None of them were comforting. Feeling his skin creep, he hurried back to his office in the club’s basement, verbalising his racing thoughts as he went.
“That bitch. I should have spent more time on her. What has she done? The Bitch.”
A young couple had to separate, to let the ranting individual pass between them. His eyes stared at the ground, his mouth constantly repeating the word, whilst his hands madly scratched at his arms, face, and scalp.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.”
Von Klitzing’s office was immaculate. Nothing was out of place, and everything was labelled. The complete right-hand wall was covered with a bank of small wooden pharmacy drawers. Each with a bronze, handwritten cardholder. The information they held had long been digitised, but Von Klitzing still preferred the traditional method. Opposite the drawers hung a large oil portrait of Adolf Hitler, held in a gilded frame, and between them was his desk. Von Klitzing turned to the painting and made a short bow, before, still muttering to himself, he turned back and pulled open one of the drawers at the centre of the left wall. Retrieving an information card, and flipping it over and over in his hands, he took his place behind the desk. Another futuristic-looking chair, this time with a high leather back and shoulder support, took his weight, moving back and to the side before finding its centre. It was mounted on the same spring assembly and wheels as the chair in the interrogation room. He swung round the curved table top, to pick up the telephone, before angrily punching in the international code zero, zero, one, and the area code six, four, six before the number. Waiting for an answer, he rubbed at an angry patch of psoriasis on his scalp and cursed under his breath.
“Deputy Chief Hanson here.”
“Hanson, Von Klitzing here. We have a problem. The Portland Police are looking for a woman called Britt Petersen. I need to know why! And I need to know soon!”
“Very well, sir, I will get straight back to you.”
Von Klitzing replaced the receiver, sat back in the chair, and closed his eyes.
Hanson was by no means as composed. He had long regretted his association with Von Klitzing, but, as ever, he was too weak to change it. Von Klitzing had appeared some ten years earlier, as his career was taking off, and his gambling problems had not yet reached their peak. At the time, he thought it was a chance meeting, at a roulette table in Vegas. As time passed, however, he learned that Von Klitzing didn’t do anything by chance. The two men had struck up a friendship over a mega gambling session, which saw them both lose a considerable amount. Von Klitzing had seemed unperturbed by his losses, offering Hanson a loan to tide him over. Against his better judgement, he had accepted. That was $250,000 ago, and their relationship had moved to a more formal one. Hanson got $25,000 a year, and, in return, Von Klitzing got what Von Klitzing wanted. He had given him information about investigations, mostly involving Wall Street companies. Occasionally, he would receive a tip about unlawfulness in the financial sector, which he would then investigate and prosecute. But as his need for funds had increased, so had Von Klitzing’s demands. In the last year, he had stopped three investigations into suicides of Wall Street employees, for which he received a modest increase, of $15,000 a year.
It didn’t take him long to get the information Von Klitzing needed. A deputy chief in the New York City Police Force always got what he wanted. Hanson was beginning to wish he hadn’t. Von Klitzing picked up on the second ring.
“What’s going on?”
“She sent the investigating officer of the Singh case a letter. It incriminates a company called Meyer-Hofmann. It implies that the Singhs were murdered! Apparently, she has proof, documentation. What have you got me involved in, Von Klitzing? You told me I was doing our State departments a favour.”
Von Klitzing had never told Hanson who he was working for. Now he was glad he hadn’t. Hanson would have spooked. Keeping his voice calm and unaffected, Von Klitzing continued.
“Calm down. I have no more idea about this than you do. Just keep a low profile, and as soon as I know anything, I will be in touch.”
“Were that family murdered? I can’t keep a low profile, I’m the Deputy Chief of Police, for Christ sake!”
“I will deal with it, Hanson!” Von Klitzing’s tone left no room for misunderstanding, “I will be in touch.”
Hanson slouched in his chair and stared at his phone. Von Klitzing had told him the Singh family and the suicides were bad for business, a danger to shareholder’s dividends, not murder. There had been two jumpers. One from a multi-storey parking lot, and the other from the top of an office building. The third suicide was found on New Year’s Day in his car, parked in the garage, with the door closed and the motor running. The investigations were expedited. There were no suspicious circumstances.
This is bad, very bad, he told himself.
The cases were swept under the rug, in the name of large case loads and prioritisation.
If anyone finds out I was involved…
He had ordered the Indian family diverted to the local hospital, by involving his cousin, a local police officer with the Portland PD.
I have to cover my tracks, distance myself from Von Klitzing.
The sweat ran down the inside of his shirt, speckling the material like blotting paper. Picking up the phone, he called a Portland number.
Von Klitzing’s usual phlegmatic disposition was also being tested. The situation presented him with a whole list of problems, and he couldn’t escape the fact that he was probably responsible for a lot of them.
The German Criminal Police would want to know where Britt Petersen was. If she had sent a police officer in the US a letter, what else had she done? He needed to make sure that there were no more hidden USB sticks. Hanson could link him to the murders in New York—it was only a matter of time before he worked it out. Picking up the phone again, he resolved to sort out that problem first.
16
Time flew by for the Jarvises. Heggerty IT wished Michael well, and PricewaterhouseCoopers made Lisa promises of partnerships and promotions. Meyer-Hofmann kept a subtle distance, helping with the removal of furniture, but otherwise letting them get on with it. They decided to rent out the property in Guiseley rather than selling it.
“It gives us options should we need them,” Michael had explained.
They had both attended the EITA awards ceremony in London. Michael received the award for innovation, to much praise and adulation. The solid silver miniature laptop would decorate a cupboard in their new Munich home, and the cheque for 10.000 pounds would help to furnish it. The distinction would provide him with job opportunities for the rest of his career. They left the event revitalised and inspired. Michael had experienced no recurrence of the migraine, nor the memory loss. The pair were optimistic and excited about their future in a foreign land.
It was the first Saturday in February when they moved to Munich. The plan was to take two weeks before starting work, to set up home and tackle German bureaucracy. As they stood in the furnished penthouse flat overlooking the Olympic Park in central Munich, Lisa smiled to herself.
It looks a lot better than when I viewed it the first time, she thought.
The open-plan flat was tastefully decorated with hardwood floors and modern appliances. The panorama windows allowed them a view of the Olympic Tower, which stood at the centre of the park. But this was not her dream home. It had no soul—it was too modern and clean for her tastes. That had been the pull of their house in Guiseley, probably only a third of the price of this property, but it had a warm, inviting quality about it that was missing here. Michael could tell immediately that she hated it.