by Gisa Klönne
Outside the air is thick and heavy. The sun has vanished, but the heat lingers. Soon, Manni thinks. Soon something will happen, I can feel it. The breakthrough is close; it has to come. And it has to come today, because tomorrow is the last day of school, and once the holidays begin it will be more or less impossible to find out anything about Tim. If only they knew where Jonny had been held captive. But the hours in the water have destroyed any evidence on his body. And nobody will own up to having seen the corpse being carried to the pond.
Manni puts his foot on the accelerator, spurring the car along the well-worn route to Bertolt Brecht Grammar, as if he could solve the case more quickly by driving faster. Not enough time, too much to lose. He should have come clean at headquarters at last and taken time off for the funeral, time off to shovel dirt onto a black-lacquered coffin that his mother wants to decorate with roses – roses, of all things. Ferrari red really would have been the wrong colour – too positive, too warm. With every passing minute it becomes less and less likely that they are going to find Tim Rinker alive.
*
‘It’s enough to be a tiny bit different to become a target of bullying,’ psychologist Joachim Wallert explains.
‘Unsporty, fat, the wrong clothes . . .’ Judith says, reminded of Berthold and Charlotte.
‘Or the opposite. Children who outstrip the others because they are particularly talented appear as a threat to their classmates, who then take it out on them.’
‘Bullying as a means of keeping competitors in check. Is that what happened to Tim?’
Wallert nods. ‘Tim is, you might say, the ideal victim. He’s shy and physically delicate, but his family is well-off and he’s highly imaginative and intelligent.’
‘How long was he under your treatment?’
‘Six months.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We talked. We tried out various role plays to build up Tim’s self-confidence.’
‘And that solved his problem?’
‘No, it didn’t. But he refused to come to any more sessions, and that seemed to suit his parents very well.’
‘He unjustly accused a classmate of theft.’
‘Maybe he did.’ Wallert twists his wedding ring around his finger, presumably an unconscious habit.
‘What other possibilities are there?’
‘Fear.’ The psychologist is still twisting his ring. ‘The victim makes his accusations; the bullies are punished or at least ticked off. And they get their revenge by carrying out even greater torments, this time in secret. In the end the victim gives up, stops confiding in anyone, becomes isolated; the denial of help becomes internalised. There was an extreme case in the papers the other day. Three fifteen-year-olds had inflicted severe burns on a schoolmate’s legs while he was asleep on a school trip. The boy suffered hellish pains for days without saying a word.’
Fear. The fear that Manni had sensed in Tim. The boy’s disinclination to help the police. The black picture. Jonny’s knife in Tim’s room. Charlotte’s silence after the birthday party no one had attended.
‘But Tim had Jonny,’ Judith says out loud, realising as she says it how defiant she sounds.
The psychologist looks at her, but if he noticed the vehemence of her reaction, he doesn’t show it. ‘Tim worshipped Jonny,’ he says. ‘Jonny was his idol, his protector. When Tim spent break with Jonny, the others left him alone. But at the same time, Tim was extremely suspicious because his self-esteem was so shaky. Deep down he was convinced the bullies were right – that he really wasn’t a nice person. He lived in fear that Jonny might ally himself with the others, so he spied on Jonny and was very careful about what he told him.’
‘But Jonny must have known about Tim’s problems.’
‘Probably not the full extent.’
‘What do you know about the bullies?’
The psychologist leafs through his files. ‘Tim often mentioned a Lukas. A classmate of his, a kind of class ringleader.’
‘Lukas Krone, the one with the iPod.’
‘And there was a Vik who was important. He wasn’t in Tim’s class, but he was very aggressive towards Tim on the playground. That was doubly bad for Tim, because this Vik is friends with his cousin.’
‘Ivonne Rinker.’
‘That’s the one. Tim and Ivonne used to be very close. It seems that Ivonne was also bullied. Then she moved to Tim’s school to make a new start and suddenly refused to have anything to do with Tim.’
‘You have to be very tough to resist the peer pressure when you’re growing up,’ says Judith.
‘The feeling of inadequacy,’ says Wallert thoughtfully.
