Meyer-Hofmann AG

24

The International Crime Police Organisation, better known as Interpol, was set up in 1923 to help cross-border intelligence between police departments of member countries. With one hundred and ninety member countries, it is the second largest intergovernmental organisation after the United Nations. Functioning as an administrative liaison between forces, Interpol allows communication between law enforcement agencies across language boundaries. Collating an immense criminal database, it then places it at the disposal of all member countries. Untethered by national boundaries, this multilateral knowledge database and its seven hundred personnel, is in a far better position to construct a larger picture of international crime than national agencies.

Joe Wilson’s request for information on Britt Petersen was entered into the database and passed on to the Bundeskriminalamt, Germany’s version of the FBI. They, in turn, contacted Munich’s Criminal Police. For this reason, Detective Inspector Günther Müller and Detective Constable Monika Keller had left their office on Ett Street and were heading in the direction of Starnberg. They had been unable to reach Mrs Petersen by phone, her mobile phone jumping to voicemail after the first ring. On account of the allegations and his position in the Company, they had decided not to talk to her husband, at least not yet. Both officers had discussed the matter at length. Mrs Petersen’s husband was on the board of a very big company. It had connections to German Industry and politics at the highest level. Any allegations must be substantiated, before anything became public. It was an opportunity for them both. Günther was in his twenty-fifth year at the Kripo (criminal police) but, at forty-eight years of age, he was still ambitious.

This could be a dream job. Industrial espionage and murder—it is like something out of the movies.

Slowly stroking his short-cropped, light brown beard, he pondered the opportunity as he accelerated the unmarked police car down the motorway.

Monika was still in her first year at the Kripo. She had flown through the police college, and after a short spell as a Munich Police Officer, she had been moved to the criminal police. She originally joined the police as a way of supporting her sporting ambitions. She had been an Olympic speed skater at the age of eighteen, and the police were one of only a few employers who would tolerate the constant demands of sporting ambition. It was quite a surprise to her that, in the last four years, she had grown away from her sport and become more and more interested in the job. So much so that when the opportunity to become a detective came up, she had grabbed it with both hands, despite it costing her a second chance of success at the Olympics in Russia. Getting to work with Müller had been a major feather, as he was one of the best detectives in Munich and was tipped to become the chief inspector someday. Looking across at her boss in the car, Monika could feel the nerves flutter in her stomach, much as they had done during competition. The difference was that, here, she felt she was making a difference. She signalled that Günther should take the next exit and sat back deep in her seat, theorising what puzzle might be waiting for them. Despite the German tendency to use only surnames in the work place, Günther had offered her the more personal first name term (du) shortly after they started working together.

“We will be there in about ten minutes, Günther. Unless you drive any slower!”

“Don’t be cheeky, Monika. There is no rush,” Günther said, putting on a serious expression.

Tucking her long blonde ponytail through the back of her baseball cap, Monika prepared for their first meeting with Britt Petersen. She had read Petersen’s accusations a hundred times, but there was little way of knowing if they were true. Preliminary investigations had not turned up any evidence of wrongdoing by the company in the German Republic, but the charge of murdering its employees would mean a thorough investigation before the case was closed.

They arrived at the house, just as an attractive woman was carrying a large cardboard box through the white front door. Her blonde hair was longer than in the photos they had seen, but it could well have been Mrs Petersen. Both officers moved swiftly from the car to the house, keen to close the distance between themselves and their witness.

“Excuse me, please, Mrs Petersen?”

Lisa Jarvis had heard the car pull up as she was emptying her car boot of the last of ten heavy boxes. Since Michael’s enforced departure on Company business, she had tried to occupy herself with the move to the Petersens’ house, before starting her work at PricewaterhouseCoopers in the coming week. Michael’s decision had led to another argument and a lot of tears on her part, but he was not to be swayed. She hoped that once he had settled into the job, his strange behaviour and health issues would relent, and they could get back to the relationship they had known before the move to Germany. Taut Skype calls had done little to ease her fears for their future, as, despite his words of never-ending love, his tone had left her cold. On the plus side, the house was amazing. Britt Petersen had done such a lovely job of decorating. Lisa was sure just a few boxes of personal stuff scattered liberally throughout the house would suffice, until they made a decision on whether to buy it or not.

“Mrs Petersen is not here,” Lisa said, turning to greet the visitors. “My name is Jarvis; we are renting the house from the Petersens.”

“My name is Müller, Günther Müller, from the criminal police in Munich.” Günther showed her his ID, which she took from his hand and examined closely.

