by Inge Löhnig
‘Did you just call? Sorry about the noise. But when I can’t take the kids to the playground they’re left with so much energy.’ She invited him in. The apartment was tiny. A narrow hallway with a row of children’s shoes on a mat, a child’s bedroom beyond an open door. On the carpet inside sat a three-year-old girl, painting on a sheet of packing paper with watercolours. Black curls fell into her chubby-cheeked face. As Dühnfort walked past, she looked up. ‘You’re not the Gingerbread Man,’ she announced, before turning back to her picture. Diana Waller laughed. ‘We’ve just been watching Shrek,’ she explained, glancing around. ‘Clara, where’s Sandra got to?’
‘The loo. Doing poo-poo.’
How many children does she have? wondered Dühnfort. The toilet flushed and the door opened. A pallid girl in green dungarees and a colourful striped jumper came out. She held out a pair of braces to Diana Waller. ‘I can’t do them up.’
‘Maybe you could . . .’ The young woman looked hopefully at Dühnfort.
‘Who’s this man?’ asked Sandra.
‘Not the Gingerbread Man,’ yelled Clara with a giggle.
Dühnfort crouched down and hooked the braces onto the dungaree buttons. ‘I can bake pretty tasty gingerbread men, though,’ he said.
Sandra gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘You can make gingerbread men?’
‘I want to be Fiona!’ shouted Clara from the bedroom.
‘Isn’t Fiona an ogre?’ Dühnfort wasn’t sure.
‘Yes.’ Clara got up, came into the hallway and gazed up at him reproachfully. ‘But she’s also a princess.’ She raised her index finger and pointed it at him. ‘And now you’re going to bake us some gingerbread.’
‘All right, that’s enough, Clara.’ Diana Waller shifted the baby onto her other arm. ‘Have you finished your painting of the princess?’ Clara shook her head, took Sandra’s hand and dragged her into their bedroom. ‘Maybe he’s a prince,’ she whispered to Sandra, glancing back with a giggle.
‘They’re not all my children.’ Diana Waller looked at the little boy, who was still standing behind her. ‘This is Felix, he is mine. Clara, Sandra and this little cutie’ – she stroked the baby’s head – ‘belong to my colleagues. We take turns looking after them.’ As she led Dühnfort into the other room, she explained that she worked as a sales assistant at a pharmacy. Part-time: it was all she could manage. Even that was only possible because she’d got together with four other women who worked at the shopping centre, who also had young children and no one to look after them. ‘I’m unlucky today. Apart from Kasper, they’re all with me. He’s caught a stomach bug.’ She offered Dühnfort a seat on a blue-patterned sofa-bed. A basket of laundry stood next to a white bookcase with scuffed edges. A few books, toys and the TV sat on its shelves. The flat was spic and span, but the furniture looked cheap, like it had been cobbled together from the flea market. Felix sat down on the floor, reached for a plastic screwdriver and began to turn thick plastic screws into a sheet of pre-made holes. ‘I’m a builder,’ he explained, shoving a dummy into his mouth. His mother put the baby into a pram in the corner and seated herself in a basket chair.
Dühnfort sat down on the sofa. ‘It’s about Sabine Groß, and the incident two years ago. I have a few questions.’
‘You mean the time my boyfriend . . .’ Her gaze flitted to her son. ‘Felix, would you like to go into the bedroom with the other children?’
‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘You can take the biscuits. But you’ve got to let Sandra and Clara have some too.’
His childish face lit up. Swiftly Felix packed up his tools and left the room. Dühnfort watched him disappear into the kitchen, reappear with a packet of biscuits and head into the bedroom.
‘Why are you interested in that old story?’ Diana stretched her tense shoulders.
‘That’s not so important. Could you please just tell me what happened?’
