Hunter's Rain (26 page)

The man gave a chilling laugh. “For
us?
Is that what you were about to say? On any balance, Mrs Jackson,” he went on coldly, “
your
situation is the more precarious. We can leave here at any time we choose.
You
can only leave here at the time
we
choose.”

“My husband is doing something.”

“You husband does not frighten me.”

“You clearly don’t know about him at all. “

“I could say I hate to disillusion you, Mrs Jackson, but I won’t; because I do
enjoy
disillusioning you. You, clearly, have no idea what this is all about. Despite the fact that I have contempt for you for coupling with that…that…”

“Go on. Say it. Why don’t you…if it will satisfy that small ego of yours?”

“
Don’t
, push me! I can give you so much pain, you will do anything I ask, just to make it stop.”

She said nothing.

“That’s better,” he said. “Much, much better. Just keep remembering who is master here, and you and I will get along perfectly.”

He stroked her thigh once, slowly, and she forced herself not to flinch, it case that set him off again.

Then she heard him leave. A little later, the key turned in the lock.

Berlin-Wilmersdorf. 11.30, West European Summertime.

Hans Schörma - accompanied by Hammersfeldt - parked the car in such a way that the main entrance to Müller’s apartment, and the garage entrance to the building itself, were well within view. The day had so far remained dry, and was warming up nicely, but not as much as expected for July.

Both were in the usual civilian “uniform” of jeans, trainers and t-shirt with the black, regulation leather jacket that bore the shoulder-mounted green stars of their ranks. Each carried a sidearm, but Schörma had augmented this with a big, Browning automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. He had carried that pistol since his Legionnaire days, a gift from an American fellow-Legionnaire.

Hammersfeldt was peering at the building. “Nice place. Nice to be rich. If I had his money, I’d be off to Majorca, build me a huge villa, and wait for all those summer chickies to come flocking.”

“And here I was thinking you joined us because you liked kicking some heads in.” Schörma gave a feral grin. His haircut bore more than a passing resemblance to the brutal crop of the Legion.

Hammersfeldt gave a distant smile. “I’m fascinated by him, though. I mean, he’s got all that money, that car, those clothes…”

“And don’t forget the ponytail, and the earring,” Schörma added, baring huge teeth. “But don’t let that fool you. He can be as hard as nails, when he wants to be. An old Legion friend came here for a visit, and saw him walking by. “Bet there are some people who think he’s a weak tit’, he said to me. ‘Let me tell you about guys like this. They are dangerous. Knew a cop like that once. The cruds on the street hated, and feared him.’ ’Why?’ I asked. ‘Because’, he said, ‘they could never tell where he was coming from. He wrong-footed those suckers all the time.’ That fits your Hauptkommissar, perfectly.”

“So you have a lot of respect for him.”

“Oh yes. He and Pappenheim are the best pair of cops I’ve come across. Pappenheim is supposed to have taught him all he knows. I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but the Oberkommissar is a character all by himself too. Tough bastard, if you ask me. Instinctive. I mean, look at what happened last May. Who would have ever imagined he would have decided to wear body armour that night?
He
did it because his gut instincts told him.

“That’s the kind of thing that makes all the difference between cops like Müller and Pappenheim, and you or I; and I’ve been real in wars. Out there on the battlefield, trusting your instincts and your buddy to do the right thing at the right time, can mean the difference between getting your head blown off, and taking it back with you in one piece. Müller and Pappenheim are like that; they trust their instincts, and each other. And it works for them. I’ve seen some cops I wouldn’t trust if they were the last people on earth.”

“We’re not ‘watching’ them. We supposed to look after them. What do they look like? Well, they’re an oldish - not
really
old – couple. The Hauptkommissar’s aunt, and her husband. They’ll be driving a Mercedes coupe. She knows the apartment. I think we’ll be able to recognise them,” Schörma added drily.

“Well, I think they’re coming.”

Schörma looked in the direction Hammersfeldt was pointing. The Mercedes coupe was just nosing round the corner into the street that lead to Müller’s building.

They got out of their car, and began walking at a rapid pace to where the Mercedes was pulling to a halt, just in front of the entrance to the garage.

Knowing instantly this was not Greville’s mother tongue, Schörma said, “Good morning. I speak English. No. No trouble. I am Schörma, and this is Hammersfeldt. We are from
Oberkommissar
Pappenheim.”

“Ah,” Greville said, then reverting to English, “All now clear. The cavalry. Glad you speak the lingo, old man. Don’t have to offend your ears with my quite execrable German. I’m Greville, and I’m certain you know this is
Hauptkommissar
Müller’s aunt.”

Schörma nodded. “Yes, sir. I do. Now we will leave you to your business. We just wanted to introduce ourselves. We will be out here, on watch. Not to worry.”

“No worries at all, old boy. Glad to have you.”

That was when everything changed.

