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.
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,
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
