Meyer-Hofmann AG

30

Joe Wilson pondered over the Interpol report. Britt Petersen has taken back her statement. I can only assume that somebody has got to her, because all of the evidence points towards murder. We have DNA from the Singh child and a blood toxicity report that screams to be heard. The investigation had also widened to incorporate the death of Deputy Chief Hanson. Telephone records showed that Hanson had accepted a call from Germany on the day of the Singh Family’s deaths and again the day before his own death. Bank receipts revealed large sums of cash had been paid into his account. These alone were reason enough for suspicion, but it was the phone number that was decisive. It had been traced to Germany, to a building on Gallery Street, a building owned by Meyer-Hofmann AG, the company Britt Petersen had accused of murder. The New York City Police Department was now taking the case very seriously and were investigating any deaths that could be associated with Meyer-Hofmann. The search had not taken long to verify their suspicions, and a three-speared task force between the NYPD, Interpol, and the Munich KRIPO had been set up to coordinate their efforts. Joe had been given authorisation to contact the investigating officers in Germany directly, and he wasn’t going to pull any punches.

“Detective Müller, my name is Detective Joe Wilson of the Portland Police Department.”

“Detective Wilson, it is nice to hear from you.”

Joe found the German’s command of the English language remarkable.

“Detective, we are now convinced that the Singh Family were indeed murdered, and we also think it is imperative that you take Mrs Petersen into protective custody. She could be in real danger!”

“Mrs Petersen was very determined to convince us that this was all a bad joke, Detective. What evidence do you have?”

“We have blood work, DNA, and a direct connection between Meyer-Hofmann AG and the Deputy Chief of the New York Police. Detective Müller, this is a conspiracy that doesn’t stop at the Singh Family. There are more than four other deaths under investigation.”

“Yes, this sounds very serious. I will contact Mrs Petersen immediately and see that she is brought into safety.”

“We have sent you all the documentation through Interpol. It includes telephone calls from Munich to our deputy chief, as well as the new coroner’s report. I would appreciate you keeping me in the loop on this.”

“Yes, of course, Detective. I will.”

As they talked, the computer screen on Günther’s desk lit up, and the picture of a red Mustang vanished, to be replaced by the Windows screensaver. His departmental inbox was blinking intermittently as new e-mails arrived, a small number in the bottom corner of the thumbnail counting the documents.

“What exactly are you sending me, Detective?”

“There is a summary of our investigation and, as I said, the new coroner’s report. But I would like you to find out who is on the end of the telephone number in Munich.”

“Which telephone number is that?”

“Chief Hanson received a number of calls from a phone registered to Meyer-Hofmann. I think whoever is on the end of that phone is likely to be our man.”

“Yes, that is certainly likely. I will get straight on it, Detective. Thank you very much for your help!”

Günther put down the phone and stared at his notepad.

If what he says is true, I am going to need more manpower.

Wilson’s story seemed unbelievable to Müller.

Picking up the phone again, he pressed the short cut key for Monika’s desk.

I will let her take care of Frau Petersen. I have to find out who made that telephone call from Meyer-Hofmann.

The modern digital world had many downsides, not least the loss of a person’s anonymity the moment they make a phone call. The number Wilson had given Günther was an extension of the Meyer-Hofmann Social and Business Clubs network on Gallery Street. Meyer-Hofmann was a company Günther had never had dealings with, but after a short internet search, it seemed to have connections with some very influential German people and companies. The telephone number was one of over fifty extension numbers.

That building can’t have more than twenty rooms? Either every guest receives a personal number when they enter the club, or something is not right, Müller mused.

After thinking it over for a moment, Günther decided that his first visit to the club should not be of an official nature. Pulling in some IOUs, he managed to wrangle a table for two that very afternoon. He just hoped that Monika had more clothes with her than just her customary jeans and a T-Shirt.

When the car pulled up in front of Ett Street Police Station, Monika was driving. She was wearing a tailored blue trouser suit and cream blouse, which made her look like she had just stepped out of a business meeting. Only the mane of blonde hair that bent and bumped around her neck softened her appearance.

