‘And what about the demand for Grohnert to come clean on his part?’
‘Just another distraction . . . like the funds.’
‘All right. I’ll play along,’ said Jon. ‘If this is all a load of crap, then why is the kidnapper taking such a risk by making the demand? If he sent the message by email, it could be traced. CDs or USBs have to be sent by post and can have fingerprints or other clues on them.’
‘The kidnapper is trying to distract the CID and the public,’ explained Nik. ‘By focusing on Grohnert, all eyes are on him and the construction scandal. It means all the other traces become insignificant. If the abduction is indeed for another reason, this was the perfect diversion.’
‘Diversion from what?’ asked Jon. ‘Other than the scandal, we’ve got nothing that would justify an abduction with murder.’
‘I can’t answer that. But I’m sticking to my theory,’ replied Nik. ‘I need to find out more about the Grohnerts. And by that, I mean information that not everybody knows or that can be found in the tabloids.’
‘They’ll be better protected than Fort Knox. We won’t get to them.’
‘OK.’ Nik had another sip. ‘Well, Clemens Grohnert isn’t going to tell me any more than he’s been telling the police. Does the family know anyone in Munich’s high society?’
‘They’re always at the larger events. What d’you need?’
‘An old friend or business partner. No flashy It girl, but somebody Grohnert knows well. Greta wasn’t kidnapped because of the construction scandal and I want to know what the kidnapper’s planning.’
‘Today’s your lucky day then,’ said Jon. ‘There’s this swanky event on tonight. Lots of big names will be there and I was thinking earlier how it would be a good idea for you to get in with that kind of crowd. It cost me a lot of money and effort to get two tickets, you know.’
‘Why two?’
Just then, there was a knock at Nik’s door. ‘Oh, Ni-i-i-k!’ Balthasar’s cheerful voice rang through from the other side of his front door. ‘Slop yourself into those ugly boots and that rancid leather jacket of yours. It’s makeover time!’
Nik groaned. ‘You’re joking. I’ll get you back for this one day, you know that, don’t you?’ He stood up and shuffled to the door. With a long sigh, he reluctantly let the pathologist into the flat.
Chapter 2
Nik looked at the blonde streaks in his otherwise dark hair. He wished he was working a case from Munich’s underworld, where he could stick on his boots and nobody would give a damn if he had three-day-old stubble. But instead, here he was, being sent to wine and dine among Munich’s most exalted circles, after having a mandatory haircut from Balthasar’s friend, Charles, whose real name was Bernd Hackel. Charles came from a small village in Lower Bavaria and had moved to Munich after completing his apprenticeship. The man loved sweet perfumes and eccentric clothing, had eyelashes most women would kill for, and his teeth were so white, it was as though he’d taken a Tipp-Ex pen to them. Nik wasn’t fussed about Charles’s somewhat unconventional appearance. What he couldn’t stand, however, were his constant comments on Nik’s lack of hair care, paired with the endless tips on how to give the best manicure. The incessant jabbering had almost driven Nik to the edge of insanity.
And as if the makeover hadn’t been humiliating enough, he now had to accompany Balthasar to a reception being held by some rich art enthusiast in honour of Oktoberfest. Since this particular host had no desire to mix with the usual Oktoberfest riff-raff, he had decided to rent out a large hall near to the Sendling Gate, where, in order to make the place feel more like a tent, large canvas sheets had been hung from the ceilings. But there the similarities ended. All the benches and tables were of the best quality, cushions had been strewn across the benches for extra comfort, and an orchestra from the Bavarian Oberland played soft music. Instead of chicken, there was duck with baked-apple risotto that had been cooked by a Michelin-star chef, and the beer was from the host’s private brewery. In one corner of the room was an expansive table overflowing with lavish starters. Catering staff hovered over the food, and as soon as a dish started to run out, they would mutter solemnly into a microphone on their lapel. Two seconds later, a man dressed in a white chef’s jacket would appear and replace any almost-empty plates. Dotted around the room were attractive women in matching dirndls, each one eager to show guests to a free seat, direct them to the toilet or take a drinks order.
