• • •
She has seen that face before. She is 100 percent sure that she knows him but she has no idea where from. A name goes with that face. He is an actor, the hero of a television series. Blum has seen him while channel surfing. Something about the wonderful world of the mountains, beautiful landscapes, and love. No one would ever have thought he led a double life. He is the huntsman.
• • •
Blum rejoices. She was expecting to have to turn the apartment upside down. She was expecting to spend the whole day here, rummaging. But after an hour she is back out on the street. She has found what she was looking for. She has transferred the videos to a USB stick and deleted the originals from his hard disk. She has left no trace. No one will guess the reason for what is going to happen next. Bertl Puch will disappear into thin air, just like that. He won’t be going back to the studio, he won’t be filming any more shows, he’ll never go back to Kitzbühel, never cook for Kordula Heidmann again. Blum passed sentence the minute she pressed Play. She will take the chef out of circulation. The huntsman too. And quickly.
• • •
In Vienna, no one stops her, no one persuades her not to do it, no one tells her to abandon her plan, tells her not to phone and meet Puch, not to kill him, not to anesthetize him, stab him, chop off his head with an ax. She feels intoxicated as she lays plans to get him into her car unseen, take him to Innsbruck, and snuff him out like a candle. Press the switch and off goes the light. The light will go out and he will be just another body on her table, skin and fat as she draws her needle through his flesh.
“Bertl Puch here.”
“Listen carefully.”
“Who is this?”
“If you don’t want your story to be on television, then listen hard. I know everything. I know about the cellar, about your pig-breeding, about Schönborn and the actor. I know what you and the others did, I know you killed the police officer. And the girl as well. There’s evidence, and it is deposited with a notary. If he doesn’t hear from me he is going to hand over the files to the press. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now, do exactly as I say. Go to the end of the street. There’s an underground garage on the right. Go down to the second floor, bay two hundred and four. Wait for me there.”
“Where are you?”
“Right behind you.”
“Where?”
“Get moving.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I repeat, if you don’t do as I say, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
“What do you want from me? Where did you get this phone number? How the fuck do I know that you breed pigs?”
“Turn round and continue. Bay two hundred and four. When I park, you will open the trunk and get into the casket.”
“Do what?”
“You heard me.”
“Are you insane?”
“The choice is yours: either you get into that casket or in an hour’s time the world will be watching your delightful home videos.”
“You’ve been in my apartment?”
“And your restaurant.”
“I want to know what you’re after.”
“I don’t care what you want.”
“You’re behind me . . . That’s a hearse you’re driving, isn’t it? Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s a Cadillac Superior, built in 1972. You’ll have a very comfortable ride.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I can stay here or I can drive away. The decision is yours.”
“Who are you? What’s all this shit about? This can’t be happening.”
“If you don’t go into the garage right now, I am leaving.”
“You want me to get into a casket?”
“That’s right. Bay two hundred and four. You will put your phone on the roof of the car and open the trunk. If you try opening the driver’s door or attacking me your life is over. So just get into the casket and lie down. I’ll get out and close the lid.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“If you don’t follow my instructions, you’re finished.”
• • •
In bay 204, Blum switches the engine off. There are no CCTV cameras trained on this bay. It’s a blind spot. The ideal place to invite the pig breeder and seal his fate. Bertl Puch now stands behind the car looking doubtful. Blum can hear him breathing into his phone. The disgusting, oyster-slurping bastard is trying to think of a way out. For ten seconds nothing happens, there’s only the sound of his breathing. Bertl Puch is standing behind the car, wondering whether to run or attack. Blum can see and hear his desperation and fury. She doesn’t want her plan to fail, she doesn’t want him to run for it, so she decides not to wait a second longer. Blum turns the key and puts the car into reverse. You asked for it, she says, disconnecting the call.
• • •
The cook leaps aside, then tries to stop her. He doesn’t want her to drive away. He bangs on the windows with the palm of his hand. When he shouts stay, Blum engages the brake. She turns her head to look at him, a smile playing on her lips. Don’t be afraid. Just climb in. Trust me. It is a gracious smile, and he puts his phone on the roof of the car and raises his hands in the air. I’ll do what you want for now, those hands say. I want to know what happens next, what you’re planning. I want another chance. I’ll get an opportunity to kill you. That’s why I’m getting into your fucking casket, you sick slut. That’s what his raised hands say, and his eyes and the twist of his mouth. She sees him stare through the window, put his phone on the roof of the Cadillac, and open the trunk. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Bertl Puch lies down in the casket. Blum puts her forefinger to her lips just before she closes the lid. Not a word, she says as she screws it into place. There is no way he could get out of the casket unaided. It is Blum’s best model, a massive walnut-wood box, a thing of beauty with a 2,500-euro price tag.
