‘Sierra Oscar to Charlie Charlie 109.’
Using his personal radio set, sitting in its plastic cradle on the clip of his stab vest, David Curtis replied, ‘109, go ahead.’
‘We’ve got a grade-two cause for concern on the queue. Are you free?’
‘Yes, yes. Go ahead with details, over.’
‘Address is Flat 4, 17 Newman Villas. The occupant is a Sophie Harrington. She didn’t turn up to meet a friend yesterday, and she’s not answered her phone or doorbell since yesterday afternoon, which is out of character. Can you do an address check so we can take it off the queue?’
‘Confirm Flat 4, 17 Newman Villas, Sophie Harrington?’ Curtis said.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Received. En route.’
Relieved to have something to actually do this morning, Norris swung the car around in a U-turn so hard and fast that the tyres squealed. Then he made a left turn at the top into Western Road, accelerating faster than was strictly necessary.
56
Apologizing to Marcel Kullen, he put the phone to his ear and pressed the green button. ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
Then, when he heard the acerbic voice at the other end, he immediately wished he had left the damn phone ringing.
‘Where are you, Roy? It sounds like you’re abroad.’ It was his boss, Assistant Chief Constable Alison Vosper, and she seemed a little astonished. ‘That wasn’t a UK ring tone,’ she said.
This was one call he simply had not expected today and he had no answer prepared. When he had phoned Marcel in Germany he had noticed the ring tone was quite different, a steady, flat whine instead of the normal two-tone ring in the UK. There was no point in lying, he knew.
Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘Munich.’
From the other end of the phone came a sound like a small nuclear device detonating inside a corrugated-iron shed filled with ball bearings. It was followed by some moments of silence. Then Vosper’s voice again, very abrupt: ‘I’ve just spilled some coffee. I’ll have to call you back.’
As he finished the call he cursed for not having thought this through better. Of course, in a normal world he was perfectly entitled to a day off, and to leave his deputy SIO in charge. But the world in which Alison Vosper prowled was not normal. She had taken a dislike to him, for reasons he could not figure out – but no doubt in part because of his recent unfortunate press coverage – and was looking all the time for a reason to demote him, or freeze his career path, or transfer him to the other end of the country. Taking the day off on the third day of a major murder inquiry was not going to improve her opinion of him.
‘Everything is OK?’ Kullen asked.
‘Never better.’
His phone was ringing again now. ‘What exactly are you doing in Germany?’ Alison Vosper asked.
Roy hated lying – as he knew from recent experience, lies weakened people – but he was also aware that the truth was not likely to be met with much civility, so he fudged. ‘I’m following up a lead.’
‘In Germany?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when exactly will we be able to expect your leadership back in England?’
‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘DI Murphy is in charge in my absence.’
‘Excellent,’ she replied. ‘So you will be able to meet me straight after your briefing meeting tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes. I can be with you about nine thirty.’
‘Anything to report on the case?’
‘We’re making good progress. I’m close to an arrest. I’m just waiting for DNA tests to come back from Huntington, which I expect tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ she said. Then, after a moment, she added, without any softening of her tone, ‘I’m told they have excellent beer in Germany.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘I spent my honeymoon in Hamburg. Take it from me, they do. You should try some. Nine thirty tomorrow morning.’
She hung up.
Shit, he thought, angry with himself for being so badly prepared. Shit, shit, shit! And tomorrow morning she would ask him for sure to tell her about the lead he was following up here. He needed to think of something pretty damn good.
They were passing a high-rise block of flats, with the BMW roundel prominently displayed near the top. Then a Marriott hotel.
He quickly checked his BlackBerry for messages. There were a dozen emails waiting to be read that had come in since getting off the plane, most of them relating to Operation Chameleon.
‘The old Olympic stadium!’ Kullen said.
Grace looked over to his left and saw a building designed in the shape of a half-collapsed marquee. They forked right, down an underpass, then turned left over tramlines. He opened his map on his knees, trying to orient himself.
Kullen looked at his watch and said, ‘You know, I am thinking, it was my plan we go to end up at my office first, and put up all the details of Sandy on the system, but I think it will be better we go to the Seehausgarten first. It will be busy now, many people. Perhaps you will have a chance of seeing her. Is better we go to the office after, is OK?’
‘You’re the tour guide, your decision!’ Grace said. He saw a blue tram with a large advertisement for Adelholzener on its roof.
As if misinterpreting him, Kullen began pointing out the names of galleries as they drove down a wide avenue. ‘Museum of Modern Art,’ he said. Then, ‘This over here is the Haus der Kunst – an art gallery built during the Hitler regime.’
Then, minutes later, they were driving down a long, straight road with the tree-lined banks of the River Isar to their right and tall, old, elegant apartment building after apartment building to their left. The city was beautiful but large. So damn large. Shit. How the hell could he search for Sandy here, so far from home? And if she did not want to be found, then she sure as hell had picked a good place.
Marcel continued diligently pointing out the names of sights they were passing and the districts of the city they were in. He listened, continually staring down at the street map open on his knees, trying to fix the geography of the place in his mind, and thinking to himself, If Sandy is here, what part of this city will she be living in? The centre?
A suburb? A village outside?
Each time he looked up he clocked everyone on the pavement and in every car, on the off-chance, however small, of spotting Sandy. For some moments he watched a thin, studious-looking man ambling along in shorts and a baggy T-shirt, a newspaper tucked under his arm, munching on a pretzel he was holding in a blue paper napkin. Do you have a new man in your life? Does he look like this? he wondered.
‘We are go to the Osterwald Garten. It is also beer garden close to the Englischer Garten – easier we parking there and a nice foot walk to the Seehaus,’ Kullen announced.
A few minutes later they turned into a residential area and drove along a narrow street with small, attractive houses on either side. Then they passed an ivy-clad pink and white columned building. ‘For weddings – marriage registry. You can get married in this place,’ Kullen said.
Something cold suddenly churned inside Grace. Marriage. Was it possible Sandy had married again in some new identity she had adopted?
They drove on down a leafy street, with a hedge on their right and trees on their left, then came into a small square, with a cobbled pavement and other ivy-clad houses, and if it weren’t for the left-hand drive cars and the German writing on the parking signs, it could have been somewhere in England, Grace thought.