by Gisa Klönne
‘You liked Tim. You confided in one another. Then you moved to his school and suddenly you didn’t want anything to do with him any more.’
Ivonne eyes her cigarette, its filter glossy with lipstick. She has glittery fingernails too – skilfully filed nails with artificially whitened half moons, like in a nail-salon brochure. Judith’s phone plays Queen. She doesn’t know the colleague who’s calling her, but she can hear the excitement in his voice.
‘We might have found something in Königsforst. Someone who says they saw Tim two hours ago. Near the fishing pond, with a man.’
‘Keep at it,’ says Judith. ‘Get back to me.’
She lays the phone on the table and looks at the girl again.
‘It’s awful to be excluded, unbearable,’ she says, not taking her eyes off Ivonne. ‘The laughing, the jokes, the whispering. You can tell yourself as often as you like that you don’t care, but it doesn’t work, does it?’
‘How should I know?’ There is a glint of defiance in Ivonne’s eyes.
‘It gnaws away at you, it destroys you,’ Judith keeps on, undeterred. ‘Because you start to believe the others are right – that they have a reason to laugh at you, to push you about as they please.’
‘I don’t know what you want from me!’
‘Why won’t you have anything to do with Tim any more?’
Dislike flashes in the girl’s eyes. I can’t do this, thinks Judith. I can’t get through to her. But she keeps talking all the same; this time she mustn’t give up.
‘I’ll tell you why you won’t have anything to do with your cousin any more: because you can’t afford to. Because you’re bloody glad of every day the others leave you alone – maybe even admire you. Because no one must find out how you were treated at your old school – no one must know that you were once treated just like Tim.’
‘You’re lying. You don’t know anything about me!’
‘I was once just as cowardly as you. I had a friend – Charlotte, she was called. The other girls at school didn’t like her, so I turned my back on her too, so that they’d leave me alone. Now Charlotte is dead.’
The beautifully manicured hands tremble. Ivonne’s eyes are suddenly hazy with tears. ‘Is Tim dead?’
‘I don’t know. But he’s certainly in grave danger. That’s why I need your help. I have to find him.’
Ivonne starts to cry. ‘They beat him up. They made this awful film.’
Judith’s phone tootles again. Impatiently she slams it against her ear.
‘False alarm!’ another unknown colleague yells. ‘The people in Königsforst had nothing to do with the case – it was a father and his son. Manfred Korzilius says hi. He’s hunted down Ralf Neisser in a factory. Might be the perpetrator in the Jonny Röbel case. You’re to get in touch. Forensics are on their way.’
Too many threads, too many jobs, too many trails leading to nothing. Judith drinks a few hasty gulps of coffee to ward off the exhaustion that is baring its claws again and preparing to pounce. She puts down the empty glass, rolls herself another cigarette, takes a deep drag and focuses once again on Tim’s cousin. As if a dam has burst, the girl is now sobbing excuses and protesting her innocence. But there is another story hidden behind all this and, little by little, Judith coaxes it out of her – the story of Tim’s ordeal. Torture, Judith thinks, has acquired a new dimension in this technologically advanced world where even schoolkids can make videos on their phones and broadcast them in next to no time – kids who grow up in a society that harps on about modernity and tolerance, but forgets to teach its children that porn is not a game, that it destroys those (or at least the dignity of those) involved.
‘Show me the film,’ says Judith, although everything in her rebels against witnessing an attack which is basically rape.
‘It’s gone,’ Ivonne whispers, blushing a deep red. ‘It’s been gone since Tim was alone in my room.’
‘You mean he deleted the video?’
Ivonne nods. ‘I’d left my phone in my room.’
‘When was that?’
‘Sunday afternoon.’
And the next morning, Tim disappeared. After destroying his favourite book. In spite of the humidity, Judith feels cold.
‘Who sent the video, Ivonne?’
The sobs intensify; the girl’s immaculate face dissolves into red blotches and smears of mascara. Nothing is left of her coolness now.
‘Was it Viktor, Ivonne?’ Judith asks, gently.
Tim’s cousin hides her face in her hands. ‘But I can’t . . .’ she whispers.
