by Jack Gatland
Declan moved forward at this, his hands reaching out, but the door opened, and DCI Freeman stormed into the room.
‘This ends now,’ he said, turning off the recording and facing Declan. ‘I gave you a chance because you said you had something. All you have is a man who changed his name.’
‘A war criminal!’
‘Not our war!’ Freeman shouted back. ‘If Berlin want him so bad, they can get him!’
‘They tried,’ Declan hissed. ‘Rolfe Müller, remember?’
‘Your own people proved that Rolfe Müller was acting on his own cognition and was AWOL from his post.’
Karl coughed; a polite one.
‘I have no issues with Declan,’ he said as Freeman looked to him. ‘I would be the same. It is a testament to his skill and his ability, his passion for justice that he has gotten this far, even if he has lost his way.’
‘Thank you for your understanding, Karl,’ Freeman replied. ‘I hope that this doesn’t cause any problems down the line.’
‘Not at all,’ Karl smiled. ‘I wondered if I could have a private word with him? Maybe a conversation without recording devices and cameras may be more fruitful? I would like to explain my situation with your government, explain how I am, as you say, untouchable?’
‘Of course,’ Freeman nodded, looking to Declan. ‘When this is over, you can go home, back to London, whatever you want, but you’re barred from this Crime Unit. Understand? All debts are paid.’
Declan nodded as Freeman left the room.
The CCTV camera’s red light winked off.
‘And they were all alone,’ Karl muttered with a sly smile. ‘Did you really think I would give in so easily? That I had not spent thirty years ensuring that my life was beyond reproach? I can return to Berlin as Wilhelm Müller whenever I want. Maybe I will go tomorrow. Nobody cares about the fall of the wall anymore. They want the world to move on. And you should move on, Declan. You have a beautiful daughter and a wonderful life. I have always envied your family, that and your father’s. Maybe I can find one of my own now I have reconnected with Ilse.’
‘Did Ilse send me the message?’ Declan asked. Karl shrugged.
‘I am not psychic,’ he replied.
Declan balled a hand into a fist, his anger rising.
‘I would not do that,’ Karl interjected. ‘My daughter is waiting for me to return, and if she believes I am in any way compromised or hurt, she will skin your beautiful daughter Jessica alive, with a potato peeler. A blunted one.’
For a moment, though, genuine emotion crossed his face.
‘I am sorry, Declan,’ he continued. ‘I truly am. We could have been firm friends, if this had not happened. But sometimes the urge strikes me, and I must feed the beast, as they say.’
‘Was that why you killed Nathanial?’
‘Nathanial Wing killed himself,’ Karl shrugged. ‘It was sad. But it was his own doing. As were all of them. Even your mother. Who was sick and dying, Declan. In a way, I gave her mercy.’
‘I won’t give you mercy,’ Declan hissed. ‘If you’ve touched a hair on her head, if you’ve even shouted at Jess, I’ll find you and I’ll end you.’
‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ Karl said, shaking his head sadly. ‘We both heard your DCI. You have nothing on me. Your case is dead. Your team and yourself are finished here. I will be gone tomorrow, and your own government will provide my new identity, on behalf of either America or Germany; whoever contacts them first. I am, as they say, a belle of the ball, even after these years. You will send your colleagues home, and you will write your closing report on this case, stating that Rolfe Müller killed himself, unable to live with failure, and the guilt of murdering Nathanial Wing.’
‘And if I do that?’
‘Then you will go for a drive. Don’t use your car, I know there’s a tracker. Use the same car you borrowed from me. It’s outside your house by now, and the key is under the wheel arch above the front passenger wheel. Leave your phone in your Audi, and drive to where I tell you to wait until midnight. Do this and I will release your daughter, unmolested,’
Karl walked towards the door.
‘It is a shame though, I have really enjoyed this village, and these people. It is sad that people searching for justice must ruin such things. Stop your team, Declan, Stand them down. I have one Red Reaper card left, Declan. It would be a shame to use it on Jessica.’
With that Karl walked out of the interview room, closing the door behind him, leaving Declan alone.
