Werewolf

by Matthew Pritchard

  ‘I’ve got friends in the army. Same as you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  O’Donnell said nothing, but he smiled now, showing his yellowed teeth.

  ‘What do you want in exchange?’ she said, fighting the temptation to throw herself on the food.

  ‘There’s a policeman here,’ O’Donnell said, his voice low but clear, as if he were used to speaking in half-tones. ‘His name is Detective Inspector Payne. I need to know why he’s so interested in that house out by the Brunswick road.’

  ‘What could I possibly know about that?’ she said.

  ‘Your captain knows something. I want you to find out from him.’

  Ilse’s hand froze an inch from the food. ‘Captain? What captain?’

  O’Donnell’s wide mouth twisted into a lecherous smile.

  ‘Captain James Booth. The same Captain Booth that recently paid to keep a certain ruined farmhouse off the list of requisitioned properties. Christ, you don’t think I don’t know, do you? Eoin O’Donnell don’t miss a trick, remember that. Not a single one.’

  Ilse’s hand hovered above the food. O’Donnell knew about Booth; there was no point in denying it. What mattered now was what he would do with the information.

  Ilse scooped up the food. Then she said, ‘I’ll take this for now. But you must bring me more when I find something out. Cheese. And some eggs.’

  O’Donnell folded his arms. ‘Quite the little business woman, ain’t ya? How’s about this? You take that lot there and I won’t mention the medical kit you’ve got stuffed down the front of your dress.’

  He laughed when he saw the panic on Ilse’s face.

  ‘Go on, get out of here,’ he said. ‘And I’ll want some answers soon.’

  As Ilse passed him, he said, ‘Course, you’re way too much woman for the young captain, aren’t you, Ursula? But I guess he’ll find that out the hard way.’

  Then he pinched her bottom.

  ‘Pig!’ she said and slapped his hand away.

  O’Donnell’s laughter followed her as she hurried from the building.

  8

  SILAS PAYNE WAS billeted in Eichenrode’s police station. Since he’d taken residence there, Germans had knocked at the door on a number of occasions. Was he the new face of authority, they had asked. Did they report crimes to him now? He’d even had one comical exchange with a heavily-disguised woman offering to denounce her neighbours ‘as she used to do’ in exchange for food and tobacco.

  He was standing in the window of the police station now, still in his pyjamas, enjoying the bright morning sunlight and watching German children playing football in the street with a tin can.

  The file on the Waffen SS man, Konrad Jaeger, lay on the table behind him. He’d had the clerk at Corps HQ send it over to him by courier the previous evening. The file contained two photos of Jaeger. Payne had compared the photos with those he’d taken of the murder victim and there was no doubt it was the same man. The clerk had also included a handwritten note on the war crimes for which Jaeger was wanted: It seems Herr Jaeger had a predilection for shooting French civilians. He’s wanted on four counts of that. He’s also accused of torturing two women suspected of resistance involvement.

  Payne had considered what that might mean. The French Zone of Occupation was in the south-west of Germany, but there were plenty of French soldiers and personnel passing through this area all the time. Could that have something to do with Jaeger’s murder? It was possible, he decided, but unlikely. An act of random violence still seemed the most likely explanation – and yet nothing about the crime seemed random to Payne.

  He sipped coffee and wondered what it was about the killings that had given him the hair-at-the-back-of-the-throat sensation he always got when he was missing something. It was the surgical instruments. It wasn’t just their presence, it was the way they had been set out: it went beyond the mere orderliness of the professional. Their arrangement had the fussy precision associated with a ritual or obsession. That was it, Payne realised. It wasn’t what had happened that had bothered him, it was what had been about to happen. The killing of the man and woman had been only the first stage in something larger and more sinister – Beagley and his men had interrupted something, he was sure of it.

  Payne had converted his bedroom from a small office at the back of the police station. He went there now and put on a clean suit. Returning to the front of the police station, he heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the asphalt of the street outside.

