• • •
“You will tell me where my son is.”
“Leave me alone.”
“No one knows where he is, no one has seen him. It’s as if the earth swallowed him up.”
“Get lost.”
“I’ve reported him missing, but even the police don’t have a clue. There’s nothing they can do; his passport has gone, so they say he’s probably abroad, but he isn’t. I know he isn’t.”
“I couldn’t care less where your son has gone.”
“I know you have something to do with it. You’d better pray that he’s safe and well.”
“You had me watched.”
“I did, and it seems that was a very good move. My nose has never yet let me down.”
“Get out. Take your damn pictures and fuck off. I don’t want you here. Not in my garden and not near my children.”
“I’m not going to leave until you tell me where my son is.”
“Go away. Now.”
“If I go anywhere now it will be straight to the police. Is that what you want?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Not according to these pictures. According to these pictures, you’re a murderer.”
“All anyone can see in these pictures is a woman with a jack from a tire-changing kit.”
“You were hitting out.”
“I was furious; I had a flat tire, changing it was tricky.”
“You killed him.”
“Who?”
“Bertl Puch.”
“Nonsense.”
“He was in the casket.”
“Says who?”
“Says the man who took the photos.”
“Well, he’s lying.”
“He saw Bertl Puch disappear into an underground garage. You had just driven into the garage.”
“That’s a coincidence. I don’t know any Bertl Puch.”
“He was a friend of my son. That’s no coincidence. Jaunig is dead. Puch is dead. I want to know what you’ve done to my son.”
“Why don’t you just go to the police? Let them help you. You’re on the wrong track. I have nothing to do with these people.”
“You were in Puch’s apartment.”
“Was I?”
“I have photos showing you entering the building where he lives.”
“That must be another coincidence.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Who’s dead?”
“My son.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to destroy you. I’ll take all you have. This house, your children, your life. You will pay.”
“I beg to differ. And do you know why? Because you’re a greedy, power-hungry old man. You’re not going to let a scandal get in the way. I know you want to run this province. You’re not about to take risks. And I know what a filthy bastard your son is.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“I’ve no idea, but I’d like to show you something. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
• • •
Blum gets up, goes into the garage, and digs out the photos of the cellar. She has hidden them among the old cross-shaped gravestones, in a crate on the floor. She comes back with the folder and, without another word, hands him the pictures.
• • •
“What is this?”
“Art.”
“That’s my son’s watermark.”
“Correct. The whole project was thought up by your precious offspring.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Look more closely. Look into the eyes of those women. And the boy. What do you see?”
“What should I see?”
“Horror. Suffering.”
“I can’t and won’t discuss my son’s art here. I’m here to talk about my photographs, not his portraits.”
“Well, you’re wrong. The portraits are precisely the reason why you’re here.”
“If you don’t tell me what you know, I’m going to the police this instant.”
“Be my guest. Take these photos of your son’s with you, and tell the police that he abducted and imprisoned two women and one man, then took pictures as he raped them. Tell them this went on for five years and your son is a monster.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“The woman in this photograph told me all about it.”
“Nonsense.”
“If you feel the need to share those pictures of me, I’ll share your son’s photos. I’ll tell the story told to me by the woman in that picture. Her name was Dunya.”
“Where is she?”
“She was abused for five years. She suffered in ways you can’t imagine. And then she was killed, just like that, sacrificed so your son could have his fun.”
“My son would never do a thing like that. I know my son.”
“Not as well as you think. Your fine son has gone off to South America. I imagine that was more appealing than prison.”
“That isn’t true.”
“You know it is.”
“Please. Tell me this is all made up.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“It’s just not possible.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
“But what do you have to do with it?”
“Your son is also responsible for my husband’s murder. So it would be better for you to let sleeping dogs lie. If you don’t change your tune, you can say good-bye to your plans for the future.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s also a video.”
“A video?”
“A video that shows more than the victims’ faces.”
“Christ.”
“Whoever took those photographs, call them off. If I find that I’m still being photographed, your career is finished. Do you understand?”
• • •
He understands. Johannes Schönborn stands up and goes. He leaves the photographs lying there, both his and Blum’s. He gets into the car and motions to his chauffeur to drive away. His face is pale. He didn’t spend long wondering whether to fight for his son. He has given up. His decision to disown his flesh and blood was made at lightning speed. Johannes Schönborn drives away, out of the garden, away from Blum. The storm has passed, the sea is calm.