He wanted to scream, to break something, to kill. But none of these would help him right now. He needed to find a way to make this work.
But there wasn’t a way to do this in the manner he needed. And Karl’s last line had shown the truth of the matter.
‘I have one Red Reaper card left, Declan. It would be a shame to use it on her.’
Not that it would be a shame to use it, but that it would be a shame to use it on Jess. Which meant that Karl still intended to use it, to leave one last death behind, before he moved on to a new life. And Declan knew without any doubt that he would be the next victim of the Red Reaper, likely at midnight tonight.
All loose ends removed.
He knew he could stop his team from searching; the moment they knew Jess was taken, they’d stand down. At the same time though, he needed to make Karl and Ilse pay for their crimes, even if he couldn’t be prosecuted in the legal manner.
Which brought him back to the mindset he’d had after Kendis Taylor had been murdered. Declan was an ex soldier and had a soldier’s mentality. He had killed before, and knew that if the stakes were high enough, he could kill again. But that wasn’t who he wanted to be. He was a Detective Inspector, and that meant something to him, even if he wouldn’t be one for much longer.
He had to plan this carefully.
He had to plan this cleverly.
Pulling out his phone, he dialled Anjli.
‘It’s me,’ he said when she answered. ‘Gather the troops back. We’re closing this down.’
‘De’Geer’s gone back to the Randalls,’ Anjli replied. ‘I know we can—‘
‘I said close it down,’ Declan snapped. ‘We’re done. We lost. Go grab a bite to eat in the bar.’ He looked at the clock; it was almost nine pm. ‘They should still do food, but only just. I’ll meet you tomorrow for breakfast and explain everything,’ he lied.
‘If you’re sure—‘
‘I’m sure. Close it down.’ Declan disconnected the call, and, still holding the phone in his hand, he paused, unsure that the next call that he was about to make was the correct one.
But it was the only call that he could make.
Declan took a deep breath and dialled a number. As it was answered, he looked around the Interview Room one last time. It was probably the last time he’d be in one as a police officer.
‘It’s Declan,’ he said into the phone. ‘I think I now understand why you had a problem with Karl. So, I have a favour to ask, and a gift for you. One I think you might like.’
DCI Freeman sat in his office, staring at the wall as his phone went. He’d been like this for a good hour now, physically there while mentally miles and even years away.
He’d joined the force to make a difference. But where had that got him?
Returning to the present, he answered the phone.
‘What,’ he muttered, but then stopped, listening.
‘What about the daughter?’ he asked, shaking his head at the reply.
‘Well you, sir, can go to hell,’ he snapped, before slamming the phone back down, and staring at it.
It looked like Karl Schnitter, or Wilhelm Müller, or whatever his damned name was, had played his last card.
The Americans were coming.
26
Change Of Plans
It was close to ten pm when Anjli and Billy arrived at Declan’s house. His Audi was in the driveway which meant that he’d returned from Maidenhead. Passing it, Anjli hoped that back home now, he’d be
more likely to listen to reason.
‘I’m telling you, something’s wrong,’ Anjli said as they walked up to the door. ‘You don’t just close down something that’s as personal—‘
‘Anj,’ Billy interrupted, pointing at the front door to the house; it was ajar. Pushing it gently, Billy leaned in, looking through the doorway and into the house. The lights were off. It was deathly quiet.
‘Declan?’ He said loudly, walking in. ‘Jess?’
Anjli, following, turned the lights on, and the two detectives stopped.
The living room looked like a fight had occurred; books and magazines were scattered on the floor, and a carving knife was on the carpet near the kitchen door, next to a discarded, empty syringe.
‘Call it in.’ Anjli said softly. ‘We need forensics here right now.’
PC Morten De’Geer was in the break room when DCI Freeman entered. He wasn’t making himself a hot drink, but just sitting on a chair, staring at what looked to be a local newspaper, currently opened on a middle page.
‘Busy week,’ Freeman said conversationally, but De’Geer didn’t reply to this. Turning, Freeman watched the police officer for a moment before continuing.
