Meyer-Hofmann AG

7

Joe Wilson’s desk had never been the tidiest in the department, but the devastation today set new standards. The two piles of case files and books, usually separated by his in-tray, had made a gallant attempt to join forces in a heap in the middle of the desk. Covering the tray and spilling onto the telephone, it was pure chance that he spotted the envelope. Were it not for the strange stamp, he may have never seen the letter, half-buried in a bundle of statements.

Doubtless it was delivered by one of the mailroom retards, who launched letters at the desk from twenty feet away.

The stamp was very picturesque, an architectural scene by Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann 1662-1736 Deutschland. Joe flipped the envelope back and forth, and held it up to the light as if the stamp and paper may reveal the secret of its contents. After a brief search of the desk drawers, he decided he would open the letter without the help of an opener.

Joe had worked for the Portland District Police all his life. Joining straight from school, he had spent eight years on the front line as a local policeman before moving to CID. He didn’t miss the work, but he did miss the uniform. Life in civvies meant washing, ironing, and choices, lots of choices. Colour choices, style choices, jacket, trouser, and tie choices. Today’s outfit consisted of creased brown corduroy trousers, a creased, light blue dress shirt, and a creased brown tweed jacket. Nicknamed “Scarecrow” by his colleagues, Joe had turned the weakness to his advantage, with a line of female officers pitching in to help him. His stubbly good looks won them over, again and again. Today, he was at the bottom of the washing basket and hoped that Margaret, his main squeeze, would feel sorry for him and do him a favour or two that evening. No need then to say that his travels had been limited to mainland USA. He could point Germany out on a map, but that was about it. Why he should receive a handwritten, hand-addressed letter from Germany was beyond him. Leaning back in the rickety wooden seat, he swung his feet up, resting them on a cushion of unopened reports and files on the desktop. Reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, he started reading. It was not long before the letter commanded his full attention. Taking his feet down slowly, he frowned and shovelled a hole in the middle of the table top, grabbed a notepad and pen, and read on. He was the investigating officer for the Singh case. A family of four who had been killed by carbon monoxide poisoning in their holiday home on the Islands. He had never been comfortable with the case—blood reports had shown that there must have been massive carbon monoxide levels in the house. Carboxyhemoglobin blood saturation levels were close to ninety percent in the whole family. Although they had found that the boiler was defective, the carbon monoxide levels in the house were not as high as you would expect. It was possible that the boiler had turned itself off before the family was found, but the weather had been so cold that it was unlikely. Furthermore, one of the children had some abrasions on his body that were consistent with a struggle. If this letter was true, it would explain a lot. Turning the letter over in his hands, he read the sender’s address: Britt Petersen, See Street 14, 87349 Feldafing, Germany.

She had written that by the time he read the letter, she may well have had to change her place of residence.

It was understandable, as, considering the letter’s content, she could be in considerable danger.