“She obviously didn’t want to be reminded of the past,” Franza said. “I’m not surprised, given all that happened. I’m not too thrilled myself to meet people who witnessed my past defeats.”
Arthur shrugged, nodded.
“Well,” Felix said. “We’ve got a lot to do, guys. A hell of a lot to do.”
They stretched a little in the mild September sun, momentarily lost in thought. The world seems to be constantly drifting a little toward the void, Franza thought.
Felix took up the thread again. “Had that been Hanna’s intention, do you think? To set off into the world?”
And back, Franza thought. It also drifts back, but not everyone can rely on that.
Arthur shook his head. “Stockinger didn’t seem to think so. She was in the middle of her degree course. She hadn’t graduated. It looks like it was a sudden decision. A reaction to the shock of her boyfriend’s sudden death.”
“Yes, that fits quite well with what Frau Brendler told me,” Franza said. “Hanna traveled for a while, she thinks it was for around two years, but couldn’t remember exactly. Then she broke off all contact and they were unable to get back in touch with her.”
“What exactly happened in Greece?” Felix wondered. “I’d be very interested to know. Maybe that’s the key.”
“We’ll contact our colleagues in Greece tomorrow via Interpol and ask a few questions,” Franza said. “They must have investigated what happened at the time.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of initiating it, Boss.” Arthur grinned, a little embarrassed.
“Very good!” Franza nodded her approval. “Good lad!”
Arthur spoke again. “I’ve got something else. You remember the guy who came to the café two days running and claimed to be visiting Gertrud?”
They all nodded.
“It was because of this man that Stockinger told me about Tonio. When we’d finished making the composite image, she suddenly turned quite pale and said”—Arthur paused dramatically—“she said it was . . . Tonio.”
“Oh,” Franza said.
“Wow,” Hansen said.
Felix whistled through his teeth.
“But that’s impossible, of course,” Arthur continued, “because he’s dead. Drowned in Greece twenty-two years ago. Besides, if it were him, she probably wouldn’t even have recognized him. He’d be twenty-two years older and would have looked correspondingly different.” He moved to stand by Felix and gave him an innocent smile as he aimed his words at Franza. “What I mean is, there’s quite a difference between him and me, isn’t there?”
“Yes, there certainly is!” Franza said with a grin. “Twenty-two years certainly makes a difference.”
Felix gave Franza a dark look. “Traitor!” He turned to Arthur. “May you age badly, my friend!”
Arthur laughed. “Yes, Boss, I’ll do my best.”
They thought for a moment. So there might be a son—maybe a younger brother, but more likely a son. One from a previous life.
“Do we have a surname for this Tonio?”
“We do.”
“Good. Find out about his relatives.”
“It will be difficult if this supposed son has a different family name. Which isn’t impossible.”
“Well, perhaps we’ll be in luck. You need a bit of luck sometimes.”
Felix’s cell phone rang. He took it out. A new smartphone.
“Oh,” Franza said.
“Wow,” Hansen said.
Arthur whistled through his teeth.
Felix gave a subtle smile, looked at the display, and moved to another table. He exchanged a few sweet nothings with Angelika, something he’d taken to doing recently. The others waited in a reverent silence. When he returned, he placed the gadget on the table.
“You’re impressed, aren’t you?”
“We’re impressed,” Hansen said. He picked up the phone and examined it from all sides.
“We’re not that impressed,” Arthur said, delving into his pocket. “I’ve got one, too.”
“But we are impressed,” Franza said. “Our Felix getting himself such a nice man toy? Are you entering male menopause, Herz? Or having a midlife crisis? I’d have thought you’d have gone for a bigger toy—a sexy convertible, for example.”
They laughed.
“Or . . . ,” Hansen began, his face lighting up, “. . . or a sexy . . .”
“Stop!” Franza said, raising her hands. “Stop right there! We don’t need to hear it, Hansen!”
They laughed again, and Felix grabbed Hansen by the shoulders, giving him a light shake.
It’s good to be here laughing, Franza thought, and knowing they accept you as you are. You can be yourself. They take you seriously but know how to laugh with you. This is how you manage not to let it drag you down—this way you can stay afloat and face life.
That was how it had always been—cases, obstacles. People tripped, went under, and then they arrived, the detectives, bringing things to light and finding answers. It was an eternal cycle, always in motion. A cycle which, to look at it pragmatically, assured their livelihoods, their income, their economic foundations. Everything had its place.
“OK,” Franza said. “I think it’s all coming together. I’m totally convinced of it. These aren’t mere coincidences. This young man, Tonio. He appears suddenly. Gets in touch with Gertrud. She’s scared to death. Hanna. She comes to this town for the first time in more than twenty years. And disappears without a trace. No, these can’t be coincidences. It all hangs together, somehow connected with Gertrud’s death. And her past. Once we know her past, her story, we’ll see the motive. And we’ll know why she died. And then we’ll have the murderer.”
“What could the motive be? What do you think?” Arthur asked.
Franza smiled. He was still so young; he knew so little of life.
“Love’s the motive.” She picked a bit of fluff from his jacket. “Hate, revenge. The usual stuff.”
