Not Dead Enough (26 page)

Grace was so touched by the warmth of the greeting, from a man he had never really known that well. In fact he was so overwhelmed by the emotion of the occasion that he found himself, suddenly and very uncharacteristically, close to tears.

They exchanged pleasantries as they walked through the almost empty building, across the black and white chequerboard tiled floor. Kullen’s English was good, but it was taking Grace time to get used to his accent. They followed a solitary figure pulling an overnight bag on wheels, past the striped awning of a gift shop and back outside into the cloying heat, past a long line of cream taxis, mostly Mercedes. On the short walk to the car park Grace compared the almost suburban calm of this airport to the hurly-burly of Heathrow and Gatwick. It felt like a ghost town.

The German had just had his third child, a boy, and if there was time today, he very much hoped to bring Grace to his home to meet his family, Kullen informed him with a broad grin. Grace, sitting in the cracked leather passenger seat of the man’s ancient but shiny BMW 5-series, told him he would like that a lot. But secretly he had no desire to do that at all. He had not come here to socialize, he wanted to spend every precious minute finding a trail for Sandy.

A welcome current of cool air blew on his face from the asthmatic-sounding air conditioning, as they headed away from the airport, driving through the rural landscape he had scanned from the plane. Grace stared out of the windows, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of it all. And he realized he had not properly thought this through. What on earth could he hope to achieve in just one day?

Road signs flashed past, blue with white lettering. One bore the name of Franz Josef Strauss airport, which they had just left, then on another he read the word Mie. Kullen continued chatting, mentioning names of the officers he had worked with in Sussex. Almost mechanically, Grace gave him the download on each of them, as best he could, his mind torn between thinking about the murder of Katie Bishop, worrying about his relationship with Cleo and trying to concentrate on the task in front of him today. For some moments his eyes followed a silver and red S-bahn train running parallel with them.

Suddenly Kullen’s voice became more animated. Grace heard the word football. He saw on his right the massive new white stadium, in the shape of a tyre, the words Allianz Arena in large blue letters affixed to it. Then beyond it, high on what looked like a man-made mound, was a solitary white wind-farm pylon with a propeller attached.

‘I show you a little around, give you some feeling for Munich, then we are going to the office and then the Englischer Garten?’ Kullen said.

‘Good plan.’

‘You have made a list?’

‘I have, yes.’

The Lieutenant had suggested that before he came Grace write down a list of all Sandy’s interests, then they could go to places she might have visited in pursuit of them. Grace stared down at his notepad. It was a long list. Books. Jazz. Simply Red. Rod Stewart. Dancing. Food. Antiques. Gardening. Movies, especially anything with Brad Pitt, Bruce Willis, Jack Nicholson, Woody Allen and Pierce—

Suddenly his phone was ringing. He pulled it from his pocket and stared down at the display, hoping to see one of Cleo’s numbers.

But the number was withheld.

55

At ten fifteen on Sunday morning, David Curtis, a young probationary Police Constable on his second day at Brighton, was partway through his shift. A tall nineteen-year-old with a serious demeanour and dark brown hair that was short and tidy, but with a nod towards fashion, he was in the passenger seat of the Vauxhall police patrol car, which smelled of last night’s French fries, being driven by the John Street police station club’s biggest bar bore.

Police Sergeant Bill Norris, a crinkly haired, pug-faced man in his early fifties, had been everywhere, seen it all and done it all, but never quite well enough to get raised above the level of sergeant. Now, just a few months short of his retirement, he was enjoying teaching this youngster the ropes. Or more accurately, was enjoying having a captive audience for all the war stories no one else wanted to hear yet again.

They were cruising down litter-strewn West Street, the clubs all shut now, the pavements littered with broken glass, discarded burger and kebab wrappers, all the usual detritus from Saturday night. Two road-sweeping vehicles were hard at work, grinding along the kerbs.

‘Course it was different then,’ Bill Norris was saying. ‘In them days we could run our own informants, see? One time when I was in the drugs squad, we staked out this deli in Waterloo Street for two months from information I’d had. I knew my man was right.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Copper’s nose, I got. You either got it or you haven’t. You’ll find out soon enough, son.’