‘Sorry?’
‘In the perpetrators.’ He draws inverted commas in the air with his fingers. ‘They discover early on that relationships are not dependable.’ (More inverted commas.) ‘I’m afraid that’s a standard sentence when I’m reporting on teenagers. The next question is what happens when a relationship has broken up. Typically you get phases of grief, desperation and anger. But if the feeling of inadequacy is repeated, all that’s left is anger. The adolescents no longer feel inadequate or upset; they simply lash out. Typical bullies lack empathy – the ability to feel pity for themselves and thus also for others.’
‘Viktor and Ivonne, at least, come from stable, wealthy families.’
‘That’s not what matters. Inadequacy has many faces. A father who is out of reach because of his job and demands too much. A depressed mother. Parents who are wrapped up in their own problems. Money is no guarantee of affection. People talk of “affluent neglect”. Basically, the parents pay instead of getting properly involved with their children. Misleading role models in the media and in computer games don’t help.’
The parents are to blame. Society is to blame. That is all true and yet, at the same time, it is too simplistic. Later, lawyers and psychologists will search for explanations. But even they can’t tell us why some children become victims and others bullies. And, first of all, the perpetrator has to be found. Judith lays Tim’s black picture on the desk and hears a sharp intake of breath from the psychologist. Dream images surface again: darkness, the undertow of the lake, the loons’ calls. Not now – stop muddling things up; Charlotte has nothing to do with any of this, and nor does David Becker. Judith clutches her fountain pen tighter. Anxiety grips her with fresh intensity.
‘Do you think it possible that Tim knew Jonny’s murderer and confronted him?’
The psychologist twists his wedding ring again and stares at the picture. He leafs through his files until the pressure in the nicely appointed room seems to rise to unbearably. Judith feels her old fear of arriving too late – of failing to prevent the killing.
‘There’s another potential scenario,’ Wallert says in the end. ‘Tim might give up –he might destroy not only his beloved fish, but also himself.’
‘You think he might kill himself. Where? How?’ It feels as if she’s screaming, but her voice comes out as a croak. Judith leaps to her feet. ‘Where?’ she repeats.
‘I don’t know,’ the psychologist replies. ‘Possibly somewhere where he feels safe. But I don’t know where that might be.’
*
‘I don’t have to say anything. My dad’s a lawyer,’ Lukas Krone announces.
Another half-baked face with too big a nose, Manni thinks. Another boy who doesn’t look me in the eyes. Somewhere else in the school, Judith is on her phone, moving heaven and earth. ‘Risk of suicide,’ she had blurted out when she and Manni had met in the school car park to discuss the situation after her visit to Tim’s shrink. ‘We must search Königsforst again with a thermal imaging camera; perhaps the worst can still be avoided. We need police along Tim’s school route to ask whether anyone saw the boy; we need the dog squad again. I’ll take care of things.’ Back to square one, then, thinks Manni wearily. Or maybe not quite, because there seems to be no doubt that the boy facing him bullied Tim Rinker; even Tim’s class teacher has now confirmed that. B
ut the only statement Lukas Krone deigns to make – apart from the mention of his father’s profession – is that it was all just for fun.
In 9D’s classroom it smells of sweat, dust and something sweet and sticky – young girls’ perfume, perhaps, spilt soft drinks, sweets, or the chewing gum stuck under the plastic desks. Blank eyes look at Manni, and dart furtively to the empty desk where Tim Rinker would be sitting if all were well in the world. But all is not well; there is no ideal children’s world any more than there is an ideal adult world. A murder only ever marks the tip of the iceberg.
Judith is out of breath, as if she’s been running cross country. Her unkempt curls stick out around her face as if electrified. She gives Manni a nod which presumably means: ‘The big boyhunt is on.’
Thirty-one pairs of eyes look at Manni and his colleague, and reveal nothing. We are extraterrestrials to them, Manni thinks. Our world is as alien to these teenagers as theirs is to us. Why should they confide in us? And yet we have to get someone to talk at some point; we have to make inroads into this world of schoolchildren and we have to do it fast, even if all we discover is that this is the wrong place to look for the perpetrator – that we need to focus on Hagen Petermann and Frank Stadler.
