Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  ‘So we can narrow the window for the attack to between Monday evening at nine, when Heckeroth was last seen alive, to Tuesday,’ said Dühnfort. ‘About twenty-four hours?’

  ‘More like twelve to eighteen,’ replied Weidenbach.

  ‘Then I’ll go through the traffic footage for that Tuesday and keep an eye out for Bertram.’ Alois scribbled something in his notebook. ‘Who’s going to put his life under the microscope? Me and Gina?’

  Dühnfort nodded. ‘I’d like you to begin there. I’ll follow up on Sabine Groß. She was involved in an incident about two years ago in which a man was tied to a radiator with a belt. Have we got the phone records for Bertram’s mobile yet?’

  Meo nodded. ‘Yeah, this morning. I’ll have gone through them by lunchtime. There was nothing very exciting on the computers, by the way, just work stuff. The latest files are six weeks old. Why somebody deleted them . . .’ Meo shrugged his shoulders, then let them drop. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  *

  Babs had had a rough week. First discovering the key, then patching things up with Albert, who hadn’t come back until five on Saturday. She’d been sitting in the study when the front door opened: she heard a clatter and Albert thanking someone, then the door closed again.

  Her heart pounding, she’d remained where she was. There was going to be another fight. She heard the sound of a coat being hung up, then Albert’s footsteps heading in the direction of the living room. ‘Babs, pet?’

  She had to get it over with. Make the best of it. ‘I’m in your study.’ She stood up and went into the corridor, catching a glimpse of three boxes on the floor as she went. Albert came towards her. Again he was looking at her with that innocent schoolboy gaze, like on Thursday when he’d brought the roses.

  ‘Don’t look so cross.’ He hugged her. She smelled smoke and frying fat, then the familiar scent of aftershave and ironed cotton shirts. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘If you think I lumbered you with the children, then it was high time you said so.’ Babs wasn’t sure herself why she now seemed bent on confrontation.

  ‘You don’t really think I married you because Dad wanted it. I’m not going to lose you now too, am I?’ All at once his voice sounded brittle. He pulled her close and stroked the hair away from her face. The paler specks in his brown eyes were the colour of a rain-swollen mountain stream. ‘Can’t we get through this together? I need you, and I love you.’

  I’m being impossible, thought Babs. Why was she looking for another fight? All she wanted was a quiet home life and his love. ‘I love you too.’

  His features relaxed, his shoulders sank, and his mouth neared hers. She returned his kiss, happy and relieved. Clarifying their relationship might be the only positive thing to come out of this horrible series of events.

  Albert pulled away and smiled. ‘Late, but even so.’ He pointed at the boxes. ‘An anniversary present. A computer. You’ll need one for work now. But the CAD software you’ll have to sort out yourself. I don’t know anything about that stuff.’

  She didn’t know what to say, staring at the boxes. A warm, joyful feeling rose within her. So he didn’t mind her working, and it did matter to him. She’d misunderstood his behaviour. How was it possible she’d misjudged him like that – did she really know her husband so little?

  Albert urged her to unpack the computer straight away and set it up in the study. Once they’d finished and she was about to tidy away the boxes, he smiled. ‘Pet, take a closer look at the mouse’s house.’

  ‘The mouse’s house?’

  With a chuckle he passed her the packaging for the computer mouse. Babs unfolded it and discovered a small jewellery box. Inside it was a platinum necklace. Plain, simply crafted, exactly her style.

  ‘Do you forgive me for screwing up our anniversary?’ Albert had asked. Of course she’d forgiven him, and not half an hour later they’d been lying in bed, not re-emerging until Sunday lunchtime, when Babs really had to get started on the third design. Only now – Monday morning, an hour before the presentation – was she finally ready.

  Babs felt pleased with herself. She tucked the designs into her presentation folder then got changed, not forgetting to put on her new necklace.

  Albert had gone into the practice that morning, and he was bound to be late again tonight. For a whole week it had gone unattended. Only a week? It seemed to her as though far more time had passed. So much had happened.