All in all, the evening actually had the potential to be very pleasant – if Nik had been able to choose his own outfit, that was. Even a tailored suit would have been better than his traditional Bavarian get-up, which included short lederhosen, a plaid linen shirt, knee-high white socks and uncomfortable Haferl shoes.
And of course, Balthasar wouldn’t have been Balthasar if he hadn’t enriched his own outfit with an individual touch. He wore an elaborately embroidered waistcoat with a pocket handkerchief, ankle socks with traditional leg warmers around his calves, and finally, a green hat with a yellow feather instead of the usual Gamsbart.
‘It doesn’t get better than this, eh?’ Balthasar called out to Nik, raising his Mass glass. The pathologist was certainly doing his best to immerse himself in the Oktoberfest spirit. In the half hour since their arrival, he had managed to pack away two portions of duck and rice, two servings of Bavarian cream dessert, and had washed each one down with a Mass of beer. Nik was in no doubt as to why his stomach was the size it was.
‘We’re here to find out more about Clemens Grohnert. Not to stuff our guts until they burst,’ said Nik sternly under his breath.
Balthasar grinned contentedly at Nik and took another gulp of beer. His cheeks were bright red.
‘A girl has been kidnapped,’ Nik whispered furiously in his ear.
‘Let me make something clear to you, old Nikky-Boy,’ replied Balthasar, his smile not budging from his lips. ‘This is the Oktoberfest of the media-shy. Those people, that is, who do not want to be featured in the evening paper and do not want their photos to be splattered across OK! magazine. Loads of these people are utterly paranoid individuals and if they cotton on to our little investigation, we’ll be chucked out quicker than you can say Oktoberfest.’
‘Oh, come on. Stop exaggerating.’
‘I most definitely am not exaggerating. Did you not notice that the invitation came with the request to not bring mobile phones? And do you see a single person in this hall using a mobile?’
Nik took a look around at the guests. ‘No, but—’
‘No. Because every guest knows exactly how serious the host was when he wrote that. You know, there are some big industrial magnates here tonight – very media-shy industrial magnates – who haven’t had their photo taken in over ten years.’
‘OK. But it doesn’t mean you have to act like a blithering Bavarian fool, does it?’
‘You see the man over there with the broad shoulders? Black lederhosen? Grey hat? Sitting at the end of table four?’
Nik looked at the man. ‘Yeah, fit-looking guy. What about him?’
‘That’s a security guard,’ explained Balthasar. ‘There are four of them walking around here, monitoring the crowd. And if they suspect anyone of being a journalist, the party is more than over for them.’ The pathologist sipped his beer. ‘So what are they going to think about an ex-CID officer who wants to question guests?’ Nik remained silent. ‘Exactly,’ Balthasar continued. ‘So we are going to play along and have fun until every guest is so drunk they can’t even stand up. So for God’s sake, get that beer down you and stop being so fucking serious, because with that cat-arse face, you’re sticking out more than a Prussian general on parade.’
Nik grudgingly lifted the beer and placed the glass on his lips.
‘And cheers to the handsome couple over there!’ Balthasar called out to an elderly couple, raising his glass. The couple laughed and raised their glasses back to him.
‘So who is it we’re meeting?’ asked Nik, after draining the Mass
in one.
‘Our main target is Herr Julian Nooten. A kind of éminence grise in the construction industry. Doesn’t have his own company, but he does hold a whole load of shares in other firms. He has an extensive network of important connections and would have earned a fair whack with the bypass, and probably with every other building project in the region.’
‘Was he also charged?’
Balthasar laughed heartily. ‘God no. Nooten’s far too clever for that. He’s never responsible for any of the projects . . . He just rakes in the profits made by the construction companies. He leaves the dirty work to small-timers like Grohnert.’ The pathologist set down his beer and picked up another glass of Bavarian cream. ‘If the rumours are true, Nooten employed a group of snoops to delve into the life of each one of his business partners until they found something unsavoury. If there’s anyone who knows Grohnert’s secrets, it’s him.’
