A Necessary Hell

by Nigel Price

  His foot hovered over the accelerator. The engine felt the tiniest pressure. Clutch in. Hand on the gear stick. So easy.

  The figure of the patrolman was a dark silhouette approaching the rear of the car. Harry rolled down his window and waited. For a moment he had wondered if it might be the men from the grubby white Skoda, but even through the dark he could see this was an orthodox marked car. Roof-mounted light assembly and all the trimmings.

  The patrolman bent down to the open window. “Everything okay, Harry?”

  Chief Inspector Ernst Hafner leant one arm on the roof of the car as he looked anxiously at Harry. “I thought it must be you. Not too many of these beauties in Soest.”

  Harry heaved a sigh of relief. In a burst he gave Hafner the gist of what had happened. Hafner listened intently. When Harry had finished he asked, “But why would anyone do this? Are you sure it’s not just a misunderstanding?”

  “I don’t know, but right now I don’t care. I just want to make sure she is all right.”

  “Of course. You have her address?”

  “It’s in the satnav.”

  “What is it?” Hafner asked. Harry told him.

  “That’s not far. Follow me.” And he jogged back to his patrol car, whipped it round in front of Harry’s and set off, siren wailing, lights flashing. Harry took off after him, following in his slipstream.

  The two cars shot down the narrow tunnel of light. Blue lights blinked on tree boughs and the occasional signpost. Harry was so intent on holding close to Hafner’s tail that he barely glanced at his own satnav. Hafner would be better in any case. He would know the shortcuts. All the while, Harry was wishing there was some other way they could find Ingrid. What if they reached her home only to find she wasn’t there? What then? He shuddered at the thought of what might be happening to her. Images of corpses flashed through his brain. He had seen enough of them.

  Hafner was probably making calls, putting out some kind of alert. That’s what the police did, wasn’t it? The police would be on the lookout for the car Harry had described. Surely they would track it quickly in a quiet place like this?

  In less than the twelve minutes predicted by Harry’s satnav, Hafner’s patrol car came to a halt outside a compact modern house. The police car had turned off both siren and flashing lights when it entered the suburban area. No point alarming the residents, many of whom would be asleep by now.

  A small front garden kept the house secluded from the quiet residential street with a fence and a tall hedge immediately behind it. Double wooden gates gave onto a short driveway and a garage. Harry was out of the Jaguar before Hafner had even turned off his engine. He went to the gates and tried to find the catch to open them. Then Hafner was beside him, the two of them working it out. Reaching over, Harry found the latch. There was a path leading round the side of the garage and up to the front door underneath a porch. Flowerpots stood in a neat row alongside it, carefully tended.

  Harry felt a hand on his arm as he reached for the buzzer. Hafner wore his concerned look that Harry had become familiar with during the course of the exercise.

  “Don’t worry. I am sure everything is fine,” he said.

  Harry pressed the buzzer. Inside he heard the answering tone. Nothing moved. He knew that at least Ingrid’s mother and Thomas were in.

  There was frosted coloured glass to either side of the solid wooden door. A light came on inside the house. There was the blurred shape of a person. Then a light came on over the outside doorstep where Harry and Hafner stood. They could hear the metallic rattle of a chain and a lock.

  The door opened. Ingrid stood looking out at them.

  Harry stared back at her. “Ingrid,” he said dumbly.

  “Harry,” she replied. Her look of surprise floored him. The elaborate scenarios that Harry had constructed tumbled about him.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. She looked from him to the policeman at his side. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, apparently,” Harry stammered. “It’s just that …” and he related about Herr Fischer and the taxi driver.

  “It must have been some mix-up then,” she said. “I mean, my driver was a bit strange.”

  “In what way?” Chief Inspector Hafner asked, though Harry couldn’t help feeling his colleague was merely going through the motions to be polite. Harry’s credibility had taken a knock.