• • •
Blum drives away, leaving nothing behind. Bertl Puch has disappeared, and no one but Blum will ever set eyes on him again. They’ll look for him, they’ll go through his apartment with a fine-tooth comb, but they won’t find him. No one has any idea that she knows him, no one will suspect Blum because no one knows the truth. No one knows the truth because no one wants to know that the death of the woman in the forensics lab wasn’t accidental. Only Blum knows what happened, she and the cook, the actor, and the clown. Blum is on her own. There is no police squad to back her up, so she gave her words emphasis, she had seen this kind of thing on television, she has read it in books. My life insurance is in a safe-deposit box. A marksman has you in his sights. It worked so well. She has intimidated him with what she knows. The reality scared him and he has cut off every escape route. Bertl Puch got into a casket of his own free will. Bertl Puch is going to die.
It is afternoon and they are on the highway just outside Linz. For over an hour, he has been hammering on the lid of the casket with his fists. Blum listens to music; Freddie Mercury competes with the screams of Bertl Puch. “The Show Must Go On.” After a while, the TV chef realizes that nothing he can do will make the car stop, that his shouting is pointless. By Sankt Pölten only Freddie can be heard and Blum drives fast. She passes Linz. It’s only a hearse speeding along the highway, three and a half hours away from the Tyrol. Three and a half hours breathing in the stench of urine coming from the casket. Enough time to remember Hagen and that woman.
• • •
Blum was ten years old. Hagen made her watch an old lady being prepared for her funeral. It was high summer and hot, and Blum was much too young. Hagen wouldn’t stop tormenting her. Brünhilde, you stay here. You’re going to watch what I do now. This is your vocation, Brünhilde. But I’m a child, she had pleaded. He began cutting the old woman’s clothes from her body. She was grossly fat, the most horrible thing Blum had ever seen. Hagen wouldn’t let her leave the room, and so Blum cried. It had taken four people to haul the old woman out of the
car and lower her by crane onto the preparation table. She was huge; an oversize mountain of flesh, her skin struggling to contain her fat. Blum was disgusted and wanted to run away from the smell. But Hagen took hold of Blum’s arm and held it firmly. Stay here, Brünhilde. Now you are going to learn how we deal with excrement. Blum stayed, and Hagen showed her what to do when a corpse’s intestines are still full.
• • •
The smell of urine overwhelms Blum. The old woman had wet herself. Her skin stank, everything about her stank of piss and shit. It came flowing out of her anus, refusing to stop, the tampon Hagen had tried inserting was no match for the torrent. There was shit everywhere, on his white gloves, on the preparation table, on the old woman’s thighs. Hagen’s assistants held her legs up, while Hagen stitched the anus up. This is the only thing to do in a situation like this, Brünhilde. There’s no alternative. We have to stitch up her anus, Brünhilde. Shit, brown, stinking shit, kept flowing from the fat woman’s body. Blum wasn’t there to help, only to watch, and that made it even worse. On other days, when she had to lend a hand, she didn’t have time to think or feel revulsion. She had to concentrate on pushing the needle through skin and fat. Watching was worse, much worse. She remembers Hagen’s brown fingers swiftly stitching the anus of that fat, dead woman who had covered everything in shit. Those are the images that return every time she smells piss and shit.
• • •
Just after Sankt Pölten, Bertl Puch lost control of his bowels in the walnut casket. Now she can smell his fear. Almost twenty-two years ago, Blum wanted to run away from that smell. It all began with that smell, and now it seems it’s going to end with that smell. Deep down, Blum knows she can’t go on like this. It’s as though her guardian angel has gone off duty. Heaven has turned again, and Blum is swaying. Last time everything came together seamlessly; this time everything is coming apart. Just before Salzburg she has to brake. She’s driving too fast. A policeman has been following her and makes her leave the highway and drive to a rest stop. A young man dressed in plain clothes gestures for her to open her window, and instead of rolling it down, Blum turns the music up and gets out. It’s her only option. She quickly slams the car door behind her, trusting that the music inside will drown out the noise Puch is making. Because he has begun to shout again and kick the walls of the wooden box. She hopes Puch won’t be heard. Blum tries to smile and ignore the fact that the officer is an asshole.
• • •
“Your driver’s license and registration.”
“I guess I was over the speed limit?”
“Ah, so you know you were driving too fast? That makes it a premeditated offense. You ignored the speed limit and thus deliberately endangered the lives of other motorists.”
“I’m terribly sorry. My mind drifted.”
“Had it now? Is that because you’ve been drinking?”
“No . . . I just didn’t notice the speed limit. I was deep in thought.”
“This will cost you a pretty penny. Your driver’s license will be ready for collection in Salzburg in a month’s time.”
“No . . . I mean, I can’t . . .”
“I decide what you can and can’t do. You were almost fifty kph over the limit.”
“I know, it’s unforgivable.”
“This isn’t a question of forgiveness. You’ll have to call a vehicle to tow you the rest of your journey.”
“Oh, please no—you can see what I’m transporting.”
“This is a hearse, right?”
“Yes, the Blum Funerary Institute, Innsbruck.”
“A white hearse?”
“Yes, my father really wanted it.”
“So your father is the undertaker?”
“I’m sorry to say my father is dead. Now I run the business.”
“But you’re a woman.”
“And?”
“That’s no job for a woman.”
“If you say so.”
“Why is the music so loud?”
“As a woman, I find it distressing to drive corpses around. The music helps.”
