“Where?”
“In the Niendorfer Gehege. Maybe you know the small grove in the north of Hamburg.”
Frau Ansmann was about to shake her head—no, impossible; it was not a district where Philip would be found; he couldn’t have been there. Her kind of people went for walks along the Alster, or jogged there, but never in that district. She did not say it and she did not shake her head, but Lina could guess her thoughts, at least the most important one, the predominant one: it’s impossible that Philip is dead. The woman’s eyes were closed and she cradled the child, who had fallen asleep and whose face was shining in the light of the morning sun. It was quiet in the apartment but one could hear water running somewhere in the house and a door slammed in the stairwell. The room smelled of a child and sleep, of stale water in a vase, and the hint of perfume.
“How was he . . . I mean, why . . . Who . . . ,” she said before coming to the realization that neither Lina nor Max had answers for her.
“Is there someone you could call? Or should we call for a chaplain?”
“I . . . No, no. That’s not necessary. I’ll manage.” She said nothing else. Her voice was remote, as if she were lost in thought.
“Frau Ansmann, unfortunately we have to ask you a few questions,” Max said gently. He had a pleasant voice that had a relaxing effect on most people. “Do you know where your partner was last night?”
The woman nodded. “At a concert.”
“Where?”
“I forget the name, something terribly old-fashioned, even though they say it’s quite nice . . . Somewhere in . . .” She stopped. “In Niendorf.”
Max kept a straight face. “Did he go there alone?”
“Yes.”
“And you stayed home because of the child?”
“No. I attended a lecture at the Chamber of Commerce. I’m an executive consultant and I met some of my clients there. Friedericke Moosig, a girl from the neighborhood, was watching Leon.”
“When did you come home?”
“Around twelve thirty.”
“Why didn’t you spend the evening together? Did you have a fight?” Max looked closely at Katja Ansmann.
“No. We often do things separately. We are . . .We were . . . interested in different things.”
“What was Herr Birkner’s occupation?”
“He’s . . . He was a software developer.” She gave them the name of the company he worked for and their address in town. Lina wrote it down.
“Are his parents still alive?” Max asked.
The woman nodded before getting up to retrieve her phone from the other room. Lina and Max looked at each other. She knew his work address by heart, but had to look up the information about her partner’s parents. Lina glanced around the large, luxuriously empty room. Designer furniture, a high-end sound system from B&O, polished parquet flooring. There was a big window and next to it a double-leaf door to the balcony. An old chestnut tree outside added a green hue to the room.
Katja Ansmann returned. The little boy on her arm had woken up and was whining. “Leon is hungry.” Rocking him gently, she talked to him quietly to calm him down. Half-asleep, his thumb in his mouth, the little boy watched the two visitors. Katja Ansmann gave them the address of Philip Birkner’s parents. Then she leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes for a moment.
“Frau Ansmann, do you know if Philip Birkner had any enemies?” Max asked.
“Enemies? Philip?” She opened her eyes again and looked confused for a moment. Then she actually laughed. “Philip is on the best of terms with everyone. He looks good and loves to laugh. He manages to win over complete strangers within minutes. No, I can’t imagine that anyone wishes him any harm. Even though . . .” She scrunched her eyebrows. “Frank Jensen, a former employee of Philip’s.” Lina thought that the woman blushed. “Until two years ago, Philip had his own software firm. He had to declare bankruptcy because of a grave mistake by Frank Jensen.”
Max tilted his head. “And why should Herr Jensen be upset with your partner? It makes more sense the other way around.”
Before she could answer, Lina got up quickly and said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll briefly look at the apartment.”
Katja Ansmann looked confused, with a touch of distrust and alertness.
“Why . . . I mean, he’s dead, isn’t he? He didn’t commit any crime, he’s . . . He was . . .”
“Frau Ansmann,” Max said with the voice he always used to calm people, “I assure you that we have no suspicion at all against Herr Birkner, but we have to explore all possibilities to find the person who killed him. Maybe there are important clues in this apartment.”
