Brenner and God sb-7

by Wolf Haas

  Unfortunately, though, neither kidnapper nor Helena in the living room. Just a completely deserted living room. Never in his life did an abode appear quite so godforsaken. And it could have been stated without exaggeration that this godforsaken weekend hell depressed Brenner to death-if he wasn’t already in such a mood that it would’ve been a huge improvement for something to depress him to death.

  And the kitchen, too, godforsaken. And the bathroom, godforsaken. And upstairs in the tiny attic, godforsaken. And that little bit of a cellar, also godforsaken. The word “godforsaken” engraved itself methodically into Brenner’s brain. You can see how the worm was nagging at him again-this time with the fear that it could be the good lord himself who was leaving him there to wallow until nine the next morning.

  He set up camp in the tiny attic bedroom and looked through the blinds at the walkway below. There were still twelve hours until the handover at nine o’clock. Or better put, three hours. Not what you’re thinking, though, that the handover got moved up. No, Brenner was so utterly exhausted after this dreadful day and the sleepless night at the police station and the conversation with Knoll and the encounter with the South Tyrolean and the escape from the Lilliput Cafe and the trip out to Klosterneuburg, that he fell asleep thinking that he would in no way fall asleep here.

  Now, what had he been looking for in Klosterneuburg tonight? You should know, when Bank Director Reinhard called Brenner that afternoon, he was calling about an appointment in Klosterneuburg, saying, “Would you fancy paying me a visit at eight o’clock in my domicile?”

  Because “domicile” and “refuge,” that’s the kind of language Reinhard used, but the padded expressions suited his big persona. Besides the central bank and two or three restaurants, his domicile in Klosterneuburg and his refuge at the Imperial were the most important addresses for his driver. He slept nights at the domicile and days at the refuge. Because these days, when you lead an enterprise of 10,000 employees, you have to get every last drop out of your leisure time; otherwise you might as well pack it in.

  At first Brenner was even glad to have something else to do that evening, because thirteen hours in a Schrebergarten cottage waiting for money to change hands isn’t that interesting. But then, as he was standing in front of the domicile with Reinhard, he asked himself what it was that he was looking for there. Reinhard acted as if the conversation had never been about the prospect of becoming his driver. He was only interested in having Brenner telling him in minute detail again about the kidnapping at the gas station.

  He took Brenner to a pleasant little place in the garden and ordered drinks from the house by phone. And believe it or not, Congressman Stachl brought the drinks out. Because with tabloids and scandals everybody’s the same, the nobodies and the somebodies, they all want to know as firsthand as possible exactly what it was like. At least Reinhard let Brenner tell his story in peace, whereas the Congressman kept interrupting him. He wanted to understand very thoroughly. But his questions didn’t get him anywhere. Because naturally Brenner didn’t mention anything about Knoll or the planned handover in the Schrebergarten cottage. Congressman Stachl could have been a little friendlier instead of just glowering out from beneath his bushy eyebrows, as if nothing surrounding his city development project had happened in a long time that was as troublesome to him as this kidnapping.

  Brenner sat there telling them exactly what they already knew until they got bored. Then the bank director accompanied him back to his Mondeo and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder in farewell, i.e., things will look up again. And at the last second he reached into his jacket pocket and pressed an envelope into Brenner’s hand. “Perhaps this will be of some help to you.”

  Brenner was still holding the envelope in his hand when he woke up in the Schrebergarten attic. Counting the envelope containing his last month’s pay that Natalie had brought him, this now made the second envelope of money in one day, and slowly it began to seem to Brenner that he really was the kidnapper, getting paid the ransom in installments.

  Interesting, though: he not only still had the envelope in his hand upon waking up, but also the thought still in his mind that he could in no way fall asleep here. And this thought is the best proof of how the wakeful mind often doesn’t do its best thinking. Because, don’t fall asleep here, any bloody layman could have given him this advice-pivotal mistake, as it were-never fall asleep at the scene of the handover, where the gangster might show up early and kill you. But one thing you can’t forget: Brenner’s greatest strength was exactly that. The detective half-sleep. Because he wasn’t sleeping deeply of course, just half-sleeping. And with the other half he watched over the house and over himself, sleeping.

  Now, you should know, the best thoughts of Brenner’s life always came to him while he was half asleep. It’s a great misconception that people have-the more awake, the more concentrated, the more rested, the better for their heads. Because just like a light that’s too bright can be bad for the eyes, so, too, can a mind that’s too awake be not at all good for the thoughts. And in truth a half-asleep person can always outmatch an awake person by a long shot, no discussion. Far too many thoughts get in the way of thinking with an awake person, but the good lord whispers directly into the mind of the sleeping person. Only you can’t fall asleep completely, or else you might not hear him.

  Watch closely: while he was half asleep it occurred to Brenner that he had overlooked one little thing amid the onslaught of voicemails. Because place and time for the hand over of money had been made known to Knoll one day before the kidnapping!

