Operation Legalon E-Book

Joel Dominique Sante

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 661

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Murder cases in London, excitement in Swiss high finance and government, and feverish activities by international agents. It's about billions of dollars in assets that have been in Swiss bank safes since World War II - and have suddenly disappeared. Superintendent Watchinson from Scotland Yard is investigating a murder case that is followed by a whole chain of murders. The connections between the dead reach far back into the past. But what do the Swiss banks, the Italian mafia, and international agents have to do with his murder cases? A business trip to Switzerland brings the British criminal investigator closer to solving the mystery ...

Leseprobe

Operation

LEGALON

The Hunt for the Legacy of the Holocaust***

ThrillerbyJoel Dominique Sante

English edition 2019

Cover design: MESAN-VERLAG, Switzerland

New edition 2008 (German edition)

Cover design: MESAN-VERLAG, Switzerland

Printed by: Bookstation GmbH (D-Sipplingen)

ISBN 978-3-9523196-1-1

1st edition 2000 (German edition)

Printed by: Books on Demand (D-Norderstedt)

ISBN 3-8311-1400-5

© 2000 J. D. Sante

Operation Legalon

The hunt for the Legacy of the Holocaust

Murders in London, turmoil in Swiss banking and government circles and feverish international agent activities. All because assets worth billions of pounds that were deposited in Swiss bank safes before the Second World War have now suddenly disappeared....

Scotland Yard’s Superintendent Watchinson investigates a murder case, which is promptly followed by a chain of murders. The connections between the dead go back many years. But what do the Swiss banks, the Italian mafia and international agents have to do with his murder case?

A trip to Switzerland brings the British detective closer to solving the riddle ...

... and a wild chase begins!

* * *

Joel Dominique Sante

was 1954 born in Kreuzlingen (CH) and attended the schools there. After successfully completing his apprenticeship as a structural engineer, he joined the cantonal police in 1976 in Thurgau.

In his professional career, he gained a lot of experience during his employment with the traffic police, the field service, the forensics service and the staff service (cantonal emergency call center). In addition, he was active for almost 30 years as an active dog handler in the protection and tracking dogs, as well as in the drug tracking dog area successfully.

In the meantime, the retired police officer has written along with a book of poetry and a family history also several crime novels and published. It is unmistakable that, especially in the history of crime stories, he is always able to use his accumulated experience and knowledge in the field of police in a competent manner. With a balanced propensity to reality, but also with the necessary pinch of fiction and imagination, he succeeds time and again to create an exciting read.

Mesan-Publisher Switzerland

An alphabetical list of key figures named in the novel can be found at the end of the book. People, plot and places are fictitious.

Similarities with living persons are purely coincidental.

The content of this book is protected by copyright. Use by unauthorized processing, duplication, distribution or public disclosure is prohibited and may result in criminal and civil action.

Rastenburg, Germany, Summer of 1944

The 20th July is remembered as one of the hottest afternoons of 1944, a day whose events would fill the history books.

The stifling heat has engulfed the landscape of East Prussia and it’s too warm even for the birds to swoop freely in the open skies, as only birds can do. They perch in the shady trees and the only time they flutter about is to move from one branch to another — until they’re startled by the sound of a rapidly approaching engine.

The long cloud of dust stirred up by the black luxury car lingers long after it has sped past the trees from a westerly direction. The few people on the roadside view the vehicle with extremely mixed feelings. They know the car and its owner.

It belongs to Lieutenant Colonel Max von Feldhof, a member of the Waffen-SS and direct subordinate of Reich Interior Minister Himmler. Feldhof is as cold-blooded as he is callous. Feared by all, he wears a skull on the front of his cap.

A few minutes later, the chauffeur of the black Mercedes slows down and turns into a driveway guarded by soldiers. The driver stops the car just a few inches in front of the barrier. The guards immediately stand to attention when they recognise the passenger sitting in the rear of the vehicle. Even before the barrier is fully vertical, the Mercedes is already on its way again.

A moment later, the car arrives in a huge gravelled courtyard. There are already dozens of other predominantly black limousines parked with military precision. The driver steers the heavy Mercedes towards a large gate guarded by two other soldiers. Briskly, they salute Lieutenant Colonel Feldhof in his black uniform. They also want nothing to do with this person and put double the effort into fulfilling their duties.

The SS man has evidently been expected, because the large gate to the Wolfschanze Führer Headquarters in Rastenburg is immediately opened from the inside. Without returning the salute, the high-ranking officer in his glossy black boots disappears swiftly inside the underground bunker and the gate closes again at once, emitting a sound that only gradually fades away. “Have you got a cigarette for me, Hans?” Karl steps beside his comrade, who, with a rifle on his back, is standing guard outside Adolf Hitler’s headquarters. Hans nods and pulls a crumpled pack from his breast pocket. He offers it to his friend.

“Do you know who that was?” Hans asks his comrade gloomily, as he fumbles for a cigarette.

He nods. “I want nothing to do with him.”

“How much longer do you think they’ll be in there?” Hans wants to know and gestures towards the entrance of the bunker.

“I have no idea. But judging by what’s parked up outside, I think it’s an important decision.”

Karl lights the cigarette with a match. “I’ve seldom seen so many high-ranking officers here together.”

With Hans now also smoking, they’re both lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly, the two are startled by a loud rattle — the heavy bunker door is once again unbolted. Immediately, the two soldiers throw away their cigarettes, because they’re not allowed to smoke whilst on guard. At the same time, they jump apart and hurry back to their assigned positions to the left and right of the bunker door.

As the door to the underground shelter opens, another uniformed man leaves the vault. He’s clearly in a hurry to leave Adolf Hitler’s headquarters.

Both Hans and Karl snap to attention and perform an exemplary salute as the General Staff Officer passes. But this man also walks by wordlessly and without saluting them. A moment later he reaches his black limousine with its Mercedes star on the bonnet. Not thirty seconds later, he himself steers the heavy vehicle along the gravel driveway. He obviously doesn’t have his own driver.

The two guards relax again and turn to the corporal who opened the gate for the man with the stiff cap.

“Wasn’t that Stauffenberg? Graf Claus von Stauffenberg?” Hans asks for confirmation.

