by Inge Löhnig
Agnes stared at the image. Maybe Jakob was also going to be sacrificed? Maybe his kidnapper was a religious fanatic. But that was an absurd thought. Agnes shook her head. After all, Melli told her that Jakob’s mother had paid ransom money. She closed the Bible and took it to the counter along with the poetry books.
On the way home, she felt like an idiot. Even if she re-bought everything that Yvonne had ever owned, it wouldn’t be the same. What did she want with Yvonne’s Bible if she could never read it aloud to her again?
She had given in to a sentimental impulse, but why? Maybe in the hope that this treasure would reflect the past and bring it to life for a moment, like before in the bookshop. But this mirror had two sides. Agnes pulled the book out of the bag and placed it on the bench at the school bus stop.
* * *
Dühnfort left Dr Till Wiessner’s surgery. Kallweit had no alibi. He’d had had an appointment on Thursday afternoon, but it was at two o’clock. Wiessner’s receptionist remembered that Kallweit had left just before three. He told me a flat-out lie, Dühnfort thought. But that wasn’t enough for a search warrant. There was still no connection to Jakob.
He got into his car, called Bachmaier and asked him how to reach Veith.
‘His lifeguard job is a voluntary thing,’ Bachmaier said. ‘During the day, you should be able to find him at his workplace. He works at an interior-design business.’ But Bachmaier didn’t know whether it was in Mariaseeon or one of the neighbouring communities.
Dühnfort went back into the surgery and asked Wiessner’s receptionist whether there was an interior-design business around Mariaseeon. ‘Already in its third generation,’ she said. ‘Like our surgery.’
She couldn’t have worked for all three generations of Wiessner doctors, but very possibly for two. Her grey hair was tied back in a ponytail, like a little girl’s. She wore jeans and a white coat with a pink blouse peeking out from under it. Even so, she had to be over sixty.
‘Veith Interiors,’ she said. ‘Go down Dorfstrasse towards Baierdilching. Just before the end of the village, turn left onto Wendelsteinstrasse. It’s the second building on your right.’
The shop was located in a converted farmhouse. The roof projected out over the gable side of the structure and a balcony covered in geraniums stretched across the entire width. The first-floor windows were small and had blue shutters. There were two large shop windows on the ground floor, which were shaded by blue-and-white striped awnings. A sign was mounted to the rough plaster over the windows. VEITH INTERIORS, SINCE 1907. Every one of the parking spots in front of the shop was empty. Dühnfort glanced at the time. Hopefully they weren’t closed for lunch.
The sign on the door indicated that they were open all day. Dühnfort went in. A bell jingled. Shelves full of tins of paint, brushes, rolls of tape and other decorating equipment divided the room. Dühnfort walked past a table with books of wallpaper patterns to the checkout counter. A man stepped out from behind a set of shelves. He was nearly two metres tall, brawny and tanned. Bristly bleach-blond hair stuck out of his rectangular skull. He had a gold earring in his left ear. Despite his youthful getup, Dühnfort estimated he was in his early forties.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so.’ Dühnfort introduced himself. ‘Are you Mr Veith?’
The man nodded.
Dühnfort explained why he was there. Veith confirmed he was the one who’d told Bachmaier about the incident at the lake. ‘But apparently there was no truth in it,’ he said. ‘Otherwise Mr Kallweit wouldn’t have got away with it.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘He was a teacher at the village school for over thirty years,’ Veith said. ‘And I received a few bruises from his ruler.’
‘There are rumours that he doesn’t just photograph flowers but children as well. Is there any truth in that?’
‘Just rumours.’ Veith tugged on his earring. ‘I’ve personally never seen it, and if I ever did catch him in the act, he would never do it again.’ Veith punched his right fist into his left palm. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on him since last summer.’
‘Were there any rumours about Kallweit when you were at school?’
Veith thought about it. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Not about Kallweit . . .’
Dühnfort’s ears pricked up. ‘But there were rumours about someone?’
