The Ice Queen: A Novel

by Nele Neuhaus

  Pia understood what she meant. “Nothing.” She shrugged. Now that she’d begun talking, it seemed surprisingly easy to tell Miriam about the chapter in her life that had previously been taboo. “I never even told my husband. Somehow I thought I’d get over it soon enough.”

  “And that didn’t happen.…”

  “Oh yes, it did. For a while, I did pretty well. But then last year, the whole thing finally caught up with me.”

  She gave Miriam the short version of the two murder cases from the previous summer, and the investigations, during which she had met Christoph and confronted her past.

  “Christoph wants to persuade me to sponsor a self-help group for rape victims,” she said after a pause. “But I don’t really know if I should.”

  “Of course you should! No question,” Miriam insisted. “A trauma like that could destroy a woman’s whole life. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. When I worked in Wiesbaden at the Fritz Bauer Institute and the Center Against Expulsions, I heard about the terrible fates of women in the eastern provinces after World War Two. The things these women lived through were unspeakable. And most of them never talked about what happened to them. It destroyed them emotionally.”

  Pia was watching her friend attentively. Miriam had changed a lot. There was no trace of the carefree, superficial girl from a privileged family. Twenty years was a long time.

  “What sort of institute is it that you work for?” she inquired.

  “It’s a center for studying and documenting the history and effect of the Holocaust, connected to the university,” Miriam explained. “I give lectures there, organize exhibitions, and so on. Pretty crazy, don’t you think? Earlier, I always thought I’d own a disco or compete in show jumping.” Miriam giggled. “Can you imagine how shocked our teachers would be if they knew we’d both turned out to be so respectable?”

  “Especially since they always prophesied that someday we’d both wind up in the gutter, at the very least,” Pia said with a grin. She ordered two more glasses of champagne.

  “What’s the deal with Christoph?” Miriam asked. “Is it serious?”

  “I think so,” replied Pia.

  “He must really be in love.” Miriam winked at her and leaned forward. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”

  Pia instantly felt the butterflies in her stomach again. The champagne arrived, and they clinked glasses one more time. Pia told her about Birkenhof and her animals.

  “Where are you living now?” she inquired. “Here in Frankfurt?”

  Miriam nodded. “Yes. In my grandmother’s house.”

  For someone who didn’t know Miriam’s family background, that would not have sounded impressive, but Pia knew better. Miriam’s grandmother Charlotte Horowitz was the grande dame of the cream of Frankfurt society. Her “house” was a magnificent old villa on a gigantic estate in the Holzhausen district, which brought tears of avarice to the eyes of every real estate speculator. A thought suddenly occurred to Pia.

  “Tell me, Miri,” she said to her friend, “does the name David Josua Goldberg mean anything to you?”

  Miriam gave her a puzzled look.

  “Of course it does,” she said. “Jossi Goldberg is one of Oma’s oldest friends. His family has supported projects in the Jewish community in Frankfurt for decades. Why do you ask?”

  “Just because,” Pia said evasively as she saw the curiosity in her friend’s eyes. “At the moment, I can’t say any more.”

  “Police business?”

  “Something like that. I’m sorry.”

  “No biggie.” Miriam raised her glass again and smiled. “To our reunion after such a long time. I’m so happy!”

  “Me, too.” Pia grinned. “If you want, come and visit me. We could go for a ride, the way we used to.”

  Christoph came over to them at the cocktail table. The nonchalance with which he put his arm around Pia’s waist made her heart leap with joy. Henning had never done anything like that. He regarded tender touches in public as a “tasteless display of a primitive pride of ownership” and awkwardly avoided them. Pia didn’t share his opinion. The three of them drank another round of champagne, and then another. Pia told the story of her outing to the maternity-wear department at H&M, and they laughed so hard, they cried. It was half past midnight before she knew it, and Pia said she hadn’t had such a relaxing and fun time in ages. Henning would have wanted to go home by ten o’clock, or else return to the institute. Or he would have become engrossed in some important conversation in a corner of the room, having automatically excluded her. This time, it was different. In Pia’s secret rating system, Christoph had scored ten out of ten in the category of “going out.”

