Milieu Dawn

by Malcolm Franks

Driving through the countryside had proved a pleasurable experience, laden as it was with large green fields and thick forests. The roadways were surprisingly quiet. Matt flicked the indicator stalk to alert the following car he was set to turn into the off road car park, on the edge of the old centre of Hameln. Situated thirty miles to the south west of Hanover, the town occupied both banks of the river Weser and sat at the foothills of the Weserbergland mountains. Hameln boasted a population under sixty thousand and was well off the beaten track, almost obscure he reasoned. Then again, obscurity might be the location of choice for whoever was behind this.

  Emerging into the open Matt was immediately struck by the ornate architecture of the old town, a truly picturesque setting. Slanted roofs, topped with red tiles favoured by Europeans, gave the place a medieval feel. Every building stretched to four, sometimes five, floors with off white or cream fronted facades. All were blessed with numerous heavily patterned windows. Matt was impressed by the town’s cleanliness, there being hardly any litter in sight from what he had observed so far.

  He headed straight for the Tourist centre and picked up a street map, then sought out a café to sip on a hot drink while he examined the document. Within minutes he had located the street he was looking for, encouragingly close to the old town centre. Re-assured, Matt relaxed in the early morning sun safe in the knowledge he had more than enough time. After coffee, he would familiarise himself with the immediate locality.

  A quarter of an hour later, Matt began the spatial mapping process. He started by walking into the old town, towards the river, passing the revitalised pferdemarkt (horse market) in the process. According to the tourist guide, animals were still sold there on occasion. Matt covered the short distance from there to the wide river. There were three crossings in all. Two of the traffic bridges were placed at each end of the long thin island planted in the middle of the river Weser, the natural barrier separating the two sides of town. The part of the island nearest to his side of the river was greened with lush, freshly mown lawn. Tall, leafy trees stood like sentinels on the edges of the narrow strip of land. He could see a single footpath, offering pedestrians a walkway around the island.

  Matt spent a few minutes gazing over the quietly moving water. There was something uniquely tranquil about watching a river flowing serenely through a natural landscape, oblivious to the noise and industry of mankind. No matter the number of bridges, dwellings and factories humans built alongside their banks, rivers remained indifferent. These waters had travelled this route for thousands of years, nourishing the earth and sustaining life in a way mankind never could.

  He checked his watch, time to move. Retrieving the car he drove to the end of the relevant strasse, the German name for street, and parked in the first available gap amongst the host of parked vehicles. He walked one side of the pavement to the wide street then down the other, deliberately slowing his pace as he passed the target house. It was the third amongst a row of semi-detached buildings. He managed to glance inside as he walked by, revealing nothing of substance. If anything the house looked empty, no sign of movement. He wondered if the person he had come to locate had already fled. Perhaps news of Kendricks’ demise had been received and prompted the occupier into moving location.

  Matt clambered back behind the wheel and magnified the view of the binoculars pointing at the green front door. He moved to each of the downstairs windows then the three on the upper floor. All the curtains had been drawn open, unless they had been left that way overnight. For minutes on end he peered through the circular lens looking for any sign of life, to no avail.

  He was considering checking the rear of the building when the front door opened unexpectedly. A tall, solidly built man stepped out, armed with a luxurious bed of blonde hair parted neatly down the left side of his scalp. Eye colour was unclear but the nose distinguishable, long and thin. Matt estimated the guy was in his late forties, though his energetic walking style suggested he’d kept himself in good trim. Everything about him was unfamiliar, which was disappointing. There had to be someone involved in this he recognised, otherwise why would they do it?

  The time neared noon. He took the instinctive decision to follow on foot and packed the rucksack before exiting the car. At the end of the street, the man turned left and headed for the old town. Matt followed at a discreet distance. On a couple of occasions the man stopped to talk to a passer by and Matt had to hurriedly look away. Fortunately, he wasn’t spotted.

  As they neared the Rathausplatz, the town hall square, Matt could hear noises associated with a rapidly amassing crowd, predominantly children. He remembered reading in the tourist brochure that the Pied Piper open air play started at midday on every Sunday, early May to mid September.

  The man entered a tall building housing a coffee shop on the ground floor. While Matt waited for him to reappear, his attention was drawn to the play being enacted on the nearby temporary stage. Children, costumed as rats, were shuffling along on all fours behind the Pied Piper of the story. Matt adjusted his position slightly to avoid the lamppost obscuring the view of the unfolding scene.