‘Tim can be a bit difficult at times.’ The voice of Frau Dolling, the maths teacher, breaks through the awkward silence which has so far been the only answer to Manni’s questions.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘On the one hand, Tim was a loner. On the other hand he could be very disruptive in class. Recently, for example, he drew attention to himself by making obscene noises.’
Someone giggles. ‘Mega embarrassing,’ whispers an unidentified girl.
‘A cry for help.’ Judith’s voice is like the crack of a whip. She scrutinises Tim’s teacher as if the woman were personally responsible for what has happened to Tim. ‘Children who act the clown in class usually do it out of desperation. Did that never occur to you?’
Not a catfight on top of everything else, Manni thinks, and launches into another round of the old game of ‘lots of questions but no answers’.
‘I’m sorry, I forget myself,’ Judith says huskily after the school bell has driven the children out onto the playground. ‘I can’t bear this indifference.’
Manni looks out of the window. In the playground, stuck-up little Lukas Krone is attacking Viktor Petermann. The two boys withdraw to a corner, as if to make sure no one follows them. Lukas talks at Viktor, looking angry, then thumps Viktor on the shoulder and saunters back to his classmates. What on earth . . .? thinks Manni, but Viktor is already heading at a jog for the bushes at the edge of the playground. He has soon disappeared from view.
Manni runs off at a sprint, ignoring Judith’s protests. He reaches the bushes and breaks through the branches. A path leads in a zigzag over a hill and then forks. It’s as if the ground has swallowed Viktor up. Manni looks about him frantically. There is no one behind him. One path leads deeper into the bushes; the other towards the bike yard. Think, man, what can Viktor be planning to do? What did Lukas say to him? Something to do with Tim. Something to do with what Manni or Judith said – Manni could swear to it. He decides on the path that leads back to the bike yard, gets his foot caught in a rabbit hole and only just manages to right himself. His heart is pounding at the shock, but all’s well and he hurries on. It’s a good thing he isn’t completely out of training.
As he’s approaching the bike yard, he slows down. A patrol car is parked there, probably Judith’s reinforcements, but it’s empty and there’s no sign of his colleagues – as always when you need them. There – a movement at the end of the yard, a light-blond shock of hair. Viktor is glancing over his shoulder, about to swing himself onto a mountain bike. Manni bites back a curse as the boy picks up speed. Manni jogs across the car park. As long as he doesn’t lose sight of Viktor, he’s in with a chance. He quickens his pace, using the house fronts to provide cover as best he can. Luckily Viktor seems to feel more sure of himself now that he’s left the school behind him. He glances back less often, but pedals all the faster.
After five minutes Manni is drenched in sweat, and it’s only thanks to the breathing tricks he has spent years perfecting that he is able to ward off the stitch in his side. Jogging is one thing; long-distance sprinting in clothes that are far too hot even for standing around in is quite another. Again he quickens his pace. Before him the road ends and the countryside opens up, but he’s too out of breath to bemoan the lack of cover. And Viktor doesn’t set off across the field, he veers off to the left. There’s no sign of him by the time Manni comes to the turning, his heart pounding, his T-shirt soaked. The pot-holed gravel track leads straight to the crumbling brick wall of an empty factory. There’s no doubt about it; it’s a great hiding place for boys who want to be by themselves. And an ideal place to keep a boy captive – to torture him and kill him.
Manni approaches the factory. Maybe it’s all quite simple. Maybe this is the solution. Maybe the perpetrator they have been so desperately hunting is indeed the member of a schoolboy gang. The few buildings along the access road are dilapidated and uninhabited; that, too, would make sense. This empty factory could well be a crime scene.
The gate to the factory grounds stands half open; Viktor’s mountain bike is leaning against a rusty skip. Manni puts his phone on mute so as not to be given away if anyone rings him, and follows a winding path alongside a brick façade defaced with graffiti. Stinging nettles are rampant. There is a strong smell of cat piss, and the few remaining fragments of window are murky. Over in the scrub is another mountain bike, an expensive model, heedlessly thrown down, blue and silver like the sea. Tim, Manni thinks, and feels his heart begin to pound even harder. He must call for reinforcements as soon as he has a general picture of the situation.
