Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  ‘Have you had dinner?’ It was Berentz from the Munich police department.

  ‘I was about to.’

  ‘Postpone it. I’ve got a job for you. Not a pretty sight, apparently. An old man’s been found at a cabin on Starnberg Lake. Dead quite a while, it seems. You’d best eat afterwards.’ Berentz gave Dühnfort the address, plus directions. The man’s son had explained that the house wasn’t easy to find.

  Agnes switched off the stove and put the steaks in the fridge. ‘You’ve got to go, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to – and you definitely don’t have to go hungry.’ He wanted her to stay. At least once. ‘You can sleep here.’

  She shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  He tried not to let his pleasure show. ‘Cook yourself one of the steaks. There’s a nicely chilled Soave in the fridge and Casablanca’s on Channel Three in a minute. You can watch that, if you like. I’ll be back before it’s over.’

  He gave her a kiss and slipped into his coat. As he left the apartment, Agnes stood in the doorway and watched him go. The picture looked both wrong and right at the same time. Well, no time to brood. The well-trodden steps creaked beneath his feet in the stairwell. He left the building.

  It was dark, a cold east wind blew, and a fine, soundless mizzle fell. Streetlamps illuminated the autumn-shaded leaves of a lime tree. An old man walked past him, a wire-haired dachshund on a lead. The dog snuffled briefly at Dühnfort’s shoes, then lifted its leg against the tree. The old man nodded a greeting. He looked sunken, like an old wall whose foundations were giving way. Another old man lay dead in his holiday cabin. Dühnfort went to his car.

  Once he’d joined the Garmisch-bound motorway, he reached for the telephone and requested a forensics team and a coroner. Then he dialled the numbers for Alois and Gina to reassure himself that they were both on their way.

  Finally he switched the radio on. They were discussing a book on the Culture Channel. The host was lost in words. Dühnfort switched it off. He’d left the city behind him. The night was dark, the windscreen wipers squeaking. For the first time he wondered how long he wanted to be mixed up in the kind of casual relationship he had with Agnes.

  Near Wolfratshausen he left the motorway and drove through Münsing to Holzhausen. Shortly after leaving the village he slowed down, trying to make sure he didn’t miss the turning onto the rural lane. The lights brushed over potholes and weeds at the edge of the road. A stone flew up with a crack. Then the road led into the forest, and the darkness grew closer. For a brief moment a rabbit appeared in the headlamps. After a few kilometres he saw lights between the trees. He had arrived. An SUV and a police car were parked on the narrow lane outside a plot of land with a log cabin at the centre. The outdoor lights had been switched on. Beside the front door a patrol officer was leaning against the wall. Lights were burning in the cabin. The passenger door of the police car stood open. On the seat was a man, probably the victim’s son. He’d dropped his head into his hands, and didn’t look up when Dühnfort stopped and got out.

  For a moment he remained standing by the vehicle. The rain had eased off. Through a chink in the clouds the full moon appeared, dimly lighting the path that led to Uferstraße about fifty yards away. Beyond that glittered the waters of Starnberg Lake. The driver-side door of the police car opened and an officer climbed out. His narrow face and round, bulging eyes reminded Dühnfort of a carp. The officer introduced himself: ‘Fischer. The dead man’s in the bathroom.’

  ‘Has anybody entered the house apart from you?’

  ‘Nope. Just me. And Dr Heckeroth, of course. He was the one who found him.’

  When the man in the passenger seat heard his name he stood up. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said.

  Dühnfort inspected him. In the moonlight his face looked almost grey, his lips colourless. His brown hair was cut very short, but above the right temple a little whorl of hair bristled.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Heckeroth rubbed his eyes. ‘He was supposed to be back last night, so when he hadn’t arrived this morning I should have gone to check on him straight away.’ Slowly he lowered his hand. ‘But I suppose that wouldn’t have made much difference.’

  Dühnfort wanted to see the body for himself. In peace – hence the slight delay in notifying forensics and the coroner. That way he had a few uninterrupted minutes before all hell broke loose. ‘I’m going to take a look. Wait here, please.’

