Contents
Epigraph
The Oath
About the Author
Copyright
‘Gazing at the sea makes everything relative.’
Ubbo Heide, former chief of police in East Frisia
‘What from the inside looks like a fantastic career ladder is sometimes viewed from the outside as nothing but a sorry hamster wheel.’
Chief Inspector Ann Kathrin Klaasen, Aurich Kripo
‘Until “Beam me up” is invented, we’re all a disadvantaged generation.’
Chief Inspector Rupert, Aurich Kripo
Ubbo Heide had spent the night enjoying his favourite pastime: simply sitting and gazing at the sea.
For him this was the most beautiful place on earth. Here, with this view of the natural might of the North Sea, even the wheelchair lost its hold over him.
Ubbo’s thoughts took wing. He felt free and content. Suddenly everything seemed all right. Eventually, as the candle in the tea warmer flickered and burned out, he dozed off.
The early morning ferry brought the mail from the mainland to the island, along with the tourists.
Across from the Pudding Café the wind speed was measured at seven to eight on the Beaufort scale, which was officially called a moderate breeze and regarded by most coastal inhabitants as invigorating.
His wife Carola returned from the island’s bakery with Seelchen, set the table and brewed a fresh pot of tea the way Ubbo liked it: black with peppermint leaves.
He was snoring quietly. She liked the familiar sound. When he fell asleep in his chair he snored like a seal with asthma. Lying down, especially on his back, he was as loud as a rusty buzz saw.
Carola Heide had brought along the East Frisia magazine and was reading an article by Holger Bloem as she stood by the table.
The postman rang the doorbell. Ubbo gave a start and pretended that he had been awake all along.
As Carola pushed open the door she said: ‘They say the new chief of Kripo is one Martin Büscher from Bremerhaven. Do you know him?’
Ubbo smiled. ‘Oh yeah, I know him.’
He rolled his chair over to the breakfast table and grabbed the magazine. Each new issue was more important to him than food.
Carola took cold cuts from the fridge and draped them carefully on a chopping board.
Holger had written about Ubbo Heide and his book of unsolved criminal cases. Thanks to him the book was now in its third edition. As a result Ubbo was occasionally invited to give readings and lead discussions. He, the former chief of the East Frisian Criminal Police, called the Kripo, was still plagued by his failure to solve a number of cold cases. And murderers and child abusers really belonged behind bars. In a self-tormenting way he enjoyed talking about these cases and the ineptitudes of the justice system, as well as his own failure to find the perpetrators.
These events made him feel like he was doing something meaningful by passing on his experiences. He always opened with the words: ‘If it’s true, ladies and gentlemen, that a person becomes wise from his mistakes, then a wise man sits before you. If not, then I’m simply an idiot.’
Holger Bloem had quoted this and called Ubbo Heide ‘the genial father figure of the East Frisian Criminal Police.’
In the meantime, the postman came to the door. Carola opened the door for him and accepted a large package. It was addressed to Ubbo Heide.
‘So who’s it from?’ Carola asked.
The return address was written with a fountain pen, and the ink was smeared.
She tried to decipher it.
‘Do you know a Mr Ruwsch? Or Rumsch?’
Ubbo shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
The package was at least as big as a two-layer cake or six bottles of wine.
Carola sawed away at the packing tape.
‘Did you order something?’ she asked.
‘No, and it’s not my birthday either.’
There were lots of polystyrene peanuts inside, surrounding a blue rubbish bag that was secured between a pair of freezer packs with a bungee cord.
Carola lifted the bag out of the box and placed it on the breakfast table. A few of the peanuts rolled onto the chopping board. One fell into Ubbo’s cup of tea.
Carola cautiously stuck a bread knife into the trash bag. Air hissed out. She still couldn’t see what was inside.
Ubbo sliced open a Seelchen. Since moving to the island of Wangerooge he’d learned to love this special type of roll, and his favourite toppings were honey or beer sausage.
