The October Man

by Ben Aaronovitch

  Special Circumstances were led by Elton Schuster, a former captain in the pioneers, an irrepressible man in his late thirties who had embraced his new role with huge enthusiasm. Not least because it allowed him to blow things up as well as fix them. He came bounding up the field towards me, radio in one hand and a wooden walking stick in the other.

  “Tobi,” he called, “you never disappoint me.”

  I introduced him to Frau Stracker and watched while they tried to out-rural each other. Elton is from a small village in eastern Saxony, so naturally he won, although it was surprisingly close. He inspected the firebreak and declared it suitable.

  “But let’s try to avoid needing it,” he said.

  I stayed where I was sitting and let them get on with it.

  In the meantime one of Elton’s minions, a young blonde woman in a Russian pattern camouflage jacket three sizes too large for her, dropped a plastic bag in my lap. Inside were a couple of bottles of apple spritzer and a slightly dented chicken schnitzel sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper.

  Frau Stracker sat down next to me and I gave her one of the bottles of apple spritzer.

  Trier, I thought, is not so large a town that people don’t know each other.

  “Does the name Heinrich Brandt mean anything to you?” I asked, because it’s always worth a try.

  “Not a happy memory,” said Frau Stracker.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He tried to rape me when I was twelve,” she said.

  Chapter 8:

  Service

  Weapon

  Listen.

  That’s how I’m trained to deal with revelations like that.

  Listen. Do not push, not even gently. If somebody mentions a secret, and I knew this was a secret because there was no record of a sexual assault in Frau Stracker’s files, then it means they probably want to talk about it. To someone. You’re probably not their first choice, but you’re a stranger and sympathetic and detached.

  All you have to do is make it clear that you’re listening, that you’re paying attention and that you’re not going to make any judgements.

  True, my training centres around getting victims of supernatural trauma to give coherent statements. But the principle is the same.

  We sat in silence for a while watching Elton directing his people. They were mounting what looked like large paint cans with spikes welded to their bases, at regular intervals around the malignancy.

  “It’s a little bit like a vapour cloud explosion,” he’d said when I’d asked him what he planned. “Only slower, less explosive and more controlled. We don’t want to flatten the neighbourhood after all, do we?”

  “Do we need to move back?”

  Elton had squinted at the lie of the land.

  “No,” he’d said. “You should be fine where you are.”

  I decided I was going to move back when the time came.

  “I think he was a friend of my father’s,” said Frau Stracker. “I didn’t notice him much, he was a grown-up and I was a girl. You don’t pay much attention to your parents’ friends, do you? Unless they’re famous or glamorous or something like that. Do you?”

  I paused to indicate that I was giving it some thought.

  “No,” I said. “You don’t, do you?”

  “My father was a lawyer, my mother was a housewife, my older sister took after my father,” said Frau Stracker. “She works in Düsseldorf now. Grandfather was the only one interested in the winery and I was the only one interested in hanging around with Grandfather.”

  “Did your parents mind?”

  “I think they believed it would keep both of us out of mischief,” she said and smiled.

  “Did it?”

  “Not noticeably,” she said. “He was a terrible old man in some ways.”

  Downslope, Elton raised his voice.

  “Be careful!” he shouted. And then, in response to a reply we couldn’t hear, “Yes, the detonators are stable. But the accelerant is sticky, doesn’t wash off with water and is inflammable. I don’t want any of you spontaneously combusting on the trip home.” A pause. “Again!”

  “Up until then I don’t think anything really bad had ever happened to me,” said Frau Stracker. “I ran into Heinrich, actually, down there.” She pointed to the lane at the bottom of the steeply sloped field.

  “Just there?” I asked, indicating where Jörg Koch’s body had been found.

  “No, further that way.” She pointed south—towards where the lane joined the Niederstraße and houses began. “I’d been to the shops and I was coming back. There’s a track up through the woods that goes all the way to the winery just short of this vineyard.”

  Heinrich Brandt had appeared as if from nowhere and called her name. He’d had to remind Frau Stracker who he was.

  “He said, ‘Hello, Jacky. Are you going to see your grandfather?’” Frau Stracker shook her head. “Only my father called me Jacky and he said he knew him from work.”

  When she said she was, he offered her a lift. She said no, and that it was quicker to go up via the footpath.

  I didn’t want to break Frau Stracker’s flow, but I did think it was telling that she didn’t accept the lift. Caution, perhaps. Or had she subconsciously noted something odd?

  In that case, Heinrich said, he would accompany her up the path. So as Jacky skipped along it, Heinrich laboured after her. It was a hot day and trees left a resin scent in the still air. Every thirty metres or so Heinrich would call out to Jacky to slow down and she would stop to let him catch up. When they came out of the woods at the top of the slope they paused to look back over the valley.

  “He said he could see his house. And he was totally normal, like any other grown-up,” said Frau Stracker.

  The change came as they walked along the lane from the edge of the woods to the winery, the same compound Vanessa and I had visited that first evening. Her grandfather didn’t live there. He had a house further up the ridge in Pflanzgarten, but he was reliably at the winery at that time of year.

