by Nigel Price
Harry shot forward and punched Collar Man hard under the rib cage. Deep into the kidneys. He saw the punch register. The man didn’t let go. Instead he swung at Harry with his other hand. As the wide hook came in, Harry ducked under it, feeling the wash of air as the great clenched paw brushed his hair for him. A thought flashed into his head. The creature had an even bigger brother. A glimpse at the eyes showed this one to have all his marbles. Nasty, chipped mean ones.
Harry balled his right fist, and with all his might punched Collar Man in the armpit on the side which still held fast to Ingrid’s collar. It wasn’t enough to dislocate the limb, though it did persuade Collar Man to let go of the girl. Ingrid sprang out of harm’s way. Straight into the grip of yet another brother. Same size as Collar Man and just as mean-looking.
“What does Daddy feed these boys?” Harry panted as he dug in for a slugging match.
Ingrid took a swing of her own at Second Brother. Her fist crashed into the side of his head with the devastating effect of a small songbird alighting on a rhino. He tossed her away, sending her sprawling, and went at Harry. As he did so, he lowered ready to grapple. His open hands were spread wide, ready to grab Harry and tear him in half. While Collar Man was rubbing his numb arm back to life, Harry belonged to Second Brother who was going to make the most of it.
Sorry to disappoint him, Harry darted forward, avoiding his embrace and instead planted an instep deep into Second Brother’s testicles. Kin geri, if memory served. It had always been Harry’s all-time favourite kick, and the simplest. Lift the knee, then a flick of the lower leg, instep snapping up and back. Right into the groin. Too dangerous to be used in sparring, but in a street fight it was a no-brainer. Low risk too. Not high enough to grab, and too fast to block. The only defence was a sideways deflection or a body shift. Or not to get in a fight with someone who knew how to do it in the first place. None of which came to the assistance of Second Brother who had missed out on Harry’s years of dojo training.
With Second Brother nursing his balls and making strange throaty sounds, it was Collar Man’s turn again. Harry faced him, ready to call it a day. We’ll go our way, you go yours.
Collar Man was having none of it. He was standing in what he considered to be a good fighting stance. He’d obviously watched some boxing in his time, though done none of it. Harry really didn’t want to hurt him.
Before he could resolve the moral dilemma, Collar Man was coming at him, fast for his size. He was like a big heavyweight boxer who had forgotten everything his coach had ever taught him.
A feint with a left straight, but the killer right hook was so obvious he might as well have explained it to Harry beforehand with a whiteboard and coloured felt-tips.
Harry almost had time to check his phone for emails while waiting for it to land. He slipped easily underneath it, and as it sailed on past, disappearing somewhere off into the asparagus field, Harry let Collar Man’s own momentum bring him smack onto an elbow strike. Sliding into a rock-solid stance, Harry snapped a twist with the hips and drove his right elbow deep and hard into Collar Man’s solar plexus.
The wind went out of the giant and his great bulk was lifted clean off the ground. Careful not to let the colossus crash straight onto him, Harry darted under the falling tree of meat.
Ingrid had picked herself up and watched the exchange between Harry and the brothers. She was shaking the pain from the fingers of her fist hand. “I don’t think they want us here,” she said.
“You think?”
Another shout and they saw old man Müller coming out of the farmhouse. In his hands was a shotgun. Double barrelled, side by side. Old style. The business end was aimed in their direction.
“Go!” Harry snapped. Ingrid didn’t need persuading.
Another shout and the butt was in farmer Müller’s shoulder, his squinty eyes sighting down the length of it. To one side, the creature stood finishing the last of his Gummi Bears. Far from looking as if he might join in the fun, he grinned merrily at Harry and waved the empty bag of sweets by way of thanks, his treasured ring forgotten.
Out of the farmyard, an undignified jog along the road, into the Jag, revving the engine and away. A glance in the mirror showed farmer Müller aiming at the retreating car. Harry prayed that the old man wouldn’t fire. Not that the buckshot would harm him at that range, but it would play havoc with the paintwork.
