Extract: Invitation from a Dictator by Rory Clements

The Sunday Times bestselling author returns with a gripping new WW2 thriller, set in 1937 during the Windsor's infamous tour of Germany.

Seb Wolff looked at the mutilated corpse, then glanced at his sergeant’s horrified face. ‘If you’re going to be sick, Winter, go outside.’

‘I’ll be all right, captain.’

Even Seb winced at the sight of the body. It was not pretty. The corpse was naked and thick with gore, the hands had been cut off and were nowhere to be seen. Worse, the face had been sliced away – seemingly carved off with the precision of a surgeon

or master butcher. The eyes had been gouged out, so that blood red pools gazed up into nothingness.

There was no sign of any of the missing flesh.

‘Your first thought, then, Sergeant Winter?’

‘The killer didn’t want his victim identified.’

Seb nodded. Hans Winter really was getting it at last, his brain clicking over like that of a decent detective. Not that this conclusion was a difficult one.

‘Cause of death?’

‘His throat was slit.’

There was a lot of blood splayed down the dead man’s torso, which suggested he had already been undressed at the time of his death. ‘Yes, his throat was cut, but there might be other injuries that contributed to the death. We’ll leave that to Professor Lindner to investigate.’

They were in a small haybarn on open farmland to the south and west of Munich. The building was rotting and weathered, nothing more than an old wooden hut that must have been here a century or more. It had been left empty and would probably be pulled down and turned into firewood in the coming months. Apart from the corpse, the only thing in the single- room space was a blood- stained length of rope which had been left by the door. Seb assumed the man had been bound before death, and the rope came away when the hands were severed.

‘And why was he naked, Winter?’

‘In case his clothes could be used to identify him.’

‘And why didn’t the killer or killers wish us to know his name?’

‘Because once we know his name, we have a chance of discovering who his enemies were.’

‘Exactly. Without an identity we’re stuck, so we work our way outwards. First, we do a thorough search of the immediate vicinity for clothes and other possessions such as a wallet or wristwatch, then we speak to everyone who lives or works nearby and, just as importantly, we check on missing persons within a fifty- kilometre radius.’

The crime had a professional feel to it, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be solved. Someone would be missing the man. Wife, girlfriend, parents, workmates, friends, neighbours. No one lived in complete isolation.

This was simple, old- fashioned, detective work; somewhere there would be a clue. There always was. They would find out who the victim was and then they would work out who wanted him dead.

Seb estimated the man’s age as late twenties to early thirties, but the autopsy might be able to provide a more precise estimate. He had dark hair, razored short at the sides; nothing special about that. His chest seemed to be hairless, but that wasn’t clear with all the thick, coagulated blood. He was about one metre seventy in height, so not tall. No tattoos, large scars or other distinctive markings.

The Schupo – local police officer – who had reported the murder was standing to attention outside the hut. ‘Any ideas, officer?’ Seb asked him as he and Winter left the building.

‘No, sir.’

‘No one reported missing in this area?’

‘Not that I know of, captain, but I shall keep my ears open and make inquiries.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘Couple of young lads playing around here on their way to school. Michael Munde and Olaf Jensson. Both aged eleven. They told me they always take a shortcut across these fields. I know them and their families well, and I trust them. Good people.’

‘And where are the boys now?’

‘I told their mothers to keep them at home for the day. Proper shaken up, they were. I can take you to them.’

‘Not at the moment. Tell me, are there any known criminals in the village or surrounding area?’

The Schupo shook his head. ‘All honest churchgoing folk in Hartingkirch, sir. No one locks their doors around these parts.’

‘Well, you stay here with my sergeant and guard the crime scene. I’ll be sending a team from Ettstrasse to do a thorough search of the area and to remove the body. They’ll be here within an hour or two. Answer any questions Sergeant Winter might have.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you, sergeant, you know what to do?’

‘You’re leaving me here?’ Winter did not sound pleased.

