by Jack Gatland
‘They know me as an artist,’ he explained to Bullman as Monroe sat silently to the side, sipping at a small cup of tea. ‘It has been thirty years since the fall. Thirty years since I could leave the border guards.’
Banisch was a small, bespectacled man in his sixties, no taller than five feet four and as thin as a drainpipe. He’d explained when Monroe and Bullman arrived that usually the police wouldn’t accept people of his height, something that he’d relied on for getting out of his service, but when he applied, more out of necessity than choice, they’d been desperate for ‘new blood’, and had accepted him even before seeing him. He’d brought them up to his apartment, on the sixth floor of a large, block wide building, six floors that didn’t have an elevator to climb, and had immediately offered them a hot drink. Having climbed the flights of stairs, Monroe now understood how Banisch was so slim.
‘Wilhelm Müller was a monster,’ he’d explained over small square biscuits. ‘We all hoped that he’d be killed, or slip down the stairs in the watchtower and break his neck, but we were part of the GDR, and God didn’t watch us as carefully as he watched other people.’
‘We’ve been told that he had a badge?’ Monroe asked, noting the previous answer down. Banisch nodded.
‘The man with a scythe,’ he shuddered. ‘We all wore it. He said we were the elite, but look at me. Do I look that elite to you? He was a madman. Believed that he was God’s will on the wall.’
‘I’ve heard he flipped a coin,’ Bullman added.
‘For all the good it did,’ Banisch spat to the side. ‘We all knew it was doctored, that it gave him the result he wanted. Either two coins, each with one side on both, or some kind of weight that allowed him to flip and gain the result he wanted every time, it didn’t matter. Whenever he pulled it out, we knew someone would die. He dropped it once, and I picked it up. Before I could check it, he had his pistol out, aimed at my head, screaming that I’d changed Gods will by touching it. I pissed my ficken pants that day!’
‘Ficken?’ Monroe asked.
‘Slang for, well, you know,’ Bullman replied. ‘When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much. It even sounds like fu—’
‘Thanks for the lesson,’ Monroe interrupted.
‘How do you not know any German?’ Bullman sighed. Monroe grinned.
‘I know some,’ he replied. ‘Ich bin ein Gummibaum.’
‘And what do you think that means?’ Bullman asked patiently.
‘I like gummy bears.’
‘No,’ Banisch shook his head. ‘You just told me that you are a rubber tree.’
Monroe looked from Bullman to Banisch and then back.
‘I’ll keep quiet,’ he grumbled, returning to the notebook.
‘What do you know about the affair?’ Bullman tried to return the conversation back on track. ‘Müller’s wife?’
‘It was a scandal,’ Banisch nodded. ‘We all knew that she had been unfaithful, she was very vocal in her unhappiness with her husband’s… abilities there.’ He grinned. ‘She was beautiful. She could have any man she wanted. And we believed the rumours.’
‘Rumours?’
‘That she did have any man she wanted.’ Banisch rose from his chair, walking to the wall where, in a small photo frame, was a picture of three guards, helmets on, smiling as the photograph was taken. Pulling it off the wall, he brought it back.
‘I took this in 1988,’ he explained, pointing at it. ‘I am on the left, and then there is Meier and on the right is Johann Hoffman.’
Monroe took the photo, staring at it. Meier was young here, laughing, his helmet hiding his eyes. It was hard to believe that this guard would end up as a mechanic in a sleepy English village decades later.
‘Meier, he was the one that had the affair,’ Banisch explained, tapping at the image. ‘He always was an idiot. Believed that he was untouchable because he had an uncle in the Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands.’
‘Socialist Unity Party,’ Bullman translated. ‘Known as the SED.’
Banisch nodded. ‘Although Hauptmann Müller was a terrible man, he was an efficient captain. The superiors loved him, and they gave him more men, but this meant that he controlled several watchtowers. Meier would wait until nights when Müller and he were on different towers and then visit Müller’s wife. Or, he would arrange to have his days off when Müller was on duty. He didn’t love the woman, but he enjoyed the risk, the danger of it.’ He sniffed. ‘Idiot.’
‘What happened when she became pregnant?’