‘You think you can’t betray Viktor, because he’s your boyfriend,’ says Judith softly, and the memory of David stabs her like a knife.
Ivonne nods, an almost imperceptible movement, half hidden behind her hands.
‘It was Viktor who sent the video, wasn’t it?’
‘Everyone suddenly had the video and forwarded it. Viktor definitely isn’t a murderer!’ Another fit of crying wracks the girl. ‘Please don’t tell him I betrayed him.’
The whispering, the laughing, the withering looks. How harmless things used to be, thinks Judith. And yet it was enough to destroy Charlotte. Or is she only mixing up the two cases because of her old sense of guilt or from sheer exhaustion? Perhaps Manni is right and they are wrong to look for the perpetrator in the school community.
‘What about Jonny, Ivonne? Did Viktor bully him too?’
‘No.’ The girl shakes her head. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t just Vik. Everyone was nasty to Tim.’
‘But not everyone made the video, did they?’
Ivonne doesn’t reply.
‘Who was it?’ Judith’s voice sounds sharp. ‘Who made the video? You watched it, didn’t you?’
‘It was lots of people.’ Ivonne doesn’t look at Judith. She reaches for a cigarette, her hands shaking. ‘Boys. I saw their hands. They were holding Tim down.’
‘Only their hands?’
Ivonne lights up, and for a moment there is again a glint of defiance in her teary eyes. Then she lowers her gaze and knocks ash off her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘I think I recognised Ralle,’ she whispers.
*
He ought to feel triumph. He ought to be focusing all his energy on the interrogation, because Ralf Neisser, aka Ralle, has a cupboard full of skeletons. But Manni feels no triumph. Something is nagging at his subconscious – perhaps the shadow of a memory of something he has overlooked, or perhaps only a vague doubt as to whether the adolescent who is lolling, legs splayed, on the steel-framed chair in front of him in the interrogation room is really the perpetrator they have been trying to hunt down for over a week. The tape recorder whirrs discreetly. Ralle Neisser stares languidly at the linoleum. But the ride in the police van and the registration of his personal details and fingerprints seem to have had some kind of effect on him, because he no longer looks quite so spaced-out.
‘There was blood from Jonny’s dachshund on pieces of carpet in your garden and in Frimmersdorf, where you were seen on your scooter. You deal ecstasy.’ Manni lists his evidence. ‘We have found quite considerable quantities in the factory – and in your home. Exactly the same substance as we found in Jonny’s dachshund’s stomach.’
Only a barely perceptible flutter in the boy’s facial muscles indicates that Manni’s message has been received.
‘You killed and mutilated Jonny’s dog and drove it to Frimmersdorf on your scooter. We can prove that beyond doubt.’
‘Then I might as well go.’ Ralle makes as if to get up. Without a word, Manni reaches across the table, grabs Ralle’s arm and forces him back down on the chair, ignoring the pain in his hurriedly plastered palm.
‘Not so fast, mate. First of all you’re going to tell me what you did to Jonny.’
‘Nothing! Ow, that hurts!’
‘You beat Jonny up, dragged him off, kept him captive and killed him.’ Manni lets go of Ralle’s arm. ‘And you did the same to Tim.’
The flutter in Ralle’s facial muscles
intensifies. He reaches for his packet of cigarettes, but Manni is quicker and sweeps them off the table. ‘Not until you’ve given me an answer, mate.’
‘I didn’t do nothing! No idea what’s up with Jonny. Or that other kid.’
‘I have plenty of time,’ Manni lies. He stretches out his right leg and manoeuvres the packet of cigarettes to his feet, evoking painful protests from his injured knee. He must have done something to it when he fell. Carefully Manni bends his leg again, snatches up Ralle’s cigarettes and puts them on the table in front of him. ‘You turned eighteen a few days ago. If I were you I’d think about cooperating. It always looks best in court when the length of sentence is being decided.’
Ralle stares at his Gauloises. Manni covers them with his hand and leans back, apparently relaxed. The tape recorder whirrs. The minutes pass. Precious, wasted minutes, as long as somewhere there might be a boy scared out of his wits. If only he could work out what it is his subconscious is trying to radio to him.
