by Inge Löhnig
It took a moment for Babs to work it out. Bertram, that scumbag! So that’s why he’d been in Albert’s study, why he’d jumped out of his skin when she’d caught him. A bird flying into the window? Bullshit. He’d planted evidence on his own brother, then got the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
Babs grew weak at the knees. Bertram had killed Wolfram. She couldn’t believe it, and yet there the key was. What should she do with it now?
She should call Dühnfort and . . . but Bertram couldn’t . . . not his own father, not like that. Babs exhaled the breath she’d been involuntarily holding and tried to organise her thoughts. Did she really know Bertram so well that she was willing to cover for him? And even if she did, who knew what people were capable of when they were cornered, when they found themselves in a desperate, hopeless situation? Bertram wasn’t stupid. Nobody would suspect someone so hot-tempered and impetuous of committing such an underhand murder. And think how devious he’d been, planting evidence on his brother. Christ! But Bertram was dead. First he’d killed his father for the inheritance, then he’d found the will and made a dreadful decision, shot himself, while she’d been lying in bed with Albert, laughing at the way he took off his socks.
For a moment she was overcome with grief, but then her gaze fell on the key again. It wasn’t rage but panic that surged through her. Perhaps Bertram had set things in motion before his suicide, throwing suspicion onto Albert . . . perhaps Dühnfort might show up on their doorstep with a search warrant at any moment . . . if the police believed that Albert . . . miscarriages of justice didn’t just happen in films . . . only recently she’d seen an article . . . but Dühnfort didn’t seem like an idiot. Babs took a breath. She’d call the police right away. Then, though, she imagined how Albert might react. Being falsely suspected would probably hurt him as much as his brother’s cowardly betrayal. He’d been through enough over the last few weeks.
Babs brought the key into the kitchen. Taking an empty yoghurt pot out of the bin, she put it inside, stuffed the foil packaging from a block of butter on top and buried the whole thing among the rubbish.
Two minutes later, she left the house with a bulging plastic bag in her hand and headed for the small tea shop at the back of the building next door. Passing the entrance to the rear courtyard, she threw the plastic bag into the wheelie bin that stood in a dark niche.
*
The windscreen wipers worked tirelessly. Caroline didn’t notice the gently rolling landscape, blurry behind the veil of rain. She was looking at Marc, whose gaze was focused on the windy country road.
An hour ago he’d turned up at Babs’s and given her a hug. ‘Caro, sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry. This is a difficult time for you, and all I’m doing is thinking of my own feelings and accusing you of being heartless. How could I?’
Guiltily she turned her face from Marc’s. In a way he’d hit the nail on the head; emotions weren’t one of her core strengths. There was something not right about her. On the other hand, she didn’t understand why people made such a fuss about it. In her opinion it was better to leave emotions out of important decisions. Even if Marc did want a relationship with her for professional reasons, what was wrong with that? In the old days, marriages were practical affairs, and plenty of companies and kingdoms had been held together by them. ‘Will you tell me where we’re going?’
‘Somewhere green.’ Marc took his eyes off the road and smiled. ‘But I won’t keep you on tenterhooks much longer. We’ll be there in five minutes.’
Caroline was still wearing the clothes she’d put on that morning: baggy jeans, a faded blouse and an old trenchcoat. In this outfit a walk in the woods was the most she could manage. And it was still raining.
Marc took his right hand off the wheel and took hers. ‘You’ll feel a bit better soon.’
She couldn’t imagine that. She felt sore inside, the plug of uncried tears still pressing against her sternum, and her head ached. Most of all she wanted to lie down in bed and pull the duvet over her head.
They passed a road sign she couldn’t read in the rain, and drove past farmhouses with jutting roofs. Shortly before reaching the outskirts of the village, Marc turned off the road. A lake appeared on Caroline’s side and the road widened, transforming into a hotel driveway. Marc drew up in the car park. Hotel Seeschlösschen, deciphered Caroline. Five stars hovered above the name. ‘What are we doing here?’