  They were still laughing when they left the zoo reception hall and made their way back to the car, walking hand in hand. Pia knew that she couldn’t be happier than she was at that moment.

  * * *

  Bodenstein gave a start when Cosima appeared in the doorway to his workroom.

  “Hi,” he said. “So, how did your discussion go?”

  Cosima came closer and bent down. “Extremely constructive.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I don’t personally intend to go climbing through the jungle. But I did manage to land Wilfried Dechent as expedition leader.”

  “I’ve been asking myself whether you planned to take Sophia along or whether I had to apply for a leave of absence,” he said, concealing his relief. “What time is it anyway?”

  “Twelve-thirty.” She leaned forward and looked at the screen of his laptop. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for information on the man who was shot.”

  “And?” she asked. “Did you find anything?”

  “Not a lot.” Oliver gave her a brief rundown of what he’d found out about Goldberg. He liked talking to Cosima. She had a sharp mind and enough distance from his cases to help him make the leaps when he could no longer see the forest for the trees during prolonged investigations. When he told her about the result of the autopsy, her eyes opened wide in astonishment.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said emphatically. “That could never, ever be true.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes,” he replied. “And Kirchhoff has never been wrong. At first sight, there was nothing to indicate that Goldberg might have had a sinister past. But in over sixty years, he could have hushed up a lot of things. His appointment book told me nothing, a few first names and abbreviations, that’s it. But under today’s date, there was a name and a number.”

  He yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Vera and the number eighty-five. Sounds like some sort of password. My Hotmail password, for instance, is Cosi—”

  “Vera eight-five?” Cosima interrupted him and straightened up. “This morning, something dawned on me when you mentioned Goldberg’s name.” She tapped the side of her nose and frowned.

  “Oh yeah? What was it?”

  “Vera. Vera Kaltensee. Today she celebrated her eighty-fifth birthday at Quentin and Marie-Louise’s place. Rosalie told me about it. Even my mother was invited.”

  Oliver felt his fatigue abruptly vanish. Vera 85. Vera Kaltensee, eighty-fifth birthday. So that was the explanation for the cryptic note in the dead man’s diary. Naturally, he knew who Vera Kaltensee was. She had received numerous honors and awards for her philanthropic efforts, but also for her magnanimous social and cultural involvement. But what did this woman of irreproachable reputation have to do with a former SS officer? If connected to this man, her name would lend even greater shock value to the case, which was something that Bodenstein would have preferred to avoid.

  “Kirchhoff must have made a mistake,” Cosima said straight out. “Vera would never in her life be friends with a former Nazi, especially since she lost everything because of the Nazis: her family, her homeland, the castle in East Prussia…”

  “Maybe she didn’t know,” Oliver responded. “Goldberg had built up the perfect cover story. If someone hadn’t shot him, an
d if he hadn’t landed on Kirchhoff’s autopsy table, he would have taken his secret to the grave.”

  Cosima was chewing pensively on her lower lip. “My God, this is really awful!”

  “Above all, it’s really awful for my career, as Nierhoff let me know today in no uncertain terms,” said Oliver with a hint of sarcasm.

  “What do you mean?”

  He repeated what Nierhoff had said in his office.

  Cosima raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “I had no idea that he wanted to leave Hofheim.”

  “He does, and there’ve been a lot of rumors going around the station about it.” Oliver turned off the desk lamp. “Nierhoff is probably afraid of diplomatic complications. With a case like this, he isn’t going to win any kudos, and he knows it.”

  “But he can’t just prohibit the investigations. That’s obstruction of justice!”

  “No, it’s not,” Oliver said, putting his arm around Cosima’s shoulder. “It’s just politics. But the hell with it. Let’s go to bed; tomorrow’s another day. Maybe our little princess will let us get some sleep.”

