Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  ‘Thank God.’ For a moment, relief flitted across Babs Heckeroth’s face.

  ‘Mrs Heckeroth, I need a witness statement from you. As his wife, however, you’re not obliged to do so. You can refuse to testify. Would you like to do that?’

  A brief internal struggle was reflected in her face. ‘I don’t think so.’ Involuntarily her hand wandered to her throat.

  ‘Would you like to have a lawyer present?’

  She shook her head.

  Ushering her into his office, Dühnfort offered her a seat and switched on the recorder. As he questioned her she confirmed the information Albert had given regarding the murder of his father. It was about hard facts like routes, times, circumstances, and the progression of events on the days when Albert was calmly living his life as usual while his father suffered an agonising death. During the conversation, Gina entered the room and put a mug of coffee on the desk in front of Dühnfort. She also fetched Albert’s wife a glass of mineral water.

  There was one detail Dühnfort didn’t understand: why, when Barbara found her father-in-law’s keys in her husband’s desk, she hadn’t doubted Albert’s innocence even for a second.

  ‘The thought never occurred to me. After Bertram’s suicide . . . I mean, on Saturday we all thought he comm— . . . it just seemed to fit. Bertram killed Wolfram for the inheritance and wanted to put the blame on Albert. I never dreamed that Albert . . . he had no reason to. Or so I thought.’ Her hands flew briefly to her temples. ‘Will I get in trouble?’

  ‘That’s for the prosecutor to decide.’ Dühnfort picked up the mug of coffee and drank a sip. He was approaching a delicate point in the conversation. ‘On Wednesday you argued with your husband about the children. He left the apartment, stayed away overnight and didn’t come back home until Thursday evening, when he wanted to speak to you. Is that correct?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened that evening?’

  A faint pink flush crept across her face. ‘That has nothing to do with my father-in-law’s death.’

  ‘You’re right. But your husband also confessed to the murder of his brother.’

  Albert’s wife gave a start. ‘Why did he say that? It can’t be true. He was at home. All night.’

  ‘So you talked things through.’

  ‘Well, no, we didn’t do much talking. There are other ways you can make up, you know.’ She sounded defiant.

  ‘Did you have anything to drink?’

  ‘Albert made G and Ts. But what’s that got to do with Bertram?’

  ‘What happened after you’d finished your glasses?’

  ‘Surely you can imagine – or would you like me to describe it in detail?’

  Dühnfort rubbed his chin. ‘Of course not. How did you feel? Relieved because you’d patched things up after the fight, tired and worn because the crisis took so much out of you, or maybe silly and playful?’

  She gazed at him in surprise. ‘Silly’s the right word.’

  ‘Did you stop at one G and T?’

  ‘Albert made me another one later.’

  ‘And after that you were tired and relaxed.’ He could sense her gradually becoming irritated. Her eyes darkened, one eyebrow arching.

  ‘Why do you ask when you already seem to know the answers?’

  ‘And then you went to sleep?’

  ‘It’s not unusual at that hour. Or are you suggesting I wouldn’t have heard Albert leaving? I’m a very light sleeper.’

  Exactly, thought Dühnfort. But he had to hear it from her. He mustn’t put words in her mouth if he wanted her statement to support her husband’s confession. ‘What about that night?’

  She was about to nod, but the movement got stuck halfway. ‘No, I slept well.’

  ‘Exceptionally well?’

  ‘Did Albert do something to my drink?’ she asked in disbelief.

  Dühnfort pointed at the microphone. ‘First I need an answer to my question.’

  She leaned forwards. ‘I slept more deeply and soundly than I’ve done in years,’ she said distinctly, before collapsing back in her chair.

  *

  Babs followed Caroline across the linoleum, buffed to a shine by the decades of shoes that had trodden it. The walls of the corridor seemed narrower, the energy-saving bulbs spilling cold light into the tunnel, at the end of which a scratched swing door was waiting to usher her into the stairwell. If she climbed down those steps she’d pass through the gate out into Ettstraße, into a life she had no idea how to handle.

