The Wages of Sin: A Kidnap, a Crucifixion, a Murderer on the Loose

by Inge Löhnig

  THE

  WAGES

  OF SIN

  INGE LÖHNIG

  Contents

  Thursday, 8th May

  Friday, 9th May

  Saturday, 10th May

  Sunday, 11th May

  Monday, 12th May

  Tuesday, 13th May

  Wednesday, 14th May

  Thursday, 15th May

  Friday, 16th May

  Saturday, 17th May

  Saturday, 24th May

  Sunday, 25th May

  Monday, 26th May

  Wednesday, 28th May

  Friday, 30th May

  Monday, 2nd June

  Tuesday, 3rd June

  Wednesday, 11th June

  Thursday, 12th June

  Friday, 13th June

  Saturday, 14th June

  Sunday, 15th June

  Friday, 20th June

  Sunday, 22nd June

  Credits

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Thursday, 8th May

  He quietly pushed the panel aside and peered into the vault through the narrow slit. An oil lamp filled the space with dim light. The flame flickered in the draught, making the shadows dance, creating movement where there was none. But he pulled his ski mask down over his face anyway. Better to be safe. The door creaked softly as he opened it. He picked up the tray and went into the cell. Its damp, cool air had a musty smell.

  He paused for a moment to make sure that the boy on the camp bed was actually asleep. Once he was sure, he dragged the box over with his foot and then set down the plate, which had a slice of bread and butter and a banana on it. He loosened the lid of the thermos, so that the boy could open it easily when he woke up hungry and thirsty. The boy’s left wrist was handcuffed to a chain and the tender skin around it was already chafed. He stared at it, mesmerised. The inflamed edges of the wound made him shudder. Without looking away, he pulled the bunch of keys out of his trouser pocket and tightened the cuff. The sight of the sleeping child awoke memories that began to hazily emerge out of the fog. Images that tortured him, that he wanted to forget, that now engulfed him, made his heart stop and drove foul sweat from his pores. Not now! He had to shake them off.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, reflected on his task and felt a power flowing through him like an inexhaustible current. The spectres vanished, released him. And he knew that he would prosper in everything he did. They would understand the sign. And if not . . . He unconsciously touched his throat. Then shall thy will be done. Ultimately, it was out of his hands. He sighed. Unable to resist, he ran the tip of his finger through the boy’s blond hair, across his red cheek and over the scrapes on his chin. The scratches had already scabbed over, but some pus had oozed out of one bit and he now felt it on his fingers. The man recoiled. He started to gag. He quickly wiped his hands with a tissue.

  The boy’s eyeballs began to twitch restlessly behind his lids. He sighed and turned onto his side. He would soon wake up. The sleeping pills were bitter in the hot chocolate, but he would still drink it if he was thirsty. He had to sleep. It wasn’t to keep him from crying. That was unavoidable, but no one would hear him anyway. He had to sleep so that he didn’t realise what was happening to him. So that the agonising images wouldn’t stay with him for the rest of his life.

  He stroked the blond hair again, hardly touching it. He hoped that it would be a long life. But that was not within his power to decide.

  * * *

  Agnes stood on the front steps and hugged her brother, Michael. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Whatever you dream about on the first night in a new home comes true. So dream about something good. OK?’ He winked at her and tried to mask his concern with a smile. ‘I’ll come and see you when I’m back from London.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’ She wished him a good flight and good luck with the workshop he was going to be leading and then she gently nudged him down the steps.

  ‘You sure you’ll be all right on your own?’

  She nodded. ‘Michael, I’m thirty-five. I’m not afraid of the dark any more.’

  ‘Well, all right. Then I’ll leave you with these old ruins.’ He looked sceptically at the house, as if he thought it might be haunted.

  If I am going to be haunted, Agnes thought, it’ll be by the ghosts that I’ve brought with me.

