by Jack Gatland
Jess had intended to keep her word to her dad, to stay away from the case and let him carry on, but at the same time she wanted to help, and sitting with Billy, watching a CCTV feed while he coded on another laptop was a little dull, even if she was impressed with his computer skills. And so she decided that finding out anything else about Nathanial Wing, information that could help the case while staying away from the case, was a good idea.
Within twenty minutes of deciding this, she’d explained to Billy that she had urgent homework to do back at home, caught the bus to Henley and made her way back to the Regal Picturehouse cafe on Boroma Way, hoping that some of the teenagers that she’d spoken to before might still be there. As it was, only Prisha sat at a table, working on a laptop, a green juice of some kind by her side. She had the same hooded jacket on, and this was enhanced by a large pair of Bose over ear headphones, most likely to drown out the cafe’s own music. Walking over, Jess ensured that Prisha saw her before she made any movements or said anything. The last thing she wanted was to spook a possible asset.
Of course, Prisha wasn’t an asset. They’d only spoken once, but at the same time you used an asset. Jess wasn’t sure if she liked the idea of manipulating anyone.
Prisha looked up from the laptop and smiled when she saw Jess. Pulling off the headphones, she indicated for Jess to sit.
‘Wasn’t expecting to see you back so fast,’ she said, closing the laptop.
‘I’m not interrupting you, am I?’ Jess asked, nervously.
‘Nope, just finishing an essay,’ Prisha grinned. ‘In a way, you’re saving me, so thank you. You still trying to get your money back?’
Jess swallowed. ‘Look, I wanted to speak to you, well all of you, really,’ she explained. ‘I lied to you when I said Nathanial had owed me money. I needed to get some kind of ‘in’, and that worked.’
‘Yeah, we guessed that,’ Prisha nodded. ‘No offence, but you’re like twelve. Nathanial only asked people for money when he didn’t think they were opening their piggy banks to get it.’
‘I’m almost sixteen!’ Jess exclaimed angrily.
Prisha laughed.
‘I knew that’d get a rise from you,’ she said. ‘But the fact still counts. He’d only ask students he knew. And you’re what, two years below us?’
‘Maybe,’ Jess admitted. She was one year into her GCSEs, while Nathanial had just started the equivalent of six form college that year. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘So why the lie?’ Prisha leaned back, observing Jess. ‘You don’t seem the type to be a thrill seeker. And I can’t see a school newspaper being into this.’
‘My dad’s running the case,’ Jess replied. ‘I suggested I speak to Nathanial’s friends because a forty-year-old man doesn’t get far, you know?’
Prisha frowned. ‘What do you mean, case?’ she asked. ‘I mean, Nate killed himself, right?’
Jess stopped. She couldn’t really say anything about this, as it still wasn’t public knowledge, but at the same time, she’d used the friendship that these people had with Wing to her own advantage. Nervously, she swallowed.
‘Look, I could get into trouble for telling you, but it’s likely to hit the news soon, anyway. We think Nathanial Wing is one of more than a dozen people who have been forced to kill themselves by a serial killer,’ she explained. ‘We were trying to link Wing to several suspects that we had. The news I gained about him owing money to a German helped us lead to a stolen hard drive which linked us to a possible German man.’
‘A man?’ Prisha was surprised at this. Jess nodded, confused.
‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘What am I missing? Leon said that he heard the voice.’
‘Yeah, I was here, remember?’ Prisha leaned closer. ‘But Leon never mentioned a dude.’
‘Sure he did—‘ Jess started, but then, clear as day, she remembered the moment.
‘Voice on the phone had a strong accent. Couldn’t miss it.’
He’d said voice. At the time, they were looking at a male suspect. She’d simply assumed they were the same.
‘It was a woman’s voice?’ she asked softly. Prisha nodded.
‘After you left, Leon was a little bigged up,’ she said. ‘Having you believe him made him cockier, so he told us more about it. Seems that Nate met a German woman a couple of weeks back, who promised to pay him money for a job. Real James Bond stuff. But Leon never learned what it was, and half of what Nate said was always bollocks, anyway. We just took it that Nate owed her money, but he was trying to make a thing about it.’
