Know Me Now

by CJ Carver

  As they drove out of the old town, the streets widened and the buildings became more modern, with double glazing and off-street parking. Low hills rose to the south.

  She said, ‘Could you please tell me everything you know about why your father came here to Germany.’

  He talked while she drove. She was a good driver, brisk but careful, indicating at the right moment and keeping a defensive position through the town. Dan told her about the friendship forged between four university students in the 1950s, and how their children had holidayed together each summer. After she’d asked some questions, he asked one of his own.

  ‘How did you discover my father visited this memorial?’

  ‘The hire car company remembers him asking how to find Isterberg Cemetery. I showed a photograph of your father around. The cemetery caretaker remembered him.’

  In another five minutes they were there. DSI Weber parked to the side of the cemetery gates. ‘Mr Forrester—’

  ‘Please, call me Dan.’

  ‘In that case, I am Didrika.’

  He gave a nod.

  ‘Dan. May I ask what you do professionally?’

  ‘I work for a company that specialises in political risk analysis. I advise companies whether it’s wise to invest in a particular country or not.’

  ‘How do you do your analysis?’

  ‘We have experts around the world that give us information on the markets in which they operate.’

  ‘Experts.’ She put her head on one side, studying him. ‘Have you always done this?’

  ‘Before that I was a high-performance driving instructor.’

  She held his eyes. ‘And before that?’

  ‘This and that.’ He put his hand on the door handle.

  ‘Not a policeman? Or something like it?’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

  ‘There is more to you than meets the eye, I think.’

  Short pause.

  ‘The memorial?’ he prompted.

  She led him to a large, black stone obelisk set to one side in a square of fiercely mown lawn.

  ‘What does it say?’ he asked.

  ‘Here in 1944 . . .’ She was slightly hesitant as she translated. ‘Are buried two hundred and forty-three babies. They were . . . born to Polish slave labourers and forced from their mothers to die in an orphanage in Isterberg. Their sufferings are part of the history of twentieth century Europe.’

  Dan felt a sadness creep over him.

  ‘It was a terrible time,’ she said, her face sorrowful.

  They stood in silence, gazing at the black stone.

  ‘Can I meet the caretaker?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Together Dan and Didrika Weber walked to the cemetery gates. Lines of headstones in the shape of stone crosses stretched between neat rows of trees. The DSI led the way past two magnificent tombs and an area filled with perfectly aligned, small bronze crosses pattée. Tucked behind a stand of beech trees stood a neat wooden shed. Its door was open and Dan could see a ride-on mower and a variety of strimmers inside. Didrika rapped on the doorframe.

  ‘Herr Keller?’

  A man in overalls appeared almost immediately. He had soulful eyes and sported the largest moustache Dan had ever seen. One gnarled hand held a pair of pliers, the other a piece of wire, both of which he quickly placed on a bench to one side. ‘Detective Superintendent Weber.’ He looked at Dan with faint curiosity.

  ‘Herr Keller, this is Herr Forrester. The son of the man who was murdered.’

  ‘My condolences,’ the man murmured.

  A buzz came from Didrika’s jacket. She quickly brought out her phone, glanced at the display and, murmuring an apology, moved aside.

  Dan turned back to Herr Keller. ‘DSI Weber tells me my father came here last Thursday morning.’

  ‘Yes.’ Keller nodded. ‘He wanted to know where the most recent cemetery plots could be found. I showed him.’

  ‘Would you mind showing me?’

  In answer, Keller grabbed a ratty old fleece from a hook inside the shed and stepped outside. With Dan at his side he headed back past the crosses pattée and tombs, walking to the northern end of the cemetery.

  ‘Was anyone with him?’ Dan asked.

  Keller shook his head.

  ‘Did you see his car?’

  Another shake.

  Keller stopped in a grassy area and made a wide gesture that included maybe twenty pale grey, new looking gravestones. ‘Here. This is what he wanted.’

  Dan looked at the nearest gravestone dedicated to Jacob and Louisa Meyer, who’d both died just a few years ago, within a year of each other.

