Marie’s expression changed as I was speaking. “This person back in the UK, was she Asian like me?”
“Very much like you, yes.”
The tears were forming before I had even answered her question fully. “Where did you meet this person?”
“I don’t think –”
“Mr Blythe, I would like to know, please.”
“This is a little difficult, Marie. You see there was a crime involved and I don’t –”
“My … my sister was murdered in the UK about four weeks ago, Mr Blythe. Was it … was it my sister you met?” The tears were quietly rolling down her cheeks. I reached for my handkerchief and gave it to her. She took it without hesitation and dabbed at her eyes. “Was it, Mr Blythe?”
“Was your sister’s name Ingrid?”
She nodded.
“Yes, then I think it was your sister I met.”
Marie lit another cigarette before saying, “Would you tell me how you came to meet her, please?”
I didn’t give Marie all the details but I did explain the circumstances under which I had met her sister. She listened intently, smoking another two cigarettes as I did. It was a strange sensation because I felt deeply sorry for Marie. Although I held back on the more gruesome aspects of my experiences, I could not hide the fact that I had been with her sister a matter of minutes before she was murdered.
Marie reacted almost as though she had known nothing. She knew her sister was murdered but what I was telling her appeared to be new to her. On the other hand, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Other than the police, I hadn’t been able to discuss my feelings with anybody. The twins didn’t know and nor did Charles and Elizabeth, the only people who did know were those in authority – and whoever had murdered Ingrid.
The simple act of sitting in a bar and talking about what I had experienced was acting as a safety valve; it was allowing me to release some of the pressure that had built up inside me. I realised that coming to Cochem had probably been for that very reason but by meeting Marie, it had let a lot more emotion flow. I was able for the first time to share the way I really felt with somebody who had been close to the victim, to Ingrid. Only God knew how Marie must have felt.
When I had finished, Marie sat for a few minutes looking into space, the smoke from her cigarette curling upwards. Helga passed the table a couple of times looking concerned but this time she looked to me for confirmation that Marie was all right.
After what must have been three or four minutes, Marie stubbed her cigarette out and looked at me.
“We have been here for nearly a week and I had given up hope of finding out about anything that might have happened.” Her voice was almost a monotone and she was speaking quietly. “We were going to go back tomorrow or the day after. There was no point in staying any longer. We learnt nothing in England and nothing here. Nobody would tell us what really happened.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but who is we?”
“What?” she asked absentmindedly.
“We, you said we. Are you referring to the man you were with?”
“Michael? Yes, Michael and I are here together. The house you saw us leave was where Ingrid lived – well lodged would be a better description.” She screwed up her eyes. “You said Mesterom. You said she told you her name was Mesterom.”
I nodded.
“Why would she tell you that?”
“I’ve no idea, Marie. Her passport gave the same name though.”
“Did it?” she asked, her voice adopting a more resigned tone. “You see somebody could have told me that, but nobody did. They all looked at me as though I was some sort of foreign imbecile.” She reached across the table and touched my hand with her fingers. “Thank you.”
“There’s nothing for you to thank me for.”
“You’ve told me more in the last thirty minutes than anybody else has told me in nearly two weeks. In England, they simply confirmed that Ingrid was murdered and that they needed to keep her body for further forensic tests. It was while we were waiting that we decided to come over here to see where she lived, and in the hope that somebody, anybody could tell us what had been going on. Her landlady could tell us nothing, although I think she had her suspicions.”
“Where are you from, Marie?”
She looked up. “Singapore. Michael and I are from Singapore. He is a police officer but he’s here unofficially. He came with me as a friend.”
“I see.” I thought for a moment. “So you came to Europe when you heard the tragic news.”
Marie nodded, her head dropping again. “Yes. They got my mum’s number from Ingrid’s mobile phone and called. After two weeks I couldn’t just sit and wait for a letter, another phone call, something that would tell me what was happening. I had to come and find out for myself, but as I said, I haven’t been successful. It’s been a wasted journey until now.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, Mr Blythe, I am due to meet Michael in about five minutes. I would prefer to tell him what has happened alone but would it be possible if we could both meet you later on?”
“Of course.”
“Michael, being a policeman, might be a bit suspicious of you, especially as you have appeared out of the blue.” She smiled an apology. “I’m sorry I was suspicious of you.”
“You had every right and I understand,” I said. “Where would you like to meet?”
“Where are you staying?”
“In the Am Hafen hotel, on the other side of the river.”
“Can we contact you there?”
“Of course! What sort of time?”
“About eight o’clock. Perhaps we could go and eat somewhere,’ she suggested, standing up. “Thank you again, Mr Blythe. Under the circumstances, it was difficult for you to tell me what happened, but you have made our journey worthwhile.”
‘I –”
“No, let us leave what else is to be said until later. I must go.”
With a last look and a weak smile, Marie left the bar.
