Whisper For The Reaper: A spine tingling murder mystery (Detective Inspector Declan Walsh Book 4)

by Jack Gatland

  ‘Shadows like you, father,’ he whispered.

  Wilhelm Müller didn’t reply.

  ‘Have you seen the musical Les Miserables?’ Rolfe asked.

  Wilhelm nodded. ‘I have.’

  ‘There’s a scene I enjoy immensely in it,’ Rolfe explained. ‘It’s called the confrontation, and it’s when Inspector Javert and Jean Valjean finally meet after his escape.’ He spoke the words.

  ‘Valjean, at last, we see each other plain. Monsieur le Maire, you'll wear a different chain.’

  ‘Am I the Valjean to your Javert?’ Wilhelm asked, keeping his distance, still hidden in the shadows of the crypt. Rolfe nodded.

  ‘You are my quest,’ he replied. ‘I’ve hunted you across the years. I’ve spoken to the men who worked for you. Who feared you.’

  ‘Men like me can never change,’ Wilhelm mocked. ‘And I will not give myself up. I have spent as much time hiding as I lived before the fall. Why should I change that?’

  Rolfe pulled out a coin, an East German Mark.

  ‘I have an idea,’ he said, holding it up. ‘Let us play for it. A coin toss. If I win? You give yourself up. If I lose? You can disappear again, and I will not come after you.’

  ‘That is not my coin,’ the shadowed figure of Wilhelm Müller replied, pulling another East German Mark out of his pocket. ‘This is the coin that I would flip daily on the Berlin Wall. This is the coin that I flipped to decide a man or woman’s guilt.’

  ‘Then we use that,’ Rolfe replied, his brave face nothing more than an act, as his stomach churned with fear and trepidation. The shadowed figure paused and then nodded.

  ‘How will I know you will keep your word?’ Wilhelm asked. ‘You could pass the information to another. Walsh’s son, perhaps. No, we need a more definite end.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘I flip the coin,’ Wilhelm stated. ‘If it lands on the number? You may take me in, shoot me, whatever you need for closure. But if it lands on the compass and a hammer, you will take my service revolver and shoot yourself in the head with it.’

  ‘You cannot be serious!’ Rolfe exclaimed in anger and surprise, raising the gun to aim at his father. ‘Why would I do that?’

  There was a movement as Wilhelm Müller ducked behind a pillar. ‘Two reasons,’ his voice echoed around the crypt. ‘First, because you knew that your last act would rely on chance. And second, because if you do not, I will kill your sister. Painfully, and slowly. You will not catch me here, you will not shoot me. I have three exits and will be invisible to you before you emerge from here. And I will skin her alive, as well as your partner in Berlin, and the people you care about. I will painfully and slowly kill them all.’

  A hand emerged at the end of the crypt, holding a coin.

  ‘Or, you take a chance with fate.’

  Rolfe cursed his own stupidity. He’d walked into a trap, convinced that his moral ground was enough to turn the meeting. ‘You’re my father!’ he replied angrily. ‘Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  ‘You have meant nothing to me in over thirty years,’ Wilhelm’s voiced echoed around the crypt. ‘And I will have no concerns when I brutally murder everyone close to you, before leaving you destitute, broken and begging for release.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Now, let us play a game.’

  21

  Loose Ends

  Declan heard the gunshot, but thought nothing of it. Hurley was in the middle of the countryside, and shotguns and crow scarers were often heard in the fields around. It wasn’t however until an urgent and quite shaken Anjli called him five minutes later that he realised that the sound had been so much more than that.

  A minute later, Declan and Billy were hammering once again on the door to the Snug. After a moment the door opened again, and Karl once more glared out at Declan.

  ‘This really isn’t—‘ he started, but Declan wasn’t in the mood to discuss politeness, and pulled Karl bodily out of the room.

  ‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘We just heard that Rolfe Müller’s been shot. We’re trying to work out what happened, but until then both you and Ilse are potential targets as well.’

  Karl stared in shock at Declan.

  ‘He is dead?’

  ’Still waiting for confirmation,’ Declan explained. ‘But until we know, Billy here is going to sit with you, and keep the door locked.’

  ‘You think we are also targets?’ Karl nervously looked into the Snug through the doorway, and Ilse stared in confusion back.

