He said nothing, merely stroked her hair. She smiled wistfully at him.
“But sometimes,” she said, “sometimes, I feel beautiful. Now, for example.”
They did not sleep together. Instead, they gave in to their sadness, their melancholy.
They thought of their failed marriage, of their son whom they saw so rarely, of Port, of the young women with whom Max had the occasional brief affair, of the house that, perhaps, would soon no longer be theirs.
“The house,” he said. “They’re going to take it.”
Shit, she thought. Shit!
“Does it make you . . . ?”
“Yes,” she said. “It does.”
“Me too.” They were silent for a moment.
“When?” she asked.
“As soon as we give the word.”
She nodded. “Life is sometimes . . .”
“I know,” he said.
Silence fell again. They were overcome by sadness. They lay in each other’s arms to get through it. They felt a deep tenderness, an affection that enabled them to withstand the loneliness for a while.
“I wanted to kill you,” she said.
He knew straightaway that she was talking about the young woman who had stayed with them as an au pair and, over the year, became his lover and then the mother of his second child. A lifetime ago, so many years—and still sometimes the same thorn in the same flesh.
“I know,” he said. “Thanks for not doing it.”
“It hurt,” she said. “It really hurt.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t forgive you for a long time.”
“I know. Have you been able to?”
She looked at him in the dark and smiled. “I’m going home now.”
42
The weather had gotten worse. A slight drizzle was veiling the world. It was a tired Monday morning, the fourth day after the body was found. September 15. Christian Rabinsky had been summoned to the police station for questioning.
They now knew Gertrud’s husband had told a white lie or two. It had not been easy to find out, his friends had closed ranks—the three couples Felix had interviewed after leaving Frau Beuerle had confirmed her husband’s version of the events, but the information she had given Felix was enough to call Rabinsky in again.
He looked tired, his mood suiting the gray day and the drizzle outside the window.
“Good morning,” Franza said as they entered the interview room, where Felix was already pouring coffee and water.
“Why am I here?” Rabinsky asked. “What do you want from me? I’ve told you everything. Why don’t you leave me in peace? My children need me. They’ve just lost their mother, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“No,” Franza said, “we haven’t forgotten. But there’s something you’ve forgotten to tell us. Namely, where you were during the period between ten o’clock and midnight.”
Rabinsky gasped. “So you actually suspect me of having murdered my wife?”
“We have to investigate all the possibilities,” Felix said calmly. “At the moment we have the feeling you’re not in a particularly strong position, Herr Rabinsky.”
“I have an alibi,” Rabinsky said. “I’ll say it again—I spent the whole evening with my friends. You only need to ask them!”
There was a tremor in his voice. He noticed it himself and tried to suppress it, but failed.
“Will you please answer our question?” Franza asked. “Herr Rabinsky, you do not have an alibi for the time in question. Where were you?”
They saw him falter for a fraction of a second. They saw him fight for breath as he sought to regain his composure. They gave him time.
“How do you come to that conclusion?” he asked eventually, still with the tremor in his voice. Franza saw it spread slowly through his body.
“A witness,” Felix said. “A witness refuted your alibi.”
Rabinsky nodded. The fear that had settled in his eyes slowly disappeared, to be replaced by anger and a deep helplessness.
“Rieke,” he said. “It’s Rieke, isn’t it?”
Felix nodded. “Yes. Rieke.”
“But she’s lying,” said Rabinsky. “Rieke’s lying.”
“Why would she?”
“Because . . . because . . .”
“Yes?”
He shook his head. His shoulders drooped as he stared vacantly into space. He remained silent.
Franza leaned forward, her arms on the table. “We found particles of skin beneath your wife’s fingernails that most probably came from the murderer. If a person is threatened, they defend themselves, injuring their attacker. Scratches. Grazes. Do you have any marks like that, Herr Rabinsky? Do you have any scratches on your skin?”
He swallowed.
“No,” he said. “I don’t. And I didn’t kill my wife. I was away from home from seven o’clock. I went for a meal with my friends. We were celebrating Lars’s birthday. A waiter spilled red wine over me. So I drove to the office, took a shower, changed, smoked a cigarette. I wanted a few moments to myself.”
He fell silent, stared into his coffee mug, and then continued. “Then I went back to the others. To Jealousy. From there I went back to the office. And I came home the following morning. That’s when I found her. But I’ve already told you all that. That’s what happened. I don’t know who killed my wife. Probably Hanna. Hanna Umlauf. I didn’t do it. I loved her.”
“Please, will you show us your arms, Herr Rabinsky?”
“Do I have to?”
Franza shook her head. “No, you don’t have to. But you should if it could exonerate you.”
He didn’t react.
“Otherwise we’ll have to ask you to agree to a DNA test.”
He looked up. “A DNA test?”
“The skin particles. We’ll compare them with your DNA.”
“And if I refuse?”
“We get a court order.”
He fell apart. Folded into himself. Sank into silence. They watched him go pale, his strength crumbling away like sunbaked sand.
“Very well,” he whispered. “Very well.”
He rolled up his shirtsleeve and held his arm out to them. It was covered in scratches.
