by Inge Löhnig
At first she didn’t understand what she was seeing. As though her brain refused to accept what couldn’t be denied or glossed over.
Albert stood with his back to her, bent over the desk where Margret Hecht more lay than sat, her skirt pulled up and her legs splayed. When she saw Babs, her mouth twisted into a pursed smile; the mousey-grey eyes grew triumphant as Albert, trousers down and buttocks bare, screwed her. Fucked, thought Babs. That was the word.
*
Dühnfort sat at his desk, his stomach rumbling. Apart from the mug of coffee at Café Schmalznudel, he’d had nothing to eat. High time for lunch. First, though, he rang Meo. There were no images on the memory chip, and Meo was still busy with Heckeroth’s computer.
‘I’ll have cracked it by this afternoon,’ he said. Dühnfort hung up, as a soft ping announced the arrival of an email. He opened his inbox. The message was from Agnes. His heart began to pound, and as he read he felt a surging mix of incomprehension and helplessness.
Around me howled the deafening street.
Tall, slender, in deep mourning, her grief majestic,
A woman passed by, lifting with a sumptuous hand
The swaying, scalloped hem of her gown.
These lines were all the message contained. No greeting. Only part of a poem. What was she trying to say? She saw herself in the woman. That much was clear. But why had she sent it to him?
He couldn’t think on an empty stomach. Grabbing his coat, he left the office and walked through the pedestrian zone to the farmers’ market. The sky was grey, as it had been for days, but in place of clouds was an even covering, like a slab cast in lead. In Dühnfort’s imagination, one of Anselm Kiefer’s leaden planes flew noiselessly across the sky like a bird from another planet.
Dühnfort passed the Marian column and reached the bookshop on the corner. On a sudden whim he went inside, read the information board and found the poetry section. He wasn’t even sure what to look for. A sales assistant approached him as he stared helplessly at the shelves.
‘Can I help you?’ She was young and pretty, radiating the freshness of dew-damp grass on a spring morning.
What should he ask for? ‘I’ve got a few lines of poetry in my head, but I can’t track them down.’
She smiled at him, and he noticed amber flecks in her deep blue eyes. ‘Can you tell me what they are?’
‘I only remember fragments. It starts with street noise, and it’s about a stately woman in mourning lifting the hem of her dress.’ He felt like an idiot.
The smile in her eyes transformed, deepened.
‘Ah, how I drank, thrilled through like a Being insane; in her look, a dark sky, from whence springs forth the hurricane, there lay but the sweetness that charms, and the joy that destroys.’ Her gaze slid across his face, hovering for a moment on his mouth. ‘Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du Mal. The Flowers of Evil. It’s just here.’ She pointed at a bookshelf and walked over to it. He followed her, disconcerted. There it was again: the flash of interest he’d often noticed and always disregarded. If he wanted . . . but he didn’t.
He bought the book and went back to the ground floor, where he noticed in passing a large-format photography book on a table full of books on special offer. The Sea. On the shiny jacket the sea roared. White foam. Dark-green waves. A fishing boat amid them, so tiny he only noticed it on closer inspection. He opened up the display copy and browsed through the pages. Finally he took one still wrapped in plastic to the till. Three kilograms of wishful thinking. At the farmers’ market he bought mushrooms and a bunch of parsley, ate beef and potato salad while standing at a stall, then went to Marcello’s for a multicultural espresso. As he did so he skimmed through the paperback of Baudelaire poems. The assistant had shown him the one he was looking for. ‘To a Passer-by.’ It ended with the line: Oh thou that I would have loved, oh thou that knew it! He felt a twinge.
Shortly before two Dühnfort was back at the station, dropping off his shopping at the office then going to see Gina and Alois. Alois sat at his computer, writing an email. Gina sat next to him at the small meeting table and poured a glass of water. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thanks. How are you getting on with the GHB angle?’
‘Tough. But we’re getting there.’
