‘I’ve heard of it,
Herr
Fischer.’ The Reeperbahn is the infamous red light district of Hamburg and most people with even a slight knowledge of Germany know of its existence and what goes on there. I’d even suggested taking a holiday in Hamburg with Gail so that we could see it, but she obviously knew of the area’s reputation and promptly vetoed the idea.
‘But we have also heard that Trudi Schmidt was arrested several times for unlicensed prostitution in Hamburg and also in Essen after she moved here.’
No surprise there
, I thought. The terms nightclub dancer and prostitute are often synonymous, but it was news to me that the Germans licensed their hookers.
‘Did she live with Eberhardt?’
‘We don’t think so. There was no sign of female habitation in Eberhardt’s house – no women’s clothing, cosmetics or anything like that – but we are still making enquiries. It is possible that we shall find her fingerprints there.’ Fischer paused. ‘Are you thinking of coming to Germany to see for yourself,
Herr
Brock?’
‘Not at this stage,’ I said, ‘but it might become necessary at some time in the future.’
‘You will be most welcome.’
‘Incidentally, our pathologist
was
able to get DNA samples from the victims. I’ll have the readings sent to you.’
‘Thank you. We are satisfied that the two people you have in your mortuary are Eberhardt and Schmidt, but the DNA would confirm it. Now then, you will wish to know of the travel arrangements of Eberhardt, I think. On the computer of Hans Eberhardt we found booking details of his journey to England. He and Trudi Schmidt were booked on the overnight ferry from the Hook of Holland to Harwich on Tuesday the sixteenth of July. The registration number of the van on the ferry company’s computer was the same as the one you have found on the burnt out Volkswagen.’
‘They must’ve travelled overland, then,’ I said. It was more of a conclusion than a question.
‘Yes. One supposes that Eberhardt drove from Essen to the Hook of Holland, about two hundred and sixty kilometres. There must have been a good reason for his journey to England, but
Herr
Weber was not told of this. In fact, he did not even know the van was to be taken abroad. But I don’t believe him. A vehicle could not be taken out of the country without the necessary documentation which Weber would have had to provide.’ Fischer emitted a throaty chuckle. ‘
Herr
Weber is very upset about the loss of his van. Apparently he and his wife had intended to use it for a holiday in Bayreuth next month. But this statement was perhaps what you would call a smokescreen.’
‘I imagine he would be upset,’ I said, although in all honesty I couldn’t’ve cared less. In fact it would’ve been far better for me if he
hadn’t
lent Eberhardt his damned van. ‘That means that Eberhardt and Schmidt arrived here the day before they were murdered, although it was actually ten minutes into the next day,’ I said, aware that the Germans were sticklers for accuracy. ‘Were there any details of a hotel booking in England on the computer,
Herr
Fischer?’ I doubted it, but a search of a hotel room might yield something useful.
‘No, but as they were using
Herr
Weber’s camper van, I imagine that they intended to live in that. Perhaps being a criminal Eberhardt was in your country to commit a crime and did not wish to leave a trace of his movements in England.’
‘I think that’s very likely.’ Leaving a paper trail was something that criminals generally preferred to avoid whenever possible; particularly if they were embarking on a criminal enterprise.
‘But I do not think that to be the case,’ said Fischer. ‘It would seem that an email was sent from a man called Adekunle to Eberhardt’s computer at oh-nine-thirty on Tuesday the fifteenth of July, in which it was said that Eberhardt should come to England urgently. This man Adekunle said that something very serious had occurred that Eberhardt could only deal with in person. Without going into details, it was suggested that someone had been milking his account in Lichtenstein.’ Fischer paused for a moment. ‘It also said that Eberhardt shouldn’t stay anywhere that could be traced. I suppose that’s why he borrowed the camper van.’
‘Was that email in English,
Herr
Fischer?’
‘Yes, it was,
Herr
Brock.’
‘And was there a reply?’
‘Within half an hour. Eberhardt emailed back to say that he would arrive in the UK on Thursday the seventeenth of July in a camper van, and asked where he should meet Adekunle. He also asked a question about the Lichtenstein account, but there was no reply.’
‘I wonder who this Adekunle is,’ I said, half to myself.