‘And he never mentioned a man?’ Jess could feel an icy shiver running down her spine. Prisha shrugged.
‘Nope, not to us,’ she said, finishing her coffee. ‘Just that this woman had contacted him through some shady contacts he knew in Berlin or something.’
Jess looked away as she worked this through in her head. If Nathanial Wing was known as a hacker by people in Berlin, then Rolfe would know of it. And as his assistant, so might Ilse. She’d definitely have access to the reports. And, in the middle of nowhere in the English countryside with a hard drive that needed to be hacked, she’d have been overjoyed to find a hacker in the area.
But why did Rolfe meet with Nathanial Wing?
Rising from the table, Jess thanked Prisha, already returning to her essay, and ran out of the cafe, hoping to catch the next bus home before it was too late.
Billy sat in the Library, but in reality the whole of The Olde Bell was his kingdom, as he still had the log in details for the CCTV. And, as he waited for people to return from their various meetings, he couldn’t help himself. He flicked through the cameras, very much in a bored voyeur kind of way. There weren’t cameras in the bedrooms, so it was mainly the corridors and the bars, but there was a little thrill of being able to watch people as they went on with their lives, unaware that they had a witness to their every action.
He’d stopped in the main bar though; sitting at a side table by the window was Ilse Müller, reading a book. She seemed at peace, but that was likely because her brother wasn’t there. It was late morning; Rolfe was probably walking around the crypt at the Priory again. It’s all he seemed to do right now. Billy clicked through some more cameras, looking to see if Rolfe was inside or even outside the pub, and stopped as he saw a figure walk up to the main entrance of The Olde Bell, his stride quick, determined and angry.
‘Shit,’ he whispered as he grabbed his phone, dialling quickly. As he waited for it to connect, he followed the figure through the CCTV cameras as he entered the pub, walking into the main bar and then storming over to Ilse’s table to confront her.
‘Declan,’ the voice down the phone replied.
‘Guv, you need to get here as fast as you can,’ Billy said, watching the scene on the screen. ‘Karl Schnitter’s just turned up in the main bar.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Declan replied down the line. ‘Karl’s in hospital, and they’re keeping him in until the weekend.’
‘Well then, he’s discharged himself,’ Billy was rising, half tempted to run to the bar in case something violent was about to happen; after all, there was a good chance that either Ilse or her brother had tried to hang Karl the previous day. ‘It’s definitely him, Guv. He’s in the pub, he’s angry as hell, and he’s confronting Ilse Müller.’
Declan swore an expletive down the line and disconnected the call. Billy hovered by the laptop for a moment, unsure what he should do; Declan could be a way away, Doctor Marcos and Joanna Davey were in Maidenhead, Anjli was with the Viking and the Guv was in Berlin. He was the only one who could defuse this.
‘Ah, crap,’ he muttered as he ran to the door. ‘He’d better not have a bloody gun. I’m sick of bloody guns.’
20
Javert / Valjean
Declan had been outside Karl Schnitter’s garage when Billy had called; he’d been patrolling the back of the building, checking for broken spots in the chain-link fence that could have allowed a potential murderer to escape.
He wanted to examine the back corridor of the garage again, to see if anything else was there that was connected to his father, or indeed the case against Hauptmann Müller. He’d checked Karl’s office too, working through the file drawers, searching for something, anything that could give him some inspiration on what had happened after his mother had been murdered, and whether Patrick Walsh had indeed killed the Red Reaper and hidden the body five years earlier.
The investigation cut short, however, Declan rushed back to The Olde Bell and a potentially explosive confrontation. It was only a ten-minute journey by foot, less than half a mile, but Declan paused on the High Street, beside the village store as he faced an equally surprised Rolfe Müller.
‘You need to come with me,’ Declan said as a way of introduction. ‘Karl and your sister are having it out right now in the main bar.’
‘What my sister does with that mechanic is nothing to do with me,’ Rolfe said, continuing to walk towards the church and the ruined priory beside it. ‘My investigation no longer involves either of them.’