Veith hesitated. His face darkened. ‘Oh, it was ages ago,’ he said defensively. ‘And besides, he’s dead and one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’ Veith had gone pale and then his face and neck started turning red. Shame or anger? Dühnfort wondered. Veith squared his shoulders. His muscular chest bulged and the corners of his mouth twitched. He punched his fist into his hand again. ‘Maybe now is the right time. Sepp should finally get his due,’ he said. ‘I’ve always known I’d have to talk about it at some point.’
Dühnfort knew that look. The man was trying to determine whether he could trust him. ‘Let’s sit down.’ Dühnfort gestured to the table with the wallpaper-pattern books. There were two chairs beside it.
Veith nodded, but first went to the front door, reversed the ‘Open’ sign and rolled down the blinds. Then he sat down at the table. The story Dühnfort was going to hear was about a dead man. Veith had made that clear. And maybe the conversation would also unearth relevant memories about Kallweit. But Veith was silent. He was breathing loudly. Something was being worked through. He inhaled, his large chest rose and fell, and then suddenly it burst out.
‘Sepp was my best friend and he shot himself when he was fourteen. His parents and the priest managed to keep it from getting out. Otherwise, the priest wouldn’t have been allowed to give him a Christian burial. But I know that he shot himself. And I also know why he did it, though I didn’t believe him at first.’ Veith’s flood of words ended as abruptly as it had begun.
‘What didn’t you believe?’
Veith looked Dühnfort right in the eyes. ‘Everything. Because it was unbelievable. I was only fourteen. We had no idea then that there were such perverted monsters. He showed me his back. It was full of scars and crusty wounds. I saw them and still didn’t believe Sepp. I thought his father had hit him with the bullwhip. That was credible. His story wasn’t.’ Veith chewed his thumbnail, then put his clenched fist on the table.
‘We had no idea about sex. We were fourteen. We could only imagine kissing a girl and maybe groping around a bit. Of course, we knew that there were gays who did it with men. But we didn’t know how and we also didn’t know that there were paedophiles and perverts.’
‘Your friend was abused,’ Dühnfort said. ‘By whom?’
‘By precisely the man no one would believe would do such a thing,’ Veith replied. ‘By the priest. Sepp shot himself with his father’s hunting rifle because he couldn’t bear being tortured and raped by the priest any longer. The priest had the power to cover it all up. I overheard him telling Dr Wiessner Senior to spare the parents the shame of an inquest and to just write “natural causes” on the death certificate or at least that it was an accident and not a suicide, so that Sepp could have a Christian burial. But the coroner would still have had to look at Sepp if it was an accident and then the wounds would have been discovered. Then the police would have been brought in. I know that now. I enquired. And Dr Wiessner Senior listened to the priest.’
‘But the undertaker . . .’
Veith’s face hardened. ‘It all worked out. Sepp’s mother’s uncle had a funeral home at the time. She must have convinced him to keep quiet.’
‘But someone must have heard the gunshot,’ Dühnfort said.
‘Sepp shot himself out in the forest at his father’s hunting cabin. No one heard the shot. His father found him. Then they claimed that he’d died of a pulmonary embolism. It ran in his family. Sepp’s cousin died from one at fifteen and so did two of his grandparents.’
‘And how did you find out?’
‘That Sepp was dead? The news spread r
ound the village very fast. I couldn’t believe it and I ran over there. The front door was open, so I went in. And then I heard them. They were standing in the living room and the priest was persuading old Dr Wiessner. I went up to Sepp’s room and there he was . . .’ Veith’s voice broke. ‘I almost didn’t recognise him,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Half of his head was gone.’ Tears filled Veith’s eyes. ‘You know those little tattoos?’ he asked, wiping the tears away. Dühnfort nodded. ‘They used to come with certain types of sweets. You licked the back and then pressed them onto your skin. And they looked like tattoos. A few days earlier, we’d both put a pirate flag on our upper left arms. That’s how I recognised him.’
‘Why didn’t you do anything then?’ Dühnfort asked. ‘You could have told them what you knew.’