‘I can’t help you there,
Herr
Brock, but after the first email there was another one from Adekunle telling Eberhardt that under no circumstances should he come to Adekunle’s house. He then went on to specify that Eberhardt should park in Richmond,’ continued Fischer, ‘and gave an address: number twenty-one Bendview Road, as the one opposite which he should park for the night.’
‘It looks as though this Adekunle might’ve committed my two murders,’ I said.
‘
Ja
, perhaps so. Are you any further with your investigation,
Herr
Brock?’
‘Not yet,
Herr
Fischer, but your information will be a great help to me.’
‘Perhaps it was gang warfare. I understand that you have gangs in London. We have them also in Germany.’
‘There are a few, certainly, but these are early days. At the moment we don’t know why they were murdered. I’ll keep you informed of our progress,
Herr
Fischer,’ I said, hoping that there would be some progress to report. ‘By the way, my name’s Harry.’ I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to mention that; Germans are often much too formal to use first names until they’ve known you for some time.
But Fischer wasn’t one of them.
‘OK, Harry. I’m Horst. If you come to Germany we’ll have a few beers in my favourite
Gasthof
,
ja
?’
‘You can bet on it, Horst,’ I said, and we left it at that for the time being.
‘Mr Wilson?’
‘Yes, I’m Guy Wilson.’ Smiling with the air of a serial womanizer Wilson slowly appraised the attractive flame-haired young woman in jeans and a white shirt. ‘Hello,’ he drawled.
‘I’m a police officer, Mr Wilson,’ said Kate sharply, and produced her warrant card. She’d met men like this before, many times. ‘Detective Inspector Ebdon of New Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh!’ Wilson’s smile faded immediately. ‘It’ll be about the fire in that camper van, I suppose. You’d better come in, Inspector.’ He escorted Kate into the elegant front room of his house. ‘Please take a seat.’ He indicated a luxurious sofa with a wave of his hand, but remained standing in front of an ornate York stone fireplace.
‘I understand that it was you who called the fire brigade, Mr Wilson.’ Kate settled herself into the sofa, crossed her legs and took out her pocketbook. ‘Perhaps you’d start by telling me how you came to notice it? It was quite late, I believe.’ She knew the exact time that the fire brigade had been called, but always wanted to hear what a witness had to say. She’d come across variations before, but the fire brigade was as accurate as the police when it came to recording times and details of incidents.
‘It was just after midnight, if I remember correctly. I’d been doing some cataloguing.’ Wilson paused. ‘I deal in antique books,’ he added diffidently and shrugged, almost as though it was something he was ashamed of. ‘There’s always a lot of catching up to do when one has clients worldwide as I do. That’s why I was working late.’
‘Yes, go on.’ Kate glanced up from her pocketbook. If Wilson had expected her to say what an interesting job he must have, he was disappointed.
‘I’d been working in my study at the back of the house, and I’d noticed this camper van parked there earlier, maybe around eight or nine o’clock.’
‘If you were working in the back of the house, how was it that you saw the van, Mr Wilson?’ Kate stared quizzically at him.
‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean.’ Wilson rapidly concluded that this woman police officer was not only attractive, but had a very quick brain as well. ‘I’d come in here to check on one of my more valuable books that I keep in the safe.’ Wilson waved a hand at an oak cupboard on the far wall. It didn’t look very secure, but Ebdon was not here to offer crime-prevention advice. ‘Anyway, as I said, I saw the van and thought about ringing the police to make a complaint. We have a good view of the river from this house and I don’t like seeing just anyone parking there, least of all travellers or gypsies, or whatever they were. Well, none of us around here likes to see that sort of thing. People who seem to be camping tend to lower the tone of the neighbourhood, if you see what I mean. They’re prone to leave rubbish strewn about and God knows what else.’
Kate Ebdon thought that Wilson’s attitude was fairly typical of the people who lived in the area. He had the unmistakable air of an insufferable snob who was inclined to ostentation. Although he was expensively dressed in an orange shirt, designer chinos and a pair of Loake Anvil boots, his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows to display a chunky gold Rolex watch. Furthermore, Kate was convinced that he dyed his hair and, gravest crime of all in her opinion, he sported a gold neck chain.