Looking from this angle, Ubbo caught sight of hair and a nose and instinctively he reached to take away the knife from Carola. At the same moment his wife let out a shriek. There was a severed head poking out of the rubbish bag in the middle of their breakfast table, its tangled hair oily and plastered with dried blood.
Carola dropped the knife, which clattered onto the floor. She didn’t faint but, reaching behind her into empty space, backed away from the table as far as she could go, holding her hands away from her body
‘Is that a real head?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Ubbo. He not only saw it, he smelled it too.
*
The matter couldn’t be sugar-coated. For Büscher the transfer from Bremerhaven to East Frisia was a disciplinary action, regardless of the salary increase. He was supposed to take charge of this suicide mission and serve as boss to the legendary Ann Kathrin Klaasen.
One of the men wore a red tie, the other a blue. But they were both in agreement. The first would be only too happy to get rid of Büscher, and the other wanted to hire him.
They had agreed on what to do, and Büscher looked like a donkey brought to market and being sold to the highest bidder.
‘There is a form of authority,’ said the man with the blue tie, ‘that is conferred by rank. As of now it’s yours, Mr Büscher. But there is also another type of authority that emanates from the person himself. It’s based on recognition of that person’s actions. Naturally that’s something you must earn. At the moment Ann Kathrin Klaasen possesses that authority. That’s the reason for the failure of your unfortunate predecessor, Ms. Diekmann.’
He leafed through his papers and swallowed hard. To Büscher he looked like someone in urgent need of a beer. Dry-mouthed, he went on.
‘Since Ubbo Heide retired, Ann Kathrin Klaasen has pretty much been running the station – although without any official commission. But she enjoys the loyalty of her colleagues. And that cannot be underestimated.’
He loosened his blue tie.
‘She has apprehended four serial killers, and Bloem, the journalist, has turned her into a legend. Not to mention that we in-house have seriously considered appointing Ms. Klaasen as the chief of the Aurich-Wittmund Police Department. There were actually votes in favour of such a move. But in the end it wouldn’t work. Her personality is just too abrasive and she’s not a good team player. She’s constantly at odds with the higher authorities, and extremely eccentric.’
His voice became hoarse and he cleared his throat, but no one offered him anything to drink. He tried to make the best of things.
‘All the same, Ms. Klaasen cost an interior minister his job, and two state secretaries were fired. No one who takes political responsibility feels good in her presence, but that doesn’t mean they don’t like having their picture taken with her. She’s very popular with the public.’
He could no longer suppress the urge to cough, and fished a throat lozenge from his trouser pocket.
‘We have two graduates who have completed their studies at the German Police Academy in Hiltrup and have applied for the position.’
He waved away this remark, making a face. The lozenge was now stuck to his palate.
‘Exc
ellent people, without a doubt, but in this case it would be like handing a sheep over to the wolves.’
Büscher later recalled that at this moment he had looked down at his shoes. He noticed that the leather on the toes was worn, and they could use some polish.
The chap with the red tie, his superior from Bremerhaven, said: ‘Now, don’t look so dejected. The head of Central Criminal Investigation — that’s really something! And you will be promoted from Chief Detective Inspector to First Chief Detective Inspector.’
The man with the blue tie glanced at the clock and mentioned an important appointment at the Interior Ministry. He concluded: ‘We’ve even received an application from the police management in Osnabrück. But what we want here is an outsider who is not entangled or involved with anything or anyone. An assertive colleague with a lot of experience. In short – we want you, Mr Büscher.’
Both men had wished him much success but the chap with the red tie had given him such an odd look, as though he wanted to offer condolences.
Büscher viewed the Aurich station on Fischteichweg as something like Dracula’s castle. Ann Kathrin Klaasen and her husband Frank Weller were still on holiday on Langeoog, so Büscher had three days to prepare for the first meeting. Maybe he could manage to win over a few people or at least understand the group dynamics before the actual witches’ dance got going.
