‘Do you know something?’ said Marieke, suddenly very calm and determined. ‘I really, really don’t like you. Now please take me home.’
We spent the next five minutes standing side by side in silence. Marieke was looking straight ahead, deliberately unmoved, while I looked up and down the street in search of a taxi. As I did so, my eyes fell on the blackboard outside Café Klaudia, with the dish of the day written in white chalk: shashlik on a skewer with rice and red peppers.
A shashlik skewer, I thought, would leave a thin, narrow wound behind.
I wanted to ask Marieke to wait a minute so that I could ask the waiter whether there had been a skewer missing when he cleared the plates away in the morning, and if so whether he could remember the guest who had taken it, but just then a taxi came round the corner. I put off questioning the waiter until I came back for my bike, and flagged down the cabby.
‘Where do you live?’ I asked.
‘At the far end of Zeppelinallee,’ replied Marieke, looking at me for the first time in five minutes. If I was not much mistaken, there was a touch of triumph in her eyes.
‘Well, that’s a terrific district. Maybe a little too noisy and exciting, isn’t it? It wouldn’t do for me.’
She rolled her eyes. I laughed, and held the door of the cab open for her.
Chapter 5
‘Marieke!’
Valerie de Chavannes ran through the front garden, swept her daughter into her arms and fell with her to her knees, hugged and kissed her, with tears running down her face.
‘Marieke, my darling! My dearest darling!’
‘Hello, Mama,’ said Marieke. She returned the hug, but apart from that let her mother’s greeting wash over her.
I stood at the garden gate, watching the scene and trying to smile like a friendly police officer.
After a while Valerie de Chavannes cast me an inquiring glance over her daughter’s shoulder with her happy, reddened eyes.
I tapped my forehead. ‘Magelli, Frankfurt Police.’
‘Oh.’ Valerie de Chavannes acted surprised. ‘Police?’ she asked, without letting her daughter out of her arms.
‘Mama, I — ’
‘Nothing bad happened,’ I said, interrupting Marieke. ‘In the course of our investigations into a drug dealer we met your daughter in the apartment of one of the dealer’s customers. According to your daughter, he’s an acquaintance of hers. As we had to take the customer to the police station with us as a witness, we thought it would be best to bring your daughter home.’
Marieke turned her head to me, looking surprised, and then almost grateful.
Her mother said, ‘Drugs?’ And to her daughter, whom she was still hugging, ‘Darling, you haven’t been taking drugs, have you?’
‘Oh, Mama, at this moment that’s …’ Sighing, Marieke broke off what she had been about to say.
I said, ‘There are no signs at all that your daughter has been consuming any drugs. She probably went to see her acquaintance about a photo project. Frankfurt by Night, something like that.’
Once again Marieke turned her head in my direction, but this time to look at me as if she couldn’t quite grasp what a primitive asshole I was. Frankfurt by night! If the Foreigners’ Party was ever really founded, I probably wasn’t going to get an invitation from Marieke to become a member.
She freed herself from her mother’s arms, got up from the garden path and reached for her leather bag. ‘I’m going in now, I’m rather tired. I’ll tell you all about it later. Is Papa back?’
‘But darling, Papa won’t be back until next week.’
‘Oh no, so he won’t. Did you …’ Marieke cast me a quick sideways glance.
‘No, I didn’t tell him anything.’
‘Okay. Then I’ll go in.’ But she turned to me once more, looked at me and finally said, surprisingly seriously and from the heart, ‘Thank you, Herr Magelli. For the taxi, and everything else.’
I nodded. ‘You’re welcome.’
Valerie de Chavannes and I watched Marieke as she disappeared through the open front door into the hall of the villa. Then Valerie de Chavannes stood up too, brushed the dust off her white silk trousers, and looked anxiously into my eyes.
I raised a hand in a soothing gesture and said softly, ‘It’s all okay. As far as I can judge, they really were just talking about photographs. As I suspected: a little dream to change the world, a little creativity, a little tea drinking. And as for Abakay’ — I lowered my voice a little more — ‘I think you’ll be rid of him for a time. Probably a very long time.’
Valerie de Chavannes closed her eyes in relief, and ran her hand over her face, rubbing it. ‘Oh God! Thank you — thank you very, very much!’
But when she dropped her hand and opened her eyes again, the anxious look was back. ‘What do you mean by a very long time?’
‘Well, maybe two or three years. I’m not a judge.’