  Caroline put her arm round her shoulders. Only now did Babs realise she was trembling. She clenched her jaw, inhaled, exhaled, took one step, then another, passed through the swing door and eventually found herself standing in the cold night air. Next she was in Caroline’s car, then in Caroline’s apartment.

  Marc was there too. He stood at the stove, heating up canned soup. Wrapped in an apron, he looked silly. Silly. Babs swallowed the rising laugh. Caroline came over to her, two glasses full of an amber liquid in her hands. ‘Or would you rather tea?’

  Babs reached for the glass. ‘I don’t have a cold or indigestion. This is perfect.’ She took a big gulp. Whiskey. It ran burning down her throat, scorching her stomach and bringing tears to her eyes. Caroline sat down. Only now did Babs notice the tension in her face, the red-rimmed eyes, the deep furrows on her brow. Caroline’s world had collapsed too. Was that the phrase? It felt more to Babs like someone had pulled the rug out from underneath her feet. She’d lost her balance, gone staggering and flailing for something to grab onto . . . but what? Empty space?’

  Caroline took her hand. ‘I didn’t get much out of the police. I have to know what he did . . . and why.’

  Babs nodded, though she didn’t understand it herself. Perhaps she’d gain some clarity by trying to put into words what Albert had done. But where to begin? Best to start with the background.

  Marc placed three bowls of goulash on the table and sat down. Babs had no appetite – she felt sick at the thought of eating. Taking a breath, she began to explain that Elli had had a lover early in her marriage, that Wolfram had discovered the affair and taken what he considered to be his property, Albert. ‘He believed Albert was his son, but a few weeks ago he found Elli’s diary and discovered the truth. Apparently Elli didn’t realise until much later either – only when Albert’s musical gifts became apparent did the penny drop.’

  Caroline rubbed her temples. ‘Albert is . . . he’s Peter’s son?’

  Babs looked up. ‘You knew?’

  ‘No.’ Caroline began to explain about the diary, which Elli had wanted her to destroy. Babs understood the gist, but couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept wandering. Again she saw herself nod.

  That had been the moment when she’d decided not to take her husband’s side: the moment when she’d declared her willingness to testify against him. She didn’t have to approach everything with understanding. How could Albert’s actions be explained or justified, let alone excused? He’d left his father to die an excruciating death, murdered his brother in cold blood, and he’d even been prepared . . . Babs’s shoulders stiffened. Again she felt the knife at her throat, the blade . . . with a hasty motion she dismissed the image, nearly sweeping the glass off the table. Marc caught it just in time.

  ‘Sorry. I’m done in.’ All she wanted was to be alone. But Caro had a right to know what had happened, so Babs pulled herself together and continued. She told them how Wolfram had learned the truth and eventually, after a protracted struggle, decided to keep up appearances. Albert he could boast about; Bertram he couldn’t. Bertram, a convicted criminal, and his only son. But then came the barbecue, and he’d discovered how much their lives had in common. It must have set Wolfram thinking, because one day later, spiteful and scheming, he’d summoned Albert to deliberately exercise his power and spoil his anniversary, and by then his feelings had already changed. Love had turned to contempt. If he’d ever loved Albert at all, which was doubtful. He’d been merely a
trophy in Wolfram’s victory over his rival, living proof of his power, now transformed into the opposite: sneering testament to a life spent with the wool pulled over his eyes.

  For a moment Babs paused. Despite these explanations, it was inconceivable. The words made sense, they established cause and effect, but they stacked up like granite blocks, crushing all love and humanity, all sympathy, amounting in the end to a monument to egocentrism. ‘He insulted Albert and made fun of him. Of the son who’d loved and admired him, given up everything important to him for his sake.’ A note of accusation had crept into her voice. ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me about that weekend? I didn’t know until today that Albert played the violin, and that Wolfram came within a whisker of letting him die because he wouldn’t give up music.’

  Caroline brushed the hair tensely out of her face with both hands and rested her elbows on the table. ‘We probably repressed it, like a bad dream. Albert never mentioned it. He packed away the violin and I only saw it one more time, when I was helping Mum tidy away her winter clothes. The instrument case was at the back of her wardrobe.’

