Whisper For The Reaper: A spine tingling murder mystery (Detective Inspector Declan Walsh Book 4)

by Jack Gatland

  Which led to an open door, leading out to a space at the back of the garage. There was a ten foot high wire fence around the property, but there were enough palettes and parked up car chassis for someone to use one of them as an escape ladder. Whoever had run out of the door was long gone by now.

  Returning to the garage, Declan saw that Doctor Marcos had opened the main doors and was now tending to Karl.

  ‘You’re bloody lucky,’ she muttered as she examined the bruises now appearing around the throat. ‘It’ll hurt for a while but you’ll survive. The ramp rises slowly, so your neck didn’t have the sudden crack that most hangings have, and the ratchet stopped the strap from tightening all the way. So you still gained some amount of oxygen,’ she said. ‘But mark my words, you’d have died in minutes if we hadn’t arrived, Who did this?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Karl croaked. ‘I was kneeling, taking off the wheel of the SUV. I heard a noise, and then I felt something strike me, here.’ He rubbed at his head. ‘Next thing I know, I am laying here and Declan is about to give me the kiss of life.’

  ‘Well, let’s not go too far,’ Declan smiled. ‘I like you. But not that much.’

  Karl laughed, but started to cry, large wracking sobs as the realisation of what happened finally connected with his brain. ‘I almost died.’

  ‘You should have died,’ Declan looked around. ‘Made to look like a suicide. They even kicked over the box there, to make it look like you kicked it away from you.’

  He paused, looking back at Karl.

  ‘Empty your pockets,’ he ordered.

  ‘They are overalls,’ Karl whispered. ‘I keep nothing in them.’

  ‘Please, for me,’ Declan insisted. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of ambulances approaching the garage. Slowly and with great effort, Karl checked his pockets, one by one, but stopped as he reached into his left side chest pocket. Slowly, and with great care, he pulled out a business card.

  One with a Red Reaper on it.

  With a yelp of fear, Karl tossed the card across the floor, where it was scooped up carefully by Doctor Marcos.

  ‘Looks like the Red Reaper wanted you dead,’ Declan said as he watched her examine it.

  ‘It’s the same as the others,’ she confirmed as she placed it into a plastic bag. ‘Looks the same cardstock and everything.’

  Declan looked back to Karl.

  ‘We’re going to take you to hospital,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll post a guard—‘

  ‘That will not stop him!’ Karl snapped. ‘He killed your mother in a hospital, remember?’ He looked around. ‘He’s dead! We killed him!’

  ‘Best not to say that to anyone else, yeah?’ Doctor Marcos forced a smile. ‘We’ll be the ones checking whether that’s true, but people might get confused with the whole ‘I committed a murder’ theme.’

  Karl looked to Declan.

  ‘Rolfe Müller and his sister,’ he croaked. ‘They have been following me.’

  ‘And we’re following them,’ Declan said as the ambulance pulled up outside the garage. ‘But you need to get better, okay?’

  The EMTs moved into the garage now, kneeling either side of Karl as Declan stepped back. To the side, Doctor Marcos was already placing the ratchet and strap into a second clear bag, and examining the up and down controller.

  ‘We need the fingerprint guys to check this,’ she said, pulling out her phone. ‘And by that I mean Joanna.’

  As Doctor Marcos called PC Davey, Declan looked back to the open door at the rear of the garage. There was something about it, something he saw but didn’t connect as he was running through. Now, with Karl being placed into an ambulance, an oxygen mask over his face and his eyes now shut, Declan walked to the door once more, being careful not to touch it, aware that he could contaminate the crime scene more than it had already been contaminated.

  Now in the back corridor, he looked down to the end, where the corridor turned to the right and the outside. To his right were metal shelving racks, filled with a variety of items; five litre cans of oil, wheel hubs, even an alternator were placed randomly on these shelves. However, at the back of the top shelf, something caught his eye, and he grabbed a wooden step, most likely used by Karl to put things up on the shelf in the first place, moving aside some items to gain a better look at the item he’d seen briefly.

  It was an iMac computer.