  Colonel Bassett’s adjutant, Captain Fredrickson, had been out hunting with some of the other officers. A pair of bloodied fox tails hung from the pommel of Fredrickson’s saddle. A private soldier walked behind the mounted men, holding the leashes of five beagles. Rumour had it Fredrickson’s father was something big in the city and that the hounds had been shipped out to Germany especially.

  When Fredrickson reached the German children and their tin can he rode his horse straight at them, causing them to scatter. Fredrickson said something over his shoulder as he rode past and the officers behind him laughed.

  Payne finished his coffee, thinking about something Major Norris had said the day before, something about getting the world back to normal. Norris was wrong: the world would never be the same again. Not now. Buildings and bodies weren’t the only things the war had damaged. It had skewed men’s morals, too, and let the wilder side of human nature run free. Some of the British soldiers Payne had seen in Germany wore expressions you normally only saw in the hard, lawless parts of the East End, and three months of occupation had shown that the members of Eisenhower’s Great Crusade were prone to succumb to their baser instincts, too. Payne had heard stories about the wild days at the end of the war – the shootings, the beatings, the rapes. And now there were stories of lorries full of loot being bussed out to Holland and of cargo planes taking off loaded with antique German furniture.

  When he had been a young copper, Payne’s first sergeant had summed up good police-work for him. ‘When a crime’s been committed, there’s only two types of people, Silas: victims and villains. Comfort the former, catch the latter and don’t pay no heed to whether you likes or dislikes either one of ’em. Remember that and you’ll do all right.’

  Payne had remembered it; had made it the cornerstone of his whole career, in fact. That was what this murder case represented to Payne. Britain had fought the war for a cause higher than the individual and it was time to put the morality underpinning that cause into practice, to stop basking in the VE-day sunshine. If the war was going to have meant anything at all, then all this lawlessness had to stop. The British people owed it to themselves to govern Germany well.

  At nine o’clock, Payne took his utility and drove across town to what was left of the local hospital. This was the place where the Royal Army Medical Corps had set itself up. The soldiers on guard outside recognised Payne and waved him through. He crossed the waiting room and headed downstairs to the laboratory.

  Captain Shelley was the GDMO – General Duties Medical Officer – for Eichenrode. He was a cheery, good-natured sort who had performed the autopsy on Jaeger’s body and had offered to take a look at the vials of medicine Payne had found at the murder house.

  When Payne knocked at the lab door, Shelley answered it, wearing a white lab coat over his uniform and drying his hands on a towel.

  ‘I’m glad you came over, Detective Inspector,’ he said scratching at his long nose. ‘You’ve saved me a trip.’

  ‘Have you found something?’

  Inside the laboratory, a small German man was removing the lab coat he wore. Test tubes containing coloured liquids stood in racks on the table.

  ‘This is Doctor Seiler,’ Shelley said, introducing the man. ‘His daughter works as an interpreter over at the Rathaus. He’s been helping me out. He’s a far better chemist than I am.’

  ‘
Oh, you’re embarrassing me, Captain,’ Seiler said brightly, extending his soft, moist hand for Payne to shake. ‘But I’m always glad to help the British. You can’t imagine what a relief it is to be finally free of that Austrian monster and his Brownshirts.’

  So far, Silas Payne had met three types of German: the first were those that were too tired and broken even to notice the occupation; the second resented it bitterly and were suspicious and surly; the third were like Doctor Seiler, Germans that had recognised which way the wind now blew and were determined to fill their wings with it.

  Payne shook the proffered hand, thinking that Seiler reminded him of a theatrical agent he’d interrogated once: the easy smile, weak chin and unctuous manner were all uncannily similar. Like his daughter, Seiler spoke good English and, like his daughter, Seiler seemed intent on lingering to hear what Payne had to say.

