by Inge Löhnig
The garden gave the impression of having run to seed. The lawn was mown and the cedar hedge trimmed, but the leaves weren’t raked and the withered perennials weren’t cut back. A sign at the garden gate warned of a dog, but the yapping mutt that shot out of the cabin once Dühnfort had rung the bell was more like a battered mop than a dangerous beast.
‘All right, Susi,’ shouted the old lady who appeared in the doorway. She was small and delicate, her white hair cut as short as a man’s. With a bunch of keys in her hand she came down the garden path, while Susi leaped and barked at the gate. The dog looked like a cross between a wire-haired dachshund and a Yorkshire terrier, and the lady’s words had no impact on it whatsoever. The biscuit, however, which the old lady drew out of the pocket of her green wool jacket, had the desired effect. Susi fell silent, snapping up the treat. ‘There’s a good girl.’ Waltraud Ullmann wiped her hand on her jeans and held it out to Dühnfort.
‘Mrs Ullmann, I’m from the police. I have a few more questions about your neighbour.’ Dühnfort passed his ID across the fence.
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’d better come in, then.’ She gave Dühnfort back his ID and unlocked the gate. He followed her into the house, past a garage with a boat trailer and sailboat outside. Although it was covered with a tarpaulin, Dühnfort judged by the shape and planking that it was a Folkboat. He’d occasionally sailed one before, while on holiday on Sylt.
Waltraud Ullmann paused beside him. ‘It belongs to my husband. Sailing is his passion. Not my thing, really.’ She shivered, and drew her jacket closed. ‘Let’s go indoors.’
The cabin was constructed using the same log-building method as Heckeroth’s, though it was smaller. It was full of rustic pinewood furniture, and the smell of dog food, coffee and wool hung in the air. A green tiled stove in the corner, and curtains, pillows and cushions upholstered in checked and floral-patterned fabrics, emphasised the rustic farmhouse style. Years – if not decades – ago, it must have been very pretty. But now the colours were faded, the furniture scratched, and there was clutter everywhere. Open packets of dog food, boxes of washing powder full of balls of wool, a basket overflowing with empty jam jars. Most impressive, however, were the piles of newspapers and magazines that had conquered the corner bench, meandered across the floor, and pushed past the stove into the hall. On the table, beside a chipped mug and a pair of glasses, was today’s edition.
‘Please.’ Waltraud Ullmann moved a stack of papers off a chair and put it on the floor. Dühnfort sat down. Susi snuffled at his shoes, then withdrew to her basket in front of the radiator. ‘So you want to know about Mr Heckeroth. My husband would be more help there. He often chats with him.’
‘Is he here?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s at the doctor’s. His hips.’
‘But the Monday before last, 6 October, you took the dog out, not your husband?’
‘That’s what we always do. Susi and me.’ When the dog heard its name, it pricked up its ears and whined.
‘And that evening you noticed Heckeroth’s car was gone?’
‘Was that Monday?’ She reached for the paper and looked at the date. ‘Right. We went for a walk. Like we do every evening.’
‘Always around the same time?’
‘I always take Susi out straight after the news.’ The whine grew louder. ‘Do you want a treat?’ asked the old lady, supporting herself on the table and standing up.
As she went to the fridge, Dühnfort glanced around. He could see no television. His gaze rested on a framed photo that stood in the alcove between two windows. It showed an old man with thick white hair, a weather-beaten face and a cigarillo in the corner of his mouth. A black ribbon was fastened to the frame. Dühnfort felt a sense of numb foreboding. ‘When did you last see Mr Heckeroth?’
Waltraud Ullmann, opening a packet of butter biscuits with scissors, glanced up with a furrowed brow. ‘The day before yesterday, it was. We had a chat over the fence. He had a bumper crop of redcurrants this year, and he gave me a bowl of them.’
‘And that was the day before yesterday?’
She nodded. ‘Definitely. The day before yesterday. Tuesday. I invited him for tea.’
Dühnfort sighed. Shit. Why hadn’t Gina checked? He thanked her for the information and said goodbye.
‘Was that it? That’s all you wanted to know?’ She accompanied him to the garden gate. A silver compact car appeared on the forest road and stopped in front of the house. A large, powerfully built woman got out and eyed Dühnfort suspiciously. ‘Did my mother sign anything? Well, you can throw it right in the bin. I’ve got power of attorney, and if you don’t make tracks right now –’
‘Then you’ll set that little beast on me.’ Dühnfort glanced back at Susi, who was scrabbling at the earth.