‘What does it involve?’ Declan asked after him. ‘What have you found out?’
But Rolfe Müller had already left Declan in the street. Muttering an expletive, Declan continued to The Olde Bell, bursting through the main entrance at speed—
To find nothing. No Billy, no Karl, and no Ilse.
Dave, working at the bar, noted Declan’s arrival.
‘Pint?’ he asked. Declan shook his head.
‘I was told that Karl and Ilse had a confrontation?’ he looked around the bar. Dave nodded as he poured a pint for another customer.
‘Yeah, you just missed it,’ he said. ‘Your lad came in at the tail end. I sorted it out, though.’
‘You sorted it?’ Declan didn’t quite understand what had happened. Dave smiled.
‘I’m a landlord,’ he replied. ‘I’m friend, confidant and social worker all at the same time.’
Still confused, Declan walked through the bar and out into the courtyard, walking across to the building beside the pub where one of the function rooms was currently serving as a temporary base camp. Entering the Library, Declan saw Billy at the large boardroom table, avidly watching his laptop screen.
‘Where’s Jess?’ Declan asked, seeing no sign of his daughter.
‘Homework.’
‘She doesn’t have any homework,’ Declan tsked. Jess had thrown a sickie and gotten out of her babysitter’s way. He’d have to check into her in a moment. ‘What happened with Karl and Ilse?’
‘They’re right here,’ Billy pointed at the screen. ‘Karl turned up in the main bar and confronted Ilse. Claimed that her brother was unjustly harassing him, pretty much stopped right before accusing him of the attempted murder in the garage. Ilse in return started shouting back, claiming that Karl had been hiding proof that Hauptmann Müller was still alive, and then I got there.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I’m just the tech guy according to them, remember? They both told me to piss off. Then the landlord got involved, told them to take it outside, somewhere else, he didn’t care. Suggested they use one of the back rooms. I think it was called the Snug? Small room, four tables in total. They went in there and they’ve been arguing for the last ten minutes.’
Declan looked at the screen where the room’s CCTV showed the Snug. However, only Ilse could be seen in the bottom right-hand corner, sitting at a table and facing off screen as she spoke silently, the camera not having sound.
‘I don’t see Karl,’ he said. Billy pointed at Ilse.
‘They’re at the table that’s under the camera,’ he explained. ‘Now and then they pace, and come into shot, but you don’t get an unobstructed view. Probably deliberately.’
As if on cue, Karl appeared, pacing around the Snug as he angrily gesticulated. Declan walked to the door.
‘I’d better step in,’ he mused. ‘Before one of them kills the other.’
It was a quick walk there, but when Declan arrived, he found the door to the Snug locked.
‘Karl, open up,’ he shouted as he hammered on the door. There was a scuffle of noise, as if a chair was moved back, and then a couple of seconds later Karl unlocked the door, opening it to face Declan.
‘Declan,’ he intoned, stone faced and emotionless. ‘Now is not a good time.’
‘This shouldn’t be happening,’ Declan glanced in to see Ilse glaring at him from the rear table. ‘You shouldn’t be alone with her.’
‘I am possibly the only man who should be alone with her,’ Karl replied. ‘I learned recently that she is my daughter.’
Declan nodded. Anjli had emailed him about her conversation with Ilse the previous night, so this wasn’t a shock.
‘Still,’ he said. ‘I think—‘
‘I was your father’s friend, not yours,’ Karl snapped. ‘And yet, when you came to me needing help a week ago, I gave it to you, no questions asked. I trusted you. And yet you do not trust me.’
‘It’s not you I have a problem with,’ Declan replied.
‘This is nothing to do with your case,’ Karl looked back to Ilse as he spoke. ‘And I do not believe that Ilse was the one that tried to kill me. We are in a locked room, with no other doors and barred windows. I think I am safer here than at the hospital.’
‘You don’t know that—‘
‘Declan,’ Karl whispered, interrupting. ‘He got to your mother in a hospital.’
Declan stopped. Karl was right.
‘Stay on the CCTV,’ he whispered back. ‘If anything happens, we’ll be right in.’
