1503954692

by Steve Robinson

  Tayte was all for it, but he wanted to make sure Jean was, too. ‘How about it?’

  ‘I don’t see what we’ve got to lose.’

  Tayte reached across the desk and shook Tobias’s hand. ‘It’s a deal.’ He handed Tobias a business card. ‘My cell number’s there, or you can reach us at the address I wrote in the file.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tobias said as he took the card. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Following their visit with Tobias and Elijah Kaufmann, Tayte had entered another address into the hire car’s sat-nav system, and he and Jean were now heading east to the apartment that his mother, and possibly his father, had given as their temporary address to the Kaufmanns when they visited them in 1973. According to Tobias Kaufmann the apartment was near a man-made waterway called the Eisbach, a tributary of the river Isar that had become popular among surfers because of its shallow, yet fast flowing currents. It took less than twenty minutes to get there, and while Tayte thought it would be great to find the same person still living there from 1973, he somehow doubted it. It was an apartment after all. People moved on and people died. He knew the odds were slim, but it wasn’t something he could dismiss without being sure.

  Tayte turned the car into the street they had been directed to and drove a short distance to the end of what was no more than a tight lane. There were trees to one side, buildings to the other. He supposed one of the buildings had to be the apartments they were looking for. The street had no through road, but instead ran out to a walkway that, according to the sign he could see, led through a dense cover of foliage to the Eisbach.

  He and Jean got out of the car and began to look around for the address. The signs weren’t clear, but the building nearest to them gave every indication of being an apartment block, so they went closer. It was a small unit, painted red with a number of shuttered windows on three floors. There was only one entrance as far as Tayte could see. He paused in front of it to check the number for the address he’d written down, and he must have looked as if he needed help because someone called out to him.

  ‘Kann ich Ihnen helfen?’

  Tayte wheeled around to see an elderly woman in a large straw sun hat, bent double in the small garden to the side of the building. She straightened up with considerable effort and dropped her secateurs into the front pocket of her apron.

  Tayte didn’t know what she’d just said, and he wasn’t sure what to say in reply. He was about to ask whether she spoke English, which was one of the few phrases he had learned, but Jean answered for him.

  ‘Ich spreche kein Deutsch,’ she said, slowly as though she had to think about it. All the same, Tayte was impressed.

  ‘Engländer?’ the woman asked.

  Tayte recognised that word. ‘Ja,’ he said, not wanting to confuse matters by telling her he was American. He threw Jean a smile, in response to which she just rolled her eyes at him.

  ‘You are looking for someone?’ the woman said.

  ‘Yes. Someone who lived in apartment twelve in 1973. Possibly someone called Karl, and his wife, Sarah.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘In 1973, Geoffrey Johnston lived at number 12. He was English, also. I should know, we shared the same floor.’

  ‘I see,’ Tayte said. His hopes were up. If the woman standing in front of him had lived there in 1973 there was every chance this Geoffrey Johnston could still be there, too. ‘Does Herr Johnston still live here?’

  The woman shook her head, ‘He died around forty years ago.’

  ‘I see,’ Tayte said again. ‘Forty years?’ He glanced at Jean and she raised an eyebrow, letting him know that she was thinking the same thing he was—that Johnston had died close to the time his mother and Karl had visited Elijah Kaufmann.

  ‘Do you know how he died?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Drowned,’ the woman said. She pointed towards the trees and the pathway that led to the nearby Eisbach. ‘They found his body caught up by the bridge.’

  Tayte looked at Jean again, suspicion of foul play now written all over his face. He made a mental note to look into the particulars of Johnston’s death online, sure that the death would have been reported in the newspapers.

  Tayte gave the woman a smile. ‘Well, thanks for your time.’ He was about to head back to the car when he paused and took out the photograph of his mother. ‘Before we go, do you recognise this woman?’

  The old lady scrunched her face up as she scrutinised the image. She seemed unsure. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps?’

  ‘I can’t say. She’s familiar, yes, but don’t ask me why.’

  It didn’t matter. Tayte already knew that his mother had been staying at this address in 1973, or at least that she and Karl knew Geoffrey Johnston well enough to have given his address to Elijah Kaufmann as a point of contact.