Marc switched off the engine. ‘I thought we could have a spa weekend. I’ve booked a room for us and a shiatsu massage for you. You have to arrange those in advance.’
There was no way she could enter a five-star hotel in this outfit, and she didn’t have any of her things. But suddenly she didn’t care. The prospect of leaving the past weeks’ horrors behind her for two days was very tempting. People could think what they liked, and every hotel had a toothbrush. What was a shiatsu massage? The word sounded almost magical. Caroline felt tense and cramped from head to toe. It couldn’t hurt to let capable hands knead her muscles, make them relaxed and soft and pliable.
Marc watched her anxiously.
‘What are we waiting for?’ she asked.
‘No resistance?’
‘Am I really that horrible?’
‘Frankly? Sometimes, yes.’ His smile took the sting out of his words. ‘I did have some small misgivings that you might not approve of being kidnapped like this, and refuse to set foot in the hotel wearing those clothes, with no suitcase . . .’
She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Today I don’t care about anything. I’d walk in naked. I want that massage.’ Picking up her handbag, she got out.
A short while later they were sitting in their room, with a balcony and sea view. It was decorated in opulent Bavarian Baroque style. Heavy wooden furniture, intricate carving and flourishes of gold, thick pillows and cushions upholstered in expensive fabrics with floral designs. Absolutely not Caroline’s style, yet the surfeit of everything did her soul good. In the lobby was a boutique, where Caroline had bought a tracksuit after checking in: the receptionist had advised lighter clothing for the massage.
While she got changed Marc opened his suitcase, into which he’d packed the few toiletries and items of clothing Caroline left at his apartment. He took out his running clothes and went over to the window. The rain had eased off. ‘I’m going for a jog while you’re having your massage.’
Marc accompanied Caroline as far as the lift, which took her down to the spa. There she was met by a petite woman with a slim face and violet eyes. Introducing herself as Eva, she led Caroline into a room decorated with bamboo mats, paper screens and blond wooden flooring. Soft music was playing, it was pleasantly warm, and a faint scent of cinnamon and sandalwood hung in the air. But where was the massage table, and where was the masseur?
Eva asked Caroline to lie face-down on one of the bamboo mats, positioning her legs and arms slightly apart from her body. She was bursting with questions and misgivings, but nonetheless followed Eva’s instructions. The music sounded like ocean waves breaking in the distance. Eva sat down beside her on the mat and started the massage, a light sort of plucking and pulling. Caroline wondered what that was supposed to achieve, but soon she felt a wholesome sense of calm begin to radiate from the centre of her body. She gave in utterly to the sensation, which carried her off into weightlessness as if on a wave, rocking her gently before breaking and landing thunderously on land. Caroline let herself be carried away from everything, losing all sense of time. Something inside her began to loosen, to leave her. The plucking stopped for a moment. She opened her eyes and saw a hand slide a box of Kleenex into view. Only then did she realise she was crying.
By the time Eva had finished the massage, Caroline had cried all her tears. Tissues lay strewn across the mat. She felt liberated.
‘Better?’ asked Eva.
Caroline nodded.
‘Your husband told me you’ve got a lot on your mind. I’m glad I could help you a little.’
Your husband. The word sounded pleasant, reassuring.
‘If you like, I can take you to our beautician. An eye-mask to reduce the swelling . . .’
She must look a fright, and the idea of being pampered further with peels, ampules and masks was tempting. ‘Don’t I need an appointment?’
‘Your husband’s already arranged one.’
I don’t deserve this much compassion, thought Caroline. How did Marc know so exactly what would do her good? Why was he looking after her like this? Maybe he really did love her. Like Peter had loved Elli.
An hour and a half later Caroline was taking the lift back upstairs, having had a facial and manicure. She felt relaxed and at ease – apart from the gnawing hunger in her stomach.