  He gave her one last squeeze, then got into the removal van and waved at her as he drove off. Agnes went inside when she heard the van honking as it disappeared round a bend. The door snapped shut. ‘So,’ she said out loud and listened to her echoing voice. ‘What now?’ There was nothing else to do. Every piece of furniture was in its place. The last of the boxes had been unpacked and her few belongings stored away.

  She went into the newly fitted kitchen and was once again pleased with the colour combination of spring-green walls and vanilla-yellow cabinets. It gave the room a springtime feel, a sense of optimism. She filled the kettle and got a sachet of Spiritual Harmony tea out of the cupboard. She’d bought it at the shop next to the church; the name had been too tempting. A smile spread across her face. She wasn’t so naive as to believe that a change of scenery and a cup of tea could give her life meaning again. But she had to start somewhere. And with the move, she had finally made her long overdue clean break.

  She felt relieved and liberated but also a bit embarrassed. Her parents had meant well. But she couldn’t endure another day of her mother’s solicitude, and her father’s quiet concern had made her increasingly angry. He treated her like she was sick. She knew he couldn’t help it and she’d tried her best not to take it out on him, but his behaviour had pushed her one step closer to her final decision to regain control of her own life.

  The water boiled. She made the tea, then took the teapot and cup into the living room. After setting them down on the coffee table, she went over to the window and stared out across the overgrown garden and down to the lake. The light blue of the sky had become a shimmering pale grey. Its reflection made the surface of the water look silver. For a moment, she felt calm. It was as if the storm that had been violently raging inside her on and off for the past year had finally subsided forever. Yes, she thought, it was a good idea to buy this house.

  She hadn’t really wanted to touch the money. Profiting from Rainer’s death had seemed equally as bad as continuing to live with her parents. She was caught in this dilemma when she found the house. A small art-nouveau villa with three gables, right on Church Lake. If a new beginning were going to be possible, then it would be there, in that hundred-year-old house with its creaky floorboards, well-worn steps and high ceilings. Her mother had berated her. She told Agnes she was being silly, using up nearly all her savings on the purchase. ‘Child, you will have to start working again,’ she said, as if she thought that was a terrible idea. Just like Rainer.

  Agnes felt a bit uneasy. As if the storm was returning. She quickly went back to the sofa and poured herself a cup of tea. As she drank it, her eyes wandered round the room. Her furniture was a combination of old and new. Some of it newly purchased and some donated by Michael and her parents. But there were still no curtains or rugs. There were just a few CDs and a couple of books on the shelves. All of a sudden, she could physically feel the emptiness of the space around her. Maybe she didn’t belong there. She tried to suppress the memory that was creeping in: two tiny empty rooms, an opened lattice window looking out onto a barren back yard, a pocket-sized kitchen, a dented gas stove. With a swift gesture, Agnes gathered up her long hair, tied it into
a loose knot and stuffed it inside the neckline of her jumper. She had chosen a life in the country.

  Her eyes landed on the Biedermeier writing desk that her parents had given her as a housewarming gift. There was a glass of leftover paint sitting on it that she’d used for fixing a chip in the window frame but still hadn’t cleared away. The photo would look nice on the desk. She went upstairs and got the silver frame from the bedroom. It was one of her most prized possessions. The picture had been taken two years ago on the Atlantic coast. For a moment, Agnes could taste the salty air. She could hear Yvonne’s laughter and the seagulls squawking in the background. She could see Rainer as he helped her steer the bright red stunt kite in the wind. She tried to hold onto the image, but trying just made it disappear faster.

  During the past year, when she’d lain awake at night in her childhood bedroom and her thoughts had taken on a ghostly life of their own, there were times when she was tormented, wondering if it had all been a dream. Maybe she had never left her parents’ house, never married, never become a mother. Then she would turn on the light and look at the picture to make sure it had all been true.

