Liqueurs, cocktails, Prosecco, lattes – none of that for real men, Rupert thought.
He decided to get to the point. He wanted to get the necessary questions over with and then he had nothing else to do for the evening that couldn’t be postponed if the need arose.
He was imagining having another beer or two and then staying the night here. But they hadn’t reached that point yet. They still had to circle around each other a couple of times for the sake of decorum, although everything was essentially settled between them, Rupert thought. The way she looked at him, he could look forward to a passionate night.
He asked about Svenja Moers and if she had noticed whether anything might be going on between Moers and Yves Stern.
Agneta repositioned herself, pushed out her chest and declared with slight annoyance that she had noticed nothing of the kind. On the contrary, Yves had constantly given Agneta compliments, and they’d also planned a date, but unfortunately it hadn’t happened.
She looked thoroughly insulted. Rejected women were easy prey for guys like him, Rupert thought, but it was important to be cautious. The neglected ones were happy that anyone was interested in them, wanted to take revenge on their spouse by having an affair and boost their self-confidence. In contrast, the insulted, rejected ones could become dangerous. They could become angry if you only wanted a one-night stand.
Maybe he should write a book about women. He could hardly imagine that anyone knew more about the feminine soul than him.
‘He hit on you – and then jilted you?’ Rupert feigned shock. ‘No way!’
The way she looked at him her eyes seemed to take up the whole of her face.
‘What an idiot,’ Rupert added, shaking his head.
Flattered, she licked her lips and toasted him.
Then he switched to attack mode. The castle was ready to be stormed.
‘It feels like we’re getting on well,’ he said, and she agreed.
‘Unfortunately we still have a couple of items to work through. So this Yves Stern is a very dangerous man. He has – and this is very confidential – in all likelihood kidnapped Svenja Moers. You could be the next victim on his list.’
She held a hand in front of her mouth in shock. ‘Me?’
Rupert moved closer. ‘Well, if you were supposed to meet with him, then I assume that he was planning to kidnap you.’
‘But why?’
Rupert twisted his mouth and leaned over. ‘I mean, of course none of this is official yet, but I think he’s just a perverted sexually motivated murderer, and because you’re a very attractive woman with significant erotic charisma . . .’
‘Really? You think that about me?’
‘Oh yes. I’m an expert – he probably wanted to kidnap you, but then something got in the way.’
‘Oh my God, that means I’m in great danger; he knows where I live. I invited him over. He has my telephone number—’ Cold with fear, she rubbed her arms.
‘I’m here now,’ Rupert said. ‘I’ll grab him if he comes.’
‘Does that mean I’m acting as your decoy now?’
Rupert ran his hand over her hair. She accepted the gesture with appreciation.
‘Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you. I’ve been trained in hand-to-hand fighting.’
Rupert pulled out his iPad and showed her pictures of the men Weller had photographed in Gelsenkirchen.
‘Please look very closely at these pictures. Is one of them Yves Stern? Do you recognise any of them?’
She didn’t touch the device, as if she had too much respect for it, or was afraid of the men on the screen. She just nodded and muttered when she had seen enough and Rupert swiped over the touchscreen with his finger to push new pictures into view.
‘No, Yves Stern looks completely different. A little hippyish. But very tidy and clean. He seemed intellectual, slightly removed from reality. Certainly not a handyman, more of a philosophical type. Mop-headed.’ She motioned a bushy, superb head of hair. ‘Thick, wavy, red hair, such nice curls. I like that.’
Rupert grabbed his short curls. ‘Like me?’
She smiled at him. ‘No, much more volume, and longer too.’
Rupert was slightly disappointed.
She continued. ‘And then a huge full beard.’
‘Do women like that kind of thing?’ Rupert asked.
She pulled back her head and raised her shoulders giving herself a bird-like look. ‘Well, I’ve never kissed someone with a big, bushy beard. Does it tickle?
Rupert shook off the question. ‘No idea. I’ve never kissed someone with a big, bushy beard either. What else can you tell me about him? Every detail is important.’
