‘Do you really think that someone has put something in our car?’
Ubbo punched in Ann Kathrin’s number.
She saw his name on the display and answered immediately her seal ringtone howled. She greeted him effusively, as if to ward off a premonition.
Ubbo said matter-of-factly, ‘I’m afraid, Ann, that our perpetrator has stashed a few body parts that wouldn’t fit in the package in the boot of my car. Judging by the smell, it must have been a while ago.’
Carola noticed that he said my car. He usually said our car. That was probably his last feeble attempt to keep her out of it.
The hot air above the car shimmered before her eyes. She was having a hard time breathing and couldn’t quite read the number plate. It was blurred like in a photograph of a moving car. She saw only streaks of the tail lights, as if the car were driving away fast, but her mind was telling her that this was impossible, because the vehicle was parked right here and couldn’t be moving forward without a driver.
Suddenly her throat was dry and she needed water badly. There was always a bottle of mineral water behind the backrest of Ubbo’s wheelchair but she couldn’t manage to take it out.
She felt dizzy, as if her legs would no longer hold her up and she sat down in the grass next to her husband’s wheelchair. Not far from them three white butterflies were fluttering around an ice cream tub that someone had dropped on the ground. There was still chocolate ice cream around the rim.
*
Svenja Moers had given up all hope that she was just having a nightmare. Any chance of waking up and finding herself at home, having fallen asleep in front of the TV, vanished when she touched the bars of the cell.
She beat on them, and the shiny bars rang derisively.
When she was still married, she’d sometimes had the feeling of being in a prison. She had talked to a girlfriend about the cage in which boredom had stolen the wind from beneath her wings, making her forget that she’d ever had them.
Now she knew what a real prison was. It wasn’t about a suffocating atmosphere, but about naked panic. This was the exact opposite of her marriage. Back then she was able to predict exactly what would happen next Monday at six, because the days were all the same, unaffected even by the change of seasons.
Now she had no idea what would happen, even in the next second. Far from being bored, she was scared to death!
She touched everything around her as if to reassure herself that that it was real. The walls and floors were covered in white tiles like an old-fashioned public bath, or a slaughterhouse.
There was a set of bathroom scales on the floor, the same brand she had at home. She felt it was mocking her. Why was it here? To signal normality?
Next to her cell was another one, a bit smaller and divided from hers only by bars. It looked even less comfortable. It had no bed, just a toilet without a lid. A water pipe stuck out from the wall, with a length of hose attached. There was no washbasin.
She wondered whether the cell next door was for more severe punishment. Was he going to put her in there? Would she have to sleep on the floor? Was her current cell, with the bed and washbasin, a privilege that could be taken away at any time?
After her second husband died she’d spent ‘a brief time’ in custody. At least that’s what the press had called that eternity. Her idiot lawyer had taken five days to spring her. She still hated him for that.
Right now she’d be happy to have a lawyer. She would even settle for that miserable, incompetent mouthpiece from Leer.
She tried to get her panic and rasping breathing under control. She grabbed the bars and rattled them. Her hands left greasy marks on the shiny polished metal.
She yelled: ‘Fucking heel, where the hell am I? I want out!’
It felt good to swear. Swear words made her feel strong in this intolerable situation. She wanted to yell the worst, nastiest swear words she knew. Maybe that would intimidate the bastard who thought he could hold her prisoner. No way did she want to appear to him as a crying, wailing female. But no matter how hard she tried, her store of swearwords was gapingly empty.
The thought of running out of swear words was sobering. What had happened to her? Hadn’t two husbands feared her outbursts of rage? Her vulgar way of shouting them down? What had happened to that talent of hers?
*
The editor-in-chief of the East Frisia magazine, Holger Bloem, wondered about the visit. He had spoken briefly with Joachim Faust ten, or was it fifteen, years ago. Since then he’d often seen his picture in magazines for which Faust wrote tabloid-type articles.
