Need You Dead

34 Friday 22 April

A casually dressed red-haired woman in her thirties stood there with a welcoming smile.

‘Roy?’

He held out his hand. ‘Anette?’

She nodded, and stared at him intently. ‘Wow, your son is so like you!’

‘Really?’

‘Incredible!’

He noticed a rucksack and two large suitcases in the hallway behind her.

‘Would you like some coffee? Or perhaps as an Englishman you’d prefer some tea?’

‘OK. Coffee would be good, thank you.’

‘Would your friend like to come in?’

‘No, thank you, he’s happy to wait. I think it would be best if I’m on my own.’

‘Yes, I think so. You met with Andreas Thomas?’

‘Yes, I’ve just come from his office.’

‘I think he’s a good lawyer.’

‘I liked him — he seems very sensible and practical.’

‘Good.’ Then she looked hard at him again and smiled. ‘You really are just so alike!’

A lanky, serious-looking man, dressed in a sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, appeared in the hall.

‘This is my husband, Ingo,’ she said.

The two men shook hands.

‘It’s good to meet you,’ her husband said, also in excellent English with a pronounced American accent.

‘I’m very grateful to you both — and your son — for taking care of Bruno.’

‘It has not been a problem, I think our Erik has enjoyed having his company. He is going to miss him,’ Ingo said, a tad stiffly. ‘So are you ready to meet your son?’

He smiled, nervously. ‘Absolutely!’

They led him through into a large, bright modern kitchen, with a view out onto a sizeable, well-kept garden, mostly laid to lawn, and woods beyond. Two goalposts, complete with nets, were positioned on part of the lawn.

‘Is Erik keen on football?’ Grace asked.

‘Crazy about it!’ his father replied.

‘What team does he support?’

‘Bayern, of course! But also he likes in your country Manchester United.’

‘Oh?’

Ingo shrugged. ‘Bruno, also, he likes football.’

‘I’ll have to get him to switch his allegiance to Brighton — the Seagulls!’

‘He’s been talking about them.’

‘Good.’ Then he hesitated. ‘So, how is he?’

He caught the fleeting glance between the German couple, before Ingo responded. ‘Oh, he’s doing well, you know. It’s difficult, yes?’

‘Incredibly, I would imagine.’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘But he’s a strong boy,’ Anette added, with a reassurance in her voice that was not matched by her expression.

And in that moment, picking up on their unease, he thought, but did not say, They can’t wait for him to be gone.

Anette called out, up the stairs, ‘Bruno! Your father is here!’ Then she walked over to the coffee machine and began filling it with water.

Ingo ushered Grace to the island unit in the middle of the kitchen and both men sat up on bar stools.

‘You and your wife speak very good English,’ Grace said, politely, then instantly wished he had used this time to ask him something about Bruno.

‘We were for three years in New York.’

‘Ah, right. Great city.’

‘Oh sure.’

‘So, can you give me any advice about Bruno — from what you know of him?’

He noticed the evasive look in the man’s eyes. ‘Advice? Well — you know — Anette and I—’

Then he fell silent. Grace saw that he was looking past him, and turned.

An extremely good-looking, slim, small boy stood in the entrance to the room. Still. As if he had appeared like a ghost.

And Roy Grace’s heart stopped.

The boy was dressed in a checked shirt, tight chinos and a canvas jacket. His hair was gelled and neatly brushed, and his expression was intensely serious.

Christ. It could have been his father standing there. A miniature — bonsai — version of his dad, Jack Grace.

He slid off the stool, then walked towards him. It felt as if he was walking in slow motion. Aware of the eyes of both Lipperts on him.

The boy’s face was blank, registering absolutely no emotion. As if he was on sentry duty.

As he reached the boy, he was uncertain for a moment whether to hug Bruno or more formally shake his hand. He stopped in front of him and smiled.

He hadn’t known what to expect, he realized. The kid to run towards him screaming, ‘Papa, Papa, Papa,’ with delight? A handshake?

Then the boy held out his hand, and Roy’s heart began to melt.

‘Bruno,’ Roy said, shaking the small, warm hand. ‘Hello. I’m your father.’

There was a long, awkward moment as the two of them stood there, father and son. Total strangers, but with one immensely strong link. He continued to hold the boy’s hand, afraid to let it go, to break this tiny bond between them.

‘Hello, Papa,’ the boy said quietly, with a slight American accent.

‘It’s great to meet you, Bruno. Listen, I’m so sorry about everything — I wish we could be meeting in a different situation. How are you feeling about coming to England?’ He let go of the boy’s hand and it dropped to his side.

Bruno looked down at the floor with a forlorn expression, as if he was close to tears.

There had been few occasions in his life when Roy Grace had been lost for words. This was one of them. As he stared back at the sad-looking youngster he struggled, very hard, to think of something more to say.

It felt like an eternity before the right thing occurred to him. ‘I’m told you like football — what team do you support?’

The boy’s reply was a barely audible whisper. ‘Bayern.’

‘I like football, too.’

Bruno said nothing for some moments, then he asked, very politely, ‘Do you support Bayern, too?’

‘I think they’re brilliant,’ Roy said with a smile. ‘I watch them a lot in the Champions League, but my home team is Brighton, the Seagulls.’

His son nodded, then said, ‘They have a good season so far.’

‘That’s right, they’ve had a run of bad luck just recently, but should make the play-offs.’

Again the boy nodded. Then he asked, with a sudden flash of excitement in his eyes, ‘Will you take me to a football match?’

‘Sure, of course. You’d like that?’

He shrugged. ‘If they are any good.’

Grace smiled, happy to have a channel of communication with him, and feeling a burst of optimism. It was going to work out fine, it really was.

He hoped.