by Inge Löhnig
When she’d extracted that promise to destroy the diary and letters, her mother had been utterly exhausted and intermittently confused because of the medication. Perhaps she had removed them herself before going into hospital. But Caroline wanted to be certain.
She went into her mother’s bedroom. A scarcely perceptible hint of Tresor, Mum’s favourite perfume, hung in the air. A novel lay on the bureau. At the point Elli had stopped reading, a bookmark was tucked between the pages. Caroline picked up the book. An Iceland Fisherman by Pierre Loti. She opened it at the marked page and read a few lines. Around Iceland, the weather was of that rare kind that the sailors call a dead calm; in other words, in the air nothing moved, as if all the breezes were exhausted and their task done.
Caroline shut the book and put it back. All at once she felt drained. In the end all that remained was a bookmark in an unfinished novel, the scent of perfume, and a room no longer needed. Perhaps, too, the ramblings of conceited men, time squandered pointlessly jockeying for position, energies wasted on a career that gave you – what? The sense of having shown them all. Caroline shook herself. For Christ’s sake. She knew what she was doing, and why.
In a decisive movement she jerked open the bottom drawer of the bureau and rummaged through it. Nothing. She worked systematically through the bureau, wardrobe and chest of drawers before combing the nightstands and bookcase. In the bin, underneath an old travel brochure, she finally found what she was looking for. A wine-red leather book and a batch of letters held together with a white satin ribbon. Caroline tucked the find into her handbag, called a taxi and left the building.
She went back to her office and kept working on her roadmap. When she was finished, she packed up her laptop and got the plane ticket from Tanja. Her secretary also handed her a small gift-wrapped package tied with a bow. ‘When my mother died last year my boyfriend gave me this. It helped. Maybe it will help you too.’
Caroline thanked her and put the present into her handbag.
As she entered her penthouse flat in Hadern, she felt tired once more. The view through the panoramic window showed a well-tended garden with luxurious grass and old trees dripping with rain. Dark clouds gathered in the sky like engine smoke. Caroline stretched her tense muscles, went into the bathroom, turned on the tap and poured in a generous amount of exorbitantly priced bath oil. After her bath, she slipped into jeans and a baggy jumper. In her office get-up she was Dr Heckeroth; in these casual clothes she turned back into Caro, who had dreamed as a thirteen-year-old of studying medicine and fighting malaria in Africa. Dad had laughed at her, and then, when he realised she was serious, launched into one of his speeches. Women are fair game down there. Sooner or later you’ll be raped and end up in the bush with a knife between your ribs, where your corpse will be torn apart by a pack of jackals. If that’s what you want, then be my guest. Over mealtimes he’d kept quoting from newspaper articles or television reports about what happened down there in Africa, systematically breaking down her enthusiasm for the continent. It was his usual way of bending others to his will while still letting them believe they’d made the decision themselves. Only with Bertram, the resistance fighter, had he failed.
Caroline opened the chimney damper and took an old newspaper and wood out of the