Make Them Pay (4 page)

I wasn’t about to argue with that, and it would mean less hanging about in Richmond, even on a warm summer’s morning as this one was turning out to be. The first fingers of dawn had already crept over the eastern sky.

I
’d decided to go straight to the office and Dave and I arrived at about seven o’clock. Dave immediately disappeared to rustle up two cups of coffee.

My first job was to establish the identity of the two bodies that had been found in the camper van. I presumed that any identification documents the couple might have had were destroyed in the blaze. I set Gavin Creasey the task of finding the telephone number of the Essen police in North Rhine Westphalia.

A few minutes later, I was talking to their duty officer,
Kriminalhauptkommissar
Horst Fischer, and told him who I was and what little we knew of the two deaths that were about to occupy a great deal of my time.

‘Perhaps you would give me a description of this vehicle,
Herr
Chief Inspector,’ said Fischer, ‘and its registration details.’

‘Ah! One moment.’ I paused, realizing that I’d started the conversation without having this vital piece of information to hand. But fortunately Dave handed me a slip of paper on which were the requisite particulars. As I’ve already mentioned, he thinks of things I don’t. ‘It’s a red and white Volkswagen California T5,
Hauptkommissar,
’ I said, and gave the Essen policeman the registration details.

‘One moment,
Herr
Chief Inspector, while I interrogate my computer,’ said Fischer.

I heard the telltale tapping of keys and twenty seconds later Fischer came back with the information.

‘The Volkswagen is registered to a
Herr
Wilhelm Weber. According to our computer, he lives with his wife Anna in Kettwig. I will give you their address.’

Although I would never have admitted it to Helga, you’ve got to go a long way to beat German efficiency.

‘Whereabouts is this place Kettwig?’ I asked, as I wrote down the names and addresses.

‘It is a town on the Ruhr between here and Düsseldorf, but it is part of outer Essen, a suburb if you like.’ I wasn’t surprised I’d not heard of it. My visits to Germany had been confined to Cologne, where my ex-wife Helga came from, and I’d only been there a couple of times to visit her parents. And that was under duress. The Büchners were not the most likeable of people and regarded a lowly British uniformed constable as a highly unsuitable match for their daughter. In the fullness of time that became my view too.

‘Are you able to contact the Webers’ next of kin,
Hauptkommissar
,’ I asked, ‘and inform them of the deaths of Wilhelm and Anna Weber? Assuming that’s who they are.’

‘It will be done immediately. I will call you back.’ Fischer paused. ‘You speak excellent German,
Herr
Brock,’ he said eventually, and somewhat hesitantly.

‘Thank you,
Herr
Fischer.’ I forbore from telling him that fluency in his language was the only benefit of my marriage to Helga. On reflection it would’ve been cheaper to have gone to night school. I replaced the receiver.

‘Got a result, guv?’ asked Dave.

‘Of sorts, Dave,’ I said. ‘At least we know who the dead people are.’ But that assumption proved to be short-lived.

I decided it was time that Dave and I had some breakfast. An empty stomach is definitely a drawback when it comes to investigating suspicious deaths.

Deciding on a brisk walk, we cut across Parliament Square and into Victoria Street where we adjourned to the upstairs restaurant of the Albert public house. I had breakfasted there many times and knew that we’d be assured of a good meal.

Contrary to prevailing dietary advice, and sly hints from Gail, I indulged in their excellent kedgeree, bacon and eggs with mushrooms, hash browns, and freshly brewed coffee. But Dave appeared to be consuming twice as much as me. It’s a wonder that he manages to keep so slim, but he’d probably say that it’s because he’s always running about after me.

Now replete and more or less ready for the inevitable long day ahead, we returned at half past eight. Kate Ebdon and the rest of the team had arrived and were catching up on the night’s events.

Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon is a flame-haired Australian who had come to HSCC on promotion from the Flying Squad. It was strongly rumoured that she had given pleasure to a number of the Squad’s officers, male ones of course, but you shouldn’t believe everything that policemen tell you.