“Very nice, Frau Keller,” said Günther after climbing into the passenger seat and looking her up and down.

“Thank you, Herr Müller!” Monika gave him a smile before charging off towards the Odeonsplatz.

Entering the club, Müller was immediately put on his guard. The reservation had been made in a pseudonym, but the maître d’ was insisting that they both fill out the guest book before taking their table. That was very unusual in Munich, where most business clubs were more relaxed. After entering fictitious names and addresses, the pair waited for their personal waiter, whom they followed into the Club’s interior. Müller wasn’t sure what to expect, but the talented butterflies in his stomach were buzzing with conviction. After ordering an apéritif, Günther excused himself and went off in search of the toilets. A few carefully chosen wrong turns later, he found himself on the third floor of the club, outside a large oak door. The engraved gold plaque announced that he was standing at the entrance to the Drawing Room. Moving with discretion, he slowly opened the heavy door, but its weight deceived him. Opening inwards, it pulled him into the room, causing his unceremonious entrance to be witnessed by all of the room’s occupants. Eva Von Klitzing was standing next to the bar at the back of the room. Recognising the intruder, she turned her back to the door, feigning conversation with the bemused bartender.

Better safe than sorry, Eva thought, downing the glass of wine in her hand in one, before gesturing to the bartender for a refill.

A second visit to the hairdresser had returned her hair colour back to brunette. Hair extensions completed the transformation. Dark red lipstick made her lips fuller and contrasted against her brilliant white bleached smile. Müller scanned the room, noticing the woman’s evasive reaction. Intrigued, he made a beeline for her, only to be headed off by an officious-looking man.

“How can I help you?” Von Klitzing put himself between the intruder and his daughter.

“Oh, excuse me, I was just looking around. I thought I recognised the young lady behind you.”

“I am afraid these rooms are off-limits to non-members.”

“I will be gone in just a moment. Young Lady!” Müller called in Eva’s direction.

She was unsure what to do, but it would have looked suspicious had she not turned around.

“Excuse me, do I know you?”Günther was good at faces. Her hair colour and makeup had changed, but her name was Britt Peterson, last time they had met.

“I am sorry, I was mistaken. I thought you were Britt Peterson, maybe you know her?”

“Yes, of course, she is the wife of one of Meyer-Hofmann’s board members. My name is Eva Von Klitzing. I didn’t catch yours.” Eva’s stomach was tight with fear, but she managed to give the policeman a confident greeting.

“Günther Müller, nice to meet you.” Günther shook her hand before offering his to Von Klitzing.

“And you are?”

“Von Klitzing. I am afraid you will have to leave. As I said, these rooms are private.”

“Yes, of course, I am sorry. It is a remarkable resemblance.”

“People say so. Now, you must leave!”Müller turned and headed for the door, his stomach basking in the glory of another successful assumption. He could feel the eyes of the room on his back as he considered the consequences of his find.

Leaving the room, he made his way quickly back to the restaurant. Monika could tell the moment she saw him that she would not get to enjoy a quiet lunch. Standing, she anticipated his gesture and pulled her purse from her handbag. Waving to their ever-present waiter, she thrust a twenty-euro note into his hand, and they left the club at a canter.

Once back on the Munich streets, Monika did not have to wait long for an explanation.

“Britt Peterson was an imposter. I just met the woman who impersonated her upstairs, and she is the daughter of one of the board members’.”

“You are kidding! How do you know?”

“It was her. It is too much of a coincidence. She recognised me straightaway when I entered the room.”

“Then where is the real Mrs Peterson?”

“That is what we have to find out, and quickly. I have a bad feeling.”

“Do you think she is dead?”

“There is no other reason for them impersonating her.”

“So what is our next move?”

“We invite them all back to our place. I want to know what they are up to. Monika, I need all the videotapes of the Petersen interview.”

“No problem, Boss!”