  ‘Someone tried to kill you yesterday, so you tell me,’ Declan replied. ‘Billy will ensure you’re safe. And keep in view of the bloody CCTV, yeah?’

  Billy nodded to Declan as he led Karl into the Snug, and Declan placed a hand on his arm to pause him.

  ‘Don’t answer the door to anyone except me or Anjli,’ he whispered. Swallowing, Billy nodded, closing the door and leaving Declan alone in the corridor.

  He didn’t wait there long though, and as the lock in the door turned, Declan was already sprinting out of the building, en route to the priory, and the crypts.

  PC De’Geer was already working hard on crowd duty as Declan arrived; several people in the immediate vicinity had heard the gunshot, and all wanted to know what was going on. Nodding to Declan, De’Geer waved him past as he stood in front of the main entrance to the crypt, a human barrier to the villagers.

  ‘I swear, if any of you enter this crime scene, I’ll arrest you!’ he shouted, and with his imposing frame and deep, booming voice, the villagers agreed to keep their distance, already backing away.

  Anjli was already in the crypt when Declan entered, standing by the entrance, her blue latex gloves already on.

  ‘Shoes, sir,’ she said, holding out a hand to stop Declan moving in any further. ‘I’ve checked the body, and in doing so have already contaminated the scene. I’d rather we had no more coppers do that.’

  ‘How did you come to be here?’ Declan asked, peering into the crypt where, near the end, he could see the crumpled body of what had to be Rolfe Müller on the floor. Anjli pulled out her phone.

  ‘De’Geer and I were at the Rising Sun,’ she explained. ‘The barmaid at the Dew Drop Inn now works there, but she wasn’t on shift. As we came out, we heard the gunshot. We rode up and found people coming out of the church. They said that the shot had come from Old Ladye Place, and we knew Rolfe liked to come here, thanks to Monroe’s notes.’

  She held up her phone, now open on a photo app. On it was a closeup image of Rolfe Müller.

  ‘Until forensics get here, that’s what we have,’ she said as Declan took the phone and scrolled through the images. ‘Looks like he shot himself in the head with a semi-automatic pistol.’

  ‘Or, he was made to,’ Declan was already pacing around the entrance as he considered this. ‘Could he be another Red Reaper victim?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Ilse and Karl were both in the pub, so who else could it be?’

  ‘Maybe your dad didn’t kill Wilhelm Müller after all,’ Anjli suggested.

  ‘Sure, that’s an option, but to force his own son to kill himself?’ Declan was appalled by the thought. ‘I almost hope it was suicide to never have to think of that scenario again.’

  In the distance, they could hear the faint sound of police sirens; Maidenhead would have been contacted by De’Geer, and with luck this was a forensic cavalry force being led by Doctor Marcos herself.

  ‘Did you find out anything at the Dew Drop Inn?’ he asked while they waited. Anjli nodded.

  ‘Ilse met your dad in the pub,’ she replied. ‘And we think Karl was there too.’

  Declan turned and stared at Anjli in surprise. ‘Both of them?’

  ‘It’s hearsay, so we’re waiting for someone who was there at the time to confirm what we’ve been told,’ she said. ‘Although to be honest, that’s probably going to be pushed aside now.’

  There was a commotion at the entrance behind them, and a forensics team, in wh
ite PPE uniforms, masks and gloves entered, led by Doctor Marcos.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, put some bloody protection on,’ she snapped at the two detectives. ‘And stop hanging around the entrance. It’s mawkish.’

  Declan led Anjli outside to find that the circus had come to town. There were so many officers securing the scene now that De’Geer looked redundant. Sergeant Sweeney was now Scene of Crime Officer, having more experience than the raw recruit, and Declan was actually grateful to the bald, bearded friend of his dad for that.

  ‘Grab a suit and follow us,’ Declan ordered and De’Geer, looking to Sweeney nervously before following, picked up a PPE suit, pulling it tightly over his uniform. PPE suits were baggy by design, but this fit his broad frame snugly. Declan had wondered why De’Geer had looked to the sergeant, but then realised that, with Maidenhead police controlling the scene, De’Geer was back to being a minor cog in a far larger machine.

  Which was a shame, as De’Geer, when left alone, was a perfectly competent officer.

  Now with the white PPE suits over their clothes and shoes, the hoods over their heads and masks over their faces, Declan and his colleagues pulled on extra sets of blue latex gloves before walking back into the crypt.

