He climbed the steps to the second floor. A pot with geraniums stood on the windowsill of the landing, and next to it a watering can. There were three apartments on the second floor, all with the uniform nameplates of the building cooperative. Niels Hinrichsen’s apartment was the one in the middle.
When Max opened the door, he was greeted by a musty odor. The apartment looked gloomy and run-down. It was obvious that it hadn’t been painted in decades. Max walked slowly from room to room and tried to imagine the person who called this home. The entire apartment had gray linoleum floors. The only rug was a threadbare one in the living room. There wasn’t even a small rug in front of the bed. Judging by the pattern, the curtains were from the seventies—so they were modern again. The only furnishings in the living room were a sofa, two chairs, and a chest of drawers with a TV on top. A painfully awful oil painting of a bellowing stag hung on the wall. The right side of the couch, most likely Niels Hinrichsen’s favorite spot to watch television, was noticeably worn out. A neatly folded woolen blanket rested on the left side of the couch. The tiny kitchen next to the living room was little more than a kitchenette. It was reasonably tidy and clean. An unwashed, chipped plate sat on the counter and next to it, a knife with a smear of margarine. The floor was stained and covered with crumbs. In the bedroom, only one-half of a very old double bed was covered with linens. They hadn’t been changed in a while and exuded the biting odor of sweat and loneliness.
He opened the wardrobe and found clean pants and shirts on coat hangers and neatly folded pullovers. He located two pairs of shoes, size 43, on a lower shelf and underwear and socks in drawers. He discovered an old traveling bag on top of the wardrobe and put some of the clean clothes into it to bring to Niels Hinrichsen in the hospital.
He found a thick illustrated book, 2000 Plants, Text and Images, on a shelf in the living room. It too must have been from the seventies. The pictures had a blue cast and the pages were yellowed. It was an obviously often-read volume. Some pages were marked with bits of torn-out newspaper, and others were dog-eared.
The kitchen cupboards offered nothing interesting. A package of sliced bread, margarine. There were cheese and salami in the fridge. No steel pipe with traces of blood. No indication that Niels Hinrichsen had hidden other evidence here. Max briefly looked into the tiny, windowless bathroom. The sink and toilet bowl were old and cracked but, like the rest of the apartment, reasonably clean. Max took the toothbrush and toothpaste and added them to the other things in the bag.
When he left the apartment, he saw that the door to the right was ajar, though the security chain was attached. A gray-haired woman looked out suspiciously. In the background he could hear a radio playing elevator music.
“What’s your business in Herr Hinrichsen’s apartment?” She spotted the traveling bag and was about to slam the door. “I’ll call the police!”
Max brandished his badge and showed it to her. “Max Berg, Hamburg Major Crimes,” he said, introducing himself.
The woman scrutinized the badge skeptically. She was tall and skinny, and her gray hair was properly cut and combed.
“Did something happen to Niels?” she asked, looking at Max.
“He has a laceration, a cut on his head, and has to stay in the hospital for observation.” The woman’s first reaction had been to assume that something had happened to Niels Hinrichsen. She hadn’t asked whether he had done anything wrong, and now she looked alarmed. “It’s nothing serious. Don’t worry,” Max reassured her. Before she could ask more questions, he motioned to the apartment with his head. “Does he live here alone”—he glanced at the name tag next to her door—“Frau Meyer?”
Her expression brightened when he used her name and smiled. “Yes, ever since his mother died, eight years ago. He took care of her, as well he could, but he’s not the brightest, you know.”
“Does he do everything by himself, I mean keeping house and such?”
“You mean because the cleanliness isn’t up to scratch?” Actually Max had thought the opposite, that for a man with the mental capacity of a ten-year-old, who was taking care of himself, everything was quite as it should be. He nodded, nevertheless. “Well, more or less. He takes care of everything himself. I do his laundry, but he never changes when he should. Every now and then I mop through a little or clean his windows. Shopping, we do that together quite often. I tell him that I need him to help me carry my stuff and then I make sure that he buys some proper food for himself. He can’t cook, of course, but I bring him a plate of hot food every now and then, or he comes over for a meal.”
