Under the Ice

by Gisa Klönne

  The light from the lantern flickers in Stadler’s face, deepening lines that hadn’t even existed a week ago.

  ‘Will you treat it in confidence?’

  ‘As far as I can.’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I, that Volker’s in financial trouble? Two years ago he bought a house with a big garden, for the children – an old house that needed work doing on it. A lot of work, a lot of money, but he’d done his sums. Then, a year after they’d moved in they had the first lot of water damage. I’ll spare you the details, but one thing led to another, the bills went through the roof and they reached their credit limit. Then Hagen Petermann gave Volker an interest-free loan – twenty thousand euros.’

  ‘Hagen Petermann?’

  Stadler nods. ‘That saved Volker’s bacon. To thank him, he put in a good word for Petermann’s company in a call for bids – Volker is a consultant for the ministry of construction in Düsseldorf, North Rhine-Westphalia. Let’s just say, he made sure Petermann got the job.’

  ‘Bribery. And he couldn’t have that getting out in the ministry.’

  ‘It would have cost him his job, and then he really would have been done for. Just once, Volker thought. Just the once. But Petermann wanted more.’

  ‘So your friend asked you to help him out.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you – because I wanted to protect Volker.’

  Rather than your stepson, Manni thinks. Explain that to your wife. Explain that to your dead stepson. Explain that to yourself when you look in the mirror in the morning.

  ‘Did you talk about Petermann’s attempts at blackmail at the lay-by?’ he asks.

  Stadler nods, his face buried in his hands again. ‘I didn’t think . . . I wasn’t to know . . .’

  Petermann, then. Manni gets up. He must talk to this Volker Braun. And he needs a search warrant for Petermann’s company.

  ‘Another thing,’ says Stadler huskily. ‘The pond they found Jonny in. I go fishing there, every Friday afternoon. That can’t be a coincidence; somebody’s trying to pin something on me, but I don’t know who. Apart from Volker and now Martina, nobody knows about it. Please believe me, I didn’t do anything to Jonny.’

  Manni shows Frank Stadler the knife from Tim’s room.

  ‘Was this Jonny’s?’

  ‘Yes, where did you find it?’

  ‘I’ll see myself out.’ Manni gropes his way across the dark, deathly silent living room towards the front door. From the patio he hears the dry, unpractised sob of a man unaccustomed to giving vent to his feelings. Instinctively Manni quickens his pace and clenches his fists; his battered knuckles respond with a stabbing pain. Petermann, he thinks again. But what about Ralf Neisser? What about Petermann’s son? And most important: what’s happened to Tim?

  Volker Braun lives in Immekeppel in the Bergisches Land, only a quarter of an hour on the motorway.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he whispers, when Manni confronts him with Frank Stadler’s statement. ‘Frank misunderstood. I’m not open to bribery – I didn’t favour Petermann. He didn’t blackmail me, I work by the book. Please, you have to believe me – I have children.’

  And he sticks to that, try as Manni might. A man who is fighting for survival – not a reliable witness. Frustrated, Manni drives back to Cologne. He tries at the Petermanns’ again, but their house is still in darkness and no one lets him in.

  Division 11, on the other hand, in spite of the late hour, is in uproar. Investigation Team Tourist have caught their murderer, and are making a great deal of noise in the conference room – preparing for hearings and press conferences, congratulating themselves and all talking at once. Judith Krieger’s cubbyhole is empty, but her computer is on, the printer is spewing paper and there is a lukewarm cup of coffee next to the full ashtray. Manni slumps onto the office chair and stares at the screen. David Becker, born in Hanover on 11 October 1959, biologist. Civil disorder, violation of the ban on public assembly, grievous bodily harm, tax evasion – the man’s criminal record is impressive. In 1995 Becker married a Canadian and moved to Toronto with her. They were divorced three years later; it sounds suspiciously like a marriage of convenience.

  Krieger suddenly pops up at Manni’s side. She blushes all over when she sees what he’s reading.

  ‘That’s private.’ She reaches for the mouse, clicks the website away and almost staggers to the chair opposite Manni. ‘Well?’