  ‘Danke,’ Tayte said with a bow.

  When he and Jean were halfway back to the car, he said, ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘No. Although the timing of Johnston’s death could be a coincidence.’

  ‘Yes, it could,’ Tayte agreed, but he didn’t like it one bit. ‘I want to look into Johnston some more when we get back to the hotel.’

  They reached the car and Tayte took his notebook out from his jacket pocket. He wrote Johnston’s name down, along with ‘Eisbach’ and ‘Bridge’ and ‘Drowned early to mid-1970s’, wondering whether Johnston had in fact been murdered. As they got into the car he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that if that were true then perhaps his mother and Karl had shared a similar fate. In which case, he and Jean were clearly dealing with the kind of people who were prepared to kill to keep their secrets.

  Chapter Twelve

  Following lunch, Tayte and Jean arrived at Johann Langner’s art gallery and auction house in plenty of time for their two thirty appointment with Langner’s son, Rudolph, who was busy with a client when they first arrived at the modern two-storey building in the Kunstareal—the art district in Munich’s city centre. They were waiting on the gallery floor beneath the main auction house, where interested bidders could view the artwork prior to sale. The most expensive pieces were viewable by appointment only in a room off the main gallery, which was where they had been told Rudolph Langner was.

  ‘Fancy taking one home?’ Tayte joked as they waited by a painting he didn’t really understand. It was little more than a large off-white canvas with a line across the centre in burnt orange. ‘What do you suppose this is meant to represent?’

  Jean studied it, tilting her head this way and that. She shook her head. ‘A sunset of some sort?’

  Tayte had never heard of the artist, but judging from the price guide he could see there was clearly a market for his work. He looked around at all the paintings on display. There must have been close to a hundred pieces and it was plain to see that they represented a fortune in commission for the Langner gallery. As his eyes strayed towards the back of the room, he saw a tall, athletic-looking man in a black polo shirt and a tailored silver-grey suit striding purposefully towards them. As the man drew closer he began to smile, and Tayte realised this was who he and Jean had come to see. Tayte thought he was around forty years old. He had coiffed blonde hair and a narrow strip of beard running down the centre of his chin, which Tayte thought was akin to some artistic expression of his own.

  The man extended his hand towards Tayte as he arrived. ‘Mr Tayte,’ he said, with an accent that was more British public school than German. Tayte noticed how piercing his eyes were. They were unnaturally blue, as though he were wearing coloured contact lenses to enhance them. He kissed Jean’s hand. ‘And you must be Professor Summer.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Langner,’ Jean said.

  ‘Please, call me Rudi.’ He turned to Tayte. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you long. I’ve another client to see in just under an hour. Now, you said on the telephone this morning that you’d been talking with my father at the Heart Centre.�
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  ‘That’s right,’ Tayte said. ‘Only we had to leave somewhat prematurely.’

  ‘Yes, I heard my father had another turn.’

  ‘Have you seen him since then?’ Jean asked. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘I’ve not seen him, no,’ Rudi said. ‘His nurse keeps me updated, though. Her latest text message told me he was over the worst. But he needs rest.’

  ‘We met his nurse yesterday,’ Tayte said. ‘Your father appears to be in good hands. She seems very efficient.’

  Rudi gave a small laugh. ‘Ingrid Keller might be efficient, but she’s the most unpleasant person I know. She’s always around him, telling me when I can and can’t see him. He seems to like having her around, though, so I let them get on with it.’

  Tayte passed Rudi one of his business cards. ‘We’re keen to see your father again whenever he’s up to it. Perhaps you could let either him or his nurse know. I’d appreciate a call if something can be set up.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see what I can do. But you must understand that he’s very unwell.’

  ‘I know,’ Tayte said. ‘Just on the off-chance.’

  Rudi smiled and nodded as he slipped the card into his pocket.

  As they ambled further into the gallery, Tayte showed Rudi the photograph of his mother. ‘You wouldn’t have been born when this picture of my mother was taken,’ he said, ‘so I won’t ask you if you recognise her. I was abandoned as a child, eventually adopted, and I’ve been trying to identify my biological parents ever since.’