Marc was sitting in an armchair, reading the Financial Times. He wore corduroys and a Scandinavian-style jumper. His hair was still damp at the neck from his shower. As she entered the room, he looked up. On the coffee table in front of him was a pot of tea and a tray of sandwiches, pastries and mineral water. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, folding up the newspaper.
Caroline sat down beside him. ‘Much better. And I could eat a horse. You’re such a treasure, I don’t deserve you.’ Letting her head drop onto his shoulder, she reached for a ham sandwich.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘What?’
‘Before, you thought your secretary was being devious when she was kind to you, and now you think you “don’t deserve me”. Why do you believe you’re so unlovable?’
Caroline was about to contradict him, but at the same moment she recognised the truth of Marc’s words, which settled like a heavy weight on her chest. She stared at the sandwich and put it back. Maybe so as not to be vulnerable. Bertram’s shield was his house, and I’ve built a palace of ice around myself. I wasn’t always like this. I know exactly when it started.
‘I was six or seven years old,’ she began unexpectedly. ‘It was nearly Dad’s birthday. He’d ordered a new Mercedes, but had to wait for it to be delivered. I wanted to do something nice for him . . .’ Caroline pulled away from Marc and looked him in the eye. ‘No, if I’m honest, I wanted to finally outdo Albert. So I sat in my room for hours, sketching out a plan and colouring in the car with crayons. The first version was a disaster. I measured wrong, but I didn’t give up until I was finished.’
She remembered how proud she’d been when she’d glued on the final piece, a wing mirror, how her heart had pounded with excitement as she pictured her father’s delight.
‘You designed and made a model of the car all by yourself?’
‘“Designed” might be an exaggeration. It was really just a scribble, and it was a bit skewiff.’
‘That was sweet. I’d have loved it. But Wolfram didn’t, I suppose?’
‘Albert got into grammar school the same day. His results came through. Straight As. It was the best gift Dad could have had.’ She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she’d found her model in the bin two days later.
Marc gave her a squeeze. ‘Aw, love. How could he have been so heartless?’
‘He was an egotist. I don’t understand how Mum put up with him for more than forty years. Just after my parents married, she found the love of her life. But she didn’t leave Dad.’ Caroline told Marc what she’d learned from the diary and letters, up to the entry she’d last read.
Peter’s wife, equally unaware of the affair as Wolfram, had invited the Heckeroths to dinner. Peter hadn’t been able to talk her out of it, and Elli, though curious to meet Gertrude, was dreading the evening. We mustn’t look at each other, our eyes will give us away. She was glad to get it over with, she wrote . . .
Gertrude’s gaze dissects you, yet she’s very much the lady. With apparently harmless questions she led me onto thin ice several times, making me look like a silly schoolgirl without it reflecting on her. She radiates gentility and discipline: elegant cool, you could call it. Next to her I feel truly alive, like a small, flickering flame.
What will happen to the children? Peter says he won’t be allowed to retain custody if they get divorced. What kind of law divides a marriage into guilt and innocence? Whose right is it to judge? Peter will have to let Gertrude keep the children. Sabrina, his youngest, is an affected little princess. But Christian impressed me. At the age of twelve, he’s already found his passion. His soul burns for music, and he’s so talented that his teachers predict a great future. He played us the Adagio from Vivaldi’s ‘Summer’ on the violin. Wonderful! I’m afraid to take his father from him. What will become of him with that cold mother, who thinks a legal career is more worthwhile than his ‘fiddling’?
Caroline broke away from Marc’s embrace and drew her legs onto the sofa. ‘As it turned out, she was worrying over nothing. Mum didn’t leave Dad, and today Christian Brandenbourg is a famous musician.’
Marc stroked a lock of hair out of her face. ‘Do you think she gave Peter up for your sake?’
*
Dühnfort bumped into Gina at the hospital’s revolving door. He was on his way in and she was escaping, as she put it. ‘I left the doctor a note and discharged myself off my own bat. Where’s your car?’
Even as she opened the boot and threw in her bag, she was still glancing back over her shoulder, as if afraid of being followed.