  No matter how she turned it over in her mind, the fact remained that Bertram had shot himself because nobody in the family had realised how desperate he was and nobody had believed he’d actually do it.

  Babs sighed, ran a hand through her hair and picked up the folder. She had to go.

  When she stepped out of the lift at the publishing house ten minutes later, her mind was on the presentation she was about to give. Veronika Jäger accompanied her into the conference room. The designer who was going to put the article in layout was already there, as was Carsten Morgenroth. ‘Hello, Barbara.’ He stood up and shook her hand. ‘I’m eager to see what you’ve got for us.’

  For a moment she felt slightly queasy. But there was no reason for it. Her designs were strong. She put the folder on the table, took off her coat and draped it over a chair. Then, squaring her shoulders, she opened the folder. ‘All good things come in threes,’ she began, as she started to outline her ideas.

  She had even managed to find a solution with a freestanding bathtub. The cheapest version was also the most original, she thought, where she’d come up with an unusual way of creating storage space. The small bathroom was more than three metres high, and instead of bringing down the ceiling Babs had hung woven-rush baskets from it that could be lowered using ropes and a pulley. ‘For a young woman on a tight budget, it’s a practical solution.’

  ‘It’s really witty,’ said Carsten Morgenroth. ‘Stuff like that goes down well with our readers. Brilliant, Babs.’

  The designer nodded in agreement and sketched out the page on a layout pad with swift strokes. Veronika Jäger bent over the drawings. ‘They’re pretty. We could use them just as they are. I’m very impressed with what you’ve done, and how you’ve done it. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

  Babs couldn’t keep her face composed: she beamed as if she’d just won an award. Carsten Morgenroth winked at her. ‘It’s a shame you never finished your degree. You were one of the best. Then again, if you had, I doubt we’d be able to afford you.’

  ‘Who knows? It was fun, anyway.’

  Carsten glanced at the clock. ‘I suggest you discuss the remaining pages, then afterwards there’s a nice Italian place we can have lunch.’

  *

  Two phone calls later, Dühnfort had learned that Sabine Groß was being kept at Haar Hospital. He dialled the number and was put through to the doctor treating her. Dr Emese Nagy answered the phone. He introduced himself and asked when he could question Sabine Groß.

  ‘Not today, and definitely not tomorrow either. It’ll take weeks for us to stabilise her. And once we’ve managed that you’ll have to take a back seat.’ Emese Nagy rolled her rs far at the back of her throat. ‘Ms Groß is in the closed ward. She tore her nightshirt into strips and tried to hang herself.’ He heard the anger in her voice. ‘Showing her those photos without any warning destroyed years of work. But I don’t have to tell you that. You felt the consequences immediately.’

  ‘Ms Groß has been your patient for a while? What is she suffering from?’

  ‘An emotionally unstable personality disorder with paranoid tendencies. She’s been in treatment for ten years, on and off.’ He heard a sigh. ‘It’s not fair to blame all my irritation at this setback on you. The first symptoms appeared a few weeks ago, when Ms Groß bumped into Bertram Heckeroth.’

  Dühnfort pricked up his ears. ‘When and where was that?’

  ‘About four or five weeks ago, at a café in Wiener Platz. She recognised him among the guests and
left the place immediately.’

  ‘How did she feel about Bertram’s father? Did she hate him?’

  ‘That phase was already over by the time she became my patient.’

  ‘But running into Bertram upset her?’

  ‘It stirred up memories of what happened back then, which triggered the return of insomnia. We were just getting a handle on it when you showed her the photo.’ Again the doctor sighed. ‘Do you have any other questions?’

  ‘Could you tell me when she’s feeling better?’ Dühnfort gave her his number.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘I’m trying to solve the murder of the man who raped your patient, and I’ve got to follow up every lead. I’m sure you understand that.’

  ‘If you think Sabine Groß had anything to do with it, you’re very much mistaken. She directs all her aggression against herself.’

  ‘Right. Unless she’s got a knife . . .’

  ‘That was an emotional impulse.’

