“Can I presume that Schwartz and Henke aren’t your real names?”
“You can.”
“But I’m not to know what they really are?”
“Sorry, no.”
“All right, for the moment I’m willing to play your little game but can I also assume that I can walk out of here whenever I want to.”
“Yes.”
“All right … I am still listening.”
They told me that Ingrid Mesterom – Mesterom was a false name and her real name was Schmidt, at least one question was answered – was part of an international criminal organisation. They were in Germany following up their investigations connected with her murder, but more directly, with what she had been doing in England.
When I walked up Landkern Strasse they had been sitting in a car – which I hadn’t noticed – further up the road observing the comings and goings from No 44. Seeing me there was too much of a coincidence.
Their interest in Marie Schmidt and her companion, Michael Lim, originated in England, when the two of them visited the police station in Ashbourne asking questions about Ingrid. ‘Henke’ and ‘Schwartz’ were due to come to Cochem anyway, and seeing Marie and Michael visiting No 44 today was not a surprise, but seeing me was. Thinking their investigations in Cochem were going to come to nothing, when I appeared on the scene their interest was renewed.
Without telling me how or why, they recognised me straight away and immediately obtained authority from their superiors in the UK to question me.
My appearance generated equal interest in the UK, and that’s when in only a matter of hours, it was arranged for me to be ‘picked up’ by the German police.
“Hopefully you understand we can’t tell you more than we have,” Henke said.
“I have little choice but to understand,” I said. “And I also understand why seeing me generated some interest.”
“It certainly did that,” Schwartz said. “Are you now willing to tell us why you are really here?”
Telling them the truth – why would I feel the need to tell them anything else? – seemed to satisfy them, and after a couple of questions they sat back and sighed. After the excitement my presence caused, the truth must have been a disappointment.
Although I attempted to glean a little more information about Ingrid, my hosts remained tight-lipped, explaining that to reveal anything would jeopardise any future investigations.
“It would be best,” Henke said, “if you remained in ignorance.”
Throughout the session I had with them, I kept on asking myself, and on a couple of occasions them too, what was the point of it all? I had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, an innocent bystander. They had agreed, but equally they expected me to understand their logic: the need to question me resulted from the fact that I was there.
“If you were us –” Schwartz started to say.
“But I don’t know who you are,” I said, interrupting.
“All right, but if you were us and a witness to the murder associated with our ongoing investigations turned up hundreds of miles from the scene of the crime, outside the house where the victim had stayed, wouldn’t you be suspicious?” Schwartz asked.
“I’ve told you I understand and I’ve explained, and I hope you have accepted why I am here, but you have told me absolutely nothing in return. Who Ingrid really was? What crime she was supposed to be involved with? Why she was murdered? Whether …?”
“And we’ve explained why we can’t tell you anymore,” Henke said.
“No you haven’t,” I said accusingly. “You’ve told me absolutely nothing.”
“That’s the way it must be,” Schwartz said.
“All right,’ I said shrugging. ‘Then I’m leaving. I’ve told you everything that Marie Schmidt told me and, like you, I think she is simply a grief-stricken sister who wants to know what the hell is going on.”
“And so do we,” Henke said as I stood up.
It was after nine in the evening when I got back to my room in the Hotel Am Hafen. A Schnell-Imbiss by the river was the eventual source of my evening meal. A curry-wurst and pomfrites wasn’t my idea of sustenance but I really didn’t feel like anything else. The sausage was rubbery and the chips tasted of anything but potato, but the meal filled a gap.
Sitting on a bench, I watched the evening river traffic returning from the various dinner-cruises and some youths nearby, worse the wear for drink, provided the entertainment. The experience I’d had was uppermost in my mind and it had an adverse effect on my appetite. Some of the late-night ducks on the river benefited more than I did from what I had bought.
Having thought Marie was the source of my encounter with … with what? MI6 or 5 … I had no idea, but I was pleased that she wasn’t the reason I’d been questioned. But, I was disappointed there had been no contact from her.
I ambled back to the hotel deep in thought, but I did check twice to see whether there was anybody who looked as though they were interested in me, that was before it dawned I wouldn’t know whether I was being followed or not.
I had watched too many in-flight movies.
After collecting a couple of bottles of local red wine from the bar, I went to my room to do some real drinking and real thinking. Because the evening was quite warm, I took a bottle and a glass out onto the small balcony. There were quite a lot of people about on the opposite side of the river and boats were still disgorging their clientèle. It was such a naturally relaxing scene it was hard to believe that the young woman I had talked to before she was murdered in the middle of the Derbyshire countryside, lived for whatever period a few hundred yards away from the river I was now looking at.
There were answers out there somewhere, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know them..
Marie hadn’t left a message in Reception. I assumed she had spoken to her friend – I now knew his full name was Michael Lim – and he had decided that I should be given a wide berth. It was more than likely that they had returned to the bar where I had met Marie in the first place and been told of my arrest by the police.