“Yes, that’s right,” replies the corporal. “A great man.”

“Well, he was in a hurry,” Karl observes, watching the small cloud of dust stirred up by the gravel.

Then he turns back to the corporal. “How’s it going in there?”

The corporal waves dismissively. “Trouble’s brewing!”

At that moment, he couldn’t have imagined how right he would be. No sooner had he said it, the three of them are thrown to the ground by a tremendous shock wave.

Even as Karl, Hans, and the corporal are still lying on the ground unable to grasp what has actually happened, a thick cloud of smoke begins to emerge from the vault.

The door to the bunker is thrown fully open a few seconds later and regular soldiers as well as officers rush out into the open, coughing loudly.

There’s been an explosion in the Führer’s bunker!

In the chaos that ensues, some of the fleeing soldiers are obviously running for their lives. Several of them have bleeding head wounds or are holding other parts of their bodies in pain. However, the call for help fades away among the venerable oaks of the nearby forest.

“The Führer! What about the Führer?!” someone suddenly shouts. “We have to look for the Führer!”

All those outside the smoking bunker entrance look at each other helplessly. Finally, however, a soldier apparently loyal to Adolf Hitler has the courage to go back inside the bunker. He orders two other soldiers to join him.

Meanwhile, Hans and Karl scramble to their feet, still dizzy. Their two rifles lie abandoned on the ground.

“That was a bomb! An assassination attempt on the Führer! My God!” whimpers Hans, who’s still one of the Führer’s faithful followers at this point and therefore worried for his life.

It takes about two long minutes for a soldier to reappear at the entrance of the now barely-smoking bunker. “The Führer’s alive!” the person exclaims. “He’s alive and unharmed!”

Not only contrary to all military dignity, but also contrary to all regulations, Hans and Karl, like many others, simply slump down onto the gravel in relief.

In the meantime, medical help has arrived. The medics take care of some injured privates. The soldiers who managed to escape from the bunker unaided, however, aren’t seriously wounded.

“Have you got another smoke, Hans?”

Again, his friend hands him the cigarettes and this time nobody cares about a soldier smoking on duty…

“Attempted assassination of the Führer!”

The news spreads like wildfire both at home and abroad. Many have their own thoughts about the attack on Adolf Hitler. Some are upset, others are happy or even disappointed that it failed.

However, a certain group of people is extremely shocked and stunned by the casual second piece of news that Lieutenant Colonel Max von Feldhof lost his life in the very same attack.

Among them is Otto Braunwald, who’s sitting in the beer garden of the Hotel Adlon in Berlin with his friend Hermann Stadler. Hotel Adlon is the first building on the square and is located in the immediate vicinity of the magnificent Brandenburg Gate. It is considered to be first-class, frequented by well-known personalities from the world of art and culture, from all corners of the globe. But also, by senior officers, who like treating themselves to luxury and comfort. Braunwald and Stadler are also members of the Waffen-SS and both hold the rank of corporal.

“Feldhof’s dead? My God. What happens now? I gave him everything I had!”

Braunwald knows just why his companion in the busy beer garden is so troubled. They’re both in the same boat.

“I know!” he replies. “Me too. Bloody hell. Legalon was supposed to be a retirement plan for both of us after the war. I suppose you don’t know where your money is either?”

Hermann Stadler takes a sip of beer and wipes the froth off his lips with the back of his hand. He glances around the beer garden nervously.

“No, of course not. Feldhof was the only one who knew about it. Like many others, I joined Legalon and handed over nearly all my cash to Feldhof a month ago. He assured me, he had damn good connections in Switzerland, where the money would be safe and well invested. And in a secret account that can only be accessed with a certain number and codeword. Dead cert, so to speak. And now Feldhof’s dead.”

“My God,” Braunwald repeats.

“Do you know how many of us gave him money to invest in Switzerland? It’s probably all gone now. And you might as well tear up the receipt for the money you gave him. Feldhof’s taken our fortune to his grave.”

“But there must be records of these financial transactions somewhere,” muses Stadler in a whisper.

Braunwald is dismissive. “Just forget it, Hermann. Feldhof was a clever chap. And you know very well he only used his connections in Switzerland if you gave him a free hand. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. No, my friend, our fortune’s gone. We’ll never get it back.”

Hermann Stadler still can’t believe it, but he has to agree with his friend. Operation Legalon has been a disaster...

January 1995, in the Moscow State Archives

The rusty old hinges squeak noisily every time the cupboard’s opened, as they’ve not been oiled for years, if not decades.

“Well then, let’s have another go!” murmurs Ludwig Kerschbaum to himself as he takes down the upper most bundle of files from the top shelf. It has become a ritual for him to first take a big breath and blow off any dust that’s on the bundle of paper. Then, he wipes the top sheet with an olive-green cloth, which he keeps in the pocket of his grey work suit. This occasionally makes the faded ink more visible.

Ludwig Kerschbaum has been an archivist in the Moscow State Archives for just a few months and has been tasked with looking through the many cupboards in the cellar. In addition to various files, books, and magazines, the containers are also filled with many German documents from World War II — a chaotic scene that needs sorting out.

While the books and magazines are to be transferred to the State Library, the records of the war have to be registered and finally made available to the State Ministry. There, the files are again thoroughly examined and either destroyed or otherwise used. Kerschbaum has already looked through a lot of World War II files and documents, making him one of few people party once top-secret orders.

Back then, yes — during the war, such knowledge would likely have got him beaten to death. The fact that he can read the documents written in German, is thanks to where he spent his youth. He was born and grew up in Berlin and is still fluent in German despite living in Russia for many years.

Now, he again holds a dusty, thick file in his hands. After cleaning the folder as usual, he can decipher the name of the military official responsible for the dossier. And, as he reads the name, a cold shiver runs down his spine.

“Reich Interior Ministry Berlin. Lieutenant Colonel Max von Feldhof,” he reads aloud.

The old archivist doesn’t know why, but he suddenly feels uneasy and starts to sweat. The bundle of files is quite thick, and the open sides are tied with string. It’s quite obvious these files have to be sent to the Moscow State Ministry and therefore wouldn’t actually need to be opened.

