Hunter's Rain (4 page)

“Are you supposed to park here?” Carey Bloomfield asked.

“I’m a policeman;” he replied. “I’m conducting an investigation.”

“Yeah. Right.” Carey Bloomfield peered out. It was still raining heavily. “Still raining, Pappi. And it’s not getting brighter.”

“So who said I was a weatherman?”

“Didn’t you grow up on a farm?”

“That was a long time ago. And anyway, the weather people get it wrong all the time.” He looked at the package she carefully held on her lap. “Time to eat,” he added with undisguised anticipation.

“Did you stop by that place just for me? Or for you?”

“I cannot tell a lie. I would almost kill for their chocolate cake.”

She smiled at him. “Müller goes for Black Forest cake, and you like chocolate. As I’ve said, you two are a pair of something. Coffee smells pretty good, though.” She handed over the package. “Enjoy.”

“There’s one for you too,” he said, taking it. He opened it, and began to pass her coffee and cake over.

“Early for cake,” she said, “but what the hell.” She glanced over to her right, at a long queue of people, waiting on the steps of the parliament building. “They must be nuts, standing in line in this rain.”

“All waiting to go in to see the glass dome,” he said. “They come from all over, in all weathers. The Chancellor’s cube is just behind us, to the left.”

“Better them than me.” She took a sip of the still-hot coffee. “Mmm. That’s good.” She peered through the drenched windscreen. “The Spree is just out front, right?”

“It is. A river runs through the government buildings,” Pappenheim added with dry humour. “Want to see?”

“In
this
stuff? The Spree can stay where it is. I don’t go to the mountain, and the mountain does not come to me. Besides, someone said I could leave my coat.”

“Someone did,” Pappenheim confirmed with a straight face. He bit into the rich chocolate cake with obvious pleasure.

“When your mouth’s not full, Pappi,” Carey Bloomfield said, “you can start telling me what the hell’s going on, and why that policeman tried to shoot me. And don’t forget, he actually addressed me by name.”

“That creature was not a policeman,” Pappenheim reminded her, eating through his words. “His car had the Berlin index letter, but the numbers seemed wrong. Good enough to pass first and second glances, though. That means good organisation, and access. And he knew your name. Considering you just got here, it makes things…” He continued eating.

“It makes things what?”

“More exciting.”

“More exciting,” Carey Bloomfield repeated. “Great. I nearly get blown away by a wannabe cop and you say…”

The sound of a mobile phone interrupted her.

Pappenheim paused in the middle of a second bite of cake. “Yours?”

“It’s coming from your direction, Pappi.”

“Ah. Of course. Mine. Must be Jens.”

“How do you know?”

“Very few people have this number. I would not be insane enough to give it to Kaltendorf. But it’s Jens. He will have tried my office first.”

Pappenheim put the cake down with a sigh, and got out the mobile. “Yes, Jens.”

“Where are you?” Müller’s voice said in his ear. “I just tried your office.”

“Having some coffee and cake.” Pappenheim gave Carey Bloomfield a glance that said, told you.

“
Cake?
At this time of the day?”

“Don’t you start.

“Somebody told you already?”

“My. We are sharp this early in the day. ‘Somebody’ told me, and ‘somebody’s’ having cake too. Chocolate.”

“It’s early for your riddles, Pappi.”

“So…” Pappenheim went on, “what pleasures await me with this call?”

“The contact was helpful.”

“Ah.”

“I’m going to check something out in Kreuzberg.”

“I think you should come back to the office,” Pappenheim advised.

“Why? The Great White throwing one of his fits?”

“Haven’t seen him as yet today, thank God.”

“Then…”

“Hang on. Someone you should speak with.” Pappenheim handed the mobile over to a startled Carey Bloomfield.

She took the phone and stared at it, while Pappenheim made urging motions at her.

“Hello, Müller,” she said into the phone.

Pappenheim gave a little smile and went back to the serious business of finishing his cake.

A silence from the other end greeted Carey Bloomfield.

“Miss Bloomfield,” Müller said at last. “I was just thinking about you.”

“All good, I hope.”

He ducked the remark. “This is unexpected.”

“I had some free time. Why not see my two pals in Berlin, I thought.”

“You miss us?”

“That’s a way of putting it.”

“Nothing…official?”

“Nothing official.”

“Can I believe that?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, as you would say.”

“I never say that. That’s attorney-speak.”

There was another silence.

“I won’t be long,” Müller said. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Is that an offer?”

“If you have nowhere to stay.”

“I’m checked into a hotel, but I can uncheck. You still got your Hammonds?”

“Naturally.”

“Here’s the deal…I’ll take you up on your offer, if you play one piece for me.”

“That’s almost like the family thing we both remember from childhood, and hate. You know…play your recorder for grandmother…”

“I know. But that’s the deal.” She was smiling.

Pappenheim finished his cake and raised an eyebrow at her.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Müller said. “Can you hand Pappi back, please? Good to know you’re in town.”

“Sure,” she said, meaning both. She handed the phone back.

“Something she hasn’t told you,” Pappenheim said into the phone.

“Which is?”

“A fake colleague tried to shoot her.”

“
What?”

“Thought that would get your juices flowing. So? The office? Or Kreuzberg?”

“The office.” Müller ended the call.

Pappenheim put the phone away, and turned to Carey Bloomfield. “You two should get married. You behave like a couple already.”

“I don’t marry unless I’m asked.”

