Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  *

  Dühnfort’s first visit was to the office of Alexander Maybusch, the notary who had signed the will. It was located near the Müller’sches Volksbad, in a magnificently renovated art-nouveau building with a view over the Isar. By the time he left he’d learned that the will had not yet been read, nor had the inheritors been given copies: the only existing copy had been sent to Heckeroth senior. Maybusch had also explained that, as far as he knew, Heckeroth hadn’t told anyone about the new will, preferring to avoid an argument while he was alive.

  Dühnfort drove to Wiener Platz, reaching Katja Rist’s gallery around half eleven. Before he went inside, he took a deep breath. This wasn’t his fault. When he’d spoken to Bertram yesterday, there’d been no indication he was suicidal – he’d been as arrogant as ever. He must have got hold of the will after their conversation at the station. If he’d arrested him straight away . . . but he’d had no reason to. Dühnfort shook himself and went into the gallery.

  There was a soft tinkle. Katja Rist, clad in a black suit, was standing in the exhibition space, staring at the wall. A painting leaned against a stepladder. Turning round, she jumped almost imperceptibly as she recognised Dühnfort. ‘More questions?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Can we go into your office?’

  She nodded and walked ahead of him. Her outfit didn’t suit her, making her seem even smaller and paler.

  ‘You look a bit downcast,’ she said, once they were sitting on the white sofa in the back room. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Your ex-father-in-law changed his will. He cut Bertram’s entitlement down to the statutory minimum and made sure he only got it in instalments.’

  It took a moment before she understood. ‘But that means he can’t keep the house. And if he loses it . . . does he know?’ She shifted onto the edge of the sofa, as if ready to spring. ‘He hasn’t . . .’ She was gripping the sofa with both hands. ‘Nothing’s happened to him, has it?’

  ‘We found him this morning at his house. It looks like he shot himself.’

  Katja Rist slumped back onto the sofa. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘That’s not funny. You don’t joke about things like that.’ A second later she began to cry.

  Dühnfort rose and fetched a glass of water from the kitchen unit behind the desk. She accepted it and took a sip.

  ‘Ms Rist, there’s another reason why I’m here. We’ve got evidence against Bertram. We don’t think it’s out of the question that he killed his father.’

  ‘What evidence? He’s dead! You’re not still going to investigate him.’ She brushed tears away with her hand.

  ‘I’d like to ask you the same thing I asked you yesterday. On the day of the attack, was Bertram really here at the gallery?’

  She blew her nose and ran her fingers through her short hair, before folding them in her lap. ‘He was really here. But only at midday.’

  *

  Delivering news of a death was always an ordeal for Dühnfort, but it was part of the job. Albert’s wife opened the door. She, too, was already dressed for the funeral. He asked if her husband was in. Another door opened a crack, and two boys in black trousers and white shirts peered curiously into the corridor.

  ‘He’s in his study. I’ll get him.’ She took Dühnfort’s coat and offered him a seat in the living room. It was decorated in shades of cream and brown. The sun shone through the window. Dühnfort could see part of the way down Kaiserstraße, a row of small shops arrayed like beads on a necklace: a perfumery, a bakery, a hairdresser’s. A car rolled slowly over the asphalt. The driver must be searching for a rare parking spot. Albert, followed by his wife, came into the room. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  Dühnfort offered him his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not bearing good news.’

  Albert sat down in an armchair. ‘What’s happened?’

  Babs Heckeroth settled on the sofa and took her husband’s hand.

  ‘Did your father tell you he recently changed his will?’

  ‘No. Dad didn’t. But Bertram called me last night. He was frantic.’

  ‘How did he get hold of the will?’

  ‘We all have a key to the apartment. He must have gone in and searched for it. Around eight o’clock he called my mobile and just flew off the handle, said I was stealing his inheritance and all that. It took me a moment to work out that Dad must have altered his will after all.’

  ‘What do you mean, “after all”? Did you know that’s what your father had in mind?’

