by Gisa Klönne
‘Are you quite sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Parents don’t always know everything about their children.’
‘Jonny was happy. As happy as he could be, given the circumstances.’
He doesn’t believe her, but before he can probe any further, his phone begins to buzz – Thalbach, his boss. ‘We have a witness who knows something about this suitcase. It would be good if you could come straight away.’ It’s an order.
‘I’m in the middle of questioning someone and was planning to go on to the school afterwards.’
‘I’ve just sent Petra into the school. When can you get here?’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Manni glances at his watch, then at Martina Stadler, who pulls her shawl tighter, her face unmoved.
‘Frau Stadler, where is your husband?’
‘I don’t know?’
‘And that doesn’t worry you?’
‘He’s a free man.’
‘Did you tell him yesterday that I wanted to speak to him?’
She nods.
‘Frau Stadler, if there’s anything you’d like to tell me – anything about your husband . . . You don’t have to, of course, but it isn’t always a good idea to protect someone by keeping silent.’
It’s as if she doesn’t hear him.
‘Ask your husband to get in touch with me today. Otherwise we’ll have to put him on the Wanted List.’
Her silence accompanies him down the front path, past the chaotic mass of toys that are still strewn across the fake cobbles. It’s like a metaphor for the muddle of facts and witness statements that make up Jonny Röbel’s case.
On his way to headquarters, Manni rings the hospital. His father can’t speak, the nurse tells him, but his mother is there and will call him back. Only moments later, her voice is coming over the hands-free system, filling the car, which seems to be growing closer and stuffier by the minute – the perfect breeding ground for Manni’s guilt.
‘Your father’s dying. It’s serious, Manni. Come and make it up with him while there’s still time.’
‘I can’t. I’m working. I have to find this boy. I’m on the way to question a witness.’
‘Please, Manni. Give the living a chance. Don’t always be thinking about the dead.’
She begins to cry. He cuts her off.
The witness is sitting in the interrogation room, sipping a glass of water. Carmen Vogt is in her late forties – the co-owner of a travel agent’s that specialises in city tours. She is well groomed and discreetly chic but she has rather harsh lines around her mouth. Her mother-of-pearl fingernail taps the photo of the checked suitcase on the local news page of the Cologne Gazette.
‘That used to be mine. I wrote my name in the lid when I was little: Carmen. A colleague of yours has shown me a photo of the writing. There’s no doubt whatsoever.’
‘But you didn’t put the dog in the suitcase.’
‘No.’ She doesn’t smile. Perhaps she has no sense of irony.
‘When did you last see the suitcase?’
‘Years ago. As far as I can remember, it was always in my parents’ attic in Frimmersdorf.’
‘Who could have taken it?’
‘My mother says she put it out for the dustmen, but she can’t remember when. Sometime last year. She’s getting old.’
‘We’ll have to talk to your mother.’
For a second, Carmen has the look of a child caught doing something naughty. ‘Is that really necessary? She worries a lot and is sometimes rather confused. She certainly isn’t a criminal.’
‘Maybe it would help if you came with us.’
‘Now? That’s impossible. The last week before the summer holidays is always hellishly busy. Last-minute bookings – an awful trend. But what can you do? The customers—’
‘I need your mother’s name and address, please.’ Manni’s not in the mood for listening to excuses. Excuses, half-truths and objections. He makes a note of the address reluctantly dictated to him by Carmen Vogt. Now he has to go and interview a confused old lady; he’s spared nothing. But the suitcase is a lead and Thalbach expects him to follow it. And Carmen Vogt is right – the school holidays are looming. His witnesses will soon be away on holiday; the whole thing is a disaster.
Not enough time. Not enough time to sleep or think or work through the questions on his list. He must talk to this Tim Rinker, no matter what Thalbach’s instructions were. The boy must know something. Tim’s cousin, Ivonne Rinker, is in Jonny’s class, as is Viktor, Petermann’s son. Why didn’t Big Chief Petermann mention that his son and Jonny were in the same class? That’s something else Manni needs to get to the bottom of. But first he must put Petra Bruckner in the picture. He says goodbye to Carmen Vogt and rings his colleague on her mobile. Old Frau Vogt isn’t going to run away from him; he’ll stop off at Jonny’s school on the way to Frimmersdorf. Manni pushes aside all thoughts of his father. Later. This evening. One thing at a time.