Kate usually dresses rather provocatively in tight-fitting jeans, a man’s white shirt that strains at the buttons, and high heels. It’s a mode of attire that displeases our beloved commander, but he hasn’t the bottle to tell her. When she first arrived at HSCC he asked me to have a word with her about her dress, but I pointed out that it could amount to sexism or even racism, given that she hailed from the Antipodes. The commander is very keen on diversity, whatever he means by that, and the matter was quietly dropped. That said Kate can turn out in a stunning and very feminine outfit when she gives evidence at the Old Bailey. She certainly knows how to charm the menfolk, and although that includes High Court judges, she doesn’t seem to have much sexual impact on the commander.

I explained to the team what we had learned so far, but everything now hinged on Henry Mortlock’s findings at the post-mortem, and what the fire brigade’s arson investigator had to say about the cause of the conflagration. Until we had that essential information, together with Linda Mitchell’s input, there wasn’t a great deal more we could do, except to start on a few local enquiries.

‘Kate, would you arrange for house-to-house enquiries in the area. Get someone to start with a local resident named Guy Wilson who called the brigade. Dave will give you the address.’

‘I’ll speak to him myself, guv,’ said Kate. ‘He might have something important to tell us as his house is right opposite the scene of the incident.’

By now, Detective Sergeant Colin Wilberforce, the day-duty incident room manager, had arrived. He immediately set about organizing everything, as only he can do. Wilberforce is an absolute wizard at office work and it’ll be a sad day if he ever gets promoted and is transferred. His desk is a classic example of administrative efficiency; even his pens and pencils are arranged with military precision. And God help anyone, including me, who interfered with his little empire.

At midday, Wilberforce came into my office. ‘I’ve just had a call from Linda Mitchell, sir. The remains of the bodies have been delivered to the Horseferry Road mortuary.’

‘A bite of lunch, Dave,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll be off to Henry’s carvery.’

Dr Henry Mortlock was sitting at his desk tapping away at his computer when Dave and I arrived at the mortuary.

‘When are you going to start, Henry?’ I asked.

‘I’ve finished, dear boy,’ said Mortlock, swinging round on his office chair, ‘and you’ll be delighted to learn that both your victims – a man and a woman – had been shot. A single round to the back of the head in each case. But there was no exit wound. A low calibre bullet, I should imagine.’

‘Oh bloody hell!’ I exclaimed. Two suspicious deaths had now become a double murder enquiry.

Mortlock afforded me an owlish grin. ‘I was lucky to find the rounds,’ he said, pointing at a kidney-shaped bowl containing two bullets, ‘given the state of the bodies.’

‘I almost wish you hadn’t,’ I said. ‘So it wasn’t the fire that killed them.’

‘I thought that’s what I just said.’ Mortlock shot me the sort of patronizing glance that forensic pathologists reserve for explaining things to thick coppers.

‘Any chance of getting a DNA sample, Henry?’ I asked.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem, Harry. How lucky can you get, eh?’ Mortlock peered at me over his spectacles. ‘But there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of getting fingerprints. There isn’t much left of the fingers.’

At four o’clock, I received another telephone call from the highly efficient Horst Fischer of the Essen police.

‘
Herr
Brock, I have some interesting news for you. One of my officers called first at the Webers’ address in case there were relatives who shared the house with them. But Wilhelm and Anna Weber were there, as alive as you and me.’

‘The bodies we found were not the Webers, then?’ I said, half to myself.

‘That is so,
Herr
Brock,’ said Fischer, politely avoiding any hint of sarcasm. ‘It seems that
Herr
Weber lent his Volkswagen camper van to a friend of his. This friend was called Hans Eberhardt.’

‘It looks as though he’s our victim, then.’

‘I would think that is a possibility.’

‘And was Eberhardt’s wife the woman who was with him?’

‘Not as far as we know.
Herr
Weber does not think that Eberhardt was married. He believes the female to be
Fräulein
Trudi Schmidt, a girlfriend of Eberhardt. We are now trying to trace this couple’s next of kin to inform them of the tragic accident. There is likely to be some delay because
Herr
Weber does not know of any relatives of either Hans Eberhardt or Trudi Schmidt.’

