Time Heals No Wounds (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel)

by Hendrik Falkenberg

  “What about ship traffic?” Hannes asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the woman could have fallen overboard and washed up on the beach. Maybe she was pushed. That would explain the lack of a struggle.”

  Fritz looked at Hannes and nodded. “You’re right! You should contact the Coast Guard. They can put together a list of which ships have been in the area since Friday and radio them. After that, we can go for a little ride in the country and see the two witnesses. Let’s start with the farmer, then we’ll look for the old artist.”

  After the Coast Guard promised to get back to them, Hannes and Fritz headed for the coast. Earlier that morning, another storm had passed over the city, but it had been significantly weaker than the one on Sunday. The sky was still overcast, and Fritz’s Jeep snaked through a gray sea of houses. Around noon there was hardly any traffic, so they reached the outskirts of town very quickly. Fritz’s favorite classical music was playing through the speakers. More than a few cases had been solved while he was attending the symphony. Hannes, who was more a rock music guy, stoically endured it.

  As the Jeep left the big city behind, the sun broke through the clouds and bathed the landscape in a golden light. The green of the still-damp meadows and trees seemed especially intense.

  Fritz rolled down the window and happily breathed in. “That’s it with the rain,” he said. “The next few days will be boiling hot again. Glad my garden got a good soak.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Close to the harbor, where you picked me up yesterday. I bought a small house there two years ago. I got fed up with the weekend traffic to my boat and back. It was torture. Besides, it was never my dream to grow old in the city. I just rent a small room there for the weekdays. I’m looking forward to spending my time gardening or on my boat, and my nights smoking a pipe on the terrace, listening to the seagulls. But that’s still a long way off.”

  Hannes turned toward him, surprised. He had never once thought Fritz had a romantic side.

  “Surprised?” Fritz said and laughed. “My wife and I always dreamed of owning a house by the sea. Only now I’m living that dream alone. But if my back keeps acting up, I’ll probably have to hire a gardener and sell my boat. That leaves just the terrace, a rocking chair, and my pipe. Let me tell you something . . .” He glanced over at Hannes and straightened his glasses. “Don’t put your dreams on hold. Don’t wait for the right time to come. And don’t wait for this or that to be finished. Things change quicker than you think, and suddenly it’s too late. And then you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  “Did your wife die a long time ago?” asked Hannes.

  Fritz avoided the question. “So how was last night? Are your days as a single man now finally over? The big night was yesterday, right?”

  “No success,” said Hannes.

  “Maybe you need to rethink your requirements,” Fritz teased.

  Hannes rolled his eyes and told him about the power failure and his unexpectedly long ride on the Ferris wheel. The incident had been making waves in the papers. A complaint had been filed against the owner of the Ferris wheel: even though the power had gone out and manual override hadn’t worked, the gondolas could have been pulled down by hand. A woman with a heart condition had also been on the Ferris wheel, and she had collapsed.

  “I met four nice people, so there was a plus side to the situation,” Hannes said.

  The well-maintained farm was abuzz with activity when the Jeep rolled up. No one took much notice of them as they walked up to a group of four men. Three were kneeling on the stone-paved courtyard, trying to keep a cow on the ground, while the fourth rummaged through a small suitcase.

  “Rumen acidosis,” Fritz said.

  “Huh?” asked Hannes.

  “Rumen acidosis. It’s a metabolic disorder that leads to colic and diarrhea.”

  The rearing cow was given an injection, and seconds later, she calmed down. The men stood, dripping with sweat. One of the larger ones stared at the two police officers.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Detective Janssen from the Criminal Investigation Department. This is my partner, Niehaus. We want to talk about Sunday evening with Mr. Olsen. But if now’s not a good time . . .”

  “It’s all right,” said the big man. “I’m Lutz Olsen. I already told your colleagues everything, but I’ll gladly do it again. Tom and Hauke, take Sina back to the barn.” He turned to the third man, who had shut his suitcase—obviously the vet. “Come back tomorrow around noon?”

