I see it. This second murder is a complication we hadn't expected..
`Fourth murder,' Kuhlmann corrected. 'The Dutch girl in Frankfurt. Ian Fergusson in Hamburg. Followed by Ziggy Palewska. Now this Swedish victim. The body count is rising, Newman.'
`Reminds me of East Anglia, the area round the Wash,' Tweed said, looking out of the window.
They had left Lübeck and its suburbs behind and the local train was passing through open country. Newman looked up from a newspaper reporting the Swedish girl's murder.
`Does it? In what way?'
`Look at those long green banks beyond those fields. They are just like the dykes at the edge of the Wash. The locals in East Anglia actually call them "banks". And these flat fields below the railway line. Again, just like the Wash countryside.'
The train stopped and Tweed hurried out on to a high platform elevated above the surrounding countryside. Newman followed, closed the door, looked around and then called out to Tweed who was half-way towards the exit. They were the only passengers to alight and the train was moving again.
`Hey! This isn't the right stop..
A huge platform sign carried the legend Skandinavienkai. Scandinavian Quay. He had to walk fast to catch up with Tweed who was descending a flight of steps to a main highway below. To the east Newman gazed at a complex of docks beyond a large staging area.
By the wharf-side was moored a large white passenger liner, and close to that a huge car ferry. The rear maw was open — reminding him of Puttgarden — and a great queue of vehicles was lined up waiting to drive aboard. Private cars, campers, big trucks.
`That's the liner waiting to leave for Sweden,' Tweed informed Newman. 'You can see from the name on the hull... `Why get off at this stop?'
They were walking along a wide pavement by the side of the main highway. The verge was lined with a dense wall of trees which blotted out the view to the docks. Shrubberies of wild roses grew at the edge of the verge and it was very quiet under the sun beating down on them.
`It's only a short walk into town,' Tweed said, his legs moving like pistons, his body leant forward. Tweed in full cry, Newman told himself. Weeks of doing very little and then some development would electrify him. 'I checked it on the map before we started out,' he went on. 'The next stop is Travemünde Hafen. The harbour area. Beyond that is Travemünde Strand, people tanning themselves on the beach and all that nonsense. Burning themselves red, unable to sleep for nights. What they call having a good holiday. Approaching the town this way, I can get the feel of the place. Look, we're close now...'
The single spire of a church speared the azure sky. Beyond it other buildings began to appear. They, were leaving the dock area behind. Tweed was dressed in his new tropical drill slacks, his safari jacket.
`Hoping we meet Diana?' Newman joshed him.
`These clothes will help me merge into the background. You must admit I look as though I'm on holiday..
`Tweed, you could never look as though you were on holiday.'
`If anyone asks what I do I'll say insurance. Just so you know.'
`An executive of the General and Cumbria Assurance Co — your dummy outfit back at Park Crescent?'
`Only if I have to. This must be Travemünde.'
Standing well back from the waterfront was a row of old double-storey buildings. The usual assortment of cafés, restaurants and souvenir shops. Holidaymakers, mostly German, drifted along in the aimless way of men and women not sure what to do next. Many of the buildings had the steep gables characteristic in that part of the world.
`Let's cross the road when we can,' said Tweed. 'You can do your reporter act, get people talking..
`While you listen...'
`And watch.'
The waterfront was a tangle of masts, a variety of vessels were moored to the bollards, jammed in hull to hull. Yachts, pleasure craft, the odd expensive-looking power cruiser looming above the small fry. At a nearby marina landing
`Fourth murder,' Kuhlmann corrected. 'The Dutch girl in Frankfurt. Ian Fergusson in Hamburg. Followed by Ziggy Palewska. Now this Swedish victim. The body count is rising, Newman.'
`Reminds me of East Anglia, the area round the Wash,' Tweed said, looking out of the window.
They had left Lübeck and its suburbs behind and the local train was passing through open country. Newman looked up from a newspaper reporting the Swedish girl's murder.
`Does it? In what way?'
`Look at those long green banks beyond those fields. They are just like the dykes at the edge of the Wash. The locals in East Anglia actually call them "banks". And these flat fields below the railway line. Again, just like the Wash countryside.'
The train stopped and Tweed hurried out on to a high platform elevated above the surrounding countryside. Newman followed, closed the door, looked around and then called out to Tweed who was half-way towards the exit. They were the only passengers to alight and the train was moving again.
`Hey! This isn't the right stop..
A huge platform sign carried the legend Skandinavienkai. Scandinavian Quay. He had to walk fast to catch up with Tweed who was descending a flight of steps to a main highway below. To the east Newman gazed at a complex of docks beyond a large staging area.
By the wharf-side was moored a large white passenger liner, and close to that a huge car ferry. The rear maw was open — reminding him of Puttgarden — and a great queue of vehicles was lined up waiting to drive aboard. Private cars, campers, big trucks.
`That's the liner waiting to leave for Sweden,' Tweed informed Newman. 'You can see from the name on the hull... `Why get off at this stop?'
They were walking along a wide pavement by the side of the main highway. The verge was lined with a dense wall of trees which blotted out the view to the docks. Shrubberies of wild roses grew at the edge of the verge and it was very quiet under the sun beating down on them.
`It's only a short walk into town,' Tweed said, his legs moving like pistons, his body leant forward. Tweed in full cry, Newman told himself. Weeks of doing very little and then some development would electrify him. 'I checked it on the map before we started out,' he went on. 'The next stop is Travemünde Hafen. The harbour area. Beyond that is Travemünde Strand, people tanning themselves on the beach and all that nonsense. Burning themselves red, unable to sleep for nights. What they call having a good holiday. Approaching the town this way, I can get the feel of the place. Look, we're close now...'
The single spire of a church speared the azure sky. Beyond it other buildings began to appear. They, were leaving the dock area behind. Tweed was dressed in his new tropical drill slacks, his safari jacket.
`Hoping we meet Diana?' Newman joshed him.
`These clothes will help me merge into the background. You must admit I look as though I'm on holiday..
`Tweed, you could never look as though you were on holiday.'
`If anyone asks what I do I'll say insurance. Just so you know.'
`An executive of the General and Cumbria Assurance Co — your dummy outfit back at Park Crescent?'
`Only if I have to. This must be Travemünde.'
Standing well back from the waterfront was a row of old double-storey buildings. The usual assortment of cafés, restaurants and souvenir shops. Holidaymakers, mostly German, drifted along in the aimless way of men and women not sure what to do next. Many of the buildings had the steep gables characteristic in that part of the world.
`Let's cross the road when we can,' said Tweed. 'You can do your reporter act, get people talking..
`While you listen...'
`And watch.'
The waterfront was a tangle of masts, a variety of vessels were moored to the bollards, jammed in hull to hull. Yachts, pleasure craft, the odd expensive-looking power cruiser looming above the small fry. At a nearby marina landing
Similar Books
