Hauer sighed and looked impatient. “Do you always know what your children are doing?”
That hit home.
One–nothing, your favor, Franza thought, picturing Ben.
Touché, Felix thought, picturing Marlene.
But Franza wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “Tell me again—what were your guidelines?”
They could see in her eyes how tired the social worker was, how fed up she was with all of it. Lead, Franza thought, in your bones, everywhere. I know how it feels.
“Listen,” Frau Hauer said. “I’ve been working in this job forever, way too long, probably. Just like you maybe. If we’d met in different circumstances, we might even have been friends.”
I don’t think so, Franza thought, I really don’t. I don’t like you self-proclaimed Samaritans, you do-gooders.
It’s possible, Felix thought indifferently, perhaps.
The social worker paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is, I did the best I could for Marie, and you just have to believe that. I was sure she’d make it, clean break and everything. She was doing so well!”
She shook her head. “But time and time again I get blindsided by the fact that anything is possible, that there is a dark side . . . and that’s why . . . besides, she was over twenty.”
Franza opened her mouth. She was about to say, Let’s get back to Lauberts . . . Could it be that you and he . . . and that’s what’s holding you back?
But she didn’t say anything and just looked at Felix, who was tugging at her sleeve. “Leave it alone,” he muttered.
Aha, she thought, gotcha. That really hit home. All right, I’m tired, too. Let’s leave it for now. Let’s do it some other time, poor woman.
She turned away, and Felix continued.
“The girls, would they know anything?”
She shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. She was a loner, preferred being by herself.”
“We’ll interview them anyway, individually.”
“If you think it’ll help.”
The social worker leaned back and folded her arms. “Jennifer and Marie sometimes spent time together. If anyone knows anything about Marie’s”—she paused for a moment—“private life, it’d be Jenny. But I’m certain you won’t get a word out of her.”
“Why? Why would she want Marie’s death to remain unpunished, with her murderer running around loose?”
“He won’t.”
Felix rolled his eyes inwardly, but Franza asked patiently, “What do you mean?”
Martha Hauer brought her fingertips together and stared into her empty cup. “It’s simple,” she said. “They’ll take care of him themselves.”
35
Interviewing the girls was just as fruitless as the social worker had predicted. They listened to the questions in silence, staring blankly into thin air.
“Let’s drop it,” Felix said. “We’re not getting anywhere. Time to give it up—for now anyway.”
Martha Hauer excused herself. “You’re all right on your own here? I’ve got an appointment. If you have any questions . . .”
She gestured toward the young woman who’d arrived a short time ago. She nodded at them from the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Franza said, examining Hauer’s tanned arms and face. Tennis-court tan? Playing with Lauberts?
“We might have more questions for you,” Franza said. “We won’t hesitate to contact you again.”
The social worker parried the ironic tone of voice with a strange, sad smile. “I assumed so.”
Franza watched through the window until Hauer walked down the street, got into a car, and drove off. “I bet,” she said, feeling a faint tingling, “I bet Marie—the naughty girl—stole her lover.”
Was this a lead? Just a small one, maybe?
She turned around to look at Felix. “Yes,” he said as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
“Arthur,” he said, “I have two names for you. I want to know everything, both private life and professional—especially private. We suspect our girl interfered with someone’s love life. But be discreet. All right?”
Franza nodded, satisfied. “Let’s take a look at her room,” she suggested. “Before we send the forensic people.”
Marie’s bedroom was completely different from the one at her mother’s house. No little girl’s room like that one. There was nothing childish about this room. It was plain and convenient. The furniture was as motley as that in the living room. There was a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a bookshelf containing a surprisingly large number of books. Exercise books, textbooks, and folders were stacked on the desk along with pencils, pens, and paper.
Obviously Marie hadn’t gotten around to tidying up, to sorting and throwing things out from her last term. Now it was too late.
Franza sighed thinking about how much Ben had enjoyed going through his school things last year and making a huge bonfire out in the yard with all the books and papers he never wanted to see again. It had been cathartic—for him and for Franza and Max. For weeks after they’d had to pick up the charred remains of paper and ashes from all over their yard.
Franza walked over to the desk and wistfully leafed through the books and folders. Would they discover Marie’s secrets here, perhaps even the ominous list they weren’t even sure existed?
Felix interrupted her train of thought. “The visitors’ record,” he said, “we haven’t even looked at it. Maybe we’ll find other interesting names in it. I’ll go have a look and ask the young lady out there a few questions.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Franza walked over to the bed and carefully sat down on the edge. As always, it felt like a desecration.
The corner of a shirt was peeping out from under the blanket, a pajama top perhaps, and she pulled it out and held it up. It was a big T-shirt with Winnie the Pooh and Piglet on the front. Franza smiled. What a surprise! Winnie the Pooh here in Marie’s bed.
Had he given back to her a tiny piece of the childhood she’d lost so early? A faint feeling of warmth, of safety, at least? Franza hoped so.
