She thought Cora had been hurt in some way. It would never have occurred to her that she could hurt someone else. Cora was rebellious by nature and tended to make an aggressive impression, but at heart she was gentle as a lamb. And lambs don't kill; they're born victims.
Margret continued to hold the receiver to her ear long after Gereon had hung up, feeling sure she'd misunderstood. She tried to call back but there was no reply, either from her niece's house or from that of her parents-in-law It was a while before she could bring herself to call directory enquiries and ask the number of the district police headquarters. After that she needed a brandy.
It was like before. She wavered between not wanting to know and the need for certainty, between a desire for a quiet life and the knowledge that Cora had no one to vouch for her. No help could be expected from Gereon. His final words had made his position clear: "I'm finished with her."
Margret brewed herself some coffee and drank two cups to offset the brandy. Then, at long last, she dialled the number and stated her name and business. No information could be given over the phone, she was told, and there was no possibility of her speaking to the officer in charge of the case. That was information enough.
Rudolf Grovian turned off the recording machine when a deep sigh conveyed that she'd said enough for the time being. It was a few minutes after eleven. She was looking tired but highly relieved. He was familiar with this effect from other interrogations. The coffee had been ready for ages. He rose and went over to the sink, picked up the mug and rinsed it out thoroughly under the tap so she could see. Then he shook off the drops. There wasn't a clean cloth around for drying up, needless to say. Nothing was ever to hand when you needed it.
"Milk and sugar, Fran Bender?"
"No thanks. Black, please. Is it nice and strong?"
"Black as pitch," he said, and she smiled faintly and nodded.
He filled the mug and brought it over to the desk. His manner still accorded with normal interrogation tactics. No one, not even Grovian himself, noticed that there was something different about it.
"Would you like something to eat as well?"
He resumed his seat across the desk from her, wondering where on earth he could drum up something edible at this hour. He had a brief vision of his sister-in-law's groaning dinner table. In addition to the serious talk he'd planned to have with his daughter, the evening's agenda had included barbecued spare ribs. Still, the fat wouldn't have done his cholesterol count any good.
He watched her clasp the mug in both hands, then carefully take it by the handle and put it to her lips. She took a tiny sip. "Fine, just right," she murmured, and shook her head. "Many thanks, I'm not hungry. Rather tired, that's all."
That was unmistakable. He should have granted her a breather - she was entitled to one - but he only had a few questions left. She'd avoided giving the smallest pointer that would have enabled her story to be checked. No names apart from Johnny Guitar and Horsti. No dance-hall name and no make of car, let alone a licence number. It was typical of her refusal to involve anyone else.
But she must be made to understand that this wasn't good enough. He needed a lot more than she'd disclosed, or the DA would be bound to tap his forehead and draw attention to a few inconsistencies. For instance, to the fact that Georg Frankenberg came from Frankfurt. Born and raised there, he hadn't left his parental home until he was called up for national service in the West German army. After that he'd studied at Cologne University.
Buchholz? Why should Frankenberg have gone there? Grovian found it hard to believe he'd strayed so far north purely to pick up girls. He surmised that one of his friends came from Hamburg or its environs. He'd unfortunately neglected to question Meilhofer about the other two members of the group, but at that stage he couldn't have guessed that they might be important.
He didn't ask whether she felt up to answering a few more questions. All he said was: "The coffee will do you good."
It was pretty strong; he'd seen that when lie poured it out. That was why he hadn't had any himself. Strong coffee gave him palpitations.
He restarted the recording machine and - unaware of the wound he was probing - reverted to the only specific detail she'd mentioned. "So you first met Georg Frankenberg five years ago. On May sixteenth, to be precise."
She eyed him impassively over the rim of the mug and nodded. He did a quick calculation. At that time Frankenberg had been twenty-two and in his first year at university. The summer term began in March and lasted until mid July. The summer vacation spanned August and September. That left the weekends. She'd only mentioned weekends, and not every weekend.
A young man with a penchant for fast cars could have covered the hundred miles or so in no time, and it was probable that Frankenberg had had wheels during his time at university. His upper-class parents would have provided their offspring with all he needed for an existence in keeping with his social status. His father was a Herr Professor, a consultant neurologist and surgeon who had for seven years headed his own clinic, which specialized in plastic surgery. His son must have been expected to know whose footsteps to tread in.
But the son had a bee in his bonnet. He preferred the drums to the lecture hall, amused himself with a different girl every week and eventually fathered a child on a girl of obscure parentage who hadn't been an easy lay. Whether or not Frankie had really been pleased to become a father was neither here nor there. His parents certainly wouldn't have welcomed the news. It all fitted. Grovian possessed enough imagination to be able to put himself in Georg Frankenberg's place. Five years ago, whether to avoid trouble at home or on orders from above, a young man had left his pregnant girlfriend in the lurch. Sometime lie may have heard that she'd thrown herself in front of a car. From his point of view, that transfigured the whole affair.
His conscience must have pricked him badly. When he spoke of that girlfriend later on - only once and obliquely - he pronounced her dead, killed in a road accident. Which was one way of putting it. But Frankie never forgot her. He'd often wondered what would have become of her and his child if he'd stood by her, and when she went for him beside the lake ...
