I sat there for a while longer, trying to piece it all together. Turner must have killed Theodor, that much was obvious – or at the very least, he helped to dispose of the body. Perhaps Jenna Lemann the long-suffering wife was the real murderer, using her charms to convince Turner to take on disposal duties. Either way, how could Herr Lemann’s demise be connected to the death of Loriett? I racked my brains, desperately trying to form a connection and coming up with sod all. I needed to take a step back and try again.
With a grunt I rose and took one last look at Theodor Lemann, then I closed the closet door and headed for the stairs.
Twenty One (Emily)
When the door swung open and Jenna’s face appeared, I found myself fixed with the familiar suspicious glare. We’d never really got on, even though we’d been in the same school class together. She’d always been the popular one, adored by every boy, girl and teacher in that place (possibly adored a little too much by one or two of the teachers, if the rumours were true). Meanwhile, I’d been the awkward one who preferred reading in a corner of the classroom to jumping between the desks and setting traps for other kids. While I spent my weekends in the library, Emily was always leading swimming races in the lake or expeditions into the countryside. And every time our paths crossed, I always won another of her sad little frowns. Like she just couldn’t understand why I even existed.
“Emily,” she said, leaning against the frame and crossing her arms. I took a deep breath and nodded. I’d come by the previous afternoon but there was no answer and I’d quickly lost the courage to confront her. But after another sleepless night, I was determined to get this over with.
“I need to speak with you about the fire,” I told her and her eyes narrowed a little more.
“The fire? What about the fire?”
“It started in the house next to mine,” I said, feeling like that awkward teenage girl all over again. I shuffled my feet and swallowed. “Hetti and Friedrich’s.”
“Oh, really?” she said, her frown deepening. I’m not a good judge, but she did seem genuinely surprised at the news. I nodded again.
“Yes, and I heard some strange things through the wall before it happened. First, I heard them arguing, quite viciously. Then I thought I heard someone else creeping around their house…”
“Emily,” she said, stroking her cheek. “What are you telling me this for?”
“Well,” I said, suddenly feeling far too hot. “I don’t think the fire was an accident. I wondered if you might know something to explain…”
“You think I might know something? What, because I was fucking Friedrich,” she yelled, stepping out of the house. Her face had turned a sickly red in no time at all and I thought she might lash out, so I shuffled away, out of her reach. I tried to stammer an apology and calm her down but she kept on coming at me, her voice cutting right through me. “You must already know, half the town seems to be talking about it! Yes, I went to his house, to try and get him to change his mind. Why would he want to stay with that pig-ugly wife, when he could have me instead? He was crazy!” She threw up her hands and I tripped backwards, and it was only her garden wall that stopped me from collapsing. Jenna stared at me, panting so hard that each breath came out as a snort. “I made sure I told him that, with his wife stood right there behind him. Then I left. So no, I don’t know why your fire happened, but I’m glad that pair of pigs are dead.”
“I see,” was all I could mumble in return. God, I felt like I was about to cry. What was I doing here, speaking with this woman? Why was I obsessing like this? I twisted away from her and pushed out through the gate, hurrying back down the road, and I felt her eyes burning into my back the whole way.
I paid no attention to where I was going, my feet carrying me automatically down streets and alleys while I silently wept. I thought I’d grown up since those days, strong enough to not let people like Jenna Lemann get to me. But I hadn’t grown up at all. I was still that awkward girl, sat in a corner while life happened all around me. Looking after my father the way he’d looked after me when mama passed.
When I finally dragged myself out of my thoughts, I found myself standing on the old street again. I gazed at the row of burned-out buildings, little more than piles of brick and dust. At first, I couldn’t even tell which house had been ours. Five or six houses around Hetti and Friedrich’s place had simply crumbled under the heat, leaving little more than rubble and some charred brick skeletons. I walked slowly up to the ruins and eventually found the right spot, thanks to the web-like patch of weeds growing in the tiny, half-buried mound of mud that used to be our front garden. Yesterday there had been men picking through the remains, but today I was all alone. I glanced down the street, then I stepped onto the heap of debris that used to be our house and I slowly, carefully made my way to the middle. There I sat down on the rubble and stared up at the sky, my tears now just sticky smears on my cheeks.
I had no watch, so I had no idea how long I was sat there for, just watching clouds drift by. Eventually my muscles grew stiff and I started to notice sharp edges digging into my skin here and there, so I rose and stretched and rubbed my leg where it had gone to sleep. And that was when I saw it. Something I hadn’t seen the night of the fire, or noticed in the aftermath. I frowned and stepped closer, but no, it wasn’t a deception. Right then, I realised I’d been right all along. The fire was no accident.
Twenty Two (Terry)
I needed to get off the street and clean up, so I lugged myself past the cell block and into the office. It was only the second time I’d been in there and when I stepped inside I remembered why. The place was fucking creepy. Too quiet for a start and empty except for three desks and three chairs. Then there was that chill that somehow lingered, even though it was warm outside. I swear this fucking hole was haunted by some kraut ghosts and they probably weren’t too happy we were taking over.