Max’s response was genuine. “That’s really nice how you care for him, Frau Meyer.”
“Well, you know, I promised his mother. She didn’t have it easy with the boy, and she was so worried what would happen to him once she was no longer around. He doesn’t have anyone else.” By now, she had released the security chain and had come out to the staircase. She was wearing a light, patterned summer dress and sandals and appeared to be a very lively person. “Who knows, otherwise the boy might have to be institutionalized, you know.”
“So are you his official caretaker?”
“Me?” The woman put a hand on her chest. “God forbid. No, we arranged that between us, Niels and I. When he gets mail from social services or whatever, he comes to me.” Then she frowned. “But what happened? You don’t just get a cut. Was he attacked?”
Max nodded slowly. “Something like that. But as I said, it’s nothing serious.” He smiled and asked, “Have you seen Herr Hinrichsen lately?”
Frau Meyer put a hand on her chin and wrinkled her brow. “Yesterday . . . was Monday. I was at the cemetery. And afterward, I walked around at the Aldi. I didn’t see him. Sunday. It was Sunday I saw Niels last. He came over for lunch—roast pork. You know, we both love that.”
“Did you notice anything unusual? Was Herr Hinrichsen maybe . . . nervous? Or did he tell you anything?”
“What do you mean?” The woman’s eyes got big. “You don’t mean about the dead man they found . . .” She put a hand over her mouth. “No way. No. You think Niels has something to do with the dead man? No, I’d never believe that, as long as I live.”
The poor woman was quite beside herself.
“Was Herr Hinrichsen in any way different on Sunday?” Max asked patiently. “Or did he behave differently the days before, if you saw him then?”
Frau Meyer was continuously shaking her head, less in a gesture of denial than one of disbelief. “No, he acted as always.” She looked at the door that Max had just closed. “Maybe he was a little excited, but I thought that was because of the horses.”
Max gave her an astonished look. “Horses?”
“Yes, the horses they have in the forest now, to help with the logging, I guess. The new forest ranger introduced that, the young know-it-all,” she added as explanation when Max still looked at her questioningly. “That was something new for Niels, and so he was quite excited when he saw the animals for the first time.”
Max remembered the two horses he had seen in the forest the day before. Niels Hinrichsen hadn’t seemed all that excited, but then again, he didn’t know the man. “So did he talk about the horses on Sunday?”
Frau Meyer reflected. “No, he didn’t, really. I noticed that he was very antsy, though. He could hardly sit still and wanted to go out into the woods again right away. And so I thought he wanted to look for the horses; even though they most likely wouldn’t work on a Sunday.”
Max nodded pensively, thanked her, and said good-bye. He had already turned away when the woman called after him, asking which hospital Niels Hinrichsen was in.
“In Eppendorf.”
“Eppendorf!” She said it as if only hopeless cases ended up at the university hospital and as if, by being sent there, a death sentence had been levied on Niels Hinrichsen.
Chapter 13
On Wednesday morn
ing, at ten after eight, Lina Svenson sat at her desk and yawned. She held on to her second cup of coffee and watched the computer come alive. Sometimes she wished she could also be switched on by the touch of a button. But then she’d need someone to press the button and she absolutely hated the idea of somebody else deciding when she should wake up.
She shook her head. She only had such idiotic ideas early in the morning when she was just seemingly awake. She checked her watch. Eight fifteen. Franziska Leyhausen was supposed to have been here at eight, but the doorman hadn’t called yet to announce her. Lina and Alex were going to interrogate her once more today, this time in one of the rooms with video and audio equipment. Alex had already put his head through the door and asked whether Lina had heard from the witness. She hadn’t.
He popped in again, and when Lina told him she had neither heard from nor seen Frau Leyhausen, he tried to reach her by phone. “Good morning. This is Franziska Leyhausen’s phone. Please leave a message or call my mobile phone at . . .”
