“Thank you,” said Max. “Anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, did you find anything else? Any other clues? Fiber samples, fingerprints . . .”
“You must be joking! We just left the crime scene half an hour ago and you already want results? Are you dreaming?” Max could almost see Reiner Hartmann’s face in front of him. They had been classmates in the criminal justice training program and his colleague later specialized in forensics. Now, he was probably frowning and shaking his head.
“Okay, okay,” replied Max. “I know that it takes six weeks if we follow official channels. But is there any chance I could get some results before Christmas?” He looked at the sparkling blue sky. The long summer break would be over next week.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Did Sotny tell you when he’s doing the autopsy?”
“This afternoon. Wanna come?”
“No, thank you.” Max grimaced. He had attended an autopsy once and had nightmares for months afterward. He was content with reading the report when it was done or, even better, having Sotny explain the results in person. When it was just the two of them, the coroner could dispense with the jargon that rattles your brain while important information gets lost in a sea of words.
They ended the call without saying good-bye. Max looked at Lina, who was leaning against the car, her face to the sun.
“Now we know where Birkner was last night,” he said. “At the Waldschänke, in the Niendorfer Gehege.”
Lina turned to him. “I know that joint. They have concerts there regularly, sometimes far-out stuff.” She took out her phone and quickly found what she was looking for, and read aloud, “‘Ingenia. Indian sounds on western instruments. Familiar rhythms with exotic airs. Five musicians enchant and pleasantly confuse their audience with a crossover through time and space. Waldschänke. Show time at 7:30 p.m.’ Sounds intriguing.” She looked up. “Let’s head over there right now. We’ve got the picture his parents gave us.”
Max shook his head. “Birkner called a woman named Tanja Fischer shortly before the concert. Her name shows up on his call history quite often. I’ll try to locate her and have a chat.” He smiled. “And I’ll let Hanno know.”
Lina nodded. Hanno Peters was her immediate boss: early sixties, an easygoing hulk of a man who waited for his retirement and only left police headquarters when it was time to quit in the evening. The rest of the time he spent at his desk, “collecting threads,” as he called it. He would occasionally call a team meeting, but on the whole he gave his people a free hand.
“How do you plan to get there? We only have one car,” Lina asked.
“Drop me at the subway.” They changed seats and it took Lina awhile to adjust the seat and the mirror. Max was grinning. The next driver would be puzzled. Lina had to push the seat all the way forward and even then it looked as if she could barely reach the gas pedal.
“You didn’t tell me what Frau Ansmann told you about Philip’s bankruptcy,” Lina said after merging with the traffic.
“She said she didn’t know much about it. A crucial mistake was made. Birkner blamed Frank Jensen and then fired him. He gave him a lousy referral, which made Jensen mad at Birkner. Jensen apparently called his former boss on a regular basis for months, swearing at him.”
Lina checked the rearview mirror and signaled. “I bet she hated it that he lost his company. After all, she comes from such good stock.”
Max remained silent while they waited at a light. Maybe Lina had a point, but he didn’t want to strengthen her antipathy against Katja Ansmann. When they saw the subway station, he said, “You can stop over there.” Once he was outside, Lina waved and then she was gone, her head barely visible above the steering wheel.
It didn’t take long to reach the Niendorfer Gehege. She turned into the parking lot of the Waldschänke shortly after eleven. The forest lay on one side and on the other side were meadows, on which ponies from a nearby stable were grazing. On weekends, when the weather was good, the place was packed, but now only three vehicles were visible.
The restaurant didn’t open until 11:30, but from the kitchen one could hear the rattling of dishes. Lina walked around the wooden building to a side entrance and knocked. No response. She knocked again, louder. The door flung open. A huge man with a sweaty face towered over her and scrutinized her with knitted eyebrows. “We’re still closed. Why don’t you walk around for another hour?”
Before he could slam the door shut, Lina put a foot forward and flipped her badge. “Major Crimes, Hamburg. Homicide Division. I’d like to talk with your boss.”
The cook looked at her ID, then at Lina, and almost imperceptibly shook his head. “They’re hiring children now,” he mumbled under his breath before shouting, “Bertram! Somebody’s here from the police.”
The cook stood in the door until a man in black trousers, a white shirt, and a black vest appeared, drying his hands on a dish towel. When he saw Lina, he puckered his lips.
“Yes, hello. What’s the problem?”
Lina held her badge in front of his face, and the words Homicide Division produced the desired effect. Bertram grew pale, asked her in, and led her through the kitchen into the restaurant. A small podium served as a stage and to its right, in the background, was the bar. Small bistro tables in the middle of the room were framed by long tables along the walls. It was customary for guests who did not know each other to sit there together.
Originally, the Waldschänke had been a restaurant with a rustic atmosphere and down-home German cooking popular with hikers. Things changed after a new owner took over two years ago. The menu had become more international and instead of simply brewed coffee, a wide assortment of specialty coffees, drinks that really deserved to be called “special,” was offered now. The massive wooden beams were brightly varnished, and the heavy, dark tables had been replaced by lighter furniture. The room appeared larger and had a more urban look. Pictures of bellowing stags on the walls had been replaced with works by young artists. On weekends, and sometimes also on Thursdays, there were concerts or dramatic presentations that one would rarely find in more mainstream venues. The Waldschänke was well on its way to becoming an insider’s tip within the cultural scene of Hamburg.