Veith swallowed and looked him straight in the eye. He stared at him for a while and then laughed bitterly. ‘Well, today is the day of truth. No one knows. Not even my wife. If anyone asks me about it, I tell them that I fell and got stuck in a barbed-wire fence. But it had to come out one day. And now I’ve puked it all up on your feet. A man I don’t even know. But you’re a detective. It’s high time. I owe it to Sepp.’
Veith stood up and pulled his black T-shirt over his head. He had broad shoulders and the muscular torso of a weightlifter. On his upper left arm he had a small tattoo of a pirate flag. He turned round and showed Dühnfort his back. The skin was tanned, except for a few uneven white lines that ran from his shoulders down to his waist. They were scars.
‘He only caught me once,’ Veith said in a dry voice, then he cleared his throat. He put his T-shirt back on. ‘It was the day before Sepp shot himself. After that, I was at his mercy. No one would have believed me that he was an arse fucker,’ he said bitterly. ‘And that fine priest didn’t just sexually and physically abuse me. After Sepp’s death, he threatened to go public about the “gay relationship” I’d had with Sepp. Of course, that was a lie. But who would you have believed, the honourable priest or a distraught boy?’
‘You should have confided in someone,’ Dühnfort said.
‘Who?’ Veith asked. ‘I tried with my mother once. But God knows, she had other worries at the time. My father was in hospital with cancer and she was trying to keep the business going. And somehow I dealt with it. I was only his victim once,’ Veith said. ‘I shoved it all aside like a bad dream. But I got sick. Psychosomatic, the doctors said, and they told me I should pull myself together, that I couldn’t do that to my mother, that she had enough to worry about with her husband dying. So, I pulled myself together.’ Veith squeezed the words out and then exhaled the air he’d been holding in. ‘But he was punished by a higher power. On the day I got out of hospital, the priest died of a heart attack. He got a big flashy burial and hopefully is not now resting in peace, wherever he is. He should be burning in the hell he preached about, damn it.’ Veith leaned back and looked off into the distance. ‘Sepp chose death. But I made up my mind to never be a victim again and I started doing aikido and bodybuilding. I guess everyone has to find their own way of dealing with it,’ he said. ‘That’s it. Now it’s out. What are you going to do about it?’
Dühnfort felt queasy. He was going to have to disappoint Veith and belie the trust that had been placed in him. ‘In terms of a criminal prosecution, there’s nothing we can do, unfortunately. You can’t prosecute the dead. The cover-up of the circumstances of Sepp’s death is, however, a criminal act, but it’s past the statute of limitations. How long ago was this?’
‘Twenty-eight years,’ Veith said flatly. ‘So, there is nothing you can do? Is there to be no justice for Sepp?’
‘No, there’s nothing I can do,’ Dühnfort said firmly. ‘But there’s something you can do. Tell the truth. Talk to Sepp’s parents, talk to the doctor, talk to Sepp’s friends and former classmates.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Veith replied. ‘Sepp wouldn’t have wanted his shame to be made so public. Not without the bastard being punished. It was a huge deal for him even to talk to me about it.’
‘But silence protects the person who did it. It’s unbelievable how long it often takes cases of abuse to become known. And all because neighbours, relatives, teachers and friends turn a blind eye. They don’t want to admit the unthinkable. People prefer to believe flimsy excuses rather than see what’s really going on. I can understand that you’re concerned about exposing your friend if you tell the truth. But surely you’d want to stop another abuser from getting away with it just because everyone looked the other way.’
‘You’re thinking of Kallweit. You think he’s also a perverted bastard.’
‘At the moment, I’m not thinking anything at all. But the rumours that he secretly photographs children and shows up naked in front of them seem to have some truth to them. I’ve heard about another incident in addition to the one you described to my colleague. But it’s very vague. It’s not really enough to go on,’ Dühnfort said.
‘For a search warrant, you mean.’
Dühnfort nodded. He had leads but no evidence. He needed more. ‘You’re not on duty at the family bathing area every day, are you?’
‘We take turns. But there’s always talk if something happens. I can ask my colleagues. Give me your number.’
Dühnfort gave him his card. Veith pulled up the blinds, turned the sign round again and opened the door. ‘I will think about your advice,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll talk to Dr Wiessner Senior.’
