The Ways of Justice: A Standalone Crime Mystery Thriller

By David S. Fisher

This suspenseful story plays out in Germany and Switzerland and begins with what DCS Frank Kruger and his CID team believe to be a simple investigation. Soon, however, it grows in complexity when he comes up against a network of unscrupulous business overlords and a professional killer who is as elusive and clever as the fabled Scarlet Pimpernel. As Kruger begins to unravel the complexities of the case, a web of deceit and deception, secrets and lies emerges, and he is confronted with a conspiracy whose top dog, an attractive, shrewd and egomaniacal woman, will go to any length to become queen of the fashion hill. Revenge is sweet but she isn't. And to stand in her way is toxic.

Reviews: Amazon rating 4.4/5.0 -16 reviews

"A nefarious plot of murder and corporate intrigue set in the elite world of high fashion ... fascinating."

"Crime fiction with a refreshing difference. A great read."

"The story has nicely balanced pace and is spiced with humour and wit ... intriguing."

Updated 12.2018

• Language: English
• Publisher: Irresistible Reads Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018

Book preview

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PROLOGUE

Gia Bonetti always made a point of stopping off in London for the fashion week. A hectic merry-go-round, true, but an event no one in her job as head purchasing officer at Madden Corporation, a top fashion and textile producer, could afford to miss.

She revelled in the glamour. A week in London was always a special pleasure. Now, she looked forward to some relaxation after a busy day.

Gia had just finished dressing and was about to leave her hotel suite when the bedside phone rang. Ah, the pickup limo, she said to herself as she pressed the button on the subset. I'm on my way, she snapped, without waiting for the message.

Excuse me, ma'am, the switchboard operator said, unperturbed, I have a call for you from Munich, Germany. May I connect?

Munich? Who the hell would be calling her from head office at this hour? Nine o'clock European time.

Myna Kohler, her personal assistant, came on.Thank God, at last, she gasped. I've tried to get you all evening. Your phone was shut off ... I left messages but–

I had a string of meetings and forgot to turn the damned thing back on. So what's up?

Has the news reached London?

Anything special? This show is a beehive of chatter and gossip.

Dolff is dead.

She laughed. Come on, Myna. Are you screwing with me?

I'm serious. An accident, they say. He was in a coma by the time he arrived at the hospital ... He never came round.

Him, gone! I don't believe it.

Nobody did at first. But then two police officers turned up. Herr Schlosser spoke to them. Afterwards, he told me to contact you. To get you to return.

Of course, she murmured and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, her head full of racing thoughts.

Ah, wait, Gia, he's just come into my office. He's signalling he'd like a word.

Put him on, will you, please?

Schlosser's familiar baritone voice confirmed the news and stumbled over some quick condolences.

So it was true. She suppressed the thrill she felt. Her father-in-law gone – at bloody last.

The man rambled on.

Is Hardy informed? she cut in.

We've reached your husband. In Atlanta. He is now flying back in the Cessna.

What did he have to say?

Nothing right away. The shock, I suppose. But I've learnt he has instructed his office to set up an extraordinary meeting of the full board for tomorrow morning at eleven. An official announcement to all senior staff will  follow at noon. Thereafter, a statement will be released to the rank and file and the press.

She thanked him and asked for Myna again. I'm returning immediately, she said to her. Get me on the next plane back. Oh, and cancel all my engagements, beginning with the reception and dinner this evening.

Of course ... I'll twitter your revised flight details straight away.

Thank you, she murmured and hung up, her thoughts now in Munich.

With a broad grin on her face, she flopped back onto the bed, hugging herself.

CHAPTER 1

Detective Chief Superintendent Frank Kruger loved the freshness of a new day breaking. The chill in the air always felt like an infusion of fresh blood. Besides, the early hour enabled him to get a timely start for his office and beat the morning traffic congestion. The Polizeipraesidium (police headquarters) was located in a busy part of Munich and inner-city snarl-ups were legion.

He couldn't be bothered with getting his own breakfast that morning, planning to eat in the headquarters' cafeteria and go through the morning papers before his daily staff meeting began at eight AM. The local press was quicker off the mark than his own bureaucracy which had to collect and sort the reports from his police stations spread around the metropolis and rural areas. That way, he would learn of the occasional murder, the more frequent house robberies and other crimes committed in the past night. Sad but true.