‘OK, it was me sent the dog tripping.’ After ten minutes of silence, Neisser’s self-control is clearly exhausted. ‘But it was only for fun. I held out the pills to him and he gobbled them up. Why does the silly animal eat them if they kill it?’
Manni can suddenly envisage the scene as if he were watching a DVD. Jonny and Dr D. are roaming through the woods. They’re scouts, partners; they know each other inside out. For a while they eavesdrop on Jonny’s stepfather at the lay-by, then they wander through the undergrowth, chuffed that nobody notices them. At some point on the way back to the camp, they stop for a rest in the shelter where Jonny drinks the Capri-Sun found by Forensics. And then Ralf Neisser breaks in on Jonny Röbel, and with him the horror of having to watch his beloved dachshund die a miserable death.
‘You took Jonny’s knife and cut off one of the dog’s ears. Why?’ Manni asked.
‘I didn’t!’
‘Don’t lie to me!’
Judith bursts in and insists that Manni break off the interrogation. Sparks seem to fly from her grey eyes, and the strange turquoise rim around the iris is even more conspicuous than usual. She slams the door shut behind them and holds out a phone to Manni.
‘They more or less raped Tim. Press “Play”.’ Her voice is husky; she shoves a clump of curls behind her ear. ‘His psychologist says there’s a risk of suicide. We still don’t have a lead.’
Manni puts his notepad and Neisser’s fags down on a filing cabinet and takes the phone, because Judith isn’t going to leave him in peace otherwise. He has to swallow violently when the images of a boy’s limp, jiggling penis appear on the tiny screen. Scornful commands and laughter squawk out of the mobile’s speaker. The last scene is a pan of Tim’s face. The boy’s eyes are pressed tightly shut, as if he never wanted to see anything again.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘The phone belongs to Lukas Krone. But that doesn’t mean a thing. I asked around at school after Ivonne confessed to me what had gone on. This horrible video was mailed all over the place. The head’s calling a crisis conference as I speak. So much for the bully-free school.’
She eyes Neisser’s fags greedily. Manni holds out the packet to her and gives her a light. ‘How many were involved?’
‘Five.’ She inhales deeply. ‘Viktor Petermann and Ralf Neisser, Lukas Krone and two other boys from Tim and Lukas’s class. But Lukas swears that Viktor and Ralf were the ringleaders and that he and his classmates have nothing to do with Jonny’s death or Tim’s disappearance. And I believe him.’
Viktor and Ralle – of course. Again, Manni sees the scene in the woodland shelter like a film. He hears Martina Stadler’s words. Jonny the brave, the bringer of light, the fighter for justice. He fought, Manni thinks. Jonny might not have been able to stop Ralle poisoning his dog with drugs, but he’d never have let Dr D. be mutilated as well. Unless his opponents were in the majority.
The rookie comes haring down the corridor, waving a stack of paper at them.
‘You were right, Manni,’ he blurts out. ‘There might be something in this blackmail business. Hagen Petermann’s done it before to boot out a competitor. But then the competitor withdrew charges. He’s retired now. I put a bit of pressure on him and eventually he confessed that Petermann once bribed him to keep quiet.’ The rookie glances at his pile of papers and gasps for air. ‘The other thing is that Petermann’s campaigning for a seat on Rath local council. He can’t afford to have his dirty laundry washed in public just now . . .’
Hagen Petermann. Manni can see in Judith’s eyes that she’s thinking the same as him: is it possible that the father is the murderer and the son only the tormentor? Are the two of them in cahoots? Manni’s subconscious is trying to get through to him again, but he can’t think of anything he might have overlooked.
‘Great work,’ Judith says, praising the rookie. ‘Go to Millstätt, contact the public prosecutor, get us a search warrant – quick.’
The rookie nods and gallops off. Judith puts a hand on Manni’s shoulder. ‘Are you OK? You look knackered.’
‘I’m all right.’ To his surprise, the physical contact is not unpleasant. But it’s also dangerous because it reminds him of something he doesn’t want to feel – not now, at any rate. ‘Do you want to come in with me?’ he asks, indicating the interrogation room. Judith nods, pushing her cigarette into the crumbly earth of the corpse of a yucca palm.