  As Manni sums up his latest findings, it seems to him that Stadler was telling the truth, and that Volker Braun was lying. ‘Jonny eavesdropped on his stepfather at the lay-by and found out that Hagen Petermann was blackmailing Stadler’s friend. Then he met Petermann in the woods – probably by chance – and confronted him.’

  ‘And Petermann attacked him? And mutilated and killed the dachshund? And why is Tim missing now?’ Krieger looks suspicious.

  ‘Because Jonny confided in him.’

  ‘But then Tim would have had to be in the woods. And anyway – why didn’t Tim tell anyone?’

  Millstätt and the public prosecutor ask exactly the same questions, and because Manni has no answers and nothing to go on except Stadler’s statement, they refuse to provide a search warrant for Petermann’s house.

  ‘Go home – that’s enough for today,’ says Millstätt. ‘No arguing. See you tomorrow.’

  On the car radio, Herbert Grönemeyer is yelling about life and humanity. Judith’s wood-smoky smell has grown fainter, overridden by sweat and stress and nicotine. She sits beside Manni with closed eyes, a bluely shimmering silhouette in the light of the dashboard. Manni thinks of his father and of Frank Stadler’s sobs. He thinks that Grönemeyer was wrong to be so optimistic – that things get left undone, wrong decisions are made, and then lives are destroyed. He thinks of Tim, who was too frightened for a boy of his age. He turns the car onto Severin Bridge. The city lies before him as if it were waiting for something. Perhaps the rain – release that doesn’t come.

  Tuesday, 2 August

  She is woken by a bang, a draught, the patter of rain. She doesn’t know where she is, how long she has slept, or what time it is; as if through cotton wool she realises that she is sweating and shivering at once. She had dreamt she was lost in a lake. You can’t swim, a voice had warned her and, at that moment, Judith had noticed the darkness – black water pulling her down. Sájvaa, another voice sang, the world of the dead at the bottom of the lake – come! Only then did Judith see the loon’s eyes, red dots dancing about her, trying to hypnotise her.

  She gropes for her phone, her heart racing. She’s lying on the sofa in her living room, still in the same clothes she put on half an eternity ago in Canada. The air around her is stifling; it seems to press down on her body, an almost palpable, dense warm mass. Judith sits up. She can only vaguely remember coming into the room. She must have opened the window, but been too tired to undress or crawl into bed. Her phone tells her it’s 6.30 a.m. The rain outside intensifies. Fat-bellied storm clouds swallow the light of morning, and lightning flashes above the roofs, bathing them in blackberry-coloured light.

  Charlotte’s painting is still lying on the parquet. The loon looks almost three-dimensional in the flickering twilight and seems to stare at Judith with eyes like cold embers from an unfathomable, inaccessible world.

  ‘You landed me nicely in the shit, didn’t you?’ she says, and is about to push the picture under the sofa, but for some reason that seems wrong to her, so she leaves it where it is. She gets up and the images come hurtling towards her – a dead boy; a dead dog; another boy, who may also be dead, or is perhaps only frantic with fear because someone is holding him captive and planning to kill him; Charlotte’s sad smile when the teenage Judith turned down her invitations; the giggles and devastating silence of the other girls; the man with the criminal record and the warm hands, whose body Judith is still longing for. Not a trace of Becker, Margery had said yesterday on the phone. Still no results from Forensics. And Atkinson can’t be cracked – still swears he had nothing to do with
Charlotte’s death. Judith gets undressed and steps out onto the roof terrace. Rain streams over her skin – rain that has come too soon and can bring no relief now, in the middle of an unsolved case.

  She goes into the bathroom, stuffs her dirty clothes into the laundry basket, leans against the tiles in the shower cubicle and covers herself in soap – a hopeless attempt to wash away her exhaustion and unease. Her tiredness is lying in wait, a predatory animal mustering the energy to pounce again. Judith gets dry, puts on moisturiser, gets dressed and stuffs files and phone into her shoulder bag.

  When she steps onto the street, the rain stops as abruptly as it began, but her hair is wet all the same because she forgot to dry it. Sájvaa, whispers the voice from her dream, a barely audible echo. Judith thinks of the missing boy Tim, and his love of water. She has an appointment with his psychologist later in the day, but first she must talk to Manni and Millstätt and Karl-Heinz – perhaps there are already developments. She must get a foothold in Division 11 again, make her presence felt, win back her standing, solve the case and, most important, find Tim – rescue him, if at all possible. Again she has the feeling from the dream – the feeling of falling into a black hole. Keep calm, she tells herself. Nice and calm. One thing at a time. A street cleaner’s cart whirrs past her, its orange warning light flickering on the houses. Judith walks towards Volksgarten, trying to remember where she parked her 2CV before she left for Canada.

