Then she made me walk with her down to the banks of Mosel, ostensibly so that we couldn’t be overheard but truly so she could smoke her horrible cigarettes while she debriefed me.
“I did suggest that she set up a house near the school and play mother,” I said. “Perhaps also volunteer as a reading assistant to keep an eye on Morgane—at least for the first year.”
“She could teach swimming,” said the Director.
“Not helpful,” I said.
“Why not?” said the Director. “Nobody’s going to drown while she’s supervising.”
It was the Director’s opinion that we needed the good will of the Mosel and her tributaries if only to curry favour with the Rhine Maidens who, so far, had proved strangely reluctant to talk to us. The Research Department were calling this new approach the London Paradigm.
“Perhaps the resourceful Vanessa Sommer will be useful in this regard,” said the Director. “What do you think of her professionally?”
I could see where this was going, and I briefly considered telling the Director that Vanessa was sloppy, unprofessional and easily distracted. But this was not my choice to make.
“Intelligent and resourceful,” I said.
“Ambitious?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then we must meet her,” said the Director.
But first we had to do welfare checks on the surviving members of the Good Wine Drinking Association. Uwe Kinsmann was released from hospital with no apparent lasting injuries, although he was unlikely to recover his memory of what happened the night Jason Agnelli died. Kurt Omdale, Simon Haas and Markus Nerlinger stepped up to organise the funeral for Jörg Koch. By all reports it was well attended and at the wake his estranged wife was moved to tears because she never knew that Jörg had so many good friends.
Frau Stracker provided the wine.
Papa had said that you were supposed to come home at the end of the shift to the important stuff—friends, house, hearth and dog.
One day I might have those things, although I think a cat would be more practical. But right now I’m having way too much fun.
Vanessa, of course, has her harp.
We met where it all started, on the lane at the bottom of the vineyard where Jörg Koch died. The Director was walking the burnt section to see if she could figure out where the malignity had come from.
“There’s no such person as Jonas Diekmeier,” she said, as she bent down to sniff the ground. “Our colleagues in OE think he was an entirely constructed identity.”
Abteilung OE did a range of activities in support of the rest of the BKA, ranging from communication intercepts to covert surveillance and armed interventions. Never mind where the bodies were buried; OE knew were the files were kept—much handier in a modern policing environment.
“So Jonas was Heinrich,” said Vanessa.
“Or was he Gabriel Beck?” I said.
“Not necessarily either,” said the Director. “He may have ended up having multiple personalities or become confused as to his own identity.”
This was a well-known problem amongst colleagues in deep undercover operations and that was without the mind-bending possibilities offered by the supernatural.
The Director scuffed at the ground with the toe of the tatty Adidas trainers she wore when she didn’t want to ruin her shoes. I was the current keeper of the good shoes and under strict instructions not to hold them by the straps.
“So which one of them decided to kill Jason Agnelli?” asked Vanessa.
“At a guess,” said the Director, “a combination of Gabriel Beck for irrational jealousy and Heinrich Brandt’s lust for Frau Stracker.” She paused to take in Vanessa’s sceptical expression. “At a guess. With any luck psychiatrists can unravel him enough so he can tell us himself.”
“Whichever one he is by then,” I muttered.
Vanessa nodded to the ditch where a stray yellow evidence tag had avoided the clear-up.
“And Jörg Koch?” she asked.
“His role as matchmaker,” said the Director as she climbed over the fence to join us on the lane. “Or perhaps he stumbled into the malignity by accident.”
Like a man stepping on a vintage landmine.
Vanessa looked sceptical.
You wanted magic in your life, I thought. Congratulations.
“How do these malignancies start in the first place?” asked Vanessa.
“There are lots of theories,” said the Director. “Very few facts.”
“Perhaps they’re like opportunistic infections,” said Vanessa. “The ones that occur when the body’s immune system is compromised.”
The Director gave me a satisfied little smirk.
“Tell me,” she said, her smile turning predatory as she turned to Vanessa. “Do you enjoy provincial law enforcement?”
“Say yes,” I said.
“It has its moments,” said Vanessa.
I shook my head.
“Have you considered a transfer to the Bundeskriminalamt?” asked the Director.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” said Vanessa.
I would have said no, but the Director silenced me with a curt wave of her hand.
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” said the Director.
“Can I learn magic?” asked Vanessa.
The Director smiled.
“That depends on you,” she said. “It’s a serious commitment.”
Vanessa looked at me. “You said the numbers were strictly restricted,” she said.
I looked at the Director, who shrugged.
“The embassy in London has reported that there are at least five active practitioners in Great Britain, the French have reopened the Academy, and Nightingale has another, junior, apprentice—who they described as ‘absolutely terrifying’,” she said. “I’d say the old agreements have been comprehensively superseded.”
I thought she looked far too pleased with the situation.
Vanessa did, too, but at least she had an excuse—she hasn’t read the same files as me.
She came to my hotel the next day to see me off.
“You’re really planning to transfer?” I asked, as I made sure that my flamethrower was safely stowed in the back of the VW.
“I put in the request this morning,” she said.
“Whatever else,” I said, “I want you to remember that this was not my fault.”
She put her hand on her heart.
“I solemnly promise to take responsibility for my own actions,” she said.
“Just don’t come crying to me when something with long claws tries to rip your face off,” I said.
“Has that ever happened?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Not yet—but it’s only a matter of time.”
And that’s where the case ended. Except for the paperwork, which only took a month and a half to complete.
Technical Notes
There is no statue of Methe or Staphylos at the Stadtmuseum in Trier, although given how many statues Ferdinand Tietz knocked out during his career and his obsession with Greek mythology there’s bound to be at least one of them somewhere.
There are no and, as far as I know, never have been any, vineyards on the slopes above Ehrang, and I apologise for the liberties I have taken with wineries and viniculture in the Mosel valley.
Trier is a fascinating city and well worth a visit. Come for the Romans, stay for the wine, and nurse your hangover with a nice cruise up the river.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the patient help of Kristina Arnold, my editor at DTV, my German translator Christine Blum, or Antje Freudenberg, who provided much needed policing background. Also vital were Sabine Bamberg, Kriminalhauptkommissarin with the Trier Police, and the many Germans on Twitter who stepped in to answer what, to them, were some very obvious questions. Any mistakes, incongruities and downright moments of un-German-ness are entirely down to me.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Technical Notes
Acknowledgements
The October Man Page 15