A Necessary Hell

by Nigel Price

  “Well, whatever’s happened, be it right or wrong, the Kripo will now—”

  “Yes. Got that. I think I’ve already run into them.” And he related how he had seen the men in the unmarked car at the farm, and his encounter with them on the autobahn. “You guys don’t fool around, do you? That was a quick response.”

  “This is Germany,” Hafner joshed. “Everything like clockwork.”

  After a brief, heavy silence, someone from Air Traffic Control asked if they shouldn’t be getting on with the exercise debrief.

  Hafner smiled across the table at Harry. “Yes. We’ll be here all day if we get side-tracked. We’re here to discuss exercise play. Then you can complete your report and we can all get back to the important business of running the airport. Do you not agree?”

  As Exercise Director, Harry wasn’t sure that he did agree. It was up to him to decide how far he wanted to probe into the workings of the airport. He was the one who was going to have to sign off the clean bill of health that his report would give them. It would have Delaney’s stamp on it so the company’s credibility would be at stake.

  Then again, what had happened? Just another small tragedy. Now all cleared away.

  “Okay,” Harry said. “Frankly I don’t have much to ask. Just a few additional questions and then that’s me done. I can be out of here.”

  “And the report?”

  “That’ll take a few days. I meant out of here … the airport.”

  “So you’ll be going home to write up the report? Back to England?”

  Harry opened his mouth to say yes. As per the plan. He stopped. A throwaway line from Hafner had flicked the tiniest little bell. Out of nowhere, there was that nagging doubt again. The hair. The feeling that something was wrong. Harry couldn’t help smiling to himself.

  “Actually no,” he answered. “I’ll stay where I am down by the Möhnesee. I reckon I’d might as well complete it there, just in case I need to speak to any of you again. It’ll be easier face to face, rather than over a phone or by email. And in any case, I’m due a break. This is my second exercise on the trot.”

  “Oh.”

  The room was stifling. The heat had been cranked up high and no windows were open. The meeting that Harry had interrupted had been going for some time before his arrival.

  “Why don’t we let some air in here, get ourselves coffees and then crack on?” he suggested.

  They did. Two hours later, Harry brought it all to a close. One by one people left, their contributions made. Hafner lingered in the doorway, downing the dregs of his third coffee. “So all’s well?” he asked.

  Harry leafed through his notes from the meeting. “More than well. A pass with distinction.” He was Mr Generosity himself.

  It worked. Hafner beamed. “Much as we figured. Everything here works. How do you say it in English? ‘If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.’ Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” Harry said. “Nice work, all of you. I’ll be saying the same to the management board later. They’ve all done really well. I’m impressed, Ernst.”

  The policeman was content. He set his cup down and prepared to leave. “We were confident our procedures would pass muster. But it’s good to have it confirmed by an expert.”

  He threw a salute that was slovenly by Harry’s Sandhurst standards. Harry didn’t give a damn. He had other things on his mind. He waved a lazy hand in return. And was alone.

  He checked his watch. An image of Ingrid entered his mind. He thought that supper at his hotel would be nice. Not that there was any ulterior motive. Simply that Herr Fischer was a terrific cook. His food was as good as any of the restaurants in town.

  He leafed through his notes from the meeting and from the exercise as a whole, then pushed back his chair and stared long and hard out of the window. Again the smile. The nagging doubt had gone. He had his answer.

  He gathered up his belongings and left the room. He jogged down the stairs and made his way across to the control tower.

  Matthias Ritter was on duty. He was low down the airport food chain. He had had no involvement in Harry’s exercise. Ritter was a man who had found his vocation in life. Attention to detail was his forte, and nowhere was that more valued than in the control tower. There was a lull between flights and Matthias was pouring himself a cup of coffee from a thermos that was given to him every morning by his wife. The Ritters were creatures of habit.

  There were greetings. Harry got to the point. “Were you on duty when the flight with the stowaway landed?”

  “Yes, the Istanbul flight,” he answered.

  Harry thought. “Oh. It was a flight from Istanbul. Which airline was that?”

  He knew the main airlines that used the airport but hadn’t realised Istanbul was one of their destinations.

  Ritter smiled. “It wasn’t one of the main carriers. It was owned by Portland Aviation.”

  Harry had heard the name. “Do they operate out of here a lot?”

  “Mostly out of here. Their offices are on an industrial estate somewhere,” Ritter said, with a jerk of his chin in no particular direction. “The owner and his family fly in and out all the time.”

  “Was it Portland staff who found the body?” Harry asked.

  Ritter took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t know. Might have been. There was a stowaway on a flight that landed at Düsseldorf a year or two ago.” He shrugged. “If they hide up in the wheel wells, they always die. Hypoxia from lack of oxygen, and hypothermia from the intense cold. Or if they’re really unlucky they are crushed when the undercarriage folds up. They can never survive. It’s amazing they don’t know that.”

  “A couple have survived,” Harry remarked. “There was a man who flew from Johannesburg in ’15, and another on a Garuda flight into Jakarta in the same year.”

  Ritter was not impressed. “Yes, but out of how many? The vast majority die horribly. The one this morning was frozen solid. I heard the signs of frostbite were awful.”

