The Last Judgement

by The Last Judgement (retail) (epub)

  Get me the hell out of here.

  The exhausting escape took him almost ten minutes, and by the time he reached the break in the fencing he was dripping in sweat. He slipped past the green tarpaulin fence cover and shot through the gap onto the pavement outside with such speed that he almost slammed face first into the door of a blue Toyota Prius with the letters ‘Polizei’ printed on the side.

  ‘Stop right there,’ a voice ordered in German, and Harker looked up to see an officer in a dark-blue patrol uniform, who reached down and pulled him to his feet. ‘You’re trespassing on private land, sir,’ the young officer berated him. ‘You’ll get a hefty fine for this, so I hope for your sake it was worth it.’

  Harker steadied himself and then groped the top side of his inside jacket pocket, fingering the thick section of folded vellum he had stolen. ‘Yeah, me too.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘Well, you will be glad to know, Mr Harker, that the trespassing charge has been dropped, but consider this an official warning. If you attempt to go back there while you’re our guest in Berlin, I promise you next time the law will not be so forgiving.’

  Detective Jerome Krause laid a Titanium Apple laptop carefully on the desk in front of him and dropped into his seat with a frustrated groan. ‘Why a man of your age feels the need to go traipsing around an abandoned amusement park in the middle of the night is beyond me.’

  After being arrested on the spot, Harker had been brought directly back to the Landespolizeiverwaltungsamt station house to be processed, before then being placed in a holding cell. Of course, he had meanwhile informed the duty officer about the grisly happenings back in Spreepark, and to the man’s credit, he was taken seriously. Yet for the last couple of hours he had been left in the cell on his own, before eventually being pulled out and frogmarched up to the second floor and into this plain, blue-painted interview room.

  ‘Pardon me, Detective, but did no one tell you what happened out there earlier tonight?’ Harker enquired, frankly shocked by Krause’s seeming lack of concern over the reported murder.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Krause replied sarcastically, placing both elbows on the table before resting his chin upon his clasped hands, ‘the supposed murder.’

  ‘Supposed! I saw it with my own eyes. I even took photos.’

  Detective Krause stared at him with disbelief before leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. ‘I am sure you did, Mr Harker—’

  ‘It’s Professor,’ Harker interrupted, hoping the title would afford him a degree of credibility that was evidently lacking thus far.

  ‘Oh, I know who you are, Professor. You have something of a reputation.’

  ‘Reputation!’ Harker spluttered, only just managing to contain his anger. ‘And what reputation would that be?’

  Krause bit his bottom lip and then sucked in a deep breath. ‘You are the same Professor Alex Harker that was involved in the Vatican shootings last year, are you not? And who was also involved in events surrounding the complete destruction of many national landmarks, including a large portion of the Vatican itself. That is, if one believes some of the outlandish stories that appeared in the British tabloids.’

  Harker stared blankly at him for a few awkward moments and, for some reason, he suddenly felt a tinge of embarrassment. ‘Oh, that reputation.’

  ‘Yes, that one,’ Krause replied with a derisive smile. ‘Not to forget your highly dubious archaeological discoveries.’

  ‘Highly dubious!’

  ‘I will admit,’ Krause continued with a smirk, ‘I found that particular nugget through a Google search. God bless the Internet, eh?’

  Outside the interview room, a butch-looking officer sporting a thick black moustache glanced in through the window and gave Harker the once-over before shaking his head condescendingly, and continuing on his way.

  ‘Forgive me, but your point is?’

  ‘The point is, Professor, that you have a habit of implanting yourself into events, whether they be Vatican scandals or natural disasters, and given your most recent tale of ritualistic murder, forgive me when I say that I don’t believe you.’

  The scorn now being heaped upon Harker’s declaration of a murder had him at a momentary loss for words, and his bottom jaw hung open in disbelief. ‘Did anyone even check out that house in the Spreepark?’

  ‘Oh, we checked it out. Quite a few officers responded to your call.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we found an empty basement but with, just as you described, a wonderfully decorated dining room. The food was still warm and the victim you described, still wearing his loincloth, was dutifully taken to the Berlin morgue.’

  Harker was completely dumbfounded. ‘So there was a body – exactly as I said.’

  Any amusement in the detective’s expression now vanished as he reached over to open up the Apple laptop, then swivelled it around so the screen was facing Harker.

  The display contained the image of a corridor with covered fluorescent strips reflecting shiny patches on the plastic-tiled floor below, and the twenty-four-hour clock in the lower left corner suggested surveillance footage.

  ‘Just press play,’ Krause directed, motioning to the laptop with a flick of his finger.

  Harker did as he was told and tapped the play symbol in the centre of the screen, letting the footage roll.

  At first it showed nothing except the corridor itself, but after ten seconds things began to get interesting. A double glass door on the left-hand side slowly opened and the figure of a man in an oversized white lab coat shuffled out. The individual’s back was turned to the camera and all Harker could make out was his black hair and that he was barefoot. The figure staggered about halfway along the corridor, before leaning against the wall as his feet buckled under him. After a few moments he stood up straight again, and it was what happened next that sent Harker reeling backwards. The figure looked backwards, allowing a good view of his face for the first time.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Harker murmured, dumbfounded at what he saw. ‘I watched him die.’

