Under the Ice

by Gisa Klönne

  Judith nods.

  ‘Come for dinner at eight. I’ll know more by then.’

  The Canadian detective scribbles an address on the back of her business card. ‘You follow the track past Old Martha’s Cottage and then keep going for another three miles or so to where it ends. That’s where I live.’

  Cozy Harbour still has a sleepy air about it when Judith returns after half an hour’s drive, but the restaurant on the dockside is now open. Lethargic-looking men in baseball caps and checked shirts are sitting at the bar, drinking beer and looking out at the water. Mariah Carey is blaring out of the jukebox; the television above the bar is showing the news on mute. No, yes, maybe, perhaps – none of the men will commit to having seen the woman in the photo. ‘Rather a shy woman, quite tall,’ Judith insists. ‘An ornithologist interested in loons. Might have come to see Terence Atkinson.’ The men pass the photo around, gulp their beer, shake their heads.

  Outside by the docks, Judith thinks for a moment that she sees the water plane. When she realises that she’s mistaken, the sense of unreality returns – the feeling that she has fallen out of time. Being with David, knowing that she felt at home in his arms and yet wasn’t going to be able to stay, has made her soft and vulnerable, probably because she is finding it increasingly difficult to keep her concerns and memories surrounding Charlotte in check, here in this vast empty country. Death. For a moment Judith is convinced that’s what the tarot card was trying to tell her – that instead of finding the beginning of a new and better life, she will find death. Stop it, she tells herself – you’re exhausted, that’s all. Besides, you’ve kept right out of things these few last months in Cologne. It’s no wonder you’re overwhelmed now.

  But she doesn’t want to feel overwhelmed; she wants to find Charlotte. Before she returns to Cologne and resumes her work for the dead, she wants to get on top of this search, which is beginning to feel more and more like an official investigation. It’s as if solving the Charlotte Simonis ‘case’ would be a good omen for her future in Division 11, whereas failing to solve it – oh, stop it, Judith, don’t torment yourself. She rolls herself a cigarette and inhales deeply.

  Besides groceries and toiletries, the supermarket in Cozy Harbour sells sheath knives, fishing rods and camping equipment. A back room behind a barred door serves as an off-licence. It is just opening; men in baseball caps and checked shirts who bear an uncanny resemblance to the men at the harbour bar are standing patiently in line to get their brown paper bags of liquor. Judith buys a bottle of red wine, a bottle of mineral water and a cup of coffee. She feels a nagging concern about the way Atkinson has shaken her off – and about her lack of leverage over him. Again she passes round Charlotte’s photo. Again, no one will commit to having seen Charlotte.

  As so often, she strikes lucky just as she is beginning to give up hope. Yes, the cashier says, glancing at the photo Judith shows her as she pays. She remembers the woman. A foreigner – German or Scandinavian. A tall woman. She bought camping equipment and wanted to be told how everything worked – must have been about four weeks ago.

  ‘Did she tell you her plans? Was she with anyone?’

  The cashier shakes her head.

  ‘Where was she going?’

  The cashier smiles. She doesn’t know. ‘Camping, I assume, but I’ve no idea where.’

  Judith has to get the cashier away from her customers and the till, and she needs a copy of the receipt documenting Charlotte’s purchase. But she isn’t authorised to do that, and realising to what extent her hands are tied without her warrant card makes her furious again. All she can do for now is to take a note of the cashier’s name and phone number.

  Back in the hire car, Judith wedges the polystyrene cup between her knees and turns once more onto the gravel track leading out of Cozy Harbour. She resists the temptation to drive down to Old Martha’s Cottage and confront Atkinson with the cashier’s statement. Until she can prove he was with Charlotte, he isn’t going to admit it.

  The next turning leads down to a bay that is deserted and undeveloped. The water still stretches all the way to the horizon, but the intense turquoise has turned to a velvety dark blue. It is a little after seven – past midnight in Cologne. The call of a seabird rends the air – wistful, plangent and alien. The bird itself is nowhere to be seen. Purposefully, Judith strips off her clothes and dives naked into the water. She swims away from the shore with powerful strokes. Again the bird’s exotic cry rings out. Judith still can’t see what’s making the sound, but it no longer disturbs her, because in some timeless way it seems to belong to the bay. She rolls onto her back and floats on the waves until she feels refreshed.