‘Well, he wore round, metal-framed glasses, quite studenty.’
‘John Lennon spectacles?’
‘Yeah, exactly. He wore jeans and sweaters rather than a suit. Significantly taller than me. Lean.’
Rupert followed up. ‘A jogger?’
‘No, he didn’t really seem like a jogger. More like a vegetarian – but I’m not completely sure, if I think about it – after all, we were in a cooking class together, I would have noticed that. No, he just looks like someone who’s diet-conscious.’
Rupert gestured big biceps. ‘Ripped? Would it make sense to look for him at a gym?’
‘I don’t really think so,’ she said. ‘The way he looked, he would be more likely to visit a library than a gym. And if he goes to the cinema, it would be arthouse stuff, not a Hollywood blockbuster.’
Rupert tapped at his iPad. ‘Should we look at the pictures again? Maybe the full beard and hair weren’t real. Criminals like to change their appearance so they won’t be recognised.’
Carefully, she touched Rupert’s hair and played with a curl. ‘But this is real,’ she said.
He gulped. She was almost too bold for his liking. He wanted to conquer her, but it felt like she was taking him.
‘So you’re sure your husband’s not coming home?’ he asked.
She pulled Rupert closer. ‘Don’t turn me off by talking about my husband. I’m not asking about your wife.’
She took his head in both hands and turned him to the right angle. Then their mouths came ever closer. But she didn’t just kiss him; she started by nibbling at his lips. Then she gently licked his neck, as if tasting him.
Hopefully I won’t go home with a hickey again, Rupert thought. He was afraid that Agneta would latch onto his neck at any minute. She was so unpredictable.
Rupert felt like a beginner when she began to kiss him for real. As if it were his first sexual experience. This woman confused him.
She opened his shirt, and her fingers crawled over his upper body like small animals looking for nourishment. On the one hand, he wanted her so much that he would have liked nothing more than to make love to her right there on the chair or on the carpet. On the other hand, he felt a strange urge to flee and escape into the fresh air.
She noticed his hesitation with irritation and, briefly separating, she drank a sip of Prosecco. She threw her hair back, looking fantastically tousled and full of passion.
‘If you need to take any kind of medication, so we can have a little fun, now would be the right moment—’
‘I – what? No. Where’s that come from? I don’t need anything like that!’ He added proudly. ‘And I never have!’
Then he began to worry. If she were accustomed to doped men, how would he compare if she made love to him unplugged, so to speak.
‘Do you want another beer?’ she asked.
He smiled. Yes please! These little bottles are more the thing for a kid’s birthday party.’
She went to the fridge for him and Rupert understood what the word ‘lascivious’ meant.
On the way there, she slipped out of her skirt and stepped over it as if nothing had happened. Then, which pleased Rupert greatly, she bent over to grab the beer from the fridge. It was on the very bottom shelf.
*
It wasn’t good for him to l
isten to Ubbo Heide. It took him out of the zone. He felt criticised and misunderstood, especially now that Ubbo was speaking with Ann Kathrin Klaasen. The confidence between these two excluded him.
He’d turned the sound up to maximum. When no one was speaking, the device hummed like an over-revved engine.
He was baking a chocolate cake for Svenja Moers. It was an ancient family recipe. The cake had already been in the oven for forty minutes. He knelt down and looked at it. He liked the rising dough in that light.
He wanted to serve it with vanilla ice cream. Just as she’d said she liked. That it was often better than the sex before.
He was excited to see what she’d think of his cake.
He wanted to shock her. He imagined the thoughts that would race through her head when he stood in front of her with this post-coital dessert. Would she look like that idiot Faust had, just before the blade glided between his ribs and into his flabby body – like into warm, mushy shit?
But even though that act of punishment had gone so smoothly, it hadn’t taken him back to the zone. Everything felt terribly strained and he was fatigued. The feeling that everything would go his way was missing. He had to push through so much resistance; the universe wasn’t on his side.
