No Sleep for the Dead Page 7

  ‘What? What is it?’

  But his face was expressionless. ‘It sounds German. Frank spent some time over there, that’s all. I’ll look into it.’

  She realised that was all she was going to get out of him and decided not to press him further. ‘I feel disloyal talking to you like this,’ she said, wondering if he thought her actions were crossing some invisible line of confidentiality between colleagues. ‘Like it’s private.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Charlie replied bluntly. ‘Just because Frank’s a secretive, obstinate git, doesn’t mean we have to be.’ He chewed his lip. ‘This Gillivray character you called on in Harrow; could he have got heavy with Frank for dropping papers on him? Gone after him, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. Frank didn’t seem worried. He said he was a low-level conman, but maybe there’s more to him than that.’ Riley ran through the possibilities in her mind. She hadn’t given the idea any serious thought, principally because Palmer had seemed so relaxed about it. She was pretty sure that if he’d thought there was any chance of heavy retaliation, he never would have involved her in the first place.

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Charlie glanced at his watch and said: ‘I’ve got to go.’ He levered himself out of his seat and smoothed down the front of his jacket. ‘Look, don’t worry. I’m sure Frank’s okay. But I’ll see what I can come up with. If you think of anything else, give me a call.’ He dug out a card and scribbled down a phone number. ‘That’s my mobile. If he turns up in the meantime, give him hell.’

  He gave a reassuring smile and disappeared through a side door into the street.

  Later, Riley was in her flat finishing some preparatory notes on the annual migration of fruit pickers and their gang masters, when her phone rang. It was Charlie. The sound of traffic was heavy in the background, accompanied by the noise of a roller door closing nearby and the harsh clatter of a motorbike engine.

  ‘You should go into business with Frank full-time,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got a good eye for detail.’

  Riley felt her stomach tense. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Those doodles you found on the notepad in Frank’s office. I fed the words into a database, and came up with some hits. By themselves, the words meant exactly what we thought they did, which was ‘sergeant’, ‘regulation’ and the French capital. Meiningen is a small town in what was eastern Germany, just over the border.’

  ‘Oh. I wondered if it might be significant.’

  ‘It might well be, but I haven’t figured out why yet. I’m sure I’ve heard of it before, but it could be through work stuff. When I put the words together, I still got a lot of odd hits, but then one connection jumped off the screen at me. There was no link to Meiningen, but the most obvious hit for the others was that in February eighty-nine, a Sergeant Reginald Paris, RMP, was killed in an RTA on the autobahn near Frankfurt. That’s about the same time Frank was in Germany.’

  Sgt. Reg. Paris. It explained the notes Palmer had made. Riley said, ‘He must have served with him. But why would he be thinking about him now?’

  ‘No idea. Before my time, I’m afraid. I was hoping there would be some notes to go with it, but there’s nothing other than the report of the death. The bloke’s officially dead – recorded and confirmed.’

  ‘Could there have been a mistake?’ Riley’s immediate thought was that Reg Paris and the man in Harrow were one and the same, as wild as that sounded to her. But Charlie’s response seemed to counter it.

  ‘I doubt it. The army doesn’t make mistakes like that, not when it comes to paying out pensions and stuff.’

  ‘How did it happen?’ Riley wondered if Palmer had been involved, which might explain his reference to ghosts.

  ‘His car was totalled by a Merc transporter travelling in the same direction. The report says Paris was driving a pool Opel and must have wandered across the lanes, like he’d fallen asleep. Some of those pool cars weren’t that good; they got hammered to a standstill, mostly, so there wouldn’t have been any speed under the foot, see, to get out of the way. The truck couldn’t stop and went through him like wet paper. The civil cops had to make the identification from army records. It couldn’t have been pretty.’

  ‘Was anyone else killed?’

  ‘No. He was travelling solo.’