  Harry looked out of the window across the runway. An Air Berlin flight was landing. One of Ritter’s staff was talking to the pilot, his voice low and calm. Mundane, which was how it was supposed to be. The Air Berlin flight rolled down the runway and started to taxi past a parked plane whose markings Harry didn’t recognise.

  “Is that it?”

  Ritter looked. “No. You wouldn’t recognise it unless you knew what you were looking for. It’s unmarked. Just white. Portland doesn’t have its own livery. They’re in aircraft trading. Buying and selling used planes. The purchaser paints it in their own colours once they take delivery.”

  “I see.”

  Harry thought back to his sight of the hand that morning, the frostbitten fingers and nails blackened and blistered. “From Istanbul, you say?”

  “Yes, why?” Ritter shook the remaining drops from the cup of his thermos and screwed it back on. His break was drawing to a close.

  “That’s how far? About two thousand kilometres?”

  Ritter thought about it. “Yes. A bit less.”

  “So a flying time of about four hours?”

  “More like three. Why?”

  Harry was thinking of the object that Herr Müller’s son had shown him. He remembered it clearly. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could easily forget.

  “Three hours isn’t long enough for a frostbitten limb to turn black. That takes a couple of days.”

  Ritter was unimpressed. “So what?”

  “So whoever the poor devil was, he didn’t start his journey in Istanbul.”

  “Whatever. One thing’s for sure though,” Ritter said with a smug chuckle. “He’s finished it now.”

  He resumed his seat and put on his headset. “Where did they take the body?” Harry asked.

  “God knows. The hospital perhaps? Though it wasn’t an ambulance. Some men with a van. Before Hafner got to it.”

  “Kripo?”

  “Didn’t look like it.”

  “So no scene of crime investigation?�
��

  “It wasn’t a crime.”

  “If there was no on-site investigation, how can you know that?” Harry asked. But it was too late. Ritter was already engaged in a conversation. He waved a hand at Harry, dismissing him.

  Outside, Harry walked slowly back to his car. He had his answer. It was obvious really. He had been right. There was something wrong.

  Nothing.

  Everything had gone like clockwork.

  And it never did.

  Seven

  For Harry, the afternoon couldn’t end soon enough. When he had done everything, he made his way out to the car park, woke up the Jaguar with a click of the key fob from an impressive range, and set about making his way back to Soest and his rendezvous with Ingrid.

  There was no sign of the grubby white Skoda. He settled into the inside lane of the autobahn and tried not to think about work. He was looking forward to seeing Ingrid again. He didn’t know what to expect or what he was hoping for. Yet in some part of his brain there were fantasy images of the two of them running barefoot along a beach, hand in hand, their heads thrown back and laughing. He smiled to himself. Did anyone ever really do that?

  The exit for Soest appeared and he swung off the autobahn and retraced his way along Arnsberger Strasse. Back past the fast food outlets, the industrial estates, the suburban sprawl, until he came to the old wall. The trees on top of it would soon be in full leaf.

  The row of shops that included Ingrid’s optician’s practice was harder to find the second time, without her to guide him. By the time he drew up alongside, she was standing there. She wrinkled her nose at him but then smiled and got in.

  “I thought you’d stood me up,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Harry gabbled. “Got a bit lost.”

  She pointed to the satnav.

  “Haven’t worked out how to use it,” he explained. “I’m not very good with things like that. Can’t be bothered. I prefer the old way. A road map.”

  “Which clearly worked so well for you this evening,” she said.

  He laughed. “Point taken. I promise to do better next time.” He wondered if that was presumptuous. Next time. A glance at her profile showed that she was okay with the prospect.

  “How’s your day been?” he asked.

  She puffed out her cheeks and blew. “Busy. I’ve been staring into too many eyes,” she said. “So don’t expect any of that from me this evening.”

  “I forgot to ask about Thomas,” Harry said. “I should have said you could bring him along too. I mean, how are you going to manage?”

  “Don’t worry. My mother lives nearby. Thomas gets himself home from school. She’ll go round and cook his supper and look after him until I get back.”

  “That’s good,” Harry said. “Is your father still alive?”

  She shook her head. “Five years ago. It was all very sudden. A heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. It was a pain that had been dealt with. Whatever she felt inside, to outsiders it had become a statement of bare fact.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as the car left Soest and headed south.

  “I thought maybe you’d like to try out Herr Fischer’s place?” Harry said.

  “Your hotel?”

  He caught the edge in her voice and realised perhaps that hadn’t been such an inspired choice after all.

  “We can go anywhere you like,” he quickly replied. “I know an Italian in town which is quite good.”

  She relaxed. “No, the hotel will be fine.” She looked at him. Harry felt he was being gauged. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  He saw that she was smiling. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean … I mean, the food’s good and …”

  “Harry Brown, you’re embarrassed. I’d not have thought you capable of that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Ex-Army, crisis management and all that. I’d have thought you’d be cool and relaxed.”