‘You mean he’ll have to go to prison?’ Her voice took on a touch of hysteria — whether for joy, or horror at having come so close to a kind of criminality that could carry a jail sentence, I wasn’t sure.
‘I’d assume so. But I’d rather not explain the circumstances. If Abakay ever finds a connection between you and me, I think it will be better if you know as little as possible about the dirt he has sticking to him. Let me reassure you: his criminal deeds have nothing to do with Marieke. Abakay is a nasty character, but as for your daughter, I think he tried more or less the same number on her as he did with you: Frankfurt in the Shadow of the Banking Towers, social injustice, blah blah blah …’
I was thinking of the trembling girl I had found in Abakay’s apartment, smeared with her own vomit, and I wasn’t feeling very good about it.
So I didn’t immediately notice the change in Valerie de Chavannes’s expression. All of a sudden I took in her horrified, injured look. As if I’d insulted her severely. And then I realised why: as for your daughter, I think he tried more or less the same number on her as he did with you.
And because the same number as he did with you really mattered in only one context, the next question was obvious. Valerie de Chavannes took a deep breath before saying, with as much self-control as she could manage, ‘He didn’t pull off any number on me. He’d have liked to, but let me make it clear to you, Herr Kayankaya: it didn’t work.’ And then, visibly summoning up all her courage, she asked, ‘Do you think Marieke has slept with him?’
I hesitated. Her seriousness was infectious. ‘I’ve no idea, but I don’t think so. Marieke seems to me too sensible for that. Maybe they made out a bit …’
… Clever, demanding upper-class girl, political interests, likes conversations, will go to great lengths in her search for adventure if the tone is right, ready for almost anything …
‘You don’t have children, do you? You can’t know how much I hope you’re right.’
‘I can imagine, though.’
‘Suppose …’ She stopped, thought about what she wanted to say. ‘Suppose Abakay doesn’t have to go to prison — maybe a clever lawyer could fix it for him — and then he turns up here again?’
Something told me that this question didn’t come out of the blue. Valerie de Chavannes had an idea, and it had not occurred to her only this minute.
‘I don’t think that will happen. And if it does — I can offer you my services. You know my fee.’
She didn’t respond to the last remark. ‘Why don’t you think it will happen? He’s seen the villa, so of course he thinks we’re exceptionally wealthy. And how often does a man like that come so close to real wealth? He’ll try getting whatever he can out of us.’
‘Well, yes, but he’s done that already. He’s made advances to both the ladies of the house, I gave him a bloody nose for one of those occasions, what can he do now? Steal your letterbox, I suppose. I can always get that back if it’s worth it to you. But as I said: Abakay will be going to prison, I assure you he will.’
For a moment she looked desper
ate, as if I were slow on the uptake. Then she glanced quickly at the neighbouring properties to the right and left of the villa, at the open front door behind her and up at the windows — no sign of life anywhere there — took two steps towards me and whispered, ‘And suppose he tries blackmailing me? He can do that from prison, or get some friend of his to do it.’
‘Blackmail you? Hmm …’ I scratched my throat with one finger and asked, in as neutral a tone as possible, ‘But what could he blackmail you with?’
‘How do I know? He’ll simply think something up. There’s always something that could be used.’
‘Well, there aren’t a thousand possibilities. Either you’ve committed some kind of crime — cheated the taxman on a grand scale, something like that, and you’re being pestered about it with emails, recorded phone calls — ’
‘Or as I said,’ she interrupted me, ‘he’ll think something up. Something that could conceivably be true and ruin my reputation — that sort of thing’s been known to happen.’
‘Hmm. For instance, that he had an affair with you?’
‘For instance. And then I’ll have to prove it isn’t true. It’s just crazy!’
‘Yes, that would indeed be crazy.’
We looked at each other for a while. Then I said, ‘And what are you suggesting to me now?’
She swallowed, and a pleading expression came into her eyes — a plea for understanding, help, pity. When she slowly opened her mouth, her lips were trembling. ‘You said just now you gave Abakay a bloody nose. Well … I’m wondering how far you would go in that direction …? For payment corresponding to the job, of course. I mean — Abakay is a nasty piece of work, you said so yourself, and I know what a bastard he is …’
I was less surprised than might have been expected. For one thing, it wasn’t the first time I’d had such an offer put to me; for another, there’d been something of this nature in the air all along. Valerie de Chavannes wanted Abakay to disappear from the face of the earth.