  Jacky didn’t notice the change at first. Heinrich had been talking to her about how pretty she was, and asking what she wanted to do when she grew up, and Jacky had mostly tuned him out. Right up until he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Like he was my father,” she said.

  Jacky tried to twist out of his grasp, but his grip grew stronger. Enough, she found later, to leave bruises. Heinrich told Jacky that he loved her.

  “He said it very seriously,” said Frau Stracker. “As if I was a grown woman with whom he was having a relationship—a proper grown-up relationship.”

  Not that Jacky had caught that nuance, or would have cared if she had.

  “I had that strange disconnect like when a friendly dog growls and bares its teeth at you. You can’t believe it’s the same dog,” she said. “He called me ‘my love’, ‘my beauty’, ‘my precious one’.”

  Jacky bit his arm until he let go—hard enough to draw blood—and ran for her life.

  She was young, healthy and light on her feet, but every time she risked a look over her shoulder Heinrich was right behind her. She’d been hoping that her grandfather, or at least somebody, would be at the winery. But as she ran into the compound nobody was around. She sprinted for the door to the cellar yelling for her grandfather, but nobody came. In her mind Heinrich was right behind her, hands reaching for her back. But when she turned at the door to check, she found he’d stopped in the middle of the compound next to one of the old trailers.

  When he saw Jacky looking, he shook his head sadly.

  “It’s destiny,” he said. “There’s no escape for you or me.”

  Jacky slammed the door and bolted it.

  It was a good solid door and she had faith in it.

  “There was no phone in the cellar in those days,” said Frau Stracker. “Or Wi-Fi.”

  She knew that she just had to sit tight until her grandfather returned.

  But then Heinrich started to smash th
e door down.

  “He must have found a sledgehammer or some other heavy tool,” said Frau Stracker. “I heard him grunt, like an animal, and there was this crash and the whole door shook.”

  There had been a second blow which splintered the planks, and a third that smashed a hole clear through the door.

  “I was so scared that I wet my pants,” said Frau Stracker. “But I knew something he didn’t.”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Grandfather kept his pistol in the desk drawer,” she said.

  It was a Walther P38, a souvenir her grandfather had acquired during the war despite never having served beyond a couple of months in the Volkssturm towards the end of the war. He’d used it to shoot at deer and wild pigs when they trespassed on the vineyards. Less trouble than a rifle, he’d said, when all you wanted to was scare things off.

  “He’d shown me how to fire it,” said Frau Stracker.

  No wonder he was your favourite, I thought.

  Jacky had retreated to the far end of the cellar with the gun and waited. When the door failed and Heinrich crashed down the stairs, she raised the pistol in the proper two-handed grip her grandfather had taught her and aimed at the spot she thought he’d be when he reached the bottom of the steps.

  “I had some notion,” said Frau Stracker, “that I would warn him first. But as soon as I saw him I fired.”

  As many times as she could. More than twice, probably less than six. The noise of the gun was so loud that the pain in her ears made her close her eyes. And, when she opened them again, Heinrich was gone.

  “Did you hit him?” I had to ask.

  “I don’t know,” said Frau Stracker. “But Grandfather found blood on the steps.”

  Jacky’s grandfather had returned to find her washing her shorts and undies in the sink at the back of the cellar. What with the blood and the lingering smell of the gunfire, it didn’t take him long to tease the story out of Jacky.

  He reloaded the pistol, fetched one of the women who worked for him to take Jacky home and went to see if he could find Heinrich Brandt. I noticed that at no point did “calling the police” seem to have been an option.

  “It was strange,” said Frau Stracker. “I went home, had a bath, changed my clothes and when my parents came home I sat down and had supper. When they asked what I’d done all day I said I’d helped prune the vines and had a big late lunch with Grandpapa and the workers, which was why I wasn’t that hungry.”

  She went back to see her grandfather the next day.

  “Only I didn’t use the path through the woods,” said Frau Stracker. “I came up this path here.” She indicated the path we sat on. “I wasn’t afraid at all—isn’t that strange? I’ve always felt safe around these fields. But I’ve never gone through the woods again—not even now.”

  Her grandfather sat her down with a glass of wine and asked if she was all right. He explained that he hadn’t been able to find Heinrich, but he’d alerted an old friend of his who was high up in the police and they were looking for him, too.

  “But what if the police find out I shot him?” asked Jacky.

  Grandfather showed her the bullet holes in the walls of the cellar and explained that he believed that none of her shots had struck home.

  “You scared him off,” said her grandfather. “Like one of those pigs, yes?”

  It was plausible. I’ve fired a P38 a couple of times and they’re heavy, industrial pistols which kick up and to the right with every shot. Even with a good two-handed grip an inexperienced twelve-year-old could easily miss with every shot.

  I thought of the deformed lead pellet I’d found at the bottom of the field where Koch had been found and from where the malignancy had sprung. I’d have to call Wiesbaden and see if ballistics had identified it as a bullet. And if so, what calibre?

  Had Heinrich Brandt staggered down the hill and died at that spot? If so, what had happened to the body?