  Ingrid smiled. “Hard to say, really. He didn’t have a meter, but he just seemed a bit … familiar?” She blushed. “I know, that sounds stupid.” She drew herself up. “He was fine. He brought me home. I paid him in cash. The amount was reasonable. So no harm done.”

  “Could you give me a description of him? I don’t suppose you took the number plate of the car?” Hafner asked.

  “No. It didn’t occur to me. And I didn’t really see much of his face. Young. Tough-looking.” She shrugged. “I suppose that’s not much use to you, is it?”

  Hafner smiled. “Well, you’re home safely. That’s the main thing.”

  There was a voice from inside. Thomas calling from upstairs. Ingrid turned and replied that she was coming. She would be there in a moment.

  Harry flushed. “Ingrid, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “A mix-up,” she suggested. Hafner agreed, delighted that all was well, if a little impatient and anxious to get going.

  “I’d ask you both in,” Ingrid said, “But it’s late and I have to get Thomas to sleep.”

  “Of course,” Harry mumbled, wanting only to disappear.

  “Frau Weber, good night,” Hafner said, touching the peak of his cap. “Harry,” he added, doing the same again. “Call me if you need anything else for your report.” He walked away and a moment later they heard him driving off.

  “I’m so sorry, Ingrid. I feel a complete idiot now,” Harry said. “I’d better go.” He smiled. Ingrid returned it.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to have someone who cares.”

  ****

  “You did what?”

  The man listened intently. The room was in darkness. He went over to the window and looked out. The curtains had been left open. There was a waxy yellow moon in the sky. And vast, rearing mountains. On their upper slopes, snow picked up the moonlight.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” He was surrounded by idiots. “There was no need even to watch them, let alone pick up the bitch.”

  More chatter down the line. Out in the forest he could hear a fox. The noise it made sounded like someone being slaughtered. If it was going to become a nuisance he might track it down and shoot it.

  “You’re sure?” Then, “I don’t care how hot she is, leave her alone. We got away with it this morning. Stay away. Do you hear me?”

  With the handset to his ear he poured himself a drink. The excuses were going on and on. “I said, leave her alone.”

  Using only one hand it would be too hard to get ice into the glass, so he sipped the drink as it was. It helped him forget everything that was going on and how it had nearly unravelled.

  “A son? What age?” Chatter. “Okay, that could be useful.”

  He drank. “That’ll do for now. It’ll blow over. We got the lid on in time. At least you know where she lives. But stay away. For now.”

  Ten

  There would be no airport today. Harry had intended the morning for report writing, with a departure back to the UK scheduled for that evening. Now he had other plans. Herr Fischer had been delighted at the extension to Harry’s stay. He could have his room for as long as he liked.

  He was awake at first light. The mattress was hard, the bed low to the ground, the room large but sparsely furnished. All just the way he liked it. There was no internet. Mobile cover was poor. It was beautifully isolated in an old-fashioned way. The way it must have been before everyone had instant access to everything. He could barely remember that lost world.

  He rolled out of bed and did sixty press-ups in two sets of thirty, interspersed wi
th a brief shake and stretch. He wasn’t into all the latest exercise fads. He was old school. Press-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, punch bag – lots of punch bag – and running. That was about it. Everything else was crap.

  He’d done with all the full contact martial arts. Had his fill of it. He had whittled it down to the pocketful of hand blows that worked, about three different kicks, and half a dozen throws and foot-sweeps. That was all you needed.

  He slipped into his running stuff, laced on his trainers and went down to the lakeside. A path led away from the hotel and a couple of hundred yards along the bank, a footbridge crossed the expanse of water, right across to the far side. From there a footpath wound up through woodland, going on for mile upon mile.

  He got into his stride, an easy, loping gait that had developed over the years. It was good to be out in the morning air.

  A straight stretch of track appeared before him and Harry lengthened his pace. He pushed himself. Though deep in the roaring forties, he would fight the onset of age. Years to go yet. He was not a man to give in.

