Devil's in a Different Dress

by Chris Barraclough

  I paced over to Turner’s cell. Shaw was still squatting in front of the bars, trying his best to get any kind of reaction from the lad, and by the looks of it so far failing. The poor bastard was still crushed up into his corner, eyes fixed forwards, head bobbing like a loon. I slipped the key into the lock and drew back the bars, stepping inside.

  “Careful, mind,” Shaw said behind me. “He’s gone in the head. He might try and bite your knees off or something.”

  “Turner,” I said, crouching in front of him, directly in his line of sight. The Lieutenant didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. I swallowed and sucked up a lungful of the musty air. “Lieutenant James Turner!” This time his irises narrowed and his lips twitched and I got the feeling he was listening. “Turner, do you remember a girl called Jenna Lemann?” Another twitch, then his tongue swept over his lips and he croaked a reply.

  “Yes.”

  “You stepped in when her husband was beating her around?”

  “Yes.” A little softer this time, his head dipping slightly.

  “Alright,” I said. “What happened after? When you escorted her home?”

  That got a reaction alright, but not the kind I expected. Turner’s eyes suddenly blazed and he shook his head ferociously and I stumbled backwards, afraid that he was ready to lunge again. My arse hit the ground and a shockwave of pain bounced up my spine. I tensed, ready to roll back onto my feet, but Turner wasn’t about to attack. Instead, he pulled his arms up over his head and buried his face away.

  “Just leave me alone,” he muttered, over and over, until finally I pushed myself back up and stepped out of the cell, pushing the door back into place. Shaw grimaced, peering in through the bars.

  “Told you,” he said, “that man’s had it. Something’s snapped in that brain of his.”

  “This isn’t right,” I said, watching as Turner shook and trembled on the ground. “We’re missing something big here.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve got no bloody clue.” I turned to Shaw and frowned. “But we need to go to Kungsbrucken and find out what happened to him that night.”

  Fifteen (Terry)

  I’d be the first to admit that I had fuck all clue what I was doing. Back home I’d spent plenty of time with coppers, but it was always on opposite sides of a set of bars. I always said that the only reason they let me sign up was to get me out of the country and out of their hair. When it came to doing police work, though, I didn’t have the faintest. All I knew was, you track down the culprits somehow, you hit ‘em hard and then job’s a good ‘un.

  I was all ready to say bollocks to the lot of them, that big-mouthed bint and the pair of pricks I’d been lumped with, but then what else was I gonna do? Sit around scratching my arse and patting my head all day? So I headed back to that street, now featuring a row of burned-out brick shells on one side. A fair few of the locals and just as many uniformed lads were shifting the remains into wheelbarrows and generally picking through the ruins, occasionally lifting out blackened bits of furniture or charred clothes and shaking their heads. I lit up a fag and watched for a bit, then I headed into the fray.

  Moss and Kali were lingering at the perimeter, kicking through some rubble and generally avoiding any graft, so I sauntered up to them first.

  "Looking for trophies?" I asked and Moss looked up, grinning like a naughty child.

  "Supposed to be assessing the houses that are still standing," he replied, hoisting up a blackened lampshade. "Not exactly much worth nicking from this lot." He gave me a curious nod. "What you doing here, eh? If you want another squint at that German bird, you'll have to piss off to the library. She's holed up there with that old fella, the one with the hairy ears."

  "Thanks," I said through gritted teeth. No one knew how to push my buttons better than Moss, not even Mick. This bastard was some sort of expert wide-up merchant; he had a sixth sense for getting right on someone’s tits in the shortest possible time. “Try not to sprain anything,” I told him, kicking my way back through the rubble.

  “You too, chum,” he called after me.