Alois sent the email and took a seat at the table. ‘I’ve been in touch with our colleagues in narcotics and showed them pictures of everyone involved. Their informant is keeping his ear to the ground. I’ve also contacted manufacturers and wholesalers of Somsanit and Xyrem to ask for their delivery records over the last four weeks. If we know which pharmacies sold the stuff recently we can find out the names of the buyers, because you can’t get the drugs without a prescription.’
‘Good. When will we have that information?’
‘Tomorrow. The day after, at the latest.’
‘And what about the solvents?’ Dühnfort turned to Gina.
‘There’s only one company that sells GHB at a high-enough concentration. Superclean, the stuff’s called. The manufacturer’s well aware that you could equally call it Superkill. There are warnings on the bottle and an information sheet available online. But you can get it without an ID, even over the internet. First-time buyers give their last names – I’ll have a list by tomorrow.’
‘Good. Anything from the interviews with Bertram’s neighbours?’
Alois unbuttoned his jacket and leaned back. ‘He had a good relationship with his neighbours. Nobody knew a thing about his existential troubles. They were all shaken by his death, and described him as a nice man with a serious talent for storytelling. He was always being invited to barbecues and parties and summer socials on account of it. The tale of how Bertram got his gun from a Russian is well known around the neighbourhood.’
‘No affairs of the heart. At least, none we’ve got wind of,’ said Gina. ‘His two former employees are angry with him. Being fired came as a shock. He told them stories too – about imminent commissions and great contacts. He couldn’t pay their last two months’ salary, and he’s six months behind on national insurance payments, but both have new jobs by now. Not a motive in sight.’
‘Still nothing from the search we put out in the media,’ said Dühnfort. ‘Nobody saw who left Heckeroth’s car at the hotel car park. You finished with the list of guests yet?’ He looked at Alois.
‘Sandra Gottwald’s still busy phoning them all.’
Everything took time. The phone in Dühnfort’s pocket began to buzz. It was Buchholz. ‘I just wanted to let you know that we’ve identified a few very interesting fingerprints in Bertram’s house. On the work surfaces in the kitchen and the coffee table in the living room: Sabine Groß.’
‘Only in the kitchen and living room? None in the office?’
‘Nope, none there.’
Dühnfort thanked him and hung up.
‘Sabine Groß was at Bertram’s house? Did I understand that correctly?’ Gina’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Were you able to speak to her?’
‘Briefly. She definitely couldn’t have committed Bertram’s murder. There’s no better alibi than a locked psych ward. During the time of the older Heckeroth’s attack, however, she claimed to be home alone.’
‘How did she explain the phone call to Bertram?’
‘Apparently she didn’t speak to him, she just hung up again.’
‘After forty-seven seconds? I don’t much like that. Keep an eye on her.’ Dühnfort turned back to Alois. ‘The traffic footage from Tuesday – anything useful there?’
Alois said there wasn’t. ‘But the recordings only show the ring road and parts of the motorway. He could have taken smaller streets.’
There was a knock, and Meo peered through the doorway. ‘It was his number plate.’
‘What?’ asked Alois.
‘The password. Open Sesame.’
‘And? Did you find the pictures?’ asked Dühnfort.
‘What are you talking about?’ Gina frowned.
‘Yeah. Pretty n
asty ones. They’d been deleted. But as I’ve said more than once—’
‘They didn’t really know what they were doing,’ said Dühnfort, finishing Meo’s sentence.
*
Defiant, thought Dühnfort. She didn’t seem afraid or upset, certainly not as if she were under the influence of alcohol or drugs, but defiant. Franziska gazed mutinously into the camera, her head thrown back, her chin jutting out. She lay naked on the bed in Heckeroth’s apartment, her arms tied to the bedstead with scarves. Her legs were closed, her hips turned a little away from the camera, as if she were ashamed. The following images were different: in those her legs were also bound, each to the bottom of the bed. Her face was crimson, her features straining, her mouth open. Hate in her eyes. The sinews in her neck bulged; it looked like she was screaming.
Dühnfort turned to Meo. ‘Can you determine when the pictures were deleted?’