  “Will do,” the vet said and made his way over to his beat-up car.

  “Come in,” Olsen said, pointing to a thatched building. He had on a red plaid shirt and brown corduroys. His face was chiseled, and his cracked, pawlike hands were proof of a life dedicated to hard work. He came across as warm and friendly, and his cheeks, flecked with red, suggested that he knew how to appreciate the finer things in life.

  “You know your way around animals?” he asked Fritz as they headed toward a white front door wreathed in wild climbing roses. “I heard your diagnosis. You hit the nail on the head. We don’t have much dairy cattle anymore and focus on growing rapeseed. Since biofuels are on the rise, rapeseed’s a much better source of income. Now that it’s July, I have to direct all my attention to the harvest, and since Hauke—that’s one of our two workers—was at his sister’s wedding this weekend, Tom had to take care of the animals by himself. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a knack for it and used too much concentrate feed. You saw the result.”

  “Some good hay and sodium bicarbonate work wonders,” Fritz said.

  “Wow, you really know your stuff!”

  Olsen flung the door open and ushered them into the hall, its walls decorated with old tools.

  “Inga! Two men from the police are here. Can you make us some coffee?” he shouted.

  From an adjoining door, a plump woman with short gray hair and chubby red cheeks stuck out her head and waved to them with a smile.

  “I’m Inga Olsen. Welcome to Hohenberg Farm! Please, have a seat in the living room. I’ll bring you some coffee and pastries.”

  “My Inga,” Olsen said and led them into the living room, which was full of bright rustic furniture and a fireplace. “She’s always happy when we have guests. It’s not often that someone goes out of their way to come here. Most of the time, it’s just our workers and the cattle. Actually, my wife owns the farm. I shrewdly married in.” He winked and plopped down into an old-fashioned armchair. While they waited for coffee, Fritz and Olsen discussed past and present farming practices, and Hannes could not get over his amazement at Fritz’s expertise.

  Mrs. Olsen rolled in a cart with steaming coffee and a colorful cake plate. She distributed flowered plates and gave each of them a considerable slice of cheesecake, while the cackling of hens could be heard through the open window. Hannes was hungry and grabbed another slice from the cake plate, which pleased Mrs. Olsen.

  “My partner’s a competitive athlete. He can always use a few calories. Just don’t eat too much, Hannes, otherwise your canoe won’t float.”

  “Says the coffee junkie . . .” Hannes said.

  Fritz quickly turned to business. “Can you tell us what happened Sunday night?”

  “Well, there’s not much to tell,” said Olsen. “We farmers follow the weather reports with particular interest, so I had tried to harvest as much rapeseed as possible before the storm. Unfortunately, I don’t wear a watch, but I think it was around six thirty when the crazy old painter appeared in my field, waving his arms and running toward the combine.”

  “Do you know the man?” Fritz asked.

  “‘Know’ is too strong of a word. He’s lived in the old cottage not far from the lighthouse for probably ten years. I know he’s a famous painter. But do I really know him? No.”

  “He rarely comes to the village,” Mrs. Olsen said. “His daughter provides him with the essentials. She drives a yellow sports car,
and since we’re on the road leading to the old hut, I sometimes see her drive past. We have a small farm shop, and she once bought fresh eggs from me. She was very curt and well dressed. Otherwise, she buys everything for her father in the city, which is a shame because we have a lot of fresh things out here.”

  “When the painter arrived, what exactly did he say he found?” Fritz asked.

  “Say?” Olsen chuckled, and his wife answered for him.

  “He hasn’t spoken for years! At least not when someone from the village has been around. Perhaps he speaks to his paintings or his daughter. He was taciturn when he moved here, but after a while, he went silent.”

  “So how did you know what he wanted?” Hannes asked.