  Margery Cunningham has changed out of her skirt and blouse into jeans and a scarlet checked flannel shirt. ‘Let’s eat first; I’m starving,’ she proposes in her smoky voice after hellos have been said. Her wooden house looks tiny compared with the barn beside it which, Margery tells Judith, her husband Sean uses as a carpentry workshop. Next to the barn is a dusty pick-up truck, and next to that are several stacks of planks and logs. Margery uncorks the red wine and thrusts two glasses into Judith’s hands.

  ‘We’re having a barbecue on the beach – grilled corn on the cob and hamburgers – the real Canadian experience. The others are already there.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘My husband and the kids.’

  ‘Don’t we need a third glass?’

  ‘Sean doesn’t drink.’

  The barbecue turns out to be a bonfire. A rug has been laid out on the warm sand, the sun is going down over the water and there is an alluring smell of corn on the cob and meat. Sean looks Native American, and the children are dark like their father, but with something of Margery’s angelic softness in their faces. They eat in comfortable silence. Judith suddenly realises how hungry she was. For pudding, the kids skewer fluffy white marshmallows onto sticks and toast them over the flames.

  ‘Want to try?’ Margery points at the bag of marshmallows. ‘Every Canadian child’s dream.’

  ‘Think I’ll give them a miss.’

  ‘Let’s go down to the water, then.’ Margery takes the bottle of wine, breathes a kiss on her husband’s cheek and gets up.

  A piece of driftwood washed smooth by the water provides them with a back rest. The sky explodes in reds and purples. Judith lights a cigarette and gives one to Margery. They sit and smoke, watching the colours from the sky spreading in the water.

  ‘I’ve never wanted to leave. I wasn’t cut out for city life.’ Margery sips her wine.

  ‘I think I know what you mean.’ Judith lets sand trickle through her fingers. ‘It’s all so grimy and hemmed in. At home in Cologne I sometimes find it hard to take too.’

  ‘But trying to find a man here is like playing the lottery. All the good ones leave for the city; only the alcoholics stay behind.’

  ‘How did you and Sean meet?’

  Margery laughs her throaty, nightclub laugh. ‘In prison. I was on patrol duty and arrested him for drink-driving. In the morning, when he was halfway sober, I could see that like so many members of the so-called ‘First Nation’ he had a serious alcohol problem, but I could also see that he was a good sort. “Come back when you’re sober,” I told him. And he did – six months later. He’s been on the wagon ever since.’

  ‘Weren’t you scared?’

  ‘Scared?’ Margery stretches out her legs. ‘Yes, I was. And then there was the gossip. But I tried to listen to what my heart was telling me – that Sean was good for me, that he was better than most of the men here, that he’d stay on the wagon, that we’d make it. And I wanted kids. Sounds banal, doesn’t it?’

  Judith smiles. ‘Yes.’

  ‘As time went on I got less scared. I stopped panicking every time he stayed out late. I guess I’ll never stop being scared completely, but I can live with that. What about you?’

  Scared? Oh yes. Scared of love and what it might lead to. Scared of the emptiness after love has run its course.
Scared that living people will turn into dead people.

  ‘I don’t know. I was on my own for a long time. Now I’ve met someone, but it’s all very recent and I can’t say the circumstances are in our favour.’ That isn’t enough, but it will have to do for the time being. Judith feels Margery’s eyes on her, sympathetic and wise. She stubs out her cigarette.

  ‘The cashier in your supermarket is sure she sold camping gear to Charlotte a few weeks ago,’ Judith says after a while.

  ‘That tallies with what I’ve found out. Charlotte Simonis was here. From 16 to 23 May she had a single room at the Moonshine Inn, a motel between Cozy Harbour and Parry Sound. I haven’t found an unsolved death that fits her description. By the way, her tourist visa expires next week. So in all probability, she is still in Canada; at any rate there are no records that she has left the country legally.’