  The pain in Babs’s head, which had been making its presence felt for hours as a faint stabbing ache, intensified. A hot bath, an aspirin and a sleeping tablet, and then bed, the covers over her head. She wanted to go home, but first she had to finish here. She told Caroline about the argument between Albert and Wolfram, what Albert had done next and why he hadn’t gone to check on Wolfram for a week. ‘He only drove up after the second time Mrs Kiendel mentioned it, but Bertram had already asked her about Wolfram.’

  ‘Bertram?’

  ‘He must have arrived at the cabin just before Albert, then he jumped out of the kitchen window when he saw him. He took photos on his phone . . .’ For a moment there was silence. The soup bowls stood untouched on the table.

  ‘And he used them to blackmail Albert?’ asked Caroline.

  Babs nodded. Nausea washed through her like dirty water spilled from a bucket. She felt defiled, used, abused. When she thought about why Albert had slipped that stuff into her G and T, why he’d slept with her . . . she got up. ‘I’ve got to go home now.’

  ‘Are you saying Albert shot Bertram?’ When Babs nodded, Caroline dropped her forehead into her hands.

  Words became matter. Like a lump of sound they crashed onto the table, formed from the unfathomability of events, becoming a wall that would separate her forever from Albert. ‘He didn’t just let Wolfram die of thirst and shoot Bertram in cold blood, he would have killed me too. He’s the victim. That’s how he sees it!’

  *

  It was just before eight when Dühnfort emerged from the police station. Home time. Alois had phoned to let him know that Bertram’s mobile had been found, destroyed, in a bin near Kurfürstenplatz, just as Albert had said. Divers were still searching for the laptop, which he’d thrown off Wittelsbach Bridge into the Isar. The bottle of Tullamore Dew that Albert had brought round to Bertram’s after lacing it with GHB had been seized at the practice, as had the bottle of Superclean.

  The mix-up with the bikes had been fully explained too. Albert had been sure he’d put it back in the shed. When he went to fetch it, however, he’d found it leaning against the woodpile. Bertram had used the bike in the shed to beat a hasty retreat, because fetching his own would have set off the motion sensors controlling the terrace lighting. Albert had put the bike he thought was his dad’s in the boot before the police arrived, and after he’d taken leave of Dühnfort he’d dumped it at Starnberg train station, hoping it would be stolen. Before that, however, he’d driven to the hotel car park and hastily wiped his fingerprints off his dad’s vehicle. Dühnfort was fascinated by this discrepancy between cold-bloodedness and panic, between deliberation and stupidity.

  Cold struck him as he was walking down the stairs. Over the course of the day the warm wind had lost its battle with an Icelandic low. An icy wind blew through the city; the Mediterranean intermezzo was already a memory. Shivering, Dühnfort buttoned up his coat.

  The fridge was empty and the shops would soon shut. He’d better find somewhere to eat. His phone began to vibrate, interrupting his thoughts. He picked up. At the same time he noticed Gina appear beside him, her hands buried in her jacket pockets. Schorsch from the sailing school was on the other end of the line. ‘Just wanted to ask if Monday still suits? To put Sissi into winter storage?’

  Dühnfort, feeling guilty because he still hadn’t got in touch with the man, apologised. He could certainly spare a few hours. ‘That’s very kind of you. When would you have time?’

  ‘Morning works best for me. Let’s say ten.’

  ‘Great, ten o’clock at the boat. Shall I bring anything?’

  ‘Nah, you don’t need to.’

  Dühnfort thanked him again and ended the conversation.

  ‘What boat? Have you bought one?’ Gina tugged at her earlobe, surprised.

  ‘Sissi. It belonged to the deceased Mr Ullmann. It was a great opportunity.’

  ‘Sissi.’ Gina grinned.

  ‘I’m rechristening it, of course.’

  ‘How about True Love?’ Gina began to hum the Cole Porter tune, coaxing a smile out of Dühnfort.

  ‘I’ll take it into consideration. Fancy joining me on Monday? Before I put her into winter storage, I want to take her out for a spin on the lake.’

  Gina twisted her mouth apologetically. ‘Nice offer. It would be fab. But my mum’s got an interview on Monday and she’s so nervous you’d think she was going to the dentist. I promised I’d give her a lift and wait for her afterwards.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘But I’d love to come with you in the summer. My mum says hi, by the way. The beef olives turned out great, and you’re invited to pot roast at our place on Sunday. Are you free? I’ve hidden the Ramazzotti.’

