by Val Penny
Copyright © 2018 by Val Penny
Cover Image: Adobe Stock © dennisvdwater
Design: soqoqo
Editor: Sue Barnard
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018
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To Dean and Jo
Thank you for all your love and support
but most of all thank you for accepting me,
and mine into your fabulous family
Acknowledgements
Although written by one individual, a novel is not the achievement of just that person. My most sincere thanks go to all the incredible people at Crooked Cat Books, particularly Laurence and Steph who ply me with gin when that is needed and to my fabulous editor, Sue Barnard, whose expertise, patience and valuable suggestions brought this story and the characters in it come to life. A novel without a good editor is just a manuscript: thank you, Sue.
My thanks also to Liz Hurst, Paul Cowan, Ruth Grant, David McLaughlan, Hazel Prior, Allison Symes and all those at Swanwick Writers' Summer School for their encouragement and for saying the right thing at the right time.
I remain eternally grateful to Dave, Lizzie, Vicky, Margot, Dave, Lisa and my Mum for their belief in me and unswerving support.
Most of all, thank you to all my readers and to everyone who encouraged me to write. Without you, The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries would not exist.
I also want to acknowledge the following resources:
The Real CSI: A Forensics Handbook for Crime Writers by Kate Bendelow
The Crime Writers Casebook (Straightforward Guides) by Stephen Wade & Stuart Gibbon
Forensics: The Anatomy of Crime by Val McDermid
Any errors, of course, are mine.
About the Author
Val Penny is an American author living in SW Scotland. She has two adult daughters of whom she is justly proud and lives with her husband and two cats. She has a Law degree from Edinburgh University and her MSc from Napier University. She has had many jobs including hairdresser, waitress, lawyer, banker, azalea farmer and lecturer. However she has not yet achieved either of her childhood dreams of being a ballerina or owning a candy store. Until those dreams come true, she has turned her hand to writing poetry, short stories and novels. Her crime novels, 'Hunter's Chase' and Hunter's Revenge are set in Edinburgh, Scotland, published by Crooked Cat Books.
Hunter’s Revenge
The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries #2
Prologue
East Germany, January 1968
The last thing Georg did on his eighteenth birthday was kill a man.
He really hadn’t meant to kill the Stasi officer in front of him, but it was him or Georg – and Georg did not want to die. It was the first time he’d seen a corpse. The streets were slick with ice. The man lost his balance and cracked his head on the pavement. Georg stared down at the body: there was blood and brains all over the pavement. He looked into the officer’s eyes. They stared blindly to heaven, but Georg knew there wasn’t a Stasi officer on earth who was going there. He looked away from death and towards his friends in horror, but when they saw what had happened, they scattered. Georg picked up the officer’s gun and began to run. More Stasi officers appeared as the boys fled.
Georg was out of breath when he got home.
“What’s the rush, son?” his father asked.
“Shit, Dad! It’s bad.”
“You’re drunk! No language in this house, boy,” said his grandmother.
“Dad, the boys and me were leaving the bar to come home and we saw a Stasi officer”
“So?”
“We were laughing and having fun.”
“And?”
“For a laugh I knocked his hat off.”
“Idiot! You know Stasi have no sense of humour. Ever. So what next?”
“He pulled his gun and told us to stand silently against the wall.”
“And you apologised and complied, I hope.”
“I panicked and punched him. He slipped on the ice and fell over. He hit his head on the ground, and when I checked him, he wasn’t breathing. He was dead. I just took his gun and ran.”
The silence in the room was deafening.
“You did what? You fucking idiot! Did you really punch a Stasi officer? Are you mad? You know we don’t even have to openly engage in resistance to draw the attention of the Stasi and incur its retribution. Just failing to conform with mainstream society can be enough. Shit! I sired a fool.” Georg’s father’s red face reflected his rage.
“And now you are here,” his grandmother added. “You ran home, leading them straight to us. We will all die now. Thank you.”
“What is all the noise?” Georg’s mother came through from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. His twin sister Ingrid and younger brother Wilhelm followed her. They looked bewildered. Their father rarely raised his voice, especially not to Georg.
As his father explained the issues, Georg’s mother burst into tears.
“They will kill him,” she whispered.
“They’ll kill him?” his father shrieked “Fuck, the rest of us will be lucky if all they do is kill us too! Have you any idea the danger you have put this whole family in, you young imbecile?”
“God, that’s true!” his mother sobbed. “Georg has to leave. He must escape right away. Maybe, when they come and find him gone, they will believe we had no part of it.”
“You and I both know that is not going to happen,” his father said. “They know everybody in the town, and even if they don’t already know it was Georg, one of their informers will turn him in for reward or to save their own skin. They will soon find out where he lives.”
His wife nodded.
“Mum, where do I go?” Georg pleaded. “Dad, what will you do? I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just fooling around.”
