PONS Kurzkrimis: Murder in the Fog E-Book

Dominic Butler

• Herausgeber: PONS
• Kategorie: Fremdsprachen
• Serie: PONS Mörderische Kurzkrimis
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 159

Beschreibung

Englisch lernen mit mörderischen Kurzgeschichten Sie lesen gerne Krimis und möchten etwas für Ihr Englisch tun? Mit diesen spannenden Kriminalgeschichten frischen Sie Ihr Englisch auf. Die verwendete Sprache passt genau zu Ihrem Lernniveau, so dass Ihnen das Lesen ganz leicht fällt. Schwierigere Wörter sind in den Fußnoten übersetzt. Für Anfänger (A1) bis Wiedereinsteiger (A2).

Leseprobe

MURDER IN THE FOG

Mörderische Kurzkrimis

zum Englischlernen

von Dominic Butler

PONS GmbH Stuttgart

PONSMURDER IN THE FOG

Mörderische Kurzkrimiszum Englischlernen

von Dominic Butler

Alle in diesem Buch geschilderten Handlungen und Personen sind frei erfunden. Ähnlichkeiten mit lebenden oder verstorbenen Personen wären rein zufällig.

1. Auflage 2017

© PONS GmbH, Stuttgart 2017 Alle Rechte vorbehalten

www.pons.de E-Mail: [email protected]

Projektleitung: Francesca Giamboni Autor: Dominic Butler Redaktion: Brian Wolfe Covergestaltung: Anne Helbich, Stuttgart Logoentwurf: Erwin Poell, Heidelberg Logoüberarbeitung: Sabine Redlin, Ludwigsburg Bildquelle Umschlag: Akte: Thinkstock/RTimages; Gasse: Thinkstock/johnnorth. Layout: PONS GmbH, Stuttgart

ISBN: 978-3-12-050103-9

EINIGE WORTE VORAB …

Sie lesen gerne Krimis und möchten etwas für Ihr Englisch tun? Mit diesen spannenden Kriminalgeschichten frischen Sie Ihr Englisch auf. Die verwendete Sprache passt genau zu Ihrem Lernniveau, so dass Ihnen das Lesen ganz leicht fällt.

Die fett geschriebenen und nummerierten Wörter oder Ausdrücke zeigen, dass es hierzu Vokabelangaben gibt. Mit Klick auf ein fett geschriebenes und nummeriertes Wort öffnen Sie automatisch eine Fußnote mit der deutschen Übersetzung. Von hier können Sie zur Vokabelliste für das jeweilige Kapitel springen. Mit nochmaligem Klick auf das Wort in der Liste schließt sich diese wieder und Sie gelangen zurück zum Text.

Im Anhang können Sie nochmals alle Wörter und Ausdrücke in einer alphabetischen Wortliste nachschlagen.

Viel Spaß!

ÜBER DEN AUTOR

Dominic Butler stammt aus Nordengland. Er ist Englischlehrer und Schriftsteller. Nach seiner Schulzeit, die er an einer klassischen Grammar School (entspricht dem deutschen Gymnasium) verbrachte, studierte er Film und Literatur an der Sheffield Hallam University. Während seiner Studienzeit arbeitete er in Teilzeit als Gerichtsschreiber am Strafgericht in Sheffield. Dort erwachte sein Interesse für Kriminalfälle, die von nun an Thema vieler seiner Kurzgeschichten wurden. Dominic lebt und arbeitet zurzeit in Italien, wo er Englisch unterrichtet und gerade seinen ersten Roman beendet, einen düsteren, jedoch humorvollen Krimi.

INHALTSVERZEICHNIS

1. MURDER IN THE FOG

2. ROB FROM THE RICH

3. THE LOCH AND THE MONSTER

4. FOLLOW ME

5. HOW FAR IS FAR ENOUGH?

6. THE WRONG BAG

7. THE PERFECT MURDER

8. CASE CLOSED

9. DON’T MOVE!

10. GOD IS IN THE DETAIL

11. ROUTE 66

12. THE FALL

13. THE OLD SCHOOL TIE

14. THE POACHERS

15. THE CARD SHARK

16. THE TUBE

FUSSNOTEN

WORTLISTE

1. MURDER IN THE FOG

I do not remember my name.

