‘Frau Grohnert, my name is Nik Pohl.’ They shook hands. ‘I work for the Munich CID.’
She took in his clothes. ‘And you work part-time as a gardener?’
‘It’s a cover.’
‘If you’re CID, then why didn’t you just use the main entrance and why the cover?’
‘Access to you is somewhat . . . limited at the moment,’ Nik replied. ‘And since I didn’t want to waste days waiting for permission, I chose this option.’
Frau Grohnert didn’t seem convinced. She turned around as if she was looking for the support of a police officer.
Balthasar stepped in. ‘Frau Grohnert, we are not reporters and we are in no way interested in any sensational nonsense. We just want to offer our help, and going by the current state of the investigation, it looks like you need all the help you can get.’
Her eyes welled up and she stared at Balthasar for a moment. ‘I can’t take it,’ she finally whispered. ‘I dreamed about her last night. She was still just a little girl and I woke her up so she could see snow for the first time. We went over to the window and watched the flakes falling . . . saw how the garden was getting whiter and whiter. She leaned in close to me and the window and I watched her breath steam up the cold glass.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Now when I go into her room, it’s so cold and empty. And dark. Just a room of memories. No more life. I lie down on her bed and look up at the ceiling and ask myself where on earth is she? Is she OK? Will I ever see her again?’
Balthasar placed his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. ‘We won’t keep you long, Frau Grohnert, and I promise you we’ll do absolutely everything in our power to get Greta home.’
She wiped her face dry before standing up straight and pushing her shoulders back. ‘OK. What d’you want to know?’
‘We can’t understand the motive behind Greta’s kidnapping,’ Nik began. ‘We now know that somebody murdered your regular driver, Georg Moosen, in his flat and replaced him with Milan Urbaniak. Urbaniak only just got out of the driveway when he was shot by the kidnapper. Now, that’s all strange enough, but then there was the demand to pay off the people affected by the scandal. I’ve worked on a few kidnapping cases and I’ve never seen anything like this.’
‘Yes, well, if you know about my husband’s reputation, then you’ll be aware he wasn’t always the most law-abiding citizen.’
‘Listen, I don’t want to discount the pain caused by the fraud . . . but to shoot somebody? And kidnap a child over it? It’s seems like an overreaction, in my opinion.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean, I think the construction scandal is being used by the kidnapper as a front,’ answered Nik. ‘I think Greta has been kidnapped for another reason.’
‘OK. Such as?’ asked Vanessa. ‘D’you think it’s some desperate lover or something?’
‘Do you know what piebaldism is?’ Balthasar asked the woman.
Frau Grohnert paused for a moment and looked at the men sceptically. ‘I’ve got no idea.’
‘It’s a congenital skin condition. It’s evident at the time of birth with a white tuft of hair just above the forehead, and in time, white areas appear on the skin. It’s neither dangerous nor contagious but I noticed it on the photos of Greta.’
‘And what does that have to do with her kidnapping?’
‘Piebaldism is hereditary but neither you nor your husband have the condition. I even looked at photos of both your parents and none of them have it either.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Frau Grohnert. Her voice was calm but her face told the men she was on edge. She started rubbing her hands together nervously.
‘We know Greta isn’t your birth daughter, Frau Grohnert,’ said Nik. ‘Even though you’re registered as her mother on her birth certificate.’
Frau Grohnert screwed up her face and clenched her fists. The men waited expectantly for a furious outburst.
‘We aren’t here to pass any judgements,’ said Balthasar reassuringly. ‘We just want to get Greta away from the people who abducted her, regardless of whose daughter she is.’