“You can save the expense,” he said. “No need for DNA comparisons. It’s true. She did scratch me. The skin beneath her fingernails is mine. But I didn’t kill her. She was alive when I left. And Hanna was still there.”
“Where is Hanna now?”
“I don’t know,” he said wearily. “How should I know that?”
Franza stood and walked around behind him. She laid her hand on his shoulder, hoping she could transfer some of her calmness and warmth to him, stabilize him a little.
“What happened?” she asked. “Just tell us. It will do you good.”
But he wasn’t ready yet. Still needed time. He took three gulps of water. Four. There was despair in his eyes. He shook his head, incredulous. He supported his face in his hands, trying to still the trembling of his body. Then . . . at last.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I was there. Shit, I’ll say it again—I was there. I wish I hadn’t been. I wish that stupid waiter hadn’t spilled that damned wine . . .” He ran his hands over his face. “I wish I hadn’t seen it. I wish . . .”
He broke off, shook his head, momentarily covered his eyes with his hands.
“What did you see?” Franza asked softly. “What was it?”
He remained silent, fighting with himself. A few more moments passed.
“They were . . . together. I saw them together. My wife and Hanna. They were lying in the bed on their sides. Gertrud behind Hanna. Gertrud had her arm around Hanna, her face laid on her shoulder. They were completely still, just lying there cuddled up. There was . . . a really peculiar tension. A really peculiar tension. Something very gentle, intimate.”
His face was sad. He’s going to cry, Franza thought. It’ll do him good.
He cried. They let him. It did him good.
“I said nothing,” he whispered. “I just stood in the open doorway and said nothing. I simply left.”
“Left?”
“Yes. Left.”
He pulled at a thread hanging from the fabric of his sleeve. “You know, I always felt that there was something, something going on inside her that had nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with me. I’m no prude, I can imagine a lot. But . . . she’s . . . she was my wife. I loved her.”
A painful tug around his mouth, a soft sob.
“What happened then?”
He shrugged. “They noticed me. When I backed away. I must have bumped against something. I went down to the kitchen. I drank a glass of water, I think. She came after me, Gertrud did. She said something like, I shouldn’t have found out that way—something like that. I didn’t want to listen. I wanted out of there. But she tried to hold me back. I pushed her away. ‘You don’t understand at all,’ she yelled, ‘you don’t understand at all. It’s all so complicated.’”
More silence, concentration. The detectives could see his mind working furiously.
“And she was right. I didn’t understand. How could anyone understand that?”
He looked up imploringly. His expression contained a despair that made Franza shudder.
“She wanted to explain. I grabbed her hands, shook her, wanted to hold her, wanted to hold her—she was my wife, after all—but she . . . she suddenly said, so quietly, so clearly, ‘I’m going away with Hanna.’”
There was amazement now in his voice, echoing the amazement of the moment he was remembering.
“And then we heard Hanna’s voice from the top of the stairs. And she said no. She said, ‘No, Gertrud, that’s not going to happen. You won’t do that. It’s a misunderstanding. Don’t send him away!’”
Another pause. He drank a mouthful of water. His hand was shaking.
“Gertrud froze for a second. Hanna came downstairs, came nearer. ‘You’re my sister,’ she said, ‘and he’s your husband.’ And that was when Gertrud flipped.”
He shook his head. The amazement had turned to bewilderment. He kept shaking his head.
“She screamed, just screamed. No words. Only screams. And set on me. Like a Fury. She attacked me. Scratched me and hit me.”
He showed them his arm again, and continued speaking. “Hanna came over to her and put her arms around her, holding her. As soon as she felt Hanna she melted on the spot. Started crying like a little child. I’ve never seen her like that before.” He swallowed, sniffed. Tears flowed down his face. “Hanna finally said I should go. I should just go. It would all calm down with time.”
He fell silent, wiped his hands over his face and laid them flat on the table.
“And I went,” he said softly. “I went back into town, to my colleagues. Got tanked up. And when I came home the next day, she was lying in the kitchen, dead. And Hanna had vanished.”
He breathed deeply.
“That’s all.” He leaned back, his arms hanging down limply as though they didn’t belong to him. Now comes the weariness, Franza thought. After the telling comes the weariness. I can see it now in his eyes.
“And we’re supposed to believe that?” Felix asked. “Isn’t it rather the case that you were fighting and suddenly found yourself in the kitchen? And your wife said she wanted to leave you and you saw red. Suddenly, there was the knife in front of you—a sharp, gleaming knife. You picked it up and you stabbed her. Something like that happens suddenly. You lose all sense of reason, you’re beside yourself, and then all it takes is one word.”
Rabinsky shook his head.
“No,” he said wearily. “That’s not what happened. It could have happened like that, I’ll grant you that, but it didn’t. Believe me, please.”
“What have you done with Hanna? Where’s Hanna?” Felix’s voice had an edge to it.