  The policewoman by the door greeted him. She had a stocky build and rosy complexion. ‘Sergeant Christine Meingast. Can I come in with you?’

  ‘Better not. I doubt it’s a pretty sight.’

  ‘Fischer wouldn’t let me in, and now you won’t either. I’m planning to apply for promotion soon, so it would be great if I could just take a peek.’

  ‘Later. The head of forensics is going to be cross enough with me as it is.’ Dühnfort snapped plastic overshoes over his boots, took a deep breath of fresh air and entered the house.

  The stench was indescribable. Urine and excrement, but mostly decomposition. Ahead of him was a narrow corridor. Wooden flooring, patchwork rug. A mattress leaned against the left-hand wall. The door to his right stood open, pillows, blankets and sheets strewn across the floor inside. Both mattresses were missing from the double bed. To his left the door was closed. Pulling on latex gloves, Dühnfort opened it. A wave of warm air that reeked of putrefaction surged over him, taking his breath away. The old man was sitting on the floor in front of the radiator, his legs outstretched, his head – already green with advanced decomposition – sunk onto his chest and his arms spread wide at shoulder height. Dühnfort’s gaze came to rest on the belts, which were looped round his wrists and fastened to the radiator. Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth had tried desperately to free himself. Skin and flesh were chafed away, bare bones peering through. Dühnfort wished he could take a breath, but that would have to wait. The man’s trousers were missing their belt and the waistband cut into his stomach, which was bloated with gas. Death had clearly occurred at least three, and most likely four, days ago. The two mattresses were leaning up against the window. Dühnfort glanced at the thermometer next to the mirror – twenty-three degrees – and left the bathroom.

  The living room was furnished in rustic style. Wooden floors, wooden walls, colourful patchwork rugs, dark upholstery. A book of crossword puzzles lay on the coffee table. In the open kitchen a tray had been set down on the work surface next to the stove, on it a plate with a salami sandwich. The dry crusts were curling upwards; the butter and salami fat had melted and seeped into the bread. A nearly empty wine glass stood next to it. A dead fly floated in a puddle of red wine. A second glass and a plate were in the sink.

  Dühnfort went out, shutting the door behind him, and inhaled the fresh woodland air. It carried the scent of autumn and mushrooms, of lakes and rain. Yet it couldn’t obliterate the corpse’s stench, which was tacky in his mouth like a layer of grease. ‘Are there other houses nearby?’

  ‘Two just over there.’ Christine Meingast pointed over a hedge of spruces that bordered the property to the north. ‘And another a little way south. But you don’t get many people at the lake this time of year.’

  Headlights appeared between the trees, and the forensics buses pulled up next to the garden fence. Frank Buchholz, team leader, squeezed himself out of the first one. He wore black leather trousers, a leather jacket and a white shirt. His belly flopped over his waistband. Buchholz’s trademark, a head of greying curls, had fallen victim to the heat one exceptionally warm summer’s day last July, and Dühnfort still wasn’t used to the sight of his shaved head.

  Buchholz greeted him with a handshake while his people fetched boxes and lamps from the vehicles. ‘I’m sure you’ve already been inside, no doubt without overalls again. You never learn.’

  Dühnfort raised his hands in a placating gesture. ‘You’d have let me in anyway. No blood trails to mess up.’

  ‘But not without overal
ls.’

  A convoy of three cars came to a halt on the lane. Gina’s red Golf at the front, Alois’s black Mini behind it, and finally Dr Ursula Weidenbach in her silver BMW. Dühnfort enjoyed working with the coroner. She didn’t just share information through the official channels, preferring to muck in and discuss things, and she favoured plain speech over medical Latin. Carrying two aluminium cases she came towards him, tall and slim, her grey hair cropped short. The laughter lines around her unmade-up eyes were magnified by her silver-framed glasses. ‘If your colleagues hadn’t rescued me I’d never have found this place.’ With a glance at the house she inhaled deeply, as if picking up a scent. ‘What a stink. Smells like three days at least. But don’t hold me to that. I’ll know more later.’

  Gina was wearing one of her obligatory pairs of cargo trousers and a denim jacket. ‘Evening, boss.’ Alois walked up behind her. He nodded at Dühnfort. In a greyish beige trench coat over a three-piece suit, he looked like the one in charge of the investigation.