During the journey to Haidhausen, in eastern Munich, Gina was silent. As he parked on Bordeauxplatz, she asked: ‘Are you coming up?’
He hesitated. The invitation came as a surprise.
‘It’ll do you good to have a chat with some nice people.’ Her brow was furrowed. ‘I’d like to introduce you to my parents.’ Now she was grinning. ‘And a personal appearance from my boss will help substantiate my little white lie about a training seminar.’
Dühnfort had never seen Gina’s place. He knew she’d decided to start living with flatmates three years ago, in order to afford the enormous period apartment she’d fallen in love with. Since then she’d lived there with a changing array of people, including, for the last two months, her parents. They couldn’t return to their own apartment until the water damage from a broken pipe had been fixed.
‘Hey, it was an invitation, not a summons. You don’t have to.’ Gina opened the door.
The prospect of another evening alone in his apartment dismayed Dühnfort. ‘No, I’ll come.’ Grabbing his jacket, he got out.
The building was on a side street off Bordeauxplatz. They walked past an organic bakery, a shop selling essential oils, pomanders, incense sticks and singing bowls, another peddling wooden toys and a kebab shop before reaching a courtyard where there was a carpenter’s and a bookbindery. Gina opened the back door. ‘And please don’t go blabbing about where I’ve been. I was at a seminar. No, actually, we were. Why else would you be taking me home?’
Dühnfort followed her to the fifth floor. Reaching the landing, they saw a weedy man with an instrument case coming out of the apartment. His hair was sparse, although he couldn’t have been any older than Gina, early thirties.
‘This is Theo. He works for the tax office and plays the trumpet in a big band. And this is my boss,’ said Gina, pointing at Dühnfort. Theo shook Dühnfort’s hand and hurried down the stairs. Gina let her boss enter the apartment first.
He followed the coconut-fibre-covered corridor into a square front hall. The door to a large living room stood open. In the kitchen a woman of about fifty was taking a baking tray out of the oven. When she noticed Dühnfort, she looked up and smiled. She was an older version of Gina, though her eyes weren’t chocolate-coloured, exactly, more nougat, and her hair was lighter and streaked with grey. Putting the tray on the counter, she wiped her hands on a tea towel. Dühnfort could smell something burning.
‘Let me introduce my mum,’ said Gina. ‘Mum, my boss. Tino.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ She gave Dühnfort her hand. ‘How was the seminar?’
‘Boring,’ said Gina.
At the same moment, Dühnfort said, ‘Very interesting.’
‘Ah.’ Gina’s mother gazed at her daughter, somewhat puzzled. ‘The apple strudel’s just done. Would you like a piece? It’s gone a bit crispy, but I’ll sprinkle some powdered sugar over it so you can’t tell.’
Before Dühnfort knew what was happening, he found himself sitting at the kitchen table with Gina, her mother Dorothee, Xenia, a twenty-two-year-old film student, and a forty-ish-year-old conservator from the Munich art museum called Ferdinand. The only two missing from the circle were Theo, who was at band practice, and Gina’s father. He was a train driver, and was on shift. He wouldn’t be back until six at the earliest.
Baking wasn’t Dorothee’s strong suit. ‘Crispy’ was an understatement; the strudel was burn. Still, they all ate with gusto. Only Dühnfort removed the top layer and put it at the edge of his plate, while they all more or less talked over each other. Gina was inventing a lecture about forensics, her mother having demanded more detail about the seminar. Xenia and Ferdinand were discussing depth perspective in painting and film. Dühnfort leaned back in his seat and observed the group. It reminded him of his student days in Hamburg, when he’d also lived with flatmates. That was twenty years ago. Where had the time gone? What had he done with his life?
Gina brushed the hair out of her face and caught his eye, in the middle of summarising a lecture on forensic biology that had never actually taken place. Apparently the subject had been establishing time of death using maggot pupation in corpses.
‘And you found that boring?’ said Dorothee. ‘I’d be interested. Can’t you take me to an autopsy sometime?’