Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  ‘Who knew he was going to the cabin on the lake, and how long he’d be there?’

  Albert paused to think. ‘I knew about it. So did my wife, and Caroline and Mrs Kiendel. She has the attic apartment, and cleans for him. And he would have told his chess partner, Karl von Schmitten. I think that’s everyone.’

  ‘And Bertram.’

  ‘Bertram? I doubt it. They’re not often in touch.’

  More often than Albert realised, thought Dühnfort. After all, Bertram and Heckeroth had been barbecuing together the previous Sunday. Evidently Heckeroth hadn’t mentioned it to Albert when he came by one day later to repair the drain. ‘I’d like to take a look round the apartment. Could you give me the key?’

  Albert accompanied Dühnfort to Kurfürstenplatz. The narrow building lay between a bank and an optician’s. Stuccoed writing on the side wall declared the year it was constructed: 1922. Near the bottom of the wall was a bright piece of graffiti, red, outlined in black. Zero. A wrought-iron gate barred entry to the rear courtyard. Dühnfort followed Albert into the house. On the stairs they met Gina. ‘Everybody knew that Heckeroth was going to his cabin. At least, everyone I’ve been able to ask so far,’ she said.

  They stopped outside the apartment door. Albert handed Dühnfort the key. ‘What are you looking for in there?’

  ‘We’re not looking for anything. We’re just getting a few impressions.’ Dühnfort took the key and unlocked the door. Albert hesitated a moment, then excused himself and left.

  The flat was big. Three bedrooms, living room, study, kitchen, two bathrooms and a loo. Sealed parquet flooring, high stuccoed ceilings, stylish antiques. Chintz curtains billowed, oriental carpets deadened their steps, and framed engravings decorated the walls. On a chest of drawers in the living room stood four silver-framed photographs. One was of Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth. A full face with determined features, an imperious gaze and a bulbous nose. Those were the traits that registered with Dühnfort. Beside Heckeroth stood a woman, probably his deceased wife. His arm was wrapped possessively round her shoulders. From another frame, two boys laughed at Dühnfort, freckly twins in rugby tops. Next to that was a photo of Albert and his wife. The last photograph was of a young woman. She wore a dark suit with a white blouse, and had the same greyish-blue eyes as the elder Heckeroth. Presumably that was Caroline. The only person missing from the family altar was Bertram.

  Dühnfort heard Gina pottering around in the kitchen. He went into the study. Bookcases spanned floor to ceiling, and an enormous desk sat in the middle of the room. The modern PC on top of it seemed oddly out of place. On a table by the window was a chessboard, the pieces set up for a game not yet begun. In the guest room Dühnfort opened the wardrobe. In one half were boxes of Christmas decorations and old glasses. The other half was empty. The next room must have been the late Mrs Heckeroth’s, as her things were in the wardrobe. A framed photograph stood on the writing bureau. It depicted a bearded young man with an impish grin. While with Albert it was impossible to say whether he looked more like his father or his mother, here the resemblance was clear. This must be Bertram, who definitely took after his mother. A smaller picture of him was on the bedside table. In this one he was older. The beard was gone, the hair thinner, and a bald spot gradually becoming apparent. The impishness had vanished from his face, replaced by a guarded expression.

  Dühnfort left the room and went down the corridor to the last room. In it was a double bed made of cherry wood, with matching nightstands, a large wardrobe and a chest of drawers. Heckeroth’s bedroom.

  A hint of lavender wafted out as Dühnfort opened the wardrobe. Shirts and suits, a summer coat and dinner jacket were arranged on the hangers in an orderly fashion. In the top of the chest of drawers were underwear and socks, polo shirts and pullovers. In the lower drawers were several shoeboxes. When Dühnfort slid them aside, he noticed a photo album. Taking it out, he sat down on the edge of the bed and began to leaf through.