Kruger headed up the Serious Crimes Department of the Bavarian Kriminalpolizei (CID). Being the capital of the province of Bavaria, Munich had its fair share of crime and the press never failed to report it.

Today, the editors of The Munich Times, otherwise known for their pithy style, devoted the first four pages to an accidental death which had taken place the previous day. The deceased, Dolff Madden, was one of the provinces wealthiest citizens and a much-honoured son. Thus the size of the spread. But the way the man had died caught his attention. He was hit by a golf ball, the paper reported.

As accidents weren't his area, he found the piece of news amusing.

He finished reading the obituary, rose, stretched and walked up the stairs to his regulation-size, institutionally grey office. Standing at the only window, he gazed out over the myriads of rooftops to the twin towers of Munich's famous landmark, the Frauenkirche cathedral, dating back to 1494, and on to the foothills in the far distance. Heavy rain clouds hid the peaks of the Alps proper. Rain's on the way, he said to himself.

A sound behind him caused him to turn. Mario Ziegler, a senior inspector, walked in and, greeting the Chief, slumped into his regular place at the conference table.

In his late twenties, Ziegler had auburn hair styled with a loose quiff and cropped short at the back. Over six feet tall and slim, he wore a navy-blue denim jacket, white T-shirt and tight jeans tucked into cowboy boots with fitted imitation spurs. A fan of country & western music, he dressed like Johnny Cash right up to a Royal Flush Stetson.

Kruger shuddered at his get-up. On the way to a rodeo today, are we, Inspector?

He glanced at the Chief's well-worn, old-fashioned clothes. On my pay, Chief, I can't afford posh suits.

Kruger gave him a weak smile. His hair, brushed straight back, was thinning and turning a steely grey; his large, brown eyes had the perpetually sad look of a boxer dog which never got its own way. His puffed eyes gave him the appearance of a man who'd been old for a lifetime though without belying his bulldog spirit or his terrier instincts. But when he smiled, he looked a lot like a Buddha ready to forgive the world's every sin.

Well, old man Madden really went out with a bang yesterday, Ziegler said, grinning. And seeing the coverage the press is giving him, he could easily have been the Bavarian minister-president himself.

I should think Dolff Madden is of greater import, Kruger commented with a wry smile, considering as how he is ... was chairman of an international conglomerate employing more than thirty thousand people in Germany alone – and most of those in Bavaria.

I suppose so. Those types get my goat though. Dirty rich and dirty hands. But he'll go down as a local hero, no doubt. His powerful buddies from here to Berlin and Brussels will see to that. And from what I hear he's the biggest contributor to the ruling party funds hereabouts–

Kruger held up a hand. Enough, Inspector. We don't know any of this for a fact ... Anyway, as long as these people keep their hands clean of crime, it's not our area of responsibility.

Ziegler seemed about to protest then thought better of it as other staff members began filing in, chatting among themselves.

Kruger rose to take his place at the head of the conference table, knowing Ziegler had a point. But what could he do about it! It was the way of the world. Wealth - power - politics. The deadly three for which, when taken together, crime was merely an expedient.

He took his seat at the head of the table and prepared himself to listen to what the city's villains had been up to in the last twenty-four hours and what his subordinates were doing about it.

CHAPTER 2

For Mario Ziegler, it turned out to be another stressful day. In the morning kicking his heels while waiting to give evidence at a trial before the High Court. Then back to police headquarters to catch up on the pile of paperwork cluttering up his desk. To attend a phone which never stopped ringing. So what was new? Frustrated and ready to call it a day, he suddenly received a call from Sonia, Kruger's matronly secretary, saying the Chief wanted to see him before he left. He strolled over. The bosses office was empty, but his raincoat and felt hat hung on a peg.

He took a visitor's chair and began browsing through the local newspaper, his feet on Kruger's desk. He quickly – and wisely – took them down when he heard him returning.

Kruger gave him a pointed smile and, with a heavy sigh, dropped into his cushioned chair behind his desk. Just got out of a meeting with the Director, he groaned, as he loosened his top shirt button, leaving his tie hanging limply. Wants more action. Our clear-up rate is falling.