  Dühnfort asked her to promise she’d be in touch as soon as Sabine Groß was stable enough for a conversation. Then he said goodbye, dialling Alois’s number as soon as he’d hung up. ‘Sabine Groß saw Bertram a few weeks ago. She’s in the system already – grab the photo and show it around Bertram’s neighbourhood. I want to know whether she met him.’

  It was almost noon. Time for a quick snack and a decent espresso; both could be had at Segafredo on Rindermarkt. Dühnfort drew on his coat and left the station.

  A choppy wind drove the rain through the pedestrianised streets. People ducked under umbrellas and hurried to shelter beneath department-store facades. In the air hung the scent of first snow, and Dühnfort noticed a flake or two melting on the asphalt. He reached Marienplatz, turned down Rosenstraße, passed the bronze memorial to Sigi Sommer – that eternal pedestrian, a newspaper under his arm – and entered the tiny café two minutes later. It was packed with customers glad to briefly escape the grim weather. The café was warm, and the air smelled of damp coats.

  ‘Ciao, Tino,’ shouted Marcello, passing another customer a cappuccino. ‘Long time no see.’ Dühnfort unbuttoned his wet trench coat and ordered a double espresso and a tramezzino with mortadella. A newspaper lay in front of him. He leafed through it, then set it aside again. He didn’t much like this Sabine Groß business. She’d bumped into Bertram, bringing memories of the rape and failed legal proceedings back to the surface. How could he be sure insomnia was all it had triggered?

  Marcello pushed a chunky cup across the counter and brought out a tin of Billington’s Unrefined Dark Muscovado Sugar, Dühnfort’s favourite. ‘A multicultural espresso.’ Marcello bared his teeth.

  Dühnfort stirred two spoonfuls of the figgy sugar into his espresso. The mere scent was bracing. He closed his eyes and drank the inky brew in tiny sips. A few minutes later the tramezzino was ready. Marcello passed him the plate. After the meal, Dühnfort felt reinvigorated. Rummaging around in his wallet for coins, he slid them across the counter.

  ‘A domani.’ Marcello was juggling three cups. Dühnfort gave him a nod and stepped outside. It was still raining.

  Back at the station, Dühnfort fetched his car and set off for Giesing. As he was driving over Luitpold Bridge, the sun broke through the clouds. The column with the Angel of Peace towered above the roundabout, the golden statue glittering in the sunlight. Greyish-brown, the Isar rushed towards the weir, and suddenly Dühnfort felt as though they were getting nowhere. They were gathering a pebble here and a pebble there, but no pattern was emerging. The key question was, how did Sabine Groß fit in to either of the murders – or both? His mobile rang. He picked up; it was Meo.

  ‘I’ve gone through the phone records. Three weeks ago Sabine Groß called Bertram on his landline. It was a short conversation, under a minute.’

  ‘Just that one conversation?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dühnfort took the ring road into Giesing. Alex Schimoni had set up her Strong Women group round the back of a postwar building near the Tube station. He parked on the street and entered the courtyard through a passageway. A fluorescent green sign stuck to a glass door read Strong Women. Dühnfort went inside and found himself in a kind of lobby, a corridor and two doors leading off it. There were wet footprints on the linoleum. In a bucket-sized umbrella stand were half a dozen brollies. Voices drifted towards him from somewhere. A poster on the wall listed the programme: psycho-social advice, legal consultation, divorce counselling, mediation and self-defence: karate, kickboxing, taekwondo. The chair behind the reception desk was deserted, the door behind it ajar. Something was moving. Dühnfort coughed, and a startling-looking woman appeared: a henna-red perm with a pink scarf wound through it, green eyes, mocha lipstick, turquoise jumper, crimson skirt. ‘No men allowed.’ She pointed at a sign on the desk.

  He passed her his ID. ‘Is Ms Schimoni here?’

  She threw a glance at the card and slid it back. ‘She’s giving a seminar right now, but it’ll be over in a few minutes.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  ‘Fine, but in the courtyard, please.’ She pointed at the sign again. At the same moment the clouds burst. Rain hammered against the tin roof, making the passageway disappear behind a grey veil and transforming the bumpy asphalt into a puddled minefield.