  Sunday, April 29

  Chief Commissioner Nierhoff was worried—extremely so. Early Sunday morning, he got an unpleasant call from a high-ranking official in the National Criminal Police, who had given him strict orders to cease all investigations in the Goldberg case, effective immediately. Nierhoff wasn’t keen on bringing himself and his office under the spotlight of criticism because of political intrigues that might easily arise from the murder case, but he was also not happy about the way they had treated him. He called Bodenstein into his office and told the superintendent of the investigative team in confidence what had happened.

  “Salomon Goldberg arrived this morning on the first flight from New York,” he said. “He demanded the immediate surrender of his father’s mortal remains.”

  “From you?” Bodenstein asked, astounded.

  “No.” Nierhoff shook his head indignantly. “Goldberg brought backup: two people from the CIA and the U.S. general consul all showed up at the office of the President of police. Of course he had no idea what it was all about, so he contacted the Interior Ministry and the NCP.”

  The interior minister had dealt with the matter personally. Everyone convened at the Institute of Forensic Medicine: Nierhoff; a state secretary from the Interior Ministry; the Frankfurt police president; Professor Thomas Kronlage, head of the institute; two officers from the NCP; Salomon Goldberg, accompanied by the influential chairman of the Frankfurt Jewish community; the American general consul; and the CIA agents. A state of diplomatic emergency was in effect; the demands of the Americans were unambiguous. They wanted Goldberg’s body without delay. From a legal standpoint, of course, no one from the delegation of German and American authorities had the right to interfere in an ongoing homicide investigation, but the interior minister had no interest in a scandal, especially not six months before the election. Barely two hours after Salomon Goldberg showed up, the case was in the hands of the NCP.

  “I don’t understand anything anymore,” Nierhoff concluded in consternation. He had been pacing around his office but now stopped in front of Bodenstein. “What’s going on?”

  Bodenstein had only one explanation for this unusual action on a Sunday morning at the crack of dawn: “At the autopsy yesterday, a tattoo was observed on the inside of Goldberg’s upper left arm that indicated he was formerly in the SS.”

  Nierhoff froze, and his mouth almost fell open.

  “But … but … that’s ridiculous,” he countered. “Goldberg was a survivor of the Holocaust. He was in Auschwitz and lost his whole family.”

  “At least that was his cover story.” Bodenstein leaned back and crossed his legs. “But I have complete faith in Dr. Kirchhoff’s opinion. And it would explain why Goldberg’s son showed up with a whole entourage less than twenty-four hours after we discovered his father’s body. He wanted to prevent further investigations. Either the younger Goldberg or someone else has connections and an interest in making the mortal remains of his father disappear as quickly as possible. Goldberg’s secret had to stay secret. But we were faster.”

  Nierhoff took a deep breath, then sat down behind his desk.

  “Okay, I agree that you’re right,” he said after a moment. “But how could Goldberg’s son mobilize all these people so fast?”

  “He knows the right people in the right places. You know how these things work.”

  Nierhoff gave Bodenstein a skeptical look. “Did you inform the next of kin yesterday?”

  “No. I presume Goldberg’s housekeeper did that.”

  “They want the autopsy report.” Nierhoff nervously rubbed his chin. Inside him the policeman was struggling with the politician. “Can you imagine what might come of this, Bodenstein?”

  “Yes, I can,” he said with a nod. Nierhoff jumped up and resumed silently pacing back and forth in his office.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” he finally mused out loud. “I’ll be fired if that detail gets out to the public. Not to mention what the press will do with it if anything leaks out!”

  Bodenstein grimaced at this self-pitying utterance. Apparently, solving a homicide case didn’t interest his boss in the slightest.

  “It’s not a matter of the public,” he replied. “Since nobody’s interested in shouting that particular detail from the rooftops, nothing is going to happen.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.… What’s the deal with the autopsy report?”