  He reached the top of a crest and stopped. Doubled over, hands on knees, panting. He looked up. The roof of the forest stretched into the distance. Harry went into a stretch, testing his tendons to see if they still worked for him.

  A road wound in front of him at the bottom of an incline. A car rolled past. The driver glanced up and saw Harry looking down. Their eyes briefly met and then he was gone. Harry thought he recognised the guy but his mind was on Ingrid, on breakfast, on the planned expedition later in the day. So the moment passed, he forgot him and turned back for the hotel.

  ****

  It was Thomas who noticed the car. Craning round to look through the rear window, he frowned, recognising the same vehicle that had pulled out behind them just after they had left home.

  “It’s him again,” he said.

  Ingrid drove on. “Don’t be silly, Tom. Just concentrate on your test.” There was another one that morning. When did they ever teach them stuff?

  She checked her mirror. It wasn’t the car that had driven her home the previous night. She was relieved about that. This was a nondescript red thing. She had no idea about car makes. Japanese perhaps. The driver’s face was hidden behind the sun glinting off his windscreen.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It pulled out when we left home and it’s been behind us ever since.”

  There was excitement in his voice, but something else too. Ingrid recognised it from the bad old days, just after David had left. The stalking that had followed. The fear. Eventually it had passed, but it had left both of them wary of strangers. Anyone who seemed to be following them. Like this bloody red car.

  The road to school was straight forward. Ingrid decided it was too straight forward, so decided to take a more roundabout way.

  “Where are you going?” Thomas asked the moment they left the usual route.

  “Oh damn. Took a wrong turn,” Ingrid lied badly.

  “You’re trying to shake him off, aren’t you?”

  Again, that tone of excitement edged with fear.

  “Nonsense.”

  The car was following. Ingrid felt a hollow in her gut. Surely it couldn’t be the driver from yesterday? She hadn’t been wholly up-front with Harry and the policeman. Yes, the man had dropped her home, and yes it could have been a mix-up. But something in her bones had sounded an alarm. There was something unsettling about him. Like a man wanting to perform some evil, then deciding not to.

  The school building appeared in front of them. She checked her mirror. The red car had gone. Relief washed over her.

  Thomas jumped from the car, backpack swinging, its emblazoned superhero still leaping in his Lycra, pursuing some rescue mission or other. Her son stepped to the open window. A quick check showed none of his friends in range. He planted a lightning peck on her cheek.

  “Bye, Mum. I’ll get the bus this afternoon.”

  “Come straight home,” she said. Something in her wanted to hang onto him. To never let him go.

  Thomas grinned. “Yeah, whatever.” He bobbed away happily, heading for the school building. Ingrid scanned around. There were cars all over the place. All colours, shapes and sizes. She recognised barely any of them. Who the hell cared about bloody cars anyway?

  ****

  He couldn’t stop himself. He’d had to see her again. He had been right. She was hot. She kept herself in shape. He liked that about a woman. Who cared what the boss said? He could go fuck himself. Given half a chance, he reckoned this woman and him could strike up a relationship. She’d probably like him once she got to know him.

  He slipped the car in gear and pulled away from the school playground once he had seen the mother head away. Once he was sure she had gone.

  Perhaps he would cruise past her house again later that morning. After all, he had nothing else to do. They had dealt with the incident at the airport. It had been a close call. Fucking idiot. Who the hell would stow away in the undercarriage of an aircraft? And the hand chopped right off. Landing gear must have severed it. No one knew who he was. Nothing to join up the dots. Though enquiries were being made. Over there.

  He eased along the quieter roads of the town with time on his hands. The next shipment wasn’t for a while. Plenty of time and nothing to do. It was all very well for the boss to sit in his palatial fucking mansion down in wherever. Handing out fucking orders to all and sundry. Fuck him. There was fresh meat up here. Gagging for it. He could tell just by looking at her. She would really like him. He felt it in his bones. Just a question of getting to know him.