Schörma had begun to turn, in preparation for heading back to the unmarked police car. His eyes popped when he saw the gun in Hammersfeldt’s hand. Then they screwed up in pain as a single shot tore into his chest. He staggered backwards and even though dying, had begun to pull at his own sidearm. He never made it. A second shot ripped next to the first.

Hammersfeldt lowered his weapon, but did not put it away. “Quick!” he urged in English. “We must go! Schörma was trying to kidnap you! I was afraid to do anything before. I did not get a chance until now.”

Greville stared at him. “What do you mean ‘kidnap’?”

“I heard him on his phone to someone,” Hammersfeldt said. “He did not know I heard. They were talking about you! He was supposed to take you, and kill me!”

Greville moved closer. He did so with unhurried steps. “Calm yourself, my boy. Let’s have this coherently...”

Greville considered he was close enough and acted with a speed that astonished Hammersfeldt, who had clearly thought he was dealing with an old and slow pensioner.

A chopping palm slammed into the upper arm of the hand that held the gun. Hammersfeldt gasped with the fierceness of the sudden pain, The hand opened involuntarily, and the weapon dropped to the ground. Greville swiftly picked it up, and pointed it at Hammersfeldt.

“Now,” Greville said, “do let’s talk about this little piece of theatre. Don’t move a muscle, old boy. I am quite good with these toys.”

Hammersfeldt looked into eyes that sent shivers through him, and remained perfectly still, not even trying to hold with his other hand, the upper arm that now hurt excruciatingly.

“Stay where you are, my dear,” Greville called to Aunt Isolde; then with his left hand, he fished his mobile out of a jacket pocket, and keeping a cold eye upon Hammersfeldt, dialled Pappenheim’s number.

“Pappenheim.”

“Ah.
Oberkommissar
. Greville, here. We’re at Müller’s place.”

“Welcome to Berlin, Mr Greville…”

“I’m afraid the welcome has been rather thin. One of your officer’s is down. Schörma…”

“
What?
And the other one? Hammersfeldt?”

“
You?”

“Me. I’ve now got him at the point of his own gun, pending further enquiries. He gave a cock-and-bull story about Schörma planning to kidnap us. Rubbish, of course. But it does make one wonder about his own motives.”

“It certainly does, Mr Greville. I’ve already got people on the way even as we speak, and...”

It was at that moment that Hammersfeldt decided to make his move. He turned, and ran, removing the leather jacket and dropping it as he went. He did not run towards the unmarked patrol car.

“
Stop!”
Greville shouted.
“Stop I say!”
But he did not shoot, and Hammersfeldt escaped.

“
What was that?”
came Pappenheim’s voice sharply.

“I’m afraid our man has legged it.”

“He
ran?”

“Afraid so. Clean getaway. You have lost a second policeman, old man. Something tells me you won’t be seeing him again in this particular uniform. He threw off the jacket he was wearing.”

“As well you might. Look. I feel rather exposed out here with a police weapon in my hand, and a dead officer at my feet. People are beginning to look.”

“Put the gun away, and pretend you’re caring for him. Some of my people will be with you soon.
Kommissarin
Fohlmeister is in charge. She’ll take care of everything. As soon as she arrives, leave her to it, and get inside. Your part will be over. Just look after Jens’ aunt, and yourself.”

“Will do, old boy. They can’t get here soon enough.”

A few minutes later, one of the Ready Group’s vans screeched to a halt, and Ilona Fohlmeister jumped out, followed by three male colleagues, who immediately began to attend to the dead Schörma.

She went up to Greville, hand outstretched. “Mr Greville? Ilona Fohlmeister.”

“Glad you’re here,” he said, shaking hands. He gave her the gun. “This was Hammersfeldt’s.”

Her lips tightened as she took the weapon, then turned to look as Schörma’s body was placed on a stretcher, covered, then picked up to be put into the van.

Baden-Baden outskirts, 1145, West European Summer Time.

Müller had made even better time than he had hoped. He had driven at extremely high speed, reducing Carey Bloomfield at times to long periods of silence as she had watched the road stream before her, marvelling that the car had remained on the road at all.

Sections of the A5 autobahn had felt so rough, with a regular and sometimes thumping that was accentuated by the Porsche’s stiffened suspension, despite the comfort within the car itself.

She now gave a quite sigh of relief as Müller began to slow down, in preparation for the approach to the exit.

He glanced at her. “We’re you frightened?”

“Of course not!”

“Good run, wasn’t it? We are here before midday. I enjoy these high-speed dashes from time to time. The car feels free; like a charger being given free rein.”

“It’s a car, Müller.”

“It’s 450 horses,” he corrected, smiling, knowing she was trying to goad him.

“I’m happy for all of them. So where does this person we’ve charged down to see, live?”

“Just outside Baden-Baden. We won’t have to go through town. In fact, not far from the autobahn. Very handy.”

They found the place less than ten minutes later. It was indeed close to the autobahn; but the large house within its huge grounds was such a haven of peace, the traffic could scarcely be heard.

Carey Bloomfield stared at the house, as it came into view at the end of a long avenue of tall trees.