  *

  The information from the operations centre is clear and succinct: Ralf Neisser is still missing, and so is Tim Rinker. Is it coincidence? Or are they perpetrator and victim? But if Ralf Neisser is the perpetrator, what about Petermann? The big chief is involved in some way. In spite of Volker Braun’s denial of the blackmail accusations, Manni is convinced that Frank Stadler was telling the truth. Jonny had to die because he knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. But Manni has no proof. And there are still too many unanswered questions. What role did the drugs play? Why was Jonny’s corpse dumped in Frank Stadler’s fishing pond? How is Jonny’s disappearance connected to Tim’s? Two school friends, one fearless and the other scared. But scared of what? And did he know the perpetrator? It can’t be coincidence that Tim has gone missing so soon after Jonny’s death.

  The lift transports Manni to the fluorescent light of Division 11. Judith Krieger is already in her cubbyhole. The smell of wood smoke has gone and she is wearing clean clothes, but her hair is damp and wild-looking.

  ‘Two positives,’ she says, by way of a greeting. ‘I’ve just spoken to Karl-Heinz. The blood on Jonny’s knife is from the dachshund; so is the blood on the piece of carpet from the Neissers’ garden.’

  Ralle Neisser, then. They must step up the search – a patrol car outside his parents’ house and spot checks in Frimmersdorf aren’t enough. ‘Fingerprints?’ Manni drops onto the visitors’ chair in front of the desk.

  ‘On the knife? Not Jonny’s, that much is clear. With Tim and Ralf Neisser it’s harder to tell. Forensics are going to need comparative prints.’

  Judith flicks the plastic lid off a polystyrene cup and pushes a paper bag of croissants over to Manni.

  ‘Want one?’

  Manni shakes his head. The smell of coffee reminds him of that morning’s breakfast with his mother. ‘Oak or black-lacquered veneer? What do you think, Manni?’ she had asked, laying out coffin brochures in front of him. Ferrari red, he had thought; old Günter the lorry driver would have liked that. But it wasn’t an option, of course, so Manni had voted for black and then made himself scarce.

  The rookie sticks his head round the door. ‘Millstätt sent me. I have a few hours to spare.’

  ‘Petermann,’ says Manni quickly, before Judith can suggest anything else. ‘Construction Company Hagen Petermann. It’s possible he bribed someone in the ministry or came by work in some other dishonest way. I want to know everything you can find out about him and his business. Even the smallest irregularity.’

  ‘And anything about his son.’ Krieger pops the end of a croissant into her mouth. ‘Viktor Petermann.’

  ‘Viktor I’m going to tackle right now, live,’ says Manni getting up. ‘He must have some idea where his mate Ralle might be.’

  ‘What about Lukas Krone?’ Krieger brushes crumbs off her T-shirt. ‘That iPod story might be important. If Tim really was bullied, it might be connected to his disappearance.’

  ‘But not to Jonny’s death.’

  ‘Unless Jonny wasn’t as popular as his parents and teachers think he was.’ Judith speaks thoughtfully, as if it’s only just occurred to her, but Manni is sure she’s been pondering the idea for some time. ‘Bullying almost always happens out of the public eye.’

  ‘Everyone describes Jonny as remarkably courageous. They can’t all be wrong.’

  ‘Maybe Jonny wanted to defend Tim?’

  ‘But Tim wasn’t in Königsforst on Saturday – unlike Hagen Petermann.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Judith sighs and reaches for her tobacco. ‘But so far there’s been no evidence that Petermann and Jonny actually met.’

  *

  Manni’s welcome at the Petermanns’ house is frosty, but he doesn’t care; at least they let him in.

  ‘Where were you yesterday evening?’ he asks as the big chief leads him through to the kitchen where his wife and son are having breakfast.

  ‘I hardly think I have to account to you for spending an evening out with my wife,’ snaps Petermann.