  More specifically, Declan was pretty convinced that it was his dad’s iMac computer. The one stolen from his house a couple of weeks ago.

  Why the hell was it on Karl Schnitter’s top shelf?

  15

  Underground, Overground

  Monroe thought that he’d picked the easier of the two jobs; after all, how hard was it to find a German police officer in a tiny village; but it turned out that this was far harder than he’d expected, as the man was a literal ghost.

  Eventually, he gave up hunting for Rolfe Müller, deciding that he’d simply wait for the man to return to the hotel, but by now he was outside St Mary The Virgin, and so he went to visit an old friend.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t come to the funeral,’ he said to Patrick Walsh’s gravestone. ‘I didn’t think you’d really want me there, what with how we ended on things.’

  He paused, as if expecting a reply from the grave itself.

  ‘I’m doing my best with the boy,’ he continued, looking out across the churchyard. ‘He’s a damned good detective, you know. He’s done you proud. Better than the pair of us. Better than me, definitely.’ He paused, taking a deep breath of the clear afternoon air.

  ‘I saw your secret room,’ he continued. ‘Jesus, Patrick, you should have called. You knew I’d help you if you needed it. You should have told me about Christine.’ He lowered his head, looking to the older gravestone to the left, that of Christine Walsh.

  ‘But I can understand why you wouldn’t,’ he said softly. ‘We’re trying to find who killed you, and we will bring them to justice, but if you are up there, watching down on this, we could do with a little help. In particular, finding a runty little German chap who’s given me the bloody slip.’

  He sighed, looking out across the churchyard again. The last time he’d been in here was Christine’s funeral, years earlier. He hadn’t entered the churchyard during Patrick’s funeral, he’d simply waited for Declan in the car park, ambushing the grieving son as he left his father’s last resting place.

  ‘A sign would be great right now,’ he whispered.

  There was a movement out of the corner of his eye, towards the south-eastern corner of the churchyard. Looking up, Monroe couldn’t believe his eyes.

  It was Rolfe Müller, heading towards the remains of the old priory next door.

  ‘That was bloody impressive,’ Monroe said to the gravestone as he left it, following Müller at a distance, passing through the hedgerow that led to the grounds next door, and the remains of Hurley Priory; in particular the crypt that was not only once underneath it, but still in existence, hundreds of years later. It was more commonly known as Old Ladye Place Crypt, and it was where the ghost of the Grey Lady was supposed to haunt. Well, one of them, anyway. The village seemed to be infected with bloody Grey Lady ghosts.

  Entering the crypt itself was easy; the building that had been above it was long gone now, and the ruined crypt, although covered, was open to the elements in several places. It was built as most crypts were; pillars in the ground arched up to the ceiling, creating effective and open arched passages, about eight feet high at the apex. Once known as ‘the vault’, there were several spaces, all connected by pillars, with gaps of around twelve feet or more between them. It smelled of mildew, of wet stone, and Monroe had to force himself not to sneeze as he entered it. He didn’t need a torch, as the light from outside was shining through, and it was easy to see about. In fact, this felt more akin to standing under a bridge than it did standing in a crypt.

  In the corner, Rolfe Müller was watching him.

  ‘I come here twice a day,’
he said. ‘Such a forgotten place, with such history. It is beautiful, is it not, Detective Chief Inspector Monroe?’

  Monroe was impressed at Rolfe Müller’s knowledge of his identity, but assumed that this had come from simple homework rather than anything else. ‘I don’t know the history here,’ he admitted.

  Unsurprised, Müller waved a hand around.

  ‘This was where they plotted to bring William of Orange to England, to create a new king in a bloodless coup,’ he said. ‘It is also where Princess Edith, sister of King Edward the Confessor was buried, when this was a Benedictine Priory.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Monroe was mildly impressed by this. ‘Do we know where?’

  ‘No,’ Müller shook his head. ‘Maybe where you stand right now. There is supposed to be a tunnel here too, one that goes directly to The Olde Bell.’

  ‘Why would you need a secret tunnel here?’