  The face of the same half-naked man Harker had seen being strangled to death in that house in Spreepark stared back at him, before turning away and heading off along the corridor until he was out of sight. The image quality was not great but it was definitely him.

  ‘That was taken from one of the morgue’s security cameras less than an hour ago,’ Krause declared in an angry tone. ‘Well…’ He paused until Harker raised his head from viewing the screen, now looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. ‘It’s quite a stunt, I’ll give you, but whatever drug you gave that man to facilitate the appearance of death, it was extremely dangerous. He could have died for real.’

  ‘What…?’ Harker stuttered, still stunned by what he had just seen.

  ‘I said it was quite a stunt. Would have made a great story for the papers and put you squarely back in the news, and we know how you love that. What were you going for this time, the whole resurrection thing?’ Krause gave an annoyed sigh. ‘So what are you coming out with next, a book? Or is it to do with your latest archaeological find?’

  Harker shook off the feeling of sheer bewilderment, not only at the sight of a dead man walking but also the notion this was just part of some audacious marketing stunt to draw attention to him. ‘You really think this business is all down to me?’

  Krause was already nodding before Harker had even finished speaking. ‘Given your past history with the press, I absolutely do – and I’ll tell you something else. You’re not going to get a single column inch of press coverage out of this, or drag the Berlin police into it either, which is why I am now throwing you out of my station.’

  Detective Krause stood up, slapped the laptop shut and hauled Harker to his feet and out of the interview room.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Harker pleaded as he was escorted downstairs to the main entrance. ‘I’m telling you I saw that man strangled lethally right in front of me.’

  ‘The only pers
on who’s going to get strangled here, Professor, is you if I catch you anywhere near the Spreepark again. Understood?’

  Krause then roughly pushed Harker out of the main door and onto the pavement outside, while offering one last word of warning. ‘And if we find that idiot of a partner of yours dead from a heart attack, brought on by whatever drugs you gave him, I promise I will have you pulled in on murder charges. Do you understand?’

  The question was obviously rhetorical and, taking took it as such, Harker remained silent.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your stay in Berlin, Professor Harker,’ Krause spat before slamming the door closed behind him and leaving Harker standing outside alone in a state of stunned confusion. The street was empty, it being the early hours of the morning, and he stood there for a moment contemplating what to do next.

  Without any real understanding of what he had been drawn into, and even less about the resurrection trick and its creepy witnesses back at Spreepark, Harker was feeling the need for some serious help. From someone who had an interest in cults and societies. Someone who could shed light on the night’s bizarre events. Someone he could rely on for sage counsel. Unfortunately he only had one acquaintance in Berlin, and although secret societies were right up his alley everything else about the man was a complete disaster. Add to this the fact that they had not spoken in years and it made for a pretty desperate choice.

  Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought.

  Harker pulled out his phone and auto-dialled from one of his contact numbers. By the seventh ring he was considering hanging up, when the line connected and a grizzly-sounding voice answered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘David, it’s Alex. Alex Harker.’

  The line went quiet for a few seconds, then the voice came back on.

  ‘Alex! What time is it?’

  ‘It’s both late and early,’ Harker offered, aware the man sounded thoroughly pissed off. ‘Depends on your perspective really.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ the voice demanded grouchily.

  ‘I need to see you… I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Berlin.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ the voice moaned. ‘Fine, come on over, but don’t expect a pleasant welcome. I’ve got a bitch of a hangover.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Harker replied, lowering his voice and not wishing to antagonise him any further. ‘Are you still at the same address?’

  A deep grunt confirmed it, and Harker was already searching his pocket for the taxi card he had picked up earlier.

  ‘Oh, and bring some coffee. There’s a twenty-four-hour shop opposite me. Espresso, full fat, four sugars…and a pastry,’ the voice gruffly demanded. ‘Maybe Black Forest cake or something with buttercream icing.’

  Harker shuddered at the idea of such an early-morning pick-me-up. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Sure, whatever,’ came the indifferent reply. And with that the line promptly cut out.

  The old acquaintance he was about to visit was awkward enough to deal with when sober, let alone when suffering from a hangover. Besides that, he knew few other people who considered such rich desserts a breakfast snack. Their dialogue had not been exactly encouraging but, with few friends in Berlin, Harker had limited options. Besides which, the short trip would cost him nothing but a bit of time and the expense of some artery-clogging confectionery.

  As Harker dialled in the taxi contact number and began to amble his way along the pavement, he remained unaware that he was not the only one making a call. Across the street, a man wearing a flat cap and a dark-brown raincoat stood and watched him while raising a mobile phone up to his ear.

  He watched intently as Harker continued up the street, then whispered into his mobile, ‘It’s me… He’s out.’