“You’ve been asked before?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“I said no…each time. I’m very picky.”

“
Each
time? How many?”

“Three. Maybe four. Suddenly you’re a matchmaker, Pappi?”

Pappenheim smiled again, and started the car.

“It looks as if we won’t have time for our private talk, after all,” he said to her as he slowly drove to where he could turn round. “And as you have explained your presence here so well, I don’t have to think of a believable excuse to give to Jens.” He gave a smile that was one of relief. “He never told me until last May, that he’d learned about the death of his parents.”

Pappenheim grinned, but made no comment about that. “And you and Jens went down to the south of France,” he continued, “my dark secret was that I intercepted a note to Jens while you two were down there. No sender, and just a simple message.
‘You may think you have won, Müller. But you haven’t. Your father was Romeo Six.’
A direct quote.”

“
Jesus!”

“I sat on it for a long time. I confessed after he told me about what he’d found out on Rügen. All things considered, he was very good about it. I think he was feeling a little guilty about not telling me what Rachko had said. I’ll give you a quick background picture on the way,” Pappenheim went on, “about what we’ve found out since then. Many…let’s say…exciting things…”

“’Exciting’?”

“As in interesting, and blood-chilling. Some of it concerns you.”

“
Me?”

Müller put his phone away, frowning.

Carey Bloomfield had barely arrived in Berlin and already, someone had tried to kill her.

“She’ll have to stay here,” he said to himself. “It’s secure.”

Which was true enough. The massive wooden door at the street entrance was reinforced within by two full-sized sheets of steel, each ten millimetres thick. Its immovable handle, with splayed ends, was welded between the steel inlays. Infrared and movement sensors guarded the entire building. The management company -under contract from Müller and not far away - had a landline connection with monitors in their offices, which were manned 24 hours a day. They also had a direct connection to Müller himself.

He went into the large, almost empty room that served as his study. The two, pristine Hammond drawbar organs, lids down, were highly polished islands in the vast space. One was a tone wheel B3, the other its electronic twin, the XB3. Each had a full pedal keyboard. On one wall, were just two portraits: of his father, and of his mother. There were no other pictures in the room.

“She wants me to play for her,” he said to the portraits. “Apart from the two of you, I don’t normally play for anyone. But I think this time, I’ll make an exception.”

In shirtsleeves, with shoulder harness on and the Beretta in its holster, he stood with legs slightly apart, hands in pockets.

“I’m getting closer,” he went on, “and they don’t like it. They’re under pressure, and are beginning to react more aggressively. They shot Pappi in May. They could not have known that he would have decided on impulse that night, to wear body armour. They were trying to get to me, via Pappi.

“Today, they tried to kill Carey.” A small, reflective smile lived briefly upon Müller’s face. “She came into my life unexpectedly, and was not particularly welcome. Now…” He paused. “She’s becoming part of it. Won’t tell her that, of course.”

The smile flitted on again, as he went out.

They were just passing the Chancellor’s residence, when Pappenheim’s mobile rang. He pulled in to the side of the road, and stopped. A car honked in annoyance as it went past.

“Go play with yourself,” Pappenheim said with a scowl.

“Pappi!” Carey Bloomfield admonished.

“He should have been more alert,” Pappenheim grumbled as he fished out the mobile. “Must be Berger,” he added, putting the phone to an ear. “Yes?”

“Boss? Where are you?”

“Why are you whispering, Berger?”

Silence greet this.

“I understand,” Pappenheim said to her.

“Better come back,” Berger whispered.

“On my way.”

They ended their brief conversation.

“Kaltendorf,” Pappenheim said to Carey Bloomfield, as he put the phone away.

“How do you know?”

“Berger was whispering,” he replied, driving off. “That meant he was prowling

around. I did hear something, after all, when we were leaving. We must have missed him by seconds.”

“How are you going to explain me?”

“We met…umm…in the street. You were on your way to us.”

“Berger’s seen me. That young guy in the elevator, and the guy on the front desk...”

“The duty sergeant and Berger won’t talk. Berger would rather have her teeth pulled without anaesthetic.”

“Urrgh! Solidarity with me, despite everything?”

“Solidarity with Jens,” Pappenheim corrected, “and with me. No offence.”

“None taken.”

“As for Hammersfeldt, Kaltendorf won’t lower himself to ask a mere sergeant in the assault team, even if he imagined Hammersfeldt might have seen me. Now for that background information I promised you.”

Berger put her phone away as she hurried along the corridor, and turned the corner into another that would lead to the sergeants’ office.

She found an impatient Kaltendorf waiting.

“Well,
Obermeisterin
Berger?” he demanded. “Is he back in that cesspit he calls an office?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Not yet, sir! Not yet, sir! That’s all I ever get. Müller out on some errand of his choosing; Pappenheim smoking himself to death God knows where…” Kaltendorf stopped abruptly, as if suddenly realising he was moaning to a roomful of sergeants.

He glared at Berger. “I want them both, in my office!”

“Yes, sir.”

With a final glare, Kaltendorf stomped out.

She waited until the marching slam of the pounding footsteps had faded, before letting out a weary sigh.

“Just what I really wanted on a day like this.”

Klemp, in his thirties, a senior sergeant with a weightlifter’s physique and a dangerously receding hairline, drew out a tabloid he had been reading before Kaltendorf’s sudden arrival. The paper was noted more for its girlie shots, than news content.