“Hanna? Nothing! I didn’t do anything, I swear! Hanna sent me away. And I went.” Rabinsky raised his hands. “I drove back into town, like a madman, like a lunatic. I just wanted to get away, away, away.” He slumped into himself. “It must have been Hanna. There was no one else in the house. Hanna must have killed her. They probably got into a fight and then when she saw Gertrud lying there in a pool of blood, she got scared. And ran off. She’s good at that. Running away. It’s what she’s always done.”
He stood. “Can I go home now? I’ve got to get to my children.”
Felix looked at him thoughtfully. Franza shook her head slowly.
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. We’ll have to place you under arrest. You’re suspected of having murdered your wife. The first step will be remanding you to custody.”
He was stunned. His face turned pale.
“What?” he said. “What? Are you crazy?”
“The evidence against you is simply too strong,” Felix said. “You’ve lied to us. You’ve given us a false alibi. You have the best possible motive anyone could think of—jealousy. And we’re going to find your skin particles beneath your wife’s fingernails. What would you think if you were in our shoes?”
“What about Hanna? Don’t you suspect her at all? It’s all cleared up, is it? I think you’re oversimplifying things!” Rabinsky fought for breath.
“We’ll continue looking for her,” said Felix. “Don’t you worry about that.”
“And who knows?” said Franza. “Perhaps she’ll be able to confirm your statement, Herr Rabinsky. Then, of course, you’ll be free to go.”
“What about now? Do you consider the case closed? Are you arresting me as the murderer? I loved my wife! I didn’t kill her!”
He still couldn’t grasp it.
“No,” Franza said. “Nothing’s conclusive. Would you like to call an attorney? And do you want to call your mother-in-law, so she can look after Moritz?”
“No,” he said. “I can’t. I just can’t. How can I explain to her . . . ?”
He was like a helpless child who had given up defending himself.
“Then I’ll do it,” Franza said. “Don’t worry about Moritz.”
“Don’t worry?” he protested once again.
“An officer will read you your rights,” said Felix, summoning a uniformed officer in. “Take him away.”
They watched him go down the corridor with the officer. Once he had gone from view, they sat down and looked each other in the eye.
“I don’t know,” Franza said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Felix said nothing.
They got it wrong sometimes. It wasn’t unusual to get something wrong, to think it was all pointing in one direction, only to find that direction was false. To smell a rat, but the wrong rat.
They made mistakes, and for those who were the victims of their errors, it was probably the worst experience of their lives. They were caught up in a machine that ground, ground, ground them down, and in the worst cases did not leave much behind.
Both Franza and Felix wondered how you could know the truth on the spot, how you could always know what was wrong and what was right. How could they see the way if it was veiled in fog, a mist of uncertainty through which they could only penetrate gradually?
They had to stick to the facts, to whatever was tenable and provable in the course of their investigations. But facts were not always the truth.
“You don’t want it to have been him,” said Felix.
Franza nodded. “No, I don’t want it to have been him. It could have been him—all the indications point to it—but, you’re right, I don’t want it to have been him. And I don’t believe it was him.”
Felix nodded. “I know.”
“If only because of the children,” she said. “They’ve had a terrible enough experience as it is.”
“I know.”
They were silent. What could they do? Nothing. Suddenly, Franza had an idea.
“Listen, on the road out of town there’s a speed camera. I was caught by it once. If he really raced off like he said, perhaps we have a photo of
him and could rule him out from being there at the time the murder was committed.”
“Good idea. Let’s see if he’s had a bit of luck, the poor bastard.”
They called the traffic department, who said they’d check and report back.
“I wonder if it was Hanna?” Felix stood and went over to the window.
“You’re not getting prudish, are you?” Franza asked. “Don’t you think two women should love each other?”
“Of course,” he said, turning. “Love happens where it will. It’s beautiful wherever it happens. But it isn’t always a force for good.”
She nodded.
“Are you hoping it was Hanna?” he asked.
“I’d rather it was no one,” she said, her voice rising dramatically. “I’d rather the world was a happy and peaceful place where no murders are committed, no rapes, no muggings, no nothing.”
He laughed. Softly. Thoughtfully.
“I know,” he said. “A utopia of peace and happiness. But how would we earn our living then, my friend? Watering flowers? And how would all the other people who, one way or another, live off murder and death earn their bread? Police officers, lawyers, journalists, TV reporters, pencil pushers, actors, who knows who else. No, I’m telling you, however dreadful it sounds, it’d be missed by a lot of people.”
She took a gingerbread cookie from the Tupperware box in front of her and threw it at Felix, who caught it and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Let me have my dreams,” she said. “I don’t have many left these days.”
“All right, I will. I love it when you dream.”
He smiled.
She shrugged. “Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what we want or what our dreams are, does it? Ultimately, it’s the truth that counts. Even if that sounds so dreadfully pathetic. So often you have no idea what the truth really is. It’s made up of so many layers and perceptions.”
She stopped talking, fixed coffees, and placed one in front of each of them. They ate cookies that crunched between their teeth and warmed their stomachs.
“Sometimes I do understand Sonja a little,” she said. “Her marrying Brückl. The fact that she’s happy with him. There’s something good about his clarity and pragmatism. No layers, no ‘Look for what you want and what you need, babe!’ Pow! It is what it is, period.”
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 17