  ‘But where is she?’

  ‘She wanted to go north, to watch loons. That, at least, is what she told the receptionist at the Moonshine. Nothing more precise.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Not so fast. I know how she travelled north. On 24 May she returned her hire car in Parry Sound and booked a flight with a company called Trips to the Wilderness. It’s a small business which specialises in transporting private people who want individualised fishing trips, panoramic flights, camping tours, things like that. Unfortunately, no one in the office was able to tell me where exactly Charlotte was flown to. The pilot who took her won’t be back until tomorrow lunchtime.’

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘David Becker. He’s from Germany, by the way, and lives in Cozy Harbour. Easy game for you.’

  ‘David Becker!’

  ‘What? Do you know him?’ It’s only a question, but the undercurrent in Margery’s voice fills Judith with apprehension.

  ‘Yes,’ she says cautiously. ‘Or rather, not really – not very well. Only since this morning.’

  Silence. She can almost hear Margery waiting for her to resume talking. But what can she say? That instead of questioning this potentially key witness about Charlotte’s whereabouts, she jumped into bed with him? She gropes for her packet of tobacco.

  ‘What do you know about Becker, Margery?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing against him.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He’s a loner. Came here a few years ago. Divorced, I think.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s more of a feeling. He’s a bit too smart for my liking. The tourists love that – the women tourists, I mean.’

  Thursday, 28 July

  His mobile starts to jingle even before the alarm clock’s gone off. It’s stuffy in the bedroom, and Manni’s head is buzzing. He could have done without that last wheat beer. And the one before, come to that. He rummages about in the pile of clothes next to his bed where the ringing is coming from. There’s quite a lot he could have done without last night, starting with that hospital visit.

  ‘Korzilius!’

  ‘We’ve got the dachshund!’ It’s Thalbach, his voice sonorous and self-confident. Manni glances at the digits of his alarm clock – 6.29 a.m. What’s Thalbach doing in the office at this hour in the morning? Does he spend the night there these days? Has his wife chucked him out? The alarm clock begins to beep. Manni silences it with a practised whack.

  ‘Is it—?’

  ‘Dead. Probably been dead a few days, Forensics say.’ Great. In this heat too.

  ‘And it’s definitely Jonny Röbel’s dog?’

  ‘It’s missing an ear and comes accompanied by a newspaper cutting of our missing persons announcement. It would be very strange if it turned out not to be.’

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Frimmersdorf.’

  ‘Frimmersdorf?’

  ‘Up near the Dutch border. There’s a driver on his way to you – should be with you any minute.’

  No shower, then, and no breakfast – although, given the prospect of a semi-putrefied body and the already overworked state of Manni’s stomach after all the beer yesterday, skipping breakfast might be a wise move. Up near the Dutch border. How did the dog get there? The motorway, Manni thinks. The A4 lay-by. I wasn’t so far wrong, then, even if I haven’t managed to prove anything yet. He sits up. His head protests with a surge of pain, and he suppresses a groan.

  ‘It was found by the parish priest,’ Thalbach announces, sounding sickeningly well-rested. ‘Of all people. I’ll be interested to hear what you have to report.’

  The parish priest of Frimmersdorf, who is waiting for them in a small car park below the church, looks just as you’d imagine a country pastor – a round-bellied, rosy-cheeked gentleman of around sixty. He introduces himself as Father Lehmann. Strands of white hair are sticking to his scalp and he fumbles nervously with his dog collar, which is clearly getting in the way of the violent rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. With its sharp slate spire, the church of St Martin towers over the huddle of brick houses that make up the village, its weathercock flashing gold in the early morning light. Somewhere, at annoying intervals, a factory siren sounds, destroying any impression of a rural idyll. Frimmersdorf, about forty kilometres from Cologne, is at the mercy of the electricity industry, even if the air in the village lanes probably smells of cow dung. It lies as if forgotten in a landscape dominated by overhead power lines and cooling towers.

