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

with my mother, and it destroyed her marriage and our family. It’s what made my father a killer. The Reaper.

But I’m not him. And I’m haunted by what I’ve done. I’ve written this in English so that whoever finds my body can understand this. I can’t go back now. I can’t face the shame. I thought my father was innocent of this, but now I know he was a monster. And I’ve become a monster too.

I don’t blame Patrick Walsh for what he did now. But now I have to end the life of another monster. I’ve flipped the coin, and I know what I must do, in a place where ghosts walk the land.

Tell Ilse I’m sorry.

Rolfe.

‘Well, that settles things then,’ Anjli said. ‘Everything we did? All meant nothing in the end. Rolfe was the killer, after all.’

‘Something’s not right here,’ Declan replied. ‘The letter feels off.’

‘We’ll check it against Rolfe’s handwriting,’ PC Davey was already folding the letter and placing it away in another plastic bag. ‘We’ve got photos of his journal that DCI Monroe’s sent across, we can compare this to those. We’ll know soon enough.’

‘Did anyone see anything?’ Declan looked around. ‘I mean there were enough people here gawking when we arrived, did any of them see someone leave the scene?’

‘Not that I was told,’ De’Geer admitted. ‘But then maybe they’ll tell another officer.’

Declan rose, walking to a pillar. Leaning against it, he pulled down the mask for a moment. Rolfe couldn’t have been the Red Reaper. He wasn’t in England when Declan’s dad died.

But Ilse and Karl had been.

However, they had the perfect alibi; they were being actively watched having a parent daughter fight by Declan and Billy at the time of the murder. Which left one name.

Wilhelm Müller.

Had Patrick Walsh lied when he said that he’d killed Müller? Had Wilhelm escaped, or a deal been made, a deal that Wilhelm Müller had now returned to break?

Declan didn’t know where to start next. But as he considered this, it looked like his path was being chosen for him, as DCI Freeman, in full PPE, entered the crypt, walking over to him.

‘Terrible situation,’ he muttered. ‘Someone will have to tell Berlin about this and they’ll likely kick up a right royal stink. What do we know so far?’

‘Looks like suicide, sir,’ Declan felt the words turn to ash as they left his tongue. ‘Shot himself with a pistol. Possibly East German police issue, maybe his dad’s gun.’

‘Did he leave a note?’

‘Yes, sir. And a coin, and a collection of Red Reaper cards on his person. Seems he was trying to follow in his dad’s footsteps, but the guilt got to him. Flipped a coin on himself.’

Freeman patted Declan on the shoulder. ‘I know it’s not the result you wanted, but it’s still a result,’ he said. ‘The Red Reaper is dead.’

‘I don’t think it’s that easy, sir.’

‘Look, just take the win, Declan,’ Freeman snapped. ‘This’ll go well on your file, and’ll likely get you back in City Police’s good graces. You chased down a killer and he was so trapped by this, he killed himself.’ He looked to the crime scene and pointed angrily at Doctor Marcos.

‘What’s she doing there!’ he exclaimed. ‘She knows she’s not allowed at crime scenes for another three months! Having her poke about the station’s one thing, but I could get into major trouble for that!’

‘But you said it’s a suicide, not a crime scene,’ Declan suggested.

Freeman visibly relaxed at this. ‘Pull DCI Monroe back from Berlin, and start closing up the case,’ he said. ‘If Rolfe Müller was the Red Reaper, then the case is over and we can all have cake for tea as a treat. I want a full report on my desk by end of play tomorrow.’

He shook Declan’s gloved hand.

‘Your dad would be proud of you,’ he said before walking back to some other white suited officers, taking charge of the scene. Declan felt the same as De’Geer had moments earlier; superfluous to requirements. The case was apparently closed, the murderer dead, justice had prevailed and the world could sleep easier now.

So why didn’t Declan feel good about this?

He knew why. Because Rolfe Müller hadn’t killed himself. Someone was tying up loose ends before moving on, and as yet Declan didn’t know who that could be. The only thing that was certain was that Declan had been given strict orders to wrap his case up and provide a report on his findings by the end of play the following day.

Which meant that Declan and his team had twenty-four hours to find the true killer before they escaped forever.

22

Old Soldiers

Peter Banisch lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment off Kollwitzstraße that was more of a bedsit, or studio apartment than one bedroom anything, as the wall that enabled the apartment to be called as such was nothing more than a wooden and plasterboard frame around a corner of the large living area with a small bed inside. Looking out onto Kollwitzplatz, it was about a mile North East of the centre of Berlin, in an area known as Prenzlauer Berg, a recently added district of Pankow, and known locally by the residents as Kollwitzkiez, because of the famous residents Käthe Kollwitz, a nineteenth century German artist and her husband, physician Karl Kollwitz, who shaped the area after his wife’s death in 1919, and before the start of World War Two. It was one of the more expensive areas of Berlin to live, which explained why Banisch only had such a small living space; but it was his home, and he was proud of it.

‘They know me as an artist,’ he explained to Bullman as Monroe sat silently to the side, sipping at a small cup of tea. ‘It has been thirty years since the fall. Thirty years since I could leave the border guards.’

Banisch was a small, bespectacled man in his sixties, no taller than five feet four and as thin as a drainpipe.