Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  “Don’t do that again. Do you hear? Can you promise me?” The boy sank into Benno’s arms, suddenly became heavy. He sobbed, and it was an ugly sound. Benno felt his shirt getting wet, but he only held Tim tighter. The boy wrapped his arms around Benno’s neck. Then he whispered, “But it feels good.”

  19

  The restaurant where Irina had been working was not hard to find, but the colleague who had contacted the police no longer worked there. When Benno remarked that he was from the newspaper, the bartender went into the kitchen and returned a little later with the name and phone number. Benno thanked him, and called Ania Walczak from the phone in the foyer. No one answered.

  When he later tried again, a man answered and mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Is Ms. Walczak home?” he asked, and a second later it clacked, and he could hear someone walk off and softly call to Ania.

  Finally, the receiver was picked up again, and a timid voice said, “Yes, hello?”

  Benno pretended he was writing an article about the murder case.

  “I’ve already told you everything,” the woman’s voice said. “I’ve already had enough problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “With the authorities. My documents. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

  Before she could hang up, Benno said quickly, “I have Rasmus.”

  “Who?”

  “Irina’s dog. I found him. In my village. I’m worried.”

  “Voytek? What do you mean, you worry? Irina is dead.”

  Benno tried to explain, got tangled up in the web of scars, kings, his gruesome discovery two days after he’d moved to Strathleven. Finally he said, “I believe that the killer is from my village. And I’m afraid for my boy. Could we maybe meet somewhere? In a coffee shop? I won’t make any trouble for you.” For a moment there was only silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the woman on the other end. “But it will cost you something.”

  Benno inhaled deeply, tried to stay calm. “How much?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Do you have time today?”

  “No, not today. I can meet you tomorrow afternoon. At four o’clock.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” repeated Benno and wrote down the address Walczak gave him.

  “The sergeant is on patrol.”

  “Can I find him anywhere?” Benno asked the woman at the front desk. “Does he have a prescribed route?”

  The woman had a bad perm, and her face was small and looked stony, but as soon as he had asked, she smiled, revealing small, yellow teeth. She looked at her wrist where she wore a huge diver’s watch. “Right now he is probably in the Café Horst, eating his almond croissant,” she said. “If you hurry, you can catch him there.”

  Just as she had said, Gruber sat with a colleague inside the pastry shop. In front of him stood a cup of coffee and an empty plate.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” greeted Benno. “Almond croissant?”

  Gruber looked at him with wide eyes, apparently not recognizing his visitor. Then he grinned. “Did Frieda tell on me again?”

  “May I sit down?”

  Gruber glanced at his colleague, pressed his lips together and said, “It’s a free world. Sit down. How can we help you?” He pointed to the second officer. “This is Sergeant Herrmann. And you are?”

  “I was at your office in early December, because of the murder case. Benno Diedrich.”

  Gruber nodded. “Yes, quite right,” he said eagerly, but it still didn’t seem to register. “Do you want anything?” He turned to the waitress and waved, then pointed a finger at Benno.

  “Well, who’s dead now?”

  “I’m not here because someone died,” Benno said.

  “You’re not?”

  “You were shot at twenty-four years ago.”

  Gruber’s brow furrowed, then he shook his head in resignation. “You’re rummaging around in old stuff?”

  “Have you ever found out who it was?”

  “Torsten, that was before your time,” Gruber told the second officer. “When this was still the Wild North.” Then he turned back to Benno. “Didn’t have much time to look around that day. Reuter was in a hurry to pick out the biggest tree. There were a lot of tracks and footprints at the site—it has always attracted lovers and other idiots—but we didn’t find anything, not even the cartridges.”

  “You had just found Egon Friedrich’s corpse.”

  Gruber took off his cap and scratched his small curly hair. “You’re right. I had forgotten about the incident.”

  “Suicide,” Benno said. “But in the village it is rumored that Friedrich was stabbed to death.”