  ‘I do sympathise,’ said Dühnfort, taking a seat, ‘but I’m one of the good guys. We’re the ones who take wife-beating husbands into custody, call doctors, psychologists and social workers, and provide the occasional taxi service to shelters.’ He unbuttoned his coat and sat down.

  ‘Perhaps I should be serving you a coffee?’

  Dühnfort smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ve just had one.’ He picked up the events programme and leafed through it.

  A door opened somewhere. The babble of voices grew louder, then ebbed away again. Alex Schimoni stepped out of the half-light of the corridor into the lobby. Dühnfort stood up and walked towards her. She wore black tracksuit pants and a tank top. In her hand was a bottle of mineral water. Muscles stood out on her arms and shoulders. ‘Ah, state authority.’ Her mouth twitched in annoyance.

  ‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’

  ‘I’m going for lunch now anyway,’ said the colourfully dressed woman. She slipped into a green knitted coat, reached for one of the brollies and let in a waft of damp air as she opened the door.

  ‘Please.’ Alex Schimoni ushered Dühnfort into a sparsely furnished office. Two scuffed desks stood opposite each other, and stacks of files towered on pine bookshelves. Offering Dühnfort a seat next to the desk, she sat down.

  ‘You know about the suicide attempt?’ asked Dühnfort.

  Alex Schimoni nodded. ‘Finding out about the photo was too much for her.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea she didn’t know. But we’ve already discussed that. Unfortunately I can’t question Ms Groß herself, so I’ve come to you.’

  Alex leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. ‘You want to pin this murder on her, and I’m supposed to help you?’

  A wave of resignation rolled over him. He wasn’t up for any more of this. What did all this bullshit have to do with him anyway? Why didn’t he just throw in the towel? Justice was an unreachable ideal and truth an illusion, making him an absurd Don Quixote. ‘I’m trying to get a picture of what happened. That’s all. In any case, it’s not about Heckeroth.’

  ‘What, then?’

  He told her what he’d learned from Neuperlach Hospital, and about the interview with the optician.

  Alex Schimoni told him what had happened. Sabine Groß had been doing casual work after leaving university. Odd jobs, mostly as a sales assistant. She had a certain talent for it. At one point she started working at an optician’s. ‘One evening she was helping him put up new shelving, and the guy got more than a little hands-on. Sabine lost her rag, grabbed the knife they’d used to open the boxes and sliced his arm. When the police showed up the next day, the man was shitting brick
s. The business belonged to his wife. Sabine called and told him she was going to report what happened, so he turned the tables and threatened to report her. After all, he was the one with the injury. It took him less than two minutes to convince Sabine to go along with the lie. Great deal, eh?’ Alex leaned forwards.

  ‘Good, glad we’ve sorted that out. And what about Bertram Heckeroth?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘She called him three weeks ago—’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘—after bumping into him accidentally at a café. She didn’t tell you?’

  Alex shook her head.

  *

  Dühnfort drove on to Neuperlach, a satellite town to the east of Munich. The panoramic mountain range of high-rise blocks blurred in the mist, becoming a vague shape. Like the buildings, ships and bridges in Turner paintings, they seemed to lose their form, dissolving in the veils of rain like a utopia.

  Dühnfort parked at the shopping centre. Leaving by the west exit, he was soon standing outside the building where Diana Waller lived, the woman with the frying pan. He’d phoned and told her in advance that he was coming, but wasn’t sure whether she’d understood. Loud children’s laughter in the background had made conversation virtually impossible. He found her name on the doorbell. Tenth floor. Through the open front door he reached a musty stairwell, then took the lift up. Fluorescent light illuminated the pimpled rubber flooring, which squeaked underfoot. From an apartment with a fish-shaped sticker on the door, which bore the name Waller, he heard the sound of noisy children. Dühnfort rang the bell. The noise stopped. A woman of no more than twenty-five answered the door. She carried a baby in her arms. Dühnfort noticed a bead of drool next to the white border of her navy blue jumper. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Behind her a boy, roughly two years old, peeked out, a yellow construction hat on his head and a wooden hammer in his hand. Dühnfort introduced himself.