“Where are you going?” Ingrid said as the farm disappeared out of sight. Harry had taken a right turn and then a second one, heading back in the direction of Soest by a route that avoided the farm.
“Your place, if that’s okay,” Harry said. “I need the internet.”
Thirteen
The hallway of Ingrid’s house smelled of floor polish. A vase of fresh flowers added to bees wax. Someone had been brewing coffee, and laundry had been done at some point. To Harry everything smelled fresh and homely and just right.
“Are you okay?”
He realised Ingrid was watching him. “Fine. I was just enjoying meeting your house,” he said.
“You’re a strange one,” she said. “You look like a prospective buyer. Or a wolf at the edge of the forest sensing for danger.”
“Is there any?” Harry asked.
“Danger? Of course. What could be more dangerous than a divorced mother luring a single man into her house?” She laughed. To her horror she realised she was blushing too. Why on earth had she said that?
“How’s your hand?”
Relieved at the change of topic she held it out for inspection. The knuckles were bright red. Harry checked it. There was no swelling and the bones were fine. “That was some punch.”
“Yeah. Did you see how I knocked him out cold?”
“It was the thought that counted.”
“It bloody hurt. Why does it look so easy in the movies?”
“Er … because they’re not really punching each other?”
“I knew that. Anyway, how come you didn’t hurt yourself?”
“Two things you need to know about hitting someone. One, the face is hard, so don’t hit it full power unless you’re got gloves on or you’ll hurt your hand. Two, you don’t need to hit it full power to do damage. End of lesson.”
Ingrid took her hand back. She made a couple of jabs at the air in front of his face. “Anything else I need to know?”
“Always check there’s no traffic before crossing a road?”
She smiled and let her hands drop. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
“I have something stronger.”
“I’d love that but I’m driving. Better stick to coffee.”
They went into the kitchen where a half-filled pot of stale coffee sat on the filter machine. Ingrid tipped it down the sink and set it to brew some fresh.
“Won’t take long. So, internet.” She led the way into the sitting room where a computer terminal stood on a table to one side. She logged on and brought up a search engine. “What do you want to search for? Probably best if I do it as it’s all in German.”
“Portland Aviation. What can you tell me about it?” Harry asked.
Ingrid typed in the company name, reviewed the various offerings that came up, and clicked on the company’s own website. It was short and to the point. Not especially swish or up to date. Just a couple of pages, outlining what the company did and how it was run.
“Who owns it?” Harry asked.
Click click click. “Heinz Gutman,” Ingrid read. Click click. And a grainy photograph appeared of a wholly nondescript man in thick-rimmed spectacles. The barest biographical details were there. A one-time airline pilot turned entrepreneur. Started the business as a charter airline with just two old planes, then branching out into helping other more established airlines find buyers for their old aircraft. Aircraft trading. Aircraft acquired new by the big well-known western airlines, generally moving east once the best use had been had from them, and sold into Asia. Until China had taken off and wanted brand new aircraft of
its own, whereupon Portland Aviation had focused its second-hand sales on the lesser known Middle East airlines, and into Africa and South and Central America.
“Nothing unusual there,” Ingrid said.
“There wouldn’t be,” Harry answered. “Not on their own website.” And he recounted what the cycling carpenter had said to him by the overgrown guardroom up on the ridge.
The coffee machine was making gurgling sounds as if it was choking, culminating in a prolonged death rattle. Ingrid went to put it out of its misery. She called back from the kitchen, “Milk and sugar?”
“Milk no sugar, please.” Harry was having a go at driving the German search engine. A screen full of gibberish appeared.
Two mugs came through and one was plonked in front of him. Ingrid looked from the screen to Harry and back again. “Shall I?” She retook her seat and cleared up his mess.
“Right,” she said meaningfully. She glanced at him. He wanted to imagine he saw a twinkle in her eye.