Kerschbaum wipes the beads of sweat from his forehead with the dusty cloth, quite without realising. Immediately thereafter he wipes the folder again with the now slightly damp cloth. It doesn’t occur to him that the moisture on the cloth would be enough to slightly blur the ink.

He almost swears but stops himself just in time. Nervously, he glances around the cellar, his curiosity has got the better of him and he needs to see what’s inside. As if driven by an inner compulsion, Kerschbaum unties the string.

He’s not disappointed, rather reassured that the contents of the dossier only reveal a listing with many names, clearly former Wehrmacht officers. Each name is followed by numbers that are a mystery to Kerschbaum. And the acronym ‘SNB’ appears everywhere, which the old archivist can’t place either.

“Probably a team list,” reflects Kerschbaum. He flips through the dossier again. But he finds no further clue as to what the list actually is.

With a light sigh, he puts the many sheets back between the two cardboard covers and proceeds to tie up the dossier again. His eyes fall on the lower edge of the rear cardboard cover, where a small yellowed corner of a piece of paper is protruding. Immediately, he takes out all the sheets again and holds the cardboard cover a bit higher. He closely inspects the dossier packaging. On closer inspection, the rear cardboard cover is thicker than the front one. Clearly, two lids were intentionally glued to each other here.

Kerschbaum carefully pulls the protruding corner of the paper. He manages to extract the hidden document almost intact.

He would never have expected the title he was now reading on this document: “Operation Legalon”. The old archivist instantly begins to shake.

Mechanically, he wipes the blue ink with his cloth, this time with a dry spot. Though it wouldn’t have been necessary, since the note isn’t dusty at all.

Once again, he mumbles what it says on the document. “Operation Legalon. My God, Legalon.”

He looks up from the document and stares into space. He knows exactly what the word ‘Legalon’ meant during World War II. Back then, ‘Legalon’ was synonymous with death, horror, and corruption.

The old archivist feels his knees becoming wobbly and he has to sit down. All of a sudden, the memories he’s suppressed for so long are flooding back. Because Ludwig Kerschbaum witnessed the horrors of the Second World War first hand and barely survived!

Ludwig Kerschbaum is a Jew!

“And you’re quite sure?” the person speaking on the phone wants to know.

“There’s absolutely no doubt about it. It’s about Legalon. I found it by chance, and I checked it twice. The files are genuine, there’s no doubt about it. And it even says Legalon on the first page. Everything I’ve told you is true.”

“My God, Kerschbaum. If it really is what I hope, the Jewish people will be eternally grateful. But we’ll have to be careful. Not a word to anyone! Do you understand, Kerschbaum? To nobody! We have to be sure first.”

“Yes of course. My lips are sealed. But what shall I do with it now?” the archivist wants to know.

“I'll have the files picked up from your house. That’s less obvious. And don’t say a word to anyone, do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course. But, er, I mean, this information is certainly worth something again, I mean, I’ve never told you anything wrong...”

In the meantime, Kerschbaum’s more collected again. Of course, he has realised the value of what he’s got his hands on. Nevertheless, he chooses his words carefully, because he greatly respects the man at the other end of the line.

After all, he’s talking to Chaim Idelsohn, who, like himself, is Jewish and, despite his faith, was something of a freedom fighter in World War II. Back then, he didn’t fight with weapons in the usual sense, but mostly with a pen. As the old saying goes ‘the feather is sometimes mightier than the sword’.

Now 81-year-old Chaim Idelsohn lives in seclusion on the outskirts of Moscow and still cares for the concerns of Jews and Orthodox living in Russia.

But at the same time, Kerschbaum is just a small archivist with a small salary needing to make ends meet. And for a few roubles extra, his reliability leaves something to be desired now and then.

“Yes of course. Don’t worry, Kerschbaum. First, I have to see for myself what you found there. I won’t forget you.”

Then, the phone disconnects. The slight crackling of the line after Chaim Idelsohn hangs up goes unnoticed by the old archivist.

Kerschbaum has sweaty palms. On the desk before him is probably something extremely valuable. Maybe even the inheritance of his battered and murdered people. The legacy of the Holocaust!

Legalon — a word heard a lot during the Second World War, particularly in the concentration camps. Legalon had a bitter aftertaste, like the skull on the Waffen-SS caps. After it had been leaked, that with the death of Lieutenant Colonel Max von Feldhof, Legalon and thus the illegally accumulated riches had disappeared, it was at least a small consolation, if not even schadenfreude for all the people who’d been forced to leave their belongings to Himmler’s henchmen during the war. Yes, they’d rejoiced that many of their torturers were at least unable to do anything with the actual property of many murdered Jews.

Kerschbaum suddenly realises he’s not alone in the world. He glances around the cellar, startled, but of course no one else is there. He takes the file and puts the old strings back on.

Having taken a sandwich and a thermos flask out of his black leather bag, he puts the entire dossier inside. The old man finishes work at six o’clock. He quickly hangs his grey work suit in his locker and locks the door even though it’s not necessary because, on the one hand, he’s the only worker in this cellar vault and, on the other hand, there is absolutely nothing valuable in the locker.

In the evening, he’s able to leave the huge state archive in Moscow without incident and, above all, without being checked. Nobody wants to see the contents of his black bag, because they know him well enough. For Ludwig Kerschbaum, once the dossier is handed over and at the latest when he receives his payment, everyday life will resume. What he doesn’t suspect, however, is that by passing on the Legalon dossier, he is setting in motion a huge motor, that will lead to people’s deaths more than fifty years after World War II...

Summer of 1997, London

The cold rain drops clatter against the windscreen of the small Ford Fiesta. The worn wiper blades drag their way across the glass and try hard to displace the oncoming water masses.

Henry McCloud wonders what's to become of the weekend, as he confidently steers his car through London’s rush hour traffic despite the poor visibility. The whole week has seen great summer weather and now, according to the weather forecast, a cold weather front is approaching from the north-west. The stormy winds accompanying the rain are additional harbingers of the weather disruption.

Disappointed the heavens are in such a bad mood, Henry stops his car outside a terraced house on St. John Street. After turning up the collar of his jacket, he opens the car door in a hurry and hastily exits his set of wheels.