  Agnes took a deep breath and tried to release some of the pressure in her chest. She put the picture in its new location. Then she looked at the clock. It was already after six – high time she went for a run. She went upstairs and slipped into her jogging gear. As she was putting on her trainers, the doorbell rang. She looked up. Who could that be? She didn’t really want to answer it. She didn’t want to have to shake hands and be nice to intrusive neighbours. Then again, this village wasn’t going to start feeling like home if she just hid alone in her house. But she didn’t have to start today. The doorbell rang again. On the other hand, you shouldn’t just leave your neighbours standing on the doorstep either. Damn that good upbringing, she thought as she went down into the hallway. Her attempts at casting aside her upbringing like a coat she’d outgrown usually failed. She quickly glanced in the mirror. She had lost weight in the past year. Now she inhabited a lean, toned body that was strangely foreign to her. The only thing about her that still resembled her former self was her long blond hair, which Rainer had adored. The bell rang again. Agnes went to the door and opened it. A young woman was standing on her front step, breathless. Her short blond hair stuck out of her bony skull in all directions.

  ‘Hello, I’m your neighbour, Melanie Berger.’ She had lashless aquamarine eyes and a crooked, beak-like nose. She excitedly emphasised every word by flapping her arms around. She reminded Agnes of a headless chicken, although her voice was mellow and pleasant and didn’t match her lean, childlike figure.

  ‘We need your help. A boy is missing. Jakob. It’s as if he’s fallen off the face of the earth. Everyone’s been looking for him.’

  ‘And you want me to help with that?’ The question echoed through Agnes’s skull as if it were a lift shaft.

  ‘Everyone is searching their houses and their land. We’ve already done that. My boyfriend is down by the lake with the fire brigade now and I’ll be joining him to help. There’s quite a lot of land to cover down there,’ Melanie Berger said, spreading out her arms.

  She had moved to this village to get some rest and forget about what had happened. Now this. On the very first day. ‘I was just about to go for a jog,’ Agnes replied.

  Melanie Berger stared at her. ‘Jakob is only five. He could be hiding in your house. The doors were open all afternoon.’ She sounded like she was actively trying to stay calm.

  ‘You don’t think I’d have noticed if a little boy had been hanging around here? His parents should call the police.’ Agnes took a step back into the house, as if that could keep the approaching storm away.

  The young woman exhaled audibly. ‘They already have. But it’ll be a while until the police get here. Jakob’s parents are half mad with fear. If everyone helps, we’ll find him faster.’

  What’s wrong with me? She’s right, Agnes thought, appalled at her own behaviour. She stepped aside.

  ‘Come in.’

  The search took barely five minutes. The boy was obviously not in the house. Agnes pulled on her jogging gilet and went outside with Melanie Berger. The garden was large and towards the far end it was like a forest, which was probably what had originally covered the property.

  ‘I didn’t mean to snarl at you just then. But my nerves are a bit raw,’ Melanie Berger said apologetically. ‘Jakob is in my kindergarten group. I’m his teacher.’

  ‘Then we’re even,’ Agnes replied sheepishly. The way she had behaved was just plain unacceptable. ‘I don’t know what got into me just now either.’

  They searched the garden, calling out for Jakob, and pushed through branches and twigs, but they didn’t find the boy. While her neighbour took on the shed, Agnes walked over to the former carriage house, which had been transformed into a studio by the previous owner, the painter and sculptor Charlotte Niedermeyer.

  The air smelled musty. The room was empty. Cobwebs stretched from the ridge beam to the glazing in the pitched roof. Agnes sat on the windowsill and stared into the garden at the remains of a fallen tree that must have lain there for decades. The bark was gone; the dead wood had taken on a silvery shimmer. Maybe this boy is dead, too. Agnes was taken aback. Why would she think such a thing?

  Melanie Berger came in. ‘Anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Agnes could see Melanie’s arms shivering all the way up to her narrow shoulders. Some hot tea would do her good. ‘There’s a fresh pot of tea in the house. It’s almost full. Shall we have a cup?’

  Her neighbour nodded. ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she said and followed Agnes inside.

  Agnes got a cup from the kitchen and went into the living room, where Melanie Berger was standing at the window and looking out across the lake. Agnes poured her some tea and offered her a seat on the new red sofa.

