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The Best of Times

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Semir looked the London landmarks moving out the plane’s window but his eyes came back quickly to the issue of the Express Köln he had bought on the airport.

He wasn’t looking at any news on particular, he his eyes were focused on the date- 19/09/2016- In three days he was going to be 50 years old, quite a milestone he’d never thought he would actually reach.

He was the eldest and oldest officer on his station, he was even five years older that Chiefin Kruger. That was the reason he was going to probably pass his birthday in London investigating a crime, the dead of a British citizen on the A4, instead than with his daughters. He already passed such a short time with them after he and Andrea divorced, that miss the opportunity of pass a day of fun with them of his birthday hurt him a lot.

The thought of Dana, Ayda and Lily made him take his phone from his jacket, to the photo of the three together he had as lock screen. The phone was new, a gift from Jenny and Hartmut in commemoration of his 25th Anniversary as a police officer, they had even take the time of diving on archives and social media for photos of all his trajectory on the Autobahn to fill up the galleries.

There was a photo which had been haunting him lately. It had been made on a Spring party more than a decade ago, there was him and Andrea, happy newlyweds, old Chiefin Engeldhardt, Tom, Bonrath and Hotte, all with smily faces and glasses of cider on the hands.

He was the only one who was still keeping up in the Autobahn. Andrea had left short time before Ayda’s birth, deciding it was time to fulfill her dreams of become a social worker; Chiefin Engelhardt had left too, tired after a hard case, and Tom, Bonrath and Hotte…well…they had the fall of the heroes, dying the three of them in action in different occasions through the years. He missed them, they were some of the best people he had known in his life.

The attendant announced the immediate of the landing, grabbing Semir out of his nostalgic thoughts, he put his phone inside his jacket and prepared himself.

Heathrow thrived as only a big airport on the rush hour does, people talked in a dozen different languages, music played and he even saw some turists making themselves selfies with, what Semir thought, it looked like a weird bronze bin with a long eyestalk, golden bumps around its lower half and a quite irritating voice.

Semir was looking for someone, his liaison with the London Metropolitan Police, he hadn’t been informed of who it was, so he looked closely for some sort of signal.

And then he found him. A young man, easily half his own age, holding a board with Herrn Gerkhan written on it on neat letters. Semir couldn’t stop a smirk when he saw that his liaison looked like he could have been born on the next village to his birth town in Turkey and he was a denim jacket with a woolly collar, similar to one he had owned years ago.

He walked swiftly to him and introduced himself.

‘Kommissar Semir Gerkhan.’ Said offering his hand.

'TDC Arrash Sayyad,’ said the young man answering to his offering, 'pleased to meet you.’