Ben had loved him, too, Pooh. Back when they were still allowed to call him Benny or Benjamin. He’d owned everything that could be bought of Winnie the Pooh and his friends: bedding, jerseys, backpack, water bottle, coloring books, comic books, picture books. And, of course, the whole gang of stuffed animals.
The little bear had sat in the corner of his bed for years, and one day Benny, in a serious mood, had scribbled his name on its little red shirt with a permanent marker. That way, he’d reasoned, if someone took his bear away from him he’d have an easier time finding it.
Franza smiled, looked at Pooh’s face, and slowly put the T-shirt back on the bed. What had happened to Ben’s treasures?
She tried to remember when she’d put them away and where, but she couldn’t remember. Had Ben put them away himself? Somewhere in the depths of his drawers and wardrobe? So that no one could take them away from him, ever?
Wistfully, she attempted a laugh. Where had those times gone? And that place where they’d been so happy—Benny, Max, and herself? Had that place even really existed, and those times? For more than a few precious moments?
And where the hell was he now, Ben? Why couldn’t she get hold of him?
Yes, OK, it was true he always lost his phones—he was on his fifth or sixth one now—but was that really all there was to it?
Why couldn’t she shake this weird feeling she’d had the last few days? That something had happened. Something dangerous. Something that would blow them away.
Bullshit, she thought, and repeated it out loud. “Just bullshit! I’m getting worked up over nothing.”
She folded the T-shirt carefully and got up. I have to stay focused, she thought, shaking her head vigorously. I can’t keep drifting off into my personal problems, imagining horrible scenarios for no reason!
She took a deep breath, trying to calm
herself—without success. Somewhere deep inside her head she could feel a migraine coming on, rising toward her like glowing lava. No, she thought, not now, please. Don’t come stalking now, tiger, sleep on, stay down!
She folded the blanket back to put the T-shirt underneath, and then she saw it.
36
Afterward, she could barely remember how she’d gotten out of the apartment. Panic had driven her, and fear, she remembered. She had vague memories of the surprised expressions on the girls’ faces, and of Felix’s voice as he called out to her, and that he rushed out the door after her.
But by then she was already getting into the car, keys in hand. They’d done it like this for years. Each had their own set of car keys so they could act fast and independently in precarious situations. Was this a precarious situation?
He’d be asking himself this question, Felix. Franza knew he’d be asking himself other things, too, but she couldn’t worry about that right now.
She put her foot down on the gas and shot out of the parking spot with squealing tires as if she’d lost her mind, ignoring the driver coming from behind her who’d had to slam on his brakes, cursing and honking. But she didn’t care; she’d forgotten before she turned into the next side street.
When her cell phone rang, she turned it off and threw it on the backseat. She knew it could only be Felix, and she knew she couldn’t talk to him right then, not while she was still processing this damned realization that had scared her to death.
Ben and Marie. Marie and Ben. Over and over. Ben and Marie. Marie and Ben.
Franza’s thoughts were spinning around and around. Ben and Marie, Marie and Ben. What did they have to do with each other? What was Ben doing in her murder investigation? How could he just come barging in without notice, without warning, taking over her every thought and feeling?
It had pierced her heart like a needle, taking away her breath and showing her what fear was, real fear, mortal fear. Winnie the Pooh, the cutest of all bears, was innocently sleeping underneath Marie’s blanket, wedged between the mattress and the wall. Pooh, with Ben’s name scribbled on the tiny red shirt with brutal finality, leaving an undeniable message. BENNY in scrawled letters on the bear’s red shirt in Marie’s bed, this damned stuffed toy she hadn’t seen in years and whose existence she’d almost forgotten.
And now! It turned up here . . .
Like a fist in her stomach, a blow to her head. Franza swallowed back the urge to retch.
. . . in this room, the animal under the girl’s bedcovers. What the hell did that mean, what?
Was Ben the mysterious stranger, the boy Marie had been in love with but no one knew and no one had seen? More like a shadow, a ghost in the fog?
What did the social worker say? That she’d been different in the last few weeks. Softer, hopeful and confident that she’d make it in her new life.
So was it Ben who’d changed her like this and made her happy?
Was it also he who . . . killed her in the end?
Because something had gone wrong, as the social worker put it?
Was this the reason he wasn’t answering their calls, because this love story had ended so terribly, so unforeseeably terribly?
Was he on the run—running away from himself, from despair, and ultimately from her, Franza, his mother, whose job is to investigate and solve mysteries and find answers?
No, it can’t be! This just can’t be, Franza thought as she raced wildly through town toward the autobahn. Can my worst fears be coming true?
Maybe she was just being hysterical and she had it all wrong. Only half an hour ago she’d suspected Hauer, the social worker with the unhappy love and sex life. Wasn’t it still possible she’d been overzealous in getting rid of Marie?
How quickly everything can change! Just when everything seemed clear, all it took was for something tiny to change, and everything was different.
This time, however, it wasn’t just a tiny clue, but a solid piece of evidence.
But evidence of what?
Really, only of the fact that Ben and Marie had known each other, not even that they’d been in love. That’s all. But why the hell wasn’t he calling her back if he had nothing to hide?
