Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  ‘True. But with Bertram I’ve always felt his main goal in life was to make his dad’s blood boil. Anyway, he asked for money and when Wolfram wouldn’t help him, well, Caro thinks . . . but that just isn’t him.’ She eyed Dühnfort. ‘To be perfectly honest with you, if my father-in-law had been beaten to death and Bertram had no alibi, I might believe he’d done it. He’s aggressive and impulsive. But four days . . . no one could survive that. Even if Bertram had tied Wolfram to the radiator in some fit of rage, he would have let him go as soon as he’d come to his senses.’

  Dühnfort found that perspective intriguing. It tallied with his own thoughts. One aspect struck him, however, which he hadn’t previously considered. ‘Perhaps not. Was Bertram afraid of his father?’

  Barbara’s eyes widened. ‘Afraid?’

  ‘What would your father-in-law have done if Bertram had trapped him in the bathroom – let’s say overnight – and let him go the next day?’

  Babs Heckeroth’s brow, which had just furrowed anxiously, cleared. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you could guess.’

  She looked up. ‘Wolfram was a strong man. He never deferred to anyone, never ate humble pie, couldn’t take defeat. A humiliation like that . . . I don’t think he would have reported it. Probably he’d have disinherited Bertram. But it wasn’t him. He was at Katja’s. And heaven knows she’s got no reason to lie for him.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  She gave a quick laugh. ‘Oh dear, now I’ve gone and broken the Heckeroth Law! Never speak ill of the family . . . but you’d have found out anyway. Katja loved and admired Bertram, and she funded his extravagant lifestyle. But instead of waiting on her hand and foot he made fun of her, and when they were alone he hit her. I mean, I don’t know for sure.’ Babs raised her hands. ‘But since the separation . . . it’s remarkable how she’s stopped bumping into wardrobes and falling down stairs.’

  Babs put her hands on the table. ‘I don’t like Bertram. But I don’t think he killed his father. Caro says . . .’ Babs glanced at the envelope.

  Voices could be heard in the corridor. Albert showed the man from the funeral parlour out and came into the kitchen. He greeted Dühnfort, who explained the purpose of his visit and pointed at the thick envelope. Albert stared at him. ‘You’re not trying to say . . . I mean, my father didn’t do anything criminal, did he?’

  Dühnfort slid out the photographs. ‘We don’t know. Your brother thinks your father convinced these women to pose. He called him a master manipulator.’

  Albert’s eyes flew up. ‘A manipulator? That’s what he said?’ He went over to the fridge, took out a carton of orange juice, poured himself a glass and drank it down in a single go. Then he returned to the table. ‘You think one of these women might have come for payback?’ He picked up the photos.

  ‘It’s one lead we’re following. Could you help us put names to faces?’

  Albert sat down and examined each of them carefully, his expression impassive. Now and again he put one aside. When he was finished, he sorted them into two small piles and picked up one picture after the other. ‘Rebecca Engelhardt. She took the same Italian course as Dad. I bumped into them together in the stairwell shortly after Mum’s funeral.’ The next picture landed on the table. ‘Hannelore Graf. Dad’s last receptionist. She quit before I took over the practice.’ He took the next one. ‘Elisabeth Weiß.’ The sinews in Albert’s neck stood out. ‘She’s the daughter of my mother’s best friend. She can’t have been more than eighteen at the time, and my father was over fifty!’ He slapped the photograph on the pile. ‘Irene Schönhofer. Must have been the early eighties. Her husband owned the bakery opposite.’ Albert turned to the other pile. ‘These faces seem familiar. Some were receptionists, I think. I’d have to go through the old files, then I could probably give you names and tell you what their addresses were at the time. Is it urgent?’

  ‘It would be great if you could manage it quickly.’ Dühnfort took his leave, pausing at the door to ask Albert for the key to his father’s apartment. He felt the urge to have another look around. Leaving the car on Kaiserstraße, he walked the short stretch to Kurfürstenplatz.

  The air in the flat was stale. A tram squeaked to a halt at the stop outside. Dühnfort went into Heckeroth’s study and switched on the PC. The computer was password protected. In a drawer was an address book, which he took out and leafed through. At a rough estimate it contained more than a hundred names and addresses, many of them women. He clapped the book shut and pocketed it.