Without replying, Karl closed the door on Declan, and the sound of the key being turned in the lock echoed along the corridor.
Walking back into the Library, Declan looked to Billy, now leaning back from the screen.
‘He locked the door on you and then returned to the table,’ Billy explained. ‘Ilse’s had a bit of a barney at him, it looks like. He walked to the window, staring out as he spoke, waved his hands and then sat back down.’
‘Out of sight,’ Declan noted. Billy shrugged.
‘I didn’t place the CCTV,’ he said. ‘And he knows you’re watching, so he’s probably being obstinate. We should try to find her brother.’
‘He’ll be at the church,’ Declan replied. ‘I saw him before coming here. He wanted nothing of it.’
‘Hell of a brother,’ Billy muttered.
‘That’s the problem,’ Declan agreed. ‘He’s only a half brother. And his father was Wilhelm Müller.’
Rolfe Müller stood in the crypt, staring at the wall at the back of it. He’d visited every day since he’d arrived; once before noon and once around three, but apart from one encounter with the British DCI Monroe, nothing of note had occurred while he was there.
Which was a shame. Because the whole reason he had done this was to provide a regular location in a secluded place to meet. And every time he’d stood here, he’d wondered if this would be the time, this would be the day that they reunited.
But no. Every time, there was nobody with him. Not even the ghostly Grey Lady, the sister of Edward the Confessor, bothered to introduce herself.
But today was different.
From the moment he’d entered the crypt, he knew he wasn’t alone. He couldn’t see who else was in there, the light was dim and there were many pillars to hide behind, but that someone was hiding, rather than saying hello and going on about their day excited him.
It meant that this could be the person who he’d been waiting for.
‘Hello,’ he whispered. ‘Is it you?’
‘That depends,’ a male voice, older, and with a German twang replied from the shadows. ‘On who you wanted it to be.’
‘I’m Rolfe Müller, and I’ve been looking for you for a very long time,’ Rolfe admitted, staring around the crypt, trying to work out where the echoing voice had come from. ‘I’m a Kriminalkommissar in the Schwere und Organisierte Kriminalität. I didn’t join the army, like you.’
&n
bsp; There was a silence that followed the line.
‘Is it you?’ Rolfe asked. ‘I’ve waited for so long.’
‘It is.’
‘I need proof,’ Rolfe replied, looking around. ‘You left us when we were children. Mother was broken, and I had to raise Ilse myself. I was told you were dead.’
‘But you know better.’
‘I still don’t know,’ Rolfe admitted.
There was a rustle of movement from the corner of the crypt, and a shadowed figure appeared. It was male, but the darkness of the corner hid the face. In his gloved hand was a canvas bag.
‘Here,’ he said as he threw it across the crypt to Rolfe, allowing it to clatter with a mechanical, metal clang. Picking the bag up from the floor, Rolfe opened it up, pulling out a gun. It was a squat, black semi automatic, with a brown grip with a soviet star embedded in the side. There was a magazine in it, and from the weight, Rolfe could tell that it was loaded. Along the bottom was a serial number, punched into the metal. It was a serial number Rolfe recognised, on a Makarov 9mm pistol, an East German Border Officer pistol that he’d seen as a child.
‘You should not have come looking for me,’ the figure stated.
Rolfe was staring down at the pistol in his hand as he replied. ‘It is my job,’ he said, simply. ‘You must come in, if only for Ilse. She—‘
‘She is Meier’s spawn,’ the figure hissed. ‘Why should I care about her?’
‘Because I care about her,’ Rolfe snapped. ‘And I’m sick of hunting ghosts and talking to shadows.’
The figure in the shadows paused, and Rolfe smiled.
‘Shadows like you, father,’ he whispered.
Wilhelm Müller didn’t reply.
‘Have you seen the musical Les Miserables?’ Rolfe asked.
Wilhelm nodded. ‘I have.’
‘There’s a scene I enjoy immensely in it,’ Rolfe explained. ‘It’s called the confrontation, and it’s when Inspector Javert and Jean Valjean finally meet after his escape.’ He spoke the words.