* * *
Dühnfort drove down to the lake, parked his car near the family bathing area and walked to the shore. There was no one there aside from two women in bathing suits who were sunbathing further back on the grass. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, the temperature was no more than twenty-two degrees and there was a cool breeze. Dühnfort sat on a bench and stared at the surface of the water. It rippled in the wind. Suddenly, he felt like summer was already over, like it was already autumn. He looked over into the trees and the leaves were pale green. A butterfly flew past.
Veith had said that everyone found their own way of dealing with it. One of them killed himself, the other one became a master of martial arts, and perhaps there was a third, who became a depraved criminal. Silence was the cement that bound the victims together without their knowing it. Silence was the cocoon that would continue to envelop the criminal until he acted again and with even greater cruelty. Veith’s confession had revealed that there was a sadistic man who had pushed one boy to his death and abused and tortured another. Maybe they weren’t the only ones. Maybe there were more victims. But the old priest was dead. And I can’t help Veith, Dühnfort thought. He has to help himself. I have to think about how to proceed. Was Alois right, should he leave Kallweit to the department that dealt with paedophilia and abuse?
Kallweit left the doctor’s surgery just before three o’clock. Jakob arrived at Dennis’s house at two thirty. The boys watched a video and then went out into the garden to play sumo wrestlers. Kallweit must have driven or walked along Dorfstrasse on his way home. So he must have passed the Mittermeyers’ house. The garden was visible from Dorfstrasse. Had Kallweit seen the boys, found a spot on the path behind the property and photographed them? Had he followed Jakob when he left his friend’s house a bit later?
Dühnfort took his mobile out of his pocket and dialled the Mittermeyers’ number. Dennis’s mother picked up on the fourth ring. He greeted her and asked about the video that the boys had watched.
‘It was a cartoon,’ she said. ‘Is that important?’
‘Maybe. How long was it?’
‘About half an hour. But they didn’t watch the whole thing. They thought it was babyish and went into the garden.’
‘Were they both in the sandpit before three o’clock?’ Dühnfort asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘They were in the garden before three. I’m sure.’
‘Thank you,’ Dühnfort said and ended the call.
He had decided. He would talk to the children who’d accused Kallweit of masturbating.
* * *
Dühnfort took the lift from the twelfth floor down to the ground floor. He had made the journey to the commuter town of Taufkirchen in vain. The younger girl could barely string a sentence together; the boy was silent, like they always were; and the older girl cheekily explained that it had been confirmed in court that the old geezer had just been drying off.
The lift reached the ground floor. Dühnfort left the building and went to his car, which he’d parked some distance away, at the shopping centre. It was a dead end. Shit. He looked at the time. It was just before three. He was hungry, so he went into the shopping centre and got himself a sandwich and a chocolate bar. Dark. Eighty per cent cocoa. Dühnfort ate the sandwich leaning against the car and looked around for a cup of coffee. He saw a coffee-bar window across the street. As he stood at the bar and paid for a cup of coffee with milk, the phone in his chest pocket began to buzz. He pulled it out, took the cup and the change and walked away. Then he answered.
‘Hiya, Tino.’ His brother Julius’s voice greeted him. ‘I’m still waiting for your feedback about staying the night.’
Dühnfort had completely forgotten about his father’s birthday. He was supposed to be in Hamburg on Saturday morning. He still had no train ticket, no gift and no idea what to get his father for this special birthday.
‘When are you coming and how long are you staying?’ Julius continued. ‘We’ll need to know that at some point. Otherwise the planning will get out of hand.’ Julius had taken on the tone and demeanour of a British landlord. He’d been cultivating the corresponding look for years: button-down shirts, tweed jackets and Burberry pullovers were all mainstays of his wardrobe.
‘I’ll take a train on Friday morning and get to Hamburg early evening. I have to be back at the station on Monday,’ Dühnfort said firmly. He’d now reached his car; he put the cup of coffee on the roof. ‘So, I’ll stay two nights and you don’t need to plan anything for me, I’ll just sleep in my old room.’