‘Nothing,’ Banisch replied. ‘Why would anything happen? Müller believed it was his. All was good. But we all knew that Meier was the father. And when the baby was born, we waited daily for the deutschmark to drop, and for Müller to realise that he was, how you say, cuckolded.’
‘But he never was,’ Bullman confirmed.
‘There was no proof,’ Banisch. ‘That is also why I never told Rolfe of this when he visited.’
Monroe nodded. He could see why this could be a dangerous situation. ‘And so Ilse grew up not knowing that she was a cuckoo,’ he muttered.
‘Ilse?’ Banisch looked confused at this. ‘Ilse wasn’t Meier’s. Rolfe was.’
‘Rolfe Müller was Karl Meier’s illegitimate child?’ Monroe leaned forward. ‘You’re sure of this?’ He looked to Bullman. ‘Did this mis-translate?’
Bullman shook her head as Banisch pointed once more to the photo.
‘Karl Meier was the father of Rolfe Müller,’ he explained. ‘Whether he knew, though, I don’t know. You’d need to ask Johann. They were like brothers.’
‘Do you know where we can find Johann Hoffman?’ Monroe asked, already pulling out his notebook to take the information down. ‘He’s not in Rolfe’s notes.’
‘That’s because Rolfe never asked about him,’ Banisch replied scornfully. ‘Arrogant little scheiße thought he’d gain everything he needed in life because of who his father was, and the deals he made. We never told him he was a bastard. He’ll learn it soon enough.’
‘Deals?’ Bullman frowned.
‘Wilhelm Müller was industrious after the fall,’ Banisch admitted. ‘He had information that he sold to both sides, and in doing so ensured that he had no repercussions in life. Rolfe never understood that this didn’t apply to additional generations.’
Monroe’s phone beeped, and he glanced down at it, paling as he did so.
‘Funny you should mention him,’ he replied. ‘Because with unnerving accuracy, I’ve just received information telling me that Rolfe Müller’s dead.’
Banisch stared at Monroe for a long moment.
‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ he said.
It was early evening before the CSI reopened the site to the public, and the Maidenhead officers returned to base. Declan was ahead of them, already sitting in DCI Freeman’s office as the case was officially closed.
‘I just need a day,’ Declan pleaded. ‘Cross the t’s and dot the i’s. Nothing more.’
‘You don’t believe it was suicide,’ Freeman complained. ‘You’re just going to make things difficult.’
‘You don’t believe it was suicide either,’ Declan replied. ‘If you believed any of this was cut and dried, you wouldn’t have allowed me to take on the case.’
‘Rolfe admitted the murders,’ Freeman insisted. ‘The coin they found on him also had Nathanial Wing’s prints on it.’
‘We have footage that shows Wing giving it to Rolfe the day before he died,’ Declan replied. ‘That doesn’t mean that it was used in his death.’
‘It doesn’t mean that it wasn’t, either!’ Freeman sat back in the chair as he rubbed at his temples. ‘I didn’t realise I was going to have an international police issue on my desk when I woke up today.’
He looked up.
‘Talking of police issue, that Makarov gun’s serial matched Hauptmann Wilhelm Müller’s ID,’ he said. ‘If Rolfe was murdered, how was it by the gun that Müller owned while on the Berlin Wall?’
/> ‘Maybe my dad took it from Wilhelm?’ Declan asked.
‘We don’t even know if your dad met Wilhelm!’ Freeman barked back at him. ‘It’s nothing but the word of a German car mechanic! One who turns out used to be a guard on the same bloody piece of wall!’ He rubbed at his temples again.
‘You need to be reinstated in the City police, Declan,’ he muttered. ‘My ulcers can’t deal with you full time. I told you I’d heard you have a reputation for killing your suspects.’
‘I didn’t kill Rolfe,’ Declan argued. ‘You just said he killed himself.’
‘Maybe he did this because of you, I don’t know. Who was the last person to speak to him?’
Declan paused. ‘Um, actually me, sir.’
‘Christ on a cross, Walsh!’ Freeman exploded. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘Just that his sister was in the pub,’ Declan replied. ‘I swear!’
‘Twenty-four hours,’ Freeman snapped, bundling his scattered papers back together. ‘I expect a report on my desk by then. After that, the matter is closed. Until then, you can do what you want. But in twenty-four hours, this ends.’