I went to the tiny toilet at the back of the room and shut myself in, before checking out the damage in the cracked mirror stuck to the wall over the sink. Straight away I grimaced, and even that little motion hurt. I looked as bad as King, with a purple patch under my left eye that almost matched his perfectly. That was on top of the lump that was steadily sprouting out of the back of my head. I took a deep breath, pushed it back out again. Then I leaned over the sink and spat about half a pint of blood down the plughole.
There wasn’t much I could do to patch myself up, so I just swilled some cold water and got all the blood and gunk out of my mouth. I had just turned off the tap when I heard the office door slam shut. Slowly I turned and stared at the closed toilet door. If it was Shaw, he’d be in for it. He would wish that he’d finished me off by the time I was done with the prick. I eased up to the door and I gripped the handle, muscles flexed and ready for action. But when I threw the door open and stepped out of the toilet, I found myself staring into the petrified face of Captain Adam King.
“Jesus,” he stammered, dragging a hand through his hair. “You scared the hell out of me, Wightman.” Then he squinted at my face. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”
“Oh, I just walked into a tree,” I replied, turning away and slumping down into Lane’s old seat. “How’d the talk with the Major go?”
“Not so good. But I figured out what Turner’s little message meant. I found Theodor Lemann’s body in the old post office, stuffed inside a coat closet.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I had to replay the sentence in my head, just to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood him.
“Who’s Theodor Lemann?” was the first of many questions that sprang to mind.
“Just some nasty little wife beater. Turner stepped in when he was roughing up his missus in the street.”
“So…Turner killed him?”
“Chances are it was either him or the wife, Jenna Lemann. I want you to go speak with her, tell her we found her husband’s body. She reckoned he’d run off after finding out she was having an affair with Friedrich Klingmann.”
�
��Klingmann,” I repeated, the name familiar somehow. King nodded.
“Him and his wife were the toasted couple from the fire.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I muttered, leaning back and resting my head on my hands, until a twinge of pain shot down my neck. I grunted and slumped forwards again instead. “So you want me to see if she’s a lying, murdering scumbag, basically.”
“Just see how she reacts,” King said. “I get the feeling she won’t be too remorseful, even if she didn’t personally stave his head in, but maybe she’ll give something away. Try asking to see her husband’s belongings too, might give us some clues.”
“What are you gonna do?” I asked. King scratched his nose and sighed.
“First I’m going to try and find Shaw.” Just the mention of his name made me grind my teeth, but King didn’t seem to notice. “Then I’m going back to Loriett’s grandfather’s house. I can’t shake the feeling that those two murders are connected.”
“Still obsessing over that,” I said and his jaw visibly tightened, the bone poking through his cheek. I thought he’d have another go at me, but he just let it slide this time.
“I’ll see you back here,” he said, then he turned and walked out.
Of course, I had no fucking idea where this Jenna Lemann lived, so it took me an age to track her down. As usual, I had to ask half a dozen locals for directions before I got an answer that wasn’t “keine Englisch” or some other shite in German. When I did eventually track her down, she was over in the West side of town. Her house was actually one of the best I’d seen around this poxy place, a proper mansion from the outside with some weird German car sat on the driveway and a nicely tended garden. I pushed through the gate and strode up to the little path and banged a fist on the door.
When Jenna finally opened up, she was already wearing a fed up little pout. Still, even with a face like a slapped arse, she was still cute as fuck. I imagined some cowardly prick smacking around those pretty cheeks and I wished I’d had the chance to kill the bastard myself. Turner was definitely rising in my estimates; shame they went and shot the cunt already.
“What is it, what do you want?” she asked in slightly ropey English. I flashed her my winning smile, pure charm through and through, then I launched into it.
“I’m looking for Jenna Lemann,” I said and she rolled her eyes.
“Yes, yes, I am Jenna. What do you want?”
“It’s bad news, I’m afraid.” I wondered if I should build up to it or something, but I decided, fuck it. Just get it over with. Like King said, I didn’t expect her to exactly break down with grief. “We found your husband’s body.”
“Body,” she said, her voice suddenly soft and the angry little pout dissolving from her face. I nodded, keeping a close watch on her.
“Looks like he was murdered. Right here in town.”
“So he didn’t run away,” she said. She was staring at my chest, but her gaze was just passing right through me, like I wasn’t even there.
“Is it okay if I come in?” I asked. “Look around a bit? Standard procedure and all that.” She didn’t answer, she just sort of stepped aside and I pushed in past her. The house was just as gorgeous on the inside, with its bright white walls and shiny floors and furniture that looked bloody ancient. Clearly one of them, her or the dead husband, had a fucking good job on the go. I hoped for her sake that it wasn’t the corpse; I just had the feeling she wouldn’t cope well with sudden unexpected poverty. Glancing around, I strode into the lounge and then turned and smiled again as she slid in behind me, the colour drained from her cheeks. “When was the last time you saw him?” I asked. Seemed like the sensible kind of question a proper copper would ask, just going off their interviews with me from back in the day. Establish a timeline and all that bollocks. She paused while she tried to remember, or maybe she was just making something up.
