Chapter Four

Chapter Four

It had all given Karl rather a lot to think about.

He stood outside the hospital, and pulled his thick, dark coat around himself tighter. It had been kindly donated by the hospital, as had all the clothes he was currently wearing, in fact. They didn’t quite fit him properly, but Karl was hardly in a position to complain; the clothes he’d been wearing when he was brought in having been cut off him prior to surgery.

December in Munich was cold, and it was snowing. As he stood there, pondering what to do next, snow quickly filled the lines and creases in his coat. He shivered a little, and decided his next move should be to get something to eat.

The street stretched out on either side. Masses of people walked briskly past him, without a second glance. They were wrapped up in their scarves and their hats, and most held bags of some kind. Karl wondered if they were shopping for Christmas.

As he started wandering down the busy street, his hands plunged deep in his pockets, he breathed it all in. The loud, trundling cars that honked their horns and sloshed melted snow up onto the legs of passerbys, who shouted uselessly in protest. The smell of fresh fish, frozen in ice next to a bellowing, round man. He walked quickly through the small market, and came out in a large, grassy park.

Karl had been to Munich before, but only rarely. He was not a fan of the big city, with its busy pace and nonstop motion. He much preferred the tranquillity that came from living somewhere remote – Hinterkaifeck was about seventy kilometres north of Munich, and whilst the village of Grobern was only some three hundred metres away, it might have been a million miles. A vast forest surrounded the farm, blocking out any outside lights, and sealing Hinterkaifeck in a thick darkness when the sun went down. All things considered, a perfect place for murder.

A coffee shop beckoned to Karl from across the street. Crossing the road quickly, he slipped inside and, brushing snow off his shoulders, spying a quiet corner booth. The shop was fairly full, with most people grouped around seats by a big window that looked out onto the hospital and the busy street. Karl’s end was more calm, and he relished the stillness.

A young waitress came over to his table and he ordered a coffee, black, with a slice of pecan pie. He had apparently had a little money on him when he’d been brought in, and had received it gratefully upon being discharged. When his food arrived he drained the coffee greedily and almost swallowed the pie whole; compared to his diet over the last few days, it was like dining at a five-star restaurant.

How had they died? The thought crept into his head and revealed itself against his wishes. Part of him deeply regretted losing his temper back at the hospital; why hadn’t he simply asked for more answers? He yearned to go back to Hinterkaifeck, to take the next train and travel north to his home. He wondered who had been looking after it for the last year. Despite what the Officer Keifer had said to him, would they know if he just disappeared? Left Munich in the dead of night? He absentmindedly ran his fingers over the card Keifer had left for him.

Karl closed his eye and let his mind wander. He went back to France. To the trenches and to the dirt and the mud. The yelling and shuddering and explosions so loud they threatened to rip your ears right from you. He remembered scrambling up a wooden ladder, his rifle swinging from his back. Clutching at a clump of grass as he pulled himself over, the scream of a plane as it flew by a few metres above his head causing him to gasp. Then the feeling of someone grabbing his uniform and yanking him to his feet, pushing him forward. A memory of looking back at his comrade, watching his head snap back and his body tumble into the trench he’d just hauled himself out of, warm blood spurting forward. Then forcing himself to turn away and move...

“More coffee?”

Karl opened his eye to see the waitress standing over him, coffee pot in hand. He nodded and sighed. The snow was starting to worsen, and he wondered briefly where he was going to stay that night. Reaching for the cup sat in front of him, his fingers overshot and he clumsily gripped the steaming mug, spilling some on the table. He hadn’t quite grasped the intricacies of not having any depth perception, it seemed.

Doctor Eckhardt had given him a number of options for his missing eye, ranging from a glass ball to dark sunglasses. Karl had in the end chosen a black eye-patch. It had three straps, running across either side of his face and up over his head. His empty socket had been starting to ache slightly from the cold before he’d came into the coffee shop, but he couldn’t quite make himself pack the soft hole with a handkerchief or the like to keep it warm. The very thought made him feel queasy.