I ordered another drink and mulled over the coincidence of meeting Marie. If I hadn’t chosen that particular moment to go to Landkern Strasse, I probably wouldn’t have known that she existed, let alone meet her.
Playing with the condensation on the tall beer glass in front of me, my thoughts roamed around everything that had happened.
It was difficult to believe.
I regarded myself as a mature, sensible and rational man who wouldn’t let the wool be pulled over his eyes that easily. I wasn’t gullible or overly naïve, but there was something strange about the situation in which I now found myself. It was almost as though Marie had been expecting me and hadn’t done a particularly good job at covering up her lack of surprise and, more importantly, concern.
The tears had been there but a good actor can conjure those up at any time they want. I was the one who was now suspicious but I didn’t know why.
There was something not quite right.
Neither of us had offered any proof to the other that we were who we said we were. We had taken each other at face value.
I thought I had confirmation of my suspicions with what happened next – I was right in one way but wrong in another.
As I was finishing my beer and contemplating what I should do next, two uniformed police officers came into the bar and went over to Helga.
She pointed in my direction.
Chapter Eight
.
Wearing the standard German police leather jackets, peaked caps and with prominent but holstered pistols on their hips the two men looked quite intimidating. They were both clean-shaven, the younger one dark and swarthy and in his twenties, the other one looked about forty and was blond.
Having reached the table the older of the two took charge. “Sprechen-Sie Deutche?” he asked, his voice gruff.
I smiled, not fully understanding the situation, but something told me to play the innocent foreigner abroad. “Eine kleine bischen,” I replied slowly. “Aber veillecht Sie sprec
hen Englisch besser.”
I hoped my deliberate poor attempt at German showed willing.
The police officers exchanged looks. “Your name, please?” the older one asked in English.
For obvious reasons, my table had now become the centre of attention. The other customers were getting some free entertainment.
“Richard Blythe,” I said, trying to smile my innocence. “May I ask what this is all about?” My mind was working overtime attempting, again, to think of a reason why the German police were suddenly interested in me.
The younger police officer came a little closer to the table and put out his hand as though he wanted to help me get to my feet.
“Ve vud vant you to com viz uz,” the younger one said. If the situation hadn’t appeared serious, I would have found his accent quite amusing – it was what every tourist would have expected.
“Why?” I asked, looking at the officer whose hand was now on my arm encouraging me to stand.
“Ve sink you vill com.” The pressure on my arm increased.
“Herr Blyze,” said the older man, “please come vis us. Ve vant to ask you zum questions.”
“Why can’t you ask them here?” By now I was standing and moving out from behind the table. Both police officers were shorter than me but the older man took hold of my other arm and their grips were firm. I was frog-marched out of the bar then assisted into the back of their police car, which already contained a driver.
The two police officers got into the car, one on either side.
I attempted during the short drive to the police station to discover what was going on but they ignored my questions. After a short ride, the car stopped outside a rather austere building. I was ‘assisted’ up the front steps and swiftly guided into a room with bars at its window, a metal table and four metal chairs. The walls were a pale dirty yellow and a single light bulb hung from a long flex in the middle of the ceiling.
Police interview rooms were the same the world over.
My hosts told me to sit down and wait.
In the car and now, I hoped the immediate conclusion I had drawn was wrong, but everything pointed to Marie Schmidt being responsible for what was happening. There was no other explanation.
But why?
After about ten minutes of staring at the dirty walls and trying to see beyond the maelstrom of thoughts going round in my mind, I was joined by a man and a woman, the latter carrying a plastic cup of coffee that she put in front of me, before sitting opposite me and next to the man. There was something familiar about them but I had no idea why the thought should cross my mind. They were both casually dressed. He was wearing faded jeans, an open neck long-sleeved blue check shirt and black slip-on shoes. He was a big man, probably a little under six feet tall, about thirty with a dark rugged complexion and smiling brown eyes. The woman was a few years younger. She too was wearing jeans with a pinkish sleeveless T-shirt. Her hair was short, almost boyish, and she needed her roots dying. Standing about five and half feet tall, she had a nice figure, a pretty but lived-in face, and bluey-green eyes.
What was I doing taking all that in within the first few seconds?
“We have been told you do not speak any German,” the woman said in English, fiddling with a pencil that had been lying on the table.
I picked up the plastic cup and took a sip of coffee. “Thank you for this,” I said, smiling. “It’s not that I don’t speak any German, but I certainly don’t speak it well enough to cope in a situation such as this, whatever it might be. It’s rather fortunate that you speak English well.” I took another sip of coffee, my eyes not leaving hers. “May I ask what is going on?”
Ignoring my question the man said, “We are being impolite as we have not introduced ourselves. My name is Karl Henke and my colleague here is Anna Schwartz.” Neither of them suggested there was a need to shake hands. “We are with the Nationale Kriminal Polizei. The equivalent in England I think is called the NCS or National Crime Squad.” He paused and then asked. “And your name is Richard Blythe?”