  Not yet you don’t, thinks Manni, but he turns to Viktor and asks expressionlessly, ‘And you, where were you?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘I rang the bell. The house was dark.’

  ‘I was asleep. Didn’t hear anything.’

  Manni fights back a grin. A sixteen-year-old blissfully slumbering at eleven in the evening – yeah, right.

  ‘I’ve been looking for your friend Ralf Neisser since yesterday. Perhaps you have some idea where he might be?’

  ‘Ralle? Why?’ Viktor scrapes his trainers along the tiles and hooks them round the chair legs. He stares into his coffee cup.

  ‘Things aren’t looking good for your friend.’ Manni props his elbows on the table and leans forward. ‘Ralle took Jonny’s dead dachshund to Frimmersdorf. We’ve found ecstasy in his room. It’s quite possible he used it to kill the dachshund – and Jonny too.’

  ‘Neisser.’ Hagen Petermann almost spits the name. He speaks as if his son weren’t there. ‘I told Viktor that Neisser wasn’t suitable company for him – a school dropout from an antisocial family.’

  Viktor seems to cringe beneath his father’s words. ‘We only play football together sometimes, that’s all,’ he mumbles into his coffee cup.

  ‘Football. Very important, of course.’ Each of Petermann’s words is like the crack of a whip.

  ‘You said you were with Ralle on the Saturday afternoon when Jonny went missing,’ Manni intervenes.

  ‘But not for long – I met up with Ivonne afterwards.’ Viktor shoots a sidelong glance at his father, then lowers his head again. ‘We didn’t do anything, honest we didn’t.’

  ‘Ralle took Jonny’s dachshund to Frimmersdorf, we know that much,’ Manni repeats. ‘Did he tell you anything about it? Did you notice anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did the two of you meet Jonny in the woods?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Torturing an animal, possession of drugs, maybe even abduction and murder. Those are all serious offences,’ says Manni, leaning even closer to Viktor. It’s palpably clear that the boy is lying. Manni suddenly feels sorry for him. His nose is too big – a man’s nose in a boy’s face – and stubble is sprouting on his chin from swollen red pores. ‘We’ve issued a search warrant for your friend. If you have any idea where we can find him, it would be better if you told us. Otherwise you’ll be guilty of complicity,’ he says softly.

  ‘I don’t know anything, honestly. I’ve got to go to school now.’

  ‘My son is not Neisser’s acc
omplice; he’s not close enough to him for that,’ Hagen Petermann snaps. ‘He can’t help you – isn’t that right, Viktor?’

  Viktor nods, without looking up. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘What do you know about Tim Rinker?’

  ‘He’s not in my class.’

  ‘He’s your girlfriend’s cousin. And he was Jonny’s best friend.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to do with him.’

  ‘His parents say he isn’t very happy at your school.’

  Viktor shrugs. ‘No idea, honest. I have to go now.’

  Another sidelong glance at his father and the boy dashes out of the kitchen as if the Furies were after him.

  ‘If you continue to harass my son, I’ll have to involve our lawyer.’ Hagen Petermann looks at Manni as if he were a particularly revolting insect.

  ‘Not so easy to run a construction company these days, is it?’ Manni pretends he hasn’t heard the threat. ‘A lot of them go bankrupt. Work from the ministry must be very welcome in the present climate. Proper work instead of dribs and drabs – payment guaranteed.’

  ‘A policeman who has theories about business management. Interesting.’

  Manni allows himself a smile. ‘It helps to know someone, doesn’t it, Herr Petermann? A decision-maker. Or, better still, someone who owes you something.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Twenty thousand euros,’ says Manni. ‘If you get to pave a pedestrian precinct in exchange, it’s not such a bad deal.’

  ‘You’re accusing me of bribery?’ Petermann smiles patronisingly. ‘You clearly have no idea of public tendering. It’s an enormously complex process with a great many phases of approval. Entirely neutral.’

  ‘You lent Volker Braun twenty thousand euros.’

  ‘What of it?’ Petermann doesn’t look remotely unnerved.

  ‘He works at the Ministry of Construction.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You’re blackmailing him.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘I’ll talk to you again soon.’ Manni gets up. He feels Petermann’s eyes on his back – the eyes of a victor who is used to staring down his opponents.