‘I see.’ I paused before committing myself, but I was talking to another copper and there is a trust between policemen, no matter what their nationality. ‘I’d be grateful if you kept this to yourself for the time being,
Herr
Fischer,’ I said, ‘but we now have evidence that this couple had been murdered.’

‘Are you able to give me the details,
Herr
Brock?’ Fischer responded calmly to this announcement, as though it came as no surprise.

‘Yes, the pathologist found that each of the people in this Volkswagen had been shot, killed by a single round to the head.’

‘It sounds very much like an execution, a revenge killing perhaps,’ said Fischer. ‘I shall find out what I can about this Eberhardt, discreetly of course, and keep you informed.’

‘Thank you for your assistance,
Herr
Fischer,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep you up to date with our investigation.’

‘One other thing,
Herr
Brock . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Is it possible to obtain a DNA sample from the bodies of your victims? Just to be certain of the identification. Also we might have a record of these people in our DNA database.’

‘They were badly burned, but the pathologist said that he is fairly confident. There’s no possibility of obtaining fingerprints though.’

‘That is hardly surprising in the circumstances, but thank you. If there is anything else we can do to assist from this end, please tell me.’

‘Does this mean a trip to Germany?’ asked Dave, once I’d finished talking to Fischer.

‘I doubt that the commander would sanction it,’ I said.

‘The DAC might though.’ Dave obviously knew, as did I, that the commander had a fear of making such a decision without reference to higher authority. Or, for that matter, any decision.

T
hree hours after
Kriminalhauptkommissar
Horst Fischer’s last phone call, I received another from him. I was not surprised to find that he was still on duty. Having been saddled with my enquiry in the first place it was obvious that he was now seeing it through. Like me, he was a detective, and once tasked with a job our periods of duty knew no bounds.

‘There are some interesting developments,
Herr
Brock. After we spoke earlier, I learned from our records that Hans Eberhardt is of interest to this department.’

‘Oh, in what way?’

‘He has a criminal record,
Herr
Brock. Three years ago he was before the court in Düsseldorf for being a confidence trickster. He was imprisoned for eighteen months for selling tickets for a lottery that did not exist. But now it would seem that he has moved up in the world; into what I think the Americans call “the big time”. We visited his house today and of course received no reply. I empowered my officers to force an entry and we found what you would call an Aladdin’s cave.’

‘D’you mean you found stolen property,
Herr
Fischer?’

‘No, a sophisticated printing press.’

‘Is he a forger, then?’

‘Yes, but in a specialized way, you understand. In the basement we found a great many forged share certificates, and the printing press was for producing them. It looks as though he is making a lot of money from selling bogus shares. On his computer we have found what could possibly be a list of those persons he has defrauded, but it appears to be in some sort of code. One of our technicians is passing the details to the
Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz
.’ Fischer paused. ‘You know of this organization perhaps,
Herr
Brock?’

‘Yes, I do. The
BfV
is your counter-espionage service, is it not?’

‘Exactly so. We are hoping that one of their cryptanalysts will be able to decode the list. By the way, we have also arrested Wilhelm Weber, the man who owns the van and lent it to Eberhardt. He is a businessman here in Germany.’

‘Is he involved in this share forging business, then?’ I was surprised at Weber’s arrest. Fischer had previously mentioned that Weber had lent his camper van to Eberhardt, but it now looked as though the German police suspected that he might be connected in some way to Eberhardt’s criminal pursuits.

‘Maybe, maybe not, but we are interrogating him all the same. It seems unlikely that he was in ignorance of Eberhardt’s activities, but he is making strong denials. All he has told us so far is that his friend Eberhardt went several times to the Bahamas. But he claims to know nothing of the fraudulent share certificates.’ Fischer paused, ominously I thought. ‘Perhaps he tells the truth, but we shall see.’

From what little I knew of the German police, I imagined them to be very good at interrogation. ‘What about Trudi Schmidt?’ I asked.

Fischer chuckled. ‘Ah, yes, Trudi Schmidt. She too is known to us and also to our colleagues in Hamburg. We understand from the Vice Squad there that she was a dancer in a nightclub on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. You know of this area?’