I felt like saying that if their names were Henke and Schwartz my middle name was Penelope. They were no more German than I was. Why the pretence? “Yes, it is, but –”
“Thank you, Herr Blythe.” He glanced sideways towards the woman.
Anna Schwartz screwed up her eyes as she looked at me. “Herr Blythe, why are you here in Cochem?”
What was happening wasn’t simply incredible and a little scary, it was also bizarre. Being forcibly removed from the bar can’t have been within the law …. On my travels I had come across some pretty corrupt police forces and I had paid my fair share of bribes which had hopefully ensured safe passage as far as the next corruptible police post. However, I had never been in trouble with the police, corruptible or not.
My recent experiences in Ashbourne couldn’t be classed as being in trouble.
Although I had seen the inside of any number of police stations all over the world, my visits had always been on my terms. Now it looked as though I was in for a grilling about why I was in one of the most popular tourist attraction in middle Germany.
Nothing added up.
I placed the plastic cup carefully and deliberately on the table and looked at both detectives. “I doubt, even in Germany, it is the norm for a foreign tourist to be manhandled out of a bar and taken to a police station without explanation, simply to be asked why he was there in the first place. Even I know that under European law, if not under German law, what you’ve done is against my human rights. You can either give me a good reason as to why I should even consider answering your question or, alternatively, I will walk out and I might pretend this little charade ever took place. What do you say?”
The man’s expression remained stern but interested, his cheeks colouring slightly. The woman, though, leant back in her chair, crossed her legs, and appeared amused.
“Herr Blythe,” said the man, leaning forward, “we are only asking why you are here in Cochem.”
“And I am only telling you that unless you can give me a good reason why you should want to know, you are abusing your authority. At the moment, I am more than willing to put your behaviour down to over-zealous policing. Shortly though, I may involve your superiors. Which is it to be?”
“You are not in the position to threaten us, Herr Blythe. I must warn you –”
I spread my hands. “What? What must you warn me about? And what position am I in? I repeat, give me a reason to help with whatever this is all about, and if I can I will, otherwise I’m leaving.”
I began to get up.
Henke sighed and Schwartz sat forward again, the look of amusement still on her face. I resumed my seat.
“Herr Blythe,” she said, “your reaction is as we would have expected ...”
“Now you’re being patronising.”
“No,” she continued, “that is not our intention but it would help if you were to answer the question.” She reached into her shoulder bag and extracted a packet of cigarettes. I declined her offer. “Maybe if I put the question in context, you would understand.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“All right what is your interest is in Marie Schmidt?”
Her question shouldn’t have surprised me, but it made me hesitate which seemed to please Henke.
They waited, their eyes boring into mine.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but although I admit I did meet somebody by that name earlier, I can’t see that it gives you a good reason to haul me in here.”
“Herr Blythe,” said Schwartz, “would it help if we told you that we know who you are?”
I smiled and shrugged. “What exactly does that mean?”
“We know that you were witness to a murder in England in April,” Henke said. “We also know the connection between the girl that was murdered and Cochem.”
Now I was genuinely surprised, and some of my confidence left me. “If you know that much,” I said, “you can tell me why I’m here.” I held up
my hand. “Before you do though, your description wasn’t strictly accurate. I didn’t witness the murder, I found the girl after she was murdered.”
Henke bowed his head slightly. Schwartz just looked at me. “I accept my choice of words was poor,” Henke said, “but you must admit that by coming here we cannot put it down to a simple coincidence. If your version of events in Derbyshire is to be believed, how did you connect the victim to Cochem?”
“You can put the reason I am here down to whatever you like,” I said. “And the connection is quite easy to explain, I saw some letters addressed to Ingrid Mesterom and remembered the address.” I paused. “But before I say anything else, this isn’t right.”
“What do you mean?” Schwartz asked.
“I mean … you, your attitude and the obvious pretence –”
“Pretence?” It was Henke this time.
“Your English is far too good and I doubt whether you are anything to do with the German police. I’m not sure about the legality of masquerading as German police officers, but before I say anything else I would like to see some form of identification.”
Schwartz glanced at her colleague and then held up her hands. “Okay, Mr Blythe,” she said, “maybe we ought to have been a little more up front with you, and you’re right, we aren’t with the German police. It was a little naughty of us to even try that on.”
“Naughty?” I said. “I would say downright stupid, illegal and … anyway, I’m willing to listen.”
Sitting back, I waited.
“We had to enlist the help of the local police,” Henke said, “because we actually have no jurisdiction here or anywhere else in Germany. We can’t tell you who we work for but all I can say is that the reason we wanted to speak to you is a matter of national security.”
“By national, I presume you mean British?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“And you can’t tell me who you are working for?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Schwartz said, reaching for her cigarettes, “but it’s unlikely that we would have been able to make use of this police station if we weren’t who we say we are.”
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 8