As he goes to close the car door, he accidentally drops his keyring straight into a puddle.

“Shit!” he curses his bad luck. With pointed fingers, he fishes the keys out of the pool of water and shakes off the dirty drops of water as well as possible, and finally locks the car door.

He hasn’t even noticed the blue Rover parked across the street. The two males seated inside have found the sight of the man standing in the rain highly amusing.

A little out of breath and having cursed a bit more, Henry finally reaches the front door.

Astonished, he realises the door isn’t locked as usual, but just on the latch. He gives the door a little push and quickly enters the hallway. He hangs the wet keyring up in a small key box next to the door as usual…

“Mary!” he calls loudly. “Mary, it’s me!”

At the same time, he quickly closes the door behind him as gusts of wind are already blowing up the hallway. He quickly takes off his wet jacket and shoes and deposits the clothes by the coat rack.

As Henry slips into his slippers, he senses a strange silence in the house. He senses that something isn’t right. But first of all, he makes his way to the living room, which is separated from the hallway by a two-part sliding door.

He can’t believe his eyes as he opens the door. He’s in shock to see the entire room is in a state of complete disarray.

Every single drawer in the built-in cupboard and the desk has been torn out and the contents are scattered and crumpled on the floor. The expensive leather sofas have ugly slits and the white lining is mockingly overflowing in several places.

After taking a quick look in the kitchen, where he encounters the same chaos, he runs to the stairs that lead him to the upper floor.

On the steps, he almost stumbles over an empty cardboard box, which slows his progress. He curses again… Having reached the upper floor, as he passes the open bedroom door, he notices the same terrible mess in there. But his wife isn’t there either. He comes to a stop outside the bathroom, the door to which he finds locked.

“Mary!” he shouts loudly, shaking the door at the same time. But there’s no reply.

“Mary!” he calls again, this time banging on the door. But there’s still no reaction.

With a quick look through the keyhole, the agitated husband realises there’s no key on the inside.

He keeps rattling the doorknob. “Mary, are you in there?! Open up! What are you doing?”

He keeps banging his fist on the door. But no matter what the agitated man does, there’s no sound from the bathroom. Henry's heart is beating faster and faster. It’s threatening to jump out of his chest. Finally, he takes two steps back and throws himself against the door. Even then, using his whole bodyweight, it takes two attempts to break the lock.

The scene Henry McCloud finds before him is almost beyond belief.

There are blood spatters covering the walls and a state of utter disorder everywhere. The shocked man steps closer to the bathtub, where a person’s bloodied arm is hanging lifelessly over the edge. The only sound is of the drops of water dripping from the tap into the bath water.

There, in the blood-filled water, is his wife... His dead wife! Stubbornly, her dead eyes are fixed on the ceiling in an eternal stare.

The shocking realisation that his wife has probably been murdered makes Henry stagger backwards out of the bathroom. Dazed, he almost falls down the stairs, as he overlooks the empty cardboard box on the steps again. He only just manages to steady himself by holding onto the banister.

Distraught, he runs out of the house. On the pavement, he collides with his neighbour, who is on her way home. The impact makes Mrs Robertson almost drop the food she’s just bought.

Stuttering, the shocked husband mentions the name of his wife several times and, surprisingly quickly, she realises that something must have happened. She hurries into the McCloud’s family home, without paying any more attention to the man.

Henry, however, continues to run insensibly and yet automatically to his car and reaches for the handle. Only then does he realise the car keys are still in the house. He’s trembling all over. Inexplicably, he doesn’t go back to the house, but turns away from his wheels. He staggers along St John Street, where he disappears into the adjacent park.

He still doesn’t notice the strange man, who has now got out of the blue rover and is following him. He’s pulled his hat down over his face and turned up his high collar to conceal his facial contours.

He also disappears in the dark park in the same spot as Henry McCloud did shortly before...

For a brief moment, Superintendent Watchinson and Inspector Powell look at the dead body, languishing in its blood-stained wet grave. She lies — how could it be otherwise — naked in the tub. On her chest and neck are ugly red stab wounds.

After the CID have taken their first photos, the bath water is drained, which will greatly facilitate the medical examiner’s work.

The two detectives step back and, without saying a word, follow the further procedure of the police officers clad in white plastic suits looking for forensic evidence. Additional photos are taken; tufts of hair are put into plastic bags and various specs of blood professionally sampled. The residues under the fingernails of the dead are also removed with a suitable sterile device and also secured for later analysis.

Watchinson subconsciously observes that the murdered female is wearing some rings and he particularly notices a signet ring depicting a winged horse.

After some time, Watchinson asks his trusted colleague Jack Powell “Who found the victim?

“Mrs Phillis Robertson,” the inspector says having consulted his little black book. “She lives next door. She’s being interviewed by Constable Baecker. As far as I know, she was almost knocked over outside the house by the victim’s husband when he came rushing out the house. The witness must have noticed right away that something was wrong, so she came over to check. She found the victim in the bathroom and immediately called the police.”

“Her husband, then, aha. Is there a search out for him?”

“Yes Sir, the search was prompted as usual.”

“Well, I was actually looking forward to a quiet weekend,” Watchinson notes with a slight sigh as he leaves the bathroom. “But we won’t be missing much in this beastly weather.”

He heads for the stairs.

“Let’s talk to this Mrs Robertson first.”

Once Watchinson and Powell have left the crime scene, they have to first make their way through the throng of onlookers. Even the journalists from the daily press have already gathered. God only knows how they always get wind of something that might make the next morning’s headlines.

The detective waves off the newspaper journalists, wordlessly communicating that he won’t be sharing any information with the press. At least not right now.

“I could imagine better things to do than standing here in the rain,” remarks Watchinson, head of Scotland Yard Homicide, sarcastically.

A moment later, the two police officers reach Mrs Robertson’s front door, which is also being guarded by a uniformed police officer. Not because of the risk of someone leaving the house. No. Rather, so that no one can get in the house — especially no one from the press.

Without ringing the bell, the two officers step into the house. In the kitchen, they then meet Constable Baecker, who has started questioning Mrs Robertson.

“You had just returned from shopping when you met Mr McCloud on the pavement?”

