Not Dead Enough

ring a bell. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t here. There’s like hundreds of people every day.’ He hesitated. ‘Shit, I see so many faces, they all become a blur. I can ask my colleagues if you like.’
    ‘Please,’ Grace asked. ‘It’s really important to me.’
    He went off and returned, a few minutes later, with a whole group of young clearer-uppers, all in the same uniform.
    ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘This is a bunch of the stupidest people on the planet. But the best I could do!’
    ‘Yeah, you can fuck off, Ron!’ one of the young men said, a short, stocky Aussie with a head of hair that looked like a pin cushion. He turned to Grace. ‘Sorry about my mate, he’s just retarded. Happened at birth – we try to humour him.’
    Grace put on a forced smile and handed him the photograph. ‘I’m looking for this person. I think she was here last Thursday at lunchtime. Just wondering if any of you guys recognize her?’
    The stocky Australian took the photograph, studied it for some moments, then passed it around. Each of them in turn shook their head.
    Marcel Kullen dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of business cards. He stood up and handed one to each of the crew. Suddenly they all looked more serious.
    ‘I will come back tomorrow,’ the police officer said. ‘I will have a copy of this photograph for each of you. If she comes back, please call me immediately on my mobile number on the card, or at the Landeskriminalamt number. It is very important.’
    ‘No worries,’ Ron said. ‘If she comes back we’ll call.’
    ‘I would really appreciate that.’
    ‘You got it.’
    Grace thanked them.
    As they returned to their duties, Kullen picked up his beer and held his glass out, staring Grace in the eye. ‘If your wife is in Munich, I will find her for you, Roy. What is that you are saying in England? Whatever takes it?’
    ‘Close enough.’ Grace raised his glass and touched the German’s. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘I have also been making a list for you.’ He pulled a small notepad from his inside pocket. ‘If we imagine she is here, all her life she has lived in England. There are perhaps things that she would miss, yes?’
    ‘Like?’
    ‘Some foods? Are there any foods she might miss?’
    Grace thought for a moment. It was a good question. ‘Marmite!’ he said. ‘She loved the stuff. Used to have it on toast for breakfast every day.’
    ‘OK. Marmite. There is a store in the Viktualienmarkt that sells English foods for your expatriates. I will go there for you. Did she have anything medical wrong with her? Allergies, perhaps?’
    Grace thought hard. ‘She didn’t have any allergies, but she had a problem with rich foods. It was a genetic thing. She used to get terrible indigestion if she ate rich foods – she took medication for it.’
    ‘You have the name of the medication?’
    ‘Something like Chlomotil. I can check in the medicine cabinet at home.’
    ‘I can make a search of the doctors’ clinics in Munich – we find if anyone with her description is ordering this medication.’
    ‘Good thinking.’
    ‘There are many things we should be looking at also. What music did she like? Did she go to the theatre? Did she have favourite movies or movie stars?’
    Grace reeled off a list.
    ‘And sport? Did she do any sport?’
    Suddenly Grace realized where the German was coming from. And what had seemed, just a couple of hours ago, to be an impossibly enormous task was getting narrowed down into something that could be done. And it showed him just how fogged his own thinking had become. That old expression of not being able to see the wood for the trees was so true. ‘Swimming!’ he said, wondering why the hell he hadn’t thought of it himself. Sandy was obsessed with keeping fit. She didn’t jog, or go to a gym, because she had a knee that played up. Swimming was her big passion. She used to go to the public swimming baths in Brighton daily. Either the King Alfred or the Regency, or, when it was warm enough, the sea.
    ‘So we can monitor the baths in Munich.’
    ‘Good plan.’
    Staring at his notes again, Kullen said, ‘Does she like to read?’
    ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’
    The German looked at him, puzzled. ‘The Pope?’
    ‘Forget it. Just an English expression. Yes, she loved books. Crime, especially. English and American. Elmore Leonard was her favourite.’
    ‘There is a bookstore, on the corner of Schelling Strasse, called the Munich