by CJ Carver
Didrika had collected him from his hotel at 3 p.m. Today she drove what he took to be a pool car, a bog-standard Ford Mondeo. Her cheeks were pink, her hair freshly washed, and the energy in her stride as she walked to meet him reminded him of Jenny before she was pregnant.
‘Guten Tag,’ she greeted him.
‘How has your day been?’
‘Busy. Yours?’
He told her about Anneke and Bill’s row in the brauhaus. She gave it serious consideration before she spoke.
‘How well do you know Mrs Kraus?’
‘I don’t really,’ Dan admitted. ‘I only knew her when I was a child, when we used to go to Scotland on holiday together.’
‘Did she know the children whose memorials your father visited?’
‘I don’t think so.’ A hint of reservation laced his voice and when she sent him an enquiring look he added, ‘I don’t know her well enough to know when she’s lying.’
‘I see. And her husband?’
‘The same.’
Now the Direktor, the headmaster of the school, came to greet them. A short, slim-built man of around forty, with large brown eyes magnified behind his wire-rimmed glasses. The silky brown-grey hair combed over his pate and the neatly clipped beard gave him an academic air.
‘Detecktiv,’ he said, shaking her hand. He looked at Dan expectantly.
‘This is Dan Forrester, from England,’ Didrika said. She didn’t say anything more.
Dan didn’t either. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t normally have the relative of a murdered victim accompany her like this, let alone interview the headmaster, and he put it down to the fact she thought he used to be a policeman or something like it.
‘I shall speak English then,’ the Direktor said genially.
After shaking Dan’s hand, the head ushered them inside the building. Although it appeared spotlessly clean, it was slowly disintegrating into shabbiness. Steel bookcases were stained with rust and the linoleum floor worn in the centre. The head’s office wasn’t much better with a threadbare green carpet and condensation trickling down the windows.
‘So,’ he said, taking his seat behind the desk and offering them the two chairs opposite. ‘How can I help you?
Didrika brought out a notebook and pen. Crossed her legs.
‘We would like to talk about Alice Lange and George Müller,’ stated the detective.
‘Poor children.’ The headmaster’s face grew pinched. ‘Alice had cancer. Very unusual in one so young. The first we knew about it was when she didn’t feel like playing basketball. She said she was tired and that her bones ached.’ He turned his head to gaze at the wall where a picture of the school hung. ‘She died four weeks later.’
Cancer, Dan already knew, accelerated much faster in a young body than an old one, but even so this seemed unnaturally fast.
‘George Müller had a heart rhythm disorder. Nobody knew he had it until his mother went to wake him one morning and found he’d died in the night.’
Just as Christa had told him at the Isterberg Klinic.
Dan waited while the detective asked a variety of questions before asking one of his own. ‘Do you have a girl called Christa here?’
The head looked surprised. ‘Why yes. Christa Braun. Do you know her?’
‘I met her briefly. She said the town was cursed. What is your view, considering the children’s deaths?’
Dan’s voice had been utterly without inflection but the man still flinched. He looked at the detective. ‘Müssen wir dort wirklich hineingehen?’ Do we really have to go into this?
‘Ich fürchte ja.’ Didrika’s voice was hard. ‘Dies ist eine Mordermittlung. Bitte beantworten Sie die Frage.’ I’m afraid we do. This is a murder investigation. Please answer the question.
From the way the headmaster’s nostrils flared, Dan took it he wasn’t happy. He looked at Didrika but her gaze was fixed on the headmaster.
She said without looking at Dan, ‘The direktor is reluctant to go into this. I have told him to answer your question.’
Dan watched the man with interest.
‘Isterberg has a dark history,’ the head said quietly. ‘During WWII, several state institutions were located here, including a Hitler Youth Academy for Leadership.’ He swallowed, gazing at his desk. ‘Isterberg also had a Ausländerkind-Pflegestätte, a foreign child-care facility. Unintended pregnancies were common among Polish and Soviet female forced labourers . . .’
Didrika spoke up, her voice still hard. ‘This was due to rampant sexual abuse at the hands of their supervisors.’
‘Correct.’ Again, the head swallowed. ‘When a slave worker fell pregnant, if the probable father wasn’t a German or otherwise Germanic in origin, they were either forced to abort the baby or their child was sent to an Ausländerkind-Pflegestätte, where they were, ah . . .’
‘Exterminated,’ Didrika supplied stonily. ‘Over ten thousand infants were purposely left to die in what were called the baby-huts. They were checked off as stillborn. Isterberg had the largest facility in the country.’
Although Dan knew his expression wouldn’t show it, inside he felt a wave of horror.
There was a long silence.
The head finally cleared his throat and looked at Dan. ‘The children at the school know the town’s history. It doesn’t surprise me that Christa says the town is cursed. George Müller was a good friend of hers, and she’s probably looking for something or someone to blame.’
Although what the head said made sense, Dan still didn’t get it. Why would his father visit Alice and George’s memorials? Maybe he’d known the children? Anneke said she hadn’t known them, but since he wasn’t sure he trusted her anymore, he’d take that with a pinch of salt. But what about the children’s parents?