  Forensics move fast, especially when organised; and there was nobody more organised than Doctor Rosanna Marcos. As PC Davey examined the crime scene, Doctor Marcos was already carefully checking the body of Rolfe Müller, while keeping the sanctity of the crime scene secure.

  ‘Gunshot to the temple, close range,’ she said, her voice monotonous and methodical as she spoke, years of forensic training keeping the emotions out while the salient facts remained. ‘Gunpowder residue looks to be fresh on the hand and going from this I reckon we’ll find his fingerprints on the gun.’

  ‘Red Reaper?’ Declan knelt beside the body. Doctor Marcos shrugged.

  ‘Too soon, but I doubt it. The M.O isn’t right. The gun would be missing if it was a traditional Reaper murder.’

  ‘The gun’s a Makarov,’ Declan muttered as he saw the pistol on the floor. ‘Russian and East German side arm.’ He smiled, before realising that Doctor Marcos wouldn’t see it through the mask. ‘Saw a couple of these while I was SIS.’

  There’s a serial number on the base,’ Davey said as she took a close-up photo. ‘I’ll send it to Billy, see if he—‘

  ‘Send it direct to Maidenhead,’ Declan suggested. ‘Billy’s on babysitting duty right now. Karl and Ilse.’

  Davey nodded and walked off, already texting. Declan stared down at the body once more.

  ‘Never struck me as a suicide type,’ he muttered.

  ‘They never do,’ Doctor Marcos was now, with the help of another CSI officer, carefully going through Rolfe’s pocket with a pair of long tweezers. Slowly, and with great care, she pulled a coin from his pocket.

  ‘An East German Mark,’ she said as she turned it around. ‘Pre 1990.’

  ‘Before the wall fell,’ De’Geer replied, passing a clear plastic bag for the coin to be passed into. ‘I wonder if this was the coin that Nathanial Wing gave him, that we saw on the CCTV?

  ‘God, I hope not,’ Anjli muttered. ‘Then we have to work out where he got it from and that’s a whole new can of worms.’

  The other CSI officer accepted the now bagged evidence, writing on the bag with a marker pen before placing it into a blue plastic box.

  ‘Wait,’ Doctor Marcos started pulling a second item out of the pocket, and as it emerged, Declan saw the familiar card of the Red Reaper.

  But it wasn’t one card. It was a handful of cards, at least a dozen, and all identical.

  ‘Christ,’ Doctor Marcos muttered. ‘I think we found the last of the supply.’

  Declan stared at the cards as they too were bagged and tagged. How did Rolfe have them, and why were they on him right now? Had he intended to use them?

  ‘I’ve got paper,’ the other officer said, pulling a folded piece of notepaper out of Rolfe’s jacket pocket. Doctor Marcos gingerly accepted it, opening it up with the careful application of two sets of tweezers. It was a sheet, approximately A5 in size and made up of lined notepaper, as if pulled out of a journal. On it, in what looked to be Rolfe’s handwriting, was a message, written in English.

  I failed.

  I wanted to honour my father, but I’m not the man he was. I tried to follow his teachings, but I couldn’t do what needed to be done.

  I found his gun, cards and coin after my mother died, and knew then the truth of Wilhelm Müller, that he was the Ampelmännchen Killer, or as you call him the Red Reaper. But I’ve also had the urges, the need to kill. I killed Nathanial Wing, to see if I could. When I realised it was easy for me, I knew I shouldn’t do it again. But I had to, and I tried to strangle Karl Meier, who you know as Karl Schnitter. He had an affair with my mother, and it destroyed her marriage and our family. It’s what made my father a killer. The Reaper.

  But I’m not him. And I’m haunted by what I’ve done. I’ve written this in English so that whoever finds my body can understand this. I can’t go back now. I can’t face the shame. I thought my father was innocent of this, but now I know he was a monster. And I’ve become a monster too.

  I don’t blame Patrick Walsh for what he did now. But now I have to end the life of another monster. I’ve flipped the coin, and I know what I must do, in a place where ghosts walk the land.

  Tell Ilse I’m sorry.

  Rolfe.

  ‘Well, that settles things then,’ Anjli said. ‘Everything we did? All meant nothing in the end. Rolfe was the killer, after all.’

