The Ways of Justice

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

In bed that night, Mario couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, already having second thoughts about the need to clear up the inconsistencies surrounding Dolff Madden's death. Especially as nobody other than him and the Chief seemed interested. And it wasn't as if he didn't have a load of other, on-going cases to worry about.

He felt a hand gently stroke the back of his neck.

"What's up, Mario?" Jenna, his girlfriend said, cuddling up to him. "What's the trouble, love?"

He turned to her and took her in his arms. "Just something from work. I can't get it out of my system."

"Want to talk?"

He did and enlightened her.

"You did the right thing," she agreed after he had explained his gut feeling about Madden and his chauffeur.

"Did I?"

"Didn't you?"

"That's what's bothering me. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered."

She kissed his naked shoulder. "Forget it, darling. It's all over now. So why get yourself worked up about dead files?"

"Officially, a Madden case file never existed. And, still, the question of why Madden's driver disappeared at the same time as Madden died won't stop bugging me."

"That was weeks ago, you said. He could be dead for all you know," she added, her thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

"And that, my love, hits the nail squarely on the head. If he is, and he died at the time Madden was killed, that'd shed a whole new light on Dolff Madden's death. Changing it from a mysterious accident to a possible murder."

The next morning, Mario, still brooding over his nocturnal reservations, was sitting with his Johnny Cash cowboy-booted feet on his desk, a paper cup half full of coffee at his elbow, watching two flies noisily mating inside his tabletop lampshade.

He shared an open-plan office with a crowd of other detectives and clerical staff on the second floor of Central Police headquarters. A hell-hole most of the time. The air conditioning couldn't keep up and the din sounded worse than a public bar just before closing time.

Each detective was entitled to a cell enclosed on three sides by shoulder-high partitions and measuring twelve square metres. Mario's plot was furnished identically to all the others: one small metal desk complete with a computer terminal and a reading lamp, two chairs, one for a visitor, and a potted plant which, in his case, had turned a brittle brown from lack of watering.

On his way into headquarters that morning, he'd stopped off at the chauffeur's, Karl Zonnek's, flat which was located in a five-storey block of owner-occupied apartments in an upmarket suburb.

He had rung from his car and the housekeeper, a bunch of keys in her hand, waited outside to meet him. Once inside, the first thing he noted was that Zonnek hadn't planned to be away. There were no signs of him having packed. The closets and drawers were full of clothes, his shaving tackle untouched, the flat spick and span as though waiting for him to return from work. The housekeeper said he hadn't been to the flat in a couple of weeks. Very unusual for him, she added. He was a man of fastidious habits.

Mario went about doing a methodical search which turned up two gun licences, and one gun. One for a 9mm automatic pistol. The other one for a short-barrelled .38 semi-automatic which was missing. He wrapped the 9mm in a towel to take with him, intending to have Forensics give it a once-over.

Then he detoured by way of Zonnek's bank and spoke to the manager. The account had a hefty credit balance, but there had been no withdrawals during the last two weeks. He now realised his hunch had been right, and he wasn't on a wild goose chase.

Back at his desk, Mario transferred the handgun to a cellophane bag and addressed it, adding a provisional file number and his name and rank to the accompanying tag. Then sent it off to Ballistics.

He checked Zonnek's personal details with the municipality's Social Services office and found out that he had a daughter registered as next of kin. While he dialled the number they gave him, he saw the flies had finished their mating; one lay dead on a pile of charge sheets. Poor sod, he thought to himself as he heard her phone ringing, let's hope he enjoyed the f**k, at least.

The daughter spoke with a soft Bavarian accent. He said he was enquiring about her father. Had there been a sign of life from him. An unfortunate choice of words.

"Why?" A tense note in her voice. "Has something happened to him?

"Er, this is just a routine check-up, miss. We would like to speak to him about a matter we are investigating."

"He's not at work? At Madden Corporation, the textile firm in Munich?"

"No. He hasn't been seen since his boss passed away."

"Herr Madden? Oh, dear, I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't know."

"We thought perhaps you've heard something from your father … recently?"

"No," she said. "Nothing. The last time we spoke was … oh, last month sometime."

"Is this usual? So long without a word from him."

"We don't talk often. Sometimes two or three times a month – on the phone. And I get over to see him in Munich ... Maybe twice a year."

"You aren't close then?"

"Yes, and no. We both lead our own lives. And living so far apart … it's difficult."

"What about relatives?"

"There's just him and me."

"I see ... Did you notice anything unusual when you last saw him or spoke to him?"

"Not really. Dad is more or less a simple, straightforward person. Not the type you could spend an evening in conversation with, mind you. He has little to say beyond the narrow range of his interests."

"Which are?"

"Oh, he likes watching sport on TV, playing chess and, of course, there's his stamp collection."

"Does he have any women friends to your knowledge?"

"Oh, no. Since Mum died, I don't remember him ever mentioning a woman friend at all."

"If you weren't so close, how can you be so sure?"

"A woman notices such things in a man, and I would in my father." She gave a little laugh. "Also, he would have mentioned if he had a woman friend … No, he hasn't run off with some woman," she added, a smile in her voice.

"What about men friends? Men with the same hobbies, for example. Is he in any clubs? Chess, maybe. Philately."

A moment's pause for thought. "No, I wouldn't think so. He's not the social type."

"Does your father have any worries? Financial problems for instance."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't think so. We've always had enough money for our needs. I doubt whether he spends more than a fraction of what he earns. He's very well paid."

"He enjoys his work?"

"Oh, yes," she replied with a light sigh as if relieved to be on more familiar ground. "He's devoted to Herr Madden – and his job."

"Would it surprise you to know your father owns a firearm? Two in fact."

"No. He is, after all, Dolff Madden's bodyguard, besides being his chauffeur. He took courses in self-defence, handling weapons, and so on. He became a pretty good shot or so he said."

"Who met the bill for these training sessions?"

"The firm, of course. Don't forget, it was part of his job to protect the life of its president ... And, anyway, he spends a lot of time with him, accompanying him when he goes grouse shooting, or fishing, and caddying sometimes when he plays golf."

"He's a golfer, your father?"

She laughed. "No, he's not the active sporting kind. But he likes driving the caddie cart when Herr Madden is playing alone."

"Being a bodyguard means he might have to sacrifice his own life for his boss. In a pinch like. Is he ready to do that, do you think?"

"Sacrifice is perhaps too strong a word. I'd say he'd take the risk if the occasion demanded."

"He wouldn't leave his boss in the lurch when danger threatens, is this what you're saying?"

"Yes. He has a very loyal nature."

A slight pause. Hesitation. "Oh, dear, Inspector," she went on, a catch in her voice, "I'm sure something awful has happened to him."

Mario nodded to himself, convinced.

Before he signed off, he asked her to file a missing person report for her father with the central police authorities in Munich. He told her to backdate it to the day he disappeared from the golf club.