Declan watched Freeman for a moment.
‘What aren’t you telling me, sir?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Freeman wouldn’t, no, couldn’t look Declan in the eyes.
‘You were fine with me looking into this, but the moment I mentioned Wilhelm Müller, stated that he might still be alive, you’re trying to close the case down. Why?’
‘Twenty-four hours, Declan. Find an answer that doesn’t have people returning from the dead. That’d be nice.’
‘There is something, isn’t there?’
‘Of course there bloody is,’ Freeman muttered. ‘I’m keeping it from you to ensure you have the smallest sliver of plausible deniability.’
Declan rose from the chair.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. Freeman grimaced.
‘My debts, all my debts to your father are wiped with this,’ he said. ‘No more.’
Declan nodded. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected this much.
‘Don’t make me regret this,’ Freeman muttered, more to himself as Declan left the office.
Ilse Müller was sitting in the Maidenhead Police canteen, stirring a mug of lukewarm coffee absentmindedly when Declan entered, walking over to her table and quietly sitting down to face her.
‘Are you—‘
‘Okay?’ she interrupted. ‘No, Mister Walsh. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again. I’ve had to identify my brother’s body, while learning that he was…’ she drifted off, staring down at the mug. Declan knew what she was saying.
That he was the Red Reaper.
‘Do you have someone who can come and be with you?’ he asked. ‘We have officers who are trained in this—‘
‘Do you?’ Ilse asked, looking up at him. ‘You have officers trained in talking to witnesses who find that not only are they illegitimate, but that their fathers and brothers are serial killers?’
Declan didn’t reply. Ilse’s face softened.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘I understand,’ Declan nodded. ‘And I hate to do this now, but I need to ask a couple of final questions. So we can close the case down.’
Ilse nodded silently. Declan looked around the almost empty canteen before continuing, as if making sure that he couldn’t be heard.
‘I understand you were with my dad the night he died.’
Ilse nodded. ‘Karl took me to meet him,’ she replied, still stirring. ‘I needed closure on whether Wilhelm Müller was alive or dead.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He wouldn’t answer my questions,’ Ilse admitted. ‘In fact, he was angry at Karl for bringing me under false pretences, as Karl hadn’t mentioned that I’d be there. He was angry and left. We only learned later of his death.’
Declan nodded, visibly swallowing as he kept his emotions in check. ‘Do you think that Wilhelm Müller is alive or dead?’ he asked. Ilse looked away, across the canteen as she formed a reply.
‘I think he lives somewhere, I don’t know where,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think your father was a killer.’
‘Hypothetically, could he have learned of your arrival in England? If he still lived?’
‘Possibly,’ Ilse nodded. ‘Hurley is a small village. I was the only German visiting.’
‘Could he have followed you to the Dew Drop Inn?’
Ilse looked at Declan in horror now. ‘You think I could have led him to your father?’ she asked, her voice only a croak now. ‘I never considered it. But sure, I suppose…’
There was a moment of silence as Declan watched Ilse. She seemed genuinely concerned by this thought.
‘One last thing, I need to discuss your contract termination,’ he said softly. ‘Our DCI is in Berlin, and he spoke to a friend of Rolfe’s who informed us that Bayer Ingelhelm let you go, after you took some stock of an untested trial medicine.’
‘Margaret Li,’ Ilse muttered. ‘Bitch never liked me. I’ll bet she gave this information happily. And yes, Bayer Ingelhelm fired me. But the trial medicine wasn’t what you think. It was to do with my parentage.’
‘DS Kapoor mentioned that you’d spoken to her about that,’ Declan nodded. ‘That you found Karl was your real father.’
‘No,’ Ilse stated determinedly. ‘That’s incorrect. I said that I came to England to learn if he was. To arrange a paternity test. But I knew Rolfe couldn’t be told, and he’d learn through official channels if I did such a thing. I learned that my company had a drug that could detect the BRCA2 gene in DNA samples, and so I tried to pay off a technician to test Karl’s DNA. My bosses found out, and I was fired. And after that, Rolfe, learning everything, came to England. I agreed to work as his assistant, to stay close by and warn Karl. After all, he was possibly my father.’