  *

  Dühnfort went onto the terrace with Albert Heckeroth, who had followed the arrival of the team from the passenger seat in the patrol car. The lights, like the ones outside the front door, were activated by a motion sensor. In a corner protected from the wind stood a table and chairs. They sat down. Through the window Dühnfort watched the boys from forensics working away in the house like industrious beetles, Christine Meingast now among them. Her face had taken on a pasty hue, but she was nonetheless glancing alertly around her.

  In the minutes that followed he learned that Albert Heckeroth was a paediatrician with a practice in Munich. His white trousers and white shoes told Dühnfort that he’d driven straight from work. He’d arrived shortly before eight to check on his father, who had been expected back on Sunday evening, but found the car gone and the house locked. ‘I thought at first we must have missed each other.’ With his index finger Heckeroth traced a whorl of hair at his temple.

  Gina and Alois, who had gone into the house to get a few first impressions, came outside and joined them at the table.

  ‘So why did you go into the house?’ asked Dühnfort.

  Albert Heckeroth picked up his phone, which was lying on the table. ‘I tried to call him before I drove off. But he didn’t pick up. Suddenly I had a bad feeling. But this . . .’ – he gestured towards the house – ‘I didn’t expect. Not something like that.’

  ‘The front door was locked?’

  Heckeroth began to nod, then paused mid-movement. ‘No, it was closed but not locked.’

  ‘Who has a key?’

  ‘My father, of course, and me. My sister too. Not sure about my brother. But I didn’t have mine with me. It’s back at my apartment. So I took the spare from where he usually hides it.’ He pointed at a flower pot in the corner.

  ‘How long has your father been here?’ asked Dühnfort.

  ‘He drove down the Friday before last . . .’

  Alois frowned. ‘Intending to stay till Sunday. Ten days. What’s there to do here in this weather?’

  ‘My mother died four weeks ago. Dad wasn’t coping with it yet, that’s why he came here. He wanted some peace and quiet.’

  Dühnfort didn’t like being interrupted during an interview, but evidently Alois, who’d been with the team since May, still hadn’t grasped that. ‘So your father’s car is missing. What make is it? Can you tell me the number plate?’

  ‘A silver Grand Cherokee Jeep.’ Albert Heckeroth gave him the number. Dühnfort asked Alois to put out a search for the vehicle. Then Heckeroth looked through the contacts list on his phone and found the names and numbers of the neighbours. Dühnfort asked Gina and Alois to see whether anyone was currently staying at the cottages. He wanted to know whether they’d noticed anything and when the neighbours had last seen the elder Heckeroth. ‘If they’re not there, then call.’ Gina and Alois set off.

  ‘Are there any valuables missing, apart from the car?’

  The dead man’s son shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I came straight out and called the police.’

  ‘Fine, then we’ll check now. Will you be OK?’

  Albert nodded and got to his feet. They went from room to room – everything was in its place. Television and CD player, microwave and espresso machine, mobile phone.

  Dühnfort went into the corridor and rummaged through the victim’s jacket, which was hanging from the coat rack, and took out a wallet. It contained a few coins, a passport and a driving licence. Dühnfort hunted around for a bunch of keys. ‘Did your father carry cash and credit cards?’

  Albert leaned against the wall. His face was ashen, all colour drained from his lips. ‘If only I’d checked up on him sooner.’

  The door to the bathroom was open.

  Dühnfort followed Albert’s gaze. Dr Weidenbach had loosened the belts, which were lying next to the corpse on the floor. ‘Those belts . . .’

  ‘They’re both Dad’s.’

  He took Albert’s arm. ‘Let’s go out onto the terrace.’

  When they were sitting once again beneath the porch roof, Dühnfort received the answer to his question.

  ‘My father has an American Express card and a debit card for his current account. And he always carries enough cash. It’s . . . it was a habit of his, after one time when he couldn’t pay because his card didn’t work and he had no money on him.’

  ‘How much is enough?’

  ‘At least three hundred euros. Do you think that’s why he was killed?’