The weather was clear and sunny with a brisk wind from the northwest. He found a note on his desk, possibly left behind by mistake, or even as some sort of threat: Whoever doesn’t move with the times will perish with the times.
An issue of the East Frisia magazine also lay on his desk. A framed article about Ann Kathrin Klaasen written by Holger Bloem hung on the wall in the hallway. In other places something like that might end up on the bulletin board or in a mailbox, and later in the wastepaper bin. Here it was treated like a holy relic.
Büscher genuflected in front of his new desk. His knees creaked unpleasantly.
I need allies here, he thought. I have to build up a network. Find a friend or at least a couple of people I can trust to some extent.
There is something that can tempt every fish; he’d learned that by going fishing. There were predatory fish that would snap at flashing, shimmering tin as long as it moved temptingly enough in the water. Others would swallow rotten fish scraps or a piece of meat. He knew that the bait had to be tasty for the fish, not the fisherman.
He heard footsteps in the hall, opened the door a crack, and peered out. It was Rupert.
Büscher sauntered the few steps over to the coffee machine. Rupert hadn’t reckoned on meeting the new chief like this in the hallway. He had imagined a ceremonious official introduction with some big shot from the Ministry of the Interior, with speeches and definitely a modest toast. Perhaps not with champagne and caviar hors d’oeuvres, but beer and knackwurst at least.
At that moment Rupert was completely occupied with trying to come up with some advertising copy for the rifle club’s new membership campaign.
Rupert mistook Büscher for the long-awaited ‘technician’ who was going to repair the coffee machine. It tended to spew out vegetable soup when you pressed the button for a latte macchiato, and hot chocolate if you wanted a caffè crema. Under no circumstances would it produce a plain black coffee. The machine had already been replaced three times. It was big, noisy, and basically just took up space.
‘It’s about time you people got this thing working properly!’ Rupert yelled, kicking the machine where the metal was already dented.
Büscher gave Rupert a quizzical look.
‘Hey, don’t look at me like that! This is the third machine that doesn’t work. How stupid can you be? Doesn’t anybody work here who can fix this piece of shit? If not, send it back for a replacement. We’ve got enough idiots here.’
‘I don’t know a thing about coffee machines.’
Rupert grimaced. ‘Yeah, I thought as much. But this time you picked the wrong man. All you boys should be jailed!’
Büscher cleared his throat. ‘My name is Büscher.’ He pointed to his name on the door. ‘And this is my new office.’
Rupert had no idea how foolish he looked with his mouth hanging open. As if he were playing charades and trying to look like a human vacuum cleaner.
‘You are— I mean, you’re going to be—’
Büscher held out his hand. ‘Head of Central Criminal Investigation.’
Rupert shook the hand. ‘Chief Detective Inspector Rupert. Please excuse me. I thought you were—’
‘An idiot. I got that.’
Trying to backtrack, Rupert said: ‘I’m sorry. I was lost in thought. We’re supposed to be thinking up an ad campaign to entice new members to join the rifle club and I’m working on a catchy slogan.’
‘Very interesting,’ Büscher said, feigning interest. Rupert swallowed the bait gratefully, and Büscher could feel him twitching on the hook.
‘What do you think of this? Join up! Learn to shoot! Make new friends!’
Büscher nodded. ‘Learn to shoot! Make new friends. Not bad. It puts sociability and camaraderie in the foreground.’
Sylvia Hoppe came racing up the stairs. She looked as if she’d hardly slept a wink and had overeaten at dinner. She was completely out of breath.
‘Either everyone on Wangerooge has lost their minds,’ she panted, ‘or some nut has just sent Ubbo Heide a severed head in the post.’
Rupert smiled with relief. This disastrous news was just what he needed to get out of the embarrassing situation with the new chief. A severed head was just right.
Rupert blustered, ‘OK, so what we’re going to need is everybody on deck. Evidence response! Forensics! A helicopter and—’ He glanced at Büscher. ‘Sorry. Nice to meet you. I’d like to chat, but right now, as you’ve just heard, we’ve got a case to handle.’