Müller was nothing like the photo on the card. In fact, the couple didn’t look a bit like the police she had seen in her short time in Germany. No green-and-brown uniforms, rather designer blue jeans and baseball caps. It was certainly the same man, but his hair had been shaven for the photo, and now it was long and unruly. The photograph’s stern stare had disguised a friendly and likeable face, the kind you could trust. Monika also handed Lisa her ID; she too looked better in real life. Lisa was not a nosy person, but she liked a scandal as much as the next woman.

I wonder what she has been up to? she thought to herself with a smile.

“Would you know where I could find Mrs Petersen?”

“I am afraid I don’t, but please, come in.”

They followed her into the house and dodged around the boxes in the hallway. She had gone straight into the kitchen, and they followed her, both getting a feel for the house as they went. The woman was classy, but a little needy. Günther made a note to make a break for it as soon as she had answered his questions.

“Tea? We brought it with us from England.”

“Yes, thank you. Mrs Jarvis, can I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes, of course, but I don’t think I will be of much help. I have never met Mrs Petersen. We got the house from her husband. They are separated, you know. Shame, really—it’s such a lovely place.”

Lisa busied herself with the tea, PG Tips, in a porcelain teapot.

Not exactly British aristocracy, but they were German, so they wouldn’t know the difference.

She smiled at them, and, taking the tray with cups, saucers, sugar, milk, and the teapot, she made her way into the lounge.

“Thank you,” they each said as she offered them a cup.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Milk, please.”

Monika declined with a wave of her hand and sat back to watch her boss work.

Lisa poured the milk from the teapot’s matching jug and gave him one of her best smiles. This was a welcome break, dealing with someone else’s problems, instead of her own.

“Mrs Jarvis, I hope I can count on your discretion. We are investigating the Company that Mr Petersen works for. Mrs Petersen has sent us some information we are eager to follow up on. For obvious reasons, it would be better if Mr Petersen, and anyone else from the Company, remain unaware of our interest at this time.”

Lisa got that bad feeling again.

“My husband works for the Company.” She blurted this out, rather than saying it. “But he has only just started; two weeks ago. That’s why we have just moved in.”

“Okay, your husband is in no way involved, but it would still be better if you didn’t tell him about my visit either, please.”

Then the cookie dropped; Müller looked up and gave her a quizzical look.

“Is your husband the gentleman from Prince Regent Street Underground?”

“Yes, yes. That’s him.”

“That’s a very brave thing he did, Mrs Jarvis. You must be very proud.”

“I thought it was bloody stupid!”

They all laughed, Lisa covering her mouth with embarrassment at what had just burst out.

“No, don’t get me wrong, I am proud. Of course I am proud. But it was completely out of character. Even he didn’t know what came over him.” Smiling again, she took another sip of tea and sat back in the leather sofa.

“And where is Mr Jarvis now?”

“He is away on business. I am not expecting him back for quite some time, as he has to visit the Company’s assets all over the world.”

Interpol had already sent Müller a list of all Meyer-Hofmann’s business interests, and it was a long list. They had also sent him a list of deaths and suicides of company employees in the last twelve months. That made disturbing reading, especially when you looked at the people’s heredity.

“Mrs Jarvis, I cannot tell you what we are investigating at this stage, but if you notice anything unusual, anything at all, please get in touch with us.”

He handed her a card and made to stand up. She reached over, immediately catching his thigh and motioning for him to sit down.

“My husband has being acting crazy ever since we arrived here.” Again, she blurted the sentence out.

Müller looked confused but sat back down.

“Please, whatever you have to tell me, continue.”

“The Underground. The speech at the Town Hall in German. He doesn’t speak German! He was ill, and he told me he had been drugged.” Müller pulled a notepad from his pocket.

“Slowly, now, who drugged your husband?”

“I don’t know, but it can only have happened at the club, the one on Gallery Street.”

“Your husband told you this?”

“Yes, but then he denied it. God, it’s all so mad. He is just not himself—he is aggressive and loud and obnoxious.”

“Maybe it’s just the pressure of the move?”

“No, no, he is used to pressure, but he has never acted this way before. I feel like I don’t know him anymore. Someone has done something to him, given him something.” Her tone was pleading, and her hand was back on his thigh.

If Müller could have a Euro for every time he had heard the line, “my husband doesn’t understand me” in his career. Another marriage gone sour. People going their separate ways. He doubted it had anything to do with the Petersen case. But the idea that he might have been drugged was intriguing.

“Mrs Jarvis, I don’t know what all this means, or whether it has any bearing on our investigation. But I will most certainly bear it in mind. If you think of anything else, you know where to get me. Now, unfortunately, we really have to get back to the station and try to determine the whereabouts of Mrs Petersen.” Standing in unison, the officers moved briskly towards the door. Looking over his shoulder, Günther could see Lisa Jarvis had not moved and was staring blankly at the carpet under the coffee table.