  Albert ran a hand through his hair. ‘Bertram can’t manage money. When he was convicted of tax evasion Dad wanted to cut him out of the will entirely. But the law doesn’t allow that. So he reduced his entitlement to the statutory minimum, which was an apartment and some cash. He wanted to fix it so Bertram got the rent from the apartment, minus the running costs. But Mum was against it. After she died it looks like Dad went ahead anyway.’

  ‘But that means Bertram will lose the house. He’ll kill himself. He said so, and I really think he’ll do it.’ Albert’s wife blanched, and she raised her hand to her mouth.

  ‘I called Caroline, and we’re going to help him,’ said Albert. ‘We’ll figure something out.’

  But Babs Heckeroth wasn’t listening to her husband’s words. She stared at Dühnfort. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

  Dühnfort nodded. ‘I’m very sorry, but Bertram shot himself last night.’

  Albert got up and went over to the window. ‘I just don’t believe it. Why? We were going to help him.’

  ‘Did you tell him so? Did he know?’ His wife stepped up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  Albert turned and shook his head. ‘At first I was so angry . . . I just hung up as he was haranguing me. But then I was standing in the flower shop buying roses for you, and I realised what it meant for Bertram . . . I mean, I’ve no idea why he’s so obsessed with that bloody house . . . I thought Caroline and I should help him, so I called her. But she wasn’t there, so I left a message on her answering machine.’

  ‘You didn’t tell your brother, though?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to Caroline first. But she hasn’t called me back yet.’

  Babs sat back down on the sofa. ‘Maybe she’s still in Frankfurt. Did you try her mobile?’

  Albert shook his head. ‘She was supposed to be back last night. And I couldn’t know Bertram was going to do something so insane.’

  ‘Did your brother really say he’d kill himself if he lost the house?’

  Albert nodded. ‘But you don’t believe that sort of thing . . .’ He turned his back to them again and stared out of the window. His shoulders twitched.

  His wife went over to him. ‘You tried.’

  ‘Do you know where your brother got the gun, a Česká?’

  Albert turned back. ‘I didn’t even know he had one.’

  ‘But he was bragging about it at the summer party last year,’ interjected Babs. ‘It was dawn and we were all a bit tipsy, telling crazy stories. Bertram had got into a bar fight a few weeks earlier with a Russian or Ukrainian or something. I don’t know exactly. Anyway, Bertram used to do aikido, so he quickly got the man on the ground, and a pistol fell out of his pocket. Bertram just took it.’

  Albert nodded. ‘That’s true. Now you mention it, I remember too.’

  The phone in the hallway rang. ‘I’ll get it.’

  Dühnfort rose. ‘Your sister was right, by the way. Bertram gave us a false alibi.’

  ‘What?’ Albert collapsed onto the sofa. He rubbed his chin. ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘We haven’t found one.’

  Babs came back, holding the cordless phone so that her hand covered the receiver. ‘Caroline’s on the line. What shall I tell her?’

  *

  The Institute for Forensic Medicine was on Nussbaumstraße, not far from Dühnfort’s apartment. It was housed in an early twentieth-century building, and every now and again it m
ade Dühnfort feel like time was standing still. He entered the department through a frosted-glass door. His steps echoed against the worn stone floor; it smelled of formalin, cleaning supplies and disinfectant, and the scent of pizza wafted down the hall from somewhere in the building. It was lunchtime. He pushed open the swing door and entered Ursula Weidenbach’s realm, a tiled space that was always freezing cold. On the wall was a clock that reminded him of ones you saw in train stations. A scale with a digital display stood underneath it, and beside it a cranial saw hung from a hook on the wall. The sun shone through the window, casting a pattern of distorted rectangles onto a bare steel table. On the table next to it lay the naked body of Bertram Heckeroth.

  Ursula Weidenbach stood bent over it, removing the plastic bags with which the forensics investigators had protected the dead man’s hands. She reached for her powerful magnifying glass – which was fixed to the table by a moveable arm and fitted with a light – placing it over his right hand. Hearing Dühnfort’s footsteps, she peered over the top of her glasses and smiled.