  So when shortly before nine an old man opened the garden gate, Brenner had been wide awake for a while. The old man didn’t have Helena with him, and he didn’t come off as a kidnapper, either, but nonetheless-to be feared. Because the typical Schrebergarten pensioner, without any kidnapping or murder thrown in, already fills the bill more than amply, i.e., overweight, limping, lawn-mowing, fence-painting, grilling, TV-watching, politicizing, groaning, weeding, car-washing, undershirt-wearing, opinion-expressing, hard-of-hearing crankiness personified.

  But let’s not be unfair. Because the old man being hard of hearing, that alone was an enormous advantage for Brenner. Hard of hearing an advantage, and the heavy breathing an advantage, too. Because once he’d shuffled into the living room, the heavy breathing prevented the Schrebergartener from making any effort to go up to the attic. And his being hard of hearing resulted in Brenner being able to understand nearly every word from the attic when Knoll arrived at nine sharp with a briefcase of money and a stooge in tow.

  “One million?” the hard-of-hearing pensioner barked.

  “Go ahead and count it,” Knoll answered at a normal indoor volume, but Brenner understood him anyway because when someone says what you’re expecting him to say, then you understand him easier, even from a distance.

  “What did you say?” the retiree asked, because he couldn’t understand Knoll even at close range. Possible that this rule about easier comprehension of what’s expected only applies to “from a distance” and not to “hard of hearing while at close range.”

  “Go ahead and count it,” Knoll said as softly as he had before because that was his volume, he didn’t let the rules of the game get dictated by someone else, no, always nudging the others a little to where he wanted them.

  The stooge said nothing because-silent stooge.

  “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand,” the Schrebergartener began, and Brenner thought to himself, if he’s going to count to a million, I’m going back to sleep.

  “Seventy-two thousand,” the Schrebergarten boss said, and then stopped. “And where are the six hundred and seventy-two euros?”

  Knoll either said nothing or said “Kiss my ass” so quietly that neither Brenner nor the pensioner heard it.

  “I still do business in schillings, I don’t do euros,” the old man bellowed. “And one million is still seventy-two thousand six hundred and seventy-two euros and not seventy-t
wo thousand euros flat.”

  “As long as you’re not front-ending me in old francs,” Knoll said, dry as dust, and in the tension of the moment Brenner had to be careful not to let out a laugh.

  “Exact calculation, my friend,” the old dogmatist wheezed.

  “If you were being so exact about everything,” Knoll said, and a few other words, too, that Brenner couldn’t make out, but Knoll’s bad mood he understood nevertheless.

  “If I were going to be exact, it would come to seventy-two thousand six hundred and seventy-four euros and forty cents. Actually, forty-two cents, but the two you can have, and the forty I’ll give you, too. But six hundred seventy-two euros, that’s still nine thousand schillings, roughly calculated. To be exact…”

  What was happening now Brenner couldn’t see from where he was, but I’ll put it this way: it took exactly as long as you’d need to pull an antediluvian pocket calculator out of your blue work pants and to type in 672? 13.76.

  “… it comes to nine thousand two hundred and forty-six schillings, and those I can’t just let you have.”

  Brenner understood Knoll excellently now because he was speaking loudly and clearly-and had suddenly switched to, let’s say, a more informal mode of address.

  “Either you sign now or you find yourself another chump who’ll buy this barracks off you for five times its value. Do you think I came all this way with a notary so that I could haggle over eighty-three cents?”

  “What’s ‘five times the value’ supposed to mean?” the Schrebergartener protested. “Supply and demand!”

  Shameless people always believe that all people are as dumb as they themselves are shameless. And maybe the shamelessness of the hard-of-hearing house-seller infected Brenner a little, too, because by now he’d ventured far enough out to the tiny staircase that he could see the three heads below through the brittle railing above. Interesting, though. Knoll: bald. The notary: thinning mousy hair. And the pensioner, of all people: full head of white hair. And the notary was even fairly young. But mouse hair already! And the skin on Knoll’s crown was peeling a little. Brenner thought to himself, amazing that he doesn’t take better care of himself in the sun, and he thought about maybe bringing it up with him if a good opportunity arose.

  The white-haired pensioner was finally signing now. Because it might have become clear to him that he shouldn’t wear out his patience with Knoll and the notary, and so before the buyer could change his mind, he’d put his three X’s down on the contract and left with the envelope of money.

  It must have been an interesting sight that morning for the nosy neighbor of Knoll’s new premises. Forty-nine hours after the disappearance of Helena Kressdorf. First the pensioner limps out the door with a thick envelope and doesn’t even close the garden gate behind him. And shortly thereafter a taxi pulls up-because the outermost row of the Schrebergarten lets directly out onto the access road-and the notary with the briefcase climbs into the taxi, and right after the notary, Knoll comes out and gets in his Volvo, and half a minute later Brenner leaves the house. Caravan: understatement.

  And if the neighbor had looked very closely, she might have even noticed that Brenner was following Knoll in his purple Mondeo-car chase, if you will. But she couldn’t possibly have guessed everything that Brenner had yet to face that day. Even with the most ironclad resolve, Brenner himself couldn’t have guessed. And to be perfectly honest: if he had guessed, he wouldn’t have driven one centimeter after Knoll. Because Brenner would have preferred to stay in the Schrebergarten cottage, prayed a few Our Fathers, and searched for a rope to hang himself with in peace.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mankind could not have invented anything better than driving a car. Especially when you have someone you can follow. Because then it’s not so boring. The constant looking in the rearview mirror just made Brenner realize how often he would check to see if Helena was okay when he was driving, if she needed something, if she was sleeping, if she was smiling, if she was sitting comfortably, if she wanted a sip of something, if her teddy bear had fallen over, if she’d care to discuss something, or if she’d like to have her peace and quiet.