But this was only because of that unreasonable Ubbo Heide and Ann Kathrin Klaasen. She was a typical police officer. She viewed Stern and Heymann as victims just because they had been killed rather than perpetrators who had been punished. She was a bad influence on Ubbo, pushing him in the wrong direction.
That whole anti-death penalty faction, that army of gullible do-gooders, had contributed to the putrefaction and dulling of society. They handed the state over to serious criminals and organised crime.
This incompetent and ludicrous justice system was no longer able to deal with criminals and long ago had begun to protect rapists from libel. It financed therapy for murderers and organised courses to retrain organised criminals. These narrow-minded believers in justice were ultimately ruining the rule of law. This country needed sharp knives to win the fight of good against evil. A reaper. Him.
But he couldn’t do it without allies. Had he completely misunderstood Ubbo Heide? Ann Kathrin Klaasen’s voice alone got on his nerves.
‘Many people call for paedophiles to be beheaded, Ubbo. Our culprit carried out the deed. In your book you expressed the hope that Svenja Moers would be put behind bars forever before she did it again—’
‘Stop it, Ann, please stop! You’re completely right. He’s working through my book. It’s been ages since I last felt this bad. I would like nothing more than to hide somewhere and bury my head in the sand. Do you think he’ll keep on going? Should we give all former suspects from the book police protection? There are twenty-three of them. No one would approve that.’
That’d be even better, he thought grimly, pulling on the oven gloves and taking the cake out of the oven.
He sprinkled icing sugar on the hot chocolate cake. Then he tried a piece right away.
‘We don’t have any other choice,’ Büscher said. ‘The press will slaughter us if the next one dies or is kidnapped.’
‘So protection for twenty-three people?’ Weller asked.
The cake was too soft, too mushy. He couldn’t even get this right! Not even a simple kids’ cake.
‘I have to do everything alone and this group of criminals will get protection from the government.’ He cursed and slammed the warm chocolate cake against the wall.
Ubbo cracked something between his teeth and kept talking. ‘Besides, Faust doesn’t fit into the pattern. I think we can clearly assume we are dealing with the same perpetrator, but Faust doesn’t appear in my book. And now he’s lying next to Heymann and Stern in the forensics department.’
‘I watched Faust’s last show three times now. It’s possible it was the trigger for his murder.’ Ann Kathrin said, ‘And there’s a transcript of the conversation. I always like it when things are put into writing, it requires more precision.’
‘Yes, I read that too. He basically insults all of us. Me, you, the entire East Frisian police.’
Ubbo Heide was chomping again.
‘What are you eating?’ Ann Kathrin asked.
‘Those mints from Bochum. Would you like one? They are really addictive.’
‘No, thanks, I have enough problems already.’
The device crackled. Either Ann Kathrin Klaasen wasn’t talking loudly enough or she was too far away from the receiver.
‘Ubbo, he called the perpetrator a psychopathic killer. And that’s probably exactly what he is. Faust sketched a clear picture of his personality. But I don’t think that’s why he had to die.’
‘Why then?’
‘Because he attacked all of us. Think about it, Ubbo. The killer identifies with us. He’s one of us.’
Ubbo Heide spoke loudly. ‘Knock it off! You’re not telling me our former colleague Willy Kaufmann—’
‘You said it, Ubbo. At any rate, I think it’s someone who’s frustrated. Someone who was passed over for promotion, or left the service. He feels unfairly treated. He has a big score to settle with the rest of the world. He can handle weapons. He is strong enough to behead humans and to overcome strong men in their homes. He knows our rules. He knows you. Your car. Your daughter. He leaves clues where he knows we’d have to follow them up because that’s just what we do. But he also knows that these traces won’t lead to him. I’ve been asking myself if he doesn’t even have an assistant among us.’
‘Oh, just knock it off, Ann. Assistant? He probably has a few secret sympathisers since murdering Faust, but certainly no assistant!’