As he drained the last of his coffee, Karl came to a decision. As much as he wanted to leave the city and escape back to his farmstead, he needed to know. He needed to know how his family had died. A twang of guilt snapped at his chest; how could he even have considered leaving Munich without those answers? Karl took a deep breath and let it settle. The possibility of being arrested came to mind, but he dismissed it. If the officers had wanted to they would never have let him leave the hospital.

His next step decided, Karl left some notes on the table under his mug, and left the coffee shop. The snow had deepened, and his feet crunched and sank slightly beneath it. He briefly wondered how long his second-hand shoes would survive. He pulled his collar tighter around his neck.

Making his way to the police station, Karl tried not to think about the other piece of information that Officer Keifer had imparted upon his visit. The piece of information that seemed to dominate his thoughts above all others – so much so that he had to scold himself for placing such importance on it. The murder of his family should be at the forefront of his mind, not the fact that his wife had slept with another man.

Josef. The proof of Viktoria’s betrayal.  

He had been walking for almost twenty minutes when he finally noticed it. A man was sitting at an outside cafe, sipping a hot drink, with an newspaper spread open in front of him. The headline on the page made Karl stop in his tracks, and he felt his face go pale.

FATHER OF MURDERED FAMILY BACK FROM THE DEAD.

The man looked up. “Can I help you?”

Karl ignored him, frantically scanning the news story.

“Hey!” The man closed the paper angrily. “Get your own, asshole.”

They both looked at each other for a moment. Karl considered snatching the newspaper and running for it, but the man had a good few years on him, as well as an extra eye. Murmuring an apology, he turned and walked quickly away.

Luckily he didn’t have to go far; a nearby merchant was standing selling them. Karl dug deep in his pockets and pulled out some coins. Dropping them on the counter, he grabbed the paper and opened it, walking off as he did so.

He didn’t get very far. Standing stiff as a pole, he read it, his eye aching with the tiny, smudged print and his fast pace. After he finished, he rolled it up and stuck it in his pocket. A wave of nausea rolled over his stomach, and he closed his eye tight for a moment, waiting until he felt it ebb away before opening it and taking a breath.

From their crushed skulls, it looked like they had been killed with a pickaxe. One blow each, to the back of the head. His daughter, Cazilia, along with Viktoria and her parents, brutally murdered in the barn. Their bodies piled up like pieces of meat. The maid and little Josef slaughtered in their rooms, in their beds. No suspects at the present time.

He wondered if the killer had waited in the barn. Stood patiently by the door until one by one his family had entered, then swinging the pickaxe down with tremendous force. Karl knew it was far enough away from the house that any screams wouldn’t have been heard.

He started walking towards the police station again, before stopping. What point lay in going there for answers anymore? And if he wasn’t a suspect then why the hell did he have to stay in Munich?

His mind made up, Karl turned and headed for the train station. His place was at home, where he should have been a year ago. The uncertainty of where he had been a year ago was slowly driving him mad. He needed to go back. Hinterkaifeck needed him now, more than ever. Such brutality within his very home! Karl clenched his fists with anger and felt himself shake with rage.

Answers, he told himself. I need to find answers.

And somehow he knew – the police had not found everything. Hinterkaifeck still had its secrets to share.

The police academy had said that to pull your weapon was to take a killing shot. There was no point otherwise; moments spent aiming for a limb could be the last moments of your life. If you’ve been forced into a situation where unholstering your gun is the most appropriate action, then it’s your life against theirs.

Henrik Faust rubbed his eyes wearily and watched through his open car window as Karl Gabriel walked down the street towards the train station.

You never know with these people, Keifer had told him before he left the station that morning. You back them into a corner, there’s no telling how they’ll react.

Faust knew why he’d said it.  

He watched Karl head inside the station. This was only his second ever assignment, and so far it had been extremely difficult; remembering the scene at the hospital only a few days earlier made him feel particularly uncomfortable. And it didn’t look like it was going to get any easier.

Climbing out, Faust slipped through the busy crowds and followed him discreetly. He watched as Karl bought a ticket from the desk, and proceeded towards a train marked for the small village of Grobern. Faust made a swift beeline for platform. He stretched up and smartly straightened his shako helmet, before reaching down and unbuttoning his holster.

You never know with these people.