  I couldn’t see anything worth doing around the site, so I headed straight for the library instead. Even when I was stood outside the front door, I honestly didn’t know what I was supposed to do there. Apologise? Apologise for what? I hadn’t been sneaking a peek, I wasn’t some fucking pervert. She should apologise to me for lashing out and almost clawing my eyeball from its socket, then landing me in a massive heap of shite back at the morgue. The more I thought about it, the madder it made me, until I was ready to kick down the bloody door and storm my way in there like an angel of vengeance. I was set to do it an’ all, until some little voice perked up and said maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, that maybe raging at this Hanna woman would just make everything ten times worse. Maybe get me hammered by the Major and relegated to an even worse duty; a fate worse than spending time with that up-his-own-arsehole prick, if such a thing existed.

  Somehow I managed to restrain myself, breathing hard through my nostrils right there on the library’s doorstep until the anger dissolved and the calm settled over me like a fluffy blanket. Then I sighed out all the bad feelings and reached out and pushed the door open.

  The library wasn’t really what I expected, although admittedly I’d probably shot up more of the things than I’d actually stepped inside. Obviously there were a few shelves crammed full with tattered hardbacks, although not as many as you’d think given the size of the place. But it was the rest of the room that was so bloody strange. It looked more like some kind of posh, eccentric manor house or maybe even a museum. Enormous paintings hung on the walls, all of crusty geezers in uniform, while here and there, sat on wooden plinths and bare shelves, there were a selection of exhibits. One was a helmet with what looked like bullet holes riddling the surface, while another was an old pistol that looked like it might crumble into dust if you tried to pick it up. Just the kind of random shit I’d expect some mental kraut to collect.

  I wandered between two rows of books and found myself at a squat desk covered in all kinds of crap, mostly books and scraps of paper all piled up. Sat behind it with a pen in one hand was the old coot Moss had mentioned, complete with thick glasses and a wispy tangle of cotton sprouting from each earhole. I beamed a smile and nodded.

  “Uhh, I’m looking for Emily Hanna,” I told him and his eyes scrunched up tight. The tip of his purple tongue darted out and dragged across leathery lips.

  “Are you, indeed,” he replied. “What do you want with her?” I didn’t like the old fogey’s tone, so I put some edge into mine and dropped the smile.

  “She wanted some help, with the fire. I’m that help.”

  “She doesn’t need any help,” the librarian said, shaking his head. “Not from you.”

  “Hey,” I shot back, planting both sets of knuckles on the desk and leaning across the piles until my face was right up to his. “It’s not up to you, old man. Where the hell is she?” That seemed to rile him and he pushed backwards in his chair, eyes suddenly wide again. His chin started to quiver slightly and I thought he might pass out or collapse dead with a heart attack, which would serve the old fruitbat right. But that meddlesome little voice piped up again. Maybe killing this moron, accidentally or otherwise, might be a bad idea. There’d be witnesses, saw me coming into the building and leaving again straight after. I’d end up in the cell next to Turner for sure, listening to his mental ravings all day and bloody night, with that bastard Shaw leering in at me through the bars, having a good old gloat. So I backed off and folded my arms instead, then allowed the grin to rest on my face again. “Look, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to shout. I just need to speak with her, that’s all. Then I’ll leave you to get on with all this crap.” I swept a hand at the heaps of junk and the old coot stared back with some kind of stupid expression.

  “She’s not here,” he finally replied, gently placing the pen on the desk and locking his fingers together.

 
“Right, I can see that,” I said, glancing down the empty aisle. “Business always this good? You must keep pretty busy.”

  “Please, leave,” he shot back, and there was nothing of the please about it. He wanted me gone, out of his face, the sooner the better. Unfortunate for him, then, that the door suddenly swung open and Emily Hanna stepped in, looking even more haggard and pale than the old man. I turned to him and winked.

  “You’ve got a customer, Fritz. Don’t get up, I’ll handle this one for you. You just rest your old bones now.”