  What had she said recently? It couldn’t hurt him to spend time with a few nice people. ‘That would be lovely – on one condition.’

  She beamed at him. ‘Which would be?’

  ‘I’m buying the wine.’

  ‘OK. I’ll break it to my mother. Till tomorrow, then.’ She raised her hand in farewell and disappeared towards Parkplatz.

  Dühnfort took his usual route through Sendlinger Straße, walking past brightly lit shop windows, absorbing the scent of coffee, then of soap. The small bookshop was closing at the end of the month and offering bargain deals. Dühnfort had never seen so many people packed into the tiny, cranny-filled shop. In the cinema on Sendlinger Tor Platz they were showing an action movie. Above the entrance a hand-painted sign was prominently displayed, like in the old days. The old days – it sounded like another age, but he only meant a few years ago. A species that was going extinct, sign-writers, thought Dühnfort. Once more he felt older than he was.

  Suddenly he wasn’t in the mood for a meal out. He had spaghetti, butter and garlic at home. That would have to do. On the train-station concourse he bought a handful of lamb’s lettuce from the grocer, who was just packing up his boxes, and a bar of dark chocolate at the kiosk.

  As he closed the front door, he was met by a diffuse light. One of the bulbs in the lobby was gone, and his letterbox was stuffed with flyers. He took out the stack without looking at them, went into his apartment and laid them on the sideboard in the hall. Then he slipped out of his coat, went into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of the wonderfully light Soave he’d drunk so often with Agnes that summer. At the thought of her he was racked with a cold pain. He dismissed it, took a sip of wine, and thought of the boat. True Love. He was amazed Gina had even heard of the film. She was so young. True Love. He definitely wouldn’t call it that. His boat. From now on that could be the focus of his longing. Instead of starting a family he’d enjoy his freedom, sail the English Channel to Ushant. Alone. Why not? Go days without speaking to another soul. There was something tempting about that idea. Solitude was only bad if it was unwanted. But he . . . did he really want that? To be alone? Yes. He did. But only some days
. Not his whole life.

  He put the glass down. The Eartha Kitt CD was still on the machine. He put it in, filled a saucepan with water and placed it on the hob.

  Family. His dream. Once again it had been brought home to him how often the ideal could turn into hell. He would never be a father like that, and his children would love him as much as he loved them. But that’s probably what most people thought, and then . . .

  Eartha Kitt sang, the water sputtered, and Dühnfort tossed in the spaghetti. He made a salad, then melted butter and added freshly crushed garlic and salt. The pasta still needed another few minutes. Picking up his wine glass, Dühnfort went out onto the balcony. His breath froze in the cold air. Three storeys under him stood the marble angel in the darkness, lights flickering on some of the graves. The wind ruffled Dühnfort’s hair, and he felt almost like a little boy, when his father had done the same. Slightly roughly, masking a certain awkwardness at the tender gesture. Men didn’t show their emotions. Had he inherited that from his father? The kitchen timer went off. Dühnfort drained his glass and went inside.

  After dinner he fetched the post from the hall. Flyers, mainly, plus the telephone bill, a card from his dentist reminding him about his annual check-up, then two envelopes addressed to him by hand. One was from Hamburg and contained a card printed on thick, snow-white handmade paper. It announced the birth of his niece, Elisabeth Sophie. Inside the card, Julius had written in his round hand that he and Victoria would be delighted if they could enlist him as the child’s godfather. Julius had actually written enlist. They’d included a photo. Dühnfort stared at the sleeping baby, and again something inside him painfully convulsed. He laid the picture aside. So his brother was reaching out an olive branch. At least that felt good. For a few seconds Dühnfort explored the feeling, then he picked up the other letter. It was from Agnes. It too contained a card. On the front was a black figure against a dark-blue background, like a paper cut-out, and a few uneven yellow stars. Out of the blackness glowed a red heart. He turned the card over. Henri Matisse, Icarus (1943), it read. He laughed. Icarus, she sent him.