They were silent. A little reverential for a brief moment. The toasted sandwich on Felix’s paper plate had long since gone cold. Franza had drunk her coffee.
“Aren’t you eating anything?”
Felix looked at Arthur, who shook his head.
“Karolina’s cooking.”
“Oh my word,” said Felix. “Then shouldn’t you eat something first?”
Franza snorted with laughter and poked Felix in the ribs.
“Come on, now, there are women out there who can cook! Look at me. You’re just unlucky!”
“True.” Felix nodded in agreement. “You can bake, roast, cook—just about anything. A real gem.” He gave Arthur a look of sympathy. “Well, kid, would you like my sandwich?”
Arthur frowned briefly. “I think she’s making a . . . soufflé. It sounded . . .” He thought for a moment. “I’m not exactly sure.”
“There you are.” Felix pushed his plate toward Arthur. “You don’t have to know all the details. And you don’t have to put up with everything.”
Franza smiled, closed her eyes, and let her thoughts wander. Business as usual. Death to one side, marriage to the other, and banter here. And then there were the people who suddenly found themselves . . . alone. When they had been . . . together for an age. Here they were, laughing and fooling around, although there was really nothing in their work to laugh about. Perhaps that’s why they did it. Perhaps that’s why they had to laugh, to keep their spirits up. They never knew on which side they stood, which way the pendulum would swing.
“There’s a diary,” Franza said suddenly, opening her eyes. “Gertrud kept a diary back then. Frau Brendler knew about it. Have we found one?”
“No,” Felix said. “Not that I know of.”
“Do people throw diaries away?”
“Not usually,” Felix replied. “Angelika still has all hers.”
“So do I,” Franza said. “Hidden away in a drawer. I could never throw them away. They contain all my love stories from my past.”
“Hm,” said Arthur. “I’m sure they’re fascinating—but what are you getting at?”
“That we should search again. Search thoroughly.”
35
Lilli stared at the words until they swam before her eyes. She kept going back to them, again and again. The words that flowed over the pages of the diary wouldn’t let her go, held her under their spell. Sometimes they jumped here, sometimes there. Sometimes they sounded full of happiness, sometimes optimism, before falling into despair.
“I don’t want to continue my studies,” Lilli had finally told her grandfather that day when they’d met for lunch downtown. “I don’t want to work in your law firm.”
He had nodded, taking in what she said. He simply accepted the situation. He had finally come to recognize that some things were inevitable.
“I’ve made a mistake,” he said and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve made a big mistake.”
She didn’t ask what. A mistake. She didn’t ask what he meant, whether it was about Gertrud or Hanna or even herself. She didn’t want to know. She had suspected and discovered too much over the last few weeks and months. She didn’t want to know any more.
“Maybe . . .” he began. She realized with astonishment that his voice was cracking. “Maybe, one day, your grandmother and I can—”
He broke off. An old man, she thought in amazement. He’s turned into an old, old man.
“Yes,” she said. “Maybe.”
He looked at her gratefully.
She thought of the letter lying in the desk back home, right at the bottom of a drawer beneath her papers, all the other letters that had meant something in her life. She thought how it had lain there for a long time, and that she still hadn’t opened it and so she still didn’t know with any certainty what she had suspected for a long time. The letter had arrived shortly before she flew to England. She remembered how her heart had begun to beat faster. She started to open the envelope slowly, carefully, and felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. Suddenly, something caused her to hesitate, and she put the letter back down on the table. It lay there for three days until it was time to set off for the airport. When she heard the doorbell and Gertrud’s voice—“Lilli, darling, I’m here! Time to go!”—she finally picked the envelope back up, the paper seeming to burn her fingers, and put it in the drawer. Right at the bottom beneath the other papers. Beneath the important letters. No, she didn’t want to know what was in it. She still didn’t want to look the truth in the face. Whatever the truth was.
“Here,” she’d said to her mother, once they were out on the garden path. “Here’s my key. Will you look after it for me?”
“Of course,” Gertrud said and tucked it away. “I’ll come by every two weeks to make sure everything’s in order.”
“That’d be great,” Lilli said. “Thanks, Mama!”
Then she had flown to London. And then she’d returned, to find the letter still lying there where she had put it, right at the bottom of the drawer, untouched, unopened, unread.
36
Kristin was at the door.
The sudden ring of the doorbell had shocked Tonio to the core. He’d staggered backward and had to brace himself against the wall. So they had found him so quickly? So soon? It was incredible. Absolutely incredible.
As if in a trance, he felt all the blood in his body rush to his heart, and his heart began to pound and pound, his veins threatening to burst. Tonio held his breath and pressed his hand to his mouth, but the bell continued to ring. He expected to hear a cry of “Police!” and “Open up! We know you’re in there! The house is surrounded! You don’t have a chance! Give in now! There’s no escape!” as he’d heard so often in the films.
And then someone did begin to shout. Loudly, impatiently. Loud enough to be heard throughout the whole building.
But it wasn’t a harsh police officer’s voice, it was a voice he knew. It was Kristin’s voice. As soon as he recognized the fact, a new feeling struck him—surprise, a pleasant surprise even. He had yearned for nothing more fervently during those recent nights than to have her there, his comfort, his hope. He’d yearned to rely on her support in this desperate situation.