Phillis Robertson is at the stove, busy preparing hot water for a drink. “Yes, that's right,” she answers, her voice shrill. “That is, actually from work. You know, I work part-time at the vegetable market every day. My husband, may God rest his soul, died three years ago and so I have to earn my living myself. My widow’s pension’s nowhere near enough, Hopkins doesn’t pay that much either, but…”

She’s interrupted by Constable Baecker, who is sitting at the kitchen table writing down important details in his notebook. His wet hat is lying on a chair.

“How long have the McClouds been living in the house next door?”

“Well now, let me think. Ben, may God rest his soul, has already been gone three years. Yes, it must be about 2 years since they moved in. The McClouds moved in about a year after Ben's death. Yes, that's right. You should know that I was always keen to get good neighbours. The houses all belong to Thompson, the old shark, and we...”

Mrs Roberson can’t finish because Watchinson is now intervening in the interrogation. “Did you know Mrs McCloud well?”

She turns a little suspiciously to the man who only recently entered the kitchen and is now intervening in the conversation. “That depends on what you mean by ‘well’? We knew each other. Sometimes we helped each other out with some food.”

“What sort of person was Mrs McCloud?”

“Well, if you really need to know…”

She looks around at the others. Since all the others remain silent, she continues. “I suppose I can say it now. But I believe she may not have been a faithful loving wife.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, I don’t know. Well, I don’t suppose it will hurt McCloud now anyway. Well, Inspector, err…”

“Watchinson, Superintendent Watchinson,” he introduces himself.

“Oh, so Superintendent. Here, in this street, you hear a lot of things. Rumour has it that Mrs McCloud wasn’t just a housewife. How can I say it — well, you probably know what I mean, don’t you?”

Again, the old woman looks at each of the policemen in turn.

Watchinson deliberately acts dumb. “No. Not in the slightest.”

At that moment, the kettle full of hot water begins to whistle. She turns around and takes the kettle off the stove with a potholder that was probably once bright white but is now covered in stains. Immediately afterwards, she turns off the electric stove.

“Well, so, people say she regularly went out with other men. She really was a pretty thing and she was very presentable... tea?” she suddenly asks the officers in her kitchen.

All three of them decline at the same time. Somewhat disappointed, Mrs Robertson turns to her kitchen cupboard and uses her free hand to take out a cup.

“So, you mean Mrs McCloud cheated on her husband with other men?” Watchinson asks straight.

It’s clear to see that the widow’s startled by the police officer’s directness, because she pauses for a moment before continuing. While pouring the hot water into the cup, she answers the question somewhat awkwardly. “Yes, so, well, ... I don’t want to be the one who said anything. Do you understand me? I don’t like talking about other people.”

The listeners suppress smiles as their eyes meet.

Watchinson must now proceed psychologically. “But, dear Mrs Robertson. I would never assume that you talk about other people. However, you must be clear that this is a murder case, which we endeavour to resolve. So, I would be very grateful if you could remember when and with whom Mrs McCloud has been going out recently. Incidentally, the deceased won’t find out anyway, as you already said yourself.”

The widow has to admit the detective has seen right through her and there’s no going back. Meanwhile, the teabag has also found its way into the cup. “Yes, well, the thing is. I’ve seen Mrs McCloud myself several times getting into a car on the corner. Always the same young man at the wheel.”

“Can you name this man, or describe what he looks like?”

“I don’t know his name, of course,” she answers indignantly. “But I think he was about the same age as Mrs McCloud. He was pretty slim and seemed to me to be tall. He had blond hair...,” she pauses and thinks, “Oh yes, and a moustache, just like you Inspector — er... I mean Superintendent, of course.”

Watchinson catches himself vainly touching his hairy upper lip. Embarrassed, he looks at his employees for a moment.

“Mrs Robertson, can I please ask you to tell Constable Baecker here everything you know about the McClouds,” he says gesturing towards the Constable. “Every little detail could be important to us.”

With these words, Watchinson turns away. He leaves the house with Powell, who kept himself in the background during the interrogation and also made entries in his black notebook.

“What do you think of the woman, Powell?”

Powell grins. “I suppose Hopkins pays her so little for sorting vegetables because she probably spends half of her working time chatting.”

Watchinson can’t help but laugh in agreement.

“But seriously...,” adds Powell, “her observation of the unknown in the car, who Mrs McCloud is supposed to have met frequently, could be interesting for us. I will arrange for enquiries to be made into it in the neighbourhood.”

As Powell sets off to give another uniformed police office instructions, Watchinson returns to the scene.

In the meantime, the crowd outside the house has dispersed somewhat. Only a few newspaper reporters are still standing in the rain and the detective manages to slip past them into the house without being spotted.

As a long-serving employee in the homicide division, he has become accustomed to personally looking around the crime scene. This has absolutely nothing to do with a possible distrust in the reliability of the CID. On the one hand, he wants to find out about the victim’s living conditions and habits. On the other hand, sometimes he does still notice things that seem to be of no interest to the CID experts — but could be extremely valuable hints for the criminologists. He also tries to put himself in the place of the victim again and again. In this case it’s a woman.

Every room is in complete disarray. The wardrobes are open, and all the drawers have been ripped out and are on the floor. The contents of the jewellery box are lying in the bedroom on the bed.

The scene, however, doesn’t give the impression that the perpetrators were after valuables. Even the victim’s purse is still in her handbag. And it contains about £250.

More and more, the detective concludes that this is no normal burglary. Either the perpetrators were disturbed, or they were looking for something very specific. But what could that something be?

After his tour of the cellar, utility room, living room, and bedroom, he enters the kitchen.

The housewife’s palace, as the saying goes. The kitchen, Watchinson thinks, harbours so many housewives’ secrets. Secrets that are sometimes worthwhile unearthing.

Of course, only after the evidence has been secured by the CID, he opens each drawer and each cupboard again. He also occasionally looks in cans or containers on the shelves that serve as a receptacle for things like salt or sugar. Even the freezer isn’t spared from the scrutinising eyes of the experienced detective. But despite intensive searching, he can’t find anything suspicious.

So, he returns to the devastated living room again, where the CID officers are just busy packing their Argentorate and Ninhydrin and whatever else the chemical means of detecting fingerprints are called, into their cases.