• • •
Blum sits under the cherry tree, drinking water. She isn’t convinced he believes his son has gone to South America without saying good-bye. But never mind, it makes no difference. Johannes Schönborn will keep his mouth shut. He won’t do anything that might endanger his career, he won’t stick his head above the parapet. He will not let the world know what his son was really like. Johannes Schönborn will go far in politics. Now Blum is going to pack the girls’ things: inflatable rafts, towels, swimsuits. Blum is going swimming, and she won’t be jumping into an empty pool. She will dive into the water and she will swim.
“Hello, I’m at the pool with the children.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come round to see you last night. All hell has broken loose.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll see each other later.”
“Did you miss me?”
“We had a long afternoon’s work, Reza and I. Then we drank a glass of wine, and I just passed out on the sofa.”
“That’s a pity.”
“What is?”
“Oh, everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s so much work, I can’t get around to anything else. I’d love to see you. Touch you. But everything’s escalating.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to bother you with this.”
“Oh, come on.”
“People are disappearing, Blum.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, people are disappearing without a trace. One after another and no one knows why.”
“Who’s disappeared?”
“Well, we’re
still looking for Jaunig’s body. We’ve only found his car, it turned up just this side of the Italian border. But there’s still no sign of his body. No one knows anything, no one’s seen a thing.”
“That’s strange.”
“And then there was that photographer. The son of our parliamentary deputy. He’s disappeared into thin air. Now a well-known chef from Kitzbühel has gone missing. Again, he just vanished without a word, no good-byes, nothing.”
“So all these people have been reported missing?”
“Yes.”
“And you suspect the disappearances are connected?”
“I’m beginning to wonder whether you might have been right all along.”
“What do you mean?”
“About that woman you saw in the forensics lab.”
“What about her?”
“I promised you I’d look into it again.”
“Yes, so you did. And was she murdered?”
“She died of natural causes. But I’ve dug out the records from back when we interviewed her, and recent events cast a very different light on her story.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was talking about a priest, a photographer, and a cook.”
“So it’s beginning to make sense?”
“I don’t know, but I must look into it. It looks as though Mark was right to follow his hunch. Maybe he was right all along, and everything the woman told us was true.”
“What did she tell you?”
“You know that already, Blum.”
“How would I know?”
“Mark recorded his conversations, and you listened to them.”
“Oh—yes.”
“I can put two and two together, Blum.”
“But perhaps too late in the day.”
“I know I should have trusted your gut feeling.”
“So Mark was right.”
“It would seem so.”
“But what happened? Who killed the priest? Where are the missing people?”
“I don’t know, Blum, but someone is hell-bent on revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Yes. You know what went on in that cellar. If what the woman said is true, then someone has their reasons.”
“But who would do something like that?”
“The woman.”
“Her name was Dunya.”
“Suppose she killed the three men and then committed suicide?”
“Is that what you think?”
“Can you think of another explanation?”
“No.”
“There’s something else, Blum.”
“What?”
“It’s possible that Mark’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“What do you mean? If it wasn’t an accident, what was it?”
“Murder. And you could be in danger.”
“Me?”
“You’d better be careful, Blum.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning someone may be out to get you.”
Someone may be out to get you. Blum can still hear Massimo’s words ringing in her ears. She is at the lake with the children, who are gurgling with laughter as they splash around in the water surrounded by beach balls and toy ducks. Her phone is wedged between her chin and her collarbone. She was holding Nela above the water while Massimo was on the phone. He sounded genuinely concerned. He really did think that Blum was the next target of the killer who had beheaded Jaunig, who might be responsible for the disappearance of Schönborn and Bertl Puch. But she was safe. Wasn’t she?
• • •
Nela is making her first attempts at diving. Uma is playing with a green plastic crocodile. Blum has ended the call and is sitting on the side of the children’s pool, watching the girls. How carefree they are, what fun they are having in the water. A fat man in red trunks sits down beside her. Suddenly he is there, his skin almost touching hers. His voice is quiet, little more than a whisper. He is Gustav Schrettl, private investigator, he says, and tells her that he saw some interesting things in the course of his last assignment. He tells her what he knows while Nela splashes him with water and giggles. The fat man sitting beside Blum is a greedy fellow; he has dollar signs in his eyes. You have a lovely villa, he says. You have a really nice life. You don’t want that nice life to end, do you? No, I’m sure you wouldn’t want it to end. It is such an improbable place for blackmail, this lake. Schrettl is wearing only bathing trunks, no one would think he was threatening Blum, trying to ruin everything. It’s absurd. If this were a scene in a film, Blum would have laughed. What nonsense, she would have said. But Schrettl is real, and he isn’t going away. He says he saw Bertl Puch, Puch briefly tried to sit up before he died. He didn’t take a photo of that, but he saw Puch lying in the casket, still moving, before she struck. Schrettl is dangling his feet in the water. He wants her to pay him half a million euros. He is sneering. You can always sell your nice house. Or your fancy American hearse. Or you can ask your friend the policeman for help. I’m sure he’ll understand your situation. Schrettl grins. A smug little leech in red trunks.