  “You’re going to run it through the shredder.”

  Nierhoff went over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back, and stared outside for a moment. Then he turned abruptly.

  “I’ve given my word that for our part no further investigations will be conducted in the Goldberg case,” he said in a lowered voice. “I trust that you will comply.”

  “That goes without saying,” Bodenstein replied. He didn’t care who the chief commissioner had given his word to, but it didn’t take any particularly clairvoyant abilities to know what that meant. On directions from on high, Goldberg’s murder was to be swept under the rug.

  Monday, April 30

  “I could have danced all night! I could have danced all night!…”

  It was just past seven when Bodenstein stopped short in the doorway of the conference room, watching his colleague, who was warbling away and dancing with an imaginary partner between the table and the flip chart. He cleared his throat. “Was your zoo director nice to you? You seem to be in a great mood.”

  “I feel fantastic!” Pia Kirchhoff did one last pirouette, then dropped her arms and gave the hint of a bow with a big grin. “And he’s always nice to me. Shall I get you some coffee, boss?”

  “Did something happen?” Bodenstein raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to get me to sign off on a vacation?”

  “My God, how suspicious you are. No, I’m just in a good mood,” Pia replied. “Saturday night, I ran into an old friend who used to know Goldberg, and—”

  “Goldberg is ancient history,” Bodenstein said, interrupting her. “I’ll tell you why later. Would you be so kind as to call in the rest of the team?”

  A little later, everyone at K-11 in Hofheim was sitting around the conference table, listening in amazement to Bodenstein’s curt announcement that the Goldberg case had been dropped. Detective Inspector Andreas Hasse—who today was wearing a golden yellow shirt and an argyle sweater vest with corduroy pants instead of his usual brown suit—showed no emotion upon hearing the news. He had no spirit whatsoever, and although he was only in his mid-fifties, for years he’d been counting the days to his retirement. Even Behnke just went on indifferently chewing his gum, obviously lost in thought. Since there was nothing urgent pending, Bodenstein had agreed that his team would help out their colleagues in K-10 in investigating an eastern European auto-theft gang that had been making trouble in the Rhein-Main area for months. Ostermann and Pia Kirchhoff were to concentrate on an unsolved carjacking.
Bodenstein waited until he was alone with the two to relate the details of what he knew about Goldberg’s past and the strange events of Sunday morning, which had led to K-11 being taken off the Goldberg case.

  “So that means we’re really out of it?” Ostermann asked in disbelief.

  Bodenstein nodded. “Officially, yes. Neither the Americans nor the NCP show any interest in solving the case, and Nierhoff is simply relieved to have the matter off his back.”

  “What about the lab evaluation of the evidence that was collected?” Pia asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve forgotten all about it,” Bodenstein replied. “Ostermann, get in touch with the crime lab right away and do some snooping around. If they’ve already got test results back, go to Wiesbaden and pick them up in person.”

  Ostermann nodded.

  “The housekeeper told me that Goldberg had a visit on Thursday afternoon from a bald man and a dark-haired woman,” Pia said. “On Tuesday, a man she didn’t know was there in the early evening as she was getting ready to leave. He had parked his car right in front of the gate, a sports car with Frankfurt plates.”

  “Well, that’s something anyway. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Pia, looking through her notes. “Twice last week, fresh flowers were delivered to Goldberg. On Wednesday, they weren’t brought by the florist as usual, but by a rather unkempt man in his early forties. The housekeeper let him in. The man went straight up to Goldberg and spoke to him in a familiar way, as if they knew each other. She couldn’t hear the conversation because the man had closed the door to the living room, but this visit apparently left the old man quite upset. He ordered the housekeeper to take delivery of the flowers at the front door from now on and not let anyone into the house.”

  “Good.” Bodenstein nodded. “I’m still wondering what those numbers on the mirror meant.”

  “Could be a phone number,” Ostermann opined. “Or the number of a locker, a password, a Swiss bank account, or a membership number—”