a moment then met his gaze. ‘It was only a couple of lines. He took it.’