  In another drawer he found a box covered in Venetian paper. It gave off a faint breath of perfume as he opened the lid. The box was full of envelopes. White, baby blue, lilac and ivory. Dühnfort drew one out. It contained two letters: one from a woman who had signed it Your sweetie, always, plus a copy of Heckeroth’s reply. Strange. Dühnfort thumbed through several other envelopes, nearly all of them containing a copy of the reply. Why had Heckeroth kept duplicates of his letters? The power of words. Were these letters an extension of the photographs?

  Dühnfort took out one letter after another, scanning for names. None revealed more than a pet name – sweetie, star, princess – and certainly no addresses. Wrapping the paper around the box once more, he put it back. There was a row of file folders on the bookcase. They contained tax returns for past years, bank statements and phone bills. A few contained documents about the building. Tenancy contracts, maintenance invoices, mortgage documents. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  A key turned in the door of the apartment, and a moment later the door clicked open. Dühnfort went into the hall. A plump woman with curly blonde hair was coming towards him. She carried a basket full of ironed laundry, which she nearly dropped when she saw Dühnfort. Within a split second, however, every muscle and sinew straining, she demanded, ‘What are you doing here? I’ll scream the house down if you come a step closer.’ She took a breath, her body tensing still further. Dühnfort was afraid she might start screeching at any moment. Taking his ID out of his pocket, he held it up. ‘Mrs Kiendel? Relax, I’m one of the good guys.’

  ‘My goodness.’ She directed an appraising glance at the ID card, then at him. ‘I would have pictured an inspector differently,’ she said, a smile broadening across her face.

  ‘So you are Mrs Kiendel?’

  The woman nodded. ‘I just wanted to bring the laundry in.’ She explained that she’d taken it out of the basket in the bathroom last Monday and washed and ironed it. ‘I mean, he doesn’t need it any more, but I still want to put it away.’

  Dühnfort suggested they sit down, guiding her into the dining room. She put down the basket and sat opposite him at the table. Of course she’d known, she said, that Heckeroth was driving down to the lake. Yes, and when he’d be back. She was also the one who’d first noticed her landlord hadn’t come home. Dühnfort asked whether Heckeroth had any enemies, or had quarrelled with anyone.

  ‘No. Definitely not.’ She brushed the dyed-blonde curls vigorously back from her forehead. ‘He was a lovely man, a real gent. When my husband left me, I couldn’t afford the apartment any more. So Mr Heckeroth suggested lowering the rent in exchange for me helping with the housework. Just to take the strain off his wife. I mean, she was seriously ill. Any other landlord would have been thinking about getting next month’s rent on time. But Mr Heckeroth wasn’t like that. Always nice, he was. He was quite happy to tutor my daughter in French, free of charge. Otherwise she would have been held back last year. He really was a lovely man. They should lock up the scum who killed him and throw away the key.’

  ‘Was there a specific reason why you phoned Heckeroth on Saturday?’

  ‘We didn’t speak on Saturday.’

  ‘But there was a call made from your line that day.’

  She shook her head almost imperceptibly. ‘Perhaps Franziska, my daughter, phoned him. I don’t know why, but . . . although, she had to make a presentation in French. Maybe she wanted him to hear her . . .’ Her eyes misted.
‘But that doesn’t matter now.’

  He remembered that Gina had mentioned an accident. ‘I’m sorry. I hear your daughter’s in the hospital.’

  She interlaced her hands. ‘Ten days ago. Some eighteen-year-old who’d just got his licence simply turned a corner without looking at the cycle path. He knocked her clean off the bike, and the stupid child wasn’t wearing a helmet. I kept telling her not to cycle without a helmet . . .’ Two deep furrows appeared between her eyebrows. ‘She’s still unconscious, as the doctors put it. They’re too cowardly to say coma. But you don’t make a bad thing better by not calling a spade a spade.’

  *

  Caroline needed fresh air. She opened the window. It was two hours since the policewoman had left, but she was still reeling from the sight of her father’s trophy collection. What made her almost queasy was the fact that her father had been carrying on not just with his receptionists but with her classmates. In one picture she’d recognised Sabine. Thankfully her mother wasn’t alive to see this. At least Dad had been discreet enough to hide the album safely. Caroline was sure of that: no one in the family had ever seen it.