Didrika brought out a photograph of his father and pushed it across to the head. ‘Did this man come to the school?’
The head picked up the photograph. He stared for a moment then looked between them, saying ‘This is the Englander who was murdered last week?’
‘Yes.’
Alarm filled his face. ‘What has this to do with the school?’
‘Please, answer the question.’ Didrika was steely.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen him before. I mean, just in the newspapers . . .’
Dan leaned forward. ‘Do you know Anneke or Arne Kraus?’
‘Everyone knows them.’ The head frowned as he put down the photograph. ‘They’re our local celebrities.’
Dan raised his eyebrows. ‘In what way?’
‘Their story about escaping to the West just before the fence went up resonates with a lot of people. The fact they made such a success of their lives starting from nothing . . .’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘They showed us what could be done.’
‘Would they have known Alice or George?’
The head looked blank. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Maybe their parents?’
The head’s shoulders raised, then fell. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
Despite Dan and Didrika asking more questions, they didn’t learn anything to further the investigation. They were walking outside, dodging a troupe of shrieking children who were on a break, when his phone rang.
‘Dan.’
Just the one word from Jenny, but from the half-gasp in her voice, he knew what was happening.
‘I’m on my way.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Didrika insisted on driving him to the airport after he’d checked out of his hotel.
‘You don’t have to,’ he told her. ‘I can easily get a taxi.’
‘No way!’ she protested. ‘I want to be part of your journey to your baby! Besides, we can talk on the way. I have had some thoughts, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Will we make it in time?’ said Dan, checking his watch. He’d already managed to change his flight – at an exorbitant price – to the 19:25 departure, and if he missed it he’d have to take another flight with a different c
arrier which would stop over in France, taking two and a half hours longer. He’d used the credit card in Michael Wilson’s name and God alone knew what was going to happen when the bill hit MI5’s accounts department, but he couldn’t think about that now. He had to get to Jenny.
‘No problem. Unless God has other plans, of course.’
He had to pray God was on his side. If he wasn’t there for the birth, he couldn’t even start to imagine what sort of trouble he’d be in.
Promise you’ll be with me when I have this baby.
If everything went smoothly he could be at Bath’s Royal United Hospital in just over four hours. Too long!
He could picture Jenny’s face as she held their son in her arms for the first time and he wasn’t there. Happy on the one hand, devastated on the other. What decent father misses his son’s birth? He shouldn’t have come to Germany. He should have been there, grabbing her hospital bag, taking it to the car, driving her to the maternity unit, dropping Aimee at a neighbour – an arrangement organised months ago – on the way.
She’ll never forgive me if I’m not there.
‘So, what are your thoughts?’ Didrika prompted him into a conversation about where the investigation might go now, but he was tense and distracted, finding it hard to concentrate.
She’ll never talk to me again.
Didrika slowed at the traffic queue warning ahead. The speed limit on the highway had been reduced to sixty kilometres per hour.
‘It will still be quicker on the highway,’ she assured him.
He checked his watch again. Tried to concentrate on what she was saying about euthanasia and the intensity of emotions it created.
‘I wonder if your father’s friend, Rafe – Scheisse!’
They’d rounded the bend to find the traffic at a standstill. In the distance, he could see blue flashing lights.
‘An accident,’ stated Dan. His tone was calm but his blood pressure began to rise.
‘I will take another route.’ She glanced across at him. ‘I’m sorry I can’t use my blue light. It’s against the law.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to,’ he lied.
It seemed to take an age to crawl to the next exit, and as soon as they were clear, she put her foot down, barrelling along a minor road. Her hands were relaxed on the wheel but her expression was intense. She’d stopped talking and was concentrating on the road.
‘We’ll make it,’ she told him.
‘OK.’
The road was narrow, winding cross country. Lots of twists and turns.
Just get me there, please God.
He kept quiet but his thoughts were leaping ahead. The next flight via France wouldn’t get him into the UK until past midnight, and thence to the hospital around three in the morning, by which time Jenny would have already had the baby. If it was Jenny’s first birth, things might be different, but apparently second and third babies could come really fast. He’d read stories of third and fourth babies shooting out like rockets in an hour. He tried to cling onto the fact that nothing was set in stone, and that they knew of one mother who’d said her third child took seven hours.
He saw Didrika risk a glance at her watch. ‘We still have time,’ she said determinedly.
Dan was doing the calculations. Thirty seconds to run to the check-in desk, a minute to check in, ten minutes to clear passport control, ten for baggage, five to run like hell for the gate . . .
He knew he was totally at fault. Although Jenny had told him to go to Germany, he’d taken her tolerance for the situation too far. Why hadn’t he been able to resist coming here? What was it with him? He hadn’t needed to go. It hadn’t been life-threatening.
Please God, just get me to the hospital on time and I’ll never let her down again.
For five more minutes they bounded along the minor road and then they were at a junction and back on the highway, the traffic light, travelling smoothly, but he couldn’t relax. They still had to get around Hanover. Finally, they came to a junction with the highway from Braunschweig and Didrika indicated right, pulling off to do a clockwise loop to head north-west to the airport.