  “Damn. And I was trying so hard to be.” To recover his dignity he hit the accelerator. The car purred under the autobahn and headed down into the country. Eventually they found themselves driving past Herr Müller’s farm. The wreck of the Golf had been removed, and Ingrid told him how, incredibly, the garage reckoned they could repair it. They would provide her with a courtesy car the following morning.

  As they headed on, Harry filled her in with the details he had learned at the airport about the stowaway. He didn’t mention anything about his exercise and the doubts he now had about the whole business. It would have been unprofessional to blab about it. Besides, who wanted to talk about work on a first date?

  “Poor man,” she said.

  “Yes. A horrible way to go.”

  Up and over the ridge, they dropped down to the hotel, parked up and Harry led the way into Reception. Herr Fischer was at work behind his bar serving other guests. He caught Harry’s eye and nodded.

  “Are you okay here if I just dump my stuff in my room?” Harry said.

  “Of course. What would you like to drink?”

  “Oh okay. I’ll have a Scotch. Ask Herr Fischer to put them on my tab.”

  “No, I’ll get them,” Ingrid said. “You can buy dinner.” She grinned.

  “Fair enough. In that case I’ll have a really expensive single malt. A double.”

  “Water?”

  “God no. Just some ice.”

  In his room, Harry flung his briefcase on the bed and tore around, roughing himself up into something he felt would look better across a dining table. As Ingrid had come straight from work and was still in the clothes she had been in when they had met that morning, he felt it would be unfair of him to change. So he just ditched the tie and jacket, and grabbed a jumper against the chill of the evening. Not for himself, but as something he could offer to Ingrid if the situation arose. A big chunk of him was old school. It was hard to know how to act these days. Too much of the old manners repelled some women. But then Harry was incapable of going too far the other way. Treating a woman like another bloke. If that was what a woman wanted, then Harry was the wrong guy. The sooner they both discovered that, the better.

  When he returned to the bar, she was nowhere to be seen. Herr Fischer called from behind his row of suspended beer mugs and pointed out of the front door. His hand described a couple of big loops, indicating – Harry guessed – that she had gone all the way down to the waterside.

  He went down the path and saw her standing by the low wall looking out across the water. She held a glass in each hand. When she saw him approach, she held one out to him.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  “Prost,” he replied. He tried his drink. “Which one did you choose?”

  “Herr Fischer said you always drink Glenlivet.”

  Harry tested the Scotch again.

  “But I prefer Canadian Club. I know you said single malt but … well, seeing as I was buying, I thought I’d encourage you to be more cosmopolitan.”

  Harry tried not to grimace. “I haven’t had this in ages.”

  “That’s tactfully non-committal. You don’t like it?”

  He swirled the ice cubes and tried it again. “It’s fine. Thank you. Are you a whisky drinker?”

  “Hardly ever. When I do, that’s what I drink.” She held up her own glass. “Usually like this.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I had Herr Fischer make me a Manhattan. Canadian Club, vermouth, dash of bitters.”

  Harry was impressed. He sipped his drink, quietly missing his single malt.

  The water had calmed since the morning, though the wind coming across it was cool as evening set in. Trees around them whispered busily and the rigging of a moored boat beat against the mast down by the short wooden pier. Ingrid hugged herself.

  “Here,” Harry said, his jumper coming into play.

  She regarded the offering with a bemused look. Then put her glass on the wall, took the jumper and p
ut it on. She rolled up the baggy sleeves and the rest hung off her just as Harry had imagined it. He couldn’t help smiling.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” He replied. Then laughed.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t done this in a while. I’m a bit rusty at this whole socialising thing.”

  “That must be unfortunate in your line of work,” she said.

  “No, I meant … this. Dinner and so on.”

  “Ah. With a woman.” She appraised him. “Well it’s been a while for me too. With a man.” She stared across the lake into the deepening gloom. “A long while, actually.”

  “Then we can muddle through together,” Harry added. “Make notes and have a debrief afterwards.”

  “How romantic.”

  Eight

  Over dinner Harry did what he hadn’t intended to do. He allowed the conversation to drift onto home ground. He found himself talking about himself, which normally he hated. Iraq and Afghanistan poked out their heads and joined the chat. He stuck to the sanitised version, but from Ingrid’s expression he suspected she wasn’t fooled.

  At last he managed to deflect the talk onto her, noting that she was as uncomfortable as he had just been. Her turn to twiddle the stem of her wine glass, and move her unused cutlery around the tablecloth as she spoke, studying every manoeuvre with fixed concentration.

  The sensitive stuff was exhausted by the time Frau Fischer served coffee. When two full cups were in front of them, they viewed each other across the rims in a new light. They had discovered common ground. Some was the more usual shared interest, agreed opinion, taste in music, film or book. And some of the common ground was pure battlefield, of one sort or another.

  It seemed that far from being simply unreasonable, Ingrid’s English ex had been a complete bastard. An arse was putting it kindly. But that was what she seemed happiest to do. Put it kindly. However kindly though, she put it firmly. He was history. Harry picked up a fierce determination in her responses to his tentative enquiries. A mother protecting her cub.

  “And how does Thomas get on at school?” he asked. Not having kids of his own, he was a bit at sea.