  ‘Yes, Detective Inspector, a truly fascinating case,’ he said, turning to the test tubes on the table. ‘But, as I said to Captain Shelley, I might be able to provide more information were I to know specifically where these items were found and what the case entails . . .’

  Seiler’s raised eyebrows invited Payne to comment. Payne said nothing.

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll be going,’ Seiler said, once the silence had become uncomfortable. Still, Payne said nothing. Seiler gave a weak smile and headed towards the door.

  ‘Close it behind you,’ Payne said.

  ‘We could have talked in front of Doctor Seiler,’ Shelley said when the German had gone. ‘Most of what I’m about to tell you is his information, anyway.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry. Besides, I have managed to identify the male victim and I’d rather Seiler didn’t know.’

  Payne explained who Konrad Jaeger was, then asked Shelley what he had found.

  Shelley indicated the vials on the table, the ones Payne had taken from the cellar of the murder house.

  ‘These are all fairly standard vaccines. According to Seiler, these particular brands were used by the Wehrmacht for troops who were fighting abroad. North Africa, places like that.’

  ‘Are they difficult to get hold of?’

  Shelley shrugged. ‘Under normal circumstances I would say ‘yes’, but who can say nowadays, with so much military equipment left lying around everywhere? Someone could easily have stumbled across a crate of medical supplies.’

  ‘What are they vaccines for?’

  Shelley indicated each of the vials in turn. ‘Hepatitis A. Tetanus. Tuberculosis. Typhus. But, as I mentioned last night, this is the one that interested me,’ he said, tapping one of the vials with a pencil. ‘I’ve used this myself, before the war, and I’ve never seen it that colour. So we ran some tests.’

  ‘And it’s not a vaccine?’

  ‘Far from it. It’s some form of barbiturate.’

  ‘What effect would that have if it was injected? Could it be used to kill?’

  ‘Depends on the dose. At this level of concentration, I would say it was more likely to induce unconsciousness.’

  ‘Why would someone store a potentially lethal drug in a wrongly-labelled vial?’

  Shelley shrugged. ‘Human error. Or perhaps the original receptacle was broken and they were trying to salvage what they could.’

  ‘Or someone was pretending to inject a vaccine when in fact they wanted to render the person unconscious before strangling them.’

  Shelley smiled. ‘That’s the policemen in you talking, Detective Inspector. But, yes, it’s perfectly possible. And it would explain why Jaeger’s body does not bear any cuts or scratches, despite his having been strangled. He could have been sedated first.’

  ‘How quickly would this barbiturate take effect if it was injected?’

  ‘In a matter of seconds. Why?’

  ‘I think it explains the minor injuries the woman suffered, too. I think the killer injected Jaeger first. But as Jaeger wilted, the woman smelt a rat and panicked, forcing the killer to subdue her physically before he could inject her and put her out of the picture, too. Can you check the bodies for needle marks?’

  Shelley shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the bodies have been burnt. Colonel Bassett’s orders. We have only limited capacity for storing bodies here.’

  ‘What about the scalpels and the knives? Do you have any theories about them?’

  ‘That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ Shelley said, his face serious now. He led Payne across the room to a table where the tools found in the cellar had been laid out.

  ‘You were quite correct in assuming that these are surgical tools. Of course, the scalpels and the saw could theoretically be used for other purposes, but this is the real clincher,’ he said, indicating the length of serrated wire with the wooden handles. ‘In the trade, this is known as a Gigli wire saw. It’s used in surgery for bone-cutting – amputations, that sort of thing. It’s such a specialist tool, I can’t really imagine it being used for anything else.’

  ‘What are you saying? That the killer was intending to operate on the victims at some point?’

  Shelley shook his head. ‘Not an operation, Detective Inspector. I think he was planning on performing a dissection.’

  §

  At midday Payne drove to the centre of town and parked outside the offices of Housing Branch, the administrative organisation that dealt with the requisition and allocation of housing in the area. Shelley’s information worried him. That was why he wanted to know precisely who had requisitioned the murder house and which unit had been billeted there.