  Gruber turned around to get the waitress’ attention. “Barbara, I could still . . .” He didn’t have to finish his sentence, the waitress was already nodding eagerly. “Who told you that?”

  “Someone who was at the funeral.”

  Gruber nodded. “I didn’t take old Mr. Friedrich down, but he was hanging from the balcony of Huginwald clinic.”

  “Huginwald?” asked the younger officer.

  “Insane asylum,” Gruber said.

  “I thought maybe you knew something, and that was why they shot at you. As a kind of warning?”

  Gruber laughed uproariously. When the waitress put the almond croissant before him, and he wanted to thank her, he choked instead and began to cough. “Listen,” he brought out with difficulty. “You’re a strange clan, you Strathleven people.” He took a deep breath, and his flushed face slowly relaxed. “That happened so long ago, it’s not even true anymore. And if Friedrich had been murdered, I’m sure the doctor would have noticed it.”

  “So you weren’t in the village to investigate Egon Friedrich’s death? To ask questions?”

  “Good heavens, no. We were probably just driving around in the area. Reuter loved his liquor, always kept a flask in the glove compartment. After the accident, he never touched another drink.”

  “Were you perhaps at the shooting festival?”

  Gruber was taken aback. “The what?”

  “Strathleven celebrated its shooting festival the day before. Were you there? Perhaps because of a fight? An accident?”

  The police officer nodded at his young colleague. “Torsten, go ahead to the car. I’ll be right there.”

  Sergeant Herrmann blushed before he rose, pulled his cap down over his forehead and left the table.

  “So what’s really on your mind?”

  Benno sighed and told the policeman about the slogans, Tim and the crown, from the upcoming shooting festival and the attack on the pastor. Gruber listened attentively. He just nodded from time to time, stirring his coffee.

  “The pastor hasn’t contacted us,” he said, when Benno had ended. “As far as I know.”

  “He hasn’t. Says it was just child’s play. Doesn’t want to make enemies in town, not for himself and not for his church.”

  “He’s a smart man.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you always asking this many questions?”

  “Why? I’m a journalist.”

  “Oh, is that what it’s called now? Last time I talked to you you were at the Strandkurier.” Gruber laughed and didn’t take notice of Benno’s irritated gaze. “You won’t make many friends running around asking questions.”

  “Have you ever wondered who shot at you and why?”

  “Sure I did. We’re the police. We can’t just let everyone shoot at us.”

  “And have you found out who did it?”

  Gruber took a final sip of coffee. A crumb from the almond croissant hung in one corner of his mouth.

  “We have Ingo Schmoeh,” he said ambiguously.

  “He comes from Strathleven. Meets the local businessmen every Sunday at the inn.”

  “Does he? Is there a law against it? Ingo understands his work. Before him, we had a Hubert, and before that a Gottfried. People know Ingo. He knows who he can talk to and who he shoul
d leave alone.”

  “And who are the people he leaves alone?”

  “You have to ask him. I don’t need or want to know. I don’t give a damn. Strathleven is Strathleven, and I don’t show my face there if I don’t have to.”

  “Is that why you sent Officer Herrmann away?”

  Gruber spread his arms theatrically. “Who did I send away? I haven’t sent anyone away. But you, Mr. . . .”

  “Diedrich.”

  “I have no idea why we were at the hospital that day, and I don’t know what happened back then at the shooting festival. Maybe not everything was the way it should have been, but then again, the police don’t tell people how they should live their lives. If we get a call, we’ll go check it out. Period. Just because someone smears slogans on the walls, doesn’t mean we’re going to start a murder investigation. If the pastor doesn’t come to us, we won’t come to him. And anyway—what do you really want?”

  “What do I want?” Benno was puzzled.

  “Move away, if Strathleven frightens you. I guess the village will get along without you. It’s a free country, anybody can move to all sorts of places. Today you see slogans, and twenty years ago, someone hanged himself. So what? Is someone going to hang himself again? Because it happened in your village twenty years ago? Is that your theory?”