The photos of him had obviously been run through a pretty good image-processing programme, which made them look more flattering than realistic. The makeup artists had done a great job on various talk shows where Faust had first been a guest, then later the host. On the TV screen he’d always looked young, sporty and dynamic.
Now Holger Bloem thought he looked rather bloated, prematurely aged, and sickly. His skin had the unhealthy, dull colour of a heavy smoker who had spent his life in air-conditioned offices with canteens that offered pizza with a double helping of cheese every day.
Faust was wearing a summer suit of light-blue linen and an apple-blossom-white shirt open to the third button. There was a heavy gold chain around his wrinkled, over-tanned neck. His bare feet were encased in sandals of yellow leather.
Joachim Faust was undoubtedly a famous man, but he had the whiff of an ageing small-town pimp.
Holger Bloem and Joachim Faust had met in journalism school. Even back then Holger hadn’t trusted him. He thought the man was a conceited old goat who seized every opportunity that came along and whose goal in life was to fuck as many women as possible and make a pile of money doing it.
He seemed to think that fame and various scandals were the best way to achieve his goal, and so far the plan had been an outstanding success.
He greeted Holger with a handshake, displaying a powerful grip. Holger Bloem assumed that Faust had not come to apply as a freelancer for the magazine. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then left the editorial office. They went over to Café Ten Cate to have coffee and talk.
The beautiful weather had lured lots of people downtown to Osterstrasse. All the tables and chairs outside were occupied. They wanted a quiet booth with no eavesdroppers and there weren’t even any seats for them in the ice cream parlour.
Naturally Faust headed for the smoking room in the café and instantly lit up a long French cigarette. Through the flame of his golden lighter he observed Holger.
‘Still into sports and a non-smoker?’
Holger nodded. Faust laughed. ‘Smoked fish keeps longer!’ he said, blowing thick smoke onto the round tabletop so that it was deflected directly into Holger’s face.
They ordered water, coffee and tree-ring cake from a server who was quite excited because this was the first day she’d been allowed to take orders.
‘Are you also on the town council?’ she asked timidly.
Bloem shook his head apologetically and waved through the glass door to Monika Tapper, who was bringing a customer a schnitzel in the non-smoking area.
The server-in-training smiled. ‘Guided crime tours are really popular in Norden, and today they’re coming here.’
The rookie server vanished to the kitchen.
Faust got on with his business. ‘Tell me something about Inspector Klaasen’s latest case.’
‘About the severed head?’
‘Yes. Or is there another case she’s working on?’
Holger suddenly felt sick. He was squirming in his chair. Where was all this leading?
‘Apparently you know more than I do. So far there has been no official press conference.’
Faust smiled smugly. ‘This is not about the case, Holger. It’s about Ann Kathrin Klaasen. And no one knows more about the inspector than you.’
‘How am I supposed to take that?’
‘Don’t give me that. You praised her to the skies, made
her into an icon. No one in Germany better symbolises everything we love about working women than Ann Kathrin Klaasen. Every actress tries to emulate and imitate her. Young women apply to the Kripo so they can be like her. And you’ve had a great deal to do with that, my friend.’
‘Where are you going with this?’
‘In Germany there is a simple journalistic principle,’ Faust intoned. ‘You can only tear down someone that you’ve previously built up. The higher someone climbs, the further he can fall.’
‘And?’
‘People want to see them fall, Holger. Let’s not fool ourselves. Who’s really interested in the next case that Ann Kathrin Klaasen solves? Yawn. We know all that. What we need is an Ann Kathrin Klaasen we can get excited about, a woman who has at last disappointed us and, in that way, become one of us again. So speak, my friend.’
Bloem looked at Faust in disbelief. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m looking for the fallen angel. The statue has to be knocked off its pedestal.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s the kind of story people love. Then they no longer feel that they’re so pathetic and small. We can only admire stars, but fallen stars do us good. The cardinal who abuses young boys is important for humanity. He gives every one of us sinners the opportunity to forgive ourselves, because other people, no matter how holy, are much bigger sinners than we are.
