The young one opened a briefcase and extracted a sheet of paper. He handed it to Frau Lindbergh.
“Tell me, does this represent the current list of your tenants?”
She scanned the page quickly, handing it back with a flourish. “It is. Why, is anything the matter?”
He put the list back in his briefcase. “Nothing that we know of,” he told her. “What it is we are doing is a random check of tenants. How they arrived, where from, how they pay. Are they prompt?” He settled back in his chair, looking comfortable. “It’s part of our ‘Safety in the Community’ project,” he went on glibly. “And, of course, rather than speak to the tenants themselves, we feel it would be more discreet if we spoke directly to people like you. You do understand, don’t you?”
Frau Lindbergh warmed to him.” Oh, of course I do. Now, I’ll get you both a cup of coffee and then we can chat.”
“That would be lovely,” he told her, “a nice, quiet chat.”
An hour later the two men were shown out by Frau Lindbergh. Most of what she had told them had gone in one ear and out of the other, but she had at least positively identified Conor Lenihan as one of her tenants.
*
The house was very much the same as the others in the street. It was detached, reasonably large and with a substantial garden. A functional, gravel drive swept up to the front of the house. It looked well kept, suburban.
Hoffman had ordered back up units to be strategically placed. He wanted none in sight other than plain clothes units. His car was parked twenty metres from the house and he watched in nervous anticipation as the doctor walked up to the front door.
The man’s instructions had been clear. Gain entry and get the baby out of the house without endangering lives. Hoffman was banking on the girl being caught off guard by the doctor. He would claim he had been concerned for the baby and decided to make the long journey back. It was thin, but Hoffman was prepared to risk it.
He watched the doctor pause at the door and ring the bell. A minute later he rang it again. He cocked his head and listened at the door. Then he rattled on the door with his knuckles. He turned, helplessly, towards Hoffman’s vehicle. Hoffman started getting nervous. Either the house was empty or the kidnappers suspected something and had flown.
After a while it was clear that there was never likely to be any response to the doctor’s knocking. Hoffman got out of the car, signalling Jansch to remain where he was, and walked up the driveway. The doctor shrugged. There was no need to say anything.
Hoffman went round the back of the house and peered cautiously through the windows. Already he was dropping his guard because he knew there was nobody in the house. He went back round the front of the house and signalled Jansch to come up.
“There’s nobody in there,” he told the Inspector. “Get an armed unit up here and break the door down.” He turned to the doctor. “You come back to the car with me.”
By now a small crowd was materialising on the pavement. It worried Hoffman for all sorts of reasons. If he had the wrong house he would look stupid. If shooting started some innocent bystander might get killed. And crowds attracted the press and he would bet his last euro that someone was already on the phone to the local newspaper.
He gave the order to the armed response team to go in. They approached the house and took up positions around its perimeter. Two of the team stood either side of the front door while one man attacked the door with a heavy ram. Two strikes and the door flew open. He immediately stepped aside as the first pair went in, their arms outstretched and weapons at the ready.
Hoffman watched the others follow them in and could clearly see them moving about the house through the windows. After a few minutes, one of the team came out of the house, his weapon back in its holster and he walked towards Hoffman’s car. By the man’s body language, Hoffman could tell it wasn’t good news.
“If you would like to come into the house, sir,” he suggested. “We have a body in there.”
Hoffman and Jansch followed the officer into the house. He took them through to the kitchen. Schneider lay there. Around him was the dried pool of blood that had seeped from his wound. There were signs of water stains. His face was white but there were clear marks of something that suggested he had been scalded. On the floor lay the remains of the pasta jar, shattered into a thousand pieces.
He glanced around the kitchen. Whoever had walked out of that kitchen had not stayed long enough to clear up. A saucepan lay upended on the floor. There was a half prepared meal on the sink drainer. Perhaps more disturbing were the tins of baby food and milk powder on the side.
He went through to the front room. Like the kitchen it had been left untidy. Upstairs was the same, except for the smell of soiled baby diapers mingling with the scent of baby powder. The cot was unmade. The double bed too.
The question burning in Hoffman’s mind was; who had taken the baby? And if it was Breggie de Kok, where had she taken him?
He turned to Jansch. “This case,” he said with a touch of rancour, “like the kidnappers plans, is coming apart at the seams. If we’re not careful, we’re going to lose the bloody lot.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Joanna opened her eyes and wondered how many times she had done that during the night. Schiller’s news that he was going to instruct his lawyers to move on the Covenant had been a fierce blow to her mental state, and she had spent the night in complete despair. Moments of sleep had come briefly. Treasured as they were, they could not compensate for the anger that ravaged her brain at what she believed was a betrayal. She had lain like a slab at times, begging sleep. Her eyes would snap open suddenly and the carousel of doubt, fears and anger would come round again, and with it the skull-thumping pain of tired consciousness.
Joanna spent much of the morning trying to make sense of Schiller’s decision. She had phoned him but he was not to be moved. As apologetic as he was, there was no point in Joanna trying to convince him he was wrong. She had slammed the phone down and gone back to pacing the floor.