‘Something you wish to say?’
‘No, sir,’ De’Geer replied sadly. ‘Just considering my place in the department.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Freeman asked. De’Geer looked up at him.
‘Do you remember when I first met you?’ he replied. ‘When I decided more than anything that I wanted to be a police officer?’
‘I do,’ Freeman walked to the table sitting down. ‘It was in the campsite. Craig Randall. You were what, seven?’
‘Twelve,’ De’Geer smiled at the dig. ‘I was seeing Ellie Randall at the time. Her parents had taken her away from the crime scene, but I wanted to see what had happened. You came out of the woods holding a card in your hand. It was in a baggie and I didn’t know what it was, but I do now.’
‘A Red Reaper.’
De’Geer nodded. ‘Do you remember what you said to me?’
‘You asked me what was happening,’ Freeman remembered, looking across the room, avoiding De’Geer’s gaze. ‘I said I couldn’t tell you. Then you asked if I was going to catch who did this.’
‘And you said to me?’
‘I said that sometimes we couldn’t catch the criminal, but I’d make sure that justice was served, no matter what.’ Freeman sighed as he leaned back, looking at the lights embedded into the ceiling. ‘I was a little more hot-headed in those days,’ he continued. ‘A little more optimistic.’
‘You were passionate,’ De’Geer added. ‘You were a believer that no matter what, you would find the culprit. But he never was. And Craig Randall was classed as a suicide.’
‘That wasn’t me,’ Freeman replied angrily. ‘You can’t put that on me or Patrick. We fought to keep the case open, but the powers that be felt that this would only keep the story out in the open for longer.’
He looked to the table. ‘He did to me what I just did to Declan,’ he muttered.
‘Yes,’ De’Geer replied.
‘Look, I’m as pissed about it as you are,’ Freeman snapped. ‘The bloody Reaper has been a chain around my neck for decades. But we have no evidence!’
‘I visited Ellie Randall again this evening,’ De’Geer stated softly. ‘I took this newspaper with me. It’s a Maidenhead Advertiser from 2013. A Comic Relief special.’ He looked up to Freeman. ‘We have them all in the archives. I asked her to look through it, see if anyone in it was familiar.’ Now he pointed to the pages that were open on the table. ‘She stopped at this.’
Freeman looked at the article that De’Geer was showing. It was an article about local companies holding events for Comic Relief, but the photograph used was clear and visible; a photo of a garage, the mechanics in fancy dress and smiling.
Front and centre was a younger Karl Schnitter.
‘She said that this was the man that Craig was with in the woods,’ De’Geer stated. ‘I didn’t lead her to this, she picked it up herself. And they took this less than a year after Craig’s death.’
Freeman stared at the photo as he spoke. ‘A twelve-year-old child, at a distance, and over ten years ago,’ he said. ‘This wouldn’t even reach court, especially now we know Schnitter is Müller. By this time tomorrow he’ll be somewhere else, under a name provided by our own taxes.’
‘Sometimes we can’t catch the criminal, but don’t worry lad, I’ll make sure that justice is served, no matter what,’ De’Geer almost spat the words. ‘That’s what you said to me. Word for word. I never forgot it.’
Freeman sat silent for a moment.
‘Karl Schnitter is Wilhelm Müller,’ he muttered. ‘But that’s not enough to convict him of murder. And to ensure justice is served here smacks of vigilantism, not police work.’
‘As you just said sir, by tomorrow Karl and Ilse will be gone,’ De’Geer rose from the table, closing the newspaper up as he did so. ‘They’ll have escaped, again, and we’ll be telling the press that a good German police officer killed a teenager and then took his own life.’
‘There’s more to this,’ Freeman muttered. ‘Higher up the chain. Müller is untouchable.’
‘And Ilse?’ De’Geer stopped at the door, looking in. At no reply from his DCI, he smiled.
‘Thought as much, sir,’ he said as he left.
DCI Freeman sat at the table, staring down at the newspaper. There was nothing he could do about Karl Schnitter. He’d outplayed everyone, and to try anything would just bring down a world of administrational pain and hurt on his department.