  He said, ‘What was his mood like? Was he in a hurry maybe? Did he seem upset in any way?’

  ‘I think maybe . . .’ Keller glanced over his shoulder at Didrika, who was still on the phone. ‘The detective superintendent didn’t ask this.’

  ‘Please.’ Dan held the man’s eyes. ‘Tell me.’

  Keller shuffled his feet. Looked around. Dan waited.

  ‘I think maybe he was a little bit angry,’ Keller finally said.

  Instead of simply saying, why? Dan said, ‘What did he do to make you think that?’ He hoped it would make Keller think more deeply about his father’s behaviour, and he seemed to have got it right because the caretaker smoothed his moustache several times before answering.

  ‘He did not look at me after he saw this.’ Again, he made a gesture to encompass the new gravestones. ‘Before, we had a nice talk. After . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘He left without speaking to me.’

  Dan began to move around the memorials. ‘Which one in particular do you think made him angry?’

  ‘I am not certain, but I think maybe . . .’ He pointed out a pink granite monument with the sculpture of a white rose carved across its shoulders.

  Dan stood before it. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It is for a girl called Alice Lange. She was nine years old.’

  Immediately he thought of Christa, the girl he’d seen at the Isterberg Klinic. Was this the same Alice she’d known, who’d died of cancer?’

  ‘Did you know her?’ Dan asked.

  Keller shook his head saying, ‘Her father comes and visits every Sunday.’ He walked to the next gravestone. ‘This is for a boy called George Müller. He was at the same school as Alice.’

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘Grundschule Isterberg.’

  George Müller, Dan saw, died four months ago, just seven years old. A shiver took hold of him. Could it be the same boy who used to loan Christa his kayak?

  Dan walked the area, checking the names on each headstone, but no other name was familiar.

  ‘Apologies for the interruption.’ Didrika Weber appeared and looked between the two men. ‘Anything new?’

  Dan returned to the pink granite headstone. ‘Herr Keller believes this headstone made my father angry.’

  The detective brought out her phone and took a photograph of it. ‘Gut. Anything else?’

  Keller shook his head. Dan walked around the area again, taking several photographs before shaking Keller’s hand, thanking him. Once again Keller offered his condolences. All three of them walked to the cemetery gates. Didrika gave Keller a wave as they drove away.

  It was purely out of habit that Dan pulled the sun visor down and checked to see who was driving behind them. While Didrika asked him more questions, Dan continued to keep half an eye on the traffic following. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone or anything to alarm him. Not Mouse Woman now she’d been pinged, or her companion who’d lost Dan once before. But after they’d been driving for twenty minutes, Dan’s concentration intensified.

  The same Mercedes had been following them since they’d left the cemetery – a silver three-door Coupé – and it was still with them when Didrika dropped Dan back at his hotel. Dan checked on it last thing that night to see it was
still there. Tucked in the furthest recesses of the cobbled square, the streetlights made its low shape gleam.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ross looked at her closely. ‘You’ve been twitchy all morning.’

  ‘I’m just worried about a patient, that’s all.’

  Liar, Grace told herself. You want to broach the subject of this fabulous new job but daren’t. You’re not just a liar, you’re a coward too.

  They were in the kitchen having a lazy Sunday morning; Ross on his tablet reading the news, Grace flicking through a copy of Good Housekeeping trying to picture what the house was going to look like in three months’ time. Lucy had gone home for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until Monday.

  Grace turned the page of her magazine.

  ‘I’ll have to get some tartan decorations,’ she announced.

  ‘What?’ Ross looked startled.

  ‘Christmas.’

  ‘Dear God, is it that time already?’ He looked faintly horrified.

  She waved the magazine at him. ‘The countdown to Christmas starts here!’ she quoted. ‘Do you think we should order a turkey?’ She glanced sideways at the Aga. ‘Will it fit in that? How many potatoes should I do? Parsnips? Carrots? Does everyone like bread sauce, or—’

  ‘Gracie.’

