by Inge Löhnig
One thing was now clear. Sabine Groß had either known at the time that Heckeroth tied her up with a belt or she had seen the photo after all. Some of these bastards get off on it. If not, that remark would have been coincidence. And Dühnfort didn’t believe in coincidences.
Tuesday, 21 October
At around four, Dühnfort woke from an uneasy sleep. He lay in the dark and let his thoughts assume the proportions of the sixteen-ton weight in Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Shortly after half past, he flung himself out of bed and took a shower. His mind cleared, but his mood didn’t improve. Something was troubling him, keeping him from breakfast and chasing him out of the flat.
It was dark and silent. In the pools of light cast by the streetlamps his breath steadied; the frosty night enveloped him. His footsteps echoed against the pavement. On Müllerstraße he glimpsed the first set of headlights, then a car coming round the smooth bend towards Sendlinger Tor. He walked on, down Oberanger and Blumenstraße, reaching the farmers’ market.
Delivery vans were parked along the edge of the road and in the alleyways between the stalls. Voices rang out across the square. In the lamplight, traders and drivers loaded hand trucks with fruit and vegetable crates, placed buckets full of dahlias, asters and chrysanthemums on racks, heaved boxes full of ham, smoked meat, terrines and pickles onto the pavement.
Dühnfort reached Café Schmalznudel, pushed open the dark wooden door and entered the room. As always at this time of day, it was rammed to the gunnels. Stall vendors and market women drank hasty mugs of coffee; night owls capped their revelries with a piccolo and the obligatory pastry. In the air hung the scent of hot clarified butter, coffee and fresh pretzels, mixed with fumes of sweat and notes of expensive perfume, dissipating into the waning night. At a table with a view over the marketplace, one seat was still free. Dühnfort sat down next to a grey-haired couple in evening clothes, who were discussing a performance of Othello, and ordered a cup of coffee. The woman’s make-up was smudged, the man’s face flushed. ‘Load of old cobblers,’ he said, swilling down his words with champagne. ‘Bloody expensive tickets for all that fuss.’
Dühnfort looked out of the window. A man in lederhosen and a white coat was unloading woven baskets full of yellow boletuses, girolles and bay boletuses. Dühnfort thought about risotto. His coffee arrived; it was hot and strong. After Dühnfort had drunk it, he felt better. He paid and left.
Around a quarter to six he opened the door to his office and switched on the light, which flickered as it came on. On his desk lay Wolfram Heckeroth’s final autopsy report, which contained no new information. Buchholz, too, had left a stack of paper in his in-tray. Dühnfort picked it up and worked through it until about quarter past eight, when Gina knocked and stuck her head round the door.
‘Caroline Heckeroth just rang. She wants to know if it’s true Bertram didn’t commit suicide. I told her that’s correct – I hope that’s OK?’
Dühnfort wasn’t entirely pleased. He preferred to keep things under wraps for as long as possible. Still, he was the one who’d told Bertram’s ex-wife. So he nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Oh, and before I forget, my mum says hi. You’re welcome any time.’ Gina grinned. ‘And she could use your advice.’
He’d felt at ease in Gina’s apartment. The thought of being welcomed there was like stepping into a warm room on a cold winter’s day. ‘Advice or practical help?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Advice, mainly.’ Gina flopped down onto a chair. ‘She lost her job two months ago. Since then she’s been keeping busy as housekeeper, cleaning lady and cook. She’s always whizzing round the apartment. She even washes my flatmates’ stuff.’ Gina rolled her eyes. ‘On the one hand, it’s quite nice . . . but, yeah. She wants to make beef olives and has no idea what sauce to make with it.’
‘She just has to add a little red wine to the meat juices and reduce them, then stir in some cream and add salt and pepper to taste. Easy peasy.’
Gina smiled. ‘I’ll pass that on straight away.’
‘Did you learn any more about Bertram?’ asked Dühnfort.
‘A neighbour recognised Sabine Groß. She was standing outside Bertram’s house about four weeks ago. She didn’t ring the bell, just stared. After a while she left and headed for the tram stop.’