‘The pop star, rich and famous, who doesn’t pay his child support and even refuses to acknowledge his paternity, takes some of the load off every father who goes to bed at night feeling that he isn’t a good father and hasn’t spent enough time with the kids.’
Monika Tapper brought their orders, greeting Holger Bloem by name. This prompted Faust to flinch, because he was used to being recognised instantly and also greeted by name.
Here in Norden, Bloem was the star, not Faust. That hurt his ego. He’d wanted to show Bloem how famous and popular he was. But he’d realised long ago that in East Frisia the clocks ran differently from in the rest of the world. Hardly anyone here read the big slick magazines that he wrote for. Here the East Frisia magazine was more important.
And if my talk show was on, they’d all be out in the back yard grilling sausages, he thought grimly. Otherwise they’d recognise me. They always did in Munich and Berlin.
That too made him irritated with everybody up here, no matter how good their coffee and tea tasted. And they could take their tree-ring cake and rub it in their hair, for all he cared. He certainly wasn’t going to eat it.
Bloem looked happy when he took a bite of the cake. Monika Tapper, who was very sensitive to mood swings, had noticed immediately the tension hovering over the table. As she left she said, ‘If you need anything else, I’ll be right over there. This is our last day with a smoking room. As of tomorrow we’re a non-smoking café.’
Faust also saw this remark as directed at him and he tried to keep calm.
Bloem brought the conversation back to where they’d left off. ‘And you want me to deliver Ann Kathrin Klaasen to you, is that it?’
Faust beamed. ‘Bingo. You’re sure quick on the uptake! And I won’t leave you in the lurch. I’ll invite you onto my talk show, and then you can talk about how disappointed with her you are and blah, blah, blah.’
Bloem was having a hard time sitting still but didn’t show it. Faust was used to people who were eager to sell out their mother-in-law just to get on his show. They offered him money, their friendship, and of course a whole bunch of information. He had noticed at once that with Holger Bloem it was going to be much more difficult.
Bloem was simply staring at him. Faust made a sweeping gesture. ‘There’s ten thousand in cash in it for you if you’ve got something interesting to offer. Do you have access to her personal documents? They must be full of strange stories.’
Bloem didn’t react.
Faust continued. ‘She’ll founder in the current situation. One way or another. That’s just how it is. There’s always something. Maybe she’s too lax or too sharp. Too slow, or she reacts too hastily and we’ll be after her, you get it? Then the press is going to ramp up the campaign against her, instead of merely ruffling her hair. I want her without makeup. Confused and pressured. Best would be in the arms of a lover. Although when I take a closer look at her – isn’t she a closet lesbo? Did she screw her way to the top? That kind of thing is always good. And who in East Frisia Kripo is sleeping with whom and why?
Faust raised his cup like a glass of champagne to offer a toast. That should serve as a challenge to Holger Bloem, he thought. If he’s up for it.
Bloem rubbed his hand briefly over his well-shaven jaw. He recalled a situation back in journalism school in which he’d asked himself: Why don’t I just punch this guy on the nose?
He had controlled himself and not done it, because he was a gentleman. A man of his word, not a man of violence. But he asked himself whether, after all these years, this could be the right time.
Instead of punching Faust he took another bite of the delicious tree-ring cake and then said, ‘This really hits the spot.’
Faust relaxed and leaned back. He certainly hadn’t counted on winning over Bloem immediately. He’d thought Bloem would stall him for a while in order to drive up the price.
Holger Bloem motioned him closer. They put their heads together across the table, and Holger whispered mysteriously: ‘I’ve been looking for a big emotional story for a long time. Who doesn’t dream of knocking down someone who’s loved by the public, a darling of the media who has so far been spoiled by good fortune?’
Faust was glad to hear that. ‘Exactly. It’s so unfair.’