There’s a knock at the door. Carmen Vogt is back. ‘Please don’t tell my mother I was here.’
‘That can hardly be avoided.’ Manni gets up. Women and their secrets. Women and their emotional mysteries. The suitcase is only one tiny piece in the puzzle, and even that tiny piece is creating new problems. This feels nothing like a breakthrough. He must tackle Petermann. And where the hell has Frank Stadler got to?
*
Tim doesn’t know where to go when the bell rings for break. Not to his hiding place by the fence – never again, after what they did to him there. Herr Mohr, the chemistry teacher, is on playground duty. Tim tries to stick close to him without attracting his attention. Viktor and Ivonne are sitting on the top step of the open-air atrium with Ralle. Viktor has his arm around Ivonne’s shoulder, his hand dangling casually in front of her breast, almost touching it. Apart from this, he ignores her, engrossed in his conversation with Ralle, but Ivonne doesn’t seem to mind. IPod plugs in her ears, she pops bubblegum bubbles and scrutinises her fingernails.
Now they’ve spotted Tim. They look down at him and start to grin. Ralle spreads his fingers to mime a phone call. Viktor slightly lifts the hand dangling at Ivonne’s breast and extends his index finger. Very gently he moves it back and forth, back and forth, just like they did yesterday with Tim’s penis, willy, dick . . . no, he won’t think about it – he can’t – he doesn’t want to be reminded of it. Heat fills his face. He turns round, sees Lukas, hears him laugh, begins to run. He must get away from here.
A hand grabs him by the shoulder. Tim thrashes about; the grip tightens.
‘Hey, Tim, where do you think you’re going?’ Frau Keyser asks. ‘The police have a couple more questions to ask you. Come along with me, please.’
Their eyes burn holes in his back. He hears Lukas laugh; he knows that Viktor is still waggling his index finger. He feels like a condemned man on his way to the guillotine, like in the illustration in his book on the French Revolution. But he knows it won’t be over so quickly for him.
Frau Keyser leads him into an empty classroom. Outside, in the corridor, the policeman in trainers and his fat, predatory-fish colleague look as if they’re arguing, but they fall quiet when they spot Tim. The policeman in trainers hurries over.
‘Hello, Tim. We were interrupted last time I was here. Come on, let’s sit down again and finish talking.’
The predatory-fish woman makes predatory-fish eyes, but she doesn’t follow him into the classroom. Frau Keyser pulls the door shut behind her and sits down at a desk at the back. The policeman in trainers leafs through a notepad.
‘Have you thought of anything else that might help us to find Jonny?’
Tim shakes his head.
‘Your cousin Ivonne is in Jonny’s class. Was it through her that you got to know Jonny?’
‘No, it was at chess club.’
‘Are Ivonne and Jonny friends?’
‘No.’
‘We talked about the Red Indian camp last time. Y
ou said Jonny was looking forward to it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why weren’t you a member of the Red Indian club?’
‘Dunno. It’s not really my thing.’
‘What isn’t your thing, Tim?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Do you think playing cowboys and Indians is silly?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘And it’s not because of Jonny.’ That isn’t a question; it’s a statement.
Jonny had once asked him to go along, but the thought of sleeping in a tent with a lot of children he didn’t know – no, he couldn’t, not even if Jonny was there.
‘Why didn’t you want to play cowboys and Indians with your friend, Tim?’
‘We did play, just not at the camp.’
‘Because you didn’t want to go to the camp. But why not? Because of the other children?’
‘Just didn’t want to.’
‘But Jonny did. Why didn’t you go too, if you’re such good friends, Tim?’
Tim stares at the desk in front of him. DOLLING YOU BITCH, someone has written.
‘Or was it that Jonny didn’t really want to go to this Red Indian camp with his father?’
DOLLING YOU BITCH.
