Authors: Julian Jay Savarin
Hunter's Rain (13 page)
“You’re joking.”
“Don’t look at me. It was something planned by the Great White some time ago. One of his mad PR exercises. No one could have guessed you would need Max today.”
“God,” Müller said in frustration. “How long is this ‘talk’ supposed to last?”
“He won’t be out of there for another hour. At the very least.”
“This is just great. Alright. Get the local colleagues. Ask them to spare two people to watch the villa and ensure
no one
goes in till the team arrives. This includes the watchers. I don’t want them wandering about in there. They are to remain outside, and wait for the team.”
“Will do. I know someone down there who can set it up.”
“Of course you do, Pappi,” Müller said with one of his brief smiles. “I’ll only be surprised the day you tell me you didn’t know someone, somewhere.”
“You know me too well. Details of the location?”
Müller told him, then went on, “Now your news.”
“Are you sitting down now? And where’s your companion?”
“I’m walking, and she’s a little distance way.”
“She’s in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“Adams is dead, and she’s the number one suspect.”
“
What?
Dead? How?”
“I’ll take the last question first, and work back. The how is still unknown. My contact only just got it. I didn’t believe it, so ran a corroborative check with the beacon. You remember the beacon.”
“I remember the beacon. And?”
“And lo, there was a message waiting. Prophecy…”
“Prior knowledge?”
“Definitely. It seems that your friend was to be set-up for the killing. Next answer…yes, he is really dead. As to the ‘what’, my reaction too. Nice sequence of events, eh? Someone tries to give her an early send-off, now this. Plus your stiff in his villa. What a day, so far, eh?” The sound of Pappenheim’s long drag came again. “So, my fine friend, the hornets are buzzing. You’re poking close to the centre of the nest, it seems.”
“Closer than I thought. You should have seen the fear on Vogel’s face. Terror, would be more appropriate. He made some strange comments that made no sense. About a colonel…”
“You’ve got her right next to you.”
“That’s the point. He was talking of someone else. He was surprised it was a woman. He was thinking of a man.”
“Hmm,” Pappenheim said. “She gets the blame for someone else’s little undertaker job. So what happens?
Her
lot begin hunting her. Better than doing the job themselves. They get the result, without the blame. They must obviously have thought the better of that clumsy episode this morning.”
“Someone, somewhere, stepped in with a smarter plan…”
“And tougher for you. Cunning. I like it.”
“Thanks, Pappi.” Müller remarked drily.
“Don’t mention it. Where are you off to now? Or mustn’t I know?”
Müller had reached the car, and looked round to see Carey Bloomfield hanging back to give him privacy. He made urging motions that she should get in, then moved slightly away to continue the conversation with Pappenheim.
“Off to my Aunt’s, but you don’t know. Then it’s on to do some Alpine work, which… ”
“I don’t know about, either. I know so little, it really hurts.”
“Let me know when more comes in on that Adams thing.”
“Will do. And Jens…”
“Yes?”
“It really is a set-up. I don’t think she did it.”
“Neither do I.”
“That’s a relief,” Pappenheim said.
“Of course, we could be wrong. She was not a happy person when she saw him with that crowd.”
“We’re not wrong.”
“And you were so sceptical of her, once.”
“Things change. Times change. People change.”
“As always. Later, Pappi.”
Müller put his phone away, and got back into the car.
“That was a long one,” Carey Bloomfield said to him. “Trouble?”
“I was arranging with Pappi to have Vogel’s body taken care of. And yes, we’ve got trouble.”
“We?”
“You, to be precise.”
She stared at him.
“Me?”
“Adams is dead.”
She gave shocked gasp, mouth hanging open for long moments.
“Oh Jesus!” she said after a while, echoing the comment made by Roberts when he’d found Adams’ body. “But…but
how?
He was alive when I left him!”
Müller started the car, and began to drive off. “Pappi got a call from one of his contacts. It’s a set-up. Someone else did the killing, and you’re being framed for it. Pappi decided to double-check. As you know, Grogan always leaves little encrypted messages on the Rogues Gallery computer, from time to time. One about you was already there when Pappi asked the Goth to check.
“It was predictive. It said Adams
would
be killed, and you would be blamed. Someone’s after your scalp...perhaps to get to me; perhaps not. Pappi believes it’s a smarter variation of what they tried to do to you earlier. This way, they get your own people do the job. I happen to agree. The baffling thing, is Vogel’s reaction to you. He talked about a colonel but clearly, he did not mean you.”
Carey Bloomfield was staring unseeingly at the road ahead. “They killed Adams,” she said, after a long while. “
Why?
Why kill one of their own, even if to get me? He was important. It’s so…wasteful.”
“Perhaps he annoyed someone.”
“Drastic response.”
“Who knows with people? The important thing right now is to hope that your people don’t jump to the wrong conclusions, and do some thinking first. In the meantime, you stick with me.”
She gave a weak smile. “Protective, Müller?”
“Ohh…you’re quite capable of protecting yourself.”
“It’s okay, Müller. I won’t think you’ve gone soft all of a sudden. But thanks. And thanks for not believing I took Adams out.”
“You’re welcome.”
She suddenly stiffened. “That’s
it!
”
He gave her a quick glance. “What is?”
“What you just said.” She was genuinely exercised by whatever it was that had caused the reaction.
“Do you mean ‘you’re welcome’?” Müller gave her another glance, this time of uncertainty.
“Yes! The bimbo.”
“What bimbo?”
“The diet-freak of a blonde bimbo in Toby Adams’ office.”