‘It’s ages ago, but fine. We were living in Giesing, in social housing. Ulf was out of work and couldn’t find anything new. I was pregnant with Felix, so I gave up my job at a drycleaner’s. It was too risky. Plus it was crap money and loads of frustration. Ulf drank quite a bit, and on the evening it happened he just flipped out. Over nothing. He came home from God-knows-where and there was no food on the table. We’d run out of beer, too, although he’d already had more than enough. First he yelled at me, then he hit me and kicked me. I must have shouted for help, but I can’t really remember. I was fucking terrified because of the baby. The frying pan was on the stove, so I grabbed it and gave Ulf a whack. That was the exact moment when Sabine, who lived above us, kicked the door down. Didn’t think she had it in her, frankly. And that’s the whole story.’ Diana leaned back in her chair.
‘Not quite. The part that interests me is still missing. What did you do after Sabine Groß kicked down the door?’
‘We called the police. I mean, Sabine did.’
‘When the police arrived your boyfriend was tied up.’
Diana grinned. ‘Yeah, he was. I’d knocked him out for a minute but he started waking up. I was afraid he’d fly off the handle completely. His belt was on the floor – that’s what he hit me with. Sabine used it to tie his hands. Why are you interested in this after so long?’
Dühnfort shrugged. ‘Parallels with another case. Was it just his hands she tied?’
Diana tugged at the tip of her nose and wrinkled her brow. ‘First she threaded the belt through the bars of the radiator – it was an old thing – so that Ulf couldn’t stand up. Thank God the police got there before he’d properly come to.’
‘Ms Waller, this is important now: whose idea was it to tie Ulf up?’
She shook her head almost imperceptibly. ‘I don’t understand . . . but it was Sabine’s idea. How did she put it? Some of these bastards get off on it.’
*
Caroline finished the entry, closed her laptop and looked at the clock. Done. The presentation was ready, and in ten minutes she’d be convincing Gilles to abandon their old crock of an agency and get on board with a modern, versatile one.
The tension of the last few hours dissipated, and all at once she felt tired and sapped. The quota of energy she’d acquired over the weekend at the hotel was already used up. A proper holiday would do her good, but she couldn’t swing that until after the board meeting. She’d just have to get through the week.
Her day and a half at the lake had been lovely. A break. At night she’d lain in Marc’s arms and told him everything: about herself, about Bertram, about the family, about her teenage dreams of going to Africa, but also about her sorrow and her fear, about her feeling that the house she lived in was collapsing on top of her. First Mum, then Dad, then Bertram. ‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she’d said. ‘I know it’s a cliché. But if I die, what’s left? A wardrobe full of clothes and a nice apartment.’
‘And half a beauty department in the bathroom.’ Marc nestled closer. She couldn’t see his eyes in the twilight, but she sensed the smile that accompanied those words, feeling the comforting warmth of his body and drinking in the woody scent of his skin. ‘It’s up to you what you want to do with your life,’ he said, and she knew what he meant. But a promise of fidelity and a gold ring on her finger were no guarantee she wouldn’t be lonely. Like Mum. She’d had a husband and three children, yet no one to share her life with. What had happened to the love of her life, Peter Brandenbourg? Yesterday, getting home late, Caroline hadn’t read any more of the diary.
Marc’s observation was correct in more ways than one. Being in charge of her own life suited her temperament. No one was immortal, even the so-called immortals. All that remained of them was an idea, a formula, the name of a plant, a book, an opera, a play. They themselves had turned to dust, just like everybody else. A week ago her goals had been clear; why was she suddenly calling them into question? Caroline picked up her laptop. Her father might be dead, but he would’ve been proud of her becoming Head of Sales and Marketing, wouldn’t he? Int
o battle, then.
Gilles was waiting for her in his office on the top floor. He wore a dark-green tailored suit, a white button-down shirt and an ice-blue silk tie with lime-green stripes. His cheeks were shaved smooth, his hair neatly trimmed and his handshake pleasantly cool, as ever. ‘I’m keen to see what you want to sell me so shortly before the board meeting.’ He gestured towards the glass table in front of the window, where juice, water and biscuits were already laid out.
He makes it sound like I’m going door-to-door trying to sell newspaper subscriptions, thought Caroline, but immediately pulled herself together. Her nerves were on edge, and she was far too sensitive. She smiled at him. ‘Our daily bread,’ she said. ‘It’s a cost–benefit issue. How we can use the marketing budget more efficiently.’
Gilles offered her a chair. ‘Well, let’s hear it.’