  The Housing Branch clerk rolled his eyes when he saw Payne and said, no, he still hadn’t had time to determine which British unit had requisitioned the house by the Brunswick Road. Nor would he find it any time soon, to judge by the man’s languid tone of voice.

  ‘It’s imperative you find the details,’ Payne said. ‘Can’t you have a look now? Or at least show me where to look?’

  ‘Listen, chummy,’ the clerk said, putting his pencil down, ‘nearly thirty per cent of the thousand or so addresses on the German records in this town don’t exist anymore. And most of what is left has been requisitioned by us. We’ve got boxes and boxes of ruddy chits and receipts.’ By way of illustration, he pointed towards a pile of cardboard boxes that leaked paperwork. ‘There’s only four of us work here, you know. And if you think I’m going to let you loose on them, you’ve another thing coming. It’s taken me weeks to sort that lot out.’

  ‘Isn’t there some central office that keeps copies of the requisition chits?’

  ‘That would be in Brunswick. You’d have to fill in a form. Or you could go to Brunswick.’

  Payne asked who was in charge.

  ‘That’ll be Mr Lockwood.’

  ‘Let me speak to him, then, please.’

  Mr Lockwood was a nervy little mole of a man with the face of a born bureaucrat, small and pinched beneath hair that was lacquered and swept severely across his forehead. The belt of his CCG uniform served only to accentuate the extent to which his belly protruded beneath it. He emerged from the gloom of his back office and peered at Payne through thick glasses.

  ‘Yes. Yes. What is it? Do I know you?’

  He blinked three times very quickly when Payne told him he was a British policeman. When Payne explained a double murder had occurred in a requisitioned house, Lockwood said, ‘What house? It’s nothing to do with me. I mean us. Whatever it is.’

  ‘It’s a house on the Brunswick Road, about half-a-mile beyond the town. Big one, three stories, with a hole in the roof. Perhaps you know it?’

  Lockwood did. As Payne described the house, the colour drained from the man’s face and, for a moment, he seemed somewhere else entirely, his myopic eyes unblinking now.

  ‘Dead bodies?’ he said, making a visible effort to hide his distress. ‘Nasty business. Very nasty.’

  ‘You c
an appreciate why it’s so important to know who requisitioned the house, then. And who is currently billeted there.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to fill out a form requesting the information,’ Lockwood said and bolted for the safety of his office, but Payne called out his name before he could close the door.

  ‘It really is very important. There could be very serious repercussions for anyone involved. Especially if they try to keep information from the police.’

  Lockwood’s face was the colour of wet ashes now.

  Payne filled in a form requesting the name of the unit that had been billeted at the murder house. Then he went outside and walked to a point across the square from which he could see the steps of the Housing Branch office. Lockwood knew something about the murder house, Payne would stake his pension on it.

  The question now was whether Lockwood would sit and stew or run to someone else for advice. Payne’s bet was on the latter. Experience had taught him to spot that certain light in a man’s eye that preceded panicked flight.

  The morning wind was sharp, a reminder that September was just around the corner. Silas Payne pulled the collar of his coat up and leant against the wall, his eyes fixed on the door of Housing Branch. He would wait as long as it took.

  When the European war had ended back in May, the invading armies had simply stopped wherever they were and established military governments. Germany was divided into four zones: British, Russian, American and French. Now, in August, members of the Control Council for Germany – the CCG for short – were moving in to take over local administration in the British zone.

  It was a vast and complex task. The policy of denazification – by which all trace of Nazism would be purged from the country – meant Germany’s entire bureaucratic structure had to be rebuilt from the bottom up. The task for the British was especially difficult, as their north-western zone contained most of Germany’s big cities – cities the Allies had spent years systematically destroying. Payne had heard Major Norris comment on it: ‘The Yanks got the scenery, the French the wine. All we got were bloody ruins.’