  Müller shrugged. ‘If you plan to overthrow a king, perhaps you need to keep your arrival secret?’ he looked around. ‘I have searched here several times, but cannot find the tunnel. I think it is a myth, a joke to play with tourists. Is there a reason you followed me here, Detective Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Aye,’ Monroe nodded. ‘We have some questions for you. I know you’ve been interested in our case, and by now you know what we’re doing.’

  ‘Investigating the death of Nathanial Wing,’ Müller replied. ‘I assume you want to know why I met with him a day before he died.’

  This surprised Monroe. He’d expected Müller to be evasive, not jump directly to the point. ‘Aye, I would laddie,’ he said. ‘Maybe we could leave this bloody place too while we talk? It damn near gives me the creeps.’

  Müller smiled and exited the crypt with Monroe, walking back into the churchyard.

  ‘It was to do with my case,’ he explained.

  ‘And what exactly is your case again?’ Monroe pressed. ‘I heard something about a war criminal.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Müller seemed unconcerned still. It was irritating Monroe. ‘A man who killed many people during his time as a border guard.’

  ‘Border guard, or border Captain?’ Monroe asked. ‘I mean, I believe your father, Wilhelm Müller, has been missing for a few years now. Are you hunting him?’

  This shook Müller, and Monroe saw the slight twitch of an eyelid as he stayed silent.

  Aye, you wee little bugger; we do our research too.

  Encouraged, Monroe pushed on. ‘And are you really on an international case, or are you just AWOL? Absent without leave, eh, laddie? You gone off the reservation here? If I was to speak to your superiors in Berlin, would I find you were on administrational leave, or holiday perhaps?’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Müller simply stated. ‘It is very hard to speak to my superiors by phone or email.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Monroe grinned. ‘I’ll be in Berlin myself tomorrow, so I’ll go speak to them personally.’

  Müller hadn’t been expecting this answer, and he faltered as he replied. ‘I am no threat to your investigation.’

  ‘Yeah? Then prove it,’ Monroe snapped. ‘Tell me why you spoke to Nathanial Wing, and more importantly told him that his days were numbered, less than a day before he died.’

  Rolfe Müller thought about this before replying.

  ‘You are a superior officer, and I respect that,’ he spoke carefully. ‘So I will explain, as I can see why that could look incriminating. But, be aware that my investigation is different to yours.’ He stopped, as if working out the words. ‘I had been led to Mister Wing by a source that claimed that he was a computer expert. A man who could hack into hard drives. And I had a hard drive that needed to be unlocked.’

  ‘Whose?’

  Müller ignored the question. ‘He promised repeatedly that he could do this, but constantly let me down. On the night we spoke, he demanded more money, and told me he had another buyer. I said he would get it, only if he hurried with the task in hand. I told him he was running out of time, because we return to Germany soon.’

  Monroe considered this.

  ‘And where were you and your sister the night Nathanial Wing died?’ he asked.

  ‘I was in my room, reading,’ Müller replied calmly. ‘My sister was out. She likes to walk along the Thames. She finds that this soothes her.’

  ‘So neither of you have alibis or witnesses?’

  ‘Are we suspects here, Detective Chief Inspector?’ Müller was still calm as he asked. Monroe nodded.

  ‘Aye, laddie. I think you both are,’ he said. ‘And your whole reason for being here seems a little suss.’

  ‘Let me give you a hypothetical situation then,’ Müller replied. ‘Do you have a father who is still alive?’

  ‘I do,’ Monroe answered. ‘Lives in Glasgow. We don’t see each other much, he’s in his eighties, doesn’t travel well. Phone calls every couple of weeks, Christmas cards and birthday wishes, nothing more really. Why?’

  ‘Imagine that one day, your father disappears. Not die, but simply vanish. And now it has been years. You learn that he may have taken a new identity, maybe even been murdered, and they give you names to investigate. Would you do it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Say your superiors tell you not to, that there is no case. Would you take matters into your own hands?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Monroe replied. ‘But let me give you another hypothetical question. Your father disappears, and when you look into him, you learn he was a monster, a serial killer who would force people into killing themselves. Would you still investigate this?’

