What was he still doing here? Why had he told Jurgen he would be here all night? It was because he didn’t know what to do, where to turn for clues. But deep within, there was more than that. Something, some intuition or instinct, told him that this pagan place held a secret key. If only he could find it, and then discover the secret lock.
Ernie Pope had given him the remains of the whisky bottle, along with some bread and bierwurst from his expenses-paid hamper. Seb had brought the food and drink up the hill and now found a place where he could simply watch the evening’s proceedings and think. Try to find some clarity. He swigged slowly from the bottle and picked at the food. It was dark now but there were fires and flaming torches to light the evening, and airs from the Hitler Youth songbook afloat on the freshening breeze.
He wondered about Silke. How would she feel if he went and found her League of German Girls group and talked to her about Jurgen? Get a grip, Seb. Your mind is drifting between the need to find a killer and the desire to make amends with your son. These things are not connected.
The whisky and the lack of sleep the night before eventually took their toll. At first his mind and mood mellowed into a fantastical waking dream of swirling colours and sounds: the sounds of the thousands, the drumbeats, the voices, the accordions and the guitars.
People danced before his eyes. In uniforms and robes and gowns. The dark of the night and the fires became part of him and he closed his eyes and submitted to warm delirium.
And then he slept and the dream became darker.
He awoke slowly. That is, he was woken by being pulled and shouted at, but consciousness was far from instant. He opened his eyes and found that he was looking blearily into his son’s face.
‘Dad, wake up. Help me.’
Now consciousness came in a rush. He was awake and standing up. What time was it? The music wasn’t stopping, nor the smoke and flames from the fires.
‘Jurgen?’
‘I can’t find Silke. We arranged to meet but she wasn’t there. I went to her troop, but they had no idea where she was and they were all laughing about something and didn’t seem concerned.’
‘Where were you going to meet?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Jurgen broke into a run and Seb followed. They zigzagged between the fires and the tents and the dancers and singers, until they came upon a tree at the eastern extremity of the Osterwiese plateau, just before it dipped down into the woods. ‘Here, we were supposed to meet here.’
‘Maybe she met some other friends and lost track of time, Jurgen.’
‘No, not Silke. She’s always punctual. She’d never do that to me.’
Seb felt cold fear. Not for himself, he’d lost that a long time ago. For the girl and for his son. ‘Come, Jurgen. There’s a path not far from here, away from the crowds, into the trees.’
‘Why?’
‘Trust me.’ If she had been abducted she would have been taken away from here, away from all the people. The body of Hildegard Heiden had been found on the northern wooded slope of the hill, close to the bottom where the woodland was dense – hornbeam, ash, hazel, maple – and where he had noted tracks in the distance leading across farmland to the village of Ehingen. That was where the killer operated.
Seb led the way, moving fast down into the dip. It was darker here, a half-moon appearing and vanishing between the scudding clouds and the thick canopy of the broad-leaf trees.
He stopped, held a finger to his lips, and listened. Nothing.
‘Why are we here? She can’t be here.’
Seb was sure she was here. In his bones, he felt it. This sacred hill of the ancient Germans was the place of the geblōt, the place of sacrifice. Frau Heiden had sensed evil in these dark woods and she was right. Fully awake now, fully sober, he moved steadily deeper into the wooded area where the body of Hildegard had been discovered.
The hillside was not steep and mostly easy to negotiate. Seb led his son downwards, but still nothing.
‘Dad, we’ve got to get back. She might be there, waiting for me.’
‘You go, Jurgen. I’ll continue looking here. We’ll meet up.’
‘You think something’s happened to her, don’t you?’
‘I pray not.’
Dear God, this place. In the daylight it had looked so peaceful, so benign. An isolated hill in flat, pleasant farmland, surrounded by pretty villages, all with window boxes full of summer geraniums and petunias. A hill no more than six kilometres in length and two in width. A place where you could see the Alps in the distant south on a clear day. A place of abundant wildflowers and rich in wildlife. A place to walk your dog and enjoy a picnic. A place of peace, not pagan rites.
In the daylight.
At night, it felt very different.
He watched Jurgen moving away from him, up the hill back to the music and the fire and the light. Seb turned into the dark.
He was hearing every sound in the night. With his son gone, he removed his pistol from his shoulder holster and began his quest, slowly, methodically, through the thick forest, sure the key was here.
He heard a sound and stopped, his finger tightening on the trigger. A fox maybe, something scampering and snuffling in the undergrowth. But there it was again. Was that a light flickering somewhere through the woods, or a moon shadow? It was there and then it wasn’t.
Seb continued forward, slower now. Again, sounds. Not a fox, not an animal grubbing through the leaves and twigs in search of food. Something else.
This time there was a light in a small clearing. A hurricane lamp on the ground, the wick turned low. He stopped and watched, first in horror and stunned disbelief, then rage.
A girl lay on the scrubby ground, naked, arms and legs stretched out, her wrists and ankles bound to stakes driven into the ground. Her mouth was gagged, her eyes blindfolded. A sacrifice.
And then there were the other two figures. Man and woman? It was difficult to tell because they both wore black robes and cowls, like Jesuit priests or giant bats.