Dühnfort leaned back, interlocking his hands behind his head. So Sabine Groß had tried to approach Bertram. Why? ‘Could you try talking to her doctor? Woman to woman?’ Dühnfort jotted down Emese Nagy’s name and number. ‘She might be a bit more forthcoming with you than with me. I’d like to know whether Sabine Groß was already in the closed ward by Thursday night. If it’s at all possible, insist on questioning her. And show her picture around the building in Kurfürstenplatz. Maybe she went to find Heckeroth senior, too.’
‘OK. Will do.’
‘Bertram could take pictures on his phone, and he also made a rather odd remark to his ex-wife. He might have been blackmailing someone.’
‘I wonder what he photographed?’ Gina tugged at her earlobe. ‘Maybe that’s why they took the laptop. If Bertram saved a copy of the photo on there, it would be sensible to make it disappear . . .’
‘And the PCs were too bulky to take, so they erased the hard drives,’ said Dühnfort, completing her train of thought. ‘Lucky for Bertram’s killer there was nothing suspicious on them.’
‘Exactly. But how does Sabine fit in? Maybe they were in cahoots. OK, I’ll get on it. Is there a meeting today, by the way?’
Dühnfort glanced at his watch. They had to round up what they’d learned and see where the investigation stood. ‘Let’s say two o’clock.’
It was barely ten, however, before he was gripped by the old fear. The fear of having overlooked something. It drove him out of the building and towards Kurfürstenplatz.
*
Dühnfort went into the practice to pick up the apartment key. The waiting room was empty, and the receptionist sitting behind the counter looked up from her computer as he entered. Asking for Albert, he was told that Doctor Heckeroth was at a professional development seminar.
Dühnfort thanked her for the information and fetched the key from Mrs Kiendel. Two minutes later he was inside the flat. On the dining table stood an old projector, a few labelled rolls of film beside it. Summer 1967 in the Alps, Picnic on the Isar, Albert’s First Skiing Lesson, Octoberfest 1971, Crete 1972. Photo albums were piled up on the sideboard. Had Albert been wallowing in the past?
Dühnfort searched the apartment, not quite sure what he was expecting to find. In the bedroom he cleared the clothes out of the chest of drawers where he’d found the album, then turned his attention to the wardrobe and nightstands. The polaroid camera lay in the drawer. In the study he examined the spines of the files on the bookcase, slid out the one marked Invoices and riffled swiftly through it. Invoices and receipts for all sorts of things were glued neatly onto white sheets of paper and tucked into plastic pockets.
He put the file back and went over to the window. A tram stopped on the square below. What had Bertram known? What was the link between the murder of his father and the twenty-year-old rape of Sabine Groß? Or was he holding the loose ends of threads that had never been connected?
Half an hour later he brought the key back up to Mrs Kiendel and asked if he could put a few questions to her.
‘Sure.’ She ushered him into the living room, a small space with sloping walls and a dormer window. Sumptuous. That was the word that shot through Dühnfort’s head as he took in the excessive opulence: fluttering gauze curtains and heavier drapes, the thick fabric gathered either side with tassels; small tables with doilies; a bronze cheetah mid-spring on the sideboard; wooden bookends shaped like giraffes; a bouquet of silk flowers spilling out of a crystal vase decorated with gold leaf.
Mrs Kiendel offered him a seat on the plush wine-red sofa before settling into the armchair opposite. Her mouth was still tense, worry lines evident on her forehead. ‘How is your daughter?’ asked Dü
hnfort.
She dropped her hands into her lap. ‘No change. I’m going to visit her after this, to read to her. She might recognise my voice.’
‘I won’t keep you long. But I’d like to get a better sense of the Heckeroth family. You knew them well. Did Albert and his father really get on perfectly, or did they argue from time to time?’
‘Those two argue? Never. Mr Heckeroth was very proud of Albert. You see it so rarely, a son taking his father as a role model. The only thing that surprised me sometimes was that the old man always came first. I mean, his wife and children should’ve taken priority, I think. But one phone call from his dad and Albert would drop everything. He only argued with Bertram. Not that Mr Heckeroth ever told me that – he was very concerned about gossip – but I picked up bits and pieces anyway. And I got on well with Elli, that’s Mrs Heckeroth. Sometimes she’d talk about personal matters. Bertram was their problem child. I’m sure the constant aggravation was part of the reason why Elli’s cancer got so bad. She was always in and out of hospital, weeks in rehab. And now Bertram’s shot himself. Seems hard to believe. Frankly, I didn’t think he had the guts.’
