‘So, my fellow officers, if I’ve understood you correctly, this means we will receive neither a video recording from the underground car park, nor will cameras be installed in the event space. Instead we’ll only be able to count on two officers protecting Ubbo?’
The detective with the crew cut, who looked young enough to still be at school, rocked from one leg to the other. ‘It’s not our fault. We didn’t get the warrant. On the contrary. The whole thing violates data protection regulations, and we have to take them seriously.’
Weller slapped his palm against his forehead. ‘Data protection regulations? We’re dealing with a double homicide here and anticipate that the murderer will show up tonight!’
‘That’s pure speculation on your part, and it’s very shaky,’ the older officer pointed out. He smelled as if he’d just left the dentist’s. His lower lip hung limply, and he was using a paper towel to pat the spittle on his lip. ‘According to the judge, we would be making Gelsenkirchen’s audience of people with literary interests into potential criminals and suspecting them without cause. The video tape would have consequences. You would examine every individual. We’re not in East Frisia here. So we also have to provide administrative assistance. Friends, we neither have the legal right nor the capacity to—’
‘To catch a double murderer,’ added Weller.
‘No, damn it! Now stop putting words in our mouths!’ The officer from Gelsenkirchen ranted because he truly felt they were being treated unfairly. He tried to keep things formal, even though Weller kept on using his first name. ‘If I had my way, we’d have all options at our fingertips. But we don’t.’ He fell silent and punched the air, as if he wanted to knock out the judge.
His partner came to his assistance. ‘That kind of surveillance isn’t straightforward. Later on people might be considered suspects at a murder trial just for having gone to an author’s reading. Besides, how is this supposed to work later on? Do you want to film everyone at all of Ubbo Heide’s events in the future, and then start a large-scale operation to check their alibis?’
Weller groaned. ‘If you can’t record in the event space, can we at least get the surveillance footage from the garage? A couple of registration numbers could be really helpful. I hardly think the perpetrator will come on the tram.’
The detective with the crew cut hummed and hawed. ‘If I understood the judge correctly, we can’t just hand over the film. There’s no justification. The tapes will be deleted automatically later. They’re just there to solve crimes. If a woman was attacked in the garage or a car was stolen, then we could use the tape.’
Weller jumped up from the bed and grabbed Ann Kathrin by the sleeve. ‘Come on. I’m not going to listen to this any longer! We have two dead people, and they’re waiting for a crime?’ Weller slapped his hand against his forehead, producing a splatting sound.
‘We’re really sorry. We would have liked to help you. But legally we can’t.’
Weller yelled at the officer: ‘Blah, blah, blah!’
Büscher motioned to Weller that he should shut up.
*
The couple in the corner were kissing passionately, and the young woman had positioned herself in such a way that Ubbo Heide didn’t see how she led her lover’s hand under her T-shirt. The solitary drinker at the bar got a much better view.
Kowalski didn’t register any of this as he tried to keep the conversation going. ‘You were stabbed by a criminal in the line of duty, and you’ve been wheelchair-bound since then.’
Ubbo Heide interrupted him. ‘No, I wasn’t on duty. I was walking out of a café, with my wife. I became a victim in my free time, if you will.’
‘Did that cause you to quit the service?’
‘I didn’t quit the service, I was retired.’
‘Do you write books because you would still like to be a policeman?’
Ubbo Heide drank his coffee, giving himself a pause to reflect. Then he answered. ‘I always regarded my work as a fight of good against evil. It’s a nice feeling to be on the good side. Although I haven’t been so sure recently.’
‘What made you so contemplative?’
‘Some people claimed that my work had destroyed their lives.’
Kowalski noticed that Ubbo Heide no longer felt comfortable and changed tack, afraid that otherwise he might end the conversation. ‘Of course, our readers are also interested in how you view life differently now. Being in a wheelchair gives a completely new perspective on the world.’