‘Viktor was with you,’ Manni says, when they’ve taken their seats opposite Ralle Neisser. ‘Jonny attacked you when his dachshund died. Then you beat him up.’
Ralle sniffs, squinting longingly at his cigarettes.
‘Is that what happened?’
‘Jonny wanted to run to a vet with his stupid mutt, although it was obvious it was no use.’
‘So you stopped him. You kicked him and beat him up.’
‘It was Jonny’s fault. Why did he have to run down Viktor’s old man?’
The car park, the blackmail – so it was that, after all. Manni can feel Judith’s eyes on him, and sense her restlessness. ‘TIM,’ she writes on a pad of paper. ‘ASK ABOUT HIM.’ She’s right; they can work out the details later. First they must find Tim. Manni gives her a nod before turning his attention back to young Neisser.
‘What did you do to Jonny? Where did you take him?’
Again Ralle sniffs. ‘No idea. Ask Vik.’
‘Always the others, eh?’ Manni slams Lukas Krone’s phone down on the table, registering Ralle’s widening eyes with some satisfaction. ‘But I have news for you: the others aren’t necessarily on your side. So, where did you take Jonny, and where is Tim?’
‘No idea, man, I swear to you.’
‘No idea?’ Manni reaches across the table, grabs Neisser’s T-shirt and pulls his face right up close to his own. ‘I don’t believe a word of it!’
Again, Judith lays a hand on Manni’s arm. Abruptly, Manni lets go of Jonny’s tormentor who drops back on his chair with a whimper of astonishment.
‘Where did you take Jonny?’ Manni repeats.
‘Ask Vik and his old man. He was in the woods too, you know. I saw him. But they’re rich; you leave them in peace, of course you do.’
As if on cue, the rookie sprints into the room and presents them with the search warrant. Manni leaps up; Judith is already at the door.
‘Keep an eye on this lad here. We’re not finished with him yet,’ Manni calls to the rookie.
Judith rushes on ahead, but slows her pace when she realises how immobile Manni is. His leg hurts like hell; it can hardly bear his weight. Outside the air is thick enough to cut, and the sky is like overheated cotton wool, sinking lower and lower and threatening to smother everything. Manni talks to Forensics while Judith steers the service vehicle onto the slip road. They are escorted by two patrol cars.
‘Tim was in the factory,’ Manni tells her. ‘They’ve found his fingerprints.’
‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ says Judith. ‘Maybe it’s not suicide. Maybe we’re dealing wi
th the same perpetrator. One of the boys was abducted from Königsforst, the other from the factory. But where did they take them?’
‘Petermann’s grounds are pretty extensive,’ Manni suggests.
Judith nods. ‘However much I dislike this Ralle – maybe he’s right. Maybe we only want him to be the perpetrator because we find it more bearable. The prole from the antisocial family . . .’
The air seems even more humid when they reach Petermann’s house. The big chief opens the door to them in person, and again Manni has the feeling he’s overlooked some important piece of the puzzle. Hagen Petermann stares in disbelief at the patrol cars on the pavement and at the policemen jumping out of them.
‘Where’s your son?’ asks Judith.
Petermann shakes his head, evidently bewildered.
‘We’re going to have a look around here,’ Manni explains, handing the big chief the search warrant. ‘We’re particularly interested in finding a room somewhere on your grounds where a boy could be held captive. Soundproof and probably air-conditioned.’
‘My lawyer—’ Petermann reaches for his phone. Manni pushes him aside and waves his colleagues in.
*
Blackness, unfathomable blackness. At first he had kept his eyes open, as far as that was possible with his face throbbing with pain and his left eye almost swollen shut from the blows. Now he knows better; he yields to the pain, doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, keeps his eyes closed. He has no idea how many hours or even days he has been imprisoned in this darkness. But he is sure that the light he so desperately longs for is not going to come. It’s like in the deep sea, Tim thinks. Once you’re down, you can’t ever go up again. The pressure and the cold seem to be growing more intense too, like miles down in the dark, uncharted ocean. But the thought of the underwater world no longer holds any comfort or fascination. It’s as if the pitch-black darkness were bearing down on him, millimetre by millimetre, burying him. A dark force, crushing him soundlessly and mercilessly.