Caroline took a seat and opened the laptop with her PowerPoint presentation, while her boss sat down next to her. ‘It looks like Henning’s plan to acquire more franchise partners will be approved on Monday. That’ll take a big slice of the resources we need to successfully market the autumn pralines,’ began Caroline. She’d deliberately used the word ‘we’ to get Gilles on board from the start. Over the next five minutes, she presented the new strategy, which would make the budget stretch to her product campaign as well as the franchises.
Deep furrows appeared on Gilles’s forehead. Resting his chin in his hands, he surveyed her quizzically. ‘Those are impressive numbers. But how will you persuade our agency to accept that fee?’
‘I won’t. I’ve discovered an alternative. A small agency that’s been awarded a series of prizes for corporate design and—’
‘We don’t need a design agency, we need seasoned experts in advertising,’ interrupted Gilles.
‘This agency is expanding its remit and already has a new team on board. The art director’s joined from Sventen & Campman. He’s got experience in the food industry, and there are already some initial proposals –’
‘You’ve already done a lot of work,’ Gilles interrupted her again. ‘But we can’t risk switching agencies. We’ve been working with Adhoc for years. They know us. They know the market and our target demographic. They’ve done first-rate work, and there’s no reason to give them the boot.’
‘But then we’ll have to scale down the campaign for the autumn pralines to the point where nobody will realise they’ve launched.’
Gilles got to his feet – a sign that the conversation was over. ‘Don’t worry. I spoke to Jacques over the weekend. He’s not planning to support Henning at the board meeting. He doesn’t like franchises. Bunch of small fry who’ll be nothing but a pain in the arse, he says.’
Caroline was surprised and annoyed. She could have saved herself a lot of work. The office rumour mill was generally pretty accurate, especially when it came to the sales department. Still, Gilles was friends with Jacques Kerity. If he’d said that . . .
Ever the gentleman, he accompanied her to the door. He must also be relieved that Henning’s plans were going to be thwarted, thought Caroline, as she climbed the stairs to her office. Gilles was hoping to be promoted to the supervisory board that autumn, and for that he needed a win. If Henning had got his way they wouldn’t have been able to avoid switching agencies, given the tight budget. And a switch might have cost them money or even proved to be a mistake. No doubt Gilles didn’t want to take such risks.
When Caroline got back to her office, Tanja asked whether she could go home. It was already after five o’clock. Caroline nodded, and then she remembered what Marc had said. She hadn’t thanked Tanja for her gift yet, and perhaps the motive she’d ascribed to her secretary was utterly untrue. ‘The book you gave me . . . that was very sweet of you.’ Somehow the tone came out wrong, but it was the best she could do.
Tanja Wiezorek beamed. ‘Do you like it? I’m so glad. I hope it helps you a little.’
Half an hour later, Caroline packed up her things and drove home. Her apartment was cool and still, full of grey twilight. She switched on all the lights, turned up the heating and put on Christian Brandenbourg’s CD. As the first notes of ‘Spring’ sounded, she took off her coat and shoes and went into the kitchen. The fridge was almost empty. A piece of Camembert, an open bottle of red wine. She grabbed a baguette from the freezer and put it in the microwave. As it thawed, she went into the bedroom and changed into jeans and a jumper. Then she picked up the diary from the bedside table.
Five minutes later she was sitting on the sofa with a cheese baguette and a glass of wine, listening to the music. Divine. That was how Mum had described Christian Brandenbourg’s playing. But the second movement of ‘Spring’ was cold and brittle. Picking up the remote, Caroline selected ‘Summer’ instead. Now the music sounded warm and pleasant, like soft rain falling on flowers and meadows, chased through trees and bushes by a nascent wind. Suddenly Caroline felt an inexplicable sense of unease. She reached for her glass, drank a sip of wine and opened her mother’s diary. Finding her place, she resumed reading. On the following page were three words. They hit Caroline like a brick. Peter is dead!