Quiet music and snatches of voices drift out of the factory hall. Manni can’t make out what is being said, but it is clear that the speakers are arguing. He creeps along the façade until he comes to a paneless window patched up in a makeshift way with plastic sheeting. The reek of cat piss mingles with the unmistakable smell of hash. Manni makes a slit in the plastic and peers in. The interior of the factory is large and empty, the walls are covered in graffiti. In a corner are a few pieces of junk furniture and a scooter. Viktor is standing in front of this cosy ensemble, preventing Manni from seeing who is lying on the sofa.
‘. . . cops . . .’ Manni hears. ‘Lukas . . . I’m not having anything to do with this any more.’ In the next instant, Viktor turns on his heel and leaves the factory through a rusty iron door on the opposite wall. There is no sign of Tim; the person on the sofa is now clearly identifiable as Ralf Neisser. What now? The son of the paddling pool king saves Manni from having to decide. He heaves himself into a semi-sitting position and gropes for his bong. That will keep him busy for a while. As softly and swiftly as he can, Manni returns to the factory forecourt.
But when he gets there, Viktor has already reached his bike. Manni grabs his handcuffs and quickens his pace again. He is close enough to make it; the boy hasn’t even noticed him. But then, like in some stupid film, Manni suddenly finds himself flat on his belly in the gravel with no idea how it could have happened, and Viktor spots him and jumps on his bike.
‘Cops!’ he yells and tears off, ignoring Manni’s orders to stay where he is.
Manni’s right knee is bleeding like hell. His jeans are torn, his chin hurts and his hands are burning; gravel and dirt have embedded themselves in his palms in a kind of gritty tattoo. Manni hurries back into the hall, where Neisser is no longer lolling on the sofa, but padding over to his scooter with a stupid, spaced-out look on his face. A brief scramble, a simple ju-jitsu move; the boy thrashes about him and kicks Manni’s injured knee. Then it’s over and Manni handcuffs the hash-dazed Neisser junior to the solid metal frame of a car seat.
Manni hobbles back outside, leans against the brick wall and stares up at the pale-grey sky until he is br
eathing normally again. His wounds are throbbing, his mouth is parched, his T-shirt filthy and sweat-drenched. For a moment he feels dizzy. He pops a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and phones for reinforcements before returning to the hall.
‘Where’s Tim? What have you done to him?’
‘Dunno what you’re talking about, man.’
‘What was Viktor doing here just now?’
‘Ask him yourself.’
‘Where’s Tim?’
Bloodshot from the dope, his eyes gleam with hostility. ‘No idea, man.’
The carved-up fish, the blackened picture, Tim’s bike – discarded like rubbish. Is Tim dead or can they save him? They are so close and yet once again they’re dependent on getting a silent person to talk. Manni would like to shake the boy, to beat the bloody arrogance out of Ralf Neisser until he whimpers for mercy and tells him what he knows.
Then, like a flashback, the memories of his father are there again – his beatings and his contempt for Manni’s profession. But that doesn’t matter any more, thinks Manni. And it never mattered, because it never had anything to do with me and certainly not with my future in Division 11. It is only now that Manni notices the blood running down his shin. He clenches his fists and grimaces as the pain shoots through his body, but for some reason he can’t untense; he just stands there, riding out the pain and staring down at the boy who might be a double murderer.
‘I’m going to get you, Ralle,’ he says. ‘You can depend on that.’
*
The cafe isn’t too bad. Ivonne and Judith sit opposite one another, sizing each other up over tall glasses of mineral water and latte macchiato, and smoking in mute bitterness. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Judith had said on the playground as Manni vanished into the bushes. ‘You’re not calling anyone just now and certainly not your boyfriend.’ And she had grabbed Ivonne Rinker by the arm and dragged her off to her car. Judith forces herself to remain calm, although she knows that every second of silence is a second too many, as long as somewhere a desperate boy is trying to kill himself or is in the power of a murderer.