“Three days ago,” she told me. “He left the house, angry. I thought he was going to Kungsbrucken again. He’s done it before when we’ve had a fight. Usually he drinks himself stupid and takes some cheap women and then he comes back full of apologies.”
“Right. You didn’t think of driving over there to find him?”
“I did not want to see his face again,” she spat. “I leave him to his drinking and his whores.” Oh yes, full of pity, this one. But I had a feeling in my guts that she hadn’t been part of some conspiracy to bump off her old man. In fact, I had another theory brewing, which seemed all the more plausible given her reaction.
“Your husband,” I said, “he left because you were having an affair, right?” She slung a filthy look at me, but not the kind of filthy look I enjoy. This one basically suggested that she’d like to rip my bollocks off with her teeth, before chewing them up and spitting them out.
“Yes,” she said, in a tone that could make flowers wither and dogs drop whimpering onto their backs.
“How did he find out about it?” I asked.
“I told him.”
“You told him,” I said, nodding. “So, you two were arguing and you wanted to really hurt him. A killing blow, so to speak. Was that it?” She took her time before she answered.
“He’d been angry ever since he tried slapping me around and someone put him in his place. He didn’t dare touch me again the day after, but he kept screaming at me, calling me a fucking whore. I said yes, I was having an affair, ha!” She actually laughed, throwing her head back. I started to get a little concerned that I was trapped in a room with a psychopath, especially since my gun was back at the barracks. “He was so furious, I thought he was going to strangle me on the spot. But instead he smashed one of my mother’s vases and then he rushed out and that was the last time I saw him.”
“Did you tell him who you were having an affair with?” I asked. She looked confused for a moment, then that sinister scowl crossed her face again.
“No, I didn’t tell him,” she hissed. “Is that what this is really all about? Did you come here to accuse him of starting that fire?” I held my hands up.
“No, I’m not accusing him of anything.”
“Good,” Jenna said, teeth still bared. “That do-gooder Emily Hanna was here probing into it too, accusing me of burning those houses! I’ll tell you what I told her, I had nothing to do with it and I saw nothing ‘suspicious’.” She shook her head and threw her hair back with one hand and I shuffled back a half-step. “Oh, but I did see old Frau Bischmann passing by with her dog while I was sat out in the square,” she continued. “She’s sixty years old and hunched so bad she has to stare at your shoes when she talks to you. But maybe you should go arrest her, just in case she started the fire?” Her eyes were practically popping out of their sockets and I nodded slowly, ready to make my excuses and bugger off out of there before I went the way of her husband. But she just kept on going. “Or maybe it was the limping soldier, who looked like his leg was ready to fall off. He sounds like a perfect suspect, yes?”
That got me. I was actually sizing up my escape route, which sadly involved pushing around her to get to the front door, but now she had my full attention again. I stepped up to her and lowered my face so it was inches from hers.
“Limping soldier? You saw a limping soldier, what, just before the fire?” Suddenly she shrunk a little, her tongue dragging across her bright red lips.
“Yes, in the square.”
“He was walking towards the street that burned down?”
“Yes. But he-”
“What did he look like, was he quite young? Short, dark hair?”
“I don’t know,” Jenna spat, her voice rising again, “it was dark and I wasn’t really paying attention!”
“Okay,” I said, dragging my palm across my face. “Okay. Shit. I need to…I need to go…” All of a sudden, my fucking heart was going like the clappers. Surely it couldn’t be…it made no sense, but I had to check. “Thank you,” I muttered to her as I hurried past and let myself out.
Twenty Three (Emily)
&nbs
p; I was shaking as I stepped inside the infirmary and my skin tingled at the chill in the air. Outside it was a warm day, but in here it felt like a fridge, so cold that I expected to see my own breath. I wrapped my arms around myself and made my way down the corridor, to the treatment room at the far end. My pace slowed before I reached the door and now doubts were flooding my thoughts, compelling me to stop just before I pushed inside. I didn’t have any kind of proof; this was just another one of my careless, impulsive ideas. I’d already thrown accusations at the English and if I went ahead with this, what was to stop them from dragging me into a prison cell and leaving me to die and rot? I was on the verge of turning around and hurrying back out again, but then I thought of my father, still spread out on the cold floor of the morgue. I chewed on my lower lip and closed my eyes, feeling the pulse of my heart beat and the gentle roar of each breath I sucked in. Then I pushed through the door and slipped inside the room.
He was the only person there, sat up on one of the beds with what looked like a diary clutched in his hands. The one called Oliver. He glanced up at the sound of the door creaking open and his expression froze. I stood there for a moment, then I slowly stepped closer and swallowed.
“I just came to ask you one question,” I said in English. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He didn’t even blink. “Were you in our garden again, the night of the fire?”
“Oh, god,” Oliver said under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. His head dipped and he pressed his face into his hands, his breath sounding like a hissing pipe. He began to mutter something, but his words were smothered by his palms and I couldn’t make them out. I stood there, fixated, unable to move as he started to violently cough and splutter. The answer was clear enough.
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