Hunter's Rain Read Free

sailing boats and motor cruisers. Some of the bigger cruisers were moored at the end of the rows, bows pointing landwards. Given the weather, there was barely anyone about. Three people who could be seen at the water’s edge, looked tiny in the distance. If there were any occupants on the boats, they had all decided to remain below.
    The cyclist began to take his bike apart. It was an expensive, multi-geared sports model that had been designed for swift dismantling. It fitted easily into the boot.
    He then began to remove his outer clothing. First were the waterproofs that had covered his jeans. He threw those into the boot. Next was the hooded jacket, which revealed a black leather jacket beneath. The waterproof jacket was thrown in after the trousers. He then shut the boot.
    He got into the car, started it, and drove slowly away, face expressionless. The black leather jacket, worn over a white t-shirt, was a surprise.
    Upon its epaulettes, were the two green stars of a polizeimeister ; a junior
    police sergeant.
    When the sergeant came to the intersection unlike Müller, he joined the A115; but like Müller, headed for central Berlin.
    The rain continued to pound.
     
    Berlin-Mitte. Friedrichstrasse. 0915.
    Pappenheim sat in his office blowing a luxurious plume of smoke at the ceiling, like a dragon that had inadvertently taken a drink of water.
    A knock sounded on his door.
    “ In!”
    Berger entered cautiously.
    Pappenheim took the Gauloise Blonde out of his mouth. There was little left of it. He gave it a regretful look, then stubbed it out in the already full ashtray on his large, untidy desk.
    “ Obermeisterin Berger,” he began with the air of one who had seen too much, done too much, and was never again going to be surprised in this life. “Stop looking at my ample self as if you expect me to fade before you. I was shot last May, not yesterday. I was not wounded, although the bruising took longer to go away than I would have liked…”
    “If you hadn’t worn body armour, you’d be dead.”
    “I’m an oberkommissar , you’re an obermeisterin . That means you just interrupted your superior; but I’ll ignore that for now.”
    She smiled at him. “Yes, Chief.”
    “Don’t push your luck.”
    “No, Chief.”
    “To what do I owe the pleasure, Berger?”
    Berger’s eyes, seemingly too lively, were telegraphing something Pappenheim failed to read.
    “See who I found dripping by the front desk.” She stepped back to allow someone enter.
    Carey Bloomfield, in jeans, white shirt, thin-soled slightly damp trainers, and a raincoat speckled with rapidly drying wet patches slung over an arm, entered the smoke-filled room. A bag was slung crosswise from a shoulder.
    Pappenheim got to his feet in astonishment, then smiled with a real pleasure. He stepped from behind the desk and went towards her, hand outstretched.
    “Miss Bloomfield!” he began. “A pleasure. A pleasure to see you!” He glanced at Berger. “Thank you, Berger.”
    Berger gave Carey Bloomfield a look that was neither hostile, nor particularly friendly.
    “I’ve got the message,” she said, and went out.
    “She really does not like me, that woman,” Carey Bloomfield said.
    “Don’t mind her,” Pappenheim said, shaking Carey Bloomfield’s hand with enthusiasm. “It’s the weather.”
    “The weather,” she repeated, not believing it. “The very first time I ever came here, I nicknamed her Miss Hawk Eyes. Glad to see some things don’t change. Hey, Pappi,” she continued, looking at him closely, “you seem really pleased to see me.”
    “I am. I am. Here. Let me take your coat. So you made it,” he went on, “as you promised in May.”
    “I made it. Always keep my promises…when I can.”
    She handed the coat over and he hung it on a wall hook.
    “I’ll remember that,” Pappenheim said. “As for Berger, she’ll soon have some news which should make her very happy.”
    “Will that be good for me? Or bad?”
    “Come,