Katja Ansmann gave a shrug, pressed the child closer, and motioned to Lina as if she were dismissing a maid.
Lina left the room.
The entry hall was wide and empty except for a wardrobe and an old chest of drawers. Lina opened the dresser. It was used for storing shoes. When she checked the sizes, she found that Leon was a size 26, Katja a 41, and Philip a 44. Katja owned at least six pairs of pumps in different colors and nothing heavier than a pair of suede boots with heels. There was nothing that one would wear for traipsing through the woods and muddy undergrowth. Lina closed the dresser and turned to the wardrobe. Handbags, jackets, and shawls—all of top quality. Katja’s perfume lingered in her jackets. Philip’s jacket emanated the scent of a manly aftershave. Next to the living room was the child’s room. Lina looked in quickly: toys on the floor, a child’s bed, shelves with picture books and more toys, a wardrobe, and a dresser. The window in Leon’s room looked out onto a leafy backyard. The kitchen was next to the child’s room. Shiny surfaces, all in lacquered burgundy or stainless steel. Everything brightly polished, expensive design, upscale appliances. Beside the espresso machine stood leftovers from last night: pasta with a red sauce on two plates, one of them a child’s plate. Who had eaten with the boy? Philip or Katja? Or the sitter? There were three used coffee cups and a wineglass. A narrow door led from the kitchen to a balcony with the same view of the backyard as from Leon’s room. Lina opened the door to the pantry. Not much there: Italian antipasti, Italian espresso, Spanish olives. Lina had not seen the names or packaging in her supermarket. Probably from gourmet foodstores. There were tons of those around here.
The room next to the kitchen was furnished like a home office, with a desk, a chair, a computer, and shelves with folders and technical books on computer science and programming languages. In front of the window stood a pullout couch and a little table. A squash racket hung on the wall. A film of dust indicated that it hadn’t been used in a while. In a bookcase that divided the room were a few worn paperbacks, a stereo system from B&O—like the one in the living room—and a flatscreen TV. Was it an office that could also serve as a guest room or a refuge when there were quarrels and stress?
The bedroom was on the other side of the hallway. The window overlooked another backyard, a gloomy one, with some ivy as groundcover. A king-size bed, little tables without drawers on the left and right, a wardrobe the size of a minibus. The linen had the fresh scent of laundry softeners. It made Lina sneeze. A large print of Kandinsky’s Lyrical hung on a wall. When Lina had first seen the painting, what she saw was a puking rat, not the jockey it was meant to represent. Things are not always what they first seem to be.
There were marble tiles in the bathroom, and the furnishings came from Villeroy&Boch. A few splashes of toothpaste were visible on the mirror and a large fluffy towel lay on the floor.
Lina could hear the boy’s whining in the living room, faint at first, and then increasingly loud. She went back in. The parquet floor squeaked a little under her feet.
“You better leave now,” Katja Ansmann was saying as Lina entered. “As you can see, the child’s getting restless.”
Lina wanted to say something, but Max had already gotten up.
“Of
course, we understand,” he replied. “Are you sure you can manage by yourself? Do you have a girlfriend whom you could call?”
Katja Ansmann nodded and led them to the door. “Thank you. I’ll be all right.”
Back in the car, Lina reached for her paper cup of coffee. It was lukewarm now, of course. She took a sip and grimaced. She rolled her neck and it creaked with each rotation. Max looked at her. “Too much gymnastics?”
Lina grimaced once more. She had finally gone kickboxing again last night, which Max belittled as gymnastics. She sighed. “When I was young, I used to be able to tolerate more.”
Max laughed. “Don’t act as if you’re ancient. Twenty-nine’s just barely adult.” She looked even younger, maybe early twenties. “So, what do you think?”
“It doesn’t look like she was very moved by the news.”
