the flames from the house. He was desperate not to be seen so he dropped to his belly and crawled beneath the shrubs and ornamental conifers.
Until that moment, Conor had not been aware of any pain apart from the pain in his head. But now he could feel pain from his rib cage and wondered if he had cracked a rib or two. There was also a smell of scorching close to his face. At best he knew would have been severely bruised and possibly suffering from surface burns.
He gritted his teeth and dragged himself clear of the rear of the house until he was finally in enough cover to stand and make for the trees beyond the rear garden. Once he was there, he dropped to the ground and leaned back against the bole of a tree. He could hear the sound of a siren somewhere in the distance and began cursing Breggie and Joseph for the bastards they were.
*
“Can you think of any reason, other than money, why anyone should want to kidnap your grandson?”
Hoffman was in Schiller’s beautifully designed summer room overlooking the pine covered slopes of the Mosel valley. The light was fading earlier than usual because of the dark clouds coming up from the south west. The lower slopes were still caught in the sunlight, but their colours soon dulled beneath the stormy shadows. The fading light matched the mood of the household in response to the apocalyptic nightmare that had been visited upon them all.
Kistler had left earlier, promising to move heaven and earth in his department’s efforts in the search for the kidnappers. Hoffman had been more pragmatic: he had set up an incident room back at his headquarters in Bonn. Jansch was there running it for him at that moment. He had called in a team of officers from department KK11 of the ZKD. This department dealt with serious crimes. He had also drafted officers in from KK13, the organised crime specialists. Other units would be drafted in to help with the investigation but not until it became clear which elements of this crime needed the particular skills of certain police departments.
He also had a team of officers at the house interviewing the staff. But for Schiller and Joanna, Hoffman would let no-one but himself interview them. One other concession to that was a police secretary taking notes while he spoke to the great man and his English daughter-in-law.
Schiller glanced briefly at Hoffman and shook his head. “That is not a particularly bright question. I am extremely wealthy, so by definition I am a target for every crank in Germany.”
“Nevertheless, Herr Schiller, it is a question I must ask,” Hoffman reminded him. “And I would say that wealth does not necessarily have anything to do with it.”
Schiller glowered at him. “What other reason can there be?”
Hoffman wondered if Schiller was being deliberately stupid or genuinely believed that money was the only reason for kidnapping a two week old infant. He ignored the retort and asked Joanna.
“Can you think of any reason, Frau Schiller?”
Joanna looked extremely pale. She had obviously been crying for most of that appalling day and had put in a great deal of effort to come to this interview. Hoffman was in no doubt that she would be unable to tell him anything. But he was wrong.
“She was South African,” she said, not taking her eyes from the floor. It was said in such a matter of fact way that it took both men completely by surprise.
Schiller pivoted in his chair. The anger that had been in his face disappeared quickly. Hoffman tensed slightly. He leaned forward.
“How do you know that?”
Joanna looked at him. There was little expression in her face. “She spoke to me in English. She had a South African accent.”
“She spoke to you in English?”
Joanna shrugged. “Yes. Why not? Everybody knows I’m English. It’s public knowledge.”
Hoffman could see a small, almost incandescent glimmer of hope. It was often the smallest, most innocuous piece of information that broke a case.
“But not
Until that moment, Conor had not been aware of any pain apart from the pain in his head. But now he could feel pain from his rib cage and wondered if he had cracked a rib or two. There was also a smell of scorching close to his face. At best he knew would have been severely bruised and possibly suffering from surface burns.
He gritted his teeth and dragged himself clear of the rear of the house until he was finally in enough cover to stand and make for the trees beyond the rear garden. Once he was there, he dropped to the ground and leaned back against the bole of a tree. He could hear the sound of a siren somewhere in the distance and began cursing Breggie and Joseph for the bastards they were.
*
“Can you think of any reason, other than money, why anyone should want to kidnap your grandson?”
Hoffman was in Schiller’s beautifully designed summer room overlooking the pine covered slopes of the Mosel valley. The light was fading earlier than usual because of the dark clouds coming up from the south west. The lower slopes were still caught in the sunlight, but their colours soon dulled beneath the stormy shadows. The fading light matched the mood of the household in response to the apocalyptic nightmare that had been visited upon them all.
Kistler had left earlier, promising to move heaven and earth in his department’s efforts in the search for the kidnappers. Hoffman had been more pragmatic: he had set up an incident room back at his headquarters in Bonn. Jansch was there running it for him at that moment. He had called in a team of officers from department KK11 of the ZKD. This department dealt with serious crimes. He had also drafted officers in from KK13, the organised crime specialists. Other units would be drafted in to help with the investigation but not until it became clear which elements of this crime needed the particular skills of certain police departments.
He also had a team of officers at the house interviewing the staff. But for Schiller and Joanna, Hoffman would let no-one but himself interview them. One other concession to that was a police secretary taking notes while he spoke to the great man and his English daughter-in-law.
Schiller glanced briefly at Hoffman and shook his head. “That is not a particularly bright question. I am extremely wealthy, so by definition I am a target for every crank in Germany.”
“Nevertheless, Herr Schiller, it is a question I must ask,” Hoffman reminded him. “And I would say that wealth does not necessarily have anything to do with it.”
Schiller glowered at him. “What other reason can there be?”
Hoffman wondered if Schiller was being deliberately stupid or genuinely believed that money was the only reason for kidnapping a two week old infant. He ignored the retort and asked Joanna.
“Can you think of any reason, Frau Schiller?”
Joanna looked extremely pale. She had obviously been crying for most of that appalling day and had put in a great deal of effort to come to this interview. Hoffman was in no doubt that she would be unable to tell him anything. But he was wrong.
“She was South African,” she said, not taking her eyes from the floor. It was said in such a matter of fact way that it took both men completely by surprise.
Schiller pivoted in his chair. The anger that had been in his face disappeared quickly. Hoffman tensed slightly. He leaned forward.
“How do you know that?”
Joanna looked at him. There was little expression in her face. “She spoke to me in English. She had a South African accent.”
“She spoke to you in English?”
Joanna shrugged. “Yes. Why not? Everybody knows I’m English. It’s public knowledge.”
Hoffman could see a small, almost incandescent glimmer of hope. It was often the smallest, most innocuous piece of information that broke a case.
“But not
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