  ‘Something’s not right here,’ Declan replied. ‘The letter feels off.’

  ‘We’ll check it against Rolfe’s handwriting,’ PC Davey was already folding the letter and placing it away in another plastic bag. ‘We’ve got photos of his journal that DCI Monroe’s sent across, we can compare this to those. We’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘Did anyone see anything?’ Declan looked around. ‘I mean there were enough people here gawking when we arrived, did any of them see someone leave the scene?’

  ‘Not that I was told,’ De’Geer admitted. ‘But then maybe they’ll tell another officer.’

  Declan rose, walking to a pillar. Leaning against it, he pulled down the mask for a moment. Rolfe couldn’t have been the Red Reaper. He wasn’t in England when Declan’s dad died.

  But Ilse and Karl had been.

  However, they had the perfect alibi; they were being actively watched having a parent daughter fight by Declan and Billy at the time of the murder. Which left one name.

  Wilhelm Müller.

  Had Patrick Walsh lied when he said that he’d killed Müller? Had Wilhelm escaped, or a deal been made, a deal that Wilhelm Müller had now returned to break?

  Declan didn’t know where to start next. But as he considered this, it looked like his path was being chosen for him, as DCI Freeman, in full PPE, entered the crypt, walking over to him.

  ‘Terrible situation,’ he muttered. ‘Someone will have to tell Berlin about this and they’ll likely kick up a right royal stink. What do we know so far?’

  ‘Looks like suicide, sir,’ Declan felt the words turn to ash as they left his tongue. ‘Shot himself with a pistol. Possibly East German police issue, maybe his dad’s gun.’

  ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And a coin, and a collection of Red Reaper cards on his person. Seems he was trying to follow in his dad’s footsteps, but the guilt got to him. Flipped a coin on himself.’

  Freeman patted Declan on the shoulder. ‘I know it’s not the result you wanted, but it’s still a result,’ he said. ‘The Red Reaper is dead.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that easy, sir.’

  ‘Look, just take the win, Declan,’ Freeman snapped. ‘This’ll go well on your file, and’ll likely get you back in City Police’s good graces. You chased down a killer and he was so trapped by this, he killed himself.’ He looked to the crime scene and pointe
d angrily at Doctor Marcos.

  ‘What’s she doing there!’ he exclaimed. ‘She knows she’s not allowed at crime scenes for another three months! Having her poke about the station’s one thing, but I could get into major trouble for that!’

  ‘But you said it’s a suicide, not a crime scene,’ Declan suggested.

  Freeman visibly relaxed at this. ‘Pull DCI Monroe back from Berlin, and start closing up the case,’ he said. ‘If Rolfe Müller was the Red Reaper, then the case is over and we can all have cake for tea as a treat. I want a full report on my desk by end of play tomorrow.’

  He shook Declan’s gloved hand.

  ‘Your dad would be proud of you,’ he said before walking back to some other white suited officers, taking charge of the scene. Declan felt the same as De’Geer had moments earlier; superfluous to requirements. The case was apparently closed, the murderer dead, justice had prevailed and the world could sleep easier now.

  So why didn’t Declan feel good about this?

  He knew why. Because Rolfe Müller hadn’t killed himself. Someone was tying up loose ends before moving on, and as yet Declan didn’t know who that could be. The only thing that was certain was that Declan had been given strict orders to wrap his case up and provide a report on his findings by the end of play the following day.

  Which meant that Declan and his team had twenty-four hours to find the true killer before they escaped forever.

  22

  Old Soldiers

  Peter Banisch lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment off Kollwitzstraße that was more of a bedsit, or studio apartment than one bedroom anything, as the wall that enabled the apartment to be called as such was nothing more than a wooden and plasterboard frame around a corner of the large living area with a small bed inside. Looking out onto Kollwitzplatz, it was about a mile North East of the centre of Berlin, in an area known as Prenzlauer Berg, a recently added district of Pankow, and known locally by the residents as Kollwitzkiez, because of the famous residents Käthe Kollwitz, a nineteenth century German artist and her husband, physician Karl Kollwitz, who shaped the area after his wife’s death in 1919, and before the start of World War Two. It was one of the more expensive areas of Berlin to live, which explained why Banisch only had such a small living space; but it was his home, and he was proud of it.