Whisper For The Reaper, Jack Gatland [good books for high schoolers txt] 📗

unit, if I’m being honest. And we don’t need you on the beat, as we have some kind of hot viking for that. Some PC named De’Geer?’

Billy sat up at that name. ‘I met him last week,’ he said. ‘He was there when we searched Declan’s house.’

‘Well, it’s just a shame that you won’t be meeting him again,’ Anjli looked down at her nails, forcing herself not to smile as out of the corner of her eye she could see Billy squirming. She knew he wanted to come, to help, but she also knew that this irrational fear of his would stop him. She needed to pull out all the stops here. ‘Apparently he rides a motorbike.’

‘Fine, I’ll come and help you,’ Billy threw his hands into the air in mock despair. ‘But not because of De’Geer. Because Declan saved my life and I owe him.’

‘Great,’ Anjli smiled. ‘Can you pick me up tomorrow? I still don’t have a car. And I’ll need to be brought back in the evening.’

Billy felt that something was missing in this story. ‘You’re commuting there?’

‘Not all of us can afford a few days in a swanky country hotel,’ Anjli replied. ‘And you’re unemployed and cut off from your rich family, remember?’

‘I’m not that cut off,’ Billy was already looking at his phone. ‘Ooh. The rooms look nice.’ He looked back to Anjli.

‘I’ll come if you stay with me,’ he said. ‘As in I’ll pay for your room. But you buy me dinners. Deal?’

Anjli shook Billy’s hand.

‘Deal.’

9

First Briefing

The following Morning, Declan and Jess walked into The Olde Bell with a slight feeling of trepidation. The bar wasn’t open, but the dining room was for guest breakfasts, and as Declan entered, looking for someone who could direct them to the meeting room, he spied a couple at one table. A man and a woman, both in their thirties, they ate sparingly at a full English breakfast, glaring distastefully at the food as they did so.

This, Declan assumed, had to be the Germans.

‘Wait here,’ Declan said to Jess as he made his way through the tables towards the couple who, as he approached, patted their mouths with their napkins and placed their cutlery on the plates, almost in unison.

There was something a little bit creepy about the act, but Declan tried to move past it, stopping at the table.

‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your breakfast,’ Declan said. ‘I’m—‘

‘Detective Inspector Declan Walsh, City of London Police,’ the male interrupted. ‘Yes, we know you well.’

Declan took a moment to examine the man sitting at the table as he planned a reply. Both the man and woman were brown haired, maybe late thirties; the man’s hair was cut short at the sides but was left longer on top and allowed to curl naturally. He wore small, round framed glasses that perched on the end of his hawk-like nose and wore a grey wool blend suit over an open white shirt. He was slim, maybe some kind of runner or gymnast in build.

His sister however, was the polar opposite; her hair was long and wild and dyed blonde at the tips. Her face was round and friendly, overdone with blue shades around the eyes and she was more shapely than her brother, which made Declan wonder whether his slightness was deliberate rather than genetic.

One thing was for certain though; they were definitely related in looks, no matter how they differed.

‘Should I be flattered or concerned?’ Declan asked. The man shrugged noncommittally at this.

‘Your village, they like to talk,’ he said simply. ‘They talk of you, the terrorist who is not a terrorist who has armed police turn up once a month to visit, so it seems.’

‘My job is a bit all over the place,’ Declan admitted.

‘Or you are not good at your job?’ The man suggested. Declan fought back an urge to snap back at this, instead preferring to smile.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names,’ he replied.

‘I am Kriminalkommissar Rolfe Müller of the Bundeskriminalamt, in particular the Schwere und Organisierte Kriminalität,’ Rolfe explained. ‘A Kriminalkommissar is the same as your Detective Inspector rank. And the Schwere—‘

‘The Schwere und Organisierte Kriminalität means Serious and Organised Crime,’ Declan added before Rolfe could continue. ‘I worked with them when I was in the Military Police.’

Rolfe nodded, as if he’d expected Declan to reply, showing his sister. ‘This is Ilse, my younger sister,’ he explained. ‘She is my… How would you say it? My secretary?’

‘You have a secretary?’ Declan forced a smile. ‘Maybe we should start doing that over here. Would be great with reports.’

‘Yes, you should,’ Rolfe sniffed. ‘You would make fewer errors. But Ilse is here because she has a much better grasp of your language than I have. She is here to ensure I make no communication mistakes when talking to your police.’

Declan’s smile stayed, but there was no humour behind it. He really didn’t like this man, and that his surname was Müller hadn’t gone unnoticed.

‘Are you here on holiday?’ He turned to Ilse now, asking her instead.

‘We’re on a case,’ she replied, looking to her brother in case she’d overstepped by speaking.

‘We hunt a war criminal,’ Rolfe had picked up his cutlery again and was now frowning at a sliver of sausage on the end of his fork. ‘It is international crime, not rural, like yours.’

‘I see,’ Declan nodded at this as if genuinely caring. ‘If we can help in any way—‘

‘I will not need help,’ Rolfe stared at the sausage still. ‘Especially from one such as yourself. I read about your father. He was poking his nose into the wrong things. He died carelessly driving, yes? You should have better driving examinations.’

Declan was really fighting the urge to punch this arrogant little shit, but wondered if this was a deliberate attempt to taunt him, to gain a rise.

Well, two could play at that game.

‘Rolfe Müller,’ he said, rolling the words around his tongue. ‘I’ve heard of several Müllers before, but only one Rolfe. He was