  If the police’s suspicions were true and one of the women had taken revenge . . . the press would have a field day. Caroline could practically see the headlines. Doctor Sex: Pervert Gets His Due. Or Murdered Paediatrician Revealed As Sex Pest.

  It couldn’t be allowed to happen. Caroline groaned and massaged her temples. She tried to think clearly. There was about one photo per year in Dad’s collection. The last two women had seemed to her like prostitutes, posing professionally for the camera with calculating gazes.

  Neither of them would have reason to seek revenge. So if the motive was hidden in the album, the event that triggered it must lie at least two years back. Were people so keen for revenge after such a long time? Probably not. Alibi or not, somehow Bertram must have got Katja to cover for him.

  She needed clarity. Picking up her bag and Burberry jacket, Caroline went outside to her secretary. ‘I’m going out for an hour.’

  ‘Are you coming back? Or should I give you the documents for your flight to Frankfurt?’

  Caroline assured Tanja that wasn’t necessary. She would definitely be back in the office before then. In truth she wasn’t really in the mood for the Global Marketing Conference in Frankfurt: eighty per cent of it would be listening to alpha males who thought they were incredibly important talk utter bollocks. But she’d already registered.

  Caroline had Tanja call a taxi. During the journey she wondered how to begin the conversation with Katja, the spoiled daughter of rich parents who had bought their child a worry-free life – and funded Bertram’s all-expenses-paid jaunt, for a while.

  Arriving at Wiener Platz, Caroline first glanced into the gallery. On the walls hung large oil paintings, all deep blue, nearly black. Glowing patterns were painted in fine brushstrokes, reminding Caroline of the sea and sky. She opened the door and went inside. There was a soft tinkling sound, and Katja emerged from the back room, where she had her office. She was a petite, slender person who, like Bertram, preferred to wear black. Today she was clad in a figure-hugging jumper, tight trousers and ballet flats. Her platinum-blonde pixie cut was artfully tousled, bright as her pale blue eyes against all that black. ‘Caro? How are you? So dreadful about Wolfram.’ Katja hugged her, air-kissing left and right.

  ‘I’m all right.’ Caroline unbuttoned her jacket.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Good question. ‘I need a gift, and I’d like to see what you’ve got.’

  Katja showed her the pictures and explained the technique. The patterns weren’t painted, they were scratched out of layers of colour. Once Caroline had seen all of them, they went into the back room, where other paintings stood. Katja’s office was a large, windowless room illuminated by a row of ceiling lights. Two leather sofas faced each other in the corner. White, like the floors, ceilings and walls. ‘Tea?’ asked Katja.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Caroline took off her Burberry jacket and draped it over one armrest.

  ‘Strong Women? Balance? Harmony of the Soul?’ Katja held up three packets of tea. ‘Sorry. I only have these Ayurvedic teas.’ She shrugged apologetically.

  Why did it seem like every other sentence was an apology? A bit more self-confidence would do her good. ‘Strong Women sounds good.’ Caroline put her handbag on the coffee table and took a look around as Katja filled the kettle. More South Sea pictures leaned against one wall. Caroline browsed through them. She liked them, and considered whether she might actually buy one. The last one was damaged, a diagonal cut slicing through the canvas. The edges were smooth and precise, as if made with a scalpel.

  Katja put the tray on the low table and poured the tea. Caroline sat down next to her.

  ‘This murder . . . it’s awful,’ began Katja. ‘Your father was such a nice, funny man. I can hardly believe he’s dead. And the way he died was so appalling . . .’

  ‘Yes, it’s terrible. I’m glad Albert’s taking care of the formalities. I couldn’t do it. Are you coming to the funeral on Friday?’

  Katja’s eyes widened and her lips paled. She nodded. Bravely, it seemed to Caroline. No wonder. She could hardly relish the idea of seeing her abusive ex-husband. Especially if he was forcing her to give him an alibi.

  ‘I’m almost embarrassed to ask you this. Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s not out of curiosity or voyeurism . . .’

  As Katja approached her question, Caroline decided that confrontation would be the best way to get the truth out of Katja. If Bertram were blackmailing her, she certainly wouldn’t admit it. She wasn’t that stupid. But her reaction would give her away.

