Not Dead Enough

62

Marcel Kullen pulled over to the kerb and pointed across the street. Roy Grace saw a large, beige-coloured store on the corner. It had book-lined windows and the interior was dark. Lights inside, hanging from stalks, were switched on, providing decoration rather than any illumination. They reminded Grace of glow-worms.

Elegant grey letters on the store front read The Munich Readery. Another announced Second-hand Books in English.

‘I just wanted to show you the shop. I am asking in this tomorrow,’ the German detective said.

Grace nodded. He had consumed two large beers, a bratwurst, sauerkraut and potatoes, and was feeling decidedly woozy. In fact, he was having a problem keeping his eyes open.

‘Sandy was a big reader, you told me?’

Was. The word jarred in Grace’s mind. He didn’t like people referring to Sandy in the past tense, as if she were dead. But he let it slide. He used that tense himself often enough, subconsciously. Feeling more energized suddenly, he said, ‘Yes, she’s a big reader, always has been. Crime, thrillers – all kinds of mystery novels. Biographies as well – she liked reading about women explorers in particular.’

Kullen put the car in gear and drove on. ‘What is it – you have this saying in England – Keep your pecker up?’

Grace patted his friend on the arm. ‘Good memory!’

‘So now us will go to the police headquarters. There they have the records for the missing persons. I have a friend, Sabine Thomas, the Polizeirat who is in charge of this department. She is coming in to meet us.’

‘Thank you,’ Grace said. ‘That’s kind of her, on a Sunday.’

His earlier optimism had deserted him and he was feeling flat, realizing again the enormity of what faced him here. He watched quiet streets, deserted shops, cars, pedestrians slide by. She could be anywhere. In a room behind any of these façades, in any of these cars, on any of these streets. And this was just one city. How many gazillion towns and cities in the world were there where she might be?

He found the button on his door and lowered his window. Sultry, humid air blew on his face. The foolishness he had felt earlier, as he had returned to the table after his fruitless chase, had gone, but now he felt lost.

Somehow, after Dick Pope’s call, he had felt that all he had to do was go to the Englischer Garten and he would find Sandy there. Waiting for him. As if somehow letting Dick and Lesley Pope see her had been her subtle way of getting the message to him.

How dumb was that?

‘If you like on the way to the office we can walk through Marienplatz. It is a small detour. We can go there to the Viktualienmarkt, the place I told you where I think an English person might go for food.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Then you are come to my house and you meet my family.’

Grace smiled at him, wondering if the German had any idea just how much he envied him the apparent normality of his life. Then, suddenly, his mobile phone rang. Grace looked at the display.

Private number.

He let it ring a couple more times, hesitating. Probably work, and he wasn’t in the right mood to speak to anyone from work right now. But he was aware of his responsibilities. With a heavy heart, he pressed the green button.

‘Yo!’

It was Glenn Branson.

‘Wassup?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Munich.’

‘Munich? You’re still there?’

‘It’s only been a few hours.’

‘What the fuck are you doing there anyway?’

‘Trying to buy you a horse.’

There was a long silence. ‘A what?’ And then, ‘Oh, I get it. Very funny. Munich – shit, man. Ever see that movie Night Train to Munich?’

‘No.’

‘Directed by Carol Reed.’

‘Never saw it. This is not a good time to discuss movies.’

‘Yeah, well, you were watching The Third Man the other night. He directed that too.’

‘Is that what you phoned to tell me about?’

‘No.’ He was about to add something, when Kullen leaned across Grace, pointing at a rather unimpressive looking building.

‘Hold on a moment.’ Grace covered the mouthpiece.

‘The Bierkeller where Hitler was thrown out from, because he did not pay his bill!’ he said. ‘A rumour, you know!’

‘I’m just driving past Adolf Hitler’s watering hole,’ Grace informed Branson.

‘Yeah? Well, keep on driving past it. We have a problem.’

‘Tell me?’

‘It’s big. Massive. OK?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘You sound pissed. Have you been drinking?’

‘No,’ Grace said, mentally sharpening himself up. ‘Tell me?’

‘We have another murder on our hands,’ the DS said. ‘Similarities with Katie Bishop.’

And suddenly Roy Grace was sitting bolt upright, fully alert. ‘What similarities?’

‘A young woman – name of Sophie Harrington. She’s been found dead with a gas mask on her face.’

Cold fingers crawled up Grace’s spine. ‘Shit. What else do you have?’

‘What else do you need? I’m telling you, man, you need to get your ass back here.’

‘You have DI Murphy. She can handle it.’

‘She’s your understudy,’ he said disparagingly.

‘If you want to call her that. So far as I’m concerned, she’s my deputy SIO.’

‘You know what they said about Greta Garbo’s understudy?’

Struggling to remember any movie he had ever seen the screen legend in, Grace replied testily, ‘No, what did they say?’

‘Greta Garbo’s understudy can do everything that Greta Garbo does, except for whatever it is that Greta Garbo does.’

‘Very flattering.’

‘You geddit?’

‘I geddit.’

‘In that case get your ass on the next plane back here. Alison Vosper thinks she has your scalp. I don’t give a toss about those politics, but I do give a toss about you. And we need you.’

‘Did you remember to feed Marlon?’ Grace asked.

‘Marlon?’

‘The goldfish.’

‘Oh, shit.’