‘Only if the log files are still there and haven’t been manipulated. I’ll have to go rummaging around in its guts. Give me a few hours.’
‘Who tried to get rid of the pictures, and why?’ Gina sat on the work surface in Meo’s lab and swung her legs.
Dühnfort thought of the album, of the box full of love letters and the password-protected PC. ‘Definitely not Heckeroth. He was a collector. Probably Franziska or her mother. They had a key to the apartment, so they had the opportunity to access the computer when Heckeroth wasn’t home.’
‘And the password?’ asked Gina.
Alois sat next to her. ‘Maybe they happened to see it, or they guessed it? Using the licence plate number isn’t especially unusual.’
Dühnfort looked back at the monitor, at the rage in Franziska’s eyes. ‘She had an accident on the night of 6 October.’
Gina knitted her brow. ‘You think she attacked Heckeroth, forced him to give her the password then drove back to Munich to delete the images. Why would she leave him tied up at the cabin? Anyway, she’s only seventeen. She’s got no driving licence and no car. How did she get to Münsing?’
‘She tied him up so he wouldn’t get back to Kurfürstenplatz before her. Either she did it alone, travelling by bike and train, or she had an accomplice, which I think is more likely.’
‘And then, before she can release Heckeroth, she’s hit by a car.’ Gina chewed her bottom lip. ‘Then it wouldn’t be murder, more a tragic accident. And she couldn’t have had an accomplice, or they would have let Heckeroth go.’
‘So who moved the car and took the watch and cards? That must have happened later, when she was in hospital.’
*
Dühnfort phoned Mrs Kiendel’s landline. She didn’t pick up, and her mobile was switched off too. Probably she was at the hospital. Shrugging on his coat, he left the police station and drove through the heavy afternoon traffic to Harlaching Hospital. At the entrance to the neurology wing he bumped into her. She was just zipping up a quilted jacket with gold buttons and a leopard-print collar. She gazed at him in bafflement. ‘Are you looking for me?’
‘I have a couple more questions about your landlord. Could we go to the cafeteria for a minute?’
‘I have work at four.’
He looked at his watch. Half three. ‘I can drive you.’
‘I prefer to take the tram. You can walk me to the stop.’
While they left the hospital together, heading towards the main exit, Dühnfort asked how Franziska and Heckeroth had got on.
‘Fine. He was a sort of grandfather figure for her. My parents died ages ago, and my ex-husband’s parents live in Schwerin. Why do you ask?’
‘Did he spoil her, like grandparents do?’
‘He tutored her. Without him she’d have been held back a year.’
‘I was thinking more of presents. A phone or designer clothes. Money, maybe.’
Loretta Kiendel stopped short. With an energetic motion she flicked back her hair. ‘I don’t like your questions. What are you implying?’
There was a park bench in view under an almost bare chestnut tree. ‘Why don’t we sit down?’
Loretta Kiendel’s eyes flashed. ‘Thank you, no. If you think Mr Heckeroth saw Franziska as anything other than a nice girl who could be his granddaughter, then that just means you didn’t know him. He was a lovely man.’
Dühnfort briefly considered showing her the photos, but it wasn’t the time and definitely not the place. He wanted to learn more about how and where they’d been taken.
‘I didn’t know him, of course,’ he said. ‘How is Franziska doing? Did the reading help?’
Loretta Kiendel stalked off, the asphalt clicking under her boots as they left the hospital grounds and approached the tram stop. She shook her head. ‘I’m not giving up, though. I won’t stop until she wakes up.’ Her hands balled into fists.
‘Have you tried music?’
Again Franziska’s mother paused. ‘I wanted to. But I don’t know what she’d like to hear. Ever since she got that MP3 player she’s kept headphones jammed into her ears.’
‘But the music must be on the device.’
‘It broke in the accident.’
‘Doesn’t she have a boyfriend you could ask?’
She shook her head.
‘But she must have a best friend?’
Her shoulders dropped. ‘That’s a good idea. I could ask Laura.’ She smiled at Dühnfort. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.’