  Emily wasn’t too pleased to see me. In fact, she stopped dead in the aisle when she finally noticed me standing there. Most of her face dropped an inch or so, except for her eyebrows, which leapt right up her forehead. Her eyes flicked to the side, to where the librarian was sat. Something loud and a little frantic came pouring from her lips in her native tongue and the old coot replied in the same, the pair of them jabbering back and forth while I stood there, hands clasped in front of me, waiting for them to shut the hell up. The conversation got more and more animated, until finally I waved my hand in front of Emily. She turned to me with fire blazing in her eyes.

  “If you’re talking about me,” I told her, “you mind speaking in English?”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, physically shaking like it took every ounce of strength she had not to step up and throw a fist into my face. I smiled.

  “Last night you were crying out for help, saying someone torched your house. Well, I’m your help.”

  “You?” She let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a bark and her lips curled back, making her look like a particularly ugly mongrel. “You’re no help. It could be you who started the fire, you and your stupid friend!”

  “My stupid friend is laid up in infirmary with his leg split open,” I snarled. “And he’d sooner slit his own throat than hurt anyone.”

  “So that’s why he’s a soldier,” she said. “He never shot at any Germans? He just sat in your bunkers and made the tea for everyone?”

  “You know what,” I replied, stepping towards her and pushing my face close to hers, just like I had with that wrinkly old librarian. I was so close I could feel her breath on my cheek and see the veins popping across the surface of her eyeballs. “Sod it, then. You’re on your own. Your neighbours probably burned their own house down, with them still in it, just so they didn’t have to listen to you yammering on any more.” My voice had risen on its own accord until I was almost bellowing, but she just kept on glaring back, her head turned slightly away and her nostrils flaring. I shook my head and pushed around her, headed for the door. “Have a great day,” I called back as I shouldered my way outside, narrowing my eyes against the glare of the sun after being in that dark and miserable place.

  Sixteen (Emily)

  The door slammed shut again and the library was filled with a silence that somehow seemed just as oppressive as that soldier’s bellowing. I didn’t realise how tense I was for another second or two, until I let out a breath and felt myself deflate. Then, certain enough that Wightman wasn’t coming back, I turned and frowned at Arndt.

  “I’m sorry about him,” I said, stepping up to his desk. “He was one of them, the soldiers I caught spying.” Arndt sighed and shook his head, pulling off his glasses.

  “This is what I was talking about, Emily. If you go around asking questions, they’ll keep on harassing you like this.”

  “I know.” I perched on the spare chair beside his desk and looked him in the eye. “Did you know that Friedrich Klingmann was having an affair with Jenna Lemann?” I asked him. His expression didn’t change.

  “I didn’t know that, but it explains why her husband ran off to drink himself into an early grave.”

  “And why the Klingmanns were arguing like thunder last night,” I said. “Jenna was sat by herself in the square, just after the fire started. Didn’t you see her when you passed through?”

  “Perhaps,” Arndt said with a wave of his hand. “I was tired, I’d stayed here late and all I could think about was going home to a hot bath.” He leaned across the desk on his elbows and raised one eyebrow. “Is this all part of your little investigation? Don’t tell me you think that Jenna started the fire now?” A wry smile crossed his lips and I rolled my eyes.

  “Don’t you think she’s crazy enough? If Friedrich spurned her, she might have done it for revenge, maybe a spur of the moment decision.”

  “I think she’s a little highly strung, perhaps. And her choice of husbands is questionable. But an arsonist?” He shook his head and began to tidy away the papers on his desk. For a moment I watched him, then I rose and grabbed my scarf from the coat hanger, the only reason I’d come back, before heading for the door.

  “I’m going out again,” I called back. “I’ll be back before you close.” He must have known where I was headed, but thankfully he didn’t protest. He just let me go without a word.

  Seventeen (Adam)

  That endless grey road stretched out in front of us, seeming to lead into nothing but a fine spring mist, but just ten miles ahead was the town of Kungsbrucken. Thankfully the car we’d commandeered had a roof to shield us from the fierce gales that swept across the barren countryside, but we still had to speak up to hear each other over the groans of the engine, which sounded on the verge of self-destruction.

