by Inge Löhnig
‘They’re radio cells. Only a limited number of conversations can be carried out simultaneously per radio cell, so there are more in the city than in the countryside.’ Meo moved the laser over the map. ‘So, the Sunday before the accident, Bertram drives to Dad’s to grill some sausages. True.’ Meo pointed at a blue dot on the edge of Munich. ‘At 10.35 his mobile communicates with this radio cell, half an hour later with this one, then with this one.’ Meo’s laser pointer wandered over the map, following the blue marks to Münsing. ‘The trip to Wolfratshausen to pick up charcoal also happened.’ Meo gestured at the corresponding hexagon and the dot with the time. ‘At 12.17 p.m. He biked home in the late afternoon.’ The pointer traced the same stretch on the map. ‘He was back by five.’
‘Good. What about the next day?’
‘The sixth of October.’ Meo typed on the keyboard. The blue dots vanished, replaced by red.
Dühnfort stared disbelievingly at the wall. ‘And Tuesday?’
‘Orange. But you can see for yourself.’
‘After that?’
‘Exactly the same. Bertram, or his mobile, to be more precise, spent the whole week in the city. Only on Monday, 13 October did he go back to Münsing. Judging by when his phone clocked in and out of the radio cells, I assume he took the train to Wolfratshausen then biked to Münsing from there.’
Dühnfort sat down. Shit. We should have realised sooner. The wonders of modern technology. The way to the perfect surveillance state was paved with communication technology. They could know from emails, phones, CCTV and internet records where everybody was and when, without any gaps. Dühnfort’s enthusiasm for it was limited. So Bertram had gone to Münsing on the day the body was found. ‘When was he there?’
‘His mobile communicated with the radio cell at the main station at 5.43 p.m., then at 6.35 p.m. at Wolfratshausen. That matches the travel time by train. Forty minutes. I checked. Around five to six the S6 for Wolfratshausen leaves the main station. Bertram reached the cabin at six minutes past seven.’
Bertram had been there shortly before his brother. On a bike. But whose? Just before half seven, Albert had phoned the emergency services. ‘When did Bertram go back to Munich, and how?’
‘His mobile communicated with the Münsing radio cell at 7.31 p.m.’ Meo looked up. ‘It’s big, though. Two kilometres across. Doesn’t mean he met Albert.’
‘Did he take the train back?’
‘Yeah. The communication times match, and the cells were the same as on the journey there.’
‘And from the station to the cabin and back, he cycled?’
‘How else would he do it? It’d take longer on foot, and not as long with a car.’
‘He wasn’t at the hotel car park?’
Meo shrugged. ‘It’s in the same cell as the cabin. So I can’t determine that.’
‘We need the CCTV footage from the train during the time in question. I’ll sort that out.’
‘Already requested it. We’ll get it tomorrow morning.’ Meo switched off the projector.
Dühnfort nodded, surprised. ‘Good. Then I’ll call the prosecutor’s office. Tomorrow you can repeat this miracle of technology with the data from Albert’s phone.’
*
In Christian Brandenbourg’s eyes was resentment. Caroline was baffled by his change of mood. ‘Why is it my dad’s fault? He had no idea.’
‘There, dear Caroline, you’re mistaken.’ He sounded bitter. Christian’s bushy eyebrows knitted. The waiter stepped up to the table and asked if he could clear the soup. Christian nodded, without taking his eyes off Caroline’s. As the waiter vanished with the half-empty dishes, he continued. ‘My father had a heart defect. After a protracted bout of influenza he was left with myocarditis, from which he never recovered. He was given medication and told to avoid stress and excitement. It was poison to him.’
Caroline was gripped by an alarming premonition.
‘My mum was born Baroness von Schweigt-Cosfeld,’ continued Christian. ‘Prussian aristocracy. Poor, but posh. She’d never have made a scene in front of my father. Never admitted she knew about his lover. She took a different tack, dear Caroline. She met with your father and asked him to make his spouse see reason.’