  ‘Adopted, eh?’ Rudi smiled warmly at Tayte. ‘We have something in common then.’

  ‘You were adopted, too?’

  ‘Yes. My father has always been open about it, so I’ve known from an early age. He had no other children and he wanted an heir to his fortunes, I suppose. Someone to leave everything to when he’s gone. He took my unfortunate situation and turned it into something wonderful. He’s loved me as well as any child could hope to be loved, and I hope I’ve loved him as well as any son could. I certainly admire him for all he’s done.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder about your real parents?’

  ‘Why should I? My mother didn’t want me. Why should I want her?’

  Rudi’s words sounded cold to Tayte. It was a stark contrast to how he felt about his own mother, but then he’d always believed that his mother had given him up because she’d felt she had no choice. Rudi, on the other hand, seemed entirely comfortable with the situation, so Tayte didn’t dwell on it.

  ‘We’re trying to find out why my mother visited one of your father’s buildings in the 1960s,’ he said, moving on.

  ‘And we’re hoping the answer lies somewhere in your father’s past,’ Jean added. ‘Maybe in connection with a wanted war criminal called Volker Strobel.’

  ‘Ah, Der Dämon von Dachau,’ Rudi said with a flash of his eyebrows.

  Tayte imagined Rudi’s father would have told him about his wartime friend, although he thought it likely that most people living in Munich had at least heard of Volker Strobel.

  ‘Your father was telling us about himself and his friendship with Strobel before the war,’ Tayte said. ‘I was hoping you could tell us a little more about that time. Has your father spoken to you much about the war years?’

  ‘Very little,’ Rudi said. ‘And not lately. I think you’ll find that most veterans of the Second World War don’t really like to talk about it.’

  ‘Your father seemed quite keen,’ Jean said.

  ‘Well, that’s something new. Perhaps it’s because he believes he’s not long for this world.’

  ‘We’d appreciate anything you can tell us,’ Tayte said.

  Rudi stopped walking beside a gilt-framed landscape painting of a rolling cornfield with a distant windmill by a stream. He gazed at it as though trying to recall some of the things his father had told him about the war years. A moment later, he said, ‘I know my father was wounded quite badly. That was in 1941, I think he said. On the Eastern Front.’ He smiled to himself. ‘But they say every dark cloud has a silver lining, and I remember him telling me that something very good came out of it.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  North of Romanovka, Ukraine. The Eastern Front. July 1941.

  The hail of bullets from machine-gun fire arrived without warning, splintering tree and bone without prejudice or distinction.

  ‘Medic! Medic!’

  Johann’s cries went unanswered in the chaos that quickly erupted around him. To his right, his sergeant, a young Unterscharführer who had only recently been assigned to him, fell to his knees as blood began to spread across the shoulder of his camouflage smock. A moment later, another bullet caught the side of his head and spun him around to face Johann, the wide-eyed look of anguish and terror frozen on his face as he went down. Johann dived for the cover of a fallen tree, knowing no medic could save the man now.

  A cry went up. ‘Ivans! Right flank!’

  ‘Fire at will!’ Johann called.

  Shots were quickly returned, and the brr-brr of the machine gun that had taken the young Unterscharführer sounded again, sending splinters of wood showering over his head.

  ‘Scheisse!’ Johann knew he had to find better cover, and soon.

  Having survived multiple engagements on the Western Front since he’d been sent into action in May the previous year, Johann had come to be regarded as an ‘old hare’ by his Kameraden—even though he was barely twenty-three years old. Now the Leibstandarte had been called upon to assist with Operation Barbarossa in the east—the Ostfront, and Johann had welcomed the opportunity to play his part in defeating communism.

  The Leibstandarte, as part of Army Group South under Feldmarschall Gerd von Rundstedt, had smashed through the Stalin Line at Mirupol, heading towards Zhitomir amidst growing Soviet Army resistance and torrential rain that had rendered the roads so boggy they quickly became unusable. Forced to head across country, the Reconnaissance Battalion had spearheaded the advance, but Johann and his small company had pushed so fast and so deep into enemy territory that they were soon detached from their main division, which, because of the weather and the terrain, had been unable to keep up.