“Ben!” she shouted. “Damn it! Why aren’t you calling?”
She took the autobahn heading toward Berlin, speeding along mile after mile in a daze, at times struggling to keep the car under control when she had to brake hard because the idiots around her hadn’t learned how to drive. A strange euphoria came over her. So what, she thought, if I roll over, then I’ll be gone, then it’ll be over, and then peace, forever.
But she was a good driver. She was trained on police test tracks and always excelled in crash tests and simulated car chases. She was ready for anything and prepared for the ultimate situation X, requiring nerves of steel. She always had them, was proud of them. But now her nerves of steel had disintegrated, dissolved—melted away like snow on a warm spring day.
The rest area where Marie was killed came into view. As Franza put on her turn signal, turned off the road, and let the car roll to a halt, she felt a sudden wave rising up inside her. She jumped out of the car in panic, ran to the curb, and vomited convulsively until nothing came out but clear mucus and green bile.
A man came to her aid. She could only see him through a blurry veil, like a ghost, but she had a vague feeling she knew him. He must have come from one of the cars or from the restrooms. He grabbed her shoulders, but she shook him off, holding up her arms defensively.
“It’s all right,” she gasped, “I’m fine. I’ll be all right in a moment.”
But she wasn’t all right. She could feel the fist in her stomach again, and the convulsions returned.
This time she let the man brush her hair out of her face while she emptied her stomach down to the last drop of mucus. Then she began to shake. Her teeth chattered, and all the color drained from her face. She struggled for breath. Her heart seemed to stop, and she thought she was dying. She could see Bohrmann in his last few moments of hesitation, saw him pointing his gun at her and then at his wife, heard Juliane’s scream filling her head and grabbing hold of her brain. Then the shot went off, and it felt as if it ricocheted right through her while Juliane screamed and screamed and slumped forward, and suddenly it was Ben who’d fired the shot, and she herself slumped forward, screaming and feeling the pain raging deep inside her, ripping her apart, and it was Ben’s bullet that caromed through her body, killing her. And finally, there was silence.
“Sit down,” the man said and led her to a bench. “Come now, sit down. You’re a mess. I’ll go get you some water.”
Still shaking, she lay down on the bench, curled up on her side, hoping the silence would stay with her, silence in her head and her body and everywhere.
She knew the man had returned when he put his hand on her head and stroked her hair gently. Nice, she thought, how nice. I want to die.
His smell seemed familiar to her—she’d smelled it somewhere not long ago. She remembered because she’d liked it, but she couldn’t think from when and where she knew it.
“I want to die,” she said and enjoyed the darkness and silence behind her closed eyelids. “Now, right now, on the spot. Please let me,” she said, “let me die.”
He kept stroking her hair, and his touch was cool and damp because he was dribbling water onto her forehead while standing hunched over right behind her. She could feel his face close to hers, but couldn’t see it.
“No,” he said, and something in his voice didn’t allow for contradiction. “You won’t die. It doesn’t go that fast.”
“How do you know?” she whispered into the blackness of her eyelids. “Nobody can know that.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I know.”
37
She was so soft, Ben thought, so incredibly soft sleeping in my arms. He would watch the pulse in her neck while she slept. He’d softly put a finger on the spot so he could feel her heartbeat, thump, thump, thump
, when she was asleep after having kissed and slept with him—after his pants had gotten tight because his cock was aching for her.
“That’s perfectly normal,” she’d said, laughing and sliding her hand between his legs, which hadn’t helped things at all.
“Don’t be embarrassed. That’s perfectly normal for people with penises,” she’d laughed. “And you’re a proven penis person, as we both know, aren’t you?”
He’d had to laugh, too, and he missed that now that she was gone, the laughing together, a mingling of high and low and middle sounds, like a sonata, like a sonata by Mozart or Beethoven or whomever.
This observation had made her laugh again. “Aren’t you the artistic one?!” she’d said. “Did your mom send you to music classes?”
Her fingers danced across an invisible piano, and she skipped and bounced out into the sunshine on the meadow wet with dew, her feet leaving prints in the grass, which he followed like a faithful puppy, and then they rolled down a bank and into each other’s arms and made love.
He’d trembled against her, breathless, the tip of her tongue on his body, his hands on hers. She moved her hair in the wind that smelled of summer, of the Sahara, and of the hay drying in the meadows, and her eyes shone like hazelnuts in oil.
We never had the autumn, Ben thought, and hardly any summer. “See you soon,” she’d said and smiled. Then she hadn’t come back.
Poppies and elderflowers along the river, the shimmering water. They’d had the silence, the wind, the trees, and the clarity that came from their hearts. He thought of her touch, and his cock hardened with the memory, her touch was like foam on the dark river waters.
That’s how it had been, he could swear to it. Not like a good-bye from the start.
38
Felix had called Arthur. Get his ass in gear and pick him up—preferably yesterday. Forget everything he’d been told to do earlier. Danger was imminent. Don’t ask what or why, discretion was the order of the day, discretion toward everyone and everything. In short: switch off brain, shut mouth, get a move on. Felix was counting on him.
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