Max didn’t say anything. He had heard people scream when they were told, or cry quietly, or collapse without a sound. Some sat there as if they were frozen, while others made coffee as if an old acquaintance had come for a visit, someone they hadn’t seen for a while. It had also happened, rarely, that someone laughed—embarrassed, disbelieving, or relieved laughter. Max thought that Frau Ansmann’s reaction was quite within the norm, yet he understood Lina’s comment. It was a fleeting impression, a hint of a feeling that something wasn’t quite right. “Find anything interesting in the apartment?”
Lina shrugged. “Frau Ansmann’s shoes are size 41 and she loves exclusive clothes. They must have money. Huge apartment, parquet everywhere, expensive furniture. Philip Birkner’s home office could easily serve as a second living room and bedroom.” She paused to take the last sip of coffee. “Any idea how much a software developer and an executive consultant make?”
Max signaled and turned left after the oncoming traffic had passed. “More than we do.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, but is it enough to afford such an apartment?”
With a shrug of his own, he said, “Maybe one of them has rich parents, or got an inheritance, or won the lottery. I know you don’t like career women, but the simple fact that Katja Ansmann has money doesn’t in itself make her a suspect.”
“I’ve got nothing at all against career women, but . . .”
“Lina, it’s way too early to speculate. You have to wake up first.”
Max was right. Lina could be sloppy in the mornings—she might seem awake, maybe even speak in complete sentences, but half of what she said made no sense at all. She sat in silence, crushed the paper cup in her hands, and looked out the window while they were on their way to bring the news to the dead man’s parents.
The money for the apartment did not come from Philip Birkner’s parents. That much was clear to them as soon as they arrived in the Wandsbeck district and stood in front of the redbrick co-op so typical for Hamburg. Even though the apartment on the second floor had been recently renovated and was surprisingly roomy, it was as different in class from their son’s grand abode in Rothenbaum as a VW Golf is from a Porsche.
Both parents were at home when the detectives arrived. The father, either retired or close to it, looked ill. He sat on the sofa with a book by his side. Frau Birkner, a petite woman wearing a simple light summer dress, offered coffee, which Lina and Max politely declined.
Philip’s mother buried her face in her hands when she heard of Philip’s death. The father stared at Max with wide-open eyes and then lowered his head. In his calm voice, Max told them the essentials: Niendorfer Gehege, last night, a blow to the head; no, he probably didn’t suffer. The last part may not have been true, but there was no reason for him to deny this final solace to parents. As it turned out, they knew very little about their son’s life, seldom saw the grandson, much too rarely, as Lina could hear between the lines.
“Frau Birkner, Herr Birkner, do you know whether your son had any enemies? Did he have problems at work or with acquaintances?” Lina asked.
“Philip? Oh, no, he wasn’t one to have enemies. Who would want to do him any harm?” said the mother. “He’s such a good boy! Everyone likes him and he’s welcome everywhere. And he’s so smart! He’s a computer expert, you know, and he has a good job.”
Lina frowned but did not say anything. She discreetly looked around the room. A three-part wall unit with a glass display case for the good china; light-colored upholstery that smelled of cleaning spray; a thick, fluffy carpet in various shades of brown; a gathered curtain at the windows; and two orchids on the windowsill. On the wall next to the television were pictures of Philip and Leon—typical amateur shots. Katja Ansmann was in only one of them. Other pictures were of a man who seemed to be a few years older than Philip, together with his wife and two children.
“Does Philip have a brother?” Lina asked the parents, pointing to the photos.
“Yes. Lukas. He lives in Eppendorf, not far from Philip.”
“Did the two get along? Would he know if your son had any kind of problems?”
“Philip had no problems,” the mother insisted. Her voice was a little shrill. She was sitting upright at the edge of the sofa and her lips were pressed together.
“You’re probably right, Frau Birkner,” Max said gently. “After all, you know your son better than we do. We just have to look at all angles to find out who did that to Philip.”
The woman seemed to relax.