This is the first thing that I think when I wake, and I look around nervously, confused1 by the dark and by the thick fog which surrounds me.

I raise2 a hand to my face and feel a short nose and a small mouth. I try to remember my face, I try to remember the colour of my hair or what my eyes look like. I try to remember anything, but I cannot! I have no idea who I am.

I am on the ground lying3 on cold grass which is wet4 from the fog, and I am alone.

Why am I here? I ask myself, but I have no answer. I do not even know where this is because the fog is so thick that I can only see for a few metres in any direction.

I try to stand, but then I realise5 that my head hurts and that there is a sharp pain6 behind my right ear. I carefully lift my hand and touch the large lump7 which is there. It hurts to touch, and I shout in the fog, the sound lost in the dark of the night. When I pull my fingers away, they are wet, and even with no light the blood is bright and easy to see.

I begin to feel more than nervous now: I begin to feel scared8. I imagine I can see shapes and figures in the fog, and I want to run. I feel that I need to run, that there is somewhere I must be, somewhere I must remember.

But before I move, I need to know something. So I push myself up and sit on the ground. I look carefully at my clothes, but they mean nothing. The jeans are new, but now they are dirty: muddy stains9 cover the legs from the wet grass. The t-shirt is not familiar10 either: just simple and black. So I empty my pockets, and at first there is nothing helpful there: no wallet, no keys and no phone. But then I see the picture11, and I stop.

It is a woman, and even in the dark and the fog I recognise her. Her long blonde hair is beautiful, and her kind, friendly, blue eyes are perfect. Yes, I know her! And the thought is so strong that I smile despite12 the pain in the back of my head.

But what is her name? I pull the last item from my pocket. It is a red serviette with a single word written again and again in black ink13.

“Catherine,” I say quietly into the fog, and the sound of my voice seems strange and cold.

Catherine. I am sure that I know her, but I still do not remember why. Is she my wife? My girlfriend? I think that she is, and I suddenly14 feel afraid for her. “Catherine!” I shout into the dark, but there is no reply.

I am about to shout again when suddenly I remember something. I remember Catherine's face, but she is not smiling like she is in the picture, and her blue eyes look scared and desperate. I try to remember the image, and I see that there is a piece of cloth15 in her mouth so that she cannot speak and that she is tied16 to a large grey stone by thick white ropes17.

“No!” I cry out18, and I push myself to my feet despite the pain in my head.

I do not know what to do for a moment. I only know that I must find her, that I must help her.

I think about the lump on the back of my head and the fresh blood on my fingers. Is there somebody in the fog? Somebody who has Catherine? Someone who wants to hurt her, who wants to kill her?

I want to shout again, but then I do not. If the person who has Catherine hears me, she is in danger. And another image comes to me. It is the face of a man. An ordinary19 face with small dark eyes and dirty brown hair. There is nothing cruel20 about the face, but I know instantly that this is the man that has Catherine, and I hate that face with all of my heart.

I begin to walk, slowly at first, unsure of the direction that I must go. It seems like the ground is moving slowly up, and I believe that this is right. The image I remember of Catherine tied to the grey stone is in less fog, and I think that it must be on higher ground.

I begin to walk faster, but I am soon running. The fog surrounds me, and the dark is without end. I try not to think of anything but21 the direction I am moving in, but I am starting to remember things now. I remember Catherine. She has a black uniform, which she always wears at work in the restaurant, and on the uniform is a badge with her name22. “Hello handsome,” she always says to me, “another day at the office?” And I never say much, but I do not have to: we understand each other without words. And I remember that after I eat, I wait for her in the car park until she finishes work, and she is surprised to see me there. But I suppose23 that's just who I am: a romantic.

Suddenly, there is a sound like a gun shot, and I fall. For a moment I think that I am dead and that Catherine is alone, tied to the grey stone in the fog. But then I see the light in the sky, and I realise that the shot was a flare24. I watch the light fall and illuminate the hillside25.