‘Do you know what, Tim? I get the impression you’re scared of something. Jonny was scared too, the day he went missing. Don’t you think you can trust me a bit, so we can find your friend?’
‘Jonny’s never scared – he isn’t like that!’
The policeman in trainers runs his hand through his hair. It’s a casual gesture, but there’s nothing casual about the look in his eyes.
‘All right, then – Jonny’s never scared. But you’re scared, Tim. Is it something in the Red Indian camp that scares you? Something in the woods? Here at school? What is it?’
He wants the questions to stop, wants the eyes to stop looking at him, wants everything to stop. Frau Keyser hasn’t found out about his black picture of the invisible fish yet, or she’d surely have said something. Deep-sea anglerfish have antennae-like things on their heads, which light up at the tips when they want to bait their prey. The rest of the time they move around in the blackness, invisible. Young anglerfish are covered in a layer of gelatine to make them appear larger in case they are discovered by their enemies in spite of the dark. It looks as if the blackness flows through the gelatine, through the fishes’ bodies. Lovely, pure, protective blackness.
‘Tim, didn’t you hear my question? What are you scared of?’
DOLLING YOU BITCH. The photo of the deep-sea anglerfish is the only picture in the book that Tim didn’t carve up. They’ll soon leave you alone. Jonny, you traitor.
‘I think it would be better if you continued the questioning in the presence of Tim’s parents,’ says Frau Keyser from the back of the classroom.
Not that, not them too. Tim raises his head.
‘Jonny wanted to go to Radebeul.’
The policeman looks at him without a glimmer of surprise.
*
Wailing, droning, the whirr of propellers. Judith turns onto her side. It’s cold in the log cabin. She pulls the sleeping bag tighter around her. The droning doesn’t go away. There was no droning in the night – no man-made sound at all apart from their breathing. They had glided soundlessly over the black lake that reflected the stars. Wine by the fire, David’s arms, the smell of his skin, the loon’s song. Don’t forget this.
The droning moves away and becomes reality. Judith sits up with a jolt. She is alone and David isn’t there. The leaden light of morning is seeping in at a narrow window. The droning is the noise of a plane taking off, which is absurd, impossible. Judith tears open the sleeping bag, gets to her feet, stumbles outside. It smells of burnt wood and ever so slightly of kerosene. The pale jetty is deserted. Out on the lake, David’s Cessna is just taking off. Judith runs onto the jetty. The water plane climbs steadily, loops round and disappears over the treetops.
Dazed, she watches it go. As if drugged, as if in shock, unable to understand. Charlotte is her first thought. Charlotte has stolen our plane. But where would Charlotte have learnt to fly? What would she want with a stolen plane? And, more important, where is David, if he’s not in the cockpit of his plane? It makes no sense. The noise of the engine dies away and all at once there is no sound, not even the call of an animal. Silence envelops Judith – that peculiar silence that exists only where nature reigns alone.
She looks about her. The small clearing between the log cabin and the shore is empty, but there is smoke rising; David must have lit a fire. On a griddle in the embers she finds a tin pot filled with hot, freshly brewed coffee. The canoe is lying where they pulled it up onto land last night. In the hull is a Canadian dollar coin, a loony. Lucky charms, David called them yesterday. Well, isn’t that just great?
In the log cabin, David’s bag has gone. The small rucksack containing the few things Judith brought with her is lying on the floor. She switches on her phone. No messages. No reception. No connection possible. Bed, wooden benches, a roughly carpentered table, a few shelves – it would be hard to hide anything here. All the same, Judith carries out a systematic search of the log cabin. She finds a map under the bed and unfolds it. The log cabin is marked with a cross – or at least, that’s what she assumes. There is nothing for miles around – no settlement, no roads; only patches of blue in a vast expanse of green that merges with Killarney Provincial Park after what must be about thirty kilometres. Judith tips out her rucksack and feels in all the pockets. No message from David, no explanation – nothing. That leaves the cupboard, which is secured with a padlock. Judith breaks it open with her penknife. Inside is a shotgun, a packet of shot cartridges and several tins of food.