  “I don’t have a theory. Not really,” Benno admitted.

  “There you go! That’s the smartest thing you’ve said so far.” Gruber stood up abruptly, grabbed his hat and walked to the checkout.

  “Wait!” Benno ran after the officer. “Do you have any suspects in the rape of Sybille Antler?” The girl might have remembered the offender, or his car. Benno still believed that she had to have known him. Or the attacker had known her. “Have the parents filed a report?”

  Gruber turned crimson, paid, and then walked out to the parking lot without another word.

  “Because it happened in your village twenty years ago,” muttered Benno. He sat back down at the table. The sun shone through the windows on the white tablecloth.

  “Twenty years ago,” he repeated, and rolled a crumb between his fingers. Something took shape in his mind, but for the life of him, he couldn’t tell what it was.

  He called Martin Wehrke from the Café Horst, but there was no answer. Nevertheless, he went back to Strathleven and stopped at Wehrke’s house on Rensfelder Kirchenweg. His car was parked outside, and Wehrke opened the door before Benno had the opportunity to ring the bell.

  “I tried to call,” Benno apologized. “Didn’t want to barge in on you again.”

  “You’re always welcome,” Wehrke said. “I just came back from Hamburg. Would you like some coffee?”

  Benno eagerly accepted. He felt that Wehrke was the only one in the village who didn’t belong here. Although he had been born in Strathleven and had returned after retiring from the university, the village didn’t seem to have claimed him.

  “It’s a Kona blend. Hawaii. You’ll like it.”

  While Wehrke was busy in the kitchen, Benno went to one of the large living room windows. A few weeks ago the strange Christmas tree had stood here and blocked the view. Now over the brown fields hung white, wispy clouds. The blue of the sky seemed not quite clean and deathly pale, and the sun was as bright as a torch. He closed his eyes for a moment, felt a pain behind his right ear.

  He turned to Wehrke and asked, “What does your nephew actually study?”

  “Law. Last semester it was still law, I think. But that could change quickly.”

  “He’s young.”

  “And stupid. He has no business sense. If it were up to him, he would sell the store. It’s about to go bankrupt anyway. But don’t spread the news.” He sighed. “Probably everyone in the village knows it anyway.”

  “Nobody is buying tractors?”

  “They want to, but the farmers have no money. The harvests have been poor, the farmers lack funds and credit. Also, they can buy everything cheaper in Lübeck. It’s a miracle my brother has hung on for this long.

  “And the concrete plant?”

  Wehrke shrugged. “It hangs in the balance. Andreas has an offer from a competitor, but he would shut down the plant immediately. And then people here would lose their jobs.”

  Benno shook his head. “I just came back from Grevenhorst. Spoke with Sergeant Gruber.”

  “He didn’t talk.”

  Benno was taken aback. “You know him?”

  “That would be an exaggeration. He’s not retired yet?” He shook his head. “Not a bad man, but not very imaginative.”

  “Somebody here tried to shoot him once.”

  “In Strathleven?”

  “In 1965. Just a day after a shooting festival. Do you know Ingo Schmoeh?”

  Wehrke shook his head, and poured coffee into two large cups. He handed one to Benno and then sat down in a chair in the living room. Benno took a seat opposite him.

  “There has to be a king,” he exclaimed. “My son received a crown for Christmas, by whom we don’t know. But he cannot be the king.” Then he told Wehrke what had happened in the meantime.

  “You’re worried about your boy,” said his host. “The King. What did Gruber say?”

  “He doesn’t want to get involved in Strathleven’s business.”

  Wehrke nodded, took a sip of coffee and then adjusted his glasses. “Wotan’s hunting party is an old tradition. This explains the two ravens that you found during the first of the Twelve Nights. The birds were Wotan’s companions, Hugin and Munin. At daybreak, they left to explore the world and later told Wotan the news.”

  “The old hospital.”