  “At first, I thought he was having a seizure. He always carries a cane with carved symbols. Maybe he’s a member of some sect and conjures spirits. Anyway, he just made strange sounds and was completely beside himself. He repeatedly pointed to the cliffs and finally pulled on my shirt. At first, I was annoyed, but then I understood that he wanted to show me something. So I followed him, and he led me to the place where the two narrow paths start. He pointed down the path on the right, and I immediately saw something floating in the water. At first, I thought it was an animal and climbed down. But I could quickly tell it was a woman. Her eyes were open, and at first, she didn’t seem to be dead. Her arms and legs moved in the waves. But when I jumped into the water, I noticed her eyes were fixed. You know, on a farm, you see dead animals all the time, and I immediately realized she was dead. Her skin was so . . . unnatural, not at all alive! Nevertheless, I felt her pulse, but there was nothing. I felt nauseous, and I ran as fast as possible back to my combine and drove here to call the police. Later, some detectives of yours came and asked me to drive back with them.”

  The farmer had clearly been caught up in the memory. Beads of sweat hung on his forehead, and his face had lost some of its healthy color. His wife patted his hand.

  “Had anything changed at the crime scene or with the woman in the meantime?” asked Fritz.

  “Well, the corpse already looked pretty . . . chilling. But of course, the storm had been raging for some time by then and . . . Well, it was not a pretty sight, so bruised and twisted.”

  “Does that mean you couldn’t see any injuries when you found the woman?” asked Fritz, glancing at Hannes.

  “I didn’t look very closely. But I can’t recall any injuries.”

  “Did you know the woman, or was she vaguely familiar to you?”

  The farmer shook his head.

  “According to the police report, you called at 7:38. How long did it take you to get from the beach to here, and when did you return with our colleagues?”

  “Like I said, I don’t wear a watch. But it probably took half an hour. When I was down by the water, it had started to rain and the wind had noticeably picked up.”

  “And what time was it when you returned to the beach with our colleagues?” Fritz repeated.

  Olsen turned to his wife. “Maybe ten?”

  “Did you notice anything unusual on Saturday or Sunday?”

  “No, nothing. Tourists rarely get lost here. They all stay a few miles up the coast, where the sand is finer. We unfortunately have a lot of rocks lying around here. Because of the rocky outcrops, you can’t walk from the sandy beach to here directly. There is a fairly overgrown path along the cliffs that only the locals know about.”

  “What did the old painter do in the meantime?” asked Hannes.

  Olsen looked at him in surprise. “Now that you say it . . . When I climbed down to the beach, I stopped paying attention to him. I don’t think he came down with me. But when I came back with the police, he was there again. Since he doesn’t speak, I told the police he was the one who led me to the body.”

  “He probably found the dead woman while collecting amber,” added Mrs. Olsen. “There was an article about him in the paper with a small picture of one of his paintings. Pretty awful, by the way, so gloomy and chaotic. He supposedly uses amber in some of his paintings. That’s why you see him sometimes on the beach.”

  “We wanted to meet with him,” said Fritz. “You said this road leads to his house?”

  “Not quite. The road ends at an abandoned farm. We purchased that farm’s fields several years ago from the heirs of Mats Petersen. They let the farm completely deteriorate. But then again, it was never really a beauty. Drive down the road to the old lighthouse, where you’ll see a small dirt road on your left. It ends at the old cottage where he lives. It was empty until he moved in.”

  “Thank you very much for your time,” Fritz said. “And of course for the wonderful cake. I have to roll my colleague to our car now, and then we’ll try to get a few words out of the old maestro. Should you think of anything, even if it seems unimportant, please call us immediately.” He patted his pockets. “Hannes, I forgot my business cards again. Did you get yours yet?”

  “No, not yet. Would you happen to have a piece of paper?” Hannes asked their hosts. He left his cell phone number on an agricultural magazine before they parted.

  “How come you know so much about farming?” he asked as Fritz started the car and slowly drove away. “You’d think you’ve been working on a farm for years.”

  “My adoptive parents . . .” Fritz hesitated as a Brahms violin concerto filled the air. “They actually had a farm I was supposed to take over. But my romanticized notion of becoming a cop ultimately won out. Anyway, we now have a clue. The body apparently had no visible injuries before the storm tossed it about. Let’s hope that you make another good impression on the old painter and loosen his tongue. Maybe Merlin likes to paint nude portraits of young well-toned athletes . . .”