  The piper was colourfully dressed in bright yellow, purple and orange medieval attire. He had long pointed shoes, which curled away from the ground at the toes. On top of his head sat a red woodcutter’s hat with a black rim. The play moved to the scene where the town elders decided to confront the piper, to renege on their original agreement to meet the agreed fee for ridding the town of rats. Matt found himself really getting into it.

  Suddenly the man reappeared, wearing a waiter’s apron. Matt had nowhere to hide and the two came face to face. The target recognised him instantly and dropped the tray he was carrying. A clatter of metal tray and breaking chinaware hung in the air. The man bolted for safety amongst the standing throng of onlookers, throwing off his apron as he shoved through the crowd.

  Matt cursed as he chased. He used the sounds and sights of people being physically bundled aside as his trail. The melee stopped. Matt came to a halt and searched through the agitated mob with his eyes. The man had to be here somewhere.

  A child’s cry rang out and he glanced at the stage. A little girl had been indiscriminately knocked over. Pushing forward, Matt hurdled onto the stage to maintain his pursuit. The target turned right and headed away from the centre of the old town. Both runners hurtled past the pferdemarkt, heading towards the river which cut the town in two. The fugitive crossed the footbridge. Matt was gaining. They ran onto the widest part of the island, greened with the lush lawn and tall trees. The target burst across the footpath and made a sharp right turn, into the trees. Then he abruptly turned left to try and shake Matt off his trail. Matt’s instinct had guessed his quarry’s intent and already changed direction. He leapt at the fleeing figure and dragged him earthbound. The man fell awkwardly, banging his head against the turf as Matt pinned him to the ground by straddling his chest.

  “Who are you?” Matt yelled.

  The breathless man panted for air. His eyes bulged with the physical strain of his attempted escape, his facial expression rigid with terror. Matt was in no mood to be patient.

  “What do you want from me?” Matt yelled again. “I’m not going to ask a third time.”

  The man’s chest heaved and his face contorted from fear into agony. Matt knew something was wrong and slipped off the struggling figure. He rummaged for his mobile to call for help while he watched the man wheeze for air. No sooner had he dialled then it was over. The man’s face twisted angrily once more before subsiding into a still, deathly silence.

  Seconds passed by. Matt’s mind was refusing to absorb the incident. Then it registered. The thoughtless sod had gone and had a heart attack. He looked around to see if anyone else was about. They were alone. Matt rummaged through the corpse’s pockets. He found a set of house keys, some loose change and a credit card wallet. The names on the cards were all the same, Friedrich Kessler. This name meant nothing to him.

  Sinking back onto the grass, Matt wonder
ed what his next move should be. He thought about asking some questions of the staff in the coffee shop, where the dead man worked. No, he decided. This might lead to him being questioned. There was always the diary. His hand brushed the set of keys and he lifted them from the ground. It would be a risk, particularly in daylight, but one worth a punt he considered.

  Matt waited until the street had emptied before making his way to the door. The first key wasn’t the right size, the second didn’t fit either. He pushed the third in and turned the latch.

  A stair rail was the first thing he saw, set at a right angle to the front door and leading up to the first floor. To the right, another door opened into the kitchen while walking forwards took him into the living space. There was little sign anyone had lived here at all. Apart from a single sofa chair, and a small wooden table with two stools occupying the dining area, the long room was empty. Not even a television in sight. The fawn coloured walls needed a lick of paint. French windows led to a stone patio in the enclosed rear garden, surrounded by tall hedges.

  He stepped up the white painted staircase, spotting the loft access as he climbed. Immediately left was the main bedroom. Although a decent size, it was sparsely furnished. Apart from the double bed the only fittings were two open hanging rails, cluttered with men’s clothes hanging from old and wooden frames. The search through the clothing proved fruitless.

  Next door, the bathroom was tidy but could do with a good clean. There were the basic masculine toiletries. A razor and some cheap looking aftershave were placed next to half empty cans of body spray and shaving cream, but little else. A quick scan of the remaining two bedrooms revealed nothing more than a single camp bed in each. Whoever this guy was, to say he had lived his life simply was an understatement. He was victim either to falling on bad times or perhaps someone who had suffered a major setback in life and never recovered.