Eventually, after much anguish and self-argument, Joanna decided to phone Doctor Kistler and tell him of Schiller’s decision. She doubted if there would be any kind of repercussion, and in Kistler’s position he would have to respect her confidence. All she could hope to achieve was to instil a sense of added purpose in the search for her son’s kidnappers. She was quite sure that this highly confidential piece of information would remain safe with the President of the North Rhine Police.
Later that morning, Joanna was feeling marginally better. Her telephone conversation with Doctor Kistler had left her feeling a shade more optimistic. She had made him promise not to reveal any of this conversation to a living soul, particularly not her father-in-law. After that she was ready to eat a very late breakfast.
Joanna rang through to her kitchen staff and ordered a light breakfast with coffee. When it came, the housekeeper brought with it the daily papers and one letter that had been marked personal and had been delivered that morning by the Bundespost. Joanna recalled her conversation with Hoffman about incoming mail and how he wanted to scrutinise all correspondence. Joanna had given him short shrift; insisting that nobody, absolutely nobody was to interfere with her mail. If there was anything she considered might be of interest to the police, she promised that he would be the first to know.
Intrigued, Joanna slit the envelope open and took out the single, folded sheet of paper. The writing was in English but there was no address on the letter. She took a bite of toast and began to read.
Frau Schiller. Please do not throw this letter away nor show it to anybody. The woman who kidnapped your baby is Breggie de Kok. She has killed her lover and gone into hiding with your son. No-one knows where she is. I believe you and I can find her. I have to tell you that I do not know where your son is, but I might be able to convince you I can help if I tell you I was on the team that hit your convoy and kidnapped the baby. The de Kok woman murdered four of the team shortly after the kidnap. I
was lucky; I escaped the bomb which she intended should kill all of us. Please believe me when I say I can help. I can’t give you my reasons here, but if I can talk with you, I know I will be able to convince you. To show my bone fide, I will put my trust, and my life, in your hands. I will be standing with the media people outside your gates at noon today. If you want to denounce me, you only have to phone the police and tell them of this letter. I promise you that if I am arrested, the police will learn nothing, and I suspect you will probably never see your son again. I have to tell you that it is imperative you get me into your house without suspicion from your security guards. It’s the only way I can help. Remember, I am putting my trust in you. If you are not prepared to go along with this, I shall know when I am picked up by the police. My name is John. Don’t show this letter to anyone. Destroy it.
Joanna still had a mouthful of toast when she finished reading Conor’s letter. She had barely moved a muscle as she read the astonishing note. For a moment she just sat there, dumbfounded; the letter in one hand, and a slice of toast in the other.
She looked up, looked around her as if she was expecting to see people standing there waiting for her reaction. Then she looked back at the letter and read it again. Then she put it down like it was contagious. She couldn’t believe she had actually touched something that had been tainted by one of the kidnappers and a murderer. For all she knew he could even be a schizophrenic; someone who believed he was actually one of the kidnappers.
No. She dismissed that because he had actually named Breggie de Kok. He had to be genuine. How else could he have known the name of the woman? She picked the note up and read it again. What should she do? She wondered. If there was a chance she could do something to get her beloved baby back, she would have to co-operate. She had no choice.
She sat there for a long period, going over various scenarios in her head. One of them was to tell the police and let them handle it. But he seemed so cocksure of himself that the police would learn nothing.
What if she got him into the house and he attacked her? But why would he? She argued with herself. What could he gain? She could get some defence, she thought. There must be a gun in the house. But would she know how to handle a gun? Of course not.
Suddenly she jumped to her feet. “Stop bloody waffling, you stupid bitch. Get him into the house and get Manny back!”
She looked at the clock. It was thirty minutes past eleven o’clock. She went to the window and prised open the short, vertical blinds that hung at the window. From there she could see the phalanx of pressmen standing outside the gate. They looked bored. Some were chatting among themselves. Others were reading. They all looked as though they belonged there.
Joanna finished her breakfast. She didn’t have much of an appetite, but the feeling of anticipation was enough to encourage her to eat. Having done that she went through to her bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans, a Jaeger sweatshirt and a pair of soft, leather sneakers. She allowed herself a smidgen of make-up before checking the time. It was noon.
With a nervousness plaguing her stomach and a slight feeling of sickness, Joanna went to the front door. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and pulled it open. Even though the press were fifty metres away, there anticipatory senses were alerted and they all quickly turned in her direction.
As Joanna walked down the drive she could feel a hundred demons pulling her back. But her will held and she advanced on the flashing lights and tried a limp, but gracious smile for the television cameras.
Immediately the media started hurling questions at her through the gate. Joanna heard none of them, her eyes searching for a face that she would have to recognise. She could see no one who fitted the image she had of the letter writer. For a moment she felt foolish, not sure of what she should do. Then she held up her hands and asked them all to be quiet.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she began. “I know you are all doing your job, and I wish I could bring you some news of my son.” She scanned the faces. No one. “Unfortunately I have to say that neither I, nor Herr Schiller has had any contact from the kidnappers.” They became impatient at their enforced silence and began another barrage of questions.