  ‘My father was not the Ampelmännchen Killer,’ Müller stated. ‘That is what we call him in Germany.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Monroe insisted. ‘The world’s filled with sons and daughters who didn’t know the truth about their parents. Perhaps your sister disagrees with you on that?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘You’re often seen arguing.’

  Müller shrugged. ‘So we argue, that is not a crime. She and I, we learned when my mother died that we are not brother and sister, that our mother had an affair. She told us on her deathbed.’

  ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘That was our mother, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘So which of you’s the bastard?’ Monroe asked more jovially than the words suggested.

  ‘We never found out,’ Müller replied, staring down at a gravestone. ‘We chose to live with the ignorance. That way our father is still our father.’

  ‘Did your father know about this?’ Monroe leaned against a statue of an angel as he spoke the question. ‘I mean, if I found out my wife was having an affair, I’d be pretty pissed off.’

  ‘My father was a good detective,’ Müller replied. ‘I would assume he knew.’

  Monroe thought about this for a moment. ‘Was Karl Meier the man she had the affair with?’

  Rolfe Müller nodded. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Monroe exhaled. ‘That’s a bloody tangled web right now.’ He pulled out his phone as it beeped. Reading the message, he looked up.

  ‘I know you couldn’t give an answer to your whereabouts when Wing died, but what about an hour ago?’ he asked. ‘And, for that matter, your sister?’

  ‘I was in the church, praying,’ Müller calmly announced, as if this act would obviously make him seem more innocent. ‘And I am not my sister’s keeper.’

  ‘Shame,’ Monroe tutted. ‘We’ll need to find her. And you’ll need to sit down and have a proper chat with us.’

  ‘And why is that?’ Müller was rattled. He didn’t know what had been on the text message, and that he was in the dark here obviously affected him. Monroe placed his phone away.

  ‘Because someone just tried to hang Karl Schnitter,’ he said.

  Declan had followed the ambulance into Maidenhead and St Mark’s Hospital, with Doctor Marcos staying behind at the scene of the crime. He knew she was still banned from active cr
ime scenes as a forensic examiner, but technically she was a witness, and she could tell PC Davey where to look.

  He’d paced around the waiting room for a good half hour before the nurse had appeared informing him that Karl Schnitter was now stable, had a bruised larynx but wanted to speak to him. Declan followed her into a ward where, in a quiet side room, Karl was lying in a bed.

  ‘He’s sedated,’ the nurse explained. ‘Not, like sedated sedated, but enough to take the edge off.’

  ‘Like he’s high?’

  ‘A little, yes,’ the nurse continued. ‘So he might be a little more relaxed than you’d expect from a man who recently cheated death.’

  Entering the room, Declan saw Karl smiling at him from the bed.

  ‘My saviour,’ he croaked, the voice barely audible. There was nobody else in the room, but Declan moved to the side of the bed, pulling a chair behind him so that he could sit close to Karl.

  ‘Can you remember anything else now?’ He asked. Karl shook his head.

  ‘I did not see my killer,’ he whispered, and then giggled. ‘The attempted killer, anyway. For I am not dead.’

  ‘Karl, I need to ask a serious question, and I need a serious answer,’ Declan continued, already regretting not waiting until Karl was clearer headed. ‘In your garage, there was an iMac. My father’s iMac. What were you doing with it?’

  Karl shook his head. ‘No, no, no,’ he whispered. ‘That was not the computer. That was the shell.’

  ‘Shell? You mean outer casing?’

  Karl nodded, his eyes closing as he spoke. ‘Yes, casing. The hard drive, the computer itself was removed. I found it in a skip off the High Street.’

  ‘Why did you have it then?’

  ‘Because I wanted to find the hard drive,’ Karl whispered. ‘I thought the shell might help me find it. I guessed it was stolen by Rolfe.’

  ‘Rolfe Müller? Why him?’

  ‘Because he was hunting your father and I,’ Karl’s voice was softening, as if he was falling asleep. ‘He believed your father had information on the Reaper.’