So the news of Bertram’s murder hadn’t reached her yet.
She broke off mid-flow and glanced at the clock. ‘To be honest, I was quite surprised when he rang the Monday before last. Said he was worried about his father.’
‘Bertram phoned you the Monday Mr Heckeroth was found dead?’
Her curls bobbed as she nodded. ‘That afternoon. He couldn’t reach him on the phone, so he asked me. He wasn’t on speaking terms with Albert and Caroline, you see. He thought something had happened and his dad might be in hospital. You’re not the only one who’s worried, I said. I mentioned it to Albert this morning. But he was busy with the practice, of course.’
Dühnfort heard the faint note of reproach in her voice. He thanked her and got to his feet. As he was about to leave, however, his gaze fell on a framed photograph that stood next to a crystal candlestick on a small occasional table. Shit was what shot through his head as he assimilated the information and a new possibility took shape. Dühnfort stared at the picture. A plump young woman with dreamy eyes and dark hair. ‘Is that your daughter?’
Loretta Kiendel nodded, picked up the photograph and gazed at it pensively.
‘How old is she, and when did the accident happen?’
‘Seventeen, nearly eighteen.’ Mrs Kiendel shifted her gaze from the photograph and looked at Dühnfort. ‘It was around midnight on Monday. Although I told her she wasn’t allowed to stay out that late.’
Child, she’d said, thought Dühnfort. The child wasn’t wearing her helmet. That’s a young woman. ‘Which Monday? Not 6 October?’
Mrs Kiendel eyed him uneasily. ‘Yes. Why are you suddenly so interested?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. Could you give me the key again? I’ve got to nip back down to the apartment.’
She fetched it from the table. Dühnfort took his leave and went downstairs again.
Poking around in the study, his gaze fell on the computer, which he’d switched on the previous Wednesday. Of course. That’s why it was password-protected. So far, however, Dühnfort hadn’t seen a digital camera anywhere. He took the file of invoices off the shelf and skimmed through until he found the one he was looking for. Nearly two years ago, Heckeroth had bought a camera. Dühnfort systematically searched the study, but found only a memory chip for the camera in a drawer. Then he phoned Meo and asked him to come over, bringing a transport crate for the computer.
Standing at the window, he gazed down into the square. Naturally Heckeroth wouldn’t have wanted to risk his cleaning lady finding photos of her daughter. He couldn’t stick it in the album or hide it in a drawer. It was only truly safe from prying eyes on a password-protected PC.
Dühnfort turned away from the window and sat down on the chair behind the desk. It was a feeling, an intuition, that had seized him when he saw the picture. Franziska Kiendel was exactly Heckeroth’s type. Dühnfort couldn’t imagine a young girl falling in love with a seventy-two-year-old. The power of words or the power of money? Or had he resorted to the same method as with Sabine Groß? All this was supposition. He wanted certainty. If his suspicious were borne out, then Franziska Kiendel might have a motive.
A ring at the bell tore him out of his reverie. He opened the door to Meo, who set down a transport crate in the corridor. His long hair streamed out from beneath his black baseball cap, which he wore backwards. As ever, his sweatshirt and jeans were three sizes too large. ‘So where’s the little poppet, then?’
Dühnfort led him into the study. ‘The computer’s password-protected. Can you crack it?’
Meo shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard. Is that all?’
‘No. There are probably photos on there like the ones on our evidence board. And I’d like you to take a look at this flashcard, too.’ He gave Meo the memory chip.
‘OK.’ Meo slipped the flashcard into his trouser pocket, packed the computer into the crate and left.
Moving back to the window, Dühnfort tried to pick up the loose end of a thought.