‘But, Sylvia, this man is from the police.’
‘Oh, you’re one of those! So that’s the latest scam.’ The woman’s dark eyes flashed, and she pulled her mobile out of her jacket pocket. ‘Did you give him money, Mum?’
Why am I always being taken for the bad guy? wondered Dühnfort, taking out his ID. ‘Your mum’s right on that score, actually. Dühnfort. Munich police.’
She inspected the plastic card, then a grin stole across her face. ‘Oops. Sorry. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much the elderly get preyed on. What did you want from my mother?’
‘I wanted to talk to her about the murder of her neighbour. We thought she might have seen something on the day it happened.’
‘Yes, just imagine, Sylvia’ – Waltraud Ullmann gave Susi another biscuit – ‘I spoke to Wolfram only yesterday, and now he’s dead. Drowned. Isn’t that dreadful?’
‘It was Alfons from the sailing school who drowned, Mum. And that was a year ago.’ Sylvia Ullmann turned to Dühnfort. ‘I’ve got to bring the shopping inside. There’s stuff that needs to go in the freezer, and I don’t want it thawing out. Give me five minutes, then I’ll have time for you.’
‘No problem.’ Dühnfort pointed to the garage. ‘May I take a look at the boat?’
‘Sure. Do you sail?’
‘I used to. Perhaps I should take it up again.’
‘It belonged to my father. I don’t sail, and nor does Mum. I’m putting it up for sale in the spring. Nobody buys boats in the autumn.’
She fetched the shopping bags from the car and carried them into the house. Dühnfort went over to the boat and raised the tarpaulin. He’d not been wrong. It was a Folkboat, the hull planked not with GRP – fibreglass – but mahogany. It must be more than thirty years old, but as far as he could tell it was in good nick. He raised the tarp in various places. The planks needed a bit of sealant, but that seemed to be it. This sort of boat belonged on the sea, not on a Bavarian lake. But the North Sea was far away.
Sylvia Ullmann came towards him from the house. ‘Do you like it?’
Dühnfort nodded. ‘Are the sails all right?’
‘My dad always looked after it. Everything should be tip-top. Schorsch from the sailing school knows about it. That’s where it used to be moored. You can talk to him if you’re interested.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Schorsch says we should ask for nine thousand.’
Dühnfort wasn’t a spontaneous person. He was always putting off decisions. Pondering. But something inside him wanted that boat. ‘Is the trailer included in the price?’
She hesitated a moment, then nodded.
‘Good. Then I’ll take it.’ He gave her his hand.
‘You don’t mess about, do you?’ she said, shaking the proffered hand. ‘If you’re lucky, the mooring won’t have been given to anyone else yet. Shall I call Schorsch and ask?’
‘That would be very kind.’
She took her mobile out of her pocket and rang the owner of the sailing school. The mooring was still free, and there was also a place where he could keep it during the winter months. Dühnfort accepted both. Noting down the address and telephone n
umber of the sailing school, he took Sylvia Ullmann’s too. She lived in Munich, on Bonner Platz near Schwabing Hospital. ‘I’ll get a purchasing agreement drawn up. When I’ve sorted it out, I’ll call you,’ she said, tucking her hands into her pockets.
Dühnfort then came to the purpose of his visit. As it turned out, Sylvia Ullmann and her mother had indeed spent the weekend before Heckeroth’s murder at their cabin, but they’d gone back to the city on Sunday. ‘I’m a nurse, I was on the nightshift. Then we came back last weekend and stayed till Tuesday. On Monday evening I was in Münsing, rehearsing at the Altwirt. I’m in a folk-dancing group. Your colleague must have spoken to my mother then, although Mum didn’t mention it. And apparently she’s spun you quite a tale.’
Dühnfort nodded. ‘Thanks to your mother’s statement, we thought we’d pinned down the time of the attack quite precisely. Very precisely, actually. Now we’ll have to start from scratch.’
‘I’m sorry about that. He was a nice man, Wolfram . . . to die so horribly . . .’ She hunched her shoulders. Her answers didn’t get Dühnfort any further. No, she couldn’t imagine who might have done such a thing to Heckeroth. No, she hadn’t known him especially well. Her parents had come here often, she said, but she and her mother had only started visiting regularly since her father’s death in the spring.
