‘Was anyone else killed?’
‘No. He was travelling solo.’
Chapter 11
Walter Unger was a tall, slight man in his late fifties with glossy, grey hair and perfectly tanned skin. He was dressed in a green, waxed jacket, corduroy trousers and brown brogues, and in spite of the rolling rural German countryside behind him, looked more British Home Counties than mainland European. He was puffing on a small cigar and leaning against a dark blue BMW parked in a lay-by.
Palmer cut the engine of his rental car and climbed out, easing his shoulders with a wince of relief. He was feeling stiff after the flight from Heathrow and the long drive from Frankfurt airport, and was pleased to be on his feet again. It had been a while since he’d driven any distance on the right and had still not adjusted to the different circumstances. He glanced around and breathed in deeply, relishing the fresh air. The scenery was lush and green, and looked very different to when he had last been here. The sun had broken through the cloud and he caught a flash of reflected light in the distance. From his mental map, he guessed it was over by the former East German town of Meiningen.
‘Mr Palmer.’ Unger stepped forward to greet him with an outstretched hand. ‘I recognise you from the photo you emailed me. My apologies for that little precaution, but it helps avoid…problems. We live in uncertain times, after all.’ His English was impeccable, displaying only a faint trace of an accent, something that had been more pronounced over the phone. Palmer’s surprise must have showed, because the German smiled and explained: ‘I did a language course at Oxford. I gained five kilos, a love of English beer and, so I’m told, an accent which has served me well with British and American clients.’ He chuckled at his good fortune and gestured with his cigar out across the open countryside behind him, where the fields and dark shadows of woods rolled away to the horizon. ‘This is the area you said you were interested in seeing. You would need to have been born here to see precisely where the border used to be, but I understand you have a good idea, anyway.’
‘It’s changed a lot.’
Unger nodded energetically. ‘That’s correct. For the better, I have to say. The farm you mentioned is still here, of course. Still owned by the same family.’ He reached in his coat pocket and consulted a notebook, although Palmer suspected he had the details memorised by heart. ‘The current owner’s name is Oscar Hemmricht. He is the son of the original owner. He was a boy here back then and has agreed to speak to you.’ He looked up, his face serious. ‘There is still a problem here for people to be easily open, Mr Palmer. Too much history, too much suspicion. So I don’t think we need to worry too much about this matter being discussed widely by anyone else. Memories are still fresh with the way things were. The physical signs — the towers and the wire — may have gone, but there are still shadows. And some ghosts, too.’
‘You mean I shouldn’t jump in with both feet,’ said Palmer.
‘Well, if you do,’ said Unger dryly, ‘make sure your size twelves land softly. I’ve already prepared the way with a brief explanation about what you are seeking, but if you will allow me to make the introductions first, then I’ll step back and let you get on with it.’ He turned and reached into the BMW and handed Palmer a buff folder. ‘This is all the information I managed to discover about the incident you mentioned. It is not much, but I cannot say I am surprised; not all such incidents were recorded as well as they should have been.’ His expression suggested that such carelessness was an unfortunate product of the times. ‘It gives us the name of the person who died, and a little of his history from justice ministry files. He was under suspicion, which may explain his actions.’
‘You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble.’ Palmer was referring to the fact that Unger had indicated over the phone that he would not be seeking a fee for his assistance, merely a consideration of any future business Palmer could put his way. It was a remarkably generous offer, and one Palmer wasn’t about to turn down.
‘Not at all. This was a small amount of work for me. I am keen to build up my business internationally, and would welcome any introductions you can make. Besides,’ he smiled and cocked his head to one side, ‘I am also intrigued, and it is a change from my usual work. Legal transactions can be so boring.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll see what I can do. For now, you might like to contact this man.’ He handed Unger Donald Brask’s details. ‘He’s in the information business. I’ll recommend your name.’
Unger nodded gratefully. ‘That is very kind.’
‘No problem. How does this business about the border sit with you?’ He had already explained in cautious terms what he remembered from when he was here, but had left out certain things he felt Unger did not need to know yet.
‘As a lawyer, you mean, or a German?’ Unger shrugged, seeming to read his mind. ‘The same. You have an interest in a matter related to what happened here in eighty-nine. I’m guessing you have not told me everything, but I understand that. All lawyers deal in half-details and economies of the truth. For myself, if we tried to address every incident that happened in this country over the past decades, we’d all run out of time and friends. What I hear today stays with me. Believe me, I have enough to do elsewhere.’ He nodded towards a low huddle of buildings in the distance. ‘That’s the farm you mentioned, and beyond it in the distance is Henneberg. We proceed along this road for half a kilometre before turning left. The track is okay, but you should take it easy.’ He nodded and climbed into his car, flicking away his cigar as he did so.
Up close, the farm seemed neater than the vague glimpse Palmer remembered from years ago, and showed signs of recent rebuilding. New farm machinery stood in a large barn to one side of the main house, and a few cows were clustered in a paddock surrounded by a modern run of freshly painted wooden fencing. The overall impression was of improvements being made gradually, now that the looming shadows of the wires and border towers were no longer cast over the land.
The two men had barely climbed from their cars when the door to the house opened and a young man appeared, squinting in the sunlight. He had obviously been awaiting their arrival.
Unger made polite and careful introductions. Oscar Hemmricht was tall, rawboned and dressed in a check shirt and heavy work pants. He looked carefully at Palmer before nodding and shaking hands, then invited them both to sit at a heavy kitchen table, while he poured fresh coffee from a cafetière.
‘He does not speak English,’ said Unger. ‘Sorry — I should have said. Obviously, I’ll translate for you, unless…?’ Palmer shook his head. His German was passable, but not for this kind of thing. There was too much danger of missing something important, and Unger would be better able to judge how things were going if he was involved first-hand.
Unger spoke for a few minutes, during which Palmer picked up references to the Volkspolitzei — the border police — and the Ost — the East. Oscar Hemmricht listened, nodding and occasionally looking at Palmer, then cleared his throat and asked a question.
‘He wants to know if you were here before,’ said Unger. ‘He says you have the look of the military.’
‘Yes,’ replied Palmer, looking directly at the farmer. There was no benefit in avoiding the truth. ‘I was a military policeman in eighty-nine. I came out to this place with a colleague when the shooting was reported. It was the only time.’
Oscar nodded but said nothing, so Palmer decided to ask him a direct question. ‘Your father ran this farm back then, is that correct, Herr Hemmricht?’