Free A Study in Murder by Robert Ryan Page A

urge
come over him, alien and terrifying in its intensity.
    Not now, Watson, not now,
said a soothing voice.
All in good time.
    Good time? Would he know a good time ever again? Would anyone? The very concept seemed to have been swept away from Europe in a slurry of mud and blood. Watson pulled his coat around him,
arranged the pillow on the bench, lay down and closed his eyes, letting the swaying of the truck lull him into a fitful, angry sleep.
    It was dusk when Watson was jerked awake by a poor gear change. They were climbing and the Horch was struggling with the incline. The driver was working hard with throttle and
gears to take the sweeping bends. From the tail of the truck, Watson could see the lights of villages below. What he couldn’t see was many trees. This mountain appeared to be denuded of
vegetation.
    Gunther had unwrapped a length of sausage from a cloth and he sliced off a chunk and held it out to Watson. After a moment’s hesitation he took it. Accepting the earlier cigarette would
have served no purpose other than to show weakness, but a sausage – even one he discovered was mostly sawdust – would help keep his strength up. And, even without knowing what Von Bork
had in store for him, he was sure he would need all his reserves to survive.
    The altitude made his ears pop and now his breath showed within the truck. He shivered. A sensible man would ask for Sayer’s coat and gloves and the contents of the kitbag that lay next to
his own, strapped in place with thick webbing against the cab’s bulkhead. But decency prevented him from doing so. Probably he would be refused anyway. In Germany, as in most countries
affected by the war, clothing was strong currency, and the guards would split the garments between them. He patted his coat to make sure those socks Sayer had given him were still there.
    ‘Not far,’ said the young German with the missing fingers. ‘Soon.’
    Watson ignored him. As if he was in any hurry to reach Harzgrund.
    The brakes gave a squeal of alarm, and Watson slithered along the bench once more. The Germans clung on to the tailgate, swearing loudly, and the lorry skewed across the road before it came to
an undignified halt. The engine was still chugging when the driver appeared at the rear and began to declaim in rapid German. Apart from the fact he was far from happy, Watson could barely make out
a word from the man’s thick dialect.
    The older German managed to calm the driver down and he lowered the tailgate and slid out into the gathering night. Watson could see the first stars appearing in the deep blue sky.
    The guard reappeared. ‘
Wir müssen von hier zu Fuß
.’
    The young man used two fingers to make the universal sign for walking. ‘We must make foot,’ he said.
    ‘How far?’ Watson asked, struggling for the translation. ‘
Wie . . . wie weit?
’
    A shrug. ‘
Zwei Kilometer
.’
    ‘
Warum?
’ Weariness meant his German failed him. ‘What’s going on? Is there a blockage on the road?’
    Fingerless grabbed Watson’s kitbag from the webbing holder and tossed it down onto the ground. ‘Come.’
    Watson climbed out into the sharp night air. Cold rose up from the earth to greet him. Somewhere in the far distance a dog yapped, audible over the grumbling engine. Others offered a howling
rejoinder. He imagined German shepherds, bad-temperedly patrolling the corridor between two walls of wire.
    He ran on the spot a little to get his circulation going and walked around the side to see what the trouble was. The road was rutted beneath his feet and he stumbled on one of the ridges. Heavy
traffic had passed this way, corrugating the surface. Watson steadied himself and peered ahead. The road, a sandy ribbon of grit, curved out of sight but the lorry’s feeble headlamps had
picked out a metal sign on a steel pole, with the camp’s name written on the plate in gothic script. But there was another rectangle tied beneath it, this one wooden and makeshift.