Hunter's Rain (12 page)

“Soon find out,” she said.

The computer settled down and an icon pulsed on the taskbar.

“There!” she went on in some surprise. “Something’s waiting.” Her fingers fled across the keys. “How did you know?”

“I’m clairvoyant.”

“Hmm,” she said, scepticism itself. A window of scrambled letters and figures came onscreen. “We’ve got mail. I’ll have that readable in a few moments.”

Again, her fingers did their magic. Section by section, the encrypted message began to reveal itself.

“Done,” she said.

It was in English, and not very long.

“’
Bloomfield will be set-up for Adams’ death’
,” Pappenheim read aloud. “What does that say to you, Miss Meyer?”

“It’s a prediction.”

“Quite so. Sometimes, predictions come true rather quicker than expected.”

She looked up at him. “It’s happened? Is that why you asked me to check?”

“It’s happened and yes, that’s why I asked. I had to be sure. Our friend either knew well before the event, or he found out just before it happened. Not much warning, but it’s a help. Thank you, Hedi. No need to tell you to keep this strictly to yourself. No exceptions.”

“No need, sir.”

Like the Conference villa Erwin Vogel’s own, much smaller villa, had a perfect
location near the water.

On two storeys, with the high attic converted into a huge study with large, arched French windows that opened out onto a wide balcony, the villa was neatly spacious. French windows on the first floor also opened out onto a second balcony, from the master bedroom.

There was a boathouse, within which a fast speedboat was moored. A small jetty close to the boathouse, protruded into the lake, from the gently sloping garden.

“Nice piece of real estate,” Carey Bloomfield observed as they walked across slightly unkempt grounds from the short driveway. “He’s not done badly for himself. But he needs a gardener.”

Vogel, in rough weather clothing, was on the jetty, peering into the water at something. He looked round, and straightened when he saw his visitors. He was a small man, with a weather-beaten face. The hood of his jacket was thrown back, to reveal wispy grey hair. He looked more like a fisherman, than a retired newspaper editor.

“Dead fish,” he said as they approached. “God knows what’s going into the water these days.” Despite his age, he looked far younger than expected.

They stopped at the water’s edge, waiting for him to come off the jetty.

“
Herr
Vogel,” Müller began as Vogel reached them. “I’m…”

“Von Röhnen,” Vogel finished, astonishing Müller. “Yes. I know. I’ve been expecting you for some time.” This was said with an air of resignation.

“You have?”

“Yes, young man. I have been following your career both with respect, and with apprehension. It was only a matter of time before you got to me.” Vogel gave the sign of someone who was glad to have come at last, to the end of a hard race. “Please come up to the house.” He looked at Carey Bloomfield. “You are his wife?”

Taken aback, she said, “Er…”

“This,” Müller interrupted, “is Colonel…”

Vogel’s reaction was totally unexpected. “
Colonel?
A
woman?
My God!”

Müller and Carey Bloomfield glanced at each other, puzzled.

“You’ve got something against women colonels?” she asked him.

“No, no. You don’t understand. Your German is very good, but that’s an American accent. My God. My God.” Vogel seemed very agitated.

“
Herr
Vogel,” Müller said firmly. “Calm yourself. What are you talking about?”

But Vogel was not forthcoming. He also appeared to have forgotten his invitation to them to come into the house.

Müller decided to get directly to the point. “I am here,
Herr
Vogel, to ask why you defamed my parents in your editorial, all those years ago.”

“They made me!” The agitation was suddenly back. “They made me do it!”

“
They?
Who’s ‘they’,
Herr
Vogel?”

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with…”

“I’ve heard that many times before.”

“You should have listened! Left the dogs alone!”

“The dogs?” Carey Bloomfield asked Müller.

“I think he means let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Bit late for the advice. They’ve been awake for some time.”

“So they have,” Müller agreed. “Why do you have photographs of my parents, and their plane, and the crash site on your wall?” he now asked Vogel.

Vogel stared at him. “You’ve been to my house in Kreuzberg? Of course you have,” Vogel went on to himself. “You are here. So you must have known the Kreuzberg address too. All these years. All these years. And here you are. My nemesis.

“I told them,” Vogel went on, staring blankly into nowhere. It was as if Müller and Carey Bloomfield could no longer be seen. “I told them you would start digging. They…”

“Who’s ‘they’,
Herr
Vogel? A bunch of aging men with murderous dreams?”