  A small but steadily growing band of largely elderly villagers has gathered behind Father Lehmann at a respectful distance. They stare mutely at Manni, who clears his throat.

  ‘Are you ready then, Father Lehmann?’

  The priest nods and sets off, across the lane and alongside the church wall. Steep stone steps lead up to the main entrance of St Martin’s, where a local uniformed policeman is standing. Lehmann leans heavily on the wrought-iron railing and shudders. The unmistakeable stench of rotting flesh hangs in the air.

  ‘I live just next door,’ the priest says, gesturing towards one of the squat brick houses. ‘I get up early, at about five – half past at the latest. It was the same today. I had a cup of coffee. Then I went out for my usual morning walk – and here, at the feet of our Lord Jesus, I saw the suitcase.’

  A suitcase at the feet of the Lord – Manni fights back a grin. But when they come to the top of the steps, he realises that the description is accurate. Beside the church porch, against the façade, there is a life-sized wooden Christ, nailed to a cross. A weathered copper roof shades his thorn-crowned head, and at his feet a concrete tub is filled with ivy and flowers. Next to the tub lies a red-and-green checked children’s suitcase.

  ‘At first I thought it was an offering or a toy, but the smell . . .’ Again Father Lehmann tries to loosen his dog collar. ‘And then I saw this newspaper cutting on the lid with the photo of the missing boy and his dog.’

  ‘You opened the suitcase?’

  The Adam’s apple leaps up and down more furiously than ever. ‘I thought it my duty.’

  They will have to take the priest’s fingerprints. Manni pulls on latex gloves, telling his stomach to behave itself, and lifts the lid. Flies appear, and no wonder – the stench is overwhelming. A dog’s eye stares out at him unseeingly. Where the floppy ear should be is nothing but scabbed fur, making the head at rest on the white sheet look strangely disfigured. Bloating has probably already set in; Karl-Heinz Müller will be delighted. The animal’s body is covered with sheets. It looks as if it’s been laid out – carefully, almost lovingly. Someone has gone to some trouble.

  Manni’s phone begins to buzz. He takes the call without looking at the display.

  ‘Manfred, your father . . . You have to—’

  ‘Not now, Mother.’ He ends the call – once, and then again when his phone buzzes a second time. Bile sears his throat. He swallows hard and straightens up. Father Lehmann is watching him intently.

  ‘The criminal technicians should be here any moment now,’ Manni tells the patrol officer. Then he turns to the priest. ‘When exactly did
you discover the suitcase?’

  ‘Soon after half past five.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long could it have been here?’

  ‘A few hours at most. I got back late from a house visit last night – at about eleven – and the suitcase definitely wasn’t there then.’

  Manni looks up at a street lamp. ‘Are the lamps on all night?’

  ‘They go off at midnight.’

  So whoever brought the suitcase will have waited. That still leaves five hours. They’ll have to question the villagers; maybe somebody noticed something.

  ‘Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary last night? Did you wake up at all?’

  Father Lehmann shakes his head. Beads of sweat are forming on his brow.

  The forensics van pulls up at the bottom of the steps. Like paramedics who are still in with a chance of saving a life, Karin and Klaus dash up the steps in their white overalls.

  ‘I had exactly the same suitcase when I was little,’ Karin cries in delight. ‘Bet you can’t get them any more.’

  Good point, Manni thinks. A first clue to the perpetrator’s identity – and yet another mystery to be solved. He pops a Fisherman’s Friend between his teeth to fight the sharp taste of bile. The aspirin and Coke he tossed down earlier seem to be doing the trick at last; his headache is gradually subsiding. Not that he feels in particularly good shape.

  ‘It’s covered in earth,’ says Karin. ‘Someone’s wiped it, but I could swear this suitcase was recently in contact with soil.’

  ‘You mean someone put it down in the dirt?’

  ‘The cracks wouldn’t be so impregnated with earth if that was all. Looks more like it was completely covered – maybe even buried.’

  ‘Buried?’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite possible.’

  ‘And why was it dug up again?’

  ‘It isn’t my job to find that out, Manni.’