Not Dead Enough

Grace patted his friend on the arm. ‘Good memory!’

‘So now us will go to the police headquarters. There they have the records for the missing persons. I have a friend, Sabine Thomas, the Polizeirat who is in charge of this department. She is coming in to meet us.’

‘Thank you,’ Grace said. ‘That’s kind of her, on a Sunday.’

His earlier optimism had deserted him and he was feeling flat, realizing again the enormity of what faced him here. He watched quiet streets, deserted shops, cars, pedestrians slide by. She could be anywhere. In a room behind any of these facades, in any of these cars, on any of these streets. And this was just one city. How many gazillion towns and cities in the world were there where she might be?

He found the button on his door and lowered his window. Sultry, humid air blew on his face. The foolishness he had felt earlier, as he had returned to the table after his fruitless chase, had gone, but now he felt lost.

Somehow, after Dick Pope’s call, he had felt that all he had to do was go to the Englischer Garten and he would find Sandy there. Waiting for him. As if somehow letting Dick and Lesley Pope see her had been her subtle way of getting the message to him.

How dumb was that?

‘If you like on the way to the office we can walk through Marienplatz. It is a small detour. We can go there to the Viktualienmarkt, the place I told you where I think an English person might go for food.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Then you are come to my house and you meet my family.’

Grace smiled at him, wondering if the German had any idea just how much he envied him the apparent normality of his life. Then, suddenly, his mobile phone rang. Grace looked at the display.

Private number.

He let it ring a couple more times, hesitating. Probably work, and he wasn’t in the right mood to speak to anyone from work right now. But he was aware of his responsibilities. With a heavy heart, he pressed the green button.

‘Yo!’

It was Glenn Branson.

‘Wassup?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Munich.’

‘Munich? You’re still there?’

‘It’s only been a few hours.’

‘What the fuck are you doing there anyway?’

‘Trying to buy you a horse.’

There was a long silence. ‘A what?’ And then, ‘Oh, I get it. Very funny. Munich – shit, man. Ever see that movie Night Train to Munich?’

‘No.’

‘Directed by Carol Reed.’

‘Never saw it. This is not a good time to discuss movies.’

‘Yeah, well, you were watching The Third Man the other night. He directed that too.’

‘Is that what you phoned to tell me about?’

‘No.’ He was about to add something, when Kullen leaned across Grace, pointing at a rather unimpressive looking building.

‘Hold on a moment.’ Grace covered the mouthpiece.

‘The Bierkeller where Hitler was thrown out from, because he did not pay his bill!’ he said. ‘A rumour, you know!’

‘I’m just driving past Adolf Hitler’s watering hole,’ Grace informed Branson.

‘Yeah? Well, keep on driving past it. We have a problem.’

‘Tell me?’

‘It’s big. Massive. OK?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘You sound pissed. Have you been drinking?’

‘No,’ Grace said, mentally sharpening himself up. ‘Tell me?’