Just then, the medical examiner enters the room, apparently looking for the investigator in charge. He deposits his black bag at the sliding door to the hallway.

“Well Doc, what does it look like?” Watchinson greets the doctor. Of course, he’s known him for years and although he’s already passed the age of 60, he still cuts a highly energetic figure.

“Death occurred about 2 - 4 hours ago. However, I can only determine the exact time after the autopsy. The warm bath water, of course, affects the progressive rigidity of the corpse, which makes the determination of the time of death even more difficult. The cause of death may have been several stabs in the heart area. The murder weapon may have been a pointed knife or even a stiletto. But, as I said, I can be more accurate after the autopsy.”

“Thanks Doc, that’s enough for me right now.”

As the doctor leaves the room, the catches a glimpse of the zinc coffin being carried up the narrow staircase. He pushes the two sliding doors together so that he can continue his work undisturbed.

He subjects the living room, as the other rooms before it, to a close examination. First, he devotes himself to the small desk by the window. Even this piece of furniture hasn’t been spared from the human hurricane that has raged here. Most of the writing implements are lying around on the floor. Although the CID has already done its job, the detective doesn’t touch the documents with his hands. Instead, he pokes around with a blunt biro, but can’t find any extraordinary documents.

He lets his eyes wander over the bookshelf. Strange, how all the books are still tidily on the shelves. Almost as if they had just been lined up. Were the perpetrators perhaps disturbed? He steps closer and looks at the book titles. Mostly scientific books or book titles whose contents refer to the use of computers. Then, he notices a book that doesn’t fit in the order.

A cookbook? Housewives keep cookbooks in the kitchen, where they’re always at hand. There are no other books that appear to only be read by the mistress of the house.

Watchinson has learned in his long career as a detective that it’s usually best to always follow your first instinct. So, he takes the book off the shelf, opens it, and flips through it.

Oops! From the corner of his eye, Watchinson notices how something sails to the ground and he immediately bends down to pick it up. It’s a piece of paper. No, a photograph! Well, how does a photograph get into a cookbook?

Perplexed, he picks up the photograph, which has obviously been taken with a Polaroid camera, and studies the people depicted.

The photo shows two men and a woman wearing only panties. She’s hugging one of the men. They’re clearly having fun at a party. In the background the number 1992 can be read. Garlands are hung up and one of the people is wearing a cardboard hat.

Watchinson frowns, deep in thought... Who are these people? With some imagination, he recognises the now dead Mary McCloud’s facial features in the woman. Watchinson only saw the deceased lying in her bathtub for a few minutes. But after gazing at the picture for quite some time, he’s almost certain that the woman depicted is the victim.

And who are the two men?

One of the men could possibly be her husband. Watchinson doesn’t know him and he’s not seen any photographs of her or of him anywhere in the house. It is precisely this fact that his subconscious now registers as something strange.

Watchinson puts the photograph in his coat pocket and places the cookbook back on the bookshelf after leafing through it again. Just then, the sliding door is opened, and Powell pokes his head through the gap.

“Ah, you’re here? The CID have finished and are leaving. Is there anything else to be done?”

“I suppose there’s still no sign of the husband?”

Powell now enters the room completely. “Yes, Sir. So far, there are no indications of his current whereabouts. I have also arranged for all press offices to be informed of the search. But, unfortunately, we haven’t yet got a picture of him. We’re trying to obtain a copy of his driving licence from the DVLA… The border agency has also been advised.”

“Alright,” replies the superintendent. “I don’t think we can do anymore here at the moment. Let’s seal the house. I would also like the property to be monitored. At least tonight. McCloud might just come back here. By the way, did you have his car examined by forensics?”

“Of course, Sir, I was there myself during the search. His car is parked outside and is properly locked. The ignition keys are hanging in the key box here in the house. But the forensic team couldn’t find anything unusual that might help us right now.”

“Well, let’s get started” remarks Watchinson...

One day later……

“Cross Limited, Domestic and International Transports, this is Mr Cross’s office. How can I help you?”

The female voice sounds slightly bored. At once, you can’t help but picture a woman in the middle of her manicure.

“Mr Cross!” responds a harsh male voice.

“Mr Cross is currently in an important meeting and cannot be disturbed, unfortunately. Please give me your name and phone number and Mr Cross will call you back as soon as he’s available.” Obviously, a standard response, which the secretary presumably has to repeat several times a day.

“I said I want to talk to Cross!” the caller repeats his demand. “And fast! Just tell him the name Heinrich Groll and he’ll have time for me!”

“I don’t think Mr Cross wants to be disturbed, but I’ll try. One moment please, Sir.”

The secretary by the name of Lucy Travers hates being friendly when someone barks at her like he did. Gritting her teeth, she reports the arrogant caller to her employer via the intercom. “Excuse me, Mr Cross, but someone wants to talk to you on the phone, who won’t be put off.”

The answer she receives is loud and clear: “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed, Miss Travers!”

“I know, Sir. But I think it’s really urgent. The caller sends word that I should tell you the name Heinrich Groll and you would know who it is.” Lucy listens intently for her boss’s reaction.

“Groll? Did you say Heinrich Groll? Well, wait a minute...”

The transport company owner takes his finger off the intercom. He turns to his two well-dressed visitors sitting in front of his desk.

“Gentlemen, I am extremely sorry, but you heard it yourselves. May I ask you to take a seat in reception for a moment? It will really only take a minute.”

Without a word, the two men nod and do as their host asked. After closing the door, Allen Cross tells his secretary she can put the call through.

“This is Allen Cross. Who are you and what do you want from me?”

“Hello Cross! I’ll tell you what I want right away. You’ll never find out who I am. I want to do business with you. I’ll forget the name of Heinrich Groll, if you pay me half a million pounds!”

Allen Cross gasps and he has to pull himself together to make his voice to sound firm. “What kind of a madman are you? I know nothing of the name Heinrich Groll, so I don’t know why I should pay you half a million pounds.”

A loud laugh now penetrates Cross’s ear. “Don’t make a fool of yourself. You know exactly what the name Heinrich Groll is all about, or you wouldn’t have taken the call. But when you heard that name, you knew you couldn’t afford to ignore the call!”