  I could be lying here. Dühnfort was suddenly struck by the thought. If I hadn’t reacted so quickly yesterday and she’d stuck that knife into my neck . . . you bleed out pretty fast. How do you tourniquet a carotid artery? Is it even possible? He shuddered, picturing his naked body lying cold on the steel bed, his gourmet six-pack, as Agnes liked to call his belly, his slack muscles and uncovered genitals exposed to Ursula Weidenbach’s probing gaze.

  ‘Is everything all right? Sight of the body’s not making you ill?’ Ursula Weidenbach eyed him in concern. ‘We don’t have sick bags.’

  He dismissed those images, those thoughts. ‘I’ve seen worse. Did he really shoot himself?’

  ‘No reason to doubt it so far.’ She turned back to the corpse. ‘See for yourself.’

  Dühnfort stood beside her and peered at the hand through the glass. The gunshot residue was clearly visible.

  ‘The position of the gun relative to the hand was correct too. Looks like he held it and fired. But the real work’s only just beginning, so don’t pin me down just yet. Although I don’t think we’re in for any surprises here.’

  By now Dühnfort didn’t think so either. Bertram had said several times that he was going to kill himself if he lost the house. It wasn’t an uncommon motive. First his company had gone belly up, then he’d been audited and eventually prosecuted and charged with tax evasion. Bertram had slowly but surely been losing the ground beneath his feet, sucked into his tragic end as if into quicksand. If he’d killed his father for the inheritance, only to discover that there was no inheritance . . . God knew he had reason enough to commit suicide.

  Yet two things were still bothering Dühnfort. He’d left no note, which was unusual, and no glass of schnapps or whiskey either. As a rule, suicides liked to give themselves a bit of Dutch courage.

  He phoned Alois. ‘Have you found a note yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about a bottle of schnapps or whiskey?’

  ‘No. Why? Are you thinking this wasn’t a suicide?’

  ‘I don’t know. But something doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘All the forensic evidence points one way. Gunshot residue on the hand, gun in the right place, and he was up to his neck in shit . . . I mean, if he’d had no reason . . .’

  Dühnfort was worrying about nothing, as usual. At least they were investigating Bertram’s suicide like a murder. If something wasn’t kosher, they were preserving all the evidence and could be sure they hadn’t neglected anything. He said goodbye to Alois and looked at the clock. A few minutes to one.

  Ursula Weidenbach broke off her work. ‘I’ll be in touch this evening, when I’m finished here.’ She gestured to the corpse. ‘The toxicological examination will take a while, though.’

  Dühnfort headed off to the Underground. On the way he bought a small bowl of tiramisu for Gina and a Camembert sandwich for himself, which he ate on the journey to Großhadern.

  Standing outside Gina’s room, he hesitated a moment before entering. She was asleep, and looked frighteningly pale. There was an IV pole next to her bed. A colourless fluid dripped out of a plastic pouch into a tube, ending in a needle in the back of her hand, while another pouch, filled with some blood-coloured liquid, hung from the bed. Its tube disappeared beneath the bedclothes.

  Dühnfort sat down quietly on the bedside chair. He didn’t want to wake Gina, but the wood creaked. She opened her eyes. For a moment her unfocused gaze flitted across the room, until it found Dühnfort. A faint grin appeared on her face. She raised her right hand a little, giving the V for victory sign. Dühnfort was relieved. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Honestly? I feel like crap. I reacted badly to the anaesthetic. Calling my blood pressure low doesn’t do it justice.’ She let her head sink back on the pillow.

  ‘Did it all go well?’

  She nodded. ‘No blue bits. And they took a biopsy from the growth near the entrance to my ureter.’ She closed her eyes wearily.

  Dühnfort took out the bowl of tiramisu and put it on the nightstand.

  Gina opened her eyes. ‘Delicious, that’s exactly what I need. Plus a decent coffee. Can you fetch me one from the kiosk outside? The stuff you get on the ward is gnat’s piss.’