“I can tell you liked her.”
“She’s a stinker. Take my word for it.”
“What’s that sound?”
“What sound?”
“The unsheathing of claws.” Müller grinned.
“You should have seen her, Müller. I get there, she’s at the reception desk, looking as if she’s only slumming it until a film producer discovers her. Right now, the reception area is decked out like a luxury travel company; but it doesn’t exist. It’s just a front, and it’s also changeable. I ask for Toby. She gives me this vacuous routine. ‘I’m sorry. I think you’ve come to the wrong place’,” Carey Bloomfield mimicked the classically high-pitched, empty voice. “I told her if she gave me any bullshit, I’d squeeze her scrawny neck until she felt she wanted to spit out her larynx.”
“Her
larynx?
That must have made you a friend.”
“It was the best I could think of. Finally, she buzzed Toby, and he came out. We went to his office. Simpering Mary-Ann – that’s what Toby called her, and the ‘simpering’ is my addition – brought us coffee. After talking with him, I left. He was very much alive and kicking. There are other doors in the place, all closed at the time I was there. But I know there are always people in the rooms. Any one of them could have done it, and Miss Diet-freak would have been only too glad to point one of her polished fingernails at me. I can imagine the question. Did anyone visit Mr Adams, Mary-Ann? ‘Oh yes!’” came the mimicked voice again. “’A Colonel Bloomfield’. Bingo. There you have it, Müller.”
Müller took out his phone and passed it to her. “Here. Call, Pappi. Ask him to get one of his contacts to check out this Mary-Ann.”
“Come on, Müller,” Carey Bloomfield said as she took the phone. “You can’t believe that bimbo…”
“No. But a background check might help. You never know. Pappi’s number is the same one, from the time you last used this phone.”
“That was way back, Müller. The time of Dahlberg. But I remember it.”
She dialled Pappenheim.
“You again,” Pappenheim said, thinking it was Müller.
“It’s me, Pappi.”
Pappenheim coughed in his surprise. “Miss Bloomfield! Is he alright?”
“He’s fine. He’s driving.”
“Ah. Obeying the law, like a good policeman.”
“I won’t even pass comment on that one, Pappi.”
“Good thing too. So what does he want?”
“The contact who called you about me. See if he or she has heard the name Mary-Ann. No surname, I’m afraid. It’s all I have.”
“Leave it to me. And Miss Bloomfield…”
“Yes, Pappi?”
“Hang in there. We’re with you.”
“Thank you, Pappi.” She had a warm feeling as she ended the call and passed the phone back. “He’s sweet,” she said.
“
Sweet?
Don’t let him hear that.”
“He won’t, if you don’t tell him. Müller?”
“Yes.”
“I’d love to drive your car. You don’t have to look so pale,” Carey Bloomfield continued when Müller had said nothing to this unexpected request. “I’m not trying to steal it.”
“You, want to drive
this
car?”
“It’s the only one we’re sitting in. I’m familiar with stick shifts. Not all Americans drive automatics, you know. I’ve got me a Bimmer, with a stick shift. A small 3-series, but it goes. Used to be my Dad’s. He treated it like a baby. It’s in great condition…”
“This, is not a 3-series. This, is 450 horses of ceramic-braked, Porsche Turbo. This,
never
gets driven by anyone else.”
“That tells me. But I seem to remember one time when you left me in it and said I could drive it away if…”
“That, was an emergency situation. This, isn’t.”
“Like I said, that tells me.”
“Müller.”
“
What?”
“Open your goddammed eyes. We’re not moving yet.”
Müller had stopped to fill up at a service station on the A9 autobahn, heading south towards Halle and Saalfeld.
He had then driven to a parking bay, called Aunt Isolde to warn of their arrival, and in an unaccustomed fit of generosity regarding the car, had made the decision to switch seats. As in if sympathy, the rain had decided to hold off.
“I’ve taken leave of my senses,” he now said to himself.
“Are your eyes open?”
“They’re open. I might as well see where my temporary insanity is leading me.” He made a show of checking that his seatbelt was secure. “Reverse is…”
“I can see it on the shift, Müller.” She started the engine. “Oh. My. Oh…I can
feel
it.” She selected reverse.
“Go gently,” Müller advised. “The clutch is…”
The car jerked rearwards, and stalled.
“…fierce,” Müller finished, then added, “This is not the blonde bimbo’s neck.”
“You going to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“A mother hen.” Carey Bloomfield put the gear into neutral, and started again. “Well?” she challenged. “Are you?”
“I’ve created a monster,” Müller said to himself.
This time, she did it correctly, and driving at a slow but smooth pace, headed for the slip road to re-join the autobahn. She remained in the slow lane, getting used to the car. Every so often, she had to pull out to overtake one of the many huge lorries that populated the autobahn network; but that too, she handled well.
Müller began to relax, but not by much. Sooner or later, he thought, she would be unable to resist exploiting the car’s power.
“Müller?”
“Ye-es…”
“Know what a pointer is?”
“A hunting dog.”
“You remind me of one. You’re waiting to point.”
“Nonsense. I’m relaxed.”
“Hah! That why you’re holding on to the door handle?”
“It’s comfortable.”
“Hah!” Carey Bloomfield repeated with rich scepticism.
Then a long stretch of relatively traffic-free autobahn came into view.
“Oooh yes,” she said, pulled out, and floored the accelerator.
The Porsche leapt forward as if hit by a whip.
“Ooooh Gaaawwd!” she cried. “I can feel the hairs on my arms rising!” She broke into a cackling laugh.