He rubbed his hands together. That was just what he needed. Helpers and sympathisers. And best of all, Ubbo Heide himself.
He hadn’t played all his trump cards yet. He’d only just started the game, and everything would go his way in the next hand.
The pieces of cake that were stuck to the wall followed the laws of gravity and slid to the floor.
He’d get her to clean that up, he thought. Later.
He wanted to bake her a new chocolate cake. A better one. But he couldn’t stand mess and rubbish lying around. That mushy cake on the wall and the floor caused him pain. Either he had to get her out of the cell immediately and force her to clean it up or he’d do it herself.
He couldn’t bear to leave everything as it was. Not for a couple of hours, not even for a couple of minutes. He just couldn’t. He fetched the dustpan and brush from underneath the sink and started to sweep up the crumbs and the fist-sized, sticky pieces of cake. He put a big chunk in a soup bowl. Then he opened the freezer and took out the vanilla ice cream. He deposited two large scoops of ice cream on the cake and garnished the whole thing with two gooseberries and a squirt of whipped cream from a can. Then he stuck a spoon in it.
He reassured himself that the fountain pen was in his breast pocket. It was the same kind that Ubbo Heide had loved using when he was still working.
Then he balanced the dish, carrying it through the hallway like a well-trained waiter. He straightened up before reaching the switch for the steel door. He had to regain control of everything. Master of the universe. King of fortune. Vanquisher of facts.
He wanted to get back in the zone. The door whirred open.
Svenja Moers was perched on the bed, staring at him.
‘Chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream,’ he said triumphantly.
She thought he was playing another game with her and wasn’t planning to give her the cake. But it was different this time. He pushed the dish through the slot in the bars. The dessert was piled so high that the spoon collided with the bars and fell off.
She inhaled the scent of the food. She immediately realised that it would make her sick, but she didn’t mind. The ice cream alone was a short trip to paradise. She could feel it in her mouth before the spoon reached her lips. Then she dug in greedily, as if the bowl could disappear at any second.
‘A small preview of a b
etter life to come,’ he prophesied. ‘After this you’ll write your confession and . . . ’
He didn’t continue, waiting for her reaction. She looked up at him, swallowed, and nodded.
He removed the fountain pen from his pocket and placed it in the slot.
‘You can write on the back of those prints. Faust’s dead body in the pictures gives the confession enough weight. After all, we’re talking about life and death. That’s what it’s been about the whole time.’
She was shovelling so greedily that she choked and had to cough. When the dish was empty, he started pacing in front of the bars and dictated to her:
‘Your confession should be addressed directly to Ubbo Heide.’
‘To who?’
‘Ubbo Heide.’
‘To the cop who made my life such a misery? Because of him, I almost—’
‘Yes, that’s exactly who.’
It doesn’t matter at all what I write, she thought. I can retract everything later. Forced confessions from situations like these are worthless.
Besides, she’d heard you couldn’t be charged for the same crime twice – double jeopardy – so she’d get out of it anyway. This confession was a letter to the outside world. With it she could draw attention to herself and her situation. Perhaps it could serve the police as a sign pointing the way to her.
She burped and clung to this shrea of hope.
‘So write: Dear Mr Ubbo Heide – no, don’t! This is better: Honourable Mr Heide. My name is Svenja Moers, and I’m right where I belong: behind bars.’
She wrote. Her breathing rattled, as if she were suffering from severe bronchitis. She had trouble writing the right words. She didn’t want to make any mistakes. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who generously overlooked mistakes.
Should she use contractions? Should she write ‘I’m’ or ‘I am’?
She tried a compromise, giving the reader as much room for interpretation as possible. Maybe she used an apostrophe, maybe not. Her shaky hands didn’t make it any easier.
‘This is my confession.’ He considered. Write that: Confession. And don’t even dare try to smuggle in any words, signs or clues. I’m still treating you nicely, in keeping with Western law. If you prefer Sharia, then just try tricking me once more!’
The Oath Page 23