‘Do you know what he said when he was leaving after that supper here, and we were alone in the hall for a moment? He told me I’d never sleep easy again until he had a large slice of my cake. And by cake, of course he meant the house and what he thinks I have in the bank. Then, two weeks later, my daughter disappeared. Do you understand? Even if he goes to prison for two or three years — what are two or three years to a man who thinks he has the opportunity of a lifetime? And we are weak people, soft art lovers, people who read books — we don’t stand a chance against someone like Abakay. Suppose he goes to The Hague to see my husband tomorrow, tells him lies of some kind, maybe threatens him or even beats him up? My husband would give him anything he asked. Out of fear, and what else could he do? Call the police? Nothing has happened yet. What was it you said this morning? At sixteen Marieke has the right to go out with a man. And don’t tell me there are no drugs involved! I don’t mean smoking a bit of weed, why would he go to prison for that? So stop telling me fairy tales!’
I looked at the villa to see if there was any activity at the windows. In the last few minutes Valerie de Chavannes’s voice had risen louder and louder. But I couldn’t see either Marieke or the housekeeper.
Now Valerie de Chavannes wasn’t looking at me with pleading in her eyes, but like a wild animal. A mother animal who would defend her young however bloody the fight. And she wanted me to decide: was I for her or against her?
As calmly as possible I said, ‘I’m not telling you fairy tales. Abakay won’t be going to prison for dealing drugs but — or if I were the public prosecutor this is how I’d construct the case — for murder.’
I emphasised the word murder clearly. Presumably there were several ways of nailing Abakay: for trafficking in minors, pimping, sexual abuse, abduction, rape, drugs — and maybe murder too, depending on how you interpreted the scene in the front hall of his apartment, but that made no difference to me at the moment. I just wanted to utter the word murder. Valerie de Chavannes had to hear the precise description of what she was suggesting to me. Never mind I’m wondering how far you would go in that direction …?
‘It will probably be hard to pin murder on him, but who knows?’
‘Murder …?’ Obviously my remarks had had the desired effect. Valerie de Chavannes looked as if someone had kicked her hard in the behind.
‘That’s what it’s called when someone is killed, however much of a bastard he is. Incidentally, you get far longer than two or three years in prison for it. And you know something? I wouldn’t even like to spend a weekend in there.’
‘But … but why would Abakay murder someone?’ There was horror in her face.
‘As I said, I don’t want to explain the circumstances. Try to forget Abakay, be glad you have Marieke back, and above all, never ask anyone again to kill for you. Because from that moment on, if he plays his cards right, well, he has you firmly in his power. And how would it be if it wasn’t Abakay but a slimy little private detective from Gutleutstrasse who wanted his share of your cake?’
She was still looking at me in horror, and then increasingly in confusion and embarrassment. In the end she just looked downcast. She turned her eyes away and looked at the flowering shrubs. After a while she said, ‘I don’t think you’re either little or slimy.’
‘Thanks, but I didn’t mean it literally; it was just making the point.’
‘And I’m sorry. I don’t think I really expected you to go along with my proposition …’
‘That’s all right.’
‘If it was only me, but Marieke and Edgar …’ She went on staring at the shrubs. ‘Have you ever been really afraid? I don’t mean facing a gun, or fear of flying, or anything like that, but permanent, constant, daily fear?’
I thought it over. ‘Once, when it began to dawn on me that I’d made a bad mistake. Perhaps that’s the worst fear — when you’re afraid you’ve messed things up yourself. But if I may say something to you; if anything should happen to Marieke or your husband, it’s not your fault. You meet characters like Abakay in life — at least, if you ever step outside your front door — and we’re none of us fast or experienced enough to get away every time. It’s just bad luck.’
‘I invited him to supper.’
‘Yes, bad luck, and maybe a bit of naïveté, but it has nothing to do with fault. You don’t have to make up for anything, understand?’
‘Oh, Herr Kayankaya …’ She sighed, turned away from the flowering shrubs, and her glance rested heavily on me. ‘Do you know something? Right now I really want to hug you.’
‘Oh.’ I felt slightly dizzy. ‘Hmm … But would your daughter understand that if, for instance, she saw us through the bathroom window?’
Her eyes were still on me, feverish, inviting, her breasts rose and fell in time with her breathing, which came shorter now.