‘Was he?’ Declan pulled out his phone, reading an email recently sent to him. ‘DCI Monroe emailed this afternoon, telling me he spoke to a man, a guard who worked with Karl and Wilhelm Müller.’
‘There were many guards.’
‘This one claimed to be there at the time, and said that Rolfe was the illegitimate child, not you.’
Ilse sat silently for a moment, her mouth opening and shutting.
‘I can’t—‘ she stopped, her eyes filling with tears. ‘It can’t be, I would never—‘
‘Doctor Marcos can organise a proper DNA test for you, to answer the question once and for all,’ Declan suggested, looking to the door of the canteen where Karl Schnitter now stood. ‘I’ll leave you alone now.’
‘Rolfe wasn’t an evil man, Mister Walsh,’ Ilse muttered as Declan rose from the chair. ‘Whatever he did at the end.’
Looking across the canteen, Declan nodded to Karl and left through the other door. There was something that wasn’t connecting here, and he still needed to find out what it was.
More importantly, if Rolfe was the illegitimate child, was he murdered by the real Wilhelm Müller?
23
Glitch In The Coding
There was something wrong with the note.
Billy couldn’t work out what it was, but there was something there, just out of reach, that he wasn’t seeing properly. It was like a line of code that had a mistake in it; he knew there was a mistake, and he could see how the code should have worked, but for some reason it wasn’t visible.
There was a motion at the door to the Library as Declan and Anjli entered the room. Anjli’s eyes widened when she saw Billy at the table.
‘I thought you’d be long gone by now,’ she said. ‘The case is over and you’re off the clock.’
‘Is it though?’ Billy shrugged. ‘I don’t think it is. And besides, I booked the room until tomorrow so I have until eleven to check out. Thought I’d make use of the spa for a change.’ He leaned back, stretching. ‘These chairs aren’t ergonomic, and I’ve been staring at a monitor for the last two days.�
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‘Why do you think it isn’t over?’ Declan asked as he walked over to the screen, seeing a photo taken of Rolfe Müller’s suicide note. ‘You think it’s fake?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Billy admitted. ‘It’s not fake, but at the same time it feels it, yeah?’
‘Go on,’ Declan sat down beside him. ‘Work through it with me.’
‘The note, it’s off.’ Billy zoomed in on it, showing the handwritten letters on the page. ‘There’s a glitch here in the coding. Something that passes as right, but isn’t right.’
Declan stared at the screen as Billy continued, reaching to the side, where he had a sheet of photocopied paper.
‘I’ve examined Rolfe’s notebook and the handwriting and ink matches,’ he explained. ‘Well, I was told by PC Davey that the ink matches. The handwriting though, although similar, is different because it’s in German. I needed something better to compare it against.’ He held up the sheet of paper. ‘When they arrived in Hurley, Rolfe contacted Maidenhead nick to let them know he was here, and asked for copies of all data related to Patrick Walsh’s investigation of the Red Reaper. They never replied to him, but that’s irrelevant, as we now have an example of Rolfe writing in English.’
‘It’s pretty much identical,’ Anjli said, comparing the two pieces. ‘Are you sure these aren’t both written by him?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Billy admitted. ‘But as I said, There’s a glitch in the coding and it’s annoying the hell out of me.’
‘Say that again,’ Declan looked to Billy.
‘What?’
‘What you just said.’
‘There’s a glitch in the coding and it’s annoying the hell out of me?’
‘It’s annoying the hell. Not it is.’
‘I don’t get you,’ Billy looked to Anjli, to see if she understood where Declan was going with this. Declan, undeterred, carried on.
“Look,’ he pointed at the sheet sent to Maidenhead. ‘I am not taking no for an answer.’ Now compare that to the suicide note. ‘I wanted to honour my father, but I’m not the man he was’. And here, ‘But I’ve also had the urges’, while on the report he says ‘But I have decided to pursue.’ Even here, where on the note he says ‘I can’t go back now’, in the report he says ‘I cannot be stopped in my belief’. They’re contractions. It’s. I’ve. I’m. All the way through the suicide note, but not the request to Maidenhead.’