Sylvia Ullmann shook his hand when they parted. ‘I’ll be in touch about the purchasing agreement.’
Dühnfort phoned Ursula Weidenbach from the car, explained his problem and asked whether she could narrow down the time of the attack.
‘You saw the body yourself. Advanced decomposition. I can’t even give a precise time of death, let alone tell you when the assault occurred.’
*
Dühnfort drove not to the office but to Harlaching. Something was urging him on – perhaps the fear of having missed something. He parked outside Bertram’s house and took the key he’d taken the day before out of the glove compartment.
His steps echoed on the tiles with which the whole house was laid. It had a cold and forbidding atmosphere that Dühnfort hadn’t noticed on his first visit. He went into the minimalist living room: large panoramic windows, glass and chrome, black-leather seating, a slightly putrid stench. Blood and brain matter still clung where they had splattered – a split second after Bertram pulled the trigger and the projectile had burst through the soft palate, shot through the brainstem and, meeting minimal resistance, shattered the occipital bone.
Dühnfort looked around. The powder they had used to dust for fingerprints was stuck to the smooth surfaces, the location of the body was marked with tape, and a plastic bag lay abandoned on the floor.
On the wall hung a large-screen TV, the tall columns of the speakers looking like sculptures. Dühnfort went over to a sideboard in the dining nook and opened the doors; it wasn’t the bar he’d expected.
There was no alcohol in the kitchen, either, except for a bottle of champagne in the fridge, and that was unopened. He peered into the bin. At the top was a banana skin, and beneath it the plastic packaging of a ready-meal lasagne and a bag of coffee filters, their brown edges puckering. Dühnfort was about to close the lid when his eyes fell on something golden, glinting at him from the bottom. He took it out. It was a black scrap of foil with golden lettering – ore De was all he could decipher on the torn fragment. It might be from a bottle-cap seal. Dühnfort rummaged fruitlessly for the rest of it in the bin. Then he went through the kitchen systematically. It was relatively clean for a bachelor pad, but he could find neither the bottle nor the rest of the foil. In the dishwasher were dirty breakfast things, a plate with dried-on tomato sauce and a glass. He took it out and sniffed it. Fruit juice.
Dühnfort went upstairs and searched the bedroom, bathroom and even both guest rooms for the bottle. That only left the office. Going back down the stairs, he went along the corridor and opened the door. Everything looked as it had on Tuesday. Two desks with PCs, the table of model-building materials, drawings and photographs on the walls, Bertram’s acrylic desk with his phone. No laptop, though. On Tuesday there had been a laptop. Dühnfort searched the whole office for it, then he took the car key from a bowl in the hall and went out to the car. It wasn’t in the boot of the Porsche, nor in the interior. Dühnfort felt a clammy chill. He slammed the boot. Shit. Returning to the office, he started one of the PCs. He accessed the hard drive without needing a password. It had been wiped clean. Dühnfort took his phone out of his pocket and rang Alois.
‘Did you take Bertram’s laptop?’
‘Why would we do that?’
At that moment it struck Dühnfort that he hadn’t seen Bertram’s mobile anywhere either. ‘And his phone?’
‘Apart from the gun, we didn’t take anything.’
Irritation solidified in Dühnfort’s stomach like cooling lead. ‘I don’t know what you think the words house search mean, but clearly it’s different from my interpretation. I need you here, and bring Meo.’
‘If you tell me where here is.’
As ever when Dühnfort’s annoyance peaked, he became utterly calm. ‘Find out,’ he said, and hung up.
Half an hour later Dühnfort was standing next to Alois in the kitchen, putting the scrap of paper into a plastic bag and labelling it.
‘You’re making a fuss about nothing. Bertram committed suicide.’ Crossing his arms, Alois leaned back against the fridge and watched him.
‘I’m glad you’re still so sure. I’m not. Not only is the data on the computer missing, but so are a bottle, laptop and mobile.’ Dühnfort took his own phone out of his pocket and dialled Bertram’s number. After the first ring he heard an electronic voice. The person you are trying to reach is not available. Bertram’s phone was switched off. Dühnfort hung up and went to see Meo in the office.
