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

He’d explained when Monroe and Bullman arrived that usually the police wouldn’t accept people of his height, something that he’d relied on for getting out of his service, but when he applied, more out of necessity than choice, they’d been desperate for ‘new blood’, and had accepted him even before seeing him. He’d brought them up to his apartment, on the sixth floor of a large, block wide building, six floors that didn’t have an elevator to climb, and had immediately offered them a hot drink. Having climbed the flights of stairs, Monroe now understood how Banisch was so slim.

‘Wilhelm Müller was a monster,’ he’d explained over small square biscuits. ‘We all hoped that he’d be killed, or slip down the stairs in the watchtower and break his neck, but we were part of the GDR, and God didn’t watch us as carefully as he watched other people.’

‘We’ve been told that he had a badge?’ Monroe asked, noting the previous answer down. Banisch nodded.

‘The man with a scythe,’ he shuddered. ‘We all wore it. He said we were the elite, but look at me. Do I look that elite to you? He was a madman. Believed that he was God’s will on the wall.’

‘I’ve heard he flipped a coin,’ Bullman added.

‘For all the good it did,’ Banisch spat to the side. ‘We all knew it was doctored, that it gave him the result he wanted. Either two coins, each with one side on both, or some kind of weight that allowed him to flip and gain the result he wanted every time, it didn’t matter. Whenever he pulled it out, we knew someone would die. He dropped it once, and I picked it up. Before I could check it, he had his pistol out, aimed at my head, screaming that I’d changed Gods will by touching it. I pissed my ficken pants that day!’

‘Ficken?’ Monroe asked.

‘Slang for, well, you know,’ Bullman replied. ‘When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much. It even sounds like fu—’

‘Thanks for the lesson,’ Monroe interrupted.

‘How do you not know any German?’ Bullman sighed. Monroe grinned.

‘I know some,’ he replied. ‘Ich bin ein Gummibaum.’

‘And what do you think that means?’ Bullman asked patiently.

‘I like gummy bears.’

‘No,’ Banisch shook his head. ‘You just told me that you are a rubber tree.’

Monroe looked from Bullman to Banisch and then back.

‘I’ll keep quiet,’ he grumbled, returning to the notebook.

‘What do you know about the affair?’ Bullman tried to return the conversation back on track. ‘Müller’s wife?’

‘It was a scandal,’ Banisch nodded. ‘We all knew that she had been unfaithful, she was very vocal in her unhappiness with her husband’s… abilities there.’ He grinned. ‘She was beautiful. She could have any man she wanted. And we believed the rumours.’

‘Rumours?’

‘That she did have any man she wanted.’ Banisch rose from his chair, walking to the wall where, in a small photo frame, was a picture of three guards, helmets on, smiling as the photograph was taken. Pulling it off the wall, he brought it back.

‘I took this in 1988,’ he explained, pointing at it. ‘I am on the left, and then there is Meier and on the right is Johann Hoffman.’

Monroe took the photo, staring at it. Meier was young here, laughing, his helmet hiding his eyes. It was hard to believe that this guard would end up as a mechanic in a sleepy English village decades later.

‘Meier, he was the one that had the affair,’ Banisch explained, tapping at the image. ‘He always was an idiot. Believed that he was untouchable because he had an uncle in the Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands.’

‘Socialist Unity Party,’ Bullman translated. ‘Known as the SED.’

Banisch nodded. ‘Although Hauptmann Müller was a terrible man, he was an efficient captain. The superiors loved him, and they gave him more men, but this meant that he controlled several watchtowers. Meier would wait until nights when Müller and he were on different towers and then visit Müller’s wife. Or, he would arrange to have his days off when Müller was on duty. He didn’t love the woman, but he enjoyed the risk, the danger of it.’ He sniffed. ‘Idiot.’

‘What happened when she became pregnant?’

‘Nothing,’ Banisch replied. ‘Why would anything happen? Müller believed it was his. All was good. But we all knew that Meier was the father. And when the baby was born, we waited daily for the deutschmark to drop, and for Müller to realise that he was, how you say, cuckolded.’

‘But he never was,’ Bullman confirmed.

‘There was no proof,’ Banisch. ‘That is also why I never told Rolfe of this when he visited.’

Monroe nodded. He could see why this could be a dangerous situation. ‘And so Ilse grew up not knowing that she was a cuckoo,’ he muttered.

‘Ilse?’ Banisch looked confused at this. ‘Ilse wasn’t Meier’s. Rolfe was.’

‘Rolfe Müller was Karl Meier’s illegitimate child?’ Monroe leaned forward. ‘You’re sure of this?’ He looked to Bullman. ‘Did this mis-translate?’

Bullman shook her head as Banisch pointed once more to the photo.

‘Karl Meier was the father of Rolfe Müller,’ he explained. ‘Whether he knew, though, I don’t know. You’d need to ask Johann. They were like brothers.’

‘Do you know where we can find Johann Hoffman?’ Monroe asked, already pulling out his notebook to take the information down. ‘He’s not in Rolfe’s notes.’

‘That’s because Rolfe never asked about him,’ Banisch replied scornfully. ‘Arrogant little scheiße thought he’d gain everything he needed in life because of who his father was, and the deals he made. We never told him he was a bastard. He’ll learn it soon enough.’

‘Deals?’ Bullman frowned.

‘Wilhelm Müller was industrious after the fall,’ Banisch admitted. ‘He had information that he sold to both sides, and in doing so ensured that he had no repercussions in life. Rolfe never understood that this didn’t apply to additional generations.’

Monroe’s phone beeped, and he glanced down at it, paling as he did so.

‘Funny you should mention him,’ he replied. ‘Because with unnerving accuracy, I’ve just received information telling me that Rolfe