*
On his way back to the station, Dühnfort paid his bank a visit. A form, a signature and the building loan contract was cancelled; the money would be in his account shortly. With the funds he’d intended for a house of his own – the one he’d dreamed of, where a wife and children would be waiting for him when he came home after work in the evening – he was going to buy the boat. He wasn’t getting anywhere with urban life, he thought, and the memory of the boat filled him with inexplicable longing. Perhaps that was what he was really looking for: the kind of terrain Bavaria didn’t have, space to let your mind and eyes roam.
He rang Caroline Heckeroth from the car, asking whether he could talk to her about Sabine Groß.
‘Because of the picture in Dad’s album? I don’t think I can help you any further.’
‘Not about that. I want to build up a picture of her.’
‘Then you’re asking the wrong person. I haven’t seen Sabine for more than twenty years, not since she dropped out in the first semester.’
Dühnfort thanked her and drove to Katja Rist’s gallery. It was closed. Through the window, however, he saw a light, and he knocked. Moments later, Bertram’s ex-wife appeared in the exhibition space.
She let him in, offered him a seat on the sofa and fetched her mug of tea from the desk.
‘Does the name Sabine Groß mean anything to you?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Who’s that?’
‘A former university friend of Caroline’s. A few weeks ago she met Bertram in a café not far from here, and phoned him at least once.’
‘Bertram didn’t mention it to me. But we were divorced, after all, and didn’t see each other very often.’ With a weary gesture, she ran both hands over her face. ‘When Bertram asked me to lie for him, he swore it had nothing to do with the death of his father. He wasn’t lying. It wasn’t him.’
‘If he’d told you it was, would you have given him an alibi?’
She put her hands around the mug and gazed into it.
‘Look,’ said Dühnfort. ‘We can’t find his mobile or his laptop. You wouldn’t happen to have them, would you?’
Again she shook her head. ‘Bertram was only half a person without his mobile. He always had it on him. If it’s gone, then someone must have stolen it. It’s a pretty expensive one – Bluetooth, Wi-Fi, camera, video. And the laptop.’ She hunched her shoulders then let them sink. ‘It was always in the office. He practically never took it outside.’
‘Do you know whether Bertram ever took drugs?’
‘Wherever did you get that idea? He had the occasional whiskey or glass of wine, or champagne. But never very much, and he certainly never took pills or smoked anything.’ A deep wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows.
‘Did you know about the gun?’
‘Yeah, sure. He told everyone about that. It was one of his
more exciting anecdotes. When he was on form, he had people hanging on his every word. He was a gifted storyteller.’ For a moment her face brightened.
‘Could you give me a run-down of who knew about the weapon?’
The brightness disappeared, replaced by an anxious expression. ‘Your questions . . . they only make sense if . . . Bertram didn’t shoot himself, did he?’
Dühnfort confirmed her suspicions. She sat there for a moment as if turned to stone, staring at the wall. He saw the clockwork moving behind her eyes, saw the cogs meet.
‘But who’d do something like that, and why? He had no enemies. Fights, sure. Now and again . . . he must have known something.’ She exhaled and put down the mug. ‘Bertram was with me on Wednesday. He was babbling something about a commission, a big one. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. He’d told stories like that before, and they were always hot air. But this time it was different, somehow. He laughed . . . and what did he say then? . . . Every dog has his day. He was tossing his phone into the air and catching it . . . so he still had it then.’
The phone. It could take photos and video. Was that why it had disappeared? Had Bertram taken a picture he was using to blackmail someone?
Dühnfort took his leave, drove to the police station and tracked down Meo. He was sitting in a dim room behind a row of monitors. Only the hiss of the fans and the clatter of the keyboard could be heard. In the glow of the screens Meo’s face looked sallow, as if he were ill. He turned when he noticed Dühnfort, offering him one of the energy bars without which he seemed unable to function.
Dühnfort declined with thanks, asking whether there might be another way to locate Bertram’s mobile.
‘Only if it’s switched on.’
Dühnfort had tried it several times, each time getting a recorded message announcing that the person he was trying to reach was not available.
Meo slid the phone records across the table. Dühnfort studied them. Apart from the call from Sabine Groß three weeks ago, nothing struck him as unusual. Forty-seven seconds. What could you talk about in such a short time? Had the two of them agreed to meet, because frequent calls were too risky?