  “Yes, its name was inspired by the legend. Hugin means ‘thought.’ Although Munin, ‘memory,’ would have been a better fit for a psychiatric hospital, don’t you think? Hundreds of years ago, it was the custom to appoint a member of the community to be a kind of representative of the gods. In this area he served Wotan.”

  “A representative of the gods? Like the pastor?”

  Wehrke nodded. “Cornelius has a tough time here. The people are superstitious, and before he moved to the village, his predecessor never interfered with the affairs of the village. Cornelius has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with the Twelve Nights.” He thought for a while. “Have the people been hostile toward your son?”

  “On the contrary. They seem . . . to consider him something special.”

  “Because of his skin?”

  Benno nodded. “But why should they give him a crown, only to kill him later? He’s only just arrived, nobody knew about his condition.” Then he said quietly, “Can I confide in you? I hardly know you, but . . .”

  “I’m gay, and the pastor does not like me.”

  Benno’s laughter died quickly. “No, but . . .”

  “I have good whiskey. Want one? And before you tell me any secrets—are you sure you can trust me? After all, I could be the king. If there is one.”

  “No. So, yes. But . . .” For a moment, Benno closed his eyes, then opened them again and said, “The murderer must come from the village.”

  “What?”

  “The woman the pastor and I found last summer. Most people assume that someone from Lübeck or elsewhere just used Strathleven to get rid of the body. But our dog, Rasmus, he belonged to the dead woman.”

  Wehrke looked at him with wide eyes. “Your dog?”

  Benno told him how they had found Rasmus, and that he had recognized him in the police shot.

  “But the killer could have released him at the same time he dumped the corpse.”

  “But Bauer Reincke said that Rasmus had been in the village since the previous winter. He called him the ghost dog because he was so thin. Rasmus must have been nearly a year in Strathleven.”

  For a few moments it was completely silent in Wehrke’s living room. The sunlight on the floor suddenly disappeared, and when Benno turned his head, he saw that dark clouds had moved in. The pain behind his ear had increased, and his stomach gro
wled uncomfortably.

  “That could mean,” Wehrke said, putting his coffee on a small table, “that the woman knew someone from the village.”

  “But wouldn’t she have come looking for her dog?”

  There was no answer, and after a few moments of silence Benno stood up to say goodbye. “Thank you,” he said, shaking Wehrke’s hand.

  “Maybe you should talk to Gruber again.” Wehrke sighed. “Or go directly to the Lübeck police.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Benno agreed. “You have a nice place here,” he said. “You could almost forget that you are in the country.”

  Wehrke followed Benno to the door.

  “Sometimes I forget myself.”

  Benno was too nervous to go to the office, and he had almost two hours left until his meeting with Ania Walczak. After he had bought Boxazin at a pharmacy, he sat down at a cafe, ordered some water and dissolved two tablets in it.

  For a few minutes he read the sports section of the Lübecker Nachrichten and skimmed the reports he would later rewrite. It was cheating, but the alternative didn’t look better. His head was filled with metallic echoes. He had told Wehrke about Rasmus, and he almost regretted it. He trusted the former professor, but what if he told his brother anything about Benno’s suspicions? Benno didn’t even know if the two were still on friendly terms, but it seemed likely. What if the village started talking about his investigation? He should have kept his mouth shut. He had to protect Tim, even though he had no idea from whom or what.

  Whom could Irina have known in the village? Who might have seen her? Who had attacked Sybille Antler to find out what she knew about the dead woman?

  At half past three, he made his way to Fleischhauerstraße. He found the Café Affenbrot, which was known for its brightly painted walls and an exclusively vegetarian menu. Benno ordered a tea and a piece of cake that was as colorful as the walls. His stomach could hardly stand it.

  Ten minutes after the appointed time, a small, slender woman with a narrow face and long, bleached hair entered the premises. When her searching gaze met Benno’s, she came over to his table.

  “Nice here, yes?” Ania Walczak put her purse on the table and smiled at him. “Have you remembered to bring the money?” she asked without lowering her voice.