Then she saw him. He was standing a couple of metres from the journalists and TV men. He had dark hair which fell over a hard, bruised face. The nose looked as though it had been broken more than once. A scar arced across his temple, and his mouth, sensuous and hard, was just parted in a warm smile. He looked unobtrusive standing there alone, but to her he stood out like a beacon of hope.
Joanna tried to show surprise on her face mingled with delight. She hoped she could carry it off because she had to convince these people her reactions were natural.
“John,” she called to him. “Is that really you?”
Immediately all the reporters turned their attention to where Joanna was now looking. They saw an average man looking rather sheepish, as though he didn’t belong there.
“John,” she called again. “It is you.” She went towards the gate, beckoning him to come closer. He edged his way through the small crowd and stood at the gate.
“Hallo Joanna.” He shrugged. “When I heard, I was devastated. I’m sorry, I truly am.”
“Oh, John, it’s so nice to see a friendly face.” The questions drowned out the next sentence. She beckoned him to come to the security gate. Conor edged his way along until he was standing at the pedestrian gate.
Joanna spoke to the security guard who unlocked the gate and searched Conor for weapons. Joanna apologised to Conor for the inconvenience, thanked the security guard and slipped her arm through Conor’s. They walked up the drive to the house, arm in arm like two old friends in animated conversation pursued by a barrage of wordy questions from beyond the gate.
When they were inside, Joanna stopped talking and took her arm from Conor’s. He followed her across the hallway and into a room which, he supposed, would be reasonably private. They continued through that room and passed through a door at the other end. She closed the door and turned towards him. As he went to speak, Joanna slapped him across the face.
“Where’s my fucking baby!”
She slapped him again, driving a fierce blow on to the side of his head.
Conor’s instinctive reaction was to raise a hand and chop Joanna across the throat. It would have been a killing blow to a woman. But as quick as his reaction was, so was the speed at which he stopped himself and held his arm down by his side.
Joanna slapped him again, demanding to know where her baby was. Conor had expected something like this. It was her right. She was totally justified in punishing the man she knew had kidnapped her son. Soon the slaps became blows with her fists. She rained them down on him until he crouched into a stoop and threw his hands up to protect himself.
“Where’s my baby. Tell me you fucking murderer!”
She punched, kicked and scratched until she had driven him to the floor, curled up in a ball to protect himself. She aimed her kicks at his head and his back and then threw herself on to her knees and pummelled him with all the strength she could muster.
Conor let it go on. If she wanted to vent her anger and spite on him, he would let her. As severe a beating as it was, he had suffered worse. And they had been inflicted by professionals.
Soon, Joanna’s strength waned and she was reduced to loose slaps on his shoulders and cries of: “Tell me where my baby is.” She sobbed and broke down, literally collapsing on top of him. “Please tell me where my baby is.”
Conor rolled out from under her and knelt up. He felt compassion for her but remained detached from her feelings. He took her gently by the elbows and helped her to her feet. She allowed him to take her to a chair and lower her into it. He then knelt beside the chair and waited for her to finish sobbing.
When Joanna looked up, her face was streaked with the wetness from her tears. Her eyes were red rimmed and her hair clung to her cheeks. She looked into the eyes of a man she despised but saw no malice i
n them. There seemed to be friendliness and warmth. There was also a great deal of blood from the terrible scratches she had inflicted on him. Great, red weals lay in leech like patterns across his face and the backs of his hands. To her he looked an absolute mess.
“Why did you let me do that?” she asked. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“You had to do that,” he answered gently. “I would have done the same.”
“I can’t believe I had the strength in me,” she told him shaking her head. She wiped her tears. “Where’s my baby?” There was no vehemence or anger this time, just an inherent plea in the question.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I swear to God, I do not know where your son is.”
“But you think you can find him?”
“I’m hoping we can.” He emphasised the word ‘we’.
“How?”
Conor looked down at his hands, examining the backs. Then he looked back up at Joanna. “Do you mind if I get cleaned up first? And perhaps a cup of coffee? Then I will tell you what I know and how I hope we can find your son.”
*
Conor’s photograph hit the late editions with accompanying headlines such as: Who is the mystery caller? Is this a contact? One of the kidnappers? There followed articles based on supposition and editorial creativity which brought the kidnap back on to the front pages. It smacked of editors sitting in their ivory towers with little else to feed the general public, so they had little recourse but to milk it for all it was worth.
It also brought the face of Conor Lenihan into the heart of the police investigation and Hoffman immediately had it sent to Meckenheim and Interpol. If this was one of the kidnappers, and he had previous form, they would know within a few hours.
As Hoffman was warming to the investigation again and no longer worrying over trails that had gone cold, Jansch came into his office with some disturbing news.
“Has Doctor Kistler spoken to you today?” he asked. Hoffman shook his head.
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