Grovian didn't notice that his tone had softened appreciably. "We at least need the names of the other two members of Frankenberg's group, Frau Bender."
"I don't know their names," she said with a weary shrug. "He called them his friends, that's all."
"Would you recognize them if you saw them again?"
She sighed. "The fat one, maybe, but not the other. I only saw him once. He was already in the cellar when we arrived. It was pretty dark down there and lie was sitting in a corner. I paid no attention to him when he left with the fat one."
That was more or less what he'd expected, but it shouldn't be too difficult to discover who had shared Frankenberg's short-lived dream of a career in music. The next point: "What make of car was Georg Frankenberg driving when you knew him?"
She stared into her coffee mug. "I can't remember. I don't think it was his car we went in that night. The fat boy was driving." After a few moments she added hesitantly: "It was a Golf GTI, silver. The registration number began with a B. BN, perhaps, I'm not sure."
`And you headed in the Hamburg direction?"
She merely nodded.
"Can't you be a bit more precise, Frau Bender? How long did the drive take? Where did you turn off the autobahn?"
She gave another shrug. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice."
"So you've no idea what part of Hamburg the house was situated in?"
Her shake of the head exasperated him. "Can you at least describe the place? Was it a detached house? What were the surroundings like?"
All at once she flared up. "Who cares, after all this time? It's pointless! Listen, I've confessed to killing him and explained why I did it, so let's leave it at that. Why do you want to know all these things? You want to look for the house? Good luck to you. Hamburg's a big city."
She broke off, blinking nervously, and ran a hand over he
r eyes as if brushing away an unpleasant vision. "It was a big suburban house with a lot of trees around it," she went on with undiminished vehemence. "That's all I know, honestly. I was very much in love - I paid more attention to Johnny than I did to the surroundings or the architecture. If I describe the hallway for you, you can ring the doorbell of every big house in Hamburg and ask to see inside."
"I may do that," he said, "if you tell me what this hallway looked like."
"It wasn't a hallway as such," she muttered. She put the coffee mug down, working her shoulders to and fro as if to relieve the tension in her neck and bit her lower lip before continuing. "It was a huge lobby," she went on, "all done up in white except for some little green squares between the white flagstones. And there was a painting on the wall beside the stairs leading to the cellar. I remember it because Johnny pinned me up against the opposite wall and kissed me while the others were going downstairs. That was when I caught sight of the picture. I was surprised anyone would want such a thing on their wall. It was nothing you could recognize -just splashes of paint."
It had been such a good story. Till now! Although she hadn't liked it when the chief asked some more questions, she'd had a few more answers up her sleeve. A silver Golf GTI and a licence plate beginning with B. Or possibly BN. She'd almost said BM, but at the last moment she remembered that Gereon's licence plate began with BM. The chief would have been bound to spot the lie.
She hadn't had to think for long where the car was concerned. It was a typical young man's car. Gereon had also owned a silver Golf when she first met him, but not for long - it was an old banger. She seemed to recall thatJohnny's fat little friend had driven a Golf, but she wasn't sure. It didn't matter anyway. She'd never had anything to do with the other two.
And the house - some house or other in Hamburg. You only needed a bit of logic. A detached house, naturally. If there was a music room installed in the basement, there had to be a bit of space around the house, or the neighbours would complain of the noise. And a big detached house in Hamburg could only belong to wealthy people. And wealthy people hung paintings on their walls. She couldn't imagine, with the best will in the world, how she'd dreamed up a picture composed of splashes of paint. But that was just as unimportant as the car.
The chief broke in on her thoughts. "What did you mean by `the others'?" he asked. `Just now you said that the third member of the group was already down below when you got there. Who else was on the stairs, apart from the fat boy?"
The others? She wasn't aware of having said that. She knuckled her forehead and tried to remember exactly what she'd said when she introduced the subject of the splashy painting. The chief was waiting for an answer - a logical one. A picture made up of splashes of paint wasn't logical. Wealthy people liked their art to be dignified.
"I don't know," she said in a strained voice. "It was a girl. The fat boy had brought a girl along." She nodded contentedly to herself. "That was it! I wouldn't have come otherwise - I didn't trust him. I'd forgotten - it's only just occurred to me. There was another girl with us."
She gave the chief an apologetic smile. "Now please don't ask me her name; I really couldn't tell you. I'd never seen her before; it was her first visit to the house. I don't think she came from Buchholz. The girls from Buchholz had become chary of Johnny and his friend; none of them would have come with us. It was a girl I didn't know, and she left with Fatso and the other one. I don't know where they went. Perhaps they drove off."
"How did you get home?"
`Johnny drove me home in the Golf. It was parked outside when we left the house."
"Then the others couldn't have driven off in it."
She sighed. "I said perhaps," she retorted irritably. "They may still have been inside. I didn't go on a tour of the house."
The chief gave a thoughtful nod. `And you didn't notice what the outside of the house looked like before you left? You didn't register your route on the return journey?"
"No, I was rather squiffy. I fell asleep in the car."
