Hunter's Rain (27 page)

“Oh wow!” she said. “Müller, nothing beats the Derrenberg for me for grand style, but this ain’t no log cabin. I didn’t realise editors made this kind of money.”

“If you’re paid enough to defame someone,” he remarked with some bitterness, “you might be able to afford this. It will be worth many times more, perhaps, than when he was first able to buy it. So he’s made a profit tool, if he ever decides to sell.”

“On the backs of your parents.”

“Could be.”

“Suddenly, this place doesn’t look so beautiful anymore.”

“The place is still beautiful. It is a large
herrenhaus.
But it was designed to look like a mix between the traditional herrenhaus, and a villa. Architecturally, it should have been a disaster. But this, looks good. It’s not its fault that the man who lives here bought it.”

As the avenue ended, the white building with its red roof, seemed to rise before them in imposing majesty. A uniformed butler came out of the house to stand upon the raised, crescent-shaped terrace, as the car came to a stop.

“My, my,” Carey Bloomfield said. “Will you look at that. He’s not sneering at the car, Müller. So he must approve.”

“Behave,” he said, as the butler began to descend a short flight of steps, with all the poise of an emperor.

“If
he’s
like that,” Carey Bloomfield whispered, “what’s his boss going to be like?”

“Behave,” Müller repeated, getting out of the car.

He drew himself to his full height, just as the butler reached him. Having lost the raised advantage of the terrace, the butler had to look up.

“May I be of service, sir?” the butler enquired.

“You may. My name is Müller, Hauptkommissar…”

The butler did not bat an eye. “
Herr
Grüber knows all the senior policemen in the area. I have never heard him speak of a Müller.”

Müller was rapidly becoming impatient with the man, and went for the big gun he tended to use on snobs like this.

“Then perhaps he knows von Röhnen.
Graf
von Röhnen.” Müller handed him a gold-bordered card with an embossed coat of arms.

The butler, a round man with a perfectly round head that was reminiscent of a football, blinked when he saw the card.

“
Herr
Graf
! Of course! I will inform
Herr
Grüber at once. If the
Herr Graf
and the
Frau
Gräfin
von Röhnen will please follow me.”

The butler waited until Carey Bloomfield, keeping a perfectly straight face, had joined Müller.

He bowed slightly
. “Frau Gräfin.”
Then he turned as if on wheels, and began to go back up the steps. Carrying the card before him as if it were a laden silver platter.

“
What
did he call me?” she whispered to Müller. “Did I just hear that correctly?

“You’ve been ennobled. I think he assumes you’re my wife, the countess.”

“I should be so lucky. Müller, you carry a
titled card?”

“Behave,” Müller said for a third time, whispering. “Let’s hurry. I want to see Grüber’s face when we’re announced. I don’t want him to have an excuse to avoid seeing me. If we’re there, he can’t pretend he’s too busy.”

“I’m curious too,” she said.

They were led along a seemingly endless hall with a Kelim runner as long as the hall itself, on a gleaming surface of highly polished wood.

Carey Bloomfield looked up at the extremely high ceiling. “Can you get vertigo looking up?” she whispered.

Briefly, Müller put a finger to his lips.

The butler finally stopped at the very end of the hall, and opened a door. He stood back, and again gave a little nod of the head..

“
Frau Gräfin, Herr Graf.”

They walked though into a kind of ante chamber that was again laid with expensive Persian carpets. Another terrace, as large as the one at the front, was accessed through a door in the floor-to-ceiling glass panels. The terrace looked out upon one of the most beautiful, landscaped gardens Müller had set eyes upon.

Grüber, in an opened-necked white shirt at a large, white-covered table was having either a late breakfast, or an early lunch. He was alone. He was a thinnish man with lank, dark hair that he grew to neck length. Rimless glasses were perched upon his nose. He looked his age. He was sat in such a way that both the ante chamber and a wide expanse of garden, were within view. Even as he ate, his face bore an expression of extreme superciliousness. Müller disliked him on sight.

The butler had reached Grüber’s table. Grüber made him wait, concentrating on drinking some coffee, and taking his time about it. He did not even look up at the butler.

“Jesus,” Carey Bloomfield said, “What an asshole.”

“Manners of a pig,” Müller commented. “Despite the size of this house, that’s not the reason he has a butler. His type would have a butler even if he lived in a place as small as mine.”

She looked at him. “
Your
place is
small?
You could get half of Washington in it. I exaggerate – a little - but there’s small, and
then
there’s small. You should see mine. Your place does not fit into either category.” She returned her attention to Grüber. “Oh look. The lord and master is finally looking up at his servant. Can he see us from there?”

“Time for the entrance,” Müller agreed. “Let us not give the butler any extra work. I am actually feeling sorry for that snob. They suit each other, those two. After you,
Frau Gräfin
.”

Grüber’s mouth was open, and stayed open when Müller and Carey Bloomfield reached his table. They did not sit down, nor did he ask them to.

Finally, weak eyes darting from one to the other, Grüber decided to speak. His eyes looked as if they were staring at ghosts. The card lay face up, next to the fine china coffee cup and saucer.