“Don’t you think that’s disrespectful to the dead?”
“That hadn’t occurred to me but I’ll give it some thought.”
“You should.”
“Can’t you turn a blind eye? Leave me my driver’s license? I’ll happily pay the fine, but I really must get this corpse to Innsbruck. The family is expecting it.”
“Who’s in the box?”
“An old lady. She’s been in the water a long time.”
“A drowned body?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve never seen one of those.”
“You’re not missing out, believe me.”
“I’d like to see a drowned body. May I take a peek inside?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m used to all sorts of things, mark my word. Just the other day we picked up a body from the railway tracks. The head was mush. And there was that accident on the Attersee four days ago. Seven dead.”
“What a difficult job you do.”
“It doesn’t bother me. So show me what’s inside the box.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. How often do I get a chance to see a drowned body? This must be my lucky day.”
“It’s really not a good idea.”
“Come now—you show me the body and we’ll forget your little misdemeanor.”
“But it stinks. And there are little bits of skin everywhere, and that face. That face!”
“Doesn’t bother me. Come on, let’s have a look.”
“Please understand. As a woman it isn’t easy for me to look at these things. I actually threw up when I loaded it in. I just want to get the body properly buried.”
“An undertaker who’s afraid of bodies?”
“Please. Don’t do this to me.”
“Women. I’ve always said they should stay in the kitchen.”
“Yes, right.”
“I can make you open up, you know.”
“Please don’t. Not today.”
“Then when?”
“Well, I have photos.”
“What sort of photos?”
“Pictures of bodies. Lots and lots of bodies. Beheadings, hanged bodies, bodies that got crushed, corpses after autopsies, amputees. Everything, believe me. I have thousands of photos and you can study them at your leisure. Come to Innsbruck and I’ll show you things you’ve never seen before.”
“That sounds good. That sounds very good indeed. And you definitely have pictures of drowning victims?”
“Several, yes. We keep records of everything. And the best thing is that pictures don’t stink.”
“I’ll come and see you in Innsbruck.”
“The Blum Funerary Institute. You’re welcome to drop by anytime.”
“Let’s forget about the fine, why don’t we?”
“Thank you.”
“Drive carefully.”
“I will.”
“And think about what I said.”
“What?”
“About staying in the kitchen.”
• • •
Blum stands, fixed to the spot, as the grinning psychopath gets into his car and drives away. She is burning with terror. He almost opened the trunk, he already had his finger on the button. One second more and he would have heard the cries for help. She’d have lost everything: her life, her children. The idea of leaving them alone is the worst thing of all and it had very nearly come to that. Deep down, Blum is screaming. Her life almost slipped away from her grasp and she has no one else to blame but herself: she had abducted a man in broad daylight without knocking him out. She had been driving too fast, she had turned up the music too loud. She hates herself and longs to be back in control. She mustn’t take any more risks. And that is why she needs to do it, this instant. She must silence him.
• • •
She hits him five ti
mes in close succession, allowing herself no time to calm down. She is out of control now, she is hitting him on the head with the jack, striking with all her might. She hits him before he realizes what is going on. Then she hits him a second time and a third time. She feels no pity as she swings her arm back and hits him a fourth time, as hard as she can. There is a dull crunch, metal on skin and bone. A fifth time. His head is covered with blood; the smell is horrible. Blum quickly lowers the lid of the casket and screws it shut. Bertl Puch has stopped screaming. For a moment, calm descends. She closes the trunk and turns around. She is in a small rest stop just off the highway. Her heart is racing as she stares straight ahead. She is not alone.
You can see it all from above. The parking place, the hearse, a woman on the ground beside it. She is lying facedown on the asphalt, she doesn’t move. Her mouth is open, the sun is shining. She doesn’t move, she can’t, she doesn’t want to, it simply won’t work. Her eyes are open but they can’t settle, her vision is dissolving. Her body is doubled up. She can’t move an inch, she just lies where she is. She lies by the highway like a child feeling cold, waiting for an adult to bring her a blanket. Blum is helpless and alone.
• • •
Down and down she goes into the abyss. All of a sudden he was there. Blum hadn’t seen him arrive but he had seen it all. He saw her silencing Bertl Puch, then he jumped into his car and sped away. There was no chance to react; there was nothing more she could do. Fate had kicked her in the guts. The fact that a man saw her killing Bertl Puch hits her. She has killed a man, violently, without hesitation, and she was observed.
• • •
Was the driver just stopping for a rest, answering a call of nature, or did he know what was going to happen all along? Now he has driven away, leaving her alone but for a bloodied Bertl Puch and a terrible sense of helplessness in the pit of her stomach. Blum doesn’t know her right hand from her left, doesn’t know what to do, what would be good for her and what wouldn’t. Her mind is spinning out of control. And then there’s the pain which forces her to her knees like a blow. Her vehicle is conspicuous; in a couple of hours, the police could be at her door. Uma and Nela would scream as she got into the patrol car. She pictures their faces, the questions in their eyes, their flailing arms trying to help her, to halt her departure. Blum sees what is going to happen. The real world is dissolving and scenes of horror are swimming before her eyes.
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