‘Right,’ said Ubbo Heide. ‘But I just ask myself sometimes if I’m really disabled or if I only become disabled when I can’t get somewhere – because stairs are in my way, for example.’
Kowalski tested the recorder to see if everything was working. He appeared satisfied and continued. ‘Is that the case in your private life as well? I mean, are you a policeman there too? Are you also looking for the truth there? What’s it like for your wife to live with someone who’s always right . . .’
‘I wasn’t always right. But I never claimed to be. I was looking for the truth. Besides, I want you to keep my wife and daughter out of this – your questions are becoming too intrusive for me.’
The journalist laughed. ‘All right, all right. I like you, Mr Heide. You stand for everything that won’t be around for very much longer – and what I really care about.’
Ubbo Heide looked at him quizzically, so Kowalski ticked a list off on his fingers. ‘Books. Libraries. Video stores. Mailboxes. Postcards. Private space. All of that will sink into a digital sea.’
Ubbo Heide was thoroughly impressed by these words. He leaned back, starting to like this thoughtful person. Kowalski continued. ‘For example, I only read real books, no e-books. I need paper in my hands. I have to be able to smell the glue and the printer’s ink.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t vape either, I smoke real cigarettes.’
He placed his pack on the table, as if he wanted to demonstrate he was a real smoker.
‘But those are women’s cigs,’ said Ubbo Heide.
‘Sure,’ Kowalski grinned. ‘My mother smoked that brand, and they were my first too. That’s what started my passion. I stole from my mother’s pack.’
He put the cigarettes away and glanced over at the bar. ‘Can I get a mineral water?’
The woman behind the bar called, ‘One or two?’
‘Two,’ answered Ubbo Heide, who was planning to pay the bill for the coffee and the water. ‘And I’ll take the bill.’
‘Mr Heide, I know you don’t have much time. Your event is beginning soon. Of course I’ll be there listening. But I still have one more question: what do you think, is there a connection between the murders in East Frisia and your book?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, you talk about cases in your book, after all, and now you’ve been sent a head in the post. Two people you suspected have been killed.’
Ubbo Heide waved him away, leaned forward, and spoke very quietly. ‘Please, for heaven’s sake, do me a favour: don’t connect my book with the killings! It could be misunderstood as a cheap PR trick, you know. I don’t want high sales at the cost of a serious crime. Two people are dead. I don’t want to profit from the situation and I could be accused of that.’
The waitress brought two small bottles of mineral water and two glasses with ice cubes. Ubbo Heide was silent as she filled the glasses and only resumed speaking once she had disappeared behind the bar.
‘This is a very sensitive topic and it could be that one of these cases will be reinvestigated at some point and solved. I don’t want to derive any profit from that either. Do you understand me? My book is my book and the reality is the reality.’
‘But you wrote a book about real cases. Don’t you have to expect that?’
‘I’m asking you! The situation is already bad enough. Once the connection is made by a newspaper, then all of them will pile in.’
‘That won’t harm the size of your print run.’
‘No, b
ut it will harm me. And the seriousness of the case and the associated investigations.’
Ubbo Heide was surprised that Kowalski didn’t protest, saying instead: ‘I respect your position, Mr Heide. You don’t have to worry. I won’t make the connection, even though it will naturally suggest itself to readers.’
Kowalski drained his glass in a single gulp.
Just then, Ann Kathrin, Weller and Büscher stepped out of the lift. Ann Kathrin saw that Ubbo Heide was exhausted. It wasn’t that overtime face that she’d known from earlier years, when he’d pulled all-nighters. No. This was different. It was a kind of psychological exhaustion.
It’s too bad that he still has the event, she thought. He’s basically done for already.
She would have liked nothing better than to put him to bed.
‘Ubbo, would you like to freshen up and lie down for a minute? Maybe you’d like something to eat before the reading?’ Turning to Kowalski, she said: ‘I think he needs a little break now. Evening events like this in front of an audience are a strain, and should never be underestimated.’