“Then you are more of a fool than I ever thought,” his father said. “It’s a bit fucking late to worry about us. We will cope, but we must deny you and any knowledge of this atrocity. I love you always, but you must leave, son. Now. There is no choice, and you must be quick because they will be here all too soon. Make a start on your escape tonight. It’s your only hope, and ours.”
“Quick, Wilhelm, fetch him my savings and your grandfather Georg’s book,” said his grandmother. “Georg will need the money, and he can always sell the book.”
“I’ll pack a meal,” his mother said. She gathered up the family Bible, along with some bread, ham, cheese and apples.
“Don’t give him too much, it will slow him down,” said Ingrid.
“Pack everything in a rucksack. You can put it on your back, Georg, and still run,” said Wilhelm as he handed their grandmother’s meagre treasures to George.
“I am so sorry, Father. Where do I go? Where am I running to? What will happen to you?” Georg’s voice raised to a scream.
His mother held him and kissed his head, but his father grabbed his arm, pulled him from her and shook him.
“You got yourself into this; we will get you out of it. No point in worrying about us. Get out of this country. Don’t look back. Just run. Go west, go to Britain. Stay alive. Get out of this house, get out of my sight and never come back. Do you
hear me, Georg?”
***
That was the last time Georg saw his family. They paid for his crime.
His father and Wilhelm were lucky. They were made to watch while the women were raped by each of the Stasi officers in turn; then Georg’s father and brother were shot. They did not have to live with the disgrace or the memories.
Georg’s grandmother never spoke during the remaining six years of her life, not even when Ingrid’s baby, Heinrich, was born.
Each woman hoped that Georg had escaped to safety and that their sacrifices had not been in vain.
Chapter One
Edinburgh, Scotland, March 2013
George was excited. His parcel should arrive today. It was only by chance that he had learned about this treasure. Soon, he could add the signed 1926 first edition copy of Winnie the Pooh to his library.
Books had been his passion since he arrived in Edinburgh, with the family Bible from his mother, and his grandfather Georg’s precious signed first edition of Leyb Kvitko’s children’s book Di Bobe Shlak un ir Kabak (Granny Shlak and her Pumpkin), published in Kharkov in 1928. His grandmother had added this to his rucksack as he left home. These were the start of his collection, but every addition had brought its own pleasure over the years. Books written for the children he had never had. Beautiful, precious books. They had been his only love: dearer than friends, closer than enemies. George Reinbold loved his books.
It was a bright spring morning. Sunny, but cold. Summer had always been George’s favourite season, because it was most different from winter, and he enjoyed it when the salty tang of the North Sea wafted across the city. But Spring came a close second, where the sweetness of the soil is churned by the worms and buried bulbs break green shoots through the soil. He hated winter with its cold and ice and memories, but today the sky was a pale bleached blue, the sun still low in the sky, but enough future promised by little crocuses breaking through the soil to offer hope.
When the doorbell rang George was aware that his heart missed a beat. He smiled. What a thrill. Another book to add to his collection. The delivery was earlier than he expected, but that was all to the good. George hobbled along the corridor to the door, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
He had lived in the same main-door flat in Gilmerton, Edinburgh, since the house had been allocated to him by the council nearly fifty years ago. He bought the property for less than a year’s salary during the Margaret Thatcher era. George knew every nook and cranny of his home and none of his neighbours. Edinburgh people are like that, and their lack of curiosity suited George just fine. Britain had been good to him.
People had told him that he should move, that this modest flat was not suitable for a man of his standing. But George had never planned to move, certainly not now. He was safe here. Safer than he had ever been in the German Democratic Republic, the land of his birth. He was safer than he had ever been when he knew his neighbours and they knew him. Then, they could inform on him, whether the information was true or not. He was safer than he had ever been when he escaped from his family’s humble home, without looking back. He had crossed Europe to find refuge in Scotland; nobody would look for him here. But, even here, he was not safe enough.
When George opened the door, his happy smile vanished. Comprehension, consternation and dread crossed his face. He spotted the gun, but couldn’t even shout in the time that the shot was fired.
It was a perfect shot. The bullet hit George squarely in the middle of his forehead, its hollow-point cavity filled with blood and tissue forcing it to mushroom as it travelled past the cranium wall and through George’s brain, ripping apart everything in its path.
The mushroom of the hollow-point bullet reduces the speed of a bullet considerably, and in many cases, there is no exit wound because the bullet lodges within the target. However, at such close range the power of the gun was more than enough to push the bullet through George’s brain, leaving an impressive exit wound about the size of a grapefruit. Part of the left side of his skull disintegrated as if a creature had cracked it when hatching out as if from an egg. Bone, blood, brain matter, hair and skin splattered against the walls and floor of the entrance to his home, covering them in a sticky red mess.
He hit the ground like a half-empty flour sack. A pool of blood quickly began to form around his head as his front gate clicked shut.
