JF03 - Eternal Read Free Page B

Porsches.
    Partly in reference to his hotel’s origins as a farmhouse, Fabel’s elder brother Lex habitually described these affluent seasonal immigrants as his ‘summer herd’. Lex had run this small hotel and restaurant in List, at the northern tip of Sylt, for twenty-five years. The combination of Lex’s indisputable talent as a chef and the restaurant’s unbroken view over a scythe of golden sand and the sea beyond had guaranteed a steady stream of guests and diners throughout the season. The hotel had originally been a traditional Frisian farmhouse and had retained its façade of Fachwerk oak beams and sat solidly, turning its wide-roofed, resolute shoulder to the North Sea winds. Lex had added the modern restaurant extension, whichwrapped itself around two sides of the original building. The hotel offered only seven guest rooms, all of which were booked up months in advance. But Lex also had a separate small suite of rooms tucked into the low ceilings and wide beams under the rafters of the old farmhouse, which he never let out. He kept these rooms for use by family and friends. Most of all, he kept them for when his brother came to stay.
    Fabel and Susanne came down to dine about eight. The restaurant was already filled with smart, well-heeled-looking customers, but, as he had done throughout their stay, Lex had reserved one of the best tables for Fabel and Susanne, over by the picture window. Susanne had changed her linen shirt and trousers for a black sleeveless dress. She had dressed her long raven hair up onto her head and her elegant slender neck was exposed. The dress hugged her figure and stopped high enough above the knee to display her shapely legs but low enough to look restrained and tasteful.
    Fabel was very much aware of Susanne’s beauty, as he was of the male heads that turned in their direction as they entered the restaurant. Their relationship had lasted more than a year and they had passed through the awkward stages of mutual discovery. They were now an established couple, and Fabel drew a feeling of security and comfort from it. And when Gabi, his daughter, spent time with him and Susanne he had, for the first time since his marriage to Renate broke up, a sense of being part of a family.
    Boris, Lex’s Czech head waiter, led them to their table. The low sun had repainted in more golden hues the bands of sand, sea and sky that filled the panoramic window. Once they were seated, Borisasked them in pleasantly accented German if they wanted anything to drink before their meal. They ordered white wine and Susanne went through the restaurant nesting ritual of settling into her chair and checking out the other diners. Someone over Fabel’s shoulder seemed to catch her attention.
    ‘Isn’t that Bertholdt Müller-Voigt, the politician?’
    Fabel started to turn. Susanne placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed.
    ‘For God’s sake, Jan, don’t be so obvious. For a policeman, your surveillance skills stink.’
    He smiled. ‘That could explain my lousy conviction rate …’ He turned again, this time making a deliberately clumsy show of taking in all of the restaurant. To his left and behind him sat a fit-looking man in his early fifties, wearing a dark jacket and roll-neck sweater, both of which had the contrived casualness of a seriously expensive designer label. The man’s receding hair was swept severely back and some grey flecked his neatly trimmed beard. He had the studied arty look of a successful film director, musician, writer or sculptor. Fabel recognised him, however, as someone whose art was controversial politics. The slim blonde woman who sat with him was easily twenty years his junior. She sat poised and radiated a sleek, insolent sexuality. Her gaze caught Fabel’s for a moment. He turned back to Susanne.
    ‘You’re right. It’s Müller-Voigt. I’m sure Lex will be delighted to know that his restaurant is cool enough to attract the darlings of the environmental