Vogel gave Müller a look that was not all there. “’
Aging
men’? How little you do know. They recruit all the time. Suitable candidates. They even thought
you
could be groomed, once. You fit the profile perfectly. Then when you became a policeman, they were disappointed. But then, then had a rethink. As a policeman, and an intelligent one at that, suited their plans perfectly. You had all the right connections. Noble family…” Vogel paused, seeming ponder upon something only he could know.

“But then,” he went on suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, “you began investigating in areas they did not like. Worse, you began investigating the death of your parents. They knew then, you might stumble across a can of worms. They could not understand how you managed to start in the first place. You know,” Vogel continued, wandering off again, “I had this place built for my wife and…and I, so we could have a wonderful place to spend our winter years. But she died. No children. So I am alone here…” Vogel stopped, and changed tack again.

“I told them you would not give up. I’d studied your cases from the very beginning. You were unorthodox, I told them. Unpredictable, and good with it. All very bad news for them. I told them. I told them it had all been a mistake. But they would not, will not listen. Stakes too high. Now the colonel…”

“
Herr
Vogel. I must interrupt. You speak of ‘they’ and ‘them’. Do you mean
The Semper?”

Vogel jerked as if hit by a bolt of lightning. If he had been agitated before, he was now terrified.

“You
know?”
It was a whisper of horror. “To know this means you know even more than they dared suspect. It means you know people who…” Vogel stopped again. “I’m finished,” he said quietly. It was almost with relief.

Suddenly, before they realised what was happening, Vogel set off at a run for the villa. His speed was unexpected and by the time they had begun to chase after him, he had already entered the building.

“
Herr Vogel!”
Müller called. “The phone!” he added to Carey Bloomfield. “He’s going for a phone, damn it!”

But Vogel was not heading for a phone. By the time they had entered the villa, they heard a door slam somewhere above their heads. A short while later, a sharp bang followed. Both knew exactly what had happened.

“Shot!” the said together, and raced up the winding staircase.

“Touch nothing!” Müller cautioned.

“I won’t.”

Müller pulled a pair of cotton gloves out of a pocket, and put them on.

They split to check the four bedrooms on the first floor. Müller also gave a sweeping glance in each room he searched, to check in passing for security cameras; but this was in effect far too rudimentary to spot anything hidden, given the pressure of time.

“Nothing,” Carey Bloomfield said as they met up again on a central landing.

“Same here,” Müller said, looking upwards. “Did you spot any security cameras?”

“Nothing in the open. Could be some hidden stuff around, though.”

“If so, we’re on camera.”

A straight flight of stairs, built against a wall, led up to the attic floor. They went up cautiously and just as cautiously, Müller turned the handle of the door at its end.

The door was not locked.

He pushed it open with care. He need not have bothered. In the vast study, lined with packed bookshelves, was a large desk that faced the French windows with a fantastic view of the lake. At the desk, was a crazily slumped Vogel, body leaning to the left, in response to the single shot to the right side of what was left of the head. The gun he had used had fallen out of his hand and onto the floor near the desk.

Müller entered, followed by Carey Bloomfield. Again, there were no signs of any security cameras.

“You’ve got a great effect on people, Müller,” she said as they walked up to the desk.

Carey Bloomfield averted her eyes from the mess, and looked out of the French windows.

“At least, he got a last look at a great view.”

Müller walked slowly round the desk, studying Vogel’s body as he did so. “I can’t say I feel sorry,” he said.

“I did not get as much out of him as I’d hoped;” he said. “But perhaps more than expected, under the circumstances.” He looked down at the gun. “Makarov, DDR model. Interesting gun for a then West Berlin editor. We should leave,” he added. “Now.”

“Great minds,” Pappenheim said. “Tried the car. Assumed you were on walkabout. You first? Or me first?” Pappenheim paused and the sound of a long drag came down the connection. “You first, I think. You’ll need to be sitting down for what I’ve got to say.”

“That bad?”

“Not good.”

Müller took a few seconds before saying, “Alright. Here’s mine. We’re just leaving the second home of the first person on my list...“

“You must love that place.” Pappenheim began to sing, “
nix wie raus
…“