  And every time now, no Helena in the rearview mirror. It pained Brenner so much that he even let out a cry. Because that’s one of the many advantages of a car. You can listen to music in private, you can enjoy nature without exertion, and when in despair, you can let out a cry.

  For the sake of the car chase, of course, it was good that Brenner’s rearview glancing should plummet so dismally into emptiness. Because, he was all the more sensitive to what he saw behind that emptiness. Never before had a detective tailed a suspect as attentively as Brenner did Knoll-from the rearview mirror. Because he always left enough distance, and where Helena’s face would’ve been in the rearview mirror, Knoll’s black Volvo was gliding along in the back window, but very tiny. The best music Brenner had heard in years was on the radio, the sun was laughing, traffic was rolling smoothly along, and it annoyed him at first when the programming got interrupted. But then, of course, believe it or not, the dead-serious news announcer reported that the case of Helena Kressdorf’s kidnapping had taken a dramatic turn due to a bloody incident with the ransom handover.

  And you see, that’s the downside of driving. Because you think you’re the only one experiencing something, you think the world stands still while you’re in motion. But in reality, you’re the one sitting with one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the clutch until the radio tells you that the outside world just turned in a bloody direction.

  So what happened while Brenner and Knoll were rolling merrily down the autobahn like two innocent children on the Lilliput train pretending to be cops and robbers?

  Listen carefully. You need to take note of the following: the difficult thing about a kidnapping is always the ransom handover. If that weren’t true, everybody would be kidnapping everybody else. It would be paradise on earth! Imagine, no one would have to work anymore; instead everyone would make a living purely by kidnapping. You wouldn’t have to do anything to the kidnapped victim-treat them well even, better meals than at home, warm room, color TV, everything, and as soon as I have ten million in my account, he’s free to go home. It wouldn’t have to be a major drama. On the contrary, maybe he’d even go home with some spiritual gains.

  Unfortunately, the handover, though. That’s where things went awry. The worm is simply always inside somewhere. And so there you have it. Train, highway overpass, remote-controlled things, and, and, and. Always the unlikely endings, alas, where the kidnapper hunts a police squad through the city for days, from phone booth to phone booth, from message to message, pointless merry-go-round. That never pays off! I say, when you’re the kidnapper, and you steal time from the police for days, then you can’t be surprised. Because that young cop’s got a girlfriend, he’d also like to go home and watch TV, another one’s got a second job as a security guard, he loses the extra pay, or the single mother has to skip out on her appointment with the child psychiatrist all because of your ransom money handover. Naturally these public servants are going to become aggressive.

  Prime example, the husband of the nanny who Brenner always dropped Helena off with and picked her up from. He came up with the idea of making his wife’s nursery school the ideal place for the handover. Because the middle of a group of children, of course, not so easy for a sharpshooter. Flip-side of the coin: he’s all the more nervous. And you see, that was the moment when Brenner lost radio reception. You should know, they were just racing past Salzburg, i.e., the German border-you barely notice it these days. So they’re already over the border, more or less, and in the middle of the report about the kidnapping, the signal switches over to Bavaria 3. While Brenner’s frantically dialing around on an unfamiliar radio, he loses Knoll from the rearview mirror.

  To this day I’d be interested to know whether he lost Knoll merely because of that-because Knoll heard the report, too, and slowed down to search for better reception.

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nbsp; Now for some brief, general considerations until they get the station back. The proof that you actually have the kidnapped victim is child’s play today compared to how it used to be, i.e., forensic evidence. It used to be that a finger would have to get hacked off, an ear, a toe, it was a dreadful burden for victim and perpetrator alike, because you don’t just go cutting off someone’s finger no matter how desperately you need the money. And today a hair suffices, a fingernail, and it makes it that much easier for all involved.

  Easier and more difficult! Because nothing in the world’s got only advantages! And the great weakness of forensic evidence is the sidecar driver. Because DNA’s a real man-about-town. And one thing you can’t forget. A finger, an ear, that’s a one-of-a-kind matter. But a few hairs you can easily pluck off a piece of clothing or a comb, even if you don’t have the kidnapped child at all. Especially if you’re the husband of the nanny. And when on the same day that his unemployment benefits got cut, he read in the paper that the kidnappers hadn’t made contact, he simply plucked a hair off the sweater Helena had forgotten there.

  Brenner was just hearing all of this now that he was finally able to tune the station back in. He nearly bit the steering wheel when he learned that Helena still hadn’t been found fifty-two hours after her disappearance, but that the nanny’s affable husband was dead on account of a nervous sharpshooter. Imagine, just a few days earlier Brenner had stood out in front of the building with him while he had a cigarette-because in the apartment, of course, strictly no smoking, don’t even ask.