She lifted her head and hesitated for a moment. ‘God. Where do I start?’ she finally whispered, any trace of anger completely gone. ‘My husband and I tried for three years to have a child. I tried numerous therapies but nothing worked. I was just about to give up when our home help got pregnant.’ The woman started stroking the roses again. ‘Vittoria had a difficult background. Hadn’t taken any exams and lived on a run-down council estate. She was thirty-three, unmarried and had no prospects. She’d moved over from Italy when she was six after her parents died in a car crash. Working as a domestic helper looked like the best she could expect from life. She told me about the pregnancy one day. She was in tears. Told me she’d have to get an abortion. And then . . . I saw my chance to have a baby. So I made her an offer. I paid her a generous sum to carry the child to full term and then give it up to us.’
‘So Greta is adopted?’
She shook her head. ‘A good friend of mine is a gynaecologist. He looked after me during my pregnancy attempts and then took on Vittoria when I asked him to. Don’t ask me how he did it but one week after the due date, he came to us with a child and I was its registered mother.’
‘He faked the birth certificate?’
‘The months running up to the birth I padded my clothes, didn’t drink any alcohol and told our friends about how lucky we’d been. I stopped going to the gym and . . . well . . . nobody thought anything of it until one day, I was out walking with Greta in a pram.’
‘And she’s definitely Vittoria’s child?’
‘She was happy. She knew Greta was in good hands and we paid her two years’ salary as a reimbursement. She just had to promise never to contact us again.’
‘So you never saw Vittoria again?’
‘Not since the day she went on maternity leave,’ explained Vanessa. ‘She wrote to us a couple of times, once from Ibiza . . . But I never saw her in the flesh again.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘A month after Greta’s third birthday, Vittoria died in a fire at her house.’ Vanessa’s head drooped with regret.
‘Suicide?’
‘The police report said it was an accident.’
Nik looked at Balthasar. ‘That certainly doesn’t make things any clearer.’
‘No, but we can rule out her involvement,’ the pathologist remarked.
‘You haven’t mentioned anything about Greta’s birth father.’ Nik looked again at Vanessa. ‘Did Vittoria ever say anything about him?’
‘She always kept that a secret,’ she replied. ‘The man didn’t seem to have any interest in the child at all. That was one of the reasons she didn’t want to keep it in the first place.’
‘Did the birth father ever try to contact you or did Greta ever mention any stalkers?’
‘No. Why? Do you think he might have something to do with Greta’s kidnapping?’
‘I’m only speculating at the moment. But the idea is definitely no more far-fetched than someone looking for revenge after a bodged construction deal.’ Nik scratched his head and considered the possibility. ‘Do you happen to have anything of Vittoria’s that we can take a look at?’
‘Just a couple of photos and her former address.’
‘The building survived the fire?’
‘It wasn’t completely destroyed and they managed to restore the bits that got damaged. Vittoria’s aunty also lived there. Maybe she still does.’
‘Yes. And she might know the birth father,’ suggested Nik. ‘It’s definitely worth trying to find out.’
Nik always did his best not to be prejudiced, but it was proving difficult today as he sat looking at Vittoria’s aunty sitting in her armchair in a council house in Milbertshofen. Well over fifty, she was still wearing a short denim skirt with a wide leather belt and a sleeveless pink top that perfectly enhanced her bulging stomach. Her shoulder-length hair had been dyed bright blonde and
she had applied a thick stripe of pink blusher to her cheeks. Her fingernails had been painted pillar-box red and she was holding a cigarette between her fingers. The way she was crossing her legs in Nik’s direction gave him more than just a good view of her white pumps. The smell inside the flat was a mixture of cigarette smoke, reused cooking oil and body odour.
Nik sipped his coffee and tried to find a comfortable position on the plastic armchair.
‘Frau Grassi,’ he began. ‘Many thanks for taking the time to see me. I just want to ask a couple of questions about your niece, Vittoria Monti.’
‘She’s been dead a long time now,’ replied Grassi in a coarse voice. Her Italian accent was still heavy. She sucked hard on her cigarette before blowing the smoke out of her nose with a wheezing moan.
‘Yes, I’d like to know more about the fire she died in,’ Nik continued.
‘Oh, it was an absolute mess!’ she said. ‘Couldn’t get into the flat for five days and my clothes stank of smoke for months!’
