The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

Frank sometimes cooks for me. He comes from Lancashire, where he grew up on things like tripe and vinegar, so I suppose it shouldn’t have come as any surprise the first time he tried one of his own specialities on me.”

The smile morphed into a wince at the memory of the time Frank had spoken of a trip to Hamburg, where he had discovered their local speciality Labskaus. What probably excited him more than anything, she explained, was the similarity in name to the lamb scouse his mother used to cook for him. But what he tasted in Hamburg was quite different, he said. And he insisted on making it for her one evening. Ellen could not understand how he could even contemplate eating it. The mash of corned beef and beetroot with a side of herring not only looked awful and tasted terrible, but smelled even worse.

“… but then he always did have a strange sense of smell,” she added, recalling that this was something he always put down to the slightly misshapen bridge of his nose.

“Do you think that’s possible?” Ellen asked, as they left the restaurant and wandered back up the hill arm in arm through the snow.

“I’m sure it is,” Marthe assured her.

Ellen mulled over these memories and uncertainties all the way back to the chalet. And contemplated the evening which Marthe had intended to be so perfect yet ended in digestive disgruntlement.

But perfection of another kind came eventually once they closed the door on the cold night air. After they had both turned in and Ellen had settled down under the cosy warmth of her duvet, she heard the gentle squeak of her door opening. It was Marthe. Not a word was said. Ellen felt her pulse quicken and sensed a tingle as Marthe slid in under the duvet and put an arm around her. They remained in each other’s embrace for the remainder of their last night in the mountains. And Ellen carried the memory of that night with her all the way back on the train the next day.

After their return, Urs Zellweger appeared unsurprised when Marthe told him of Ellen’s decision to return home. He received this news with the kind of clinical psychiatrist’s response that Ellen had come to expect from him.

“A wise decision under the circumstances,” was the way he framed it. All trace of Frank, he conceded, seemed to have dried up. And it was probably best if she returned to her normal routine at home in London while the search continues. They would of course contact her as soon as they had any news.

Ellen had the impression Dr Zellweger would be quite pleased to see the back of her. It would be understandable, she told herself. But it did make her wonder whether he suspected his wife had struck up a relationship with their house guest that was just too intimate for his comfort. She coloured at the thought. When Marthe promptly jumped in with the suggestion that they go to the station the next day to check on departure times and get a ticket, Ellen sensed that she had noticed her blushes. And this made her colour up all the more.

“That’s a good idea, Marthe,” Dr Zellweger said, glancing at Ellen with a smile. “And you can be sure we will contact you as soon as we have any news,” he repeated, setting Ellen’s mind at rest that he had given no thought to the colour in her cheeks.

It was not that he was actively encouraging her to return. Nor did Ellen have any doubt that, as a psychiatrist, he would have understood what a wrench it was for her to leave behind the last known links with Frank, however tenuous. But she was very much aware of how wedded he was to his psychiatric hospital. Yet some weeks had now passed since the man who was said to be Frank absconded from the clinic. And in the meantime, this stranger appeared to have become more a person of interest to the police than a patient of Dr Zellweger’s.

Ellen sensed the blushes fade with these thoughts, and she became outwardly more composed. But inwardly she was beginning to wonder how the return to her normal routine would shape up. Whether it would even be possible to revisit life back in London as it had been until a few weeks ago. Simply to carry on as normal. Constantly awaiting a call from Marthe or Dr Zellweger. Or from the police.

Chapter 25

Countless months in Italian custody had left their mark on Frank. After his arrest in possession of a firearm by the Como police, he was interrogated for weeks by the local Carabinieri, who suspected him of antifascist motives for entering Italy. When they concluded he must be an agitator for the Justice and Liberty movement, he was transferred to Milan for more aggressive questioning. For his entire incarceration he was kept in solitary confinement. The only thing that kept him going was the memory of Patricia and his determination to get back to her as soon as he could. He recalled the very first time he laid eyes on her, when she captivated him with the fullness of her raven hair. The indescribable beauty of the moment when she threw her head back, letting her hair catch in the corner of her mouth. And the way she would discreetly part her lips to sweep away the black strands with her fingers. Or the beguiling motion of her ankles when he followed their effortless progress up the steps and watched the seam of her stockings as they traced every movement. But these sweet memories remained forever in the shadow of the bitter knowledge that she had no idea where he was or what had happened to him. That maybe she even thought his failure to return was his way of dumping her.

He had no idea just how many months passed before he was eventually allowed to pass on a