From the first, the extraordinary cruelty of the killing had been at the heart of the investigation. Who would be capable of going about their life day after day, knowing that a human being was dying slowly and agonisingly, without coming to their senses and saving the person before it was too late? What if the killer simply wasn’t able to? Maybe Heckeroth’s death hadn’t been intentional, but rather the tragic result of a road accident. A moment’s inattention on the part of a newbie driver might have cost not only Franziska her health but Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth his life.
*
Babs fetched the post out of the mailbox and went upstairs. She’d just been to lunch with Carsten. Around ten, Veronika Jäger had called and asked Babs to drop by so they could go over the details of the bathroom design with the raised baskets: Carsten had decided to re-create the solution in the studio and have photographs done.
‘So far our readers have had to make do with illustrations. You should be flattered.’ And Babs was.
Two hours later, leaving the editorial office, she’d bumped into Carsten in the lift and he’d invited her to lunch. Over saltimbocca he asked how she was doing. It almost sounded as though he were sounding her out. Preferring not to mix the personal and the professional, she told him nothing about Wolfram and Bertram, and he was tactful enough not to ask. As they ate dessert, he brought up the summer fifteen years ago when they’d had a brief fling. ‘I often think about those weeks.’ Lost in thought, he stirred sugar into his cappuccino. ‘Sometimes it would be nice if we could turn back time, or just pick up writing unfinished stories where we left off.’ He looked up with a smile.
Babs had returned his smile. ‘For everything there is a season’ was her – hopefully unambiguous – answer.
Opening the apartment door, she was greeted by silence. All at once she missed the boys. Slipping out of her coat and pumps, her gaze came to rest on the telephone, and she remembered her conversation with Katja that morning.
Bertram hadn’t killed himself. Somebody had shot him! She wasn’t sure which was worse. For Albert, however, who’d been blaming himself, the news would be a relief. After the conversation with Katja she’d wanted to call him, but realised that he was at a training seminar.
She glanced at the clock. One thirty. He’d be at the practice by now, but this wasn’t the kind of news you delivered over the phone. It would have to wait till evening.
She went into the kitchen, drank a glass of water and considered what to do. The fridge was nearly empty. The milk had run out at breakfast. Albert had reacted rather acerbically, with a scathing comment. ‘If you can’t even keep the house in order, you should think about whether you really want to work. Or we’ll be in chaos before we know it,’ he’d said.
Babs shook her head at the memory. Once again she’d swallowed her irritation for the sake of keeping the peace. She�
�d done the same on Saturday night, when Albert had been different: domineering, pushing the limits, taking charge. Thank God he hadn’t gone so far as to suggest tying her up. Babs knew her limits, and humiliation was definitely beyond them.
She massaged her temples. All these changes in Albert were presumably down to the dreadful events of the last few weeks, which had pulled the rug from under his feet. He just needed time to find himself again.
Yet Albert’s spiteful remark this morning kept running through her head. The constant cycle of fighting and making-up was new and exhausting. Albert kept tearing down what he’d only just rebuilt. How long would it go on? This emotional rollercoaster had a destructive power. Like her thoughts, which whirled and led nowhere. Babs took a breath. First she’d do the shopping.
As she jotted down what they needed, the phone rang. It was Albert. ‘Have you done the shopping yet?’
‘I was just about to. Do you need anything?’
‘We’ve run out of coffee at the practice. Can you bring round a few packets and some condensed milk?’
‘Of course.’ She looked at the clock. Almost half past. Albert didn’t like it when she dropped off the shopping during consulting hours, but they wouldn’t start until two. She could get it done before then. ‘I’ll bring it straight over.’
Five minutes later she left the house and went to the supermarket. Since the boys wouldn’t be back till Friday, her list wasn’t long and she’d soon picked up what she wanted. She got a separate receipt for the coffee and condensed milk; Albert could deduct them from his tax bill. Entering the building, she took her keys out of her coat pocket. The practice was still locked, so she opened up and entered the waiting room. There was no one behind the reception desk. Margret Hecht lived nearby, and often went home for lunch. The front room was empty, and Albert was nowhere to be seen. Probably he was in his consulting office. Putting the bag in the small galley kitchen behind reception, Babs stowed away the packets of coffee and tins of milk in the cupboard above the sink. Then she walked over to Albert’s room and went inside.