Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

“What’s going on?”

“She sent the investigating officer of the Singh case a letter. It incriminates a company called Meyer-Hofmann. It implies that the Singhs were murdered! Apparently, she has proof, documentation. What have you got me involved in, Von Klitzing? You told me I was doing our State departments a favour.”

Von Klitzing had never told Hanson who he was working for. Now he was glad he hadn’t. Hanson would have spooked. Keeping his voice calm and unaffected, Von Klitzing continued.

“Calm down. I have no more idea about this than you do. Just keep a low profile, and as soon as I know anything, I will be in touch.”

“Were that family murdered? I can’t keep a low profile, I’m the Deputy Chief of Police, for Christ sake!”

“I will deal with it, Hanson!” Von Klitzing’s tone left no room for misunderstanding, “I will be in touch.”

Hanson slouched in his chair and stared at his phone. Von Klitzing had told him the Singh family and the suicides were bad for business, a danger to shareholder’s dividends, not murder. There had been two jumpers. One from a multi-storey parking lot, and the other from the top of an office building. The third suicide was found on New Year’s Day in his car, parked in the garage, with the door closed and the motor running. The investigations were expedited. There were no suspicious circumstances.

This is bad, very bad, he told himself.

The cases were swept under the rug, in the name of large case loads and prioritisation.

If anyone finds out I was involved…

He had ordered the Indian family diverted to the local hospital, by involving his cousin, a local police officer with the Portland PD.

I have to cover my tracks, distance myself from Von Klitzing.

The sweat ran down the inside of his shirt, speckling the material like blotting paper. Picking up the phone, he called a Portland number.

Von Klitzing’s usual phlegmatic disposition was also being tested. The situation presented him with a whole list of problems, and he couldn’t escape the fact that he was probably responsible for a lot of them.

The German Criminal Police would want to know where Britt Petersen was. If she had sent a police officer in the US a letter, what else had she done? He needed to make sure that there were no more hidden USB sticks. Hanson could link him to the murders in New York—it was only a matter of time before he worked it out. Picking up the phone again, he resolved to sort out that problem first.

Time flew by for the Jarvises. Heggerty IT wished Michael well, and PricewaterhouseCoopers made Lisa promises of partnerships and promotions. Meyer-Hofmann kept a subtle distance, helping with the removal of furniture, but otherwise letting them get on with it. They decided to rent out the property in Guiseley rather than selling it.

“It gives us options should we need them,” Michael had explained.

They had both attended the EITA awards ceremony in London. Michael received the award for innovation, to much praise and adulation. The solid silver miniature laptop would decorate a cupboard in their new Munich home, and the cheque for 10.000 pounds would help to furnish it. The distinction would provide him with job opportunities for the rest of his career. They left the event revitalised and inspired. Michael had experienced no recurrence of the migraine, nor the memory loss. The pair were optimistic and excited about their future in a foreign land.

It was the first Saturday in February when they moved to Munich. The plan was to take two weeks before starting work, to set up home and tackle German bureaucracy. As they stood in the furnished penthouse flat overlooking the Olympic Park in central Munich, Lisa smiled to herself.

It looks a lot better than when I viewed it the first time, she thought.

The open-plan flat was tastefully decorated with hardwood floors and modern appliances. The panorama windows allowed them a view of the Olympic Tower, which stood at the centre of the park. But this was not her dream home. It had no soul—it was too modern and clean for her tastes. That had been the pull of their house in Guiseley, probably only a third of the price of this property, but it had a warm, inviting quality about it that was missing here. Michael could tell immediately that she hated it.

“It’s only a stopgap solution, darling. We can start looking for our own place whenever you like.”

He had read her like a book, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek, along with a mischievous giggle.

“I think we need a detached house this time, darling, somewhere with some privacy, like Greg and Joyce’s.”

Greg was his old boss at Heggerty. He had bought a mansion just outside of Leeds, in the village of Linton. It was a movie star-type house, set in four acres of perfectly manicured gardens, opposite Wetherby Golf Club. Michael had never understood why a couple without children needed seven bedrooms.

The conversation didn’t change on their way to the club. They had been invited for lunch by Reichard, and Lisa was still debating the merits of on suite bathrooms with Michael when they sat down at the table.

“I take it you are happy with the flat we found for you?” Reichard asked expectantly.

Lisa saw the opportunity and took it.

“No, it’s horrible. Don’t you have a nice bungalow, somewhere quiet for us, Herr Reichard?” A subtle flutter of her eyelids accompanied the question.

Reichard smiled at her and reached over to pat her knee. Many men had been slapped for less, but Lisa let it go with a sideward glance in Michael’s direction. Three waiters arrived at the table simultaneously. A large bowl of salad was placed in the middle, and a freshly grilled halibut put in front of them. The head waiter poured them each a glass of sparkling water, then waited for consent from Reichard to serve the 2004 Grün Burgunder.

“I hope it is okay, but I ordered for us all. The fish here is remarkably good.”

“That’s fine,” said Lisa, slowly rolling the white wine around her glass, before testing its nose and taking a small sip to taste. “Ooh, the wine is very good! You must try it, Michael!”

Michael followed her guide and smiled in agreement.

“Very good.”

“There are very many fine German wines you will both have to try, and I am sure we can find you a fine German property as well. In fact, now that I think of it, there is a property in Starnberg that will soon be available. It belongs to a partner of ours, Fredrik Petersen. He is recently separated and is looking to downsize.”

“Starnberg, I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that the big lake where the Bavarian King drowned?”

“Indeed it is. You are very well-informed, Mrs Jarvis. King Ludwig II drowned mysteriously, whilst being held at Castle Berg. Starnberg is one of the most beautiful lakes in Bavaria. The German aristocracy have been going there for centuries. I have a holiday home there.”

“Wow, how wonderful. What was mysterious about his death?”

“King Ludwig had been spending money like it was going out of fashion, building castles and monuments all over Bavaria, and the politicians were scared he would bankrupt the local country. They locked him up, saying he was mad, and then he was found, together with his physician, drowned in waist-high water, near the castle.”

“They were both dead? Had they had a fight?” Lisa loved a good mystery.

“The doctor did have some injuries, to his head and shoulders I believe, but Ludwig had no visible injuries. It remains a mystery as to what happened. King Ludwig is probably solely responsible for the tourist industry in Bavaria. There are some wonderful places to visit. Surely you have heard of Schloss Neuschwanstein ? It is the Castle Walt Disney copied.”