  All of a sudden he got the sense that he was nearing something important. The album contained about forty photographs. The first ones were black and white, with a tint of brown. In the background Dühnfort saw a daybed, the kind common in consulting rooms. A few black-and-white images followed, then colour photographs. Some were bleached, others yellowed. These, too, seemed to have been taken at a doctor’s office. A metal cupboard with glass doors appeared in some of them. In others a skirt draped over a chair intruded into the picture. Very short, with a pop-art pattern. Sixties. Then, polaroids. Images that developed themselves. He had remained loyal to this type of photography, although the rooms changed. Suddenly they no longer looked like doctor’s offices; these appeared to be hotel rooms.

  All the photographs were of the same thing. A naked, bound woman. Dühnfort looked up and took a deep breath. Then he studied the faces.

  Some gazed coquettishly into the camera, others shyly, as if ashamed. Some were staring at the floor, and two seemed to Dühnfort to be drunk or under the influence of drugs. Some were lying on the daybed, their faces averted. But all were much the same type: small, plump, dark-haired and very young.

  *

  She switched on the dishwasher, fetched her sketching pad and sat down at the kitchen table. Absurd of her to be surprised. Albert might not be able to stand his brother – had said barely a word to him all year, in fact – but she should have known he wouldn’t badmouth him in public. You had to keep up appearances. The Heckeroth family had been living in the area for thirty years, and the façade was important. Their dirty laundry was no one’s business, not even the police’s. But there was no time to brood – she had six days left to come up with a draft. Babs reached for a pencil.

  Albert came back. The key squeaked in the lock, and the door banged. She glanced into the corridor. He hung up his coat and stood in front of the rack, staring into the mirror for several seconds before leaning his head against it. It broke her heart. She hadn’t liked Wolfram, but Albert had loved him, and at that moment she understood what his father’s death meant to him. She went over and put her arms round him. As she did so, she felt his body stiffen. ‘If only I’d gone to check on him sooner.’

  She stroked his hair, just as she did with the children. ‘You said yourself he’d been lying dead in the bathroom for several days. Even if you’d gone first thing yesterday, it wouldn’t have made any difference. It’s not your fault.’

  He looked up. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’ He drew away.

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘Well, this outburst.’ He said it as though he were ashamed. Boys didn’t cry, and they didn’t show any emotion either. That’s how Wolfram had brought up his kids. Success was all that counted. Albert went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of mineral water, which he drank standing at the window. He took several deep breaths. It was what he always did when he was tense and wanted to calm down. His shoulders lowered.

  She glanced at the clock. The boys would be back in less than an hour, and she still had no idea how to break the news gently about their granddad. ‘Can you tell Noel and Leon what happened? I can’t do it.’

  Albert took her hand. ‘Of course, pet. I understand. You don’t want to shatter their happy little world. But there is such a thing as evil, and cruelty, as well as unjustness and malice. They’ve got to learn that.’

  *

  Dühnfort asked Gina to do the Caroline Heckeroth interview, while he drove to Harlaching to see Bertram. An area where doctors, consultants, designers and film people lived. It wasn’t far to Geiselgasteig, where the studios were. Large houses hid behind hedges and walls, inside extensive gardens. Most of the driveways were under video surveillance, and signs warned to beware of dogs.

  The photo album under his arm, Dühnfort got out and inspected the house. It was split into two connected parts made of concrete, glass and steel: a flat block and a cube. The style and choice of materials reminded Dühnfort of Mies van der Rohe, although he would have chosen a more suitable environm
ent for such a house instead of forcing it onto this tiny plot.

  An orange VW Porsche 914 was parked on the driveway. The car had to be a solid thirty years old, but wasn’t especially well cared-for. It reminded Dühnfort of his Uncle Freddy, his mother’s brother. He’d bought a similar Porsche in the seventies. In those days Freddy was a muscle-bound chap with the looks of a young Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire and the airs of a Hollywood star. He worked down the docks, but women still flocked to him. Freddy had proudly unveiled his car to the family. ‘If you can afford a Porsche then buy one, otherwise don’t bother,’ Dühnfort’s father had said. ‘This is just ludicrous.’ Freddy was only dissuaded from violence by the intervention of his girlfriend.

  Grinning at the memory, Dühnfort went up to the front door. Four holes in the concrete indicated that a sign had hung there until recently. A company plaque, judging by the size. Dühnfort pressed the bell. Shortly afterwards a stocky man with a short neck and bald head answered the door. He wore black jeans and a black turtleneck. Dühnfort introduced himself.

