Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

His musings had taken some time, and she had watched him pace the floor around her chair. Occasionally examining her, rubbing his chin and ear, scratching his head. Then staring at her, as if he could see into her soul for the answers that he sought. As he paced, she became hopeful that she may escape this with her life. When he stopped in front of her, she looked up at him expectantly.

He had made his decision; he believed her. She breathed a sigh of relief and watched as he reached over to the table.

The realisation, as he took the scalpel in his right hand, hit her in the stomach with an almost physical force. With one swift movement of his right arm, he pulled the scalpel across her neck. Passing between the restraint and her chin, the blade severed the jugular artery, releasing a torrent of her life blood. At first, she was not sure what had just happened. There was no pain, but she had felt the impact. It was the blood that confirmed the severity of the injury. She pulled desperately at her straps, as if she may be able to save herself were her hands free, but to no avail. Again, their eyes met, disbelief in hers, curiosity in his.

In his younger years, in both lives, he may have taken more time with her. But he was getting too old for that, and she reminded him on some level of his daughter, Eva. Still, watching a human being die somehow never got boring. They were all different, and so he contented himself with standing and watching her bleed to death.

Joe Wilson’s desk had never been the tidiest in the department, but the devastation today set new standards. The two piles of case files and books, usually separated by his in-tray, had made a gallant attempt to join forces in a heap in the middle of the desk. Covering the tray and spilling onto the telephone, it was pure chance that he spotted the envelope. Were it not for the strange stamp, he may have never seen the letter, half-buried in a bundle of statements.

Doubtless it was delivered by one of the mailroom retards, who launched letters at the desk from twenty feet away.

The stamp was very picturesque, an architectural scene by Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann 1662-1736 Deutschland. Joe flipped the envelope back and forth, and held it up to the light as if the stamp and paper may reveal the secret of its contents. After a brief search of the desk drawers, he decided he would open the letter without the help of an opener.

Joe had worked for the Portland District Police all his life. Joining straight from school, he had spent eight years on the front line as a local policeman before moving to CID. He didn’t miss the work, but he did miss the uniform. Life in civvies meant washing, ironing, and choices, lots of choices. Colour choices, style choices, jacket, trouser, and tie choices. Today’s outfit consisted of creased brown corduroy trousers, a creased, light blue dress shirt, and a creased brown tweed jacket. Nicknamed “Scarecrow” by his colleagues, Joe had turned the weakness to his advantage, with a line of female officers pitching in to help him. His stubbly good looks won them over, again and again. Today, he was at the bottom of the washing basket and hoped that Margaret, his main squeeze, would feel sorry for him and do him a favour or two that evening. No need then to say that his travels had been limited to mainland USA. He could point Germany out on a map, but that was about it. Why he should receive a handwritten, hand-addressed letter from Germany was beyond him. Leaning back in the rickety wooden seat, he swung his feet up, resting them on a cushion of unopened reports and files on the desktop. Reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, he started reading. It was not long before the letter commanded his full attention. Taking his feet down slowly, he frowned and shovelled a hole in the middle of the table top, grabbed a notepad and pen, and read on. He was the investigating officer for the Singh case. A family of four who had been killed by carbon monoxide poisoning in their holiday home on the Islands. He had never been comfortable with the case—blood reports had shown that there must have been massive carbon monoxide levels in the house. Carboxyhemoglobin blood saturation levels were close to ninety percent in the whole family. Although they had found that the boiler was defective, the carbon monoxide levels in the house were not as high as you would expect. It was possible that the boiler had turned itself off before the family was found, but the weather had been so cold that it was unlikely. Furthermore, one of the children had some abrasions on his body that were consistent with a struggle. If this letter was true, it would explain a lot. Turning the letter over in his hands, he read the sender’s address: Britt Petersen, See Street 14, 87349 Feldafing, Germany.

She had written that by the time he read the letter, she may well have had to change her place of residence.

It was understandable, as, considering the letter’s content, she could be in considerable danger.

Michael and Lisa Jarvis had not only become accustomed to the idea of a move to Germany, they were positively looking forward to it. They filled their evenings with extensive Internet searches of the Bavarian capital. Its geographical location, at the centre of Western Europe, provided a stable climate, where they could enjoy the seasons in all their glory. Summer temperatures would regularly reach the 30° Celsius mark, and winters would guarantee snow. But it was autumn that looked the most spectacular. The large mixed forests that covered Southern Germany put on an extravagant exhibition of green and gold-covered woodlands, and they both agreed it looked spectacular. Munich was so close to other European countries, it offered them countless ways to fill their free time. Ski destinations in Austria were within an hour’s drive, the Italian Lakes only four hours away. They could visit Zurich or Salzburg and still be home in time for tea. Lying on the sheepskin rug in front of their open fire, Lisa’s head in his lap and an iPad full of opportunity balanced on her chest, Michael was buzzing.

“I can’t believe we never thought about Germany for a holiday; it looks awesome!”

“Yes. Look at that scenery!”

“I can’t wait to go skiing. Imagine, we can go every weekend, not just for a holiday.”

Lisa laughed. “You will have to work. I, on the other hand, will be able to go with Fritz and his gorgeous mates.”

“Who is this Fritz guy, then?” he replied with mock indignation.

“Oh, he’s my hunky German friend from the office.”

She rolled over so that she could see his face, placing the iPad on the floor next to them and resting her chin in her hands. He smiled down at her, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

“In that case, I will have to find a Helga.”

She laughed again. “They don’t call all their daughters Helga, Michael!”

“And they don’t call all their sons Fritz, Lisa!”

Michael picked the empty bottle of chardonnay out of the ice bucket, before returning it with an audible sigh.

“Should I open another one?”

“No, darling, let’s go to bed.”

She moved up onto all fours and kissed him hard on the lips. Smiling, he jumped to his feet and helped her up.

“Now that’s the second best offer I’ve had this week.”

“We will see about that!”

Taking his hand, she led him away to their upstairs bedroom, both of them giggling all the way up the stairs, like silly children. Only when she started to undress did they become quiet. Lisa had an amazing body, and she knew it. She also had no inhibitions and slipped off the cream wool sweater, letting it fall seductively to the floor. The jeans followed, leaving her in just her bra and knickers. As she turned slowly to face him, he had to catch his breath. Despite knowing her since University, dating her for five years, and being married for thirteen, she still made him feel like a teenager when she got naked. She was three years his junior, but to look at her, you would swear she was still in her twenties. She beamed at him and reached behind her back to unclasp her bra strap. Her breasts were full, round, and immune to the effects of gravity. Her erect nipples reminded him of the limited space his jeans allowed around his growing manhood. Hurriedly, he pulled at them, struggling with the buttoned fly, making her giggle again.