  And that English bloke. What about him? Would he be trouble? No. He’d be gone in a day or two. Finish his stupid fucking job and fuck off back to England. They couldn’t wait. But he had fulfilled his role. Then once he was gone the woman would be on her own. He had smelt her in the back of the other car. He could almost taste her. It was just a matter of time.

  Eleven

  Harry turned off the road and pulled into the industrial estate. The term ‘industrial’ was a poor description of the trading estate he found himself on. The one-time barracks had been a grassy compound of single-storey buildings, light and airy. Pleasant on its hilltop setting, surrounded by trees on the ridge high over the forest-fringed Möhnesee reservoir. Once, British soldiers had walked between these buildings. Far to the east on the other side of the Inner German Border with its fences and minefields, massed Soviet armour of the Warsaw Pact had bided its time. Which had never arrived. Instead the whole edifice of Communist central planning and control had imploded. The East had lost, the West had won. Game over.

  Now the buildings had been sold off piecemeal to a variety of companies. There was a manufacturer of wrought iron fireplaces. Someone who designed and built adventure playgrounds. Classroom furniture. An IT company of some sort. And then there was Portland Aviation.

  The barracks had been surrounded by a wire fence. Nothing aggressive like razor wire. Just a friendlier mesh link. Close beyond it, pine woods. And the big bending back of the ridge like the spine of a vast slumbering mythical beast, running for miles up and down the length of the Möhnesee.

  Harry did a couple of loops of the entire estate. It wasn’t huge. After the Canadians had moved out, it had housed the headquarters of a British armoured division. So, big enough without being oppressively vast. A relatively short cruise in the Jaguar took Harry round the whole plot. He had tracked down the address easily enough. Portland Aviation occupied several buildings in the corner furthest from the road entrance. Tucked away there, bordering thick pine woods immediately beyond the chain link fence, it looked wholly insignificant.

  He drew up outside, finding a clear parking slot in the many available. There were only four other cars parked outside the white building. He fobbed his doors shut, the indicators blinking obediently as the car locked down, and he walked towards the entrance.

  Flimsy glass doors swung open into a reception area that was neat but small.
There was a glass panel which slid open to allow a shiny-faced receptionist to enquire how she might be able to help him. Harry put on his genial smile, asked if she spoke English, and explained. He wanted to speak to the managing director.

  The shiny-faced receptionist said that that wouldn’t be possible. The MD was rarely there. However the director of operations was in, although it was generally necessary to make an appointment beforehand.

  Would it be possible to see him, Harry asked, genial smile more genial still?

  The shiny-faced receptionist would find out. If Harry would make himself comfortable, she would get back to him shortly. With that the glass panel slid shut and she busied herself on a telephone, eyes down, but flicking up to scrutinise him every few sentences.

  Against expectation, some minutes later, Harry found himself seated in a meeting room, empty save for himself, furnished in the same functional cheap-but-smartly-modern fashion as the reception area and the offices past which he had been led by the shiny-faced receptionist.

  She left him to contemplate a vast whiteboard that covered one entire wall. On it were markings of past felt tips, wiped into a blur of pastel-coloured smears, messages smudged beyond recognition. A window faced onto the link fence outside and the trees nudging up to it.

  “Good morning.” The newcomer who entered had the self-assurance of a SWAT team member. A slim, casually dressed man, he introduced himself as Christian Schuler, Ops Director of Portland Aviation. Harry introduced himself and the two of them faced each other across the table.

  “How can I help you?” Schuler asked.

  Where to begin? Briefly, Harry described his encounter with the hand and, at the airport, the bare outline of what he had heard from Hafner about the finding of the body.

  “Yes, horrible business,” Schuler replied. “A pity it had to be one of our aircraft. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it is a pity it had to be on any aircraft. That the poor man had to die at all. But that it should be on one of ours was especially unfortunate. As you can understand.”