  Dühnfort didn’t think anything yet. He was gathering theories. Robbery was a possibility. ‘There’s nothing else missing?’

  Albert shook his head. ‘I think . . . yes, maybe there is. My father has a very expensive watch. He wears it all the time.’

  Dühnfort went back into the house. Ursula Weidenbach pulled an apologetic face when he asked about the watch, and pointed to his left wrist. ‘And his keys?’

  The coroner spread her hands. ‘His pockets are empty.’

  Dühnfort asked Buchholz to keep an eye out for the keys, then went back to Albert and asked for a description of the watch. It was a Swiss chronograph with a lunar calendar worth about eight thousand euros. Albert had given it to his father two years ago as a seventieth birthday present.

  ‘When did you last see your father?’

  ‘Last Monday. So a week ago.’ Albert seemed to have pulled himself together. The pallor was gone from his face. ‘The drain in the kitchen was blocked. He asked me to come and fix it, so I drove up after my last consultation. Then we had dinner together. When my father wanted to play me a new CD I said I had to leave. I was in a bit of a hurry, my wife was waiting for me. I put him off until another time.’ He frowned. ‘And now there’ll never be another time.’

  ‘So you left after dinner?’

  ‘I put my dishes in the sink, then Dad walked me to the door. It must have been about nine o’clock.’

  ‘Did you notice anybody as you left the house?’

  ‘No. There was no one.’

  ‘When you arrived today, you took the key from its usual spot and went inside. Tell me how you found your father.’

  Albert folded his hands and took a breath, visibly straining for composure. ‘I’m a doctor, and I’m familiar with the smell of a corpse. I knew at once something wasn’t right when I smelled it . . . but something in me refused to connect it with Dad. It’s funny, but I thought it was a dead cat.’ He looked up. ‘Two years ago in the autumn my dad accidentally shut a cat in the shed. He didn’t realise, and drove home. When we came back a few weeks later and opened the shed . . . well, it stank to high heaven. So that’s probably why a cat came to mind. But then I saw the chaos in the bedroom . . . and the mattress in front of the bathroom door. I pushed it aside and went in.’ Albert tilted back his head and closed his eyes. ‘I think I turned the light off. I didn’t want to see it.’

  ‘So the light was on when you went in.’

  Albert nodded.

  ‘Do you have any id
ea who might have done it?’

  ‘Burglars were my first thought, when I saw the way the bedroom had been ransacked.’

  Dr Weidenbach stepped up to the window and beckoned Dühnfort inside. He excused himself and met the coroner in the hall.

  ‘You can have the body picked up now. I can’t do any more for him here.’ She pulled a handkerchief out of the sleeve of her white overalls and began to clean her glasses.

  ‘Do you have an approximate time of death yet?’

  ‘That’ll be difficult. Given the condition of the body . . . I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll have to get him on the slab first.’ She jerked her chin in the direction of the bathroom and put her glasses back on her nose.

  ‘And cause of death?’

  ‘His external injuries are all minor. The abrasions at his wrists and a small wound on his head. That’s not why he died. Anything else would be speculation. Be patient until tomorrow.’

  Dühnfort rang Berentz and asked him to organise transport of the body to the morgue. Then he returned to the terrace and asked Albert whether he was able to drive home by himself.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Dühnfort accompanied him to his car. As he watched the rear lights disappear, Gina walked over from the neighbouring plot. Her chin-length dark hair swayed with the rhythm of her steps.

  ‘His house has been closed up since Monday evening. The neighbour, Mrs Ullmann, went for a walk with her dog Gassi around half nine that evening. The shutters were closed and the car was gone.’

  ‘A week, then. Is she sure it was Monday?’

  Gina nodded. ‘She bumped into Heckeroth that morning and invited him for tea on Tuesday afternoon. He accepted, so she wondered why he’d left without cancelling. It wasn’t his style. So what do we do now?’ Gina crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders, evidently cold.

  Buchholz would be hours yet. Dühnfort wanted to search the area around the crime scene in daylight. He rang the station again and asked Berentz to arrange for a unit to come out the moment the sun was up. Then, turning to Gina, he said: ‘That’s all for tonight.’