“I’ll tell you again that the name doesn’t mean anything to me, so bloody leave me in peace.” Cross thinks there was a slight tremor in his voice, and he wants to hang up, but an inner voice advises him against it.

“But, but Cross...”

“For you are it’s still Mr Cross!”

The heavy-framed man at his desk is still trying to keep calm and to keep the upper hand in this conversation.

The stranger’s voice is now quieter and threatening at the same time. “Listen carefully, Cross! Either you pay me half a million pounds, or you exchange your beautiful office for a not so nice jail cell. By the way, you can’t crawl into bed every Wednesday evening with your secretary there!”

That hurt. The guy must know a lot about me, the entrepreneur now realises.

“I’ve been watching you, Cross. I know enough about you and your dealings. I’ll give you a day to raise the money. Given the way you live, that shouldn’t be too difficult for you. I’m not afraid of the police. You won’t call them, because you’d risk too much yourself. I’ll call you back tomorrow at the same time. As I said, Groll’s the keyword!”

Before Allen Cross can reply, the caller hangs up. He, too, puts the receiver back on the hook almost in slow motion. Although the air conditioning in his office is set to max, he can feel beads of sweat on his cheeks.

Allen Cross knows only too well what this call means. But who’s the stranger and how does he know the name Heinrich Groll?

Slowly his fear gives way to anger. He’s so preoccupied with his thoughts that he only finds his way back to reality when the pencil, which he’d been holding in his fist during the phone call, breaks with a crunching noise...

“Come in!” calls Superintendent Watchinson as someone knocks on his office door. Despite spending almost half the night in his office, he’s already sitting at his desk a few minutes after seven.

The person entering the room is Greg Norton. He’s gaining experience as an investigator in Watchinson’s department. Norton is 21 years old and fresh out of police training. He is a bright, athletic young man whom Watchinson has so far been very pleased with. He is intelligent, and his instincts are becoming quite good, which has already earned him a few pluses in the short time he’s been with the Criminal Investigation Department.

“Well Norton, what is it?”

“I’ve got the records and reports in the McCloud murder case, Sir.”

Norton carefully places the neatly stacked files on the desk as if they were made of porcelain.

“Thanks Norton. Is the autopsy report included?”

“Yes, Sir, I think it’s this red folder here...” The young officer fishes a red transparent folder out of the pile. He then says goodbye and leaves his supervisor’s office.

Barely a minute later, Jack Powell steps into the boss’s office. Apparently, he has good news, because the inspector’s already grinning from ear to ear despite it being so early. Watchinson’s curious and is expecting a success with the search for Henry McCloud. He is, however, disappointed in this regard.

“I believe, Sir, I’ve come across something that might be of interest to us.”

“Well, get on with it,” demands Watchinson of his efficient and equally fastidious employee.

“Well, do you remember Mrs McCloud’s neighbour, Mrs Robertson, mentioned something about a man who used to drive off with the victim?”

“Yes of course. What about it?”

“Well, I’ve tasked our colleagues in the investigative service to make enquiries in this regard in the neighbourhood. We’ve been lucky. In conversation with the shopkeeper, whose shop is located diagonally opposite the crime scene, Constable Greesbie mentioned the vehicle. The Whrite’s young son was able to exactly describe the car to him. Thomas Whrite’s 11 years old and, like most boys at that age, they sometimes know the car brands better than our traffic police. He’s already seen the unknown man in his car, although, of course, he mostly remembered the vehicle. According to his information, it’s an American model. He says it’s a blue 1986 Pontiac Firebird, with striking yellow stripes on the sides.” Powell reads the information from his notebook.

“And what did you do then?”

“I entered all the information in the national car registration computer. It’s in the process of finding all the owners of such vehicles right now.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Watchinson praises Powell’s independence. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and there aren’t too many. You take care of the list and arrange the necessary. I would suggest also looking up and checking the owners of the cars. Maybe that will take us a step further.”

“Yes, Sir,” replies Powell and rushes out of the office.

Watchinson then devotes himself to the files brought by Norton. As can be seen from the protocols, Henry McCloud has been working as an IT specialist at Brown Electronics Ltd. in London for almost exactly six years. McCloud earns a decent salary, and, as far as Watchinson can see, he has no outstanding debt. McCloud’s superiors are very happy with him. Even in the neighbourhood of the murder victim, the man is respected — rather reserved, in the opinion of many questioned. There are no files on him with Scotland Yard.

Even the murdered, Mary McCloud, has nothing to hide according to the file, apart from the alleged excursions with the unknown man. The McCloud’s married life is said to have been good. According to reports! They are said to have often spent their leisure time on their boat. A sailing boat with which they sometimes sailed up to Ireland. This statement was made by one of Henry McCloud’s co-workers.

Watchinson looks up from the files and leans back in his chair. As he looks out the window, he taps his lips with his pen, lost in thought. A moment later, he suddenly has the urge to speak to his assistant.

“Powell!” he shouts loudly through the closed door. However, he gets no answer and is forced to get up and look for his colleague. As he opens the door, he almost crashes into Powell, shocking both of them for a moment.

“Here’s the list of vehicle owners, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

“It’s fine, I’m still alive.”

With this, he takes the list. He’s surprised, however, when he skims through the list. “What, that many?”

“Yes,” Powell confirms. “There are hundreds of vehicles like that all over the country. These are only those manufactured in 1986. What if young Whrite’s got the year wrong?”

“That’s the only clue we have right now, Powell. Send Greesbie back to the boy. Maybe he remembers something about the vehicle, so we can tighten the net somewhat. He should also ask around in the area a bit more. In the meantime, let’s first check the cars in Greater London at least… It will be sufficient for the time being to look up the vehicle owner in our process register.”

“Yes, Sir.” Powell goes to leave the office again.

“By the way, has the McClouds’ boat been checked?” Watchinson asks, before his colleague closes the door.

He pauses and looks questioningly at his superior. “Which boat, Sir?”

“The files say the McClouds have a sailing boat. Make sure you find the mooring and then it needs to be checked.”

“Inspector Powell, Scotland Yard. Did I talk to you on the phone?”

“Yes, I think so. McIntosh it is, Joshua McIntosh. But just call me Mac, everyone here does.”