  ‘So you’re working on my father’s murder, then?’ Bertram Heckeroth spoke matter-of-factly, as if making a planning application. His designer glasses only partially hid the worry lines between his brows. His mouth was tense. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  Dühnfort followed him down the long corridor into a large room inside the cube, which was part office and part workshop. There were two workspaces, both with computers. Beyond them, under a narrow window, was a large plastic desk. A stack of papers sat beside a laptop. On one work surface was a tower of blue polystyrene blocks, as well as tools for building models. On the wall hung plans and sketches.

  Bertram led Dühnfort to a plastic table that was surrounded by four metal chairs. ‘Please.’ He gestured towards a chair. Dühnfort sat down and placed the album on the table. Bertram’s gaze fell on it. For a brief moment, his eyes widened behind his glasses.

  ‘Nice house you’ve got. Did you design it yourself?’

  Bertram looked up. ‘Not just designed. I built it, too.’ His shoulders tightened. ‘It’s in the tradition of the Masters’ Houses in Dessau. But it’s a new development on the Bauhaus concept, bringing it into the twenty-first century. If you get what I mean.’

  The house had struck Dühnfort more as a copy than a development. But he wasn’t there to talk about architecture. ‘We found this album in your father’s apartment. Do you recognise it?’

  If Bertram was surprised at this abrupt change of tack, he didn’t let it show. ‘It’s a photo album. Probably family portraits.’

  Dühnfort slid it across the table. Bertram sat down and leafed through the pages, his face expressionless. His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and threw a glance at the display. ‘Excuse me, this will only take a moment.’ Taking the call, he got up and left the room, indicating with his fingers he’d be two minutes.

  Dühnfort looked around. On one wall hung large-format photographs of an industrial building. On closer inspection he realised it was a dairy. A model of a high-rise block stood on the sideboard below. It looked delicate and frail. Dühnfort wondered what had given him that impression. Probably the swelling near the base, bulging out of the building like an abscess. Two minutes were up. Dühnfort went down the corridor to the living room, where he could hear Bertram’s voice, and opened the door.

  ‘It’s only two or three weeks.’ Bertram sounded indignant. He stood with his back to Dühnfort, gazing out of a floor-to-ceiling window at the grey clouds. ‘Then they’ll read the will and the house . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘For the German can only sleep behind a hedge of paragraphs. Heine, in case that means anything to you. I don’t think this is up to you, anyway. Your boss will decide.’ He hung up. ‘Pen-pusher.’ Bertram turned round. For a split second he looked surprised. Then he shrugged. ‘You’d find out sooner or later. I’m an excellent suspect. You’d better arrest me right now.’ He stretched out his arms, crossed his wrists and walked up to Dühnfort.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No handcuffs? I’m disappointed.’

  Dühnfort loathed this sort of theatre. ‘What am I going to find out sooner or later?’

  Bertram lowered his arms. ‘I owe quite a lot of tax,’ he said, his demeanour like an innocent child’s. ‘So this inheritance comes not a moment too soon, as you’ve already heard. Only, this officious . . . this financial official won’t grant me an extension on the payment.’

  ‘How much?’

  Bertram’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. ‘Seizing the television ain’t going to cover it. Frankly, it’s all an absurd problem of timing. Two projects are as good as signed. Then I’ll pay the tax out of petty cash.’

  ‘You work alone?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The plaque that’s been removed by the front door.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I’m wondering what that’s about, and the two deserted workspaces in your office as well, of course.’

  Bertram flung open his arms in a gesture of innocence. ‘All right, fine. My company’s gone into insolvency. So yes, now I work alone.’

  ‘Your problems are a little bigger than that, I’d say. At the moment the house is collateral?’

  A vein appeared at Bertram’s temple. ‘Let’s leave that. Forcing an auction will take longer than reading a will. The Revenue will have to be patient. And you’re on the wrong track anyway. Of course it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Good.’

  Surprise registered on Bertram’s face.