  ***********

  Chapter 11

  Walter Unger was a tall, slight man in his late fifties with glossy, grey hair and perfectly tanned skin. He was dressed in a green, waxed jacket, corduroy trousers and brown brogues, and in spite of the rolling rural German countryside behind him, looked more British Home Counties than mainland European. He was puffing on a small cigar and leaning against a dark blue BMW parked in a lay-by.

  Palmer cut the engine of his rental car and climbed out, easing his shoulders with a wince of relief. He was feeling stiff after the flight from Heathrow and the long drive from Frankfurt airport, and was pleased to be on his feet again. It had been a while since he’d driven any distance on the right and had still not adjusted to the different circumstances. He glanced around and breathed in deeply, relishing the fresh air. The scenery was lush and green, and looked very different to when he had last been here. The sun had broken through the cloud and he caught a flash of reflected light in the distance. From his mental map, he guessed it was over by the former East German town of Meiningen.

  ‘Mr Palmer.’ Unger stepped forward to greet him with an outstretched hand. ‘I recognise you from the photo you emailed me. My apologies for that little precaution, but it helps avoid…problems. We live in uncertain times, after all.’ His English was impeccable, displaying only a faint trace of an accent, something that had been more pronounced over the phone. Palmer’s surprise must have showed, because the German smiled and explained: ‘I did a language course at Oxford. I gained five kilos, a love of English beer and, so I’m told, an accent which has served me well with British and American clients.’ He chuckled at his good fortune and gestured with his cigar out across the open countryside behind him, where the fields and dark shadows of woods rolled away to the horizon. ‘This is the area you said you were interested in seeing. You would need to have been born here to see precisely where the border used to be, but I understand you have a good idea, anyway.’

  ‘It’s changed a lot.’

  Unger nodded energetically. ‘That’s correct. For the better, I have to say. The farm you mentioned is still here, of course. Still owned by the same family.’ He reached in his coat pocket and consulted a notebook, although Palmer suspected he had the details memorised by heart. ‘The current owner’s name is Oscar Hemmricht. He is the son of the original owner. He was a boy here back then and has agreed to speak to you.’ He looked up, his face serious. ‘There is still a problem here for people to be easily open, Mr Palmer. Too much history, too much suspicion. So I don’t think we need to worry too much about this matter being discussed widely by anyone else. Memories are still fresh with the way things were. The physical signs –the towers and the wire – may have gone, but there are still shadows. And some ghosts, too.’

  ‘You mean I shouldn’t jump in with both feet,’ said Palmer.

  ‘Well, if you do,’ said Unger dryly, ‘make sure your size twelves land softly. I’ve already prepared the way with a brief explanation about what you are seeking, but if you will allow me to make the introductions first, then I’ll step back and let you get on with it.’ He turned and reached into the BMW and handed Palmer a buff folder. ‘This is all the information I managed to discover about the incident you mentioned. It is not much, but I cannot say I am surprised; not all such incidents were recorded as well as they should have been.’ His expression suggested that such carelessness was an unfortunate product of the times. ‘It gives us the name of the person who died, and a little of his history from justice ministry files. He was under suspicion, which may explain his actions.’

  ‘You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble.’ Palmer was referring to the fact that Unger had indica
ted over the phone that he would not be seeking a fee for his assistance, merely a consideration of any future business Palmer could put his way. It was a remarkably generous offer, and one Palmer wasn’t about to turn down.

  ‘Not at all. This was a small amount of work for me. I am keen to build up my business internationally, and would welcome any introductions you can make. Besides,’ he smiled and cocked his head to one side, ‘I am also intrigued, and it is a change from my usual work. Legal transactions can be so boring.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll see what I can do. For now, you might like to contact this man.’ He handed Unger Donald Brask’s details. ‘He’s in the information business. I’ll recommend your name.’

  Unger nodded gratefully. ‘That is very kind.’

  ‘No problem. How does this business about the border sit with you?’ He had already explained in cautious terms what he remembered from when he was here, but had left out certain things he felt Unger did not need to know yet.