  When they arrived at the old lighthouse, Fritz parked the car. The lighthouse had long been replaced by a modern steel structure. The front door of the old tower was half overgrown with ivy, and some stones from the walls had fallen out. A half-splintered window hung in its frame next to the door.

  “So much for the romance of the sea,” said Fritz.

  “You’re right, the lighthouse really is something. They could at least fix it up for tourists.”

  “We already have enough tourists. It’s nice this small section remains untouched. Now, where’s this dirt road? Or maybe it’s more of a trail.”

  Soon they were rounding the old walls of the lighthouse, staring at the fifty-foot drop. A jumble of small and large rocks jutted out even farther into the water. The air was muggy, and even by the coast, the breeze was moderate. Fritz took pleasure soaking in the sea air, while his gaze was lost in the distance.

  “Fritz, over here!” Hannes pointed to some flattened grass. “A car must have recently driven down here. Can you see the tracks? They lead over there, behind that small grove. Doesn’t seem like anyone drives down here often.”

  “Yeah, well, evidently, the old man’s daughter is the only one who visits him. Let’s try it.”

  “So your Jeep can actually serve its purpose,” Hannes said as Fritz drove it down the barely visible lane. “Poor thing must be so bored in the city!”

  “Be glad I have this poor thing,” said Fritz as he bounced over potholes. “We wouldn’t have gotten very far with your piece of junk. I wonder how the daughter of this Merlin guy can drive down here in such a low sports car.”

  As the field gave way to a small pine forest, the ground eventually flattened out. The trees were not particularly thick and had been twisted by the wind into odd shapes.

  “I wouldn’t want to be alone here in the dark for too long,” said Hannes.

  “Wait until you see the old man’s paintings. This bizarre forest seems to inspire his imagination in a similarly eerie way.”

  A small clearing with a half-collapsed house appeared between the trees. Fritz brought the Jeep to a stop in front of a small porch.

  “Let’s hope our painter isn’t out collecting amber,” Fritz said.

  The treetops at the edge of the clearing
rustled in the breeze. Upon closer inspection, the house looked even more dilapidated, with a chair and small table on the porch. A half-empty glass of water stood beside an opened book on the table.

  Fritz and Hannes climbed the rickety porch steps. Fritz picked up the book and turned it over. “The Wehrmacht’s Crimes during World War II,” he read. “Apparently our silent artist is interested in history.”

  Hannes sniffed the glass. “Vodka! Looks like Merlin gets his inspiration from more than just stunted pines.” He smiled and knocked on the half-open door. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  Everything was quiet. Fritz kept flipping through the book, and Hannes pushed the door open and stepped into the dark, empty hall. He saw three closed doors and a narrow staircase that probably led to the attic. “Hello?” Hannes opened a door on the left and stepped into the next dark room.

  A few rays of sunshine came in through the narrow slits of the wooden shutters, and specks of dust danced in the thin bands of light. As his eyes adjusted, Hannes screamed and stumbled back. A demonic grimace with yellow eyes and long claws. Flames flickered in martial colors, and skull-like faces looked up at him in torment. Hannes’s heart, hardened by competition, pounded. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and screamed again.

  “What did I tell you?” said Fritz. “This guy’s images are really bizarre. And yet they sell all over the world!”

  “Bizarre? That’s probably the understatement of the year! Are all his paintings this terrifying?”

  “I think so. It’s his trademark.”

  “Who would hang such horrifying pictures on their wall?”

  “Apparently plenty of people.” Fritz shuddered. “I’m going to take a look outside. When you’re done being scared, we can head back to the city. We obviously came here for nothing.”

  Fritz disappeared through the door, and Hannes looked around in the dim light. Demons danced across canvases large and small, while others, lacking any recognizable features, created unsettling scenes with jarring colors. In some paintings, fragments of amber had been used, which explained the artist’s lonely walks along the beach.