‘And how do you know him?’
‘I don’t,’ replied Balthasar. ‘But we’re going to ask him if he’ll help us.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’ said Nik. ‘You think a big shot like Nooten’s going to happily tell us all Grohnert’s secrets?’
‘Happily . . . no.’
‘What, so you brought a gun and you’re going to use it to get him to speak?’
‘Oh no. Violence is a technique resorted to by people like yourself,’ replied Balthasar with a side-long glance. ‘My methods are more subtle.’
‘Oh, please do enlighten me, wise master.’
‘I’m going to get under his staunch Catholic skin. His parents disinherited his brother eight years ago because he got divorced.’ Balthasar scraped the dessert glass clean with his spoon and placed it on the table. ‘The Nooten family donates more money to the Archdiocese of Augsburg than the Bavarian Church collects in tax.’
‘And how’s that going to help us?’
‘You’ll find out later.’ Balthasar gave his outfit the once-over and pulled up his leg warmers. ‘Try not to hit or shoot anyone in the next five minutes, would you? I need to do a bit of networking and have a look for our man.’ He beamed a smile at Nik and walked over to a couple, who greeted him warmly. Seconds later, they were all immersed in conversation. Minute by minute, more and more guests approached Balthasar until he was surrounded by a cluster of giggling guests. Making use of his booming voice and taking advantage of the convivial atmosphere, the pathologist managed to keep his audience profoundly entertained.
‘How the hell does he do that?’ Nik asked himself, shaking his head. Just then, he noticed a familiar face. The man was wearing an expensive traditional Tracht, a hat with a magnificent Gamsbart, black patent shoes, and socks that went up to the middle of his calves. His face was a strange mixture of orange and brown, and his gold Rolex sparkled in the light.
‘Good evening, Herr Naumann,’ Nik said, approaching him from behind. The man jerked with shock and turned around from the dessert buffet.
‘Good evening, Nik . . . Herr Pohl,’ answered Naumann, clearly surprised. He quickly put the glass of Bavarian cream back down on the table, like a child who had just been caught stealing.
‘Not here with your wife then?’
‘She’s um . . . a bit under the weather.’
‘Really?’ said Nik, feigning surprise. ‘I heard she arrived just after you finished flirting with that nice busty commissioner who’s worked in your department for two years now.’ Nik looked blatantly towards the man’s bare wedding ring finger.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Naumann, changing the subject. ‘Wouldn’t expect to see you socialising with such an elite bunch.’
‘I’m not staying long,’ Nik replied. ‘Just need to speak to a couple of people.’
‘Word is you’re a private investigator now?’
‘Ah, that’s the word, is it?’
‘It is. And that you’re getting mixed up in cases that are the CID’s responsibility.’
‘Only in cases where help is needed. Like the one with the kidnapped girl where the police haven’t found a single trace.’
‘And that’s exactly why we’ve formed one of the biggest special commissions there’s been in years,’ said Naumann defensively. ‘And why I’ve got the best men from Unit 11 on the job too.’ He moved closer to Nik. ‘If you know anything . . . you tell us, you hear me? I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of what happens if you interfere in ongoing investigations, do I?’
Nik laughed. ‘You don’t really think that’s going to scare me off, do you?’
Nik noticed Balthasar had said his goodbyes to the group and was beckoning him over.
‘Oh! Please excuse me. Must be off,’ he said, patting his ex-boss cordially on the shoulder.
He made his way over to Balthasar. ‘Did you find our man?’
The pathologist nodded. ‘Time to wash our hands.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the toilets.
‘But my hands aren’t dirt—’
‘My God, just be quiet and follow me.’
The music was much quieter in the toilets and the rumble of the party-goers was barely audible. The entrance area consisted of six washbasins, each with chrome taps and an exquisite mirror on the wall above it. Cheap paper towels had been replaced by plush, mini hand towels that sat in piles on a shelf. Nik squeezed soap out of a white dispenser and noticed the scent of lilac. At the basin beside him, a man of about fifty was also washing his hands. He had a full head of white hair and was tanned, as if he’d spent a lot of time on holiday that summer. In spite of the Tracht, he still exuded a certain aura of authority. Balthasar moved to the sink on the other side of the man and turned on the tap.