Rupert was about to take off with Sylvia Hoppe when Büscher shouted: ‘Hang on a minute! I’m in charge here. Is Wangerooge even in our jurisdiction? Isn’t it in the Jever administrative district?’
Sylvia Hoppe pursed her lips and made a gesture as if right now she really didn’t have time for such nit picking. ‘It’s in Friesland County!’
‘Exactly. That’s a job for our colleagues there.’
Rupert enunciated very slowly and carefully, as if Büscher were a bit thick: ‘This is about Ubbo Heide! Our boss!’
Sylvia Hoppe grabbed Rupert. They had no time to waste.
‘But I’m your boss now,’ Büscher countered meekly. He wasn’t sure whether those two even heard him. They were already heading downstairs.
Ubbo Heide, he thought. It would have to be Ubbo Heide. And then he realised that as chief he wasn’t second in command behind Ann Kathrin Klaasen as he’d feared, but actually third. They were still calling Ubbo Heide their boss. There was a hierarchy here that had nothing to do with the official chain of command.
Most of all, he would have liked to return home and go fishing for pike in the Geeste River using a spinner, rather than hunting down criminals here in East Frisia.
It was the end of June. The pike season was open again. And apparently it was open season on him, too.
*
The package had been posted from a branch of the Deutsche Post in Norden at the shopping centre at 13 Gewerbestrasse.
Carrying a high-resolution mobile phone picture of the mailing label that he’d taken himself, Rupert flew directly from Wangerooge to Norden on the mainland. He didn’t really enjoy the flight and when he saw seals lolling on a sandbank below him in the sun, he couldn’t help feeling jealous.
They ought to be doing something with that landscape, he thought. Seals are on holiday pretty much all the time, while we cops have to settle for a few days per year.
A few minutes later he was standing outside the airport, looking for the police car that was supposed to pick him up. However, since it was high season, and two of the patrol cars were out of action, he ended up having to borrow a bike.
> ‘Don’t make such a fuss,’ said Marion Wolters from the operations centre. Her voice sounded even worse than usual on Rupert’s mobile phone. He had to hold the phone away from his ear.
‘You could practically spit that far, it’s so close. It would take a taxi longer to reach you than for you to ride a bike to your SUV. Besides—’
‘Besides what?’ Now he pressed his mobile phone tight against his right ear so he could drown out the noise of a twin-engined propellor plane with four tourists on board.
As if she had noticed, Marion Wolters raised her voice almost to a shout: ‘Besides, it’ll do you good.’
Her voice irritated the hell out of him. He hated being chided and decided to contradict her.
‘What the hell are you trying to say?’
‘I’ve read that men who take public transport to work have a much higher life expectancy than commuters who drive.’
‘What bullshit.’
‘It’s true. It’s practically been confirmed by scientists.’
‘Did you get that out of the retirees’ magazine or what?’
‘No, I don’t read the Pharmacist’s Weekly like you do. It was in an ordinary illustrated magazine.’
‘Knitting Styles for the Frustrated, or whatever it’s called?’
‘You don’t have a clue, Rupert. The daily sprint on the platform to catch a connecting train keeps them fit. Running up and down the steps with a briefcase is just like going to the gym. Other people pay money to exercise. And if you ride your bike, that’s priceless!’
‘Oh, kiss my arse!’ Rupert retorted, ending the call, so that she couldn’t hear the rest of his reply. Let her guess what he’d said. It wouldn’t take much imagination.
Rupert felt a tailwind, which made riding the bike much more fun. On Ostermarscher Strasse he overtook a line of cars, and when he rode across the car park to the shopping centre, the big glass doors opened to the atrium. He simply couldn’t resist this invitation, so he rode into the building.
To the right was a bakery, and to the left of that a kiosk selling paperbacks and tobacco products. It also sold Lotto tickets and served as a post office branch and a florist’s shop.
The Oath Page 1