  He stopped her mid-flow, voice firm. ‘I am not going to discuss Christmas until the clocks go back.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s on the thirtieth of October at 2 a.m.,’ he added.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I don’t want you panicking, OK?’

  ‘I won’t panic,’ she lied. His family were coming to stay; his parents, his brother and sister-in-law and their two-year-old along with their dog.

  ‘And because I know you will, there’s something I have to tell you.’

  Apprehension rose. ‘What?’

  ‘I, well . . . I . . .’ He looked sheepish.

  ‘What?’ Please God he hadn’t invited another branch of the family or his younger sister, who was going out with a drummer from a rock band and had four unruly kids under the age of ten. Thanks to Ross, the rock drummer had proudly shown her his tattoos the last time they’d visited, in the mistaken belief she had one too.

  ‘It’s not a tattoo, it’s a birthmark,’ she had told him, sending Ross a filthy look for winding the guy up. She’d pulled her hair back so the drummer could see the dark red stain on her neck just behind her ear.

  ‘Wow, cool,’ he breathed. ‘It looks just like a poisoned ivy tattoo.’

  From then on the drummer had insisted on calling her Ivy, which was confusing for everyone but which Grace simply found weird.

  ‘So,’ said Grace with a sigh. ‘Who else is coming for Christmas?’

  ‘Nobody.’ Ross looked bemused. ‘It’s just that I, well . . . I’ve started a cookery course. We’re learning how to cook Christmas lunch next week. Gravy, plum pudding and all.’

  She was so stunned she just stared at him. ‘I was going to do one.’

  ‘I know. But you’re so busy with work . . . and me? Well, I’m just a self-employed labourer and can take time out when I want.’ He glanced pointedly at the rain lashing the windows. ‘Especially when it’s like this.’

  ‘But I really wanted—’

  ‘You can still do one,’ he said hastily. ‘But I thought it might take the pressure off you. Besides, I think I might actually enjoy it. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make custard from scratch.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘To go with your spotted dick, I suppose. Your most favourite pudding in the whole wide world.’

  ‘Correct.’ He then gave a filthy chuckle and started to reach for her. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to take a look at a real live specimen with perfect propor—’

  A loud ringtone sounded making them both jump.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Grace. ‘Couldn’t you have your mobile turned up any louder?’

  ‘I can’t hear it when I’m working, sorry.’ He snatched it up. ‘Hello? Oh yes, Graeme.’ He covered the receiver briefly to look at Grace, saying, ‘the damp-proof guy.’

  Oh, joy, she thought, her mind drifting to picture the immaculate, luxurious flat in Edinburgh. Traitor, she told herself. He’s doing a cookery course for you. How can you throw it back in his face? Because I’m lost up here. I don’t fit in. Hating herself and the way her thoughts kept returning to the Queensferry Medical Practice, she walked into the hall and picked up her doctor’s bag. Ducked back to the kitchen and raised it up to Ross.

  Although he frowned, he gave a nod along with a thumbs-up. ‘Yes, we’ll have to tank the cottage and DPC the main house . . .’

  Grace left him still talking condensation and basement waterproofing and climbed into her car. She didn’t drive far. Just down the road to a lay-by that overlooked an old stone bridge. She lowered her windows, listening to the distant baa-ing of sheep, the rush of water churning past, the cackle of a nearby grouse lurking in the heather. She sat there for a while, but no matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t make up her mind what to do.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had a patient to see,’ Ross remarked on her return.

  She looked into his eyes. His expression was concerned. He was concerned for her.

  ‘I didn’t. Not really.’

  He widened his eyes a fraction.

  ‘I needed some space to think.’

  ‘I see.’ His tone was cautious.

  She sank into the chair next to him. Her heart was bumping as she realised she hadn’t given him any warning about her feelings or her anxieties regarding living on the farm. She’d never even confessed her disquiet about moving to Scotland. She’d just plunged right in, in the belief that love would conquer all.

  ‘You know I love you,‘ she began.