One of the two robed figures was kneeling between the parted legs of the other, moving slowly, in a sort of ecstasy. They were within a few centimetres of the staked-out girl, almost on her, their black robes rubbing her, fingers outstretched, caressing her torso. They writhed in their ecstasy. She writhed – squirmed – in terror.
Seb assumed the one on top was a man and that the one beneath him was a woman, but there was no way of telling in the shapeless robes and faint light. The skirts were raised revealing legs and bare, clenched buttocks. Then he saw that they both had something in their outstretched hands pulsing with the rhythm of their own slow movements, scraping across the abdomen and breasts of the naked staked-out girl, the sacrifice. Pens, writing runes? Knives, cutting?
He could wait and watch no longer.
Seb pulled the trigger of the Walther PPK, aiming high above the two robed figures. He couldn’t shoot them. Immoral and illegal to kill unarmed suspects but, more than that, too easy to miss and hit the girl instead. He fired across the clearing into the trees.
The robed man, the one on top, jumped up from his work, the skirts of the robe falling to once again conceal his lower body. The low light from the lamp cast his features into a sinister montage of shadowy shapes, but the cowl was too close to make him out clearly. The other one scrabbled up. Now standing, Seb was certain it was a woman but she was tall.
They both seemed to be looking at Seb, but he couldn’t see their faces or their eyes, only the enveloping cowls. He moved forward, firing another shot, the gun smoking in his right hand. They moved, too. The larger of the two – the man? – kicked at the hurricane lamp and sent it flying and then they ran.
Seb fired a third speculative shot after them, but it was more of a warning than an attempt to wound or kill. He wasn’t going to follow them either. For the moment, he was more concerned for the helpless young woman stretched out on the ground. Had they cut her? Was she injured? Had he got here in time?
He picked up the hurricane lamp. It was still alight and he raised the wick to intensify the light, carrying it towards the girl.
Her torso was covered in scarlet lipstick marks – strange lines, vertical, horizontal and various curls. Runes or something like runes. No cuts, thank God. And he was sure that this was Silke though he hadn’t seen her in years.
He spoke reassuring words to her, told her he was Jurgen’s dad, said he would free her and that she was safe now.
A long-bladed knife lay on the ground above her head, pointing downwards like the sword of Damocles. Seb picked it up and felt the edge. It was very sharp, like a dissecting tool. Quickly, he cut the ropes binding her, then removed the gag from her mouth and the blindfold from her eyes.
She was alive, her poor heart beating like a trapped bird’s.
*
Seb found her clothes at the edge of the clearing in the woods and turned away from her while she dressed. Somehow after all this time they both recognised each other. He very much wanted to question her about the attackers, but that would have to wait. Her physical health was the first concern.
‘Did they hurt you?’
She shook her head, but then nodded. He supposed she meant that she had endured no physical injury but that she had suffered.
‘Come, we’ll find Jurgen. You’re safe now.’
She said nothing, simply shivered uncontrollably.
‘Can you tell me what happened, Silke?’
She said nothing, her shivering just intensified.
‘We’ll talk later. Stay close at my side. I’m armed and you’re safe.’
‘I’ll tell you. I have to tell you.’
Good, she was talking.
‘I was at the meeting place, waiting for Jurgen. They just picked me up. I struggled and cried out but people nearby were just laughing as though it was some sort of game. Friends dressing up to ambush me . . .’
‘Did you know them?’
‘I didn’t see their faces. They were in black robes. At first I thought it must have been Jurgen and one of his friends. A silly joke.’
‘Do you think they were both men, or a man and a woman?’
‘I don’t know. One had a deeper voice.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Not words, not proper German words. No language I had ever heard.’
‘English?’
She shook her head. ‘I have learnt some English – no, not English.’
‘Come on, they can’t hurt you now. You’re safe. If you think of anything – any little clue however insignificant that might identify them – please let me know.’
And then they walked cautiously back up the hill to the Osterwiese, not saying much. Seb carried the hurricane lamp in one hand, his pistol in the other. He had brought the dagger, too, thrust into his belt. And his eyes scanned the darkness, watching.
*
Jurgen was at the meeting point, pacing up and down in terror. He gasped as they arrived and he ran forward, took Silke in his arms and hugged her as though he would never let her go.
After a while, they sat down together. ‘Let’s try to collect our thoughts, shall we,’ Seb said. ‘You mentioned this jumble of words, Silke.’
‘It was more like mumbling. They sounded like words, but nothing that made any sense.’
‘Would you recognise their voices?’
‘I’m not sure. There was something strange. Something familiar, but I didn’t know them. I can’t explain, I’m sorry.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry about.’
‘They just bundled me away, carried me as though I was weightless.’
‘So they were strong?’
‘Yes, the bigger one was very strong. I thought they were going to kill me.’
They were, thought Seb, they were certainly going to kill you. ‘Could you estimate their ages?’
‘No, they blindfolded me and gagged me very quickly. Before they grabbed me I hadn’t noticed either of them in their robes and cowls. There are so many people here. Many of them wear our uniforms, but there are others – entertainers – who wear strange carnival costumes and religious ones in habits and robes. They just looked like monks or friars, or actors dressed as monks.’
‘All right, that’s enough for now. I’m sorry you’ve been through this ordeal, Silke. For what it’s worth, we’ll find them and they’ll face justice. Come on, we’ll talk to your troop leaders and then I’m taking you both home to Munich.’