Whisper For The Reaper by Jack Gatland (best motivational books for students txt) 📗

Declan nodded. Anjli had emailed him about her conversation with Ilse the previous night, so this wasn’t a shock.

‘Still,’ he said. ‘I think—‘

‘I was your father’s friend, not yours,’ Karl snapped. ‘And yet, when you came to me needing help a week ago, I gave it to you, no questions asked. I trusted you. And yet you do not trust me.’

‘It’s not you I have a problem with,’ Declan replied.

‘This is nothing to do with your case,’ Karl looked back to Ilse as he spoke. ‘And I do not believe that Ilse was the one that tried to kill me. We are in a locked room, with no other doors and barred windows. I think I am safer here than at the hospital.’

‘You don’t know that—‘

‘Declan,’ Karl whispered, interrupting. ‘He got to your mother in a hospital.’

Declan stopped. Karl was right.

‘Stay on the CCTV,’ he whispered back. ‘If anything happens, we’ll be right in.’

Without replying, Karl closed the door on Declan, and the sound of the key being turned in the lock echoed along the corridor.

Walking back into the Library, Declan looked to Billy, now leaning back from the screen.

‘He locked the door on you and then returned to the table,’ Billy explained. ‘Ilse’s had a bit of a barney at him, it looks like. He walked to the window, staring out as he spoke, waved his hands and then sat back down.’

‘Out of sight,’ Declan noted. Billy shrugged.

‘I didn’t place the CCTV,’ he said. ‘And he knows you’re watching, so he’s probably being obstinate. We should try to find her brother.’

‘He’ll be at the church,’ Declan replied. ‘I saw him before coming here. He wanted nothing of it.’

‘Hell of a brother,’ Billy muttered.

‘That’s the problem,’ Declan agreed. ‘He’s only a half brother. And his father was Wilhelm Müller.’

Rolfe Müller stood in the crypt, staring at the wall at the back of it. He’d visited every day since he’d arrived; once before noon and once around three, but apart from one encounter with the British DCI Monroe, nothing of note had occurred while he was there.

Which was a shame. Because the whole reason he had done this was to provide a regular location in a secluded place to meet. And every time he’d stood here, he’d wondered if this would be the time, this would be the day that they reunited.

But no. Every time, there was nobody with him. Not even the ghostly Grey Lady, the sister of Edward the Confessor, bothered to introduce herself.

But today was different.

From the moment he’d entered the crypt, he knew he wasn’t alone. He couldn’t see who else was in there, the light was dim and there were many pillars to hide behind, but that someone was hiding, rather than saying hello and going on about their day excited him.

It meant that this could be the person who he’d been waiting for.

‘Hello,’ he whispered. ‘Is it you?’

‘That depends,’ a male voice, older, and with a German twang replied from the shadows. ‘On who you wanted it to be.’

‘I’m Rolfe Müller, and I’ve been looking for you for a very long time,’ Rolfe admitted, staring around the crypt, trying to work out where the echoing voice had come from. ‘I’m a Kriminalkommissar in the Schwere und Organisierte Kriminalität. I didn’t join the army, like you.’

There was a silence that followed the line.

‘Is it you?’ Rolfe asked. ‘I’ve waited for so long.’

‘It is.’

‘I need proof,’ Rolfe replied, looking around. ‘You left us when we were children. Mother was broken, and I had to raise Ilse myself. I was told you were dead.’

‘But you know better.’

‘I still don’t know,’ Rolfe admitted.

There was a rustle of movement from the corner of the crypt, and a shadowed figure appeared. It was male, but the darkness of the corner hid the face. In his gloved hand was a canvas bag.

‘Here,’ he said as he threw it across the crypt to Rolfe, allowing it to clatter with a mechanical, metal clang. Picking the bag up from the floor, Rolfe opened it up, pulling out a gun. It was a squat, black semi automatic, with a brown grip with a soviet star embedded in the side. There was a magazine in it, and from the weight, Rolfe could tell that it was loaded. Along the bottom was a serial number, punched into the metal. It was a serial number Rolfe recognised, on a Makarov 9mm pistol, an East German Border Officer pistol that he’d seen as a child.

‘You should not have come looking for me,’ the figure stated.

Rolfe was staring down at the pistol in his hand as he replied. ‘It is my job,’ he said, simply. ‘You must come in, if only for Ilse. She—‘

‘She is Meier’s spawn,’ the figure hissed. ‘Why should I care about her?’

‘Because I care about her,’ Rolfe snapped. ‘And I’m sick of hunting ghosts and talking to shadows.’

The figure in the shadows paused, and Rolfe smiled.

‘Shadows like you, father,’ he whispered.

Wilhelm Müller didn’t reply.

‘Have you seen the musical Les Miserables?’ Rolfe asked.

Wilhelm nodded. ‘I have.’

‘There’s a scene I enjoy immensely in it,’ Rolfe explained. ‘It’s called the confrontation, and it’s when Inspector Javert and Jean Valjean finally meet after his escape.’ He spoke the words.

‘Valjean, at last, we see each other plain. Monsieur le Maire, you'll wear a different chain.’

‘Am I the Valjean to your Javert?’ Wilhelm asked, keeping his distance, still hidden in the shadows of the crypt. Rolfe nodded.

‘You are my quest,’ he replied. ‘I’ve hunted you across the years. I’ve spoken to the men who worked for you. Who feared you.’

‘Men like me can never change,’ Wilhelm mocked. ‘And I will not give myself up. I have spent as much time hiding as I lived before the fall. Why should I change that?’

Rolfe pulled out a coin, an East German Mark.

‘I have an idea,’ he said, holding it up. ‘Let us play for it. A coin toss. If I win? You give yourself up. If I lose? You can disappear