‘I’d like to speak to Laura, if I may. Could you give me her full name and address?’
‘What for?’
‘I’d prefer to explain another time. It’s all a bit complicated.’ Dühnfort took his notebook out of his coat pocket and jotted down the information Franziska’s mother reluctantly gave him.
*
Dühnfort was driving to Schwabing. The dark blanket of clouds had transformed into a light-grey film, though the sun’s attempts to break through were still failing.
Laura Kemper lived with her parents on Elisabethplatz. Dühnfort entered the art–nouveau building through a double door with stained-glass windows. It smelled like lavender wax in the stairwell, where a thick carpet held in place by bronze rods swallowed his footsteps on the stairs. By the time Dühnfort arrived at the fourth-floor apartment, he was more than a little warm. Unbuttoning his coat, he waited a moment to catch his breath. Then he rang the bell.
A young woman with a broad face and sturdy figure answered. She wore jeans and a grey pullover, the wide sleeves of which reached down to her knuckles. She gazed at him with an open expression. ‘Are you the man from the police? Franzi’s mum just rang.’
Dühnfort nodded. ‘I’d like to talk to you about Franziska.’
‘Because of the accident? I wasn’t there. I didn’t even see her that day.’
‘It’s not about that, it’s about her landlord. About Mr Heckeroth.’
Her hitherto friendly face assumed a sullen expression. ‘Oh, right.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘It’s important.’
She stepped aside, closed the door behind him and led him into the living room. Panelled doors, herringbone parquet, stuccoed ceilings and a chandelier provided the backdrop for designer furniture. Old meets new. Poor the Kempers definitely weren’t. An expensive hi-fi system stood on a sideboard, while a flatscreen hung on the wall. Laura sat down on a leather sofa and tucked her feet under her bottom.
He glanced around. ‘Your mother . . .’
‘My parents are at work.’
Dühnfort took off his coat, draped it over the arm of a chair and took a seat without being asked. Laura seemed lost in thought, but glanced up when he sat down.
Suddenly he was certain she’d seen the pictures, or at least knew about them. Deciding to confront her directly, he drew them out of his coat pocket and laid them out before her on the coffee table. ‘This is why I’m here.’
She threw a glance at them, pursed her lips and shoved them back. ‘So?’
<
br /> ‘Have you seen these pictures before?’
She shook her head.
‘But you knew about them.’
Laura shrugged.
‘You don’t seem surprised or shocked by these images.’
‘Shocked? You can see photos like that in any newspaper. Everything’s porn. Advertising, the whole world of the media, the internet. Today you can only shock people by breaking taboos.’
So undressing, tying up and photographing a young woman in that vulnerable state was no longer a social taboo. Dühnfort rubbed his eyes. Sometimes he felt older than he was. ‘What would shock you, then?’
She frowned. ‘Toscani’s photos. Do you know them?’
‘The Italian photographer?’
She nodded. ‘For fashion week in Milan he plastered the whole city with his posters. An anorexic model without make-up, no designer crap, naked as the day she was born. A girl of my age. She looked like an old hag. Like death incarnate. That shocked me. That might be the only taboo left. Death. We’re all so pretty and rich, so young and horny and immortal.’ She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. ‘Yet we’re all going to bite the dust one day. Sooner or later.’ She leaned forward and surveyed him. ‘Shocked?’
‘Why would I be? Death is part of my job.’
Laura tilted her head. ‘Ever considered your own mortality? Or stared death in the face?’
‘A few days ago, actually.’ Dühnfort didn’t want to think about it.
‘Really?’ She straightened up. ‘And what was that like?’
‘Not great. Puts a few things in perspective.’ He wished he had a daughter like her. One who was curious, who provoked him and drew him out, who was still indignant. Where was his mind drifting? The conversation was slipping away from him. He cleared his throat and tapped the photographs.
‘So Franziska told you about these?’
Laura nodded and began to twist a lock of hair between her fingers.
‘Do you know how they came to be taken?’