Meo Klein, whose first name was actually Romeo and who still held this choice against his parents even at the age of twenty-five, was sitting at one of the workspaces, examining the second PC. As Dühnfort approached, he looked up. Through the blond hairs of his wispy beard a few pimples glowed red. His long hair fell into his face. ‘Nada,’ he said. ‘All files deleted. But I can magic them back by tomorrow. The people who did this have no idea how to do a proper job.’
‘Do you know whether a switched-off phone can be located?’
Meo shrugged. ‘Yes and no. I mean, no, if it’s really switched off. Yes if the user thinks it’s off, but you’ve manipulated it via text beforehand so that it stays on. You can even activate the microphone and listen in. But we’re not allowed to do that. It’s forbidden.’ Meo wagged a raised index finger.
Dühnfort went into the living room, where Alois was gazing at the armchair thoughtfully. ‘Did the interviews with the neighbours reveal anything?’
Alois looked up. ‘Nobody saw or heard anything. We haven’t interviewed the couple across the road yet, but they’ve been away since Wednesday, so there’s no need.’
‘How are you getting on with the hotel guests?’
‘We’ve got a list, and Sandra’s phoning them. But so far . . .’ Alois shrugged. ‘What about the call for witnesses you put out in the media?’
‘Nothing yet.’ Dühnfort sat down next to the armchair and pictured the scene. Bertram’s head resting on the arm, his relaxed features, the smile. Odd, to die like that and smile.
*
When he got back to the station, the traffic-cam footage was on his desk. Although the time of the attack was now uncertain, he looked through it. Bertram’s Porsche was nowhere to be seen. Dühnfort took the tape out of the recorder and fetched a cup of coffee. Back in the office he started up his computer, but buried himself in his files before checking his email. Agnes definitely wouldn’t have written. Should he apologise? But for what? For loving her and wanting children with her, and telling her so? He was forty-one years old, and if he ever wanted to realise the dream of climbing trees with his kids, sailing bark boats and taking torchlit walks through dark forests, then it was getting to
be high time. Was it last-minute panic? Was that it? Had fear made him give Agnes that ultimatum, though he knew in his heart that he was giving her no choice, that she couldn’t react in any other way than she had?
He rose and fetched himself another cup of coffee. Then he rang the public prosecution department and requested a warrant to obtain Bertram’s mobile and landline records from the phone companies. Finally he read through witness statements and interviews until late afternoon, finding no contradictions or inconsistencies. Even so, they’d be unable to close the Heckeroth case on Monday. There were too many open questions.
By now it was nearly four. Was Gina still at the hospital? Probably, looking as wretched as she had yesterday. Dühnfort piled up the folders on his desk, switched off his PC and left the office.
The pedestrian zone was thronged with people. Saturday afternoon, time to shop. In front of him, a middle-aged couple were heading for Marienplatz. They walked arm in arm, the man carrying shiny bags from a perfumery and shoe shops. Dühnfort caught her suggestion to visit Café Glockenspiel then find a bookshop to see whether the new Charlotte Lyne novel had come out yet. Continuing on towards Odeonsplatz, Dühnfort bought walnut scones for Gina at the Fünf Höfe shopping arcade. Then he returned to the police station and drove to Großhadern.
*
Yesterday’s row was still on Babs’s mind. How could she have been so stupid as to provoke Albert like that? It was her fault the fight had escalated. If only she’d kept her mouth shut. Her words must have sounded like a taunt, so he’d retaliated by rubbing salt in the wound he knew was there. He hadn’t really meant it, though. Once again she tried to reach him on his mobile, then at his father’s apartment, but he didn’t pick up.
Since Marc had come to pick up Caroline, the rooms felt still, a peace and quiet she usually enjoyed. Babs put the receiver back in its cradle and took a breath. She mustn’t drive herself crazy. In any case, she still had to finish the second sketch and do a third by Monday.
Her drawing supplies were in the kitchen. Babs took them into the study, moved a stack of medical journals onto the chest of drawers and adjusted the office chair to her height. Then she tore a piece of paper from her pad and sellotaped it to the drawing board. There was only a bit left on the roll, so she opened a drawer and took out the stationery box. Underneath it she noticed a key, with a silver ring shaped like the Staff of Asclepius. Babs froze. There was no mistaking it – it was the key to Wolfram’s holiday cabin, which had been missing since the murder. How had it got in here?