His assassin got into a car and drove away.
Chapter Two
Linda’s ‘Daygo’ delivery van pulled up at George Reinbold’s door. She liked this new job. It combined her love of driving with working with people. It didn’t pay a fortune, but it paid the bills, with a bit left over to save for that holiday in Spain she and Bob had promised themselves. She grabbed the box out of the back of her van. She looked at the house and was surprised that the front door was open.
She walked up the path and pushed it open a little further. Something was stuck behind the door so it wouldn’t open. She peeked around the door into the entrance of the house – and vomited all over George’s corpse.
It was Linda who called for an ambulance, but there was nothing for the paramedics to do but wait for the police. Linda sat on the front lawn, sobbing and wailing. She shivered on the wet grass. It was a chilly morning, but she had to wait somewhere, and there was no way she was going near that place again. The paramedics said she had to wait for the police to get here.
What an awful horrible job this was. Why had she even taken it? It didn’t even pay that much.
***
DI Hunter Wilson and DC Tim Myerscough pulled up just behind the ambulance. Hunter liked spring: he could almost smell the world waking up. The freshness of the air encouraged crocuses and daffodils to decorate flower beds, and buds of leaves to appear on trees. Edinburgh had a beauty in every season, but he found his city especially lovely in springtime. However, today was not one of those fine, balmy spring days. It was bright enough, but sharp and cold. Hunter did not like days like today as much as the warm balmy days he hoped May would bring.
He and Tim got out of the car. The detective constable dwarfed Hunter by an easy five inches, but as Hunter stood and took in the scene with a serious face and intelligent piercing blue eyes, it was clear that he was the man in charge. Hunter quickly identified the girl sitting on the wet grass as the source of a loud and blood-curdling racket that offended his ears. He looked from the girl to Tim and back again.
“You deal with her, young Myerscough. It’s far too early for me to be coping with weeping women. Try to get some sense out of her, and get her to be quiet, will you? I can’t think with that noise going on.”
“Yes, Sir.” Tim took two strides and crouched down beside the young woman. “Hello, I’m DC Tim Myerscough. What’s your name?”
“Linda.”
“Linda?”
“Linda Maguire.” She stopped crying but was still sobbing hard.
“So, Linda, it was you who found the body, was it?” Tim asked.
She looked at him as if she thought he was crazy. “Well I don’t get this upset just because there’s nobody home. I don’t get paid enough for this. It’s awful. Have you seen it? Don’t look. The place is all blood and brains. The back of his head’s gone. I can’t un-see that, you know.” Linda started weeping again as Hunter shouted.
“Tim! Tim! DC Myerscough. Here. Now.” Hunter’s face was grey. “Tim, you won’t believe who the victim is. It’s George Reinbold, shot in the head.”
“What? Oh No! Not our George Reinbold? Head of the Crime Scene Investigations? No, Boss, it can’t be. It must be a mistake, he’s just an old man. Who would want to kill him?”
“Don’t take my word for it. Feel free to take a look, but hold on to your breakfast.” Hunter watched as Tim went over and stuck his head around the door and withdrew it quickly.
Linda was right, you can’t un-see that.
“Boss, that’s been close range. Tiny hole in the forehead, but they’ve blown the back of his skull right off.”
“Hmm. Bloody awful. It’s got to be a professional job. But the murderer would surely be hit by some spray from the blood.” Hunter grimaced.
“Definitely. This is surely a case of mistaken identity? Nobody would want to hurt George?” Tim’s questions asked for the reassurance that Hunter could not give.
“Well, I don’t want our CSIs working on this; it would be too traumatic. I’ll call Glasgow and get them to send a team over. PC Angus McKenzie can stay at the door to restrict access while I get DS Jane Renwick to gather a team to organise door-to-door enquiries. One thing is for sure, somebody saw something or heard the gun.”
“Yes, Boss.” Tim paused “Will Doctor Sharma be able to do the post-mortem?”
“I doubt she would allow anybody else that honour, but it won’t be easy for her. She liked George and respected him greatly. You stay here and take the witness statement from that girl. When Meera Sharma and the CSIs are finished, I want you and me into that flat as soon as possible to find out everything we can about George and why he was murdered.”
Tim turned back to Linda and walked slowly across the grass. He saw the young delivery woman was now dry-heaving as hard as she was weeping. It must have been a terrible shock for her. He took out his notebook in a vain effort to try to divert her attention. He smiled at her as she lifted her head. His smile seemed to work as a better diversion.
He was aware of her looking up at him. He watched as she swept her hair behind her ear, glanced into his eyes and she allowed her glance to rove from his eyes to his hair, smile and shoulders. For some reason he became self-conscious about his broken nose. This was silly. He blushed, and realised that she had stopped sobbing.
Tim looked at her more closely. Under all the thick layer of make-up and dribbles of snot, she was pretty.