‘Indeed I am because I have to report to Ruff. You’ll take charge of the search team and ensure they’re thorough in their work. And then you’ll go and talk to the villagers. Someone might have seen something. Call through to the office if you make any progress.’

The traffic in Munich was heavy, and it took Seb an hour to get through to the Police Presidium in Ettstrasse, at the heart of the old city. He parked his red Lancia Augusta by the side entrance and made his way up to the fifth- floor office of Deputy President of Police Thomas Ruff.

Ruff never looked happy, but today he seemed to have an even heavier weight than usual on his shoulders.

‘Don’t tell me, Wolff, it’s not the damned Rote Freiheit lot again, is it?’

‘I don’t even know who the victim is yet, sir, let alone the culprit. The body was mutilated to remove all identifying marks. Face, eyes, hands – all gone. No possessions, no clothes.’

‘God in heaven, this is all we need.’

Rote Freiheit – ‘Red Freedom’ – were a ruthless gang of Communists who seemed to be doing their utmost to prove to the people of Munich that they were every bit as brutal, cold- hearted and generally unpleasant as the Nazis who ran the place. Banks had been robbed, a police officer had been shot in the street and was still in hospital, and a senior Nazi and his wife had been slaughtered in their own home.

The Nazi bigshot himself might not be missed, but his wife seemed to have been blameless, as was their child, a girl aged seven, who had been forced to witness the murders.

Such was the febrile nature of the city in the second half of 1937.

‘At the moment, though,’ Seb said, trying to placate his boss, ‘we have no reason to suspect Red Freedom’s involvement. But I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. Someone will be reported

missing and then we’ll know what’s going on.’

‘Make it quick – and make some damned arrests. Put anyone with a hint of Communism in their past into Dachau or Stadelheim. We can’t afford any whiff of danger with the duke and duchess about to arrive in Bavaria. They’ll be here in a few days, and you’ll be joining them.’

‘Me? Why would I be joining them?’

Ruff sighed as though he were talking to an idiot. ‘Because you speak English, Captain Wolff, and because you have local knowledge. Of course you have to be there. You’ll be joining their security team when they arrive in Coburg, and you’ll be staying with them as they travel through Bavaria and meet the Führer. None of us can relax until they’re back in Paris. Safe and unharmed, basking in warm memories of their time in the new

Germany.’

This wasn’t something Seb had been expecting. He was a murder cop, not a security man. Of course, he knew all about the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s arrival in Berlin. It had been in the newspapers, on the cinema newsreels and on the wireless broadcasts for days now. Former King of England and his new bride hail the National Socialist miracle and all that propaganda. It was said he had even given the Hitler salute.

And his bride, so unpopular in England, was being fêted like a princess here in Germany.

‘Obviously we must bear the potential threat from Red Freedom in mind,’ Seb said, ‘but as yet we haven’t had any overt suggestion that they’re out to get the Windsors, have we?’

Ruff grunted. ‘The bastards haven’t actually sent me a letter telling me they intend harm to them, but what do you think, Wolff? By the sound of it, Edward and Wallis Windsor are paid- up, card- carrying National Socialists – which makes them ideal targets for the damned Reds. Any attack, successful or not, would be a grave embarrassment to the Reich.’

The deputy president of police was right, of course, so Seb just nodded.

‘Anyway,’ Ruff continued, ‘we’ll talk about your royal mission later. For the moment, solve this murder and lock up the Red Freedom swine. Even better, kill them. That’s not a suggestion, by the way, it’s official permission.’

Seb nodded again. It was a ridiculous command but pointless arguing. How do you kill someone if you don’t know who he is?

‘And you have a meeting with our Gestapo friends this afternoon. Four o’clock at Wittelsbach Palace. Don’t be late, Wolff.’

Now that wasn’t good news. Munich’s Gestapo headquarters was his least favourite place in the world. Worse than bloody Dachau concentration camp.