  ‘As a lawyer, you mean, or a German?’ Unger shrugged, seeming to read his mind. ‘The same. You have an interest in a matter related to what happened here in eighty-nine. I’m guessing you have not told me everything, but I understand that. All lawyers deal in half-details and economies of the truth. For myself, if we tried to address every incident that happened in this country over the past decades, we’d all run out of time and friends. What I hear today stays with me. Believe me, I have enough to do elsewhere.’ He nodded towards a low huddle of buildings in the distance. ‘That’s the farm you mentioned, and beyond it in the distance is Henneberg. We proceed along this road for half a kilometre before turning left. The track is okay, but you should take it easy.’ He nodded and climbed into his car, flicking away his cigar as he did so.

  Up close, the farm seemed neater than the vague glimpse Palmer remembered from years ago, and showed signs of recent rebuilding. New farm machinery stood in a large barn to one side of the main house, and a few cows were clustered in a paddock surrounded by a modern run of freshly painted wooden fencing. The overall impression was of improvements being made gradually, now that the looming shadows of the wires and border towers were no longer cast over the land.

  The two men had barely climbed from their cars when the door to the house opened and a young man appeared, squinting in the sunlight. He had obviously been awaiting their arrival.

  Unger made polite and careful introductions. Oscar Hemmricht was tall, rawboned and dressed in a check shirt and heavy work pants. He looked carefully at Palmer before nodding and shaking hands, then invited them both to sit at a heavy kitchen table, while he poured fresh coffee from a cafetière.

  ‘He does not speak English,’ said Unger. ‘Sorry – I should have said. Obviously, I’ll translate for you, unless… ?’ Palmer shook his head. His German was passable, but not for this kind of thing. There was too much danger of missing something important, and Unger would be better able to judge how things were going if he was involved first-hand.

  Unger spoke for a few minutes, during which Palmer picked up references to the Volkspolitzei – the border police – and the Ost – the East. Oscar Hemmricht listened, nodding and occasionally looking at Palmer, then cleared his throat and asked a question.

  ‘He wants to know if you were here before,’ said Unger. ‘He says you have the look of the military.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Palmer, looking directly at the farmer. There was no benefit in avoiding the truth. ‘I was a military policeman in eighty-nine. I came out to this place with a colleague when the shooting was reported. It was the only time.’

  Oscar nodded but said nothing, so Palmer decided to ask him a direct question. ‘Your father ran this farm back then, is that correct, Herr Hemmricht?’

  Hemmricht spoke, Unger translating that the old man had died five years ago of pneumonia, leaving the farm to his only son. It was a good farm now, with more land and lots of opportunity, but still difficult to make it pay.

  ‘Were you all here on the night of the shooting?’

  Hemmricht frowned and shook his head. ‘No, we were asked to leave two days before.’

  ‘You recall that period, then?’ Palmer felt a sense of relief. At least it wasn’t a complete non-starter. He’d been worried the man would draw a complete blank.

  ‘Of course. Very little happened here.’ Unger conveyed the farmer’s wry shrug. ‘I was a boy… these things were interesting. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Did anyone say why you had to leave?’

  ‘A man came. From the British. There was a military exercise coming through, and with the border being so close, there were dangers for civilians. My father was not pleased, because of the farm, but he agreed to go. They said it was the law.’

  Unger looked sour at what he plainly saw as a misuse of military and local powers at the time, and explained: ‘What they meant was, they did not want to risk having to pay compensation if anyone got hurt. It was probably cheaper to pay for the family to stay in a spa thirty kilometres away until the exercise was over.’

  ‘Really? I’ve never heard of that happening before.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Unger.

  Palmer said nothing, but watched Hemmricht’s body language as Unger was translating. The man kept shooting nervous glances at him and curling his roughened hands around his coffee cup. Palmer thought he might be holding something back, but Unger appeared not to have noticed. He asked one more question to make absolutely sure.

  ‘Did you keep animals here back then?’

  Hemmricht nodded and held up his hands, fingers spread, happy to be on safe ground once more. ‘Nine cows,’ confirmed Unger. ‘And a few chickens. They did not have much.’