Bloem agreed. ‘Right. And it would great if a real character-assassin could be involved – a son of a bitch like you for instance!’
Faust’s jaw dropped.
Bloem got up and headed for the door.
‘Is that all you have to say, Holger? Is that really your last word?’
Bloem stopped at the glass door. The tour group with the city guide who were making the rounds of the crime scenes came into the café.
‘No, Joachim, I’ve got something more to say.’
Faust’s eyes opened wide. He was all ears.
‘Get lost!’
*
This cell seemed bigger to her, more modern, somehow friendlier than the holding cell back then. This one was so new, as if a designer had come up with a model cell for detainees. It wasn’t shabby and scratched up like the one in Aurich. At the same time it felt final in an intimidating way, while the cell in Aurich had suggested it was more of a way station. Here every square centimetre seemed to say: you’re not going to get out of here. Get used to it. You’re going to spend the rest of your fucked-up life in this tiled room, Svenja Moers.
*
The red-and-white crime-scene tape fluttered in the wind. A dozen sheep had gathered and were watching the evidence response team. Jens Warfsmann was kneeling on the grass in his white protective suit and searching for clues. From a distance it looked as though he was part of the flock and had merely wandered over to the other side of the fence.
Underneath his white hood he was sweating profusely. He had a hangover from the housewarming last night at his new neighbour’s place. He swore he’d never drink schnapps again.
Jens had found a used condom in the grass and slipped it into a plastic bag. He could hardly believe it was from the perpetrator, but it was his job to secure any evidence, and not – based on the parametres of the case – to spend time evaluating it. He’d also picked up three cigarette butts, filter tips of various brands, and one filterless, hand-rolled butt, which smelled suspiciously as if there was not only tobacco in it but also hashish.
In the past, Jens had also enjoyed smoking a joint, but he stopped after he’d fathered two sons and found a job with the criminal police force after taking classes in night school.
Behind him he heard Klaasen and Weller talking to Ubbo Heide. He’d tried to convince the ma
n in the wheelchair to go home, but former chiefs could be damned demanding and resistant to advice.
‘We have to stop this, Ann. Carola can’t take it anymore. She’s had it. This isn’t the way we’d pictured our retirement.’
Weller handed out bottles of water and suggested that Ann Kathrin and Ubbo should drink some. Weller thought he had to take care of them because they were ignoring the needs of their bodies and focusing all their attention on the case.
‘The boot is undamaged, Ubbo. Somebody opened it and then closed it, without leaving a single scratch on the lock. There’s only one explanation for that,’ said Ann Kathrin.
All three of them knew what she meant.
Ubbo took a swig of water from the plastic bottle and grumbled: ‘We had two remotes. One click to open or close the doors. And each time the keys would beep.’ He took another drink from the bottle. The plastic crackled. He went on as if he had to explain things in detail: ‘So, the side mirrors fold shut. That’s exactly how we found the car. First, the perpetrator must have known that we park the car here, and second, he had to have a key.’
‘They aren’t that easy to copy,’ Weller put in.
Ubbo nodded. ‘We lost one once. Or we thought we’d lost it.’
‘When? Where?’ Ann Kathrin wanted to know.
Ubbo dismissed the notion. ‘No idea. It was my key, and I don’t even drive anymore. Carola still has hers.’
‘How is she doing? And where is she?’ Ann Kathrin asked.
Ubbo straightened up in his wheelchair, trying to find a more comfortable position. ‘She got a lift home with the patrol. I wanted to wait for you here.’
‘That’s fine, Ubbo. But you’re not leading the investigation. I am,’ Ann Kathrin clarified.
‘Actually the state prosecutor is leading it,’ Ubbo reminded her. ‘Where is that washout, anyway?’
Ann Kathrin turned stern. ‘Try to remember, Ubbo. The key is important. Who could have stolen it, when and where? When did you see it last?’
The Oath Page 5