  Melanie Berger sat down. ‘My name’s Melanie, but everyone calls me Melli.’ She put out her hand.

  Agnes hesitated a moment, then took the hand and shook it. ‘Agnes. Agnes Gaudera.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was so snippy with you before.’ Melanie apologised again. ‘But I’m terribly worried about Jakob. I just have too much imagination.’ She stirred her tea even though she hadn’t added any sugar. ‘He might even be back home by now.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ Agnes said and suddenly saw Yvonne in front of her with her bulging backpack, ready to travel the world like little Hans from her favourite nursery rhyme. Anxiety spread through her. She needed to go for a jog. Physical exercise was the only way she could relax and not think about things. But she couldn’t do that right now. After all, she couldn’t just push Melanie out of the door right after offering her a cup of tea. Agnes sank lower in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘You said that Jakob’s parents have already notified the police. Hopefully the criminal investigation department. Or are the village police organising the search for him?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Melanie shook her head. ‘Franz said Munich CID are in charge. Hopefully they’ll bring a search party and dogs.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘We saw your removal van this afternoon and actually wanted to come over earlier and say hello. Franz and me. Franz is my fiancé,’ Melanie said. All of a sudden, her pale eyes lit up and brought an unexpected beauty to her oddly proportioned features. ‘The wedding is in two weeks,’ she continued, as she looked over at the photo in the silver frame on the desk.

  Agnes felt her scalp tighten and a shiver ran down her back. She did not want to be asked; she did not want to talk about it. ‘Sorry, but it’s really time for my jog,’ she heard herself say. ‘Come by again tomorrow for a cup of tea.’

  * * *

  The sun disappeared behind the roofs of the city. Grey twilight descended like a silk scarf over Marienplatz as Detective Chief Inspector Konstantin Dühnfort looked up at the Cathedral of Our Blessed Lady. It was just past six and he wanted to call it a day. His colleague Gina Angelucci had already left and the new guy, Alois F�
�nfanger, had phoned to say he was going home after the meeting at the forensics department.

  Dühnfort was still not sure what to make of Fünfanger. He had been transferred from Regensburg to Munich on the first of May and had been part of his team ever since. At thirty-eight years old, he was not only three years younger than Dühnfort but also clearly in much better shape. His finely sculpted muscles were apparent under the three-piece suits he wore, which suggested that he played sport regularly. When they’d climbed the stairs to the third floor that afternoon, Fünfanger had floated up two steps at a time, while Dühnfort, increasingly out of breath, had huffed and puffed behind him. Yet again, he resolved to get more exercise. But resolutions alone were useless. He simply lacked the discipline for it.

  As he cleared his desk, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d forgotten something. And then very quickly he knew what it was. He still had no idea what to give his father for his seventieth birthday or if he even wanted to go to the extravagant party in Hamburg that his brother Julius had organised. Julius, the favourite son. The one who lived up to his father’s expectations.

  The telephone rang. Dühnfort was startled out of his reverie and picked up the receiver. He listened for a while. ‘How long has the boy been missing?’ He glanced at the cathedral clock. Nearly three hours. And it would be dark soon. ‘Where is that? Mariaseeon. On Church Lake.’ The village was on the district border and only just within their jurisdiction. He thought about it: the boy was only five and had been missing for three hours – time was of the essence. ‘I’ll need a search party and a dozen officers to question the neighbours. And the divers should head over immediately.’ He scribbled down the Sonnberger family’s address in Mariaseeon. He would decide whether or not to deploy helicopters on site. He dialled Gina’s number as he slipped on his jacket.

  * * *

  At ten to seven, he reached the motorway exit and turned off down the country road towards Mariaseeon. Grey-blue dusk blanketed the countryside, dappling the forest with dark green shadows and painting the alpine peaks a deep blackberry colour against the saffron of the evening sky. An expressionist painting, he thought and changed up into fifth gear.