Joshua McIntosh is a short but wiry male in his mid-fifties with a white beard. He’s wearing a small, oil-smeared sailor’s hat, that’s probably seen better days. His face shows the signs of exposure to the salty sea air, as befits a real sailor.

“You asked if a McCloud has a boat here? He has. Mary-Ann’s back there.”

Powell gives McIntosh an irritated look. “Mary-Ann?”

“The boat! The McCloud boat’s called Mary-Ann. It’s back there. Go along the pontoon and it’s the second to last one on the left.” McIntosh gestures to show the officer where to go.

“Aha,” Powell laughs at the sailor and thanks him. As he walks off heading for the pontoon with two other officers, the harbour master calls after him.

“By the way, I haven’t told McCloud that you asked about his boat!”

Abruptly, Powell stops and turns to McIntosh. Slowly, he takes a few steps towards the harbour master. “What? How so? Is Henry McCloud on the boat?”

“I think so.” He replies. “Last night I’m sure I saw a light on in the cabin.”

Powell’s extremely surprised and looks at his colleagues, who are also standing there with raised eyebrows. Wordlessly, they now stare over at the pontoon.

Jack Powell wasn’t exactly keen on going to the marina. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he might find the suspect here and maybe even arrest him. Initially, he’d only wanted to send over a couple of officers on patrol to check the boat, but had changed his mind at the last minute.

He now gives the two officers from the investigative service a few tactical instructions, before they all approach the boat with their heads down. As they get near the boat, they notice all the curtains on board are drawn.

Powell signals to the two officers to take cover for a moment. He himself takes off his shoes so that he doesn’t make any noise. Now, as a precaution, he pulls his weapon out of the belt holster. Still with his head low, Powell sneaks to the stern of the boat, where he can easily climb over the railing.

Meanwhile, the two other officers have also moved closer and are trying to cover Jack Powell, who has positioned himself by the cabin door. Having made eye contact and nodded, the inspector loudly calls out to the yacht’s owner.

“McCloud! This is the police! Come out with your hands up!”

The inspector listens carefully for any sound on board, but apart from the lapping of the waves against the hull, everything is silent. He repeats his request, but again, nothing stirs inside the boat.

The detective therefore decides to go into the lion’s den. He makes his intentions clear to his colleagues, without uttering a single word and instead using gestures. With slight pressure on the latch, the door to the cabin opens...

“Here is another beautiful piece that you are sure to like, Madame.”

James Loundry carefully places the antique, ruby-studded bracelet from an inheritance on a blue velvet cloth spread over the glass counter. He owns an antiques shop in London, very close to the famous Trafalgar Square. Incidentally, he specialises in precious things of all kinds. He is 52 years old and has gone through a divorce. He likes to use French terms with his customers. He thinks it sounds more elegant.

“Oh yes, the bangle is really beautiful,” the young, elegant woman replies. She is sitting on a velvet-covered stool opposite the shop owner. She has elegantly crossed her long, tanned legs and, much to the salesman’s delight, the short skirt reveals more than it actually hides.

Obviously, the young lady has enough financial means — or rather her husband — because she has shopped at Loundry’s several times recently. Although she always pays by cheque, they have always been cashed without a problem.

“But I don’t suppose it’s cheap, is it, Mr Loundry?”

“Well, what is cheap these days, Madame?” James Loundry replies charmingly. As a businessman in this industry, he has learned to observe and at the same time classify his clientele. He therefore immediately notices that the lady is fascinated by this ruby-studded bracelet, wrestling with her conscience. That’s why he doesn’t give her much time to think about it and goes on speaking.

“But as you’ve seen, there are other nice bracelets that are of course much more reasonable.” He points to another drawer, in which there are other beautiful pieces of jewellery.

“Yes, I have to say this bracelet is a true gem and worth its price. Plus, the bracelet is indeed made for you,” he says double-playing her.

“Oh yes, it is”, exclaims the woman, carefully placing the piece of jewellery around her right wrist.

“Seeing as you’ve been able to sell a lot to me lately, Mr Loundry, you’ll surely be able to do something about the price this time?”

The client doesn’t say this without a certain undertone that could almost be misunderstood, and she looks at the antiques dealer with an innocent expression.

“Well, let me think, maybe as an exception... but only this time... well, let’s say — £50?” Laundry already secretly suspected that the piece of jewellery would change hands, which is why he raised the actual retail price by £50 from the outset.

The woman sighs. “Well, okay, I’ll take this bracelet. My husband will kill me, but...” She reaches into her handbag and takes out her cheque book. “Does a cheque work for you, Mr Loundry?” the standard question asked by the young lady when she buys at Loundry’s.

Loundry reassures his customer. “But surely, Madame, and believe me, your husband won’t kill you, but embrace you when he sees the bracelet. Would you like to take it with you right away or should I send it by courier?”

“But you know I always want to wear it at once,” the customer answers quickly and is now obviously happy with her decision.

As the antiques dealer is busy putting the bracelet gently around the young woman’s wrist, the shop door opens. A large man enters the sales room. Judging by his appearance, he also has no financial worries. The suit is probably from one of the best tailors in London and was surely very expensive.

The man immediately goes to a counter, where he seems to be interested in a selection of old pocket watches in the display.

“Thank you, Madame, and honour us again soon,” says Loundry, escorting the young lady to the door as usual. With a slight bow, he says goodbye to his customer as she leaves the shop.

As the shopkeeper closes the door, there’s a strange change in his expression. His friendly smile suddenly turns into a harsh and angry expression.

“What do you want here, Cross? We agreed you wouldn’t come here!”

Powell has experienced a number of delicate situations in his career, which is why he is now almost overly cautious. Still in a crouched position, he successfully uses the gun to swing open the narrow door.

He must assume that McCloud is on board. He is also wary of a possible reaction from the murder suspect.

Again, he asks the boat owner to step out with his hands above his head. But still, only the lapping waves are heard on the side walls of the boat and the creaking of the wooden floorboards.

The police officer has no choice but to enter the living quarters of the boat. His heart is pounding. Armed with his gun, he slowly descends the wooden staircase into the cabin, whose floor naturally lies below the waterline.