‘Good evening, Herr Nooten,’ Balthasar began in a friendly manner, running his hands under the water. ‘Wonderful party, don’t you think?’
The man turned his head to look at Balthasar. ‘I’m very sorry, but do I know you?’
‘Actually no, we’ve never had the pleasure, but I’m a friend of Florian Knape.’
Nooten stopped moving instantly. For a moment he looked insecure but his demeanour quickly turned serious again. ‘And you are?’ he asked, drying his hands. ‘Let me guess . . . a bloody dirty reporter maggot? What d’you want . . . money? A job?’
‘Just some information on Clemens Grohnert,’ answered Balthasar.
‘I don’t know who that is.’
‘Please, Herr Nooten. You are offending my intelligence.’ Balthasar turned off the tap and nodded towards Nik. ‘If you would just answer my friend here’s questions about the man, you’ll never see or hear from me again.’
Nooten moved up close to Balthasar and looked him in the eyes. The pathologist returned the look calmly, drying his hands.
‘You must be absolutely insane to antagonise me,’ said Nooten.
‘I think the word is “venturesome”,’ said Balthasar. ‘I know a lot about you, Herr Nooten. About your wealth, your power, your little troop of dirt collectors . . . all the way back to your time at that Catholic boarding school.’ Balthasar paused. ‘I can tell from your face you’re wondering if I’m bluffing . . . or if I might pose a threat.’ Balthasar shrugged. ‘Well, we don’t actually care in the slightest about you. It’s Clemens Grohnert we want. And if you tell us one or two secrets about him, we’ll be out of your hair in no time.’
Balthasar threw the hand towel in a basket. The businessman looked him up and down with no emotion, as if trying to uncover his weakness.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ Nooten said finally. ‘And after that I’d better not run into you ever again.’
Balthasar nodded. ‘And that’s how it will be.’ He turned to Nik. ‘I’ll be waiting at the buffet. Good luck.’
There was an emergency exit beside the toilet. It had been covered by a large flag of the Free State of Bavaria but it was no surprise to Nik that Nooten knew about it. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who ever left anything to chance.
‘What do you want with Clemens Grohnert?’ b
egan Nooten.
‘I’m only interested in the well-being of his daughter, Greta.’
‘And you’re blaming me for that?’
‘If we go along with what the kidnapper is saying . . .’
‘That’s all bullshit,’ said Nooten. ‘The construction industry is rife with embezzlement and unlawful goings-on. Happens all the time. On the one hand, people lose their job, but on the other, it just means new companies have to open up. If every frustrated builder kidnapped a kid, the place would be like Sodom during the fires.’
‘An abduction is always personal so it has to have something to do with Clemens. According to the court reports, Grohnert was only one of many involved in the scam.’
‘He was at the head of it all,’ said Nooten. ‘He was smarter than the others – in particular, smarter than that dipshit, Ulrich Sasse.’
‘So Sasse was the scapegoat?’
‘He certainly wasn’t innocent, but no guiltier than any of the others. He was just more foolish because he trusted Grohnert.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Even the hardest of men turn soft when faced with the threat of a sentence from the public prosecutor.’
‘Is it possible Grohnert arranged Sasse’s murder?’
‘Grohnert doesn’t play in that kind of league. Yeah, he might be talented when it comes to slipping money past the tax office or faking a bill, but getting a man murdered in prison? That requires a professional. And Grohnert doesn’t have those kinds of connections.’
‘But you do?’
The question made Nooten laugh sincerely. ‘There was no reason to have Sasse murdered . . . not for me or for Grohnert.’
‘And what about the demand for Grohnert to come clean about his role in the scandal?’
‘Yeah, of course he deceived people and embezzled money. But I can give you the name of ten other construction giants who’ve done much worse. And their kids were never abducted.’
Blood Ties Page 3