Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

Sgt. Reg. Paris. It explained the notes Palmer had made. Riley said, ‘He must have served with him. But why would he be thinking about him now?’

‘No idea. Before my time, I’m afraid. I was hoping there would be some notes to go with it, but there’s nothing other than the report of the death. The bloke’s officially dead — recorded and confirmed.’

‘Could there have been a mistake?’ Riley’s immediate thought was that Reg Paris and the man in Harrow were one and the same, as wild as that sounded to her. But Charlie’s response seemed to counter it.

‘I doubt it. The army doesn’t make mistakes like that, not when it comes to paying out pensions and stuff.’

‘How did it happen?’ Riley wondered if Palmer had been involved, which might explain his reference to ghosts.

‘His car was totalled by a Merc transporter travelling in the same direction. The report says Paris was driving a pool Opel and must have wandered across the lanes, like he’d fallen asleep. Some of those pool cars weren’t that good; they got hammered to a standstill, mostly, so there wouldn’t have been any speed under the foot, see, to get out of the way. The truck couldn’t stop and went through him like wet paper. The civil cops had to make the identification from army records. It couldn’t have been pretty.’

‘Was anyone else killed?’

‘No. He was travelling solo.’

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.