  Chapter 8

  The old man pushed the two pills between his lips and, with a shaky hand, raised the glinting crystal tumbler to his mouth. Two sips were all he could manage, but it was enough to wash the medication down his throat. Then he placed the glass down upon the crescent-shaped, walnut side desk next to him. The tremors in his hands were worse than usual and he prayed the drugs would calm them, because writing was proving nearly impossible. These days he even struggled to pick up the TV remote without dropping it, so constantly had to rely on someone else to retrieve it for him.

  How the hell had it come to this?

  There was a time when his energy knew no bounds, and then, in what seemed like no time at all, it had been taken away from him, reducing him to little more than a cripple who needed help to simply take a piss.

  Time was a cruel mistress.

  The room was large, with a finely woven red carpet and an ornate crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, bathing the antique furniture below in a dim glow of crimson light. His eyes were far too sensitive now for a regular bulb, and forget about sunlight. Even a thin ray of natural light stung his corneas and felt like red-hot tongs being jabbed into his pupils.

  The old man gazed around at his luxurious surroundings with a heavy heart. Here he was with his own personal library, filled with books so rare, and yet his eyes were so far gone he could barely read a word – with or without spectacles.

  He was still wallowing in self-pity when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come,’ he managed, with a croak that made his chest ache.

  The door slowly opened, the lights outside it emitting the same crimson light, and a neatly dressed man wearing a black suit and tie entered and made his way over to the old man’s wheelchair. He then knelt beside him on one knee and whispered quietly into his ear.

  ‘Harker made it out of Spreepark.’

  This information drew raised eyebrows from the old man. ‘How did he look?’

  ‘Shaken up, as you’d expect.’

  ‘Quite. Did he secure the pages?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. The police picked him up afterwards and he was just released.’

  The old man looked content with that answer and he forced a smile through his discoloured lips, revealing blackened teeth behind them. ‘Very well. Have our man initiate contact.’

  The neatly dressed man offered a nod and began to stand back up, but he stopped halfway and returned to his original stance. ‘Would it not be best just to kill him?’

  The question received a dismissive grunt form the old man and he waggled one of his bent fingers without moving his hand which was resting on the chequered blanket draped across his lap. ‘No, Harker deserves more than that.’

  ‘Very well, sir. But I do suggest we keep things moving along.’

  The old man thought for a moment, and then smiled. ‘All in good time, my friend. All in good time.’

  The neatly dressed man said nothing but rose to his feet and headed back through the open door, closing it behind him.

  Alone once more, the man in the wheelchair reached under his blanket and pulled out a small colour photograph of Alex Harker delivering a lecture to his students. He gently ran his feeble index finger across the image.

  ‘All good things come to those who wait.’

  Chapter 9

  Harker pressed the dirty white buzzer for a second time with his little finger, allowing the brown-paper pastry bag to slap against the door as he did so. The small house was located on the outskirts of Berlin and the place seemed hardly changed during the years since his last visit, despite the neighbourhood gentrifying.

  The upstairs curtains were drawn closed and, with no signs of life, Harker was preparing to give the buzzer another go when a small porch light above him switched on, and he could now hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching inside.

  Quite why the light had been necessary wasn’t clear because the sun was now up, but considering his friend’s mention of having a crashing hangover and therefore probably not knowing what time it actually was, it seemed fitting.

  With a clattering of locks being undone
, the door swung open, whereupon Harker took a step backwards and held up the pastry bag in front of him like a protective crucifix warding off the unsavoury advances of a vampire.

  The short, pudgy frame of David Carter was revealed in the narrow hallway, wearing white trainers, a ripped pair of dark-blue tracksuit bottoms and a grey jumper with the Nike logo ‘Just do it’ printed in red across the middle. ‘Alex bloody Harker. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?’

  Although he was in his mid-forties, one could be forgiven for thinking David Carter was close to sixty, with his unkempt white hair and deep crow’s feet a testimony to a life of reckless living. In fairness to the man, he had not always been this way, and it was not until the death of his wife ten years earlier that he had fallen into a spiral of alcoholism and deep depression. Happily married to a German girl, the British-born expat had at one time been a respected lecturer at Cambridge University when Harker had first been offered his place at the archaeology department there. With degrees in theology, philosophy and religion, Carter had garnered much praise from the academic community and students alike, and therefore a lifetime career within the walls of Cambridge had seemed guaranteed. Sadly that was not to be after an articulated lorry jackknifed on the southbound section of the M6, just outside Birmingham, and the unfortunate Mrs Carter’s white Ford Sierra had taken the brunt of the impact, killing her instantly. What followed was a sad fall from grace as Carter became consumed with grief, and when his excessive drinking began affecting his professional life, his position was terminated and he eventually ended up taking a lower-paid teaching job at a small college here in Berlin. But why Berlin? Who could tell, but Harker had always suspected that his deceased wife’s German origin had played a part in the decision. Maybe the culture and language allowed him to feel still connected to her in some way, a kinship of sorts. Whatever the reason, it was clear now that the move had not done him any favours and, as he looked at the shell of the man Carter had become, Harker struggled to hide the sympathy he felt for this ex-don.