The hours I had spent on planes were spent report writing, reading, sleeping or watching the in-flight movies. Generally, I didn’t read a lot but I could tell whether I was going to enjoy a novel by the first paragraph on the first page. I didn’t really care who the author was as long as he or she wrote in a language I understood – which meant using words I didn’t subsequently have to look up in a dictionary – was entertaining and didn’t become too implausible, I was happy.
My simple standards also applied to the films I attempted to watch. However, whereas the films and the books were mostly fictional, my recent experiences were not.
Being told by the two stooges – that’s how I now felt about them – that almost from the day I had found Ingrid I had been followed was the biggest shock. Not only was I followed but everything about me was investigated: my parents, schooling, where we’d been on holiday, what groups I had been involved with at university, any sympathies I’d had, my career, the countries I had worked in, everything. The British authorities probably now knew more about me than I could remember myself.
However, once again, that’s where they stopped. There was no explanation as to why there was a need to follow and investigate me in the first place.
The wine began to have the desired effect and my thoughts became disjointed but not too irrational … there were a lot of questions and few answers.
A large river launch was manoeuvring against the wharf on the far side of the river and I could see that its passengers were dressed in dinner jackets and evening gowns. The music was still playing and two or three couples had decided not to lose out; they were still jigging away on the launch’s top deck.
Then I think I heard a slight tap on the door of my room.
Looking at my watch I wasn’t surprised to see that it was well after midnight. I left the balcony, expecting to hear the door being knocked again, but it wasn’t. Lying on the carpet,
one edge still under the door was a white envelope addressed to Herr Blythe, Room 40. Ripping the envelope open I took out a single sheet of paper. Both the address on the envelope and message were hand-written in blue ink:
Mr Blythe
Meet me tomorrow morning up at the Schloss. There is a café below the first set of steps.
Be there at ten-thirty.
Marie.
Chapter Nine
I woke to another glorious day after the expected fitful night’s sleep. Images whirled round my mind to such an extent that I had been out on the balcony again at three o’clock in the morning. I stayed there until I was sure that if I went back to bed there was a good chance I would go back to sleep. However, what seemed like only minutes later the sun’s rays were streaming in through the window and I could hear the early morning traffic bringing Cochem to life.
It was my first morning in the town, yet I felt as though I had been there for days.
After half enjoying a continental breakfast I decided to find the café below the Schloss Marie had mentioned and wait at a discreet distance to see if I could observe her arrival.
I hadn’t been told that she was mixed up in anything other than her search for the truth, but I wanted to be a little more certain that she was genuine before meeting her. I had no idea what I thought waiting and observing the café would achieve. I can only assume I thought that by trying to play at being a tourist it would give me something positive to do under the circumstances.
A walk through the town following the signs to the Schloss, led me uphill towards the robust castle walls. The café was easy to find, and as I was there by nine o’clock I carried on up to the castle itself. The views from its ramparts were spectacular, not only of the town but also towards the far reaches of the river. I was quite early in the morning which meant I had most of the area to myself. I found somewhere to sit down and admire the view.
I must have dozed off because I was suddenly aware of movement near me. A small boy and girl standing hand in hand were watching me curiously. I smiled but didn’t get a response. A woman – more than likely their mother – turned away from the wall and, on seeing what the children were doing, proceeded to chastise them with an apology to me. I wondered if she would have been as apologetic if I hadn’t been dressed properly and had a bottle in a brown paper bag at my feet.
Perhaps such occurrences didn’t happen in Germany.
Belinda would have been delighted if they had.
It was nearly ten-twenty, which meant I must have slept for over forty-five minutes and dashed my plans into the bargain.
I remembered dreaming of Belinda … at least something hadn’t changed. Walking down the hill against the flow of tourists, I spotted Marie straight away. She was sitting on the terrace with her back to me, obviously expecting me to appear from the opposite direction.
I stopped and watched for a few seconds.
She was wearing jeans and a loose top that was more like a vest. Her jet-black hair was in a ponytail and there was a large pair of sunglasses hiding her eyes. A shoulder bag hung from the back of the chair. She looked like any other sightseer who had stopped off for a break en route to the castle. The smoke from her cigarette curled upwards in the still air. There was a tall glass of what looked like lemonade in front of her.
Mounting the steps to the terrace, I moved towards her and she sensed my presence straightaway. She turned round and smiled a welcome, moving the sunglasses onto the top of her head.
She gestured to the metal garden chair opposite her and I obediently sat down. She watched me for a few seconds before speaking.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she said, “leaving as quickly as I did but I had to meet Michael.”
“It’s me who should be apologising,” I said. “I’m afraid I was detained elsewhere and wasn’t back at the hotel until quite late.”
“I must also admit that I did wait in the hotel until after nine o’clock,” Marie said.