“In a way, yes.
Herr
Grüber,” Müller began, “I think you know why we’re here.”

Grüber’s eyes tried to leave their sockets. “You have seen
Vogel?
”

“I have. He was very forthcoming. Alas, he is now dead.”

Grüber jumped.
“Dead?
You…you…
killed
him?”

“In my place, Grüber,” Müller said in a voice that must have chilled the man before him, “wouldn’t you? But no…I did not. He did it himself. Must have been all those years of guilt.” Müller’s eyes bored mercilessly into the cringing Grüber. “All I need from you are straight answers to my questions. Then I’ll leave you to all…”

“And paid well enough, looking at this place. You have lived high upon the backs of my parents. Who are
‘they’
, Grüber?”

“
Fear,”
Grüber corrected. “Terror. Just by coming here, you have already killed me.” Gruber got to his feet.

“I can have you protected…”

Grüber again gave his bitter laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous!
You
will have me protected? Protect me from what? From whom? You want your revenge…”

“Yes. But on those who paid you. Not you as an individual…”

“Because you consider I am not worth it? Your look tells me all. You look at me as if I were a bug just about to crawl under your shoe.” Grüber’s mouth turned down. “You ‘nobility’. If you lived in a shack, you would still look down on people like me! Protect me indeed.”

“You’ve got a problem with status, Grüber. I look down on one, except criminals.”

Grüber glanced upwards at the window where Müller had briefly seen the face.

“Tell you what,
Graf
von Röhnen.” Grüber emphasised each word. “You think you know it all…” Grüber was suddenly becoming talkative.

“On the contrary. I know very little.”

“How little, you have no idea.” As if his loquaciousness had given him a new shot of courage, Grüber had his supercilious look back on. “Did you know that the flight recorders were faked? The real ones are buried somewhere at the crash site. Who would look for them, when the ones believed real had already been ‘found’, all nicely scarred and scorched?”

Müller was staring at him. “What?”

“There. Do you see?
Graf
. Von. Röhnen. Now all you’ve got to do, is find those recorders.”

Grüber began to walk away, laughing as he did so. He headed for the garden.

“Give my regards to
The Semper
,” Müller said.

Grüber froze. He stood like that for several moments. Then he turned, slowly, a real fear now in his eyes.

“You have killed me,” he said in a low whisper. This time, he appeared to really believe it.

“You did that to yourself, Grüber,” Müller told him in a hard, unforgiving voice, “twenty-two years ago, when you helped kill my parents and destroy their name.” He turned his head slowly, taking in the garden and the house. “Enjoy this, which they paid for with their lives and their reputation, while you still can.” He looked at Carey Bloomfield. “Let us leave this place of the dead.”

“Müller,” she said in the car. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. If eyes were weapons, Grüber’s body would be lying drilled to that beautiful terrace. You were so cold, you made
me
cold.”

“Sorry,” Müller said as he started the Porsche. “I’ve waited years for this.”

“Hey, I’m not blaming you. In your place, I’d probably have shot the bastard right there on his big, beautiful terrace. And now? Where to?”

“Grenoble,” Müller said, sending the Turbo rushing down the tree-lined avenue.

In the house, the butler was on the phone in his room.

“They have been, and gone,” he said. “You are too late.”

There was the sound of swearing. “Did he talk?”

“He spoke. But I did not hear what was said. He was laughing at them, so perhaps he said nothing.”

“That’s not good enough. We must be certain.”

“Then I shall be out when you arrive.”

“Make it a long outing. You have been paid well for your services.”

“I have indeed. I think I shall take a long trip.” The butler looked out of his window. It was a dry day, so far. “Somewhere with less rain.”

“Where ever it happens to be, be certain to maintain your discretion. If not, you can be found.”

“Discretion, is a word pinned to my soul.”

“Then see that you don’t lose both. And give the rest of the staff the day off.”

“They will wonder…”

“
You
are the butler.
You
are in command. The house must be empty.”

“Then your wish is my command. And
Frau
Grüber?”

“Naturally, she remains. She will be leverage for Grüber’s cooperation.”

Conversation ended, the butler hung up, then began to pack.

At about the time that Müller and Carey Bloomfield were hurtling down the A5 autobahn heading for the border crossing just after Müllheim, Jackson arrived at one of his destinations.

He had not gone anywhere near Stuttgart except to bypass it and was, in fact, now within the Black Forest. He had left the Audi in a car park just off the road near a forest restaurant café. He had changed into walking clothes with weather proofs and solid walking boots; then taking the backpack with the weapons and other equipment, had locked the car, and had set off. He had deliberately left the car where it was, as a marker.

He was now five kilometres from where he had left the Audi, and stood within some woods through which he could see a small lake. The ambient light gave made it seem a dark green that was almost black. It reminded him of his daughter’s eyes. He decided this was as good a place as any, to wait. He knew the area well, and knew where he could make shelter for the coming night. He tried not to think of his wife, and prayed that what he planned to do would eventually save her.