Christ, thought Caroline. Her father, such a proud man, who could never accept defeat, who never gave in, had been instructed by the wife of his rival to sort things out. She knew more than him, unmasking him as a clueless, cuckolded chump. Caroline could only imagine the consequences of that conversation. She rubbed a hand over her brow.
Christian was watching her. ‘But your father didn’t talk to Elli. He talked to my father. He asked him if they could have a chat during their lunch hour in the canteen, so they went for a walk in the hospital grounds. At first it must have been reasonably civilised – according to a nurse who bumped into them, anyway – but soon your father started yelling. A vile torrent of words that ended with my father collapsing. Cardiac arrhythmia, ventricular fibrillation. There were doctors on the scene immediately, but they couldn’t help. Your father took my father from me. Mine loved and encouraged me. In music, especially. Without him, everything turned into a fight. Every violin lesson, every performance. Going to the conservatory. Your father damned me to growing up by my mother’s side. I hated him for that.’ Sparks glinted in Christian Brandenbourg’s eyes. A moment later, however, they had already gone out; he was smiling again. ‘That was a long time ago. I’m sorry. For a minute I let my old emotions get the better of me.’
*
He stared at the ceiling. There were cracks in the plaster, branching off like fine roots, like a web of bloodless veins.
He hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t known where that sudden rage had come from. And then all his courage had left. The evil hadn’t always been inside him. It had materialised unexpectedly, grabbing him at the moment of loss, exploiting his vulnerability to seize control of his behaviour.
That puppet-master. He’d collected, maimed and mutilated lives. One of them his. He wouldn’t accept any blame. This freedom was owed to him. He’d served his punishment long before the deed.
Something was tearing him apart – but there was a power that could halt it. Perhaps. One he feared and desired in equal measure.
He glanced at the instrument case. In it lay his destiny. Then he let his eyes wander again over the ceiling, following the cracks. Was it possible to pick up the loose end and tie it where the thread was cut?
He would try, at least. So he pulled himself together, stood up and switched off the music. The abrupt silence descended like a herald of loneliness.
He went over to the case, opened it and took out the violin. The wood felt warm and familiar. Although he hadn’t held the instrument in a long time, it lay willingly in his arms. Relief, longing, purpose. He inhaled the scent of pine and maple. A hint of rosin. His fingers wandered over the scroll, the ebony fingerboard and the strings. He felt the tension prickle in his fingertips, letting them wander further, as if over the body of a woman, gently stroking the edges of the sound holes towards the tailpiece. Then he lifted the instrument to his chin, reached for the bow and stared at the music stand. His heart was suddenly pounding. Wild, swift thuds.
Thursday, 23 October
Marc was snoring quietly. Caroline had been awake for an hour, and couldn’t fall back to sleep. She climbed gingerly out of bed, went into the kitchen and made coffee.
Shortly before midnight she’d met Marc at the train station. Shivering, she’d waited on the platform until the train drew in, its brakes squealing, emptying people into the station. When she saw him walking towards her, crumpled, his face grey with tiredness, suddenly he no longer looked like a god or mythological hero but a very normal man, coming home exhausted after two stressful days, and in a momentary flash of understanding she realised: yes, I could spend the rest of my life with him. When he noticed her, joy drove all weariness from his face. ‘Caro?’ He hugged her. ‘How lovely.’ Hand in hand, they picked up a taxi a
nd drove to her apartment.
The machine wheezed, and the coffee was ready. Caroline warmed some milk, then sat down at the window with a cup of milky coffee. It was still dark, streetlamps the only source of light. A car drove round the corner.
She thought about last night. It had been nice, other than Christian Brandenbourg’s verbal attacks on her father, which were understandable given the circumstances. His father’s premature death had been a terrible blow to Christian, nearly putting an end to his violin lessons. His mother wanted a legal career for her son. Only the constant commitment of his music teacher and Christian’s iron will had enabled him to continue the lessons after his father’s death. Yet he’d had to fight tooth and nail at every step.
After the funeral he met Elli again and gave her the letters, which he’d taken from his father’s desk before his mother could destroy them.