“Are you there?” she called. “Tonio! Are you there?”
Breathe deeply, he told himself. Breathe deeply. And he did, until he was at last able to push himself away from the wall and open the door. There she was, Kristin, head held high, hands on hips.
“You idiot,” she said. “You stupid idiot! You dump my things outside the door and just take off! Are you crazy?”
“But that’s what you wanted,” he said, slowly coming back to his senses. “You wanted me to put your things outside the door.”
She raised her eyebrows, shook her head, and snorted loudly. “Men! Impossible! Men!”
Silence fell for a moment, two.
“Are you going to let me in?” Her voice was suddenly gentle and a little shaky.
“Yes. Of course. Yes.”
He stepped back and she entered.
He showed her the way. She moved tentatively, step by step, sensing she was entering new territory and taking due caution.
Later they sat at the kitchen table with two glasses of water in front of them. They looked at one another, twilight spreading through the room and muting the light.
“How did you find me?” he asked, thinking it must have been the power of his mind—he’d called to her and suddenly she was there.
“You don’t seriously believe that I didn’t write down the lawyer’s name?” she said with a slightly shamefaced grin.
“Aha,” he said. “So?”
She shrugged. “So what?”
“Well, there’s a way to go between the name of a lawyer and the address of an apartment.” He shifted his arm to the middle of the table and hoped she would do the same.
“You think so?” She leaned her head back against the wall and looked at him through sleepy, half-closed eyes.
He nodded.
“I don’t,” she said with a smile.
Tonio leaned forward.
“He actually gave the address to you?” He tried to imagine what the man had asked for in return. “Is he allowed to do that? Isn’t that covered by lawyer-client privilege?”
She shrugged. “A lawyer is just a person with a sensitive soul.”
He was stunned. “You little sneak! What did you do?”
Her smile grew mysterious. “You don’t need to know everything.”
OK, he thought, she has a point. I don’t need to know everything, I really don’t. The main thing is, she’s here.
Sex, he thought. Feel a bit of life first and then we’ll figure out what to do. Or maybe not.
“You clever thing, you,” he said.
“Aren’t I?” she replied.
“Sex. With you. Now.”
He felt desire for her like never before, despite all the dreadful things that had happened. He sensed she felt it too, his desire, his arousal, creeping toward her across the table and settling on her skin, into her eyes, her thoughts, and feelings. She wanted it, wanted it so much. She had him now, had him at last.
“No. Something to eat. Hungry.”
“Hungry. Yes. Right.”
Hungry for her. For the truth. Whatever the truth was. For her. For the truth. For life. For her. In that sequence. In that order of priority.
“Red wine,” she said. “Risotto and crispy fried fish. Caramel sauce. Cake. Chocolate. Then . . . you. And me.”
“Yes to all those.”
He stretched across the table, touching the ends of her hair, entwining his fingers with hers.
“Hungry,” she said. “Very hungry.”
“Yes,” he said, wondering how he could ever have seen her as a thousand-euro bill.
37
I could call her, Lilli thought, poking small pieces of strudel around the plate with her fork before finally putting one in her mouth. It tasted of apple, cinnamon, sugar, and butter; it tasted the w
ay it had in Franza’s house, tasted of the scent wafting from the oven as they’d talked. Talked about childhood, about strangeness, about Gertrud, about Hanna.
No, not about Hanna.
Lilli wished she’d talked about Hanna. Hanna was claiming ever more space in her thoughts, the more she delved into the book, the more Gertrud’s diary revealed to her.
Where would she say she got it from? That would have interested Franza, Lilli was sure of it. But she had no intention of saying anything about the diary. It weighed so heavily on her conscience that she kept it locked away—from herself and, even more, from the others.
Sometimes she longed to go into an expensive upmarket shop and pocket a perfume, a damned, cursed perfume, and then take it and pour it down the toilet before taking off. Maybe, maybe one day someone would notice, some filthy store detective, and finally get on her trail, track her down, and catch her. The dreadful events would be drowned out by the terrible news that Lilli was a thief. Perhaps death would then lose a little of its sting. Perhaps Gertrud’s death and everything that went with it would be subsumed a little then. Perhaps it would be easier to grasp, perhaps it would no longer be themostdreadfulthingintheworld.
But it was themostdreadfulthingintheworld, and nothing—nothing—could drown that out, however much Lilli wished it. The images had burned themselves into her retina—the onion, the knife, the blood, the jelly jars, the shards of glass, the sickly smell of boiled-down damsons, of sugar and a dash of brandy—and Gertrud in the middle of it all. Lilli knew all those things would forever be associated in her mind.
She swallowed and swallowed, letting the tears flow, fervently hoping that sooner or later she would cry it all out. But that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon.
She had taken the diary for herself when that cursed night gradually drew to a close and she had gone up to her parents’ bedroom, because . . . because . . .
She didn’t know why she’d gone there. Impulse. Intuition. Perhaps she’d thought she would see her, see Gertrud there, her scent still clinging to her clothes, the pillows, just a little, a little . . . and so it was.
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 14