  ‘Policemen are hunter gatherers. At the moment I’m gathering. I’d like your key to the cabin and then your alibi.’

  ‘It was a joke, you know. I didn’t really kill my father. I think it was a robbery. At least, that’s what Caroline said.’ Bertram reached into his trouser pocket, drew out a bunch of keys, took one off the ring and handed it to Dühnfort.

  ‘We’re exploring every possibility. So I’d like to know where you were last Monday evening between eight and half nine.’

  ‘I’ll have to check.’ They went back into the office. Bertram flicked through his calendar. ‘Monday evening I was at my ex-wife’s. Her name’s Katja Rist, and she has a gallery on Wiener Platz. I’m sure it was after nine by the time I left.’ He put the calendar down.

  ‘When did you last see your father?’

  Bertram stuck his hands into his trouser pocket. ‘Last Sunday. I cycled up to the lake. The weather was lovely, a glorious late summer’s day. Dad got the idea we should have a barbecue. So we did.’

  ‘You got on well with your father?’

  ‘I could have got on with him better,’ replied Bertram. ‘He never accepted my lifestyle, or my choice of career. In his eyes all I’d done right was choose a decent wife. But then we got divorced. And that didn’t suit him, of course.’

  ‘Why did you go to see him at the lake? It’s quite a distance.’

  ‘I cycle whenever I can. It was beautiful that day, perfect for a bike ride. And why not go to the lake?’

  ‘You’re in financial difficulties. If I’ve understood correctly, the tax authorities are already moving to auction your house . . .’

  ‘You misunderstood me. The esteemed bureaucrats will have to wait until after the will is read.’

  ‘But you couldn’t have known that then. Did you ask your father for money last Sunday?’

  ‘That’s not relevant.’ Bertram drew his hands out of his trouser pockets and rested against a chair. ‘I’ve already listened to what you’ve got to say. Are you seriously considering me as a suspect? If so, then please read me my rights.’

  ‘As I said, I’m gathering.’ Dühnfort picked up the album. ‘Do you know these women?’ He slid it across the table.

  ‘Some. But I haven’t seen the album before, and I had no idea what games my father was playing with his women. Doesn’t surprise me, though. He loved power.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible these women weren�
�t acting of their own free will . . .’

  Heckeroth laughed. ‘You don’t know my dad. He could sell pork knuckle to vegetarians and dildos to nuns. I’m sure he convinced his playmates it was a turn-on to be humiliated like that. If there’s one thing you should know, it’s that my father was a master manipulator.’

  *

  His mobile began to beep as Dühnfort was getting into the car. He recognised Agnes’s number, but didn’t pick up. The words up for it still sat uneasily in his belly, like queasiness after a boozy night.

  At the beginning of their liaison four months earlier, she’d told him explicitly what he knew anyway: it was the wrong time for a relationship. Her husband and daughter had died in a house fire. Not until a year after the event had she been capable of resuming her life. And then a letter from her husband had torn apart in minutes this carefully built foundation. He’d written to her before the fire, arranging for it to be delivered once she was over the worst of her grief. In the letter he confessed to the murder of his daughter and to his own suicide. He blamed Agnes, who had left him and triggered the catastrophe. It had affected her deeply, of course, and she’d been struggling with the guilt ever since. It was the wrong time for new love.

  His mobile fell silent. Dühnfort slipped it back into his top pocket, placed the album on the passenger seat and made a decision. These women had to be found. A few were tied up with belts, exactly like Heckeroth. Perhaps it was coincidence; perhaps not.

  A master manipulator, thought Dühnfort. How much do we really know about our parents? It struck him that all he knew of his own father was the surface – that he’d never really taken to fidelity, which had been one reason why his parents’ marriage failed. The album struck Dühnfort as an arsenal of evidence, proof, corroboration. But for what? Were these images a kind of treasure trove for his old age, one he could dip into during grey hours of boredom and confirm his conquests to himself, remind himself he’d once been a sexually active man with the strength and vigour to live out his obsession? Mementos against fading masculinity, against age? The last images, however, showed that the obsession wasn’t only a thing of the past.