He must have been mature for his age, thought Caroline. Such an extraordinary talent, a powerful will and passion for music, a calling. All at twelve years old. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, though: Elli had written extensively in her diary about the Brandenbourgs’ artistic gifts, handed down through generations.
She looked back into the night, her face reflected palely in the glass. At twelve she’d been devouring books about Africa. She’d known passion too, the kind of enthusiasm perhaps only possible at that age. Dad had categorically rejected her suggestion that the family might spend a summer holiday on safari in Kenya. Not among those savages. Oh, Dad! Caroline sighed and sipped her coffee. He’d always got his way.
And suddenly, as if from nowhere, context-less, the memory was there. The memory that had been threatening to bubble up for days, whenever she’d listened to Vivaldi’s concerto. The memory of that dreadful weekend, the one that had almost cost a life.
*
Dühnfort arrived at the office shortly after eight, opened the window, peered fleetingly at the thin clouds that swept across the sky like a soft veil, then turned back to his desk. The CCTV footage from the train had already come in. He brought it into Gina and Alois’s office. Gina was already out interviewing purchasers of Superclean. Alois followed him into the conference room and sat down, while Dühnfort put the tape into the machine and pressed the start button. After a brief wobble, the platform appeared on screen. In the bottom left-hand corner were the date and time: 13 October, 16.00. Dühnfort fast-forwarded to 17.40, then let the tape play at a slower pace. At seven minutes to six a man entered the frame, pushing a bike across the platform, which was packed with commuters.
‘Yep.’ Alois pointed at the screen. ‘There he is.’
Dühnfort paused the tape. Bertram could be clearly seen, as could his mountain bike. ‘Is that his or his dad’s?’ Dühnfort picked up the two warranty books for the bikes and compared the illustrations on the covers with the bike on the monitor. ‘It’s his.’
‘This is gradually getting exciting.’ Alois got up and wound the tape forwards. ‘When did his mobile ping at the main station again?’
‘At five past nine.’
Alois paused the recording as the train from Wolfratshausen pulled in shortly after nine o’clock. The doors opened; a man with a bike exited near the escalators. ‘There he is again.’ Alois froze the image when the bike was fully visible. ‘Now he’s got his dad’s one.’
Dühnfort leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head. What did all this mean?
‘So Bertram switched the bikes at Münsing either just before or at the same time as Albert arrived and discovered his father’s body.’ Alois sat down. ‘Did Albert surprise Bertram trying to dispose of the corpse?’
‘On a bike?’ Something wasn’t sitting right in Dühnfort’s belly.
‘Or getting rid of evidence?’
‘We’ve got to find out if they were there at the same time.’
‘Let’s ask Albert,’ suggested Alois.
But Dühnfort phoned Meo. ‘Have you got the geolocation data for Albert’s phone yet?’
‘Came in three minutes ago. You’ll have to be patient. I’ll call as soon as I’ve analysed it.’
*
Babs sat at the kitchen table, trying to keep another Babs, one she didn’t recognise, in check. Since yesterday, the new Babs had been wanting to search the apartment for proof of Albert’s infidelity. The mere idea of doing something so pathetic!
If she caught Albert going through her things, then . . . well, then what? She had no idea. A row? Would she start flinging plates, glasses, vases against the wall? Or, knowing that such a violation of trust meant the end of their marriage, would she wordlessly leave the apartment? Or once again, for the sake of keeping the peace . . . rubbish, she was lying to herself. It had never been about peace, she’d just feared the truth. Until now she hadn’t wanted to look, and now this other Babs was making her do exactly that.
Right now all she could see was a yawning abyss. Her marriage was a lost cause, and Noel and Leon were going to be children of divorce. It felt like a personal failure. What had she done wrong?
At least she hadn’t made a spectacle of herself when she’d gone to Kurfürstenplatz last night to speak to Albert. Standing hesitantly outside the door, she’d heard cackles of laughter coming from the apartment. She recognised that cackle; it belonged to Margret Hecht. Babs had slunk back to her flat.
Wearily she brushed her hair back from her forehead. How long had it been going on? Had he been unfaithful from the very beginning? Had he always been his father’s son? Perhaps there was an album in the flat where he’d gathered proof of his conquests, like his father.