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologise, Mr Blythe. I left a note for you and obviously you got it or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, thank you. It was pushed under my door.”
A waitress appeared and I ordered a coffee. Marie declined the offer of another drink with a slight shake of her head, at the same time lowering her sunglasses – I could no longer see her eyes.
“I expected your friend ... Michael did you say his name was?” She nodded. “I expected he would be with you.”
“He may be here a little later. He’s gone to see the local police to try and find out if they knew anything about what was going on.” She picked up her glass and took a sip of lemonade.
I wondered if they would tell him about my temporary detention and questioning.
“I would have thought he would have made contact with the local police as soon as you arrived. You said he was in the Singapore police didn’t you?”
The waitress put the coffee in front of me.
“Yes, he is but he’s not here officially. I think I told you yesterday, he’s with me as a close family friend.”
I tasted the coffee. It was bitter but exactly what I needed. “Marie, can I ask what you have discovered about your sister? I appreciate you couldn’t tell me anything yesterday evening because I had rather sprung myself on you, but I assume asking me to meet you this morning means that there is more to say.” I placed the cup back in its saucer, trying to penetrate the darkness of her sunglasses. I needed to see her eyes.
She shook her head. “There is nothing really that I can add. Ingrid came to Europe about a year ago on the pretence of continuing her studies. She was doing modern languages but from the outset there was something not right. Her letters became infrequent after a couple of months and then stopped altogether about six months ago.” Taking her sunglasses off and putting them on the table, she reached for her cigarettes and lit one before carrying on. “I was going to come looking for her anyway but then we got the tragic news that she had been murdered.”
“You told me how the authorities found you, I think you said your mother’s number was on her mobile phone. But from what you told me yesterday she was travelling on a false passport.”
“I didn’t say anything about that yesterday, so how do you know?” Marie said, her eyes narrowing.
“Well, I don’t,” I said in a hurry, “but your name is Schmidt and she was using the name Mesterom. I saw her passport when I found her and unless Mesterom was her married name then...” I was kicking myself, it was Henke or Schwartz who told me Ingrid had been using a false passport.
“I think I would like you to tell me everything, Mr Blythe, and not only what you suppose I want to hear.” She looked at me and I sensed from her eyes that she had become suspicious.
“Please call me Richard,” I suggested. “I’m sorry, but it’s something I was told last night.” I took a deep breath. “After … after you left the bar a couple of policemen came in and I was, to put it politely, escorted to the police station where I was questioned by a couple of rather unlikely looking characters who wouldn’t tell me who they were or where they were from.”
Telling Marie the detail of my session in the police station seemed the right thing to do, and the little I had managed to put together as a result.
“I see, they thought you were here in Cochem because of Ingrid, is that right?” Marie asked.
“Well they were right weren’t they? I was here because of Ingrid but they thought I was a link, someone worth investigating,” I said.
We discussed my time at the police station for a few minutes and then Marie asked, “Richard, was Ingrid mutilated in any way?”
“I’m not sure …”
“No, please, it is important. We have been able to get nothing out of the authorities in either England or here. Even when Michael told the police in England that he too was a police officer, it didn’t make any difference. All I know is that my sister is in a mortuary in England, in A
shbourne. I had to identify her but there was nothing else. She … she looked peaceful.” Marie hesitated. “We … we were told that her body would have to stay there for a little longer because the investigations were still ongoing. That is why we decided to come to Germany while we waited.”
“Yes, you told me yesterday but I’m not sure there’s a lot I can add either.”
Attracting the waitress’ attention I ordered a beer. Marie changed her mind and asked for lemonade.
“Anything will be more than we already have.”
I thought for a moment. “All right,” I said. “but there is only a little I can add to what I you already know.”
I described exactly what had happened from the moment I first came across Ingrid.
“You had a chance to talk to her before she was murdered?” Marie asked, sitting forward in her chair.
“Yes I did, but I knew nothing about her so the relevance of some of what she said didn’t mean anything to me.”
“Please, what did she say?”
“If you are sure.”
Marie nodded. “It’s important.”
The beer arrived and I took a sip before answering Marie’s question.
“She told me she was on a walking holiday and had accepted a lift from some man in a car. He got fresh with her but she’d managed to escape and ran into the woods where I found her. She said she must have tripped over and knocked herself out. She was still unconscious when I found her.”
“Did she describe the man … the one who molested her?”
“No, not really.” I went on and told her about the old fellow I had met by the car park from where I had retrieved Ingrid’s rucksack. “He saw the man who dumped the rucksack. Whether it was the same man who had given Ingrid a lift, I don’t know, but it must have been. The old man told me the other man was thirtyish and Asian.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Can you tell me again what happened after you found her?” The expression on her face was serious but it didn’t detract from how attractive Marie was. She was a lovely looking girl in her mid-twenties with everything to live for, as her sister had been.
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 9