Lina sensed the innkeeper scrutinizing her, but stayed focused. She knew that she looked less than commanding and that her faded jeans and rumpled T-shirts hardly met the image people had of an officer of the law. She was glad that the tattoo on her shoulder wasn’t visible. She had long gotten rid of the neon green strand of hair, right after joining the homicide squad. “Just imagine you’ve got to inform someone that a loved one has been killed,” Hanno Peters had told her on her first day. “You simply can’t show up like this. Just stop this adolescent nonsense.” She had been mad as hell at first, but when Hanno Peters was right, he was right. She could not close her eyes to rational arguments.
“Are you the owner of the Waldschänke?” she asked Bertram, who had still not introduced himself.
“Yes, Vogt. Bertram Vogt. How can I help you?”
“The body of a man was found near here this morning. He had a receipt from your place on him, from last night. Do you remember him?” She had taken out Philip Birkner’s photo and now showed it to Vogt.
“So that’s why police were everywhere this morning. Where did they find him?”
Lina gestured vaguely toward the forest. “Over there, behind the railway embankment.”
Bertram Vogt looked at the picture and tilted his head. “I really don’t know. I’m not good at remembering faces. It’s possible he was here, but I was behind the bar and from there I don’t see much of the guests.”
“What about your waiters? I’m sure you weren’t the only one working last night.”
“No, of course not. There were five of us; two behind the bar and three women serving the tables
. Jule and Sabrina should be here any minute. Antje is off today.”
“Who was behind the bar with you?”
“My wife, Ulrike. She’s also off today.”
“Good. I’ll wait for your employees,” Lina said and climbed onto one of the barstools. “I’ll also need the address where I could reach the third one—does Frau Antje have a last name?—and your wife.”
Bertram Vogt leafed through an address book behind the bar and gave her the information. Lina glanced yearningly at the espresso machine, which made the innkeeper laugh. “I’ll have to turn it on anyway. Would you like a coffee?”
Lina nodded. “That would be great. Was it very crowded last night?”
“We weren’t sold out, but it was a successful evening,” he said while he worked at the machine, which produced an infernal din. “What would you like? Espresso, cappuccino, latte macchiato—”
“An espresso, please,” Lina interrupted him before he could recite the entire litany from his coffee menu. “Can people purchase tickets in advance?”
“Yes, of course. We always do that. It helps us to get an idea how full we’ll be, even though we’ve never sold out in advance.”
“May I have a look at the list?”
“Sure.”
He pulled out another book, a calendar this time, and turned to the page for last night. “Here.” Then he busied himself with her espresso.
Just as he was putting the tiny cup on the counter in front of her, she found the name Birkner and a phone number next to it. Two tickets had been ordered under that name. “When was this order made?”
Bertram Vogt glanced at the list. “We started advance sales four weeks ago. I’d guess this entry was made a week ago, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Were you the one who took this reservation?”
“No. That’s my wife’s handwriting. Whoever is free to answer the phone writes the name, the number of tickets, and the telephone number under the date. Look, the handwriting is always different. This was written by my wife. This is Antje’s handwriting, and that—”
“That’s all right. I don’t need to know this,” Lina said before sipping her espresso, which was so hot and strong that she felt her brain finally jolt wide awake.
Bertram Vogt was about to close the book, but Lina put her hand on the open page. “I’m sorry if I was impolite. If I’d had your espresso before, it wouldn’t have happened.” She smiled and the innkeeper’s furrowed brow smoothed. “Could you make me a copy of this?” She fluttered her eyelashes, a trick she always found a little much but which always worked, or almost always.
The innkeeper flashed a smile and disappeared into a nook behind the bar, which probably served as an office. When he came back, Lina went through the list once more. “The name is crossed out. Does that mean the two tickets were picked up?”
“Not always. It means that we no longer have to hold on to them. He might have called and canceled, but that’s not likely. It can also happen that people order more tickets than they need.”
“So he could have been here alone?”
“Possibly, but who attends a concert alone?”
They heard voices from the kitchen. Assuming that the cook wasn’t talking to himself and using different voices, one of the other employees must have arrived. Lina looked at Bertram Vogt, who disappeared again. She heard his deep voice and shortly afterward two women came to the bar. That was lucky.
Jule Wollschütter looked like a typical business student. She wore her long blond hair in a braid. Sabrina Prost looked older, but maybe only because of her staid appearance. She was small and rotund, with short brown hair. She recognized Philip immediately.
“Oh sure, he sat back there,” she said and pointed to one of the long tables on the left of the entrance. “With two women.”
“Two women? Are you sure?” Lina asked.
“Well, anyway, he had a lively conversation with the one who sat next to him. They seemed to know each other, and the woman knew the other one.”
“Did the three arrive together?”