‘But then, I presume, you had another look. Later on.’
‘Yes. If the van was still there, I certainly
did
intend to lodge a complaint. But in view of what happened, I wish I had. I might have prevented it.’ Wilson spread his hands, as if to apologize for his previous boorish attitude. ‘Did the people in the van manage to escape?’
‘No, Mr Wilson, they were burned alive,’ said Kate, forbearing to mention that they had in fact been murdered. She had not intended that her statement should sound so dramatic, but that was the effect it had.
‘Oh my God, how awful.’ Wilson contrived to look guilty, but it was not convincing. ‘If only I had complained, I might’ve prevented it,’ he said again.
‘Was there anything else that caught your attention when you were looking at this vehicle?’
‘No, there wasn’t, apart from the fact that the van was rocking slightly.’ Wilson paused and his lascivious smile returned. ‘I wonder what they were doing,’ he said, half to himself.
But his sexist comment evinced no response from Kate, not even a smile. ‘Anything else?’
‘I don’t think so. Oh, just a minute though . . .’ Wilson clicked his fingers. ‘I did see the van again at about midnight it must’ve been. I’d come into this room to pour myself a Scotch, and I saw a car pulling away.’
‘Can you describe it?’
‘It was a small car, a family saloon, I suppose you’d call it, and it was a sort of silver-grey. As there was a bright moon last night it showed up quite clearly.’
‘I don’t suppose you got the number or the make of this vehicle.’ Kate’s tone was almost accusing.
‘No, I couldn’t see the number, and all small cars look much the same to me.’ Wilson afforded Kate a smile that was a carefully contrived combination of apology and condescension. This woman inspector’s incisive questioning was succeeding in making him feel quite inadequate; an unusual emotion for him when he was talking to women. But this attractive young police officer was not reacting to him as attractive women usually did, and that hurt his ego. He had always assumed that his charm and his ability to ‘pull a bird’, as he put it, was irresistible.
‘But you came back into this room ten minutes later, and that was when you saw the fire. Why did you return here so soon?’
‘To refill my glass,’ said Wilson. ‘Er, would you like a drink, Inspector?’
‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Wilson,’ said Kate, ignoring Wilson’s offer as she rose to leave. ‘You may be called to the inquest, in which case I’ll inform you of the date.’
‘Will there be anything about this business in the newspapers, Inspector?’ Wilson suddenly assumed a concerned look.
‘Probably.’ Kate had the impression that such publicity would not be to Wilson’s liking, perhaps fearing that his comments about disliking ‘travellers and gypsies’ might be repeated in court. And they certainly would be if she had the opportunity to repeat them.
The murderer opened the newspaper and eventually found what he was looking for. At the bottom of page seven there was a small article headed TRAGIC FIRE; the byline read
by our own reporter
. It went on to report that a fire in a Volkswagen camper van in Richmond in the early hours of Friday the eighteenth of July had claimed the lives of its two occupants. It is believed, the article continued, that they were a German couple on holiday in the United Kingdom and that the gas canister in the vehicle had exploded with fatal results. The murderer was not to know that the piece about the gas canister was pure supposition on the reporter’s part.
He folded the newspaper and smiled in satisfaction. There now seemed no way in which the bumbling police would connect him to the incident.
O
n Saturday morning, Linda Mitchell, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, arrived in the incident room.
‘There’s nothing to report that’s of much use, I’m afraid, Mr Brock. There were no fingerprints in the vehicle itself that were capable of comparison, neither were there any shell casings, which points to a revolver having been used. Or a careful killer. Unfortunately the fire consumed any useful evidence there might have been, except for a mobile phone in one of the man’s pockets.’
‘D’you think that you’ll be able to get anything from it, Linda?’
‘We’ll certainly give it our best shot. I’ve sent it to the lab at Surbiton in the hope that they may be able to develop some latent fingerprints. And we’ll see if they can turn up any useful numbers if the SIM card has survived. Insofar as the rounds that were recovered by Dr Mortlock are concerned, they weren’t misshapen, and the ballistics examiner is positive that they’re point-two-two calibre. If the weapon is recovered, she should be able to prove that the rounds came from it, sufficient to satisfy a court.’