Is it the man with the dark eyes and dirty brown hair? Does he know I am here? Good! If he looks for me, he is not with Catherine, I think. And I get up again and run faster now.

Do I hear voices in the fog behind me? I try to turn to look, but the fog behind me is too thick, and I only see the occasional light in the distance.

But in front of me the fog seems to be thinner, and I begin to slow. I am scared now because I know that I am near, and in the dark I begin to see large, grey stones standing like giants26 on the top of the hill. In amazement27, I think that I recognise this circle of ancient stones.

“Stonehenge!” I say.

“Yes,” a voice replies, “and this is where it ends.” And a tall man steps from behind one of the silent giants.

I expect28 him to have dark eyes and dirty hair, but he does not. His hair is blond, his eyes light, and I think that this is not the man who has Catherine. Maybe he is his friend, his partner, and I am about to run when I see the small gun in his hand.

“I just want Catherine,” I say, but I can see the hate in the man's eyes, and I know that the only thing I can do now is run to the stone where I know she is tied and try to escape into the fog with her.

“Don't!” says the man, as if he can see my intention in my eyes, but I have to. At first29, I think that maybe I am quick enough, but then I hear the snap30 of the gun and feel the explosion in my back.

For a moment more I run, and I can see the shape of the stone where Catherine is tied, and I fall to the floor in front of it. “Catherine,” I shout, but there is no reply. When I look to see why, I see that she is not there: the white ropes are still tied to the stone, but she is not.

“Catherine,” I say again, smiling, because she is all that matters31, and I can rest now because I know that she is safe.

“You got him, Detective?” a voice says behind me.

“Yeah, that's him,” the tall man says. “He matches32 the girl's description perfectly: dirty brown hair, small dark eyes. And look, the blood behind his ear is where she hit him before she escaped.”

“Good for her.”

“Yeah. We think she's his third victim33 this year.” “So why didn't he run? Why wait here for us?”

The tall man is silent for a moment: “Who knows? I don't want to understand the mind of these psychopaths. I'm just happy Catherine is okay.”

Catherine is okay. Catherine is okay. I do not understand anything else that they say, but I do understand these three words, and I smile again.

Catherine is okay.

2. ROB FROM THE RICH

The sun is high above Canary Wharf. High and hot, and looking down on the crowds of people1 which wait on both sides of the empty road.

We are standing there, the three of us, in front of the bank. We are standing there in front of the glass doors, and no one is looking at us. They are all focused on the road, and in the distance I can hear the music and the commentator, and I know that the race is starting soon.

I look at our reflections2. We all have the same white and orange uniforms, the same caps, the same silver sunglasses. I almost3 do not recognise the two men beside me, and I think that from a distance people cannot see that I am a woman.

“Okay, this is it. Ten minutes exactly. Remember your jobs, and remember: no real names. I'm Robin, you're Little John…” one of the men says to the other. “And you're Marian,” he says to me, the only woman, and he gives me a quick smile.

Little John looks up. “The camera is still in position. It can't see us enter or leave.”

I feel sweat4 running down my neck.

“Here he comes. Remember the music, Marian,” Robin says.

And then the guard is at the door, a short fat man who looks at us, smiles and then opens it without a single question. “You're quick: the air conditioning only broke this morning.”

“We know,” Little John says, “we broke it.”

And the guard's smile disappears5. But it is too late: Robin pushes him back into the bank and John follows with the ladders6 on his shoulders. I can see Robin's gun appear in his hand, and then I am inside too, and I pull the door shut7.

“Music, Marian!” Robin says.

There is no stopping now, so I pull the small stereo from one of the black bags on my shoulder, and I press play.

Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 2 fills the marble8 stairs.

We run up the stairs together, Robin with his gun at the guard’s back. Then Little John stops to cover the first camera. He climbs up the ladder in a second, and we run into the main room of the bank.

It is a large room with oak9 tables, a dark marble counter10 and expensive leather sofas. Behind the counter there are two women. “Out here! Now!” I shout at them.

To my left I see the short fat man sit down on the floor with his hands on his head; then Robin runs to the office and kicks open the door11.