It just so happened that the cell phone, destroyed almost beyond repair, lay in the forensics lab and thus could tell them nothing about the current whereabouts of the woman.
“I can’t believe it! She was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” With a stern expression, he added, “That’s unacceptable.”
Lina looked at her colleague with tiny, tired eyes. “Leave me alone. I was on time!” He was acting as if it was her fault when other people sleep in, when she herself had to struggle to get out of bed on time.
Alex calmed down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you at all. I’ll send a patrol car for her.” He disappeared into his office and left Lina alone.
She put down the coffee cup, yawned, pulled the keyboard closer, and signed in. She entered Franziska Leyhausen’s name, but didn’t get more information than last night. Thirty-four years old, single, one arrest three years ago in the Lüchow-Dannenberg district in connection with an incident involving a train carrying nuclear waste. No charges and no sentence. Last year she got a ticket for doing thirty-seven kilometers an hour in a thirty-kilometer zone—on her bike.
Lina leaned back and wiped her face. She didn’t care what her colleagues thought. She did not believe the biologist had anything to do with Philip Birkner’s death. Well, that wasn’t completely true. If she had not suggested the walk in the forest, if she hadn’t kicked him in the balls and then left him alone on the damp forest floor, Birkner most likely would still be alive today. But Lina could not imagine that Franziska Leyhausen was the one who beat Birkner to death.
She checked the time on the small clock on the computer. It was 8:27. The patrol car should report in soon.
Lina’s thoughts wandered to Katja Ansmann, who was still on her list of suspects, especially because the chief of police himself was blocking the investigation. The life insurance was at least one reason why Katja Ansmann might have wanted to see her domestic partner dead. And who knows, maybe she was even involved with the data theft. She puts Jensen or Vogler up to creating a gateway to the software, and she establishes contact with the rival company—what was it, Markman Solutions—if it hadn’t existed before. When Philip Birkner figures it out two years later, she has him eliminated.
Invigorated, Lina typed Markman Solutions into the police search interface. Bingo! The company was already under investigation for industrial espionage, which actually wasn’t that surprising. Lina scanned the sparse information that simply revealed that the victimized company, Wesseling & Kröger, had reported its competitor to the police two years ago and that the investigation was still ongoing. A Chief Inspector Marita Schön was listed as the contact person, and her extension was given. Lina picked up the phone and dialed.
“Schön,” said a high, clear voice. Lina had to smile about the meaning of the name: “beautiful.” How nice to be able to greet everyone that way. She introduced herself, explained what she was looking for, and gave her colleague the file number for the case.
“Just a moment,” she heard and then the clatter of a keyboard. “Here we are. Markman Solutions, alleged patent theft. What exactly do you want to know?”
“Did anyone check whether Markman Solutions made payments to the consulting firm Ansmann?”
“Whew!” Marita Schön exhaled audibly. “I’ve gone through piles of material, but I’m nowhere near the end.” Lina heard some more typing. “I’m basically the only one working on it, and it’s not my only case. It might take years. Oh, wait: Ansmann. What do you know? They do show up as business partners. Hold on.” The receiver was put down and Lina could hear soft music in the background. It took quite a long time, and Lina impatiently tapped her pencil against her notepad. Finally Marita Schön was back. “I have copies of the bills in front of me. The consulting firm Ansmann billed Markman Solutions a year and a half ago, twice, both times for the amount of ten thousand euro.”
“Do your records show what those payments were for?” Twenty thousand euro wasn’t an enormous sum, but maybe that wasn’t all.
There was a muffled rustling of paper. “General consulting activities, creation of a profile, employee training at head-of-department level . . . It all sounds legit. It wouldn’t have set off any warning bells. How’s your unit involved in the story?”
“The managing director of the consulting firm lived with the owner of the company that was responsible for the data leak, Philip Birkner. He’s the dead man from the Niendorfer Gehege.”