Kowalski was almost effusive in his thanks and, while leaving, from six or seven metres away, gave a thumbs up, promising: ‘Don’t worry, Mr Heide, I’ll stick to our deal.’
Ubbo Heide smiled tiredly at Ann Kathrin. Then he produced a seal made out of marzipan and said, ‘Jörg Tapper brought over a whole batch after the shock on Wangerooge. You wouldn’t believe how terrible the marzipan is that gets sold to the rest of the world.’
Then he bit off the seal’s head.
The two police officers from Gelsenkirchen were standing next to the lift with Büscher and Weller. They looked crestfallen. The one with a schoolboy’s face offered his help, saying they were ready to sacrifice their free time to accompany Ubbo Heide to the reading. Büscher thanked them for their offer, but declined.
Weller was breathing heavily, as if he’d been in a brawl, or had at least exerted himself physically. He was pale and tight-lipped. Quickly, he strode towards Ann Kathrin and Ubbo.
‘Listen,’ Weller said. ‘If we don’t get any official help, then I’ll take the photos. I’ll just set up next to the door and snap everyone who comes in. Or we can check everyone’s ID after the event.
‘No,’ Ann Kathrin said, ‘we’re not going to do that, Frank. That would be provoking a scandal. But your idea isn’t that bad. You’re going to play Holger Bloem here.’
‘Huh? What?’
‘Well, if Holger were here, then he’d be taking pictures constantly. And no one thinks it’s strange when a press photographer takes pictures.’
Ubbo Heide remembered many similar situations, raised his finger and said, ‘Yes, Holger sometimes stood behind me on the stage and took a picture so you saw not only my book but also the whole room and the audience.’
‘Great idea,’ said Weller, ‘but then I’ll need a real camera. I can’t play the role of a press photographer using my phone.’
‘How are we supposed to get a camera now?’ asked Büscher, who had only just joined them. ‘Should I ask one of the local police officers to get us one?’
Weller raised his hands. ‘Don’t even start! They’d need a warrant from the judge, and who knows how long that’d take and if they’d get it in the end. Maybe the judge would decide that we should make pen and ink drawings instead.’
Ann Kathrin warned him, ‘Frank!’
‘But it’s true,’ he railed.
Then Ann Kathrin pointed out, ‘We can’t really call Holger Bloem, Ubbo. Your event will be long over by the time he gets here.’
Just then, Ubbo Heide’s mobile rang. The bookseller, Sabine Piechaczek, was on the line. She asked if she should pick him up, if everything was in order, and if he needed anything.
This question was very well timed. Ubbo coughed and said. ‘Yes, you could do me a huge favour. A journalist from East Frisia has accompanied me here and he was planning to take a couple of pictures and report on the event. But the thing is,’ Ubbo laughed ‘he’s a little embarrassed by the whole thing. He has left his camera in East Frisia, the whole bag of expensive kit. Might you be able to help us out?’
‘I don’t have any professional photographic equipment, but I can get a digital camera.’
‘That would be a great help. Is there anything I could do in return?’
‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘You can sign a couple of books for my shop later on.’
‘Sure, of course,’ Ubbo Heide said. They agreed to meet in the foyer of the city library.
Ubbo Heide ended the conversation and beamed at the three others from his wheelchair. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we have a camera now.’
‘Great,’ Weller grinned, ‘then I’ll play Holger Bloem tonight.’
*
The reception here was good. He was able to watch Svenja Moers in her prison on his iPhone screen. He zoomed in.
She had filled the washbasin to the brim with water. She was stocking up. Wet tiles glistened underneath the basin.
He zoomed in close on her face. She no longer looked so apathetic. Her eyes had a feverish glaze. It was as if she were looking at him directly. Did she know that he was watching her? Did the camera make sounds or detectable movements? He was upset that he hadn’t checked that beforehand. He had to know everything exactly, wanted to have the situation completely under control.