• • •
Blum says nothing but lets him talk. Somewhere deep inside her she knew that something like this would happen, that old Schönborn couldn’t call off the man who took the photos just like that. Schrettl wants his share, it all makes sense. A bent detective witnesses a crime; instead of clearing the matter up he wants money for his silence. This half-naked joke of a man is demanding half a million euros. If you want to make a fool of yourself, be my guest, go to the police. She leans over and looks him in the eye. Her face is close to his, her voice is clear and distinct. Now leave me alone, she whispers. He is a leech who has sucked his fill of blood. Now she will take the leech and throw him back into the water.
• • •
Blum stands up, gets her children, and leaves. She doesn’t want to sit beside him any longer, smelling his breath, hearing his voice. She wants to get away from him; she would like to hold his head underwater and cut off his legs so he couldn’t pursue her anymore. What a greedy little bastard. But he doesn’t pose a serious problem, she thinks, he only wants a piece of the cake, he wants to peck up a few crumbs she has left on the ground. Blum turns round, walks away, and drives back to the city. She isn’t going to feed him. Whatever happens, Schrettl will play no part.
• • •
His car is down in the street. For the last two days Blum has been looking out the window, standing behind the curtain, thinking about what will happen next. She doesn’t know how she will pull it off. Wherever she goes, he follows. And he too is followed, by the man in the police car who always parks five cars behind. Massimo insisted on police protection for Blum. The men outside the house are preventing her from getting to the man she is after. Benjamin Ludwig.
• • •
Reza discovered the actor’s identity while Blum was at the lake. He nodded when she got home and led her to the computer. Reza had clicked his way through countless videos on YouTube, excerpts from his films and interviews—the man was certainly in the public eye. Austrian television had done a feature, At Home with Benjamin Ludwig. And there was the face of the man who took off his mask just for a moment, that familiar face, that voice. Everyone can see him in his living room, singing “O sole mio.” He beams at the camera, his wife and two children beside him. Benjamin Ludwig, the leading television actor, is at home with his family putting on a show for the cameras, a show about his perfect world. How very different it is from the videos recorded in the cellar. But the song is the same, performed with the same ardor. For the past two or three years he has been playing the part of a forester. Every Thursday evening, he walks through the woods with a broad grin on his face, in a tale of love and pain that attracts millions of viewers. His star is in the ascendancy and his ratings are high. This is the huntsman who aimed his gun at Youn. Who embraces and kisses his wife for the camera. Soon they will go and get Benjamin Ludwig, they will find a way.
�
�� • •
But Blum is stuck. There’s Schrettl in his car, and there’s the policeman in his car. Massimo is penning her in because he wants to protect her. Dear Massimo. Even if their relationship has cooled off now, he is still there for her, having her guarded round the clock. Until he discovers the truth, the police officer will watch over her. She takes him coffee. The police officer unwittingly prevents Schrettl from harassing her anymore. Everything is at a standstill. For the last two days she hasn’t left the house. But at least Blum has had time to think. She and Reza spend two days planning their next step. They have found out where Benjamin Ludwig lives, the location of the villa from the TV show. It is an idyllic spot on a slope, apart from the other houses; they have seen it on Google Earth. And they have found out that he is not filming at the moment, he is at home with his family, the media reports. Reza and Blum have made calls, telling lies, they have spent two evenings on the sofa planning their next move, their trip to Munich, down to the last detail. What to do about Schrettl and the policeman. What to do with Benjamin Ludwig. It’s a crazy adventure, but that’s how Blum likes it. Reza is standing beside her. She looks down at the street and says Let’s go.
Before Schrettl and the police officer can start their engines, they have got away. Down the street with the motorcycle engine roaring. Blum is riding the bike and Reza sits behind her, his arms round her waist, clinging on. This absolutely wouldn’t do, he said at first, but then he let her talk him round. The Ducati flies out of the drive, past Schrettl and the police car. They are too fast to be stopped. The motorcycle comes out of nowhere and simply disappears. Their destination remains a mystery. Schrettl will probably be cursing, the police officer will be phoning Massimo to say he has let her out of his sight, going he doesn’t know where, with a man riding shotgun. Blum is in high spirits as she accelerates and overtakes, but she knows where the speed cameras are, she knows where to be careful. There’s only Blum and the highway and the hands on her waist. In an hour and twenty minutes they reach Munich.
Woman of the Dead Page 17