‘I see.’ Nik quickly began to realise the nature of the conversation to come. ‘Well, maybe we could start at the beginning. What kind of woman was Vittoria? What was her family like?’
‘Her dad was a total wanker,’ she replied.
‘Your brother you mean?’
Grassi nodded. ‘Left his wife when Vittoria was four years old . . . Ran off to Naples with some whore. His wife couldn’t take it and threw herself over a cliff.’
‘I thought Vittoria’s parents died in a car accident.’
‘Who likes telling people that their dad fucked off with another woman and their mum topped themselves?’
‘And so the girl was sent to live with you?’
‘I was the only living relative.’
‘So how did Vittoria cope when she came to Germany?’
‘Well . . . she didn’t,’ replied the woman. ‘What can you expect in a place like this?’ She puffed on her cigarette. ‘Always bunking off school, never sat any exams and didn’t care about any work placements.’
‘OK. Let’s skip the teenage years and talk about her pregnancy.’
‘Ha! Stupid idiot,’ continued the aunty. ‘I couldn’t care less if she was fucking around. But come on! At least use a condom! But no . . . she was too fucking thick.’
‘Do you know who the father is?’
‘She was fucking so many guys, she probably didn’t even know herself.’
‘Any suspicions? Maybe someone she’d been seeing for a while? Or perhaps someone contacted her after her baby was born?’
‘Vittoria wasn’t the kind of woman the boys wanted to grow old with. You know what I mean? The blokes had their fun with her for a little while and then moved on to the next one.’
‘Any of these men in trouble with the law?’
Grassi laughed gruffly. ‘Put it this way: none of them were well-behaved bank employees.’
‘Anyone who was particularly dangerous?’
‘She had one boyfriend with tattoos over his entire body. Even on his knuckles. He was in some gang and watched every move Vittoria made, like he owned her. He was always with the gang. Right set of thugs. Really terrorised the neighbourhood for a while.’
‘And what happened to him?’
‘They all got chucked in jail after a police raid. Heroin.’
‘Do you know his name?’
Grassi shook her head. ‘Stayed well clear of that guy. Creepy bastard.’
‘Is it possible – in terms of timings – that he’s the father of Vittoria’s child?’
‘It’s possible.’ She held in the smoke from her cigarette while she spoke.
‘OK. Let’s go back to the child,’ said Nik. ‘Do you know what happened to it?’
‘I didn’t see Vittoria for a long time before the birth. Don’t even know if she was in hospital. But when she got back home, she told me she’d put the kid up for adoption. Thank God.’ Grassi made the sign of the cross.
‘And how did Vittoria deal with that?’
‘She was really tired for the first couple of days and barely spoke. You know, like she was thinking things over or something.’
‘Did she ever mention the birth?’
‘Not a word,’ said Grassi. ‘And on the few occasions I brought it up, she clammed up completely. At some point she got back to being her old self again. Probably when she remembered how much money they’d given her for the adoption.’ She took another drag. ‘But of course . . . instead of saving the money and learning something, she blew the whole lot. Spent two weeks in Ibiza and came home with a suitcase full of new clothes. A necklace here, a pair of new shoes there. Wasn’t a single day she didn’t buy something. And then . . . the account was empty and she had to start cleaning again. Wasn’t happy about that, I can tell you.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘She didn’t want to work anymore and got depressed. Started drinking, and after a while, barely even got out of bed. Sometimes she visited me and told me all about how shitty her life was. Went on like that for a long time. And then there was the fire.’
‘Can you remember anything strange about that day?’ asked Nik. ‘Did she seem afraid of anything? Or particularly depressed?’
Grassi shook her head. ‘The investigator asked me that back then too. Vittoria was just the same as always.’
‘Can you remember the name of the investigator?’
