Whisper For The Reaper by Jack Gatland (best book series to read TXT) 📕

Anjli frowned at this. If Rolfe Müller didn’t steal the iMac, then Karl Schnitter was lying. ‘So why keep the information from him?’

Ilse turned and looked Anjli directly in the eye; it wasn’t a power play, or a way to hide anything. In fact, it opened her up like a book as she spoke, the raw emotion showing in every word.

‘Because if he knew what was on that hard drive, if he knew that Patrick Walsh and Karl Schnitter claimed they killed his father, I don’t know how many people he would hurt, or even kill. But I know he would definitely take revenge on Karl, your Detective Inspector Walsh and his teenage daughter for Patrick Walsh’s crime.’

Monroe had returned home and gathered together enough items to last him a couple of days in Berlin, and the following morning he’d arrived at Heathrow Airport Terminal 5 bright and early for his morning flight to Brandenburg Airport. As he was only using hand luggage, his trip through check in and security was quite simple, and apart from a quick stop in the departure lounge duty free to buy some water and chocolate, he made it to the departure gate with plenty of time to spare.

A woman was waiting for him.

In her late fifties or early sixties, her short blonde hair peppered with flecks of grey, she wore a navy blue suit worn over a white blouse, a small cabin bag beside her and a neck pillow already in position.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Monroe smiled, shaking her hand. ‘I’m probably okay and all that but with the concussion, I’m a little worried about being alone in a foreign country if I have a… well, you know.’

‘Not a problem,’ replied DCI Sophie Bullman, checking the departure gate screen. ‘I’m between jobs now anyway.’

‘Fired?’

‘Christ no,’ Bullman snorted. ‘Promoted. But enough of that. Tell me, Alex… What damn fool adventure have you got me into this time?’

18

Berlin Station

It was midmorning by the time that Monroe and Bullman reached Berlin; the Flughafen Express had brought them to downtown Berlin Hauptbahnhof, and from there they had paused on checking into a hotel, instead moving straight on to the headquarters of the Bundeskriminalamt, the federal police, on Treptower Park, a street lined avenue around four or five miles southeast of the train station.

The flight itself had been eventless, and was a chance for Monroe to explain what they had discovered so far during the case, as Bullman noted down the salient facts. Once done, Monroe had leaned back in the seat and watched out of the window. He’d offered Bullman the window seat, but she’d taken the aisle seat instead, saying that she had a hatred of having to ask people to move if she needed to stretch her legs. Monroe smiled, saying that he understood, while secretly wondering if this was because Bullman had a hatred of asking people for anything. Looking back to her, he cleared his throat, nervous to the question he was going to ask.

‘Just get on with it,’ she muttered while closing the book that she was reading. ‘I can just feel the urge to talk flowing out of you.’

‘I just wondered how you were doing,’ Monroe asked. ‘I heard they had the DI White inquest.’

Detective Inspector White had been one of DCI Bullman’s team in Birmingham, but had turned out to be corrupt, and had been the officer that gave the unconscious Monroe to Macca Byrne; a transaction that cost White his life and ended with Monroe waking up in a basement of a Manor House near Milton Keynes. Bullman had been unaware of this betrayal, but there had to be an investigation by an Anti-Corruption Unit to ensure there were no unseen connections between Bullman and White. And, when Malcolm Gladwell had been arrested, Bullman had returned to Birmingham to be interviewed.

‘Just a formality,’ Bullman leaned back in the seat. ‘They had brought me in to cover maternity leave, so there was no connection between White and myself.’

‘Good,’ Monroe replied. ‘You’re too good an officer to lose.’

‘Glad you think that,’ Bullman replied, but the tone seemed off somehow, as if Bullman knew something that Monroe didn’t. He almost went to reply, but decided that discretion was the better part of valour here.

‘How are the headaches?’ she asked, returning to the book, as if not that important a question to her. Monroe knew better though; she wasn’t asking about his wellbeing, she was checking on how effective a partner he was going to be while in Berlin.

‘Barely noticeable,’ he admitted. ‘Not the crushing pain that they used to be. Top of the bonce is still tender, and it weirdly hurts to wear a hat, but I’ve not had a crippling migraine in a week.’

‘When do you have your next medical?’

‘In a week,’ Monroe looked back out of the window again, ensuring that Bullman couldn’t see the concern on his face. ‘If they see no improvement, there’s a chance I’ll be benched until retirement. Or, maybe even given early retirement on medical grounds.’

‘Is that so bad?’ Bullman placed a hand on Monroe’s arm to bring his attention back into the plane. ‘You could retire with honour, Alex. Take it easy.’

‘I’ve seen retirement,’ Monroe grumbled. ‘Patrick Walsh told me it was the worst mistake he ever made. That and promotion.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bullman frowned. Monroe smiled, but it was faint, bittersweet.

‘Admiral Kirk,’ he replied.

‘Oh, that.’ Bullman crossed her arms as she stared at Monroe. ‘Rosanna told me about this. Never liked Star Trek. Too fictional.’

‘But the point still stands,’ Monroe replied. ‘He was never happier than when he was out there. And it’s the same for me.’

‘What if they offer you the role?’

Monroe laughed at this. ‘Christ, I’d ask if they were that short staffed,’ he said. ‘Besides, they already spoke to me about this. I told them that if I was medically cleared I didn’t want it