She suddenly realises she’s shivering, puts on her trousers and fleece jacket, hangs the shotgun over her shoulder and goes out to the fire, where she pours herself coffee and warms her hands on the mug. It’s still early, not yet six. A strip of reddish light is beginning to mingle with the grey above the lake. Maybe David just had something to see to and didn’t want to wake her. Maybe he’ll be back soon. Judith drinks the bitter black coffee in little sips. The shivering subsides, but the chill remains. She knows David won’t come back. Trips to the Wilderness – how ironic! For whatever reason, he has abandoned her in the wilderness. She let him blind her. Her body deceived her; she trusted someone she shouldn’t have trusted, and now her search for Charlotte has come to a premature and grotesque end – an end that will cost Judith her job in Division 11, unless she can somehow manage to get back to Toronto in forty-eight hours. Realistically, of course, she doesn’t have a chance.
*
The B59 is, by a long way, the ugliest trunk road Manni can remember ever having driven on. It cuts a dead-straight line through agricultural landscape designed for efficiency and devoid of nature. Overhead power lines span the road, vast pylons dwarf the houses. ‘National Energy Capital’ a sign says in the colours of the German flag as you drive into Grevenbroich. To the left of the road, the brown-coal power stations heave themselves out of the fields, crude blocks that puff steam from their chimneys and cooling towers – a never-ending mass of cloud, so viscous that it drifts down towards the ground before billowing up into the air and dispersing to whitish wisps of cotton wool in the dazzling midday sky. The Vectra’s air conditioning has given up the ghost, and the air coming in through the windows is at once searing hot and cloying. The relatively bearable dry heat of the past few days has given way to humidity, and there’s no respite in sight – no more than in the Jonny Röbel case.
Elisabeth Vogt gingerly opens the front door to Manni after he’s rung the bell several times. She looks up at him with no sign of confusion, a beautiful woman in spite of her great age – quite different from her tight-lipped daughter. Manni takes in her bright, alert eyes, her many wrinkles and a clear-cut profile with a straight nose and softly curved lips. When he first rang the bell, he thought he had heard the deep bark of a dog, but all is quiet n
ow and he can’t see a dog anywhere. He hands the woman his warrant card and she studies it carefully, at arm’s length.
‘My daughter rang. You’re here about the suitcase.’ She returns the warrant card to him and leads the way into the darkened interior of the house. Her smooth white hair is twisted to a knot at the nape of her neck. She holds herself very straight, but you can tell that walking is an effort for her. Manni follows her into a kitchen-cum-living room. It smells of dog, but still Manni sees no sign of one.
The old woman takes a blue glazed earthenware jug, fills it at the sink and pours out two glasses of water.
‘Your daughter’s suitcase is our hottest lead to a missing boy,’ Manni explains. ‘The boy’s parents are desperate; it’s possible he’s in grave danger. We urgently need to find out how the suitcase containing the boy’s dead dachshund ended up outside the church in Frimmersdorf.’
‘I can’t help you. I put the suitcase out for the dustmen.’
‘When was that?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Had you rung up to have things collected? We could check that with the council.’
Elisabeth Vogt reaches for her glass. She suddenly looks uneasy. Her hand is shaking slightly. Is it age or is she trying to hide something? Manni has no idea. He can’t tell. He doesn’t know what to ask next either. All he knows is that he urgently needs to find Jonny Röbel, dead or alive.
Manni gets up. Elisabeth Vogt stares at him in silence. A door leads out of the kitchen into the garden. Manni steps out onto the unevenly paved terrace. A large rambling garden with herbaceous borders, vegetable beds and gnarled fruit trees stretches before him. The house next door is clearly unoccupied; the windows are boarded up, the garden has run wild. There are no neighbours on the other side. Power station clouds billow on the horizon; the rhythmic honk of a factory siren cuts through the busy hum of insects. Next to the terrace, garden tools lean against the wall of the house: a rake, a spade, a shovel. Remnants of earth cling to them. Manni looks at the beds. They don’t look as if they’ve been dug over lately – but what does he know about gardening?