  ‘Obersturmführer!’

  Johann was still getting used to his recent promotion to First Lieutenant. He rolled onto his side and then crawled on his elbows through the wet woodland ferns towards the rifleman who had called to him as bullets fizzed through the canopy above him. He recognised the rifleman’s voice. It was Schütze Hartmann—a green recruit, fresh from the Hitlerjugend. Johann had thought the experience would be good for him, but he had not anticipated encountering such a fierce Soviet counter-attack so soon.

  ‘Hartmann, how many are with you?’

  ‘None, Obersturmführer. What should I do?’

  Gunfire was being exchanged to his right and further ahead in the direction his unit had been travelling. He chanced a look above the ferns and saw Sturmmann Sachs with two more Schützen beside him: a machine-gun crew who were making ready their MG34. That was good, Johann thought, but he needed to draw the enemy’s fire, if only to buy them a few more seconds.

  ‘Hartmann, hold your position,’ Johann called. ‘Return fire!’

  He stood up, aimed and fired his MP40 machine pistol at the first thing that moved among the trees ahead, and then he ran through the glistening ferns towards Schütze Hartmann. Behind him the buzz of the MG34 began to decimate the woodland at a rate of over 800 rounds per minute.

  Two dead Kameraden greeted Johann’s eyes as he stepped out from the ferns. One was the medic he had called for when the shooting began. Across the clearing where these men had fallen, he could see the young Schütze. He was crouching behind a broad tree trunk that had been splintered time and again by enemy fire. Hartmann, armed with a Gewehr 98 bolt-action rifle, stopped shooting and turned to Johann with cold fear in his eyes. At that same instant a heavy-set enemy soldier came screaming from the trees to Johann’s left with his bayonet fixed. He had flanked Hartman
n’s position and was now charging straight at him.

  The Gewehr 98 was a long rifle with a five-round clip. It was well suited to the typically taller men of the Leibstandarte, and it was undeniably a useful weapon in the hands of a marksman, but it was less effective in close-range combat, especially as Schütze Hartmann had not thought to fix his bayonet. Fortunately, Johann’s MP40 was very effective at such close-quarter fighting. By the time the charging ‘Ivan’ saw him, it was too late. Johann had unleashed a hail of bullets into the man’s chest, and he fell just a few feet in front of Hartmann.

  ‘Fall back!’ Johann ordered. ‘Schnell!’

  It was plain to see that they were heavily outnumbered. They had perhaps encountered a small reconnaissance unit much like their own, but being more used to the conditions, he doubted that their main division was far behind. He knew their position would soon be overrun.

  Hartmann arrived beside Johann, bent double to keep low. ‘The rest of the unit are pinned down.’

  ‘Where?’

  Hartmann pointed off into the tangle of branches and the dripping, rain-soaked leaves. Johann grabbed him by his webbing and pulled him back through the ferns to the machine gun crew and the MG34 that had now fallen silent in the absence of any soldiers left in the immediate area to shoot. He took the MG34 from the hands of the Schütze whose white-knuckled fingers were still clenched tightly around the handle.

  ‘Sturmmann Sachs, follow me. The rest of you fall back to the farmhouse we passed before we reached the wood.’

  Hartmann nodded. ‘Jawohl, Obersturmführer.’

  ‘If we don’t make it back,’ Johann said, ‘try to hold out there until support arrives. It will give you cover and provide good visibility of the surrounding countryside.’

  Johann and the Sturmmann, another old hare like himself, who had been with Johann since Operation Barbarossa began, headed off with the MG34 to the sound of the gunfire that was now constant. When they drew close enough to see what remained of his unit, and the whites of the enemy’s eyes, he dropped behind a tree stump and sat with the MG34 resting between his legs on its bipod. Sachs readied the ammunition, connecting another belt of bullets for sustained firing, and Johann pulled back the bolt, ready to fire. A Soviet bullet disturbed the woodland debris beside him, spitting up twigs. He opened fire and the man fell, but he was soon replaced by another until it seemed that every tree in the woodland had an enemy soldier hiding behind it.