  “What if I was wrong about everything?” I said, my voice already hoarse. Shaw glanced across at me, his head still rested on the passenger window.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, not just Turner and Loriett. What if Jurgen didn’t kill the girl’s grandfather either? What if he really did just happen across the body and took the opportunity to help himself to the larder?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty for shooting that bastard,” Shaw replied. “He did Lane in with his own pistol, right in front of you!”

  “I know, I know. What I mean is, what are the bloody chances that two people from the same family are murdered in the same day, by different killers?”

  “You think one person did them both in?” Shaw asked. I shrugged, my palms itching from the vibrations trembling through the steering wheel.

  “Sure. I don’t know why, but if Turner really is innocent…” I shook my head and breathed the warm, moist air that filled the cabin. “Maybe it’s some sick revenge thing, who knows. Jurgen only killed Lane because he was cornered and desperate. We should’ve been more careful, restrained him sooner.”

  “I don’t know,” Shaw said, closing his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like a real bloody policeman now. All these theories. It’s making my head hurt.”

  “Are you sure that isn’t just last night’s wine?” I grunted, but he didn’t hear me over the car’s roar.

  “What are we going to do in Kungsbrucken anyway?” he asked, pronouncing it ‘Kingsbrocken’.

  “Well, Turner said he was drinking in some kind of bar the night of the murder. I’ve done a sketch of his face, so I figured we’d show it around all of the bars we can find and see if anyone recognises him. Then maybe we can find out who this mysterious woman he met is.”

  “I never knew you were an artist,” Shaw said, lifting his head from the window. “Can I see?”

  “The drawing? Well, it’s not exactly art, it’s just a rough sketch.” I took one hand from the wheel and dug into my pocket, pulling out the slip of paper I’d wedged in there earlier. He took it and opened it up, then a wide grin spread across his face. I peered over, biting the tip of my tongue. “What do you think?”

  “Why has he got three noses?” Shaw asked. I frowned and squinted at the drawing.

  “Those aren’t noses. Those are his cheeks either side.”

  “Oh.” He nodded and folded up the piece of paper and slipped it back inside my pocket. “In that case, it’s a wonderful drawing.”

  “Alright, shut your mouth,” I said with a scowl. “It’s the best we’ve got.”

  The light outs
ide was fading fast, even though it was still early afternoon. In all directions, the sky was concealed by a dense carpet of moody black clouds, while the mist felt like it was closing in all around us. I’d been stuck in trenches during days and nights like this, back in the early years before we pushed into the enemy’s heartland. It wasn’t so bad in the spring and summer, but by the time winter rolled around, you could feel the chill right to the pit of your stomach. It was like your organs were freezing right there inside of you. I used to lie still as a rock as the bombs exploded in the distance, as if moving even a fraction would make my heart, my lungs, every last bit of me shatter into pieces.

  I shook the memories as best I could, already feeling an itch that I didn’t dare scratch with Shaw right beside me. Maybe once I’d have trusted him enough to share, but these days I wasn’t really sure how close together we stood. So I’d decided, subconsciously, that I didn’t want anyone but the doc to know about my secret need, even though I had an inkling that Shaw had already figured it out. To distract myself from the cravings, I went back over everything that had happened since we were called to Schmidt’s house; every little detail that might somehow mean something. I still couldn’t see how Turner could be innocent, even if he’d been doped out of his mind when he killed the girl. But while there was even a murmur of doubt, I couldn’t just sit around and wait for them to fill him with bullets.

  It was almost a shock when the rickety old sign loomed out of the mist, welcoming us to Kungsbrucken in long-faded Deutsche. Less than a minute later, the road turned from a mud track to stone. I slowed the car and the engine squealed a little less ferociously. Beside me, Shaw stirred from his afternoon slumber, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips and stifling a yawn.