“He was always lucky,” the father said quietly. “He even found a new job quickly when his own company didn’t work out.” The way his wife looked at him spelled trouble and he looked down without saying more.
“Philip used to have his own company, you know. But it went bust; not that it was his fault,” Frau Birkner said to Max. “One of his employees made a mistake and Philip had to suffer for it.”
Remembering the large, comfortable apartment, Lina thought that the punishment was quite lenient. Herr Birkner said nothing and continued to look at a spot on the carpet. He was slightly overweight and was sweating in the warm room.
Max leaned forward and said, “We’ll leave you alone now. Before we go, could you give us the address of your second son?”
“What do you want with Lukas? He has nothing to do with Philip’s death!” The mother’s shrill voice cut into Lina’s ears.
“There’re just some routine questions, I can assure you. I know you want us to find your son’s murderer. Every hint we get can help us.”
“Well, in that case you should investigate that girlfriend of his! That ice-cold bitch! I’m sure she’s involved. That’s a . . .”
“Gisela . . . ,” Philip’s father said sharply.
“Frau Birkner, it’s best not to utter such accusations lightly,” Max said, delivering his slight reproach in a soft voice. “I understand that you’re agitated, but to accuse your son’s girlfriend of having been involved with his death . . . You’d have to have good reasons.”
“This . . . this stuck-up princess.”
“Leave Katja alone already, Gisela,” Herr Birkner said, tension in his voice.
“She doesn’t even let us see our grandson regularly,” Frau Birkner continued as if she hadn’t heard her husband. “She claims that Leon is bored at our place and that we spoil him too much. Not true. She just thinks we aren’t good enough for her and Leon. She comes from good stock—her parents live in Blankenese, and they come loaded with mountains of presents every birthday and Christmas. Of course we can’t compete with that.” She straightened up even more on the edge of the sofa. “Ha! Guess who’s spoiling the little guy!”
“Gisela . . .” Herr Birkner put a hand on his wife’s arm, but she brusquely shook him off.
“And Katja, that bitch . . . You should’ve seen how she treated me! As if I were her maid!” Frau Birkner said indignantly, wiping tears from her eyes, tears of anger and of sorrow. “Once, they were here for coffee and I had to wait on her hand and foot. No way would she help
in the kitchen or clearing the table. Fat chance. She’s too elegant for that.”
“Lately Philip visits us by himself,” Herr Birkner said. “Sometimes he brings Leon, but not often.” He looked up for a moment. “In the beginning, we sometimes visited them, but that was even worse . . . We had to be happy to settle for a cup of coffee. We were never welcome there.”
“Not even when your son was at home?” Lina asked.
The Birkners looked at each other.
“Well, he . . . ,” began the man.
“This woman has him completely under her thumb. He does whatever she wants. He never would have moved into such a showy apartment on his own. But Katja insisted on it and Philip did her bidding.” Frau Birkner’s face had turned red and she was breathing heavily now, as if she wanted to emphasize her words. But then her color changed from one second to the next when she remembered that her son was dead. She collapsed and started to cry quietly. Her husband helplessly patted her back.
Max and Lina looked at each other.
“Can we call anyone to come and stay with you?” asked Berg.
Herr Birkner shook his head. “Not necessary. We’ll call Lukas right away and he’ll be here at once. He’s a good boy, just like Philip.”
Chapter 3
On the way to the car, Max’s phone rang. It was Reiner Hartmann.
“This might interest you. We found a receipt from the Waldschänke in the dead man’s wallet. That’s a bar very close to the crime scene. It’s from last night.”
“Thanks,” said Max and clicked the car doors open. “Did you already check his phone?” Those things were invaluable if you wanted to find out what someone was doing, what someone was interested in. Max could hear the rustling of papers.
“Of the last five calls he made, two were to a Tanja Fischer. They last talked at six o’clock last night.” Max jotted down the number. “I’ll send you the detailed list later.”
Dead Woods Page 2