  Matt returned downstairs to inspect the kitchen. A rapidly deteriorating crusty loaf occupied the middle bar of the three-shelved larder. Above were a number of small jars of preserve whilst below, lay a selection of ugly green dotted cheeses. The refrigerator was laden with twenty five centilitre bottles of French beer and the odd German lager. That apart, there was a small plate of corned beef, looking like it had taken refuge for the winter, and a handful of overripe tomatoes.

  He wandered over to the thirty litre waste bin and pressed the metal lid. An empty burger box carton spilled into view, sprung from the safety of the bin by the release of pressure to the mass of condensed waste. So this is how the guy lived, fast food and alcohol by the bucketful. Matt didn’t replace the carton. There was no telling what kind of bacterial infection might attach to his hands.

  Having decided there was nothing to be gained from any further inspection, he returned to the hall. That’s when he saw the flashing light loom into view, accompanied by bold green lettering spelling Polizei. Someone had called the police. He had no chance of making a dash for freedom out of the front, and the back garden was enclosed. He had to find a place to hide. Where?

  Matt leapt up the stairs, two at a time, to the landing. There were no ladders or implements to remove the hatch so he used the banister as a prop, removing his shoes to avoid leaving an imprint on the wooden surface. He tossed his shoes into the gap before pulling his body through the small, dark opening.

  Slipping the cover into place Matt used the disappearing light to guide his limbs onto the adjoining rafters for balance. He crouched, motionless. One short breath followed another, filling his lungs with thick stale air. The feint voices of the intruding policemen grew louder. He heard the stairs creak as they extended their search to the upper floor. Seconds later, they were directly below.

  He felt something crawl onto the knuckle of his left hand. The temptation to shake it free intensified as the insect began to roam up his arm. He resisted the impulse for as long as he could. It was the nibbling of his skin that prompted him into action, at exactly the same time as the access hatch to the loft opened.

  Matt shook his arm violently. An angry and alarmed shout emanated from below. Matt recognised the words as German curses and assumed they were aimed at him. He thought about surrendering to the agitated uniforms. Then he understood the panic underneath to have been caused by the insect dropping directly onto the face of the searching policeman. More curses accompanied the sound of frantically stamping feet against the carpet, followed by uproarious laughter from the distressed policeman’s colleagues.

  Matt waited for the humour to subside, conscious his position was now exposed to any further inspection of the loft space. The laughter gave way to argument, as the uniforms below debated on who should now look into the attic. None of the uniformed clan volunteered to accept the responsibility.

  Had the situation not been serious, Matt would have found it funny. The argument ended when a policeman threw up his hands and stomped back down the stairs. A temporary silence followed. Then the argument resumed. It took the bark of an instruction from downstairs to end the heated debate. They funnelled back to the ground floor. Shortly after, Matt heard the front door slam shut.

  He waited for ten minutes before slipping back into the daylight. The crushed arachnid lay on its back, still and silent, the life force crushed out of its broken body. Matt sat on the stairs. He considered waiting for darkness to fall, which would help to cover his escape. Someone had seen him entering the building, and it was likely the exact same neighbour would spot him exiting and call the police again. For all he knew, the police remained close by. In the event, he stayed for one more hour before chancing his arm.

  Matt gently eased his foot against the brake and the Mercedes gradually came to a rest. The service station was some miles away from Hameln, far enough to safely stop and rest up for a coffee. Slipping the gearbox into park, he tugged at the mobile in his pocket. He tapped impatiently as the phone continued to ring, finding his thoughts drifting back to the days events. One address covered and he had learnt nothing.

  He’d hoped a single trip would surrender the information he needed. He couldn’t have been more wrong. This was going to take longer than planned. He began to rue the disagreement with Gratia. She could have helped him. There was no chance she would offer again. Matt considered his options. There was some merit to the idea of heading straight to Russia. Even so, Pustoshka was still some twelve hundred miles away.

  The other alternatives were in the Far East. He preferred to avoid China, because of the regime in place. Should anything go wrong then he might as well kiss goodbye to life. In China, they executed first and asked questions later. Better to try and work things out in Europe before it came to that.

  “Hello,” said the man’s voice.

  “It’s Matt. Just to let you know I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Good,” said the voice. “I’ll let Martha know.”

  “Thanks, Gerhardt.”

  “Come to the residence. The hotel is busy tonight.”

  “Really?” said Matt. “You got a coach trip in for the night?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rapprochement