The sun was in their eyes, coming obliquely at them across the Channel at the end of the street. David Curtis raised his hand to shield his eyes, scanning the pavements, the passing cars. Copper’s nose. Yep, he was confident he had that all right.

‘And a strong stomach. Got to have that,’ Norris continued.

‘Cast iron, I’ve got.’

‘So we sat in this derelict house opposite – used to go in and out via a passage round the back. Bloody freezing it was. Two months! Froze our bollocks off! I found this old British Rail guards overcoat some tramp had abandoned there, and wore it. Two months we sat there, day in and night out, watching with binoculars by day and night scopes in the dark. Nothing to do, just swinging the lantern – that’s what we used to call, you know? Telling stories – swinging the lantern. Well, anyhow, one evening this saloon car pulled up, big Jag—’

The probationary PC was reprieved, temporarily, from this story, which he had already heard twice before, by a call from Brighton Central Control.

‘Sierra Oscar to Charlie Charlie 109.’

Using his personal radio set, sitting in its plastic cradle on the clip of his stab vest, David Curtis replied, ‘109, go ahead.’

‘We’ve got a grade-two cause for concern on the queue. Are you free?’

‘Yes, yes. Go ahead with details, over.’

‘Address is Flat 4, 17 Newman Villas. The occupant is a Sophie Harrington. She didn’t turn up to meet a friend yesterday, and she’s not answered her phone or doorbell since yesterday afternoon, which is out of character. Can you do an address check so we can take it off the queue?’

‘Confirm Flat 4, 17 Newman Villas, Sophie Harrington?’ Curtis said.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Received. En route.’

Relieved to have something to actually do this morning, Norris swung the car around in a U-turn so hard and fast that the tyres squealed. Then he made a left turn at the top into Western Road, accelerating faster than was strictly necessary.

56

Apologizing to Marcel Kullen, he put the phone to his ear and pressed the green button. ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

Then, when he heard the acerbic voice at the other end, he immediately wished he had left the damn phone ringing.

‘Where are you, Roy? It sounds like you’re abroad.’ It was his boss, Assistant Chief Constable Alison Vosper, and she seemed a little astonished. ‘That wasn’t a UK ring tone,’ she said.

This was one call he simply had not expected today and he had no answer prepared. When he had phoned Marcel in Germany he had noticed the ring tone was quite different, a steady, flat whine instead of the normal two-tone ring in the UK. There was no point in lying, he knew.

Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘Munich.’

From the other end of the phone came a sound like a small nuclear device detonating inside a corrugated-iron shed filled with ball bearings. It was followed by some moments of silence. Then Vosper’s voice again, very abrupt: ‘I’ve just spilled some coffee. I’ll have to call you back.’

As he finished the call he cursed for not having thought this through better. Of course, in a normal world he was perfectly entitled to a day off, and to leave his deputy SIO in charge. But the world in which Alison Vosper prowled was not normal. She had taken a dislike to him, for reasons he could not figure out – but no doubt in part because of his recent unfortunate press coverage – and was looking all the time for a reason to demote him, or freeze his career path, or transfer him to the other end of the country. Taking the day off on the third day of a major murder inquiry was not going to improve her opinion of him.

‘Everything is OK?’ Kullen asked.

‘Never better.’

His phone was ringing again now. ‘What exactly are you doing in Germany?’ Alison Vosper asked.

Roy hated lying – as he knew from recent experience, lies weakened people – but he was also aware that the truth was not likely to be met with much civility, so he fudged. ‘I’m following up a lead.’

‘In Germany?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when exactly will we be able to expect your leadership back in England?’

‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘DI Murphy is in charge in my absence.’

‘Excellent,’ she replied. ‘So you will be able to meet me straight after your briefing meeting tomorrow morning?’

‘Yes. I can be with you about nine thirty.’

‘Anything to report on the case?’

‘We’re making good progress. I’m close to an arrest. I’m just waiting for DNA tests to come back from Huntington, which I expect tomorrow.’