  Still, I didn’t even know the lead pellet was a bullet, yet let alone a 9mm round suitable for a P38. Jacky’s grandfather might have been right. Jacky could have missed every shot.

  I did plan to visit the cellar later and count the holes for myself, however.

  Jacky wasn’t too reassured by her grandfather’s theories at first, but as days and then weeks went by without Heinrich reappearing she began to think she might be safe. When she dared ask her father, as casually as she could, what had happened to his friend Heinrich, she learnt that his disappearance was a mystery. And in any case, he hadn’t really been a friend, more of an acquaintance.

  “Grandfather said he was gone for good,” said Frau Stracker.

  The way she said “gone for good” set off police bells in my head.

  “You think your grandfather did something to Heinrich Brandt, don’t you?” I asked.

  Frau Stracker shrugged.

  “You think he killed him?” I asked, and she nodded slowly.

  In which case we’d never find the body. Farmers make the best murderers because they have totally legitimate access to everything from plastic sheeting to industrial strength chemicals and heavy digging equipment. And, of course, stretches of land out of the prying eyes of strangers.

  “I never saw the gun again,” she said. And then, after a long pause, “Am I in trouble?”

  No gun, no body, no witness, no grandfather?

  “No,” I said. “But I will need you to come down to the police station and make a formal statement.”

  Frau Stracker said something but it didn’t register because I realised that the vineyard in front of us had just been cleared of personnel. I was about to suggest that we move back up the slope when Elton dropped down beside us with a detonator in his hand.

  “Ready?” he said, and before I could say anything gave the switch on the detonator a sharp twist.

  Nothing happened.

  “Wait for it,” said Elton. “We have to get the right degree of saturation.”

  It started at the bottom of the vineyard. A line of yellow and orange flame that rolled up the slope. Behind it boiled a wall of white smoke, shot through with black, that rose into the sky like a curtain flapping in the wind. The flames and smoke came charging up the slope towards us with a sound like cloth being ripped in two, and the heat struck the exposed skin of my face and hands and caused me to flinch backwards.

  And then it was gone—quickly fading down to a smouldering line at the edge of the firebreak.

  There were hollers and cheers from members of Special Circumstances and those of Frau Stracker’s workers who’d stuck around to see the show.

  “Damn,” said Elton as he surveyed his blackened handiwork.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly alarmed again.

  “We should have buried some potatoes along the edge,” he said. “We could have had a feast.”

  “You wouldn’t make that joke if you’d seen the body,” I said.

  “This is why I leave that part of the job to you,” he said.

  Chapter 9:

  High

  Places

  Vanessa didn’t get back from Mainz until late in the evening, but she gave me a preliminary report over the phone as she was driving home.

  “He choked to death on his own vomit,” she said. “He had a blood alcohol content of just over three per thousand.” Which was pretty much blind drunk, but not necessarily enough to kill you.

  “That was a bit early in the morning,” I said. “Even for an English guy.”

  “Carmela thinks he was much drunker on Saturday night, passed out and choked about three in the morning,” said Vanessa. “Give or take an hour or so.”

  Carmela—and I noticed it was Carmela now, not Professor Doktor Weissbachmann—hadn’t found any evidence of foul play, but Jason Agnelli’s stomach had been noticeably distended and its content had been unusual.

  “Partially macerated grapes in advanced state of fermentation,” said Vanessa. “At least a litre’s worth. They’re going to run tests,
but it’s possible that the mash was the source of the alcohol.”

  “He must have been really desperate for a drink,” I said.

  “Pre-crushing the grapes is part of the winemaking process,” said Vanessa. “Could this be a progression, first the infection, the pre-crushing… Could someone be following the winemaking process? Like a ritual or something?”

  “That’s an unpleasant thought,” I said. “What would be next?”

  “The pressing and then the fermentation proper,” she said.

  You can’t magic a litre of grape mash into someone’s stomach, at least not without making the sort of hole that Carmela was bound to notice. But sometimes the simplest cruelties work the best.

  “Was there any sign of coercion?” I asked.

  “No cuts or bruises, no finger or ligature marks. Definitely no bruising or damage to the lips, soft palate or throat,” she said. “Carmela said that the process looked entirely voluntary.” There was a pause while I heard Vanessa pull up at a crossing, indicate and pull out. “I’ve seen drunks do some crazy things,” she said. “But drinking two litres of fermented grapes?”

  Somebody at K11 would be reaching out to the British police to see whether Jason Agnelli had a background of alcohol abuse or mental illness. I wished we could also reach out to our counterparts at the Folly, but we’ve yet to get ministerial permission to initiate a contact.

  “Could it have been Kelly?” asked Vanessa, no doubt remembering how easily the location spirit had closed her mouth against her will. “Could you make someone do that? Using…magic?”

  “Not me, but a sufficiently trained practitioner could.”

  That the Director could, I knew, because part of my training had involved her using the technique on me until I built up a resistance. But such an assault would have involved an intensive spell, which would have left a trace.

  “Did they recover a mobile phone?” I asked.