No. She called the other Babs to order. She wouldn’t go through Albert’s things. But the other Babs wouldn’t listen. Suddenly she got to her feet. She had to know! Before Babs had time to think twice, she was rummaging through Albert’s drawers, wardrobe and nightstand. There was nothing. Albert surely wouldn’t be daft enough to hide anything in there. She did his laundry, after all. Going into his study, she searched the bookcase and the Biedermeyer chest of drawers, an heirloom from his grandmother. In the desk, maybe? Babs pulled out the drawers one by one, until she came to the drawer where Bertram had hidden the key. She picked up the box of sellotape. Underneath were a few old notebooks, and under those a silk scarf she didn’t recognise. Something was wrapped inside it. She took it out, folded back the material and found herself gazing at Wolfram’s watch. The watch Albert had given him for his seventieth birthday.
While she wondered why she hadn’t gone through the whole drawer on Saturday, she half-heard the front door open then close.
‘Hello, Babs.’ Albert was standing in the doorway.
She jumped and whirled round guiltily.
‘What have you got there?’ Moving closer, he saw the watch in her hand.
All she could do was seize the bull by the horns. ‘I didn’t want to tell you. But Bertram hid your father’s key in your desk, and apparently the watch, too.’
‘Hid it how, and when?’ Albert took off his coat and draped it over the desk chair.
She told him about Bertram’s visit, how he’d sneaked into the study, and how she’d stumbled across the key on Saturday while looking for sellotape.
‘What an arsehole.’ Albert rubbed his eyes. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He stared at her probingly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, and what did you do with the key? Took it to the police, I hope.’
‘No.’ Sheepishly she confessed to what she’d done and why.
He sat down on the edge of the desk. ‘You’ve got a real criminal streak, you have.’
Was he annoyed, or poking fun? Babs didn’t know. She knew her husband less and less. ‘What shall we do with it now?’ Helplessly she dropped the watch into his hand.
He put it in his pocket and went into the kitchen, Babs following. Taking a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, he poured himself a glass and crushed the empty container in his fist before chucking it in the bin. Then he turned and looked out of the window. Clea
rly he was angry.
‘I know I should have taken the key to the police.’ She’d acted rather stupidly, and if she let the watch disappear too it would only make things worse. Dühnfort would be annoyed, certainly, but it was better to make a clean breast of it before things went too far. She should get it over with straight away. She went out to the telephone in the hall. ‘I’ll call Dühnfort and tell him what I’ve done.’
*
Dühnfort was reading the report on the trace evidence found at the cabin when Alois came in.
‘I found something. Bertram started a company when he built the dairy, Hemobau GmbH. It went bust shortly after construction was finished. A few contractors never saw their money. And one of them, Schreiner, wrote Bertram some rather nasty letters. I’d like to talk to him. If you don’t mind, I’d like to drive to Straubing.’
‘How nasty?’
‘First he threatened to beat him up, then he offered him a free coffin.’
‘How long ago?’
‘No more than a year.’
Dühnfort wondered whether the local force might not be better placed to conduct the interview. But in-person impressions were often crucial, so he agreed, and watched Alois leave the office.
Shortly before ten, Meo rang. ‘Finished the geolocation profile. Pretty crazy.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You’ll see.’
First Dühnfort went to find Gina. The room was empty. She must still be busy interviewing Superclean purchasers. Then he entered Meo’s realm.
Meo had already projected the profile onto the wall. As Dühnfort appeared next to him, he reached for the laser pointer. ‘So,’ he began. ‘Monday, 6 October. The day of the attack.’ He shone the pointer at the green dots inside the hexagonal radio cells. ‘Albert drives to his father’s cabin to repair the drain.’ The glowing line wandered across the map and stopped in Münsing. ‘Albert reaches the cell at 7.11 p.m. At 9.02, his phone disconnects again.’
‘Fine. That much we know. He repaired the drain, ate dinner with his father and drove home.’ Dühnfort settled on the edge of Meo’s desk.