Did she want to tell him something? Or was she talking to herself?
He knew the feeling. He sometimes talked to himself too. Hearing his own voice, reassuring himself. It made him feel good.
He looked around at the car, as always ready to disappear unnoticed. He couldn’t be careful enough.
Here in the car park he felt unnoticed. There were only a few other vehicles close to his.
He turned on the sound and heard her yell. ‘Yves! Yves, damn it! Let’s talk! You can’t seriously want to keep me prisoner here! What the fuck! Talk to me, damn it! Come here now and talk to me!’
Then she coughed, was quiet, and fought back the tears. But she was still able to hold them back.
That’s good, he thought. Very good. I’ll soften you up.
He turned on the radio remotely. There was no reason. He just did it to prove that he had control at all times.
She flinched, as if someone invisible had entered the room. She looked for shelter in a corner behind the bed.
As she listened to Radio East Frisia, a couple of words of low German dialect were enough to make Svenja Moers confident again. She stood up.
He tuned to a different station to demonstrate his presence. The cheery voices and jokes of the morning were probably the starkest contrast to the horrifying situation Svenja Moers found herself in. Through this she was truly made aware of the horror of her situation.
She broke down in tears, burying her face in the pillows so he couldn’t see.
He stretched out on the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. He was completely back in the zone.
*
Rupert enjoyed freedom because Büscher had only given him a couple of definite orders. The whole Heymann case would have to be reopened, and there were many people on the list who would have to be interviewed. Rupert preferred young women to old men, and he chose his appointments accordingly.
Roswitha Wischnewski had a husky voice that sent a chill up Rupert’s spine. With that voice she would fit better in a dimly lit bar than a bright massage practice. Rupert called her a ‘masseuse’ but she made a point of being a massage therapist and chiropractor.
Chiropractor, how nice that sounded! As if she could master the positions that Rupert had never tried out with Beate. Was she one of those Kama Sutra-tantra specialists?
First of all, he flashed his badge to make an impression, stated he was investigating a sensitive matter and that he had a couple of questions. He had come to talk about an old case. She waved dismissively; she’d already spoken to them countless times. Why was the case being reopened now? She couldn’t say more today than she had in her
deposition back then. But she’d say this: she absolutely wasn’t mistaken and was one hundred percent sure she had recognised Yves Stern on the ferry. He’d been holding that baby. She hadn’t seen a woman, that had only been reported subsequently.
‘Why is it,’ Rupert asked, ‘that you are so certain that you recognised Mr Stern? Was he your type? I can’t really see it. He must have been at least twenty, if not thirty years older than me. Right?’
‘Right,’ she laughed. ‘No, he wasn’t my type. He was my teacher in elementary school. That’s why I recognised him. I waved to him, but he didn’t notice. At least that’s what I thought at the time. But maybe it was just awkward for him that I’d caught him with a kid.’
‘But if he’d kidnapped little Steffi Heymann from the island, why did he carry her so openly? He wasn’t an idiot, right? I would have hidden her in the car.’
Roswischneski whooped. ‘Yeah, that would have been even more obvious. In a car? On the ferry from Langeoog to Bensersiel? You haven’t been living in East Frisia very long, right? Langeoog is a car-free island!’
‘Yes,’ Rupert admitted, ‘right. Sure. I just wanted to test if you knew that.’
‘Well, aren’t you the clever one! You thought I hadn’t even been on the island? Back then I even showed your colleagues my ticket for the ferry. I happened to have collected everything and put it in an album – yep, I had time for things like that. These days I have the practice.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Rupert said, ‘could I maybe hire your services?’
To his surprise, she said, ‘I’m actually fully booked until the end of August, but I’ve already finished for today. So if you insist.’
Rupert felt the chill go up his spine again.
‘Undress and stand over there,’ she said.
The Oath Page 14