“Portland Aviation,” she recited as she typed it into the search box. Click. She leaned into the screen to read the small print. “What’s this?” She read some more. Raised her eyebrows. “Your cyclist friend was right. This is a report from three years ago about a court case in Indonesia. It says an airframe sold to Garuda crashed on take-off at Jakarta International Airport on blah, blah, blah …” She mumble-read the following sentences searching for the juicy bits. Her finger stabbed at the screen as she recited, “After a lengthy inquest, it was concluded that pilot error was the cause. Portland Aviation was exonerated of all blame.”
She sat back and looked at Harry who looked at the screen and a small photograph of a plane in flames. “Exonerated,” she repeated.
He shrugged.
Without waiting for him to ask, she hit another link. Another article sprung to life. She leaned into that one too.
“Do you need reading glasses?” Harry asked.
Without taking her eyes off the script she smiled. And didn’t answer. ‘Tragedy struck yesterday morning,’ she read, ‘as a Boeing 737-300 of Trans-Africa Airlines crashed with the loss of everyone on board. There was no report of bad weather and no distress signal was received. The control tower at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport lost contact with the aircraft one hour after take-off. The airframe, recently purchased from …’ her eyebrows were raised even higher, ‘… Portland Aviation of Germany, is thought to have suffered catastrophic failure. However, a spokesman for Portland Aviation, Christian Schuler, said he was certain that once a full and thorough investigation had been conducted, it was more likely pilot error would be to blame. He also said that Portland Aviation would be sending a team to assist with the investigation and that they would be on the ground within hours.’
“I bet they bloody would. Complete with brown envelopes stuffed with cash,” Harry said. He took a drink of his coffee.
“What grounds do you have for saying that?” Ingrid looked genuinely puzzled.
“Is there any more?” he said.
She returned to the screen and scrolled down. “Two more. One, a report from Vietnam and an aircraft Portland sold to Air Saigon, and another from Lesotho and an aircraft sold to them. Both crashed and in both cases pilot error was eventually found to be the cause.” She quoted, ‘After full and lengthy enquiries.’ She looked at him. “Surely they couldn’t just fake that? I mean, crash investigators from the actual manufacturers are involved in the enquiries for all crashes. Not just Portland Aviation personnel.”
Harry slumped in his chair, coffee oiling his thought processes. “I suppose so. But out there, on the ground, who knows what goes on? Person to person.”
Ingrid clicked back to the Portland Aviation home site and sat looking at the small grainy photograph of Heinz Gutman. Harry leaned in and stared at it too.
Then he felt Ingrid studying him. He turned to her and their faces were a foot apart. Eye to eye, looking into each other, seeing what was behind the eyes, down inside.
They were just about to plumb the depths when there was the sound of a key in the front door and Thomas let himself into the hall.
In a second they were both a healthy metre apart and studiously examining the computer screen.
Thomas came in and appraised the scene. “Hi.” Then, “Why are you both looking at the screensaver?”
Ingrid stabbed the keys to bring back Heinz Gutman. “You’re early, liebchen?”
He screwed up his nose. With an embarrassed glance at Harry he said, “Mum.”
Having retaken the high ground, Ingrid said, “You remember Harry, don’t you?”
“Of course. Hi, Harry. I saw the car.”
“I’ll give you the keys later. You can take it for a spin?”
“Really!”
Ingrid smiled. “I think Harry’s teasing you, darling.”
Thomas looked crestfallen. Which made Harry feel rotten. “How was school today?” he asked quickly in a futile attempt to make amends. Instantly realising that the last thing the poor kid wanted to talk about was school.
Thomas shrugged out of his backpack. Gravity acted on the weight of books inside to thunk it on the polished floor. “Fine, thanks.” Then, enervated, he said to Ingrid, “I saw that car again!”
“Which car?” Ingrid asked, tensed for the answer she already knew.
“The red one.”
Harry frowned. “What’s that about?” And she told him about how Thomas had thought a red car had followed them from the house to the school.
“It did follow us!” Thomas protested.
“All right,” Ingrid said. “Now go upstairs and do your homework. Supper will be ready in half an hour.”
He got halfway up the stairs then asked, “Are you staying for supper, Harry?” Before Harry could concoct a diplomatic answer to rescue Ingrid, Thomas turned his fire on her. “Can he, Mum? Please?”