“Oh yes, Birkner. I’ve come across his name here, too,” said Marita Schön. “And he’s dead? Poor guy.” There was genuine regret in her voice. Lina tried to imagine the policewoman who could still muster that much empathy for a single victim. She was probably a quiet, unassuming woman, a little chubby, with glasses and a tendency to make herself invisible—someone who likes to hide behind her desk and loves to dig through dusty piles of documents.
Lina looked at the circled 20,000 on her notepad. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. “Okay, that was it,” she said. “If you come across the Ansmann name again, let me know.”
“Sure. Good luck.”
After hanging up, Lina pursed her lips. Did the connection between the Ansmann firm and Markman Solutions mean anything? Of course, firms nowadays use consultants for all kind of crap, for furnishing the office following the rules of feng shui—for the optimal placement of indoor plants—or determining the best time for weekly employee meetings. They book communication training sessions, creativity boosts, fitness training, and courses for healthy nutrition for their employees. But why did Markman Solutions engage Katja Ansmann, of all people? Consulting firms were hardly a rarity in Hamburg. On the other hand, twenty thousand euro seemed like chicken feed for a successful act of industrial espionage. Katja Ansmann wouldn’t have taken the risk for such a sum.
The connecting door to Hanno’s office opened and Alex looked in. “Leyhausen didn’t call you either, did she?” When she shook her head, he continued, “Our colleagues are there, but nobody is answering the doorbell. They’re going to go in, and Sebastian and I are driving there.” Before she could say anything, he added, “Hanno wants you to check out whether anyone has seen her . . . in her office, with this Daniel, with whoever you can think of.”
Before he was gone, she quickly asked, “Is a manhunt on?” He nodded and disappeared. Lina was staring at the gray door and felt queasy. She shook herself to clear her head and went for some more coffee.
Franziska Leyhausen had disappeared, so Katja Ansmann simply had to wait until later.
A call to the office cooperative in the Grindelviertel brought nothing. She spoke with Klaus Beck, the geologist she had talked with the day before. He had no idea where Franziska Leyhausen might be.
“Yesterday I put a note on her desk that she should contact you,” he said eagerly. “Didn’t you reach her last night?”
“I did, but I still have one or two questions.”
She could almost hear how the man gasped for air excitedly. “But she doesn’t have anything to do with this murder, does she? It can’t be, not Franka. I can’t imagine that at all.”
Lina ignored the comment. Most people can’t imagine that someone they know could have murdered somebody. This was even true for the tough guys around the Reeperbahn. (“Sure, the guy’s no shrinking violet, if you know what I mean, but to off someone? No, you must be wrong.”) Lina also asked Beck whether he knew any of her friends, male or female, but other than a Barbara, whose last name he didn’t know, he couldn’t think of anybody. Lina stifled a sigh, thanked him, and hung up.
She was about to dial Daniel Vogler’s number when Max came in with a wet umbrella in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
“Good morning,” he said, sounding friendly and serene as always.
Lina put down the phone and measured him, frowning.
“How do you manage it?” she asked.
Max stopped. He seemed irritated for a moment, something unusual. “How do I manage what?”
“Day or night, no matter where you are, you always look as if you’re fresh from a vacation and nothing can rattle you.”
Max was smiling. “Oh, that.” He put down his cup, opened the umbrella and placed it in a corner to dry. Then he sat down, clicked on his computer, and turned to Lina. “I meditate every day.”
“Come on, stop joking around. Spill it. What drugs are you on?”
“Home-grown endorphins.” Max grinned.
“How dare you so blatantly circumvent the law against narcotics?” Lina took a sip of coffee. With a sigh, she sat up straight and became serious.
“Franziska Leyhausen has disappeared,” she said and gave him a brief recap, including her fruitless phone conversation with Klaus Beck. “I was just going to call Daniel Vogler,” she said and picked up the phone again. But then she had an idea. “Are you free right now?” Max nodded warily. Such questions always needed to be faced guardedly, no matter who’s asking them. “How about coming with me to see this Vogler? He constantly pops up in our investigations. It’s about time we meet him in person.”
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