  ‘Do the police have any leads?’ Finally the question saw the light of day.

  Caroline nodded. ‘They have two concrete avenues of investigation. First, they’ve proved my father had certain sexual preferences that weren’t entirely socially acceptable. They found . . .’ At the thought of the album, everything inside Caroline churned.

  ‘The police found the album?’ asked Katja

  ‘You knew about it?’

  ‘Bertram told me.’

  ‘Bertram?’ Caroline couldn’t understand it. ‘When?’

  ‘Early on in our marriage. I genuinely liked your father, and Bertram knew it. Well, you know how they felt about each other. He couldn’t stop himself ruining the image I had of him, so he told me about the photo collection. After that I saw Wolfram through different eyes, although I didn’t think it was all that perverted. Once it would have been completely unacceptable. But these days . . . and if the women consented.’

  It was incredible. Not only the mere fact that Bertram had known this about their father for years and kept silent, but also the matter-of-factness with which Katja accepted his perverse inclinations.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.’

  If she says she’s sorry one more time I don’t know what I’ll do, thought Caroline. She took a breath. So Bertram had known about the pictures and used that knowledge to lay a false trail: a body tied up with belts. The police were bound to follow that lead. ‘No problem.’ Caroline had quickly regained her composure. ‘It just goes to show how little we know our parents.’ She shrugged her shoulders airily.

  ‘But why do they think the album’s a clue?’ asked Katja.

  ‘Perhaps they weren’t all doing it voluntarily?’

  ‘And now the police think one of them has paid him back?’ Katja’s eyes registered astonishment. Had it never occurred to her that people could seek revenge? Katja fidgeted on the sofa. ‘And the other lead?’

  ‘Bertram, of course.’

  Katja jumped. Her eyes flitted to the stack of paintings against the wall. ‘Whatever gave them that idea?’

  Her surprise didn’t sound very convincing. ‘It stands to reason. Who profited from his death? That’s the first question they ask.’

  ‘But you’re going to profit from it too. And Albert.�
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  ‘Unlike Bertram, we don’t have any financial troubles.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think . . . ? I mean, yes, he’s in a spot of bother . . . but you can’t possibly think he did it.’

  Caroline couldn’t understand it. ‘Why are you protecting him? He lived off your money for years, and instead of being grateful he beat you.’

  ‘How can you—’

  ‘Speak the truth? Do you think I wouldn’t notice?’

  Suddenly Katja looked even smaller. ‘You don’t understand.’

  But Caroline did. It must have been humiliating. A disgrace like a birthmark she couldn’t wash off. The man she loved had abused her. Katja would have blamed herself, of course. Frankly it was a miracle she’d taken the leap and gone through with the divorce. ‘Yes. I do understand.’ Caroline leaned towards Katja. ‘He deceived you. Like all of us. He’s a conman. But you’re rid of him now.’ Katja flinched, almost imperceptibly. So she wasn’t rid of him. He must have tried to get money out of her too. But if Caroline knew Katja’s father, he wasn’t about to stuff a pile of cash into his ex-son-in-law’s pockets. After all, not only had he let down his princess, he’d hit her. ‘Bertram will lose the house if he doesn’t pay the tax he owes. But he doesn’t have that problem any more.’

  Katja’s eyes sparkled. ‘You’re wrong. He was with me.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Is he threatening you?’

  Katja sprang to her feet. ‘Are you completely insane?’ Her eyes darted back to the paintings.

  And now Caroline understood.

  The gallery was Katja’s pride and joy. She had built it, and it was doing remarkably well. She had achieved something, however, that was easily destroyed. Just as in her own profession, reputation was everything in the art world. And how much was a gallery owner’s reputation worth if she couldn’t keep safe the paintings of the artists she represented? If some madman could just march in and slash them? Nothing.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Caroline got out of a taxi in Kurfürstenplatz. She paid the driver and entered the building. All the children still had a key to the flat. It was what her mother had wanted, a sign that this was their home, that they were always welcome. Caroline unlocked the door and went inside. The flat smelled abandoned. Silence filled the rooms. She felt a lump in her throat. Swallowing it down, she started to look around.