  He closed the lid of his tablet. Folded his hands on his lap. ‘Yeees . . .’ He drew the word out warily.

  ‘But I’ve been . . .’ She took a breath. ‘Struggling.’

  Ross remained perfectly still. ‘Go on.’

  ‘With this . . .’ As she waved a hand around she saw how much work he’d done, not just in the kitchen, but in the yard, the outbuildings. He’d worked incredibly hard, much harder than she had, how could she detonate the bomb of her misery at his feet? She suddenly felt appallingly selfish. She knew it had been Ross’s dream to move up here but she’d joined him voluntarily, one hundred per cent on board with his plans. Now he was watching her carefully and she felt a rush of love so strong her throat constricted. Oh, God, she couldn’t risk losing him. She loved him so much. Tears rose. She tried to swallow them down but they kept coming.

  ‘Gracie,’ Ross said. His tone was gentle. ‘You know I want to leap up and hug you, but first I have to know what you’re struggling with.’

  ‘I’ve been offered a job.’ It came out in an explosion of breath.

  The sound of the rain against the window panes was suddenly incredibly loud.

  Ross cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t know you were looking.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘But you’re tempted.’

  She bit the inside of her lip. She didn’t dare to speak. She felt duplicitous and faithless and wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

  ‘I see.’

  Something cool crept into his eyes. She’d never seen it before. Her mouth turned as dry as dust.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  The coolness washed away, replaced by a frown. ‘But that’s in Scotland.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  The frown deepened. ‘Not England.’

  ‘God, no!’ She leaned forward, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘There’s a flat too. I mean, it’s not free, but it’s discounted to whoever takes the job. It’s just around the corner from the surgery. The idea was that I could spend weekdays there and come home for weekends.’

  ‘Whose idea?’

  She licked her lips. ‘Gordon Baird’s
.’

  The coolness returned. She ploughed on.

  ‘The practice belongs to a colleague of his, John Buchanan. John was looking for someone and Gordon thought of me . . .’ She trailed off. The muscles in Ross’s jaw had bunched like rocks.

  ‘Gordon Baird suggested we live apart?’

  ‘No!’ she protested. ‘It wasn’t like that!’

  He looked at her for what felt a long time. The tension in his jaw remained.

  ‘You’re that unhappy here?’

  ‘I’m not unhappy unhappy.’ Grace fought to find the right words. ‘I know how lucky I am . . . you and me . . . you’re the love of my life . . . It’s just that it’s so different. I’m not used to . . .’ Living in a mess of a building site. Working with people who don’t seem to like me.

  Ross looked at her for another few seconds. Then he rose, pushing his chair back on the flagstones.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  Although he didn’t storm out of the house, didn’t slam any doors or cupboards, it still felt as though he had.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  First thing the next morning, Dan checked on the Mercedes to see it had moved and was now tucked behind a blue van on the other side of the square. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it, whether to let it follow him or not. More importantly, should he tell DSI Didrika Weber? She would be able to find out to whom it belonged in a nanosecond.

  Didrika was apparently in meetings for most of the day but said she’d pick him up from his hotel late afternoon, which suited Dan fine. He was perfectly happy to have the time to conduct his own investigation. After calling Jenny and Aimee, he checked his emails to see that Firecat had responded.

  Sorry to hear of your father’s death. My sincere condolences. If you’re around, why don’t we meet up? We can drink some Highland single malt scotch whisky – 17 years old, double cask, first fill sherry and bourbon cask, of course.

  Dan stared. Firecat knew his father’s favourite tipple. And not just any tipple either, because you could only buy that particular whisky directly from the distillery. He’d bought Bill a bottle when they’d undertaken the Aberlour Distillery tour years ago. Unbeknownst to his father, he’d gone back and bought another bottle, which he then later presented to him as a Christmas gift. Whisky didn’t age in a bottle, simply became a little more intense as a small amount of liquid evaporated, and his father still had half a litre or so sitting in his drinks cupboard waiting for a special occasion. Like when my grandson is born, his father had told him cheerfully.