‘I’ll drop you outside departures,’ she told him. ‘The British Airways check-in is to the left.’
He already knew this but didn’t say so. He said, ‘Thanks.’
As a precaution, he called for late-passenger instructions. He was told they couldn’t help, sorry, and that the plane wouldn’t wait for him. They only did that for passengers with a connecting flight at the other end. When he said he was trying to get to England for the birth of his son, the man on the phone said, ‘Oh well, in that case we’ll do everything we can.’ He told Dan to go to the usual check-in desk where he’d be met by a member of staff who would accompany him through the queues to the aircraft. ‘Good luck,’ he added.
Didrika pushed on, the car bombing along in the outside lane. Half a mile or so ahead, he saw a passenger plane, wheels down, preparing to land.
They were nearly there.
Dan made sure his passport was easily reached, his ticket ready to be viewed on his phone.
‘Scheisse!’ Didrika cursed again.
Dan looked up to see overhead gantry’s flashing white in warning.
‘Another accident!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘No!’
He prayed it had already been cleared away. That the emergency services had already cleared it away and that the traffic would keep moving.
The traffic began slowing down. Eighty kilometres per hour. Sixty. Forty.
Please, don’t stop.
As they cruised around a long corner the car ahead jammed on its brakes. Twenty kilometres per hour.
Please.
They came to the end of the bend and his heart plummeted. Ahead was a river of red tail lights, stationary traffic all the way to the horizon. Slowly, Didrika came to a halt. The next exit, for the airport, was another two miles.
In the distance, Dan heard a siren. He flipped down his sun visor to see blue flashing lights approaching.
‘We’re so close,’ said Didrika. Frustration laced her tone.
But we may as well be a hundred miles away, thought Dan. If the emergency services were only just getting to the accident, they could be here for hours.
His stomach sank. He felt as though he’d swallowed a stone.
‘We’re not going to make it.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
An ambulance raced past on the hard shoulder, hotly followed by two motorway patrol cars.
‘Not going to make it?!’ Didrika exclaimed. ‘Yes, we fucking are!’
She leaned across and snapped open the glovebox. She pulled out a blue light. Set it flashing. Wound down her window and slapped it on the car roof. Began to inch her way into the left lane which was solid with traffic.
‘You’ll be disciplined,’ Dan told her, but he didn’t tell her to stop.
She didn’t reply. She started pushing the snout of the Mondeo between an oil tanker and a VW sedan, blue light strobing. ‘Come on,’ she muttered, ‘let me in, you bastards.’
The tanker crept forward a couple of yards but there still wasn’t enough room.
Dan wound down his window and gestured at the driver of the VW sedan to go back.
The man put his car in reverse. The car behind sounded its horn – space was tight – but the VW had managed to create a narrow space for them to drive through. As soon as she’d straightened the wheels on the hard shoulder, Didrika accelerated after the ambulance.
18:55.
It didn’t take long to get to the crash site. Maybe three minutes. A Citroën lay upside down across the hard shoulder and slow lane. A second car was crushed against the central reservation, the third behind it had a crumpled bonnet. Glass and bits of metal lay everywhere. The ambulance service team was already at work.
As soon as they appeared, an officer strode across. Didrika leaped outside. Started talking fast.
The cop gestured
angrily behind us, obviously telling her to sod off and get back in the queue, but she persisted.
It didn’t work. Things began to get heated.
Dan heard the traffic cop snarl something sarcastic, and just as he was wondering if he should get out and fall to his knees and start begging, his phone rang.
‘Dan,’ asked Jenny. ‘Where are you?’
‘You won’t believe it, but I’m a hair’s breadth from the airport and stuck in a traffic accident.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I wish I was.’
‘We’re on our way to the hospital.’
‘I’ll see you there,’ he told her. ‘As soon as I can, I promise.’
‘OK.’
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Love you too.’
He twisted in his seat to see Didrika was on the phone, talking urgently. Then she passed her phone to the officer who spoke for a while, looking between Didrika and Dan. Then he handed Didrika’s phone back. Things happened quickly after that.
Walking ahead, the traffic cop guided them between the wreckages and around the worst of the broken glass. As soon as they were clear, Didrika floored it. By the time she eased off, the needle rested on 185 kilometres per hour.
Gradually, traffic began to appear. Her blue light continued to strobe. She didn’t take her foot off the accelerator until the traffic began to thicken, cars and lorries parting like shoals of fish to let them through.
It was 19:13 when the airport appeared.
Twelve minutes to go.
‘Just jump out,’ Didrika told him. ‘Don’t worry about shutting the door or anything. Run like hell.’
‘One thing before I go,’ he said. ‘A favour.’
‘Now you ask me?!’ Her tone was disbelieving.
‘A Mercedes has been following me.’ He recited the number plate. ‘Could you find out who it belongs to?’
‘You . . .’ She didn’t finish her sentence. She was concentrating on accelerating for the terminal.
Dan kept his hand on the door handle as she slewed the car to the inside lane, heading for the terminal’s automatic doors, slipping around a taxi and darting in front of a Mercedes. Dan began to open his door.
Didrika slid to an abrupt halt and he bolted outside.