He nodded again, then: "How far gone were you when you lost the baby?"
She had to think. What had she said? That she'd had sex with Johnny in August? Had she mentioned August? She couldn't remember. All she could recall was mentioning that she'd noticed her bump in October ...
That was a bit quick. No one developed a noticeable bump in two months. Was the chief aware of that? She mustn't make a mistake. "Not that again, please," she said, shaking her head. "I can't talk about it - I never could."
Grovian had no wish to press her unduly. He confined himself to pointing out, mildly, that he would be compelled to consult some other people if she didn't cooperate.
"How old are your parents, Fran Bender?"
"My mother is sixty-five, my father ten years older," she replied mechanically.
Werner Hoss cut in. "Why did you tell me your parents were dead?"
She looked puzzled for a moment, then glared at him and said harshly: "Because they are, as far as I'm concerned, and the dead should be left in peace. Or don't you agree?"
"No, I don't," said Hoss. "They're still alive, and when I notice that someone has lied to me about one thing, I become suspicious of any other statements they make."
Grovian's immediate inclination had been to cut Hoss short. Instead, he let him run on, curious to know where it would lead.
"You've told us a good deal," said Hoss, "and some of it strikes me as odd. For instance, that a drummer should call himself Johnny Guitar and a big, strong youngster should call himself Horsti."
She shrugged. "I didn't think it was odd, just silly. Who knows why anyone calls himself anything. He must have had his reasons."
"Maybe," Hoss conceded, "and we probably won't learn any more about them. So let's revert to your reasons. Why did you want us to think your parents were dead? Because they might tell us a different story?"
Her lips curled in the semblance of a smile. "My mother would quote you something from the Bible. She's crazy."
"But your father isn't," said Grovian, taking up the reins again. "He's a very nice man, you said. Or was that another lie?"
She shook her head mutely.
"Why does it upset you when I say I'd like a word with him?"
She heaved a tremulous sigh. "Because I don't want him upset. He knows nothing aboutJohnny. He asked me a couple of times, but I didn't tell him a thing. It wasn't easy for him when I came home. He reproached himself. `We should have gone away years ago, the two of us,' lie said once. `Then it wouldn't have happened.' But my father always was a conscientious man. He didn't want to leave my mother alone with the Saviour and Magdalena."
The name meant nothing to Rudolf Grovian. He saw her wince as if in pain. She picked up the coffee mug and put it quickly to her lips, but she didn't drink, just put it back on the desk.
"Could you add a little water, please? Coffee this strong makes me feel queasy."
"There's only cold water."
"That doesn't matter, it's too hot anyway."
The indiscretion had jolted her brain like an electric shock. Magdalena! But all was well. The chief didn't react, and the other man didn't follow it up by asking if her "only child" story had been another lie. She stroked her forehead and tweaked a lock of hair over the scar, gingerly fingered the scab over her right eye, massaged the back of her neck and worked her head to and fro.
"May I get up and walk around for a bit? I'm stiff from sitting for so long."
"Of course," said Grovian.
She went to the window and stared out into the darkness. `Are we going to be much longer?" she asked with her back to him.
"No. Just a few more questions."
Grovian saw her nod and heard her mutter: "I thought as much." In a louder, more resolute tone she said: `All right, let's go on. Have you turned that thing on again? I don't want to have to repeat everything tomorrow morning." She was regaining her old, brusque manner. To call it aggressive, as he had at first, now struck him as exa
ggerated. She was showing no signs of fatigue, still less of mental confusion, which was all that mattered. Next question: what was the name of the establishment where she had met Georg Frankenberg, alias Horsti or Johnny Guitar?
She hesitated before replying. "The Aladdin. We called it that because of all the coloured lamps. It didn't really have a name - I mean, not from Monday to Friday. During the week it functioned as an old folks' community centre, but on Saturdays it became the Aladdin. It was my usual haunt because you could dance there."
That could be checked if necessary. Precisely when had she tried to take her own life? This time her reply was preceded by a long sigh: "I already told you: in October. I don't recall the exact date."
And in what hospital had she received treatment? She answered with her back still turned. "It wasn't a hospital," she said hoarsely. "The man who ran me over was a doctor - he took me to his surgery. I wasn't badly hurt, as I told you. Besides, he'd had a drink or two. He was scared he'd lose his licence and was grateful to me for keeping the police out of it. He put me up at his place for a few weeks. Until the middle of November."
"What was this doctor's name and where did he live?"
She turned around, shaking her head emphatically. "No! Please drop it. I won't tell you about the doctor, I can't. He helped me. He said I must ... He was very nice to me. He said I must ..." She shook her head more vigorously still, clasped her hands together and kneaded them hard before making a third attempt. "He said I must ..."
She managed to complete the sentence after a pause and several audible breaths. "He said I must go home. But my mother. . ."
She hunched her shoulders at the memory. Mother standing inside the front door. Her suspicious gaze. She saw herself wearing a new dress and an overcoat, likewise new And the shoes, the underwear Grit Adigar had so admired, black lace underwear and silk stockings, all of them new All paid for by a man who had felt obliged to help her. A doctor! That was no lie.
The Sinner Page 11