She looked surprised. “Why?” Then realised what she had said and quickly added, “Of course. If he wants to.”
With two pairs of eyes boring into him, one brimful with enthusiasm, the other with … whatever, Harry found himself thinking longingly of Herr Fischer’s fillet steak and a table luxuriously all to himself with brandy and a cigar on the terrace afterwards. But then he thought of his spartan room waiting to engulf him, and his cold, hard bed. Not that anything more than supper was on offer here, of course.
“Well … if it’s not too much trouble … what is there?”
“Spaghetti hoops on toast.” Ingrid observed his reaction. “But perhaps I can rustle up something else.”
“Pizza!” came a shriek from the stairs.
“Pizza would be fine,” Harry said, meaning it. Then added, “As would spaghetti hoops on toast. That’s me. Mr Easy.”
“Yes,” Ingrid drawled when Thomas was out of earshot. “I saw Mr Easy at work in the farmyard.”
“Why, what did Harry do?”
“Scheiße!” She spun to see Thomas hanging over the banisters. His eyes and mouth became three perfect Os when he heard her swear.
“Nothing. The car wouldn’t start and he fixed it.”
Thomas looked at her. “Yeah. Right. The … Jaguar wouldn’t start.”
Harry came to the rescue. “There were these three secret agents, all armed to the teeth, and I took them out with my bare hands.”
Thomas looked even more unbelieving. “Yeah. Right.”
Harry shrugged at Ingrid. “Your son’s a hard man to convince.”
She noted the boy’s reaction to being called a man. And liked Harry for it. She smiled at the two men. “Pizza it is.” And got up to go in search of some.
A “Hurrah!” from the top of the stairs, and Thomas was gone, leaving Harry to catch Ingrid by the wrist before she was out of range. “This red car, did you get a look at the driver?” Mr Easy had gone.
Her eyes flicked to the top of the stairs. She could hear Thomas humming in his bedroom. “No. But it wasn’t him. The taxi driver.”
�
�If you didn’t see him, you can’t be sure.”
She looked down at her wrist in his big hand. He released it. Not that there had been anything other than the mildest interest in her face. “Okay, no I can’t. But what can we do about it? So what if it is? Perhaps he’s just a pervert or something.”
“Just?”
“I’ve been followed by men before. I know how to handle them, don’t worry. Some men are just predatory. They don’t know how to take a hint and back off.”
She walked into the kitchen. Harry could see her through the door. He wanted to pursue it but Thomas was sliding down the banisters to rejoin the party. Harry sat back and watched him, a big grin on his face. He stretched out his long legs and sank his hands in his pockets. Which was when his fingers made contact with a small metallic object.
Fourteen
Heinz Gutman was a self-made man. There had been no silver spoon in his mouth when he was born. Just his father’s leather belt across his back when he had been a few years older. He had enjoyed his revenge in the fullness of time. He had gone to visit the old man in the decrepit care home in which he had had him incarcerated at the first opportunity. Just to gloat. The stroke that had floored the bastard had left him fully mentally alert. Gutman would always remember the relish with which he had stood at the old man’s bedside and stared into his eyes. He had enjoyed seeing the soul trapped inside, wholly unable to move. Barely able even to communicate.
The staff had suggested a method whereby the old man might be able to pass messages. Something about a board with letters of the alphabet. Blinking at the right ones, and so on. A tiny bit of extra expense.
No need, the younger Gutman had said. He just wanted his dear father to be able to rest, he assured them. Much kinder like that, after all the hard work the dear man had done during his long life. Now let him have peace. The staff had fallen for it. Had smiled at the loving son and withdrawn. Leaving him alone with his beloved father.
It had been difficult to tell if his spoken messages to his father were heard, as there was barely any faculty able to register them. But staring deep into his father’s eyes he had known. The bastard had understood. Now was pay-back time. Little Heinz was going to enjoy his revenge. Every damned day of it. For the first time ever he saw fear in his father’s eyes. And loved it.