I tried to keep the friendly policeman smile going, and offered her my hand. ‘Let’s leave it at that, Frau de Chavannes. I’ll send you my bill within the next few days, and if Abakay happens to make any more difficulties, which I don’t expect, then call me. Otherwise: best of luck.’
‘Herr Kayankaya …’
She took my hand and pressed it first strongly as if to say goodbye, before she then simply held it in hers, soft and warm, and went on looking at me. The warmth passed into my body and constricted my throat.
At last I withdrew my hand and cleared my throat. ‘You’re good at that, aren’t you?’
She slowly let her arm drop. ‘It’s nothing to do with being good at anything.’ And with a slightly dreamy, fragile smile: ‘It just happens.’
‘I see …’ I pulled myself together. ‘Well, as I said, the best of luck.’ And when she still didn’t move: ‘Look …’ I pointed to the villa. ‘Your daughter.’
Valerie de Chavannes spun round in alarm, saw the empty window and the empty front door, turned to me again and looked first surprised, then indignant.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It could have easily happened. Then you
wonder whether you really had to let something happen.’ I raised my hand in greeting. ‘Have a nice day.’ Then I quickly turned away, went through the garden gate and down Zeppelinallee. It was so quiet that one or two minutes later, when I had almost reached the next crossing, I heard the heavy front door of the de Chavannes house latch. I was extremely glad that I’d only given Valerie de Chavannes my hand.
Chapter 6
I sat down in the café on the Bockenheimer Warte, ordered a double espresso and called an acquaintance in the Frankfurt Police.
Octavian Tartarescu, despite his name and his Romanian origin, looked like a typical German country boy. Or, rather, exactly as anyone would imagine a German policeman. Tall, strong, short fair hair, a pronounced, angular chin that looked made for the straps of a helmet to be buckled under it, blue eyes with a serious and rather pitiless expression, his mouth a narrow line suitable for barking out orders, and his cheeks white and plump from eating potatoes every day. Instinctively and without meaning it as a compliment, total strangers called him ‘cop’ during any bust-up in the streets, even if he was neither in uniform nor driving a police car. It was simply the first term of abuse to occur to anyone looking at Octavian. Nonetheless, his superior officers liked to send him on undercover missions, on the assumption that no criminal would expect the police to be so stupid as to infiltrate the underworld with someone who looked as if Himmler himself had had him bred to maintain public order. Still less did they think that criminals would believe them clever enough to do that very thing.
It was as an undercover cop that I had first come to know him twelve years ago. At the time Deborah was still a prostitute. I had helped her to get rid of her pimp the year before, found her a place in Mister Happy, and since then, so to speak, I’d been her favourite customer. Octavian was tracking down a ring of sex traffickers who smuggled Belarusian girls into Germany. In the role of a slightly simpleminded punter, he was combing the brothels of Frankfurt, and so one evening he came to the small establishment on the banks of the river Main. Mister Happy was probably the last place in Frankfurt’s red light district that would have illegal, under-aged, forced sex workers. At the time I’d known Tugba, who ran the place, for years. She was a women’s — or more a prostitute’s — rights activist. She’d worked as a prostitute herself, and become famous all over the country because she had drawn a pistol and forced her pimp and a hated customer, whom her pimp had repeatedly forced on her, to fuck each other. To emphasise her point she shot both of them in the legs several times and then called the police. The press was full of the case for weeks. Tugba, who came from a Turkish family from Darmstadt, hired a good lawyer and got off with a suspended sentence on the grounds of self-defence. With the help of an investor and the money she had made from interviews and her own TV documentary show — Horizontal with My Head Held High — she had bought the old boathouse on the Deutschherrnufer not far from Offenbach. She had it well renovated, uncovered the original timber framing of the façade, furnished bright and friendly rooms with views of the river and put in a sauna, several small fountains with mosaic tiling and a comfortable bar on the ground floor with leather chairs and a silver counter. Over the terrace she stretched wires and planted roses to climb them, and to its left and right she placed two old streetlights specially delivered from Hungary. When the weather was warm enough, the girls could lean against them for the delectation of the customers. A picturesque wooden landing stage went out over the river, with fragrant lilacs and willow trees trailing their branches in the water in spring. The background music from the bar was exclusively piano: Keith Jarrett, Ahmad Jamal, Mendelssohn, Mozart. Tugba was very particular about that. She had a passion for the piano, played the instrument herself and probably had not entirely given up her dream of a career as a concert pianist. All things considered, if the Michelin Guide gave stars to brothels, Mister Happy would have had three of them.
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