  Palmer smiled before saying casually, ‘And you fed them on the night of the shooting?’

  Unger looked surprised, but put the statement to the farmer. Hemmricht, in turn, became guarded, and there was a heavy silence, during which Palmer kept his gaze firmly on him. Eventually the man sighed and spoke briefly and Unger translated. ‘He says he was here. How do you know this?’

  ‘Because his father had been here since he was a boy, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And no British army exercise was going to be allowed to risk what few animals they had in the world. So the old man told his son to stay behind and lie low while the exercise passed by, and to make sure the animals were fed and watered. I’m no farmer, but it’s what I would have done.’

  Unger translated, then looked at Palmer. ‘He says you are correct. His father was very insistent that the animals should not be left alone. Anyway, two cows were in calf, and the money from the calves was important to them.’ He paused, then said apologetically. ‘He says his father did not trust the soldiers.’

  ‘But there was no British army exercise, was there? I’m only guessing, but I think I would have known about it at the time. I was a military policeman and it would have been my job to know. There was nothing.’

  Unger’s translation received no response from the farmer, save for a pulse beating in his throat.

  ‘What did he see?’ Palmer insisted softly. ‘Tell him there will be no recriminations. I would like to see justice done, that’s all. To put right a serious wrongdoing.’

  Unger spoke again, and Hemmricht got up and refreshed their coffees, then sat down again. He avoided their eyes, but as he spoke, it was clear that the passage of time had not diminished the strength of his boyhood memories.

  The farmhouse and adjacent buildings were in darkness. He had been awakened by the sound of an engine moving along the track from the road, heading towards the border area. Speaking softly to calm the animals, he had peered out through a crack in the wooden side of the barn, but all he could see was a set of headlights bouncing along in the dark. He couldn’t understand why any car would be going over there at this time of night, because it was just a track to some fields. Beyond that was the border and the open expanse of ground where only motorised and dog patrols and the tru
ly desperate ever set foot. Not even the game birds seemed to congregate there, as if recognising the inherent dangers posed by man. He decided the vehicle must be an advance party for the military exercise they had been told about, although it was surprisingly close to the border. Even as a boy, he was aware of the tensions surrounding where they lived.

  He had never seen an exercise before, although he had heard tell of the vast array of tanks and personnel and, being a boy, was curious to see the soldiers. There was a dry ditch running in a zigzag fashion from the farm over towards where the car had stopped, where he sometimes used to take his dog, rooting for rabbits and rats. Although close to the border, it was safe as long as he did not venture beyond it. He considered it now. It was easily deep enough to hide in, so he slipped from the barn and crept along it until he was as close as he dared go. Then he settled down to watch.

  He waited for two hours, during which the car’s lights went out and nothing stirred. An occasional sound came from the border tower, the sharp bark from a dog or a laugh from one of the guards, but beyond that, nothing. No tanks, no armoured carriers, no trucks, no jeeps, no flares. Perhaps, he thought, they had taken a wrong turning. Not a good sign for a military exercise.

  He had fallen asleep for a while, he explained, until dawn began to tinge the horizon. It was bitterly cold, but he was accustomed to it. The cows in the barn started to shuffle around, and he was on the point of going back to feed them, when he noticed movement by the vehicle. Three men, he said, got out and were looking towards the wire and the open ground. It was as if they were waiting for somebody. One of them had a long object hanging from his shoulder - a bag of some kind.

  Then he spotted a flicker of movement in the one place he had not expected it, in the area his father had once called the killing ground. He nearly cried out, he admitted, because this was not good. He recalled his father impressing on him that only the truly desperate came through the wire, and their chances of survival were almost nil. He rubbed his eyes and peered through the gloom, and made out the figure of a man inching forward out of a thin scattering of brushwood, right on the border by the fence. He couldn’t see any detail, but the man must have been there for a while. It was amazing that he had not been seen or heard by the guards. He guessed the man had crossed to the halfway point just after dusk, when there was a changeover of guards and the chances of being seen were reduced by the fading light.