“Sorry, that I don’t know. Antje sat at the cash register last night.”
“Are you sure they knew each other? Could it be they just met by chance?”
Sabrina Prost thought about it. “Could be,” she conceded after a while. “However, the two of them, the man and one of the women, were pretty familiar with each other for people who just met. If you get my drift.”
Lina had an idea what the woman meant, but hunches didn’t go over well in a police report. “No, I don’t quite get it. What do you mean by ‘familiar’?”
“Well, they were making out with each other. Lost to the world.”
“And the second woman just sat there?”
“After a while, she wasn’t there anymore. Jule, did you see the second woman later?”
“No. I didn’t pay attention to any of that. My tables were the ones behind them. All I picked up on was that at the end of the evening both of them were plastered and couldn’t keep their hands off each other.”
“Who? The two women?”
“No, the man and one of them.”
“So this was one of your tables?” Lina asked Sabrina Prost. She wondered whether the server responded to every “Prost” she heard at work (unless the more international “Cheers!” was used at the new Waldschänke).
“Only as long as the box office was open. Then it belonged to Antje’s area.”
“So, it’s possible that the three arrived together, but equally possible that the man and the two women came here separately. The man and one of them talk with each other . . . very intimately . . . and at one point, the second woman disappeared. The couple remained. Am I right so far?”
“They even left together. Rather late. They were the last guests. And like I said, they were really drunk, both of them.”
“They weren’t just really drunk, they were totally wasted,” said Jule.
Lina looked from one to the other. Sabrina shrugged. “All right, they were excessively tipsy.” She grinned. “The boss doesn’t like to hear that his guests are plastered. Doesn’t fit with the ambiance he wants to maintain.”
“When did the two leave?”
The women looked at each other. “We were out of here at twelve,” Sabrina said. “That means that the doors were closed at half past. Which means, they left a little before eleven thirty.”
Jule nodded. “They were made to leave,” she added.
Lina silently went through the notes she had taken. “Were you able to catch any of their conversation?”
Sabrina shook her head. “I was busy early in the night since I also had Antje’s tables. Later on I was serving in a different section.”
“Could you give a description of the woman who was on such good terms with the man?” Lina asked.
“Hm. Long hair, but she wore it up,” Sabrina replied. “A mousy blond, I’d say. Maybe brown. Rather small; at least smaller than him.” She pointed at the photo.
“Did you notice anything else? Was she wearing glasses? Did she have piercings? Makeup?”
“No, I don’t think so. Nothing unusual.”
“Wait a moment,” Jule cut in. “She wore glasses, didn’t she? The kind you can’t easily see, with wireframes.” Jule rested her arms on the counter and continued, “And her hair was black, medium length. She wore a fleece jacket and jeans. And clunky shoes.”
“No, she didn’t have glasses. I’m quite sure,” replied Sabrina.
“Yes, she did. I swear!”
Lina rolled her eyes. What witnesses said was usually about as reliable as the weather report for the coming week.
“How old was the woman? What’s your guess?” Lina asked, trying to refocus the two women.
“Maybe thirty. Or . . . what do you think, Sabrina?”
Her colleague nodded. “Sounds about right.”
Lina finished her notes on what the two had told her and then closed her notebook. She slid off the barstool. Amazed, the two employees looked down at her. Lina suppressed a grin and handed a business card to each of them. “Thank you very much for your help. If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”
When Lina was in the parking lot, her stomach started rumbling. She briefly considered going back in and treating herself to a hot meal, but then thought that would be too much for breakfast. She looked at her watch and then checked her notebook, where she had marked down the addresses of Ulrike Vogt and Antje Niemann. Niemann lived nearby, so Lina decided to take a chance—and to stop at a bakery on the way there.
Not long after, with a chocolate croissant in a paper bag on the passenger seat, she was looking for the right house number in a little wooded neighborhood. All around her were multistoried redbrick buildings from the 1880s with large green lawns, parking lots, and those pathetic playgrounds that make children wither like marsh marigolds in the desert. Lina parked and followed a narrow footpath. She found 5C at the last entrance and the name Niemann on the top nameplate. She pressed the button. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. Finally she took out her phone and called the number Bertram Vogt had given her. While it was ringing, she looked around. A woman with a stroller was coming from the other end of the path, from the direction of a little pedestrian zone and the Tibarg Center. She stopped and started to fumble through her handbag. When she opened her cell phone, Lina heard a slightly hoarse voice say, “Yes, hello.”
“Frau Niemann? This is Lina Svenson from Major Crimes, Hamburg. I am standing in front of your building right now.”
The woman with the stroller looked up. She said nothing more, but flipped her mobile phone shut and slowly walked closer. Her black miniskirt revealed long, slender legs. Her tight top and lilac-colored jacket of artificial leather seemed to be a bit much for a Friday morning.
“What do you want?” she asked. Now, when she was standing directly in front of her, Lina saw the blue eye shadow and heavily applied mascara, which could not hide the tiredness in her eyes. Her hair was tied in a loose ponytail. The child in the stroller was sucking on a bottle and staring at Lina.
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