‘Good,’ she said. Then, after a moment, she added, without any softening of her tone, ‘I’m told they have excellent beer in Germany.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘I spent my honeymoon in Hamburg. Take it from me, they do. You should try some. Nine thirty tomorrow morning.’

She hung up.

Shit, he thought, angry with himself for being so badly prepared. Shit, shit, shit! And tomorrow morning she would ask him for sure to tell her about the lead he was following up here. He needed to think of something pretty damn good.

They were passing a high-rise block of flats, with the BMW roundel prominently displayed near the top. Then a Marriott hotel.

He quickly checked his BlackBerry for messages. There were a dozen emails waiting to be read that had come in since getting off the plane, most of them relating to Operation Chameleon.

‘The old Olympic stadium!’ Kullen said.

Grace looked over to his left and saw a building designed in the shape of a half-collapsed marquee. They forked right, down an underpass, then turned left over tramlines. He opened his map on his knees, trying to orient himself.

Kullen looked at his watch and said, ‘You know, I am thinking, it was my plan we go to end up at my office first, and put up all the details of Sandy on the system, but I think it will be better we go to the Seehausgarten first. It will be busy now, many people. Perhaps you will have a chance of seeing her. Is better we go to the office after, is OK?’

‘You’re the tour guide, your decision!’ Grace said. He saw a blue tram with a large advertisement for Adelholzener on its roof.

As if misinterpreting him, Kullen began pointing out the names of galleries as they drove down a wide avenue. ‘Museum of Modern Art,’ he said. Then, ‘This over here is the Haus der Kunst – an art gallery built during the Hitler regime.’

Then, minutes later, they were driving down a long, straight road with the tree-lined banks of the River Isar to their right and tall, old, elegant apartment building after apartment building to their left. The city was beautiful but large. So damn large. Shit. How the hell could he search for Sandy here, so far from home? And if she did not want to be found, then she sure as hell had picked a good place.

Marcel continued diligently pointing out the names of sights they were passing and the districts of the city they were in. He listened, continually staring down at the street map open on his knees, trying to fix the geography of the place in his mind, and thinking to himself, If Sandy is here, what part of this city will she be living in? The centre?

A suburb? A village outside?

Each time he looked up he clocked everyone on the pavement and in every car, on the off-chance, however small, of spotting Sandy. For some moments he watched a thin, studious-looking man ambling along in shorts and a baggy T-shirt, a newspaper tucked under his arm, munching on a pretzel he was holding in a blue paper napkin. Do you have a new man in your life? Does he look like this? he wondered.

‘We are go to the Osterwald Garten. It is also beer garden close to the Englischer Garten – easier we parking there and a nice foot walk to the Seehaus,’ Kullen announced.

A few minutes later they turned into a residential area and drove along a narrow street with small, attractive houses on either side. Then they passed an ivy-clad pink and white columned building. ‘For weddings – marriage registry. You can get married in this place,’ Kullen said.

Something cold suddenly churned inside Grace. Marriage. Was it possible Sandy had married again in some new identity she had adopted?

They drove on down a leafy street, with a hedge on their right and trees on their left, then came into a small square, with a cobbled pavement and other ivy-clad houses, and if it weren’t for the left-hand drive cars and the German writing on the parking signs, it could have been somewhere in England, Grace thought.

The Kriminalhauptkommisar swung into a parking space and switched off the engine. ‘OK, us start here?’

Grace nodded, feeling a little helpless. He was not sure exactly where he was on his map, and when the German helpfully pointed a finger, he realized he had been looking in the wrong place entirely. He then pulled out of his pocket the one-page map that Dick Pope had printed from the internet and faxed him, with a circle showing where he and his wife had seen the person they believed was Sandy on their day in this city. He handed it to Marcel Kullen, who studied it for some moments. ‘Ja, OK, super!’ he said, and opened his door.

As they walked down the dusty street in the searing morning heat, it was clouding over. Grace, removing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder, looked around for a bar or a cafe. Despite the adrenaline pumping, he felt tired and thirsty, and could have done with some water and a caffeine hit. But he realized he didn’t want to waste precious time, he was anxious to get to that place, to that black circle on the fuzzy map.