But there had to be something that he could do.
His phone beeped, a call coming in from the front desk who, unable to gain him on his office land line, would have passed the call over to his mobile phone. Which meant this was important.
‘Freeman,’ he answered. His face paled as he listened to the call, before disconnecting without another word down the line.
‘De’Geer!’ he shouted out. After a moment, the officer leaned back around the doorframe.
‘Sir?’
‘Where is Declan Walsh right now?’
‘I don’t know,’ De’Geer answered honestly. ‘He left under a bit of a cloud, and Doctor Marcos mentioned a little while back he hasn’t answered his phone since he left.’
Freeman nodded. ‘Then get your team together,’ he replied, rising. ‘We’ve got a problem. Declan and his daughter are missing, and it looks like there was a fight in his house.’
Jess had a killer headache when she woke up, staring around the darkened room in confusion until her vision cleared into focus. She was in what looked like a garage space, a workshop; to the side was a full length cabinet with tools scattered across its surface, and on the floor were discarded pieces of cars and bikes. It was most likely the garage where Karl Schnitter had been found hanging from a ramp, although she couldn’t turn to see if the ramp was behind her.
‘You’re awake,’ Ilse Müller smiled as she walked into view, and Jess realised for the first time that she wasn’t able to move; her hands and legs were cable tied to a wooden chair placed in the middle of the workshop, a portable arc lamp the only source of light. And she wasn’t able to shout either, as Ilse had forced a foul smelling rag into her mouth, and gaffa tape wrapped around her head held it in place. It smelt and tasted faintly of oil, and Jess had to force herself not to puke. At the same time, she had to convince herself not to panic, as this was definitely the scariest situation that she’d ever been in.
Ilse stood silently, her hands in her jeans pockets, relaxed, and completely in control. As if coming to a decision, she walked over to Jess, pulling out a vicious looking folding blade which she locked open. Jess struggled, pulling back as the blade moved towards her face, but Ilse simply cut the tape, pulling the foul tasting rag out of the mouth.
‘You scream, shout, try anything? I slit your throat to stop you, understand?’
Jess nodded.
‘I worried I had used too much,’ Ilse explained softly. ‘And I wanted you to be awake.’
‘Why?’ Jess tried to keep her voice calm. ‘If you’re going to kill me, I’d rather I was unconscious.’
‘Why would I kill you?’ Ilse asked, surprised. ‘I’ve killed no one.’
‘Nathanial Wing?’
‘He killed himself.’
‘After you contacted him,’ Jess corrected. ‘I know you were the voice he spoke to, not your brother.’
‘Half brother.’
‘Whatever.’ Jess shifted in the seat, trying to feel out how much give the cable ties had. It wasn’t much. ‘And you were out the night Nathanial died.’
‘I walk at night,’ Ilse admitted. ‘That doesn’t mean that I was at the Golf Club.’
‘Doesn’t mean that you weren’t, either,’ Jess snapped back. ‘Did you kill granddad?’
If Ilse was blindsided by the question, she didn’t respond to it. ‘All we’re doing is waiting,’ she said. ‘When I get a call, I will leave. You will unfortunately stay here until you’re found in the morning, but you will be alive.’
‘What’s the call?’
‘To tell me that everything is over.’
‘Where’s my dad?’
‘I don’t know, child,’ Ilse said soothingly, stroking Jess’ face as the teenager tried to pull away. ‘All I know is where he will be at midnight.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Flipping a coin for his life.’
Jess shrugged in the chair, rocking it as she angrily spat out at Ilse. ‘You bitch!’
The backhanded slap was expected, but Jess was unable to lean back from it, and so the impact caught her square on the cheek, knocking both Jess and the chair over. Ilse walked to it, pulling the chair back upright as she glared at the fifteen-year-old girl tied to it.
‘One more,’ she said. ‘One more. Say it. I will end you.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Jess fought back the tears of pain as she replied. ‘You need me alive. If I’m dead, my dad won’t come.’