The two women move, but slowly; one of them looks down at the counter, where I know there is a secret alarm. “Not if you want to live!” I shout. “On the sofa!”

I pull two blindfolds12 from a bag and cover their eyes. Then I tie13 their hands, and I look at my watch. “Seven minutes!” I shout to Little John, and he covers the last camera with plastic.

I take a deep breath14.

The music is so loud, and the bank, so hot. Can we do this? Can we really do this?

Then Robin leaves the office, and he has the manager, Mr Charles M. Hastings.

Hastings! I hate the name, and I hate the man. Tall, arrogant, dressed in his expensive suit15 and with a watch that costs more than most people make16 in a year.

“What is this?” he says, and he looks nervous but not nervous enough.

“What do you think?” Robin asks, and he tells him to sit at one of the tables.

Hastings looks around. “You can't be serious? A bank robbery17?” And for a moment he looks surprised, but then he laughs. “You idiots! This is an investment bank! There's no money here! Everything is done by transfer18 .” And he looks at us all like we are children, with that arrogant expression on his face. “Good Lord19, you should20 leave now before the police get here, and maybe you can still escape,” he laughs again, “but I doubt21 it.”

Little John puts a blindfold on the guard. Only Hastings can see now, but we stand behind him. And for a few seconds there is only the sound of Beethoven as the music begins to reach its molto allegro.

“That's okay,” Robin says, and he picks up22 one of the bags and puts it on the table, “we brought our own money: twenty thousand pounds in small notes. Banks are difficult to rob. But houses aren't. Even big houses with alarms and safes. Like yours…”

“What?” Hastings says, and then he looks at the bag. “My house? My money? You robbed my house?”

I can see sweat on Hastings' face now, but it is on mine too. I look at my watch. “Four minutes!”

“But… but what do you want? You have my money.”

“Ha!” Robin laughs. “We don't want it. Not that: we're not common thieves23 !” And he throws the bag to Little John. “Get it ready,” he says, and Little John takes the ladders back down the stairs to the glass doors.

“Then what?” shouts Hastings.

And this is my part; I take the laptop from the bag and put it in front of him and open it, “Do you know what this is?”

He looks. “It's a bank account. A transfer. So?” he says, arrogantly.

“So we need you to enter your details and then transfer two hundred and forty thousand pounds to this account. Do it, and then we go.”

And he looks more than nervous now. He looks scared.

“No! I can't, I don't have that sort of money. I can't… I…”

I put the newspaper down on the computer. “Really?”

He looks at the newspaper for a moment but says nothing.

“One minute!” says Little John.

“Read it!” Robin shouts.

Hastings is silent, but Robin points the gun at him. “Read it!” he shouts again.

“Okay, okay… Bank manager receives two hundred and forty thousand pound salary despite bank failure.” He stops and tries to turn to look at us, but Robin pulls the trigger back on the gun. “You don't understand,” Hastings shouts, “it's more complicated than that!”

“We understand that hundreds of local businesses are in serious trouble24because of25 you and this bank,” I say. “And you now have a decision to make because we have no time. Enter the details, or…” I say, and I know that this is it26. It has to be now.

Beethoven fills the silence again, and I look at Robin and see that there is sweat on his face too, but Hastings does not move.

“Then goodbye, Mr Hastings,” Robin says, and he moves the gun, but…

“No! Please! Look…” and Hastings enters his details.

I do not believe it, and I take the computer.

“Well?” Robin says.

“It's done. It's gone. Direct. No one can trace27 it!”

Then the music stops.

And I want to smile, but there is no time. In the distance I hear the sound of a gun, and the crowd outside cheers28.

Robin takes the last blindfold from the bag and puts it over Hastings' eyes.

“And what now?” Hastings says. “You think you can just walk out of here?”

Robin laughs. “Something like that29,” he says quietly.

“The police are out there. They'll see you. They'll stop you!”

Robin then puts his mouth to Hastings' ear. “Not if there's a big enough distraction30,” he says. “Oh, and just to let you know31, there are no bullets32 in any of our guns.”

Hastings starts to shout, but we do not listen. This is it, we have to go now. We take our uniforms off and put them in the bag.