‘Nah. But I probably still have his card somewhere.’ Grassi stood up and pulled a drawer out from a shelving unit. She emptied all the contents on to the floor. Nik saw unopened bills, various warning letters and old coupons from discount supermarkets. Grassi raked through the pile of papers until she came across a discoloured business card. She passed it to Nik.
‘Werner Hunke?’ Nik read out loud. ‘That was the investigator who questioned you?’
Grassi nodded. ‘Nice older man. I’m sure he knows more than me.’
‘Thank you,’ Nik said, standing up to shake Grassi’s hand. ‘You’ve been a lot of help.’
When Nik called the number on the card, he was greeted by a young female police officer, who told him that Hunke had retired three years ago. She wasn’t able to give him a private number but Jon was able to hack the CID server to access the personnel department. He found Hunke’s current address and home telephone number.
The phone rang twice before someone picked up. ‘Werner Hunke,’ said a scratchy voice.
‘Hello, Herr Hunke, my name is Nik Pohl. I’m working on Greta Grohnert’s case and need your help.’
‘My help?’ asked Hunke, confused. ‘I’ve been retired for years. And anyway, I was at Unit 13. Fires. I wasn’t involved in a single abduction case in my life.’
‘Yes, I know. It’s complicated,’ replied Nik. ‘You see, you dealt with a house fire that might actually be related to the abduction.’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Nik Pohl, CID.’
‘The same Nik Pohl who hit a prosecutor because he shelved a case?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the same Nik Pohl who mugged an innocent man on the street, bringing the Munich Police Force into absolute disrepute?’
‘Well, that was a set-up, but . . . yes.’
‘I thought you were suspended.’
‘I am. I’m working as a private investigator now.’
‘Then you’re fully aware I can’t talk to you about police investigations.’
‘Yes. But if you follow the news, then you’ll know there’s been absolutely no progress with the kidnapped girl and that her chances of living are getting slimmer with every hour.’
Hunke was silent for a moment. ‘And how is an old fire case supposed to improve that situation?’
‘As I said . . . it’s complicated. But give me a chance and I’ll tell you everything.’
‘I worked hundreds of cases. And my memory is no longer what it was, you know.’
‘Not a problem,’ replied Nik. ‘I’ve downloaded all
the paperwork and printed it out. And before you ask, no, I didn’t get permission.’
Hunke groaned. ‘My God. You’re worse than I even imagined.’
‘No time for flattery, I’m afraid. Luckily it’s a holiday and the traffic’s light. I could be at your flat in fifteen minutes. If you don’t have any plans, I’d like to come over straight away?’
‘Suppose I’ll put on some coffee then.’ Hunke sighed and hung up.
Ten minutes later, Nik was at his door.
Hunke was a sturdy, elderly man with an unobtrusive beer belly. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair and it was clear from the stains on his polo shirt that he’d been enjoying some orange juice. The back of his right hand was scarred, as if glowing coal had fallen on top of it at some point. Despite the reading glasses balanced on his nose, he still had difficulty reading the words on the report, squinting as he attempted to focus. He sat in an old armchair, his feet sunk into tattered slippers. His grey jogging bottoms were too short for him and exposed his luminescent white legs. There was a small coffee table in front of him, on top of which were two cups of coffee and a tin of chocolate biscuits.
‘The fire in question was in Blodigstraße in 2006.’ Nik passed him a photo of the house. ‘A woman, Vittoria Monti, died in the fire.’
‘Yes, I vaguely remember the case,’ said Hunke, his eyes focused intently on the files. ‘But what does a fire from eleven years ago have to do with the kidnapping of the Grohnert girl?’
‘Vittoria Monti was Greta’s birth mother.’
‘Greta’s adopted?’
‘Not officially. Vanessa Grohnert’s name was entered in Greta’s birth certificate so she is her registered mother.’
Hunke raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘So you think there’s a connection?’
‘I’m convinced the ransom note is just a distraction to put the police on the wrong track. That’s why I need to find out more about Greta’s real mother, and her death is a good place to start.’
Blood Ties Page 6