  ‘Sure.’ He got up and left the room. When he came back into the ward, a cup of coffee in each hand, he bumped into Nurse Christine. She paused when she saw the coffee. ‘That’s not for Ms Angelucci. She’s nil by mouth until four o’clock.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It might make her nauseous after the anaesthetic.’

  ‘Surely it’ll help with the low blood pressure.’

  ‘Until she pukes all over the bed.’

  ‘If that happens I’ll put new sheets on,’ said Dühnfort irritably.

  ‘I’d like to see that,’ replied Nurse Christine. ‘But all right, if you must. Just make sure she drinks slowly.’

  When he went back into the room, Gina had raised the head of the bed using the remote control. ‘Ah, I see you managed to get past Cerberus.’ She reached for the cup and took a sip. Dühnfort sat down and watched her. ‘I can literally feel my blood pressure rising.’ She put it down on the nightstand.

  ‘How’s your hand doing?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And the case? Progressing?’

  ‘The evidence is piling up against Bertram, but when we went to arrest him this morning we found him dead. It looks like he shot himself.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Gina. ‘That doesn’t help.’ She reached for the coffee cup and took a big gulp. ‘What put you on to him?’

  Dühnfort explained about the bike, but quickly realised she was straining to follow him. ‘You should rest,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be back on Monday. Promise.’

  Dühnfort gave her an encouraging smile, before he left the room and took the Underground back to the police station. He tracked down Alois to hear the results of the search at Bertram’s place.

  ‘Sod all.’ Alois threw out his hands. ‘But we weren’t expecting to find much. Bertram wasn’t stupid enough to hang on to anything incriminating. He’ll have thrown away the key, cards and watch.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Dühnfort sat down at Gina’s desk.

  ‘That he didn’t serve up proof on a silver platter?’

  ‘Bertram was a self-aggrandising person, someone who liked to be centre stage. Someone like that would leave a note.’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  Dühnfort raised his hands wearily and got up. Probably he was worrying about nothing. ‘On Monday at nine we’ll take stock of the case. Then we’ll see about bringing it to a tidy conclusion.’

  He went into his office. On his desk was a set of interview transcripts from Sandra Gottwald, who had spoken to the three prostitutes, as well as a message from the personnel manager telling him to go to the doctor and get a record of the injury he’d suffered during the knife attack. Dühnfort let the piece of paper sail into t
he bin. Then he wrote up a report on finding Bertram Heckeroth’s body. It was already dusk by the time he had finished and was reaching for Sandra Gottwald’s interview transcripts. No surprises there. As far as the women were concerned, Heckeroth had been a harmless customer. Violence wasn’t part of his sexual fantasies.

  The telephone rang. Dühnfort picked up. It was Ursula Weidenbach, who had found nothing out of the ordinary during the autopsy. The results of the toxicological examination and the blood and urine analysis would come back on Monday. Dühnfort thanked her, switched off the PC and left his office. The city was already sunk in darkness, colourful lights shimmering everywhere. Before going home, he swung by Dallmayr to pick up the scallops.

  *

  Babs was at her wits’ end. She put down the pencil by the drawing board and stretched her back. She couldn’t get anything done today, and no wonder. You couldn’t just brush that much pain and suffering aside and continue as if nothing was wrong. Bertram had gone and shot himself. It was unbelievable, and a vague sense of having failed slunk through her like a subtle poison. But how could she have prevented it? If only Albert had offered Bertram help at once, instead of waiting for Caroline to ring back.

  After Dühnfort had left, Babs had tried to give Albert a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder, but he’d shaken her off. ‘We’ve got to go. Or we’ll be late for Dad’s funeral.’ Nor had he let her comfort him afterwards. As soon as the wake was over he’d disappeared, presumably back to his father’s apartment to wallow in the memories of a golden childhood. She understood. Yet the rejection hurt, the knowledge that Albert didn’t want her help or consolation – or, worse, that he might be finding both elsewhere. That thought, however, had been well and truly banished last night.