We're doing our best out there, Chief. You know that. Shit alive.

Your best is not good enough, Inspector.

How can we nail those bastards? The bigger turds are always one step ahead – or they've got bloody good lawyers – or know what political strings to pull. We're always at a disadvantage. Outgunned at every turn. Doesn't the Big Guy realise this?

It's always been that way. So that's no reason.

Ziegler shook his head. For me it is ... Christ, I often wonder why I do this.

What else would you do?

He pointed a finger at the Chief. Don't think I don't have other options.

With a humourless laugh, Kruger said, Come on, you wouldn't want to do anything else.

Maybe, but ... Ziegler began, still simmering, then let the matter rest. He knew the Chief was right. Deep down he loved his work, even though a word of thanks now and then wouldn't hurt.

Kruger fished a file from of the pile of papers on his desk. The inspector recognised it as a police report. One he had written. What I wanted to see you about is this. Please explain.

Er, yeah, well ... Look, Chief, have you been following the goings on at Maddens – since the old man died?

The management reshuffle, you mean?

It's more than that. It's become a bloody slaughterhouse. The old man is hardly dead and the new owners have reduced the supervisory board from nine to only three and fired about two-thirds of the executives. And almost a thousand staff people are being laid off. Added to this–

What has this all got to do with you … or us for that matter?

Well, you always taught us to use our initiative, right?

Are you saying you've been nosing around?

No, Chief. I was just curious. I–

For heaven's sake, man, get to the point. If there is one.

Well, in my report ...

There is no such thing. As there is no official investigation, there can be no report.

But ...

Kruger waved two pages in the air. This is a personal memo addressed from you to me – clear?

Ziegler nodded.

Well, that's settled. Now, what are you telling me here? He exhaled an angry snort. And leave the Madden's out of this.

This concerns them.

My God, Inspector ... They own the damned company. They can do with it what they bloody well like.

Chief, do you want to know what I've found out – or not?

An impatient growl. I'll give you two minutes.

Yeah, well, there's something really fishy going on over there.

Like what?

Well, look at the facts. The old man died only two weeks ago, right?

Go on.

"Well now, a good friend of mine works for an international consulting outfit in the city centre – you know, Burlington Consult. Well, he says a management and structural reorganisation plan of this size needs at least a month to draft and many more to carry out. He said you can't do it in, well, a few short weeks."

So?

You don't see what I'm getting at?

All of a sudden a flash of understanding shot across Frank Kruger's tired eyes. He sat up straight in his chair. My God, you're saying this plan must have originated long before Madden Senior passed away?

Exactly.

Then again, perhaps he drew up this reorganisation before he died?

Ziegler grinned wryly. Come on, Chief. Why would he want to destroy what everybody considered his life's work?

A thoughtful silence.

No way,'' the inspector continued. Think, Chief! The men who are gone were those he'd hand-picked for their jobs."

Do you have proof?

Well, er ...

Hm, this is thin ice you're skating on.

But it's strange, isn't it? And there's something else I've discovered. Dolff Madden's own personal driver and bodyguard vanished at around the same time as his boss got struck by that famous golf ball.

No missing person report yet?

Nope.

Kruger sat back in his chair, eyeing the inspector with an unwavering stare.

So now you see why I made the repor- er ... sent you my memo. I sense a lot of open questions out there.

That's all they are, Inspector. This is not a case of murder.

Don't you think his chauffeur disappearing like that is suspicious? He hasn't been seen since.

 Kruger leant backwards in his chair. There are too many ifs in your case, Inspector, but I think you have a point. I suggest you start by searching for the missing chauffeur.

Right.

And that is all it is. Nothing more. No nonsense about the connection to his former boss, or the new owners. Dolff Madden was a close friend of the Chief Commissioner and a big contributor to party and police funds. I get the impression his political friends and the Madden family would prefer to let sleeping dog's lie.

To avoid any unpleasant secrets a police investigation might turn up, you think?

I didn't say that.

But you're implying it, Ziegler grinned.

I am not. So get me the facts. Hard facts. If you're right, Inspector, I'll follow up. It won't make me too popular upstairs , though – throwing a cat like this among their political pigeons.

You've done it before, Chief.

Perhaps, but not in a sensitive situation like this one.

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