Free The God Hunter by Tim Lees

it, we sign petition. Now . . . it makes job harder, not easier.”
    She clicked her mouse, then clicked again.
    â€œYou read, Mr. Copeland? Newspaper?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œBut not Hungarian press, I think. Or television. You know we have bogeyman here? ‘Budapest Bloodsucker’? That is name you know?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t know Budapest that well. Or Hungary . . .”
    â€œIn this case, you are lucky, I think. Though that,” and for the first time, there was just the flicker of a smile, “will change.”
    She swung the monitor around so we could both see it. The screen showed thumbnails; another click, and I was looking at a large, impressive building façade; the beautiful Budapest buildings, dressed in soot. Little windows and a rainy sky. A big sign: Hollywood Hotel .
    â€œYou know this place, Mr. Copeland? You have seen, perhaps?”
    I think I’m good at hiding my feelings; a natural poker player. Not good in relationships, but good at times like this. Even so, she watched me just a little bit too long, I felt.
    I said, “It looks familiar. I might have passed it sometime. I don’t know.”
    â€œNot luxury hotel, but good enough, I think. Above the budget of Hungarians. Of ordinary ­people. Of you and me.”
    I nodded, pursed my lips, and tried not to incriminate myself in any way.

 
    CHAPTER 13
    THE DEATH BRINGER
    D etective Ganz talked on. From time to time she raised a hand and pushed her hair back from her face; a nervous gesture, as it seemed to me. She was a handsome woman, with strong, pointed features, a straight nose, tapered chin, and large, pale blue eyes. Yet she seemed harassed, her eyes offset by shadows of fatigue, her lips inclined to press together; now and then she’d chew the lower one. She smoked a string of strong-­smelling cigarettes until the room grew gray. Smoking was a habit I had not so far acquired, but if I ever cared to start, I was certainly getting in some practice.
    â€œTwo years ago,” she said.
    She clicked another picture. It showed a hotel room: anonymous, a bit old-­fashioned; familiar-­looking, but then, hotels often are.
    â€œHe died in bed.”
    I was looking at a puppet. A dried-­up, broken-­looking puppet. It had been carefully arranged upon the bed, one elbow crooked at a peculiar angle, the sheets creased and furled around it like a nest. It had been dressed up in pajamas. From the collar, the head protruded like a wrinkled turnip. There’d been some crude attempt to shape it into human form, the sharp ridges of cheekbones, the radiator grill of teeth fixed grinning where the mouth should have been. Objects like yellow peas sat in the orbits of the eyes, which were deep and shadowed. Gray hair splayed across the pillow. It looked wrong, like something put together out of sticks and rags, and it lay there, lit up stark and bleak by the photographer’s flash.
    She told me, “He was forty-­four years old.”
    I stared down at the desktop.
    â€œDealer in jewelry and quality watches. Making good life in new Hungary. Wife, children. Probably mistress, too. Underworld connections, not one doubt; you cannot run such business otherwise. But he himself, no misdemeanor.”
    I said, “You’re sure that’s the man?”
    â€œSure one hundred percent.”
    â€œBut what makes you think—­like, how can this be murder? Surely, it’s more, more . . .”
    She flicked through screens. Here was a body lying on a tiled floor, mercifully covered by a sheet.
    â€œWoman, unidentified. Probable vagrant. Only case, so far, out of city.”
    I didn’t want to ask. I really did not want to ask. But I said, “Where?”
    â€œEsztergom,” she said.
    I felt myself go rigid for a moment; then I shrugged, as if I’d never heard of it.
    â€œThis, five months later. Three months after that,