Peter James - Not Dead Enough

She turned her head, panting hard, and said something to him in German.

And then, staring at her properly for the first time, he realized it wasn’t Sandy.

It wasn’t her at all.

His heart plunged like an elevator with a snapped cable. She had the same profile, uncannily the same, but her face was wider, flatter, much plainer. He couldn’t see her eyes, because they were behind dark shades, but he didn’t need to. It wasn’t Sandy’s mouth; this was a small, thin mouth. It wasn’t Sandy’s fine, silky skin; this face was pockmarked from childhood acne.

‘I’m – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘You are English?’ she said with a pleasant smile. ‘Can I help you?’

She had her key out now, hit the fob and the doors unlocked. She opened the driver’s door and rummaged around for something inside. He heard the jangle of coins.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I – I made a mistake. I mistook you – I thought you were someone I knew.’

‘I forgot the time!’ She patted the side of her head, indicating stupidity. ‘The police give you tickets very quickly here. Two hours only on the ticket!’

She pulled a handful of euros out of the door pocket.

‘Can I ask you a question, please? Ah – were you here – in the Englischer Garten – on Thursday? At about this time?’

She shrugged. ‘I think so. In this weather, I come often.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Last Thursday?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

She nodded. ‘Definitely. For sure.’

Grace thanked her and turned away. His clothes were clinging to his skin with perspiration. A ribbon of blood trailed across his right trainer. A short distance away he saw Marcel Kullen walking towards him. He felt totally crushed. He pulled out his mobile phone and raised it to his ear, as the woman walked across to the ticket-vending machine. But he wasn’t making a phone call. He was taking a photograph.

61

Cleo continued listening. She had very definitely heard a click.

Halting midway in her process of rolling the slender, fragile, grey cadaver over, she gently lowered her back down on to the stainless-steel table. ‘Hello?’ she called out, her voice muffled by her mask.

Then she stood still, listening, staring uneasily through the door at the silent grey tiles of the corridor. ‘Hello? Who’s that?’ she called out, louder, feeling a tightening in her throat. She lowered her mask, letting it hang by the tapes. ‘Hello?’

Silence. Just the faint hum of the fridges.

A slick of fear shot through her. Had she left the outside door open? Surely not, she never left it open. She tried to think clearly. The smell when she had opened the door – could she have left it open to let some fresh air in?

No way, she would not have been so stupid. She always closed the door; it self-locked. Of course she had closed it!

So why wasn’t the person out there replying?

And in her over-revving heart she already knew the answer to that. There were some weirdos around for whom mortuaries held a fascination. They’d had a number of break-ins in the past, but now the latest security systems had so far, for a good eighteen months, acted as an effective deterrent.

Suddenly she remembered the CCTV monitor on the wall and looked up at it. It was showing a static black and white image of the tarmac outside the door, and the flower bed and brick wall beyond. The tail lights and rear bumper of her car were just in frame.

Then she heard the distinct rustle of clothes out in the corridor.

Goosebumps broke out over her entire body. For an instant she froze, her brain spinning, trying to get traction. There was a phone on the shelf next to the cabinet, but she didn’t have time to get to it. She looked around frantically for a weapon that was in reach. For an instant she considered, absurdly, the severed arm of the cadaver. Fear tightened her skin; her scalp felt as if she were wearing a skullcap.

The rustling came closer. She saw a shadow moving along the tiles.

Then, suddenly, her fear turned to anger. Whoever the hell it was out there had no damn right to be here . She decided she was not going to be scared or intimidated by some sicko who got kicks out of breaking into the mortuary. Her mortuary.

In a few fast, determined strides, she reached the cabinet, slid the door open, noisily, and pulled out the largest of the Sabatier carving knives. Then, gripping it tightly by the handle, she ran at the opened doorway. And collided, with a scream of terror, with a tall figure in an orange T-shirt and lime-green shorts, who gripped her arms, pinning them to her sides. The knife clattered to the tiled floor.

62

Marcel Kullen pulled over to the kerb and pointed across the street. Roy Grace saw a large, beige-coloured store on the corner. It had book-lined windows and the interior was dark. Lights inside, hanging from stalks, were switched on, providing decoration rather than any illumination. They reminded Grace of glow-worms.

Elegant grey letters on the store front read The Munich Readery. Another announced Second-hand Books in English.

‘I just wanted to show you the shop. I am asking in this tomorrow,’ the German detective said.

Grace nodded. He had consumed two large beers, a bratwurst, sauerkraut and potatoes, and was feeling decidedly woozy. In fact, he was having a problem keeping his eyes open.

‘Sandy was a big reader, you told me?’

Was . The word jarred in Grace’s mind. He didn’t like people referring to Sandy in the past tense, as if she were dead. But he let it slide. He used that tense himself often enough, subconsciously. Feeling more energized suddenly, he said, ‘Yes, she’s a big reader, always has been. Crime, thrillers – all kinds of mystery novels. Biographies as well – she liked reading about women explorers in particular.’

Kullen put the car in gear and drove on. ‘What is it – you have this saying in England – Keep your pecker up?’

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 façades, 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.