Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

“Will you be long, Mr Jarvis?”

“No, I am just popping out for some air.”

Michael wondered what Hofmann would have done in the circumstances, but it was too late for that. The guard was already on top of him. He was incredibly strong, levering Michael’s right arm up behind his back and slamming him up against the elevator door. The panic lasted less than a second. He had inherited more than just a bad temper from his grandfather. As the lift door opened in front of him, he went into a forward roll, carrying the guard on his back and ploughing him face-first into the elevator’s mirrored interior. Springing to his feet, Michael stamped down on the young guard’s neck with all the force he could muster. The snap of the guard’s cerebral spine echoed around the cabin, as his body became a heap on the polished floor. Shocked by his actions, Michael still had the presence of mind to move the body. Carrying it fireman style back to his room, he laid it out on his bed. The young soldier’s neck was bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring blankly up at the bedroom wall. Michael only just made it to a small basin in the corner of the room before being sick. His head spinning with the realisation of what he had just done, he stumbled back against the wall, his hands clawing it for stability, his eyes unable to pull away from his victim’s blank stare.

I killed him. Oh my God! Michael’s right hand came up to his mouth as his stomach threatened a repeat performance.

I have to get out of here! His fear now overriding all other emotions, he set off for the elevator for a second time. Punching the ground floor button, he pressed himself against the broken mirrored wall, still unable to escape the dead, staring eyes of the guard. When the lift doors opened, he sprang through them, running towards the club’s exit whilst leaving a half-dozen bewildered waiters watching his desperate departure.

Once on the street, fighting back the panic, he started to walk towards the Underground, every step a struggle, his entire body screaming for him to run. The feeling of a myriad of eyes examining his every step persisted. Only the distant call of his name prompted a change of plan, fight or flight? He made the decision in a heartbeat. Accelerating to a sprint, Michael took off down Ludwig Street. Convinced he could hear the sound of men running behind him, he put his head down and ran as hard as he could towards a distant underground station. Despite his exertions, he could tell that they were closing and started looking for an alternative. Spotting the entrance to a courtyard on his right, he hurdled the red and white barrier and sped toward the communal gardens of the Bavarian Governments Libraries. The green space was lovingly kept, the few trees surrounded by golden shower roses, their yellow blossoms complementing the daffodils planted around the garden’s circumference. Ripping through the boundary flowers, he sprinted across the garden, making for the building’s entrance on the other side. Screaming to a halt, he found himself with the choice of two black polished doors. Neither door was signed, and his decision to take the right door had more to do with the golden door handle than any expectation of solace behind it. Twisting the handle, he put his shoulder into the door, only to be bounced back into the garden by the solid structure, landing hard on his left shoulder. A bolt of pain shot up his back and shoulder, and panic filled his heart. As he made to stand, the feeling was quickly replaced by the pain of a wasp like sting, as a tranquiliser dart impacted with his neck.

Von Klitzing pored over the open file on his desk. The letterhead read IOCP. A fuzzy black-and-white photograph of Britt Petersen stared back at him.

It was an old photograph, taken before she was married. It didn’t do her justice, in his opinion. It was probably taken at some law society function in Sweden. I wonder how many people are missing her? Her parents have been dead for some time, but there was an aunt and cousins living near Stockholm whom I remember reading about in one report or other.

Neither aunt nor cousins had set eyes on Britt for years. It is truly amazing that such an attractive and intelligent woman could have had so few real friends.

That is the price of ambition, I suppose. Poor dead girl.

Von Klitzing had arranged for their colleagues and members of the Petersen Family to be prepped by Fredrik, with tales of adultery and alcohol abuse. Von Klitzing was convinced he had things under control, and he congratulated himself on his handling of the situation. He was proud of his ability to manipulate the workings of the world to his advantage.

Now, the police need a witness, he said to himself as the door to his office opened, and Eva Von Klitzing stepped into the room. A morning at the hairdresser’s had changed Eva from having a loose resemblance to Britt Petersen into her twin. It was a remarkable transformation. His daughter was even imitating Britt’s typical pose, that slightly arrogant look and posture she would take when being courted by older men. He smiled.

Eva was a chip off the old block. She took the transformation and associated role-playing in her stride. For reasons she could not explain, she had hated Britt Petersen.

Perhaps because we were so alike, she mused.

More likely, it was her knowledge of the threat Britt posed to her father’s company. The plan was to go to the police and take back all of Britt Petersen’s accusations.

“You know what to do, my darling.”

“Yes, Father, of course! I will claim that I acted out of spite and revenge. My acts were retribution against the firm that had poisoned my husband against me.”

“That is splendid! Just stick to the story, and I promise everything will be fine.”

Eva was well aware that she could go to prison for what she was about to do, but she didn’t care about that. Her father was taking notice of her for once in her life, and she was going to milk it for all it was worth.

At 3:00 pm that afternoon, Eva Von Klitzing knocked on the door of the Petersens’ house in Starnberg. There was no answer, but she knew that Lisa Jarvis was home. Their sources had confirmed that the Munich Criminal Police had visited the house in search of Britt and talked to a Lisa Jarvis. Since then, her father had kept Jarvis under surveillance. Eva needed a reason to visit the police station. Going around the side of the house, she found a path leading to the back garden. Lisa was kneeling on a mat, weeding the garden’s central flowerbed.

“Mrs Jarvis?” she called.

Lisa turned, holding up a hand to block the sun from her eyes.

“Hello, can I help you?”

“My name is Britt Petersen.”

“Oh my God, it’s lovely to meet you!” Lisa jumped to her feet, pulling the thick rubber gardening gloves from her hands and slinging them down onto the velour car mat.

“I don’t mean to intrude, but my husband said you would be in today, so I just took a chance.”

“Yes, yes, what can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to pick up a few things. I am moving back to Sweden.”

“Yes, of course. Can I help you? Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. I will just pick up a few things, and then I’ll be off.”

“You will probably want to take all your photos and camera equipment with you. I put them in the cellar.”

Many of the rooms were decorated with very artistic black-and-white photographs. After Lisa had found more in boxes in the master bedroom, along with a large Nikon digital single lens reflex camera, she surmised that Britt was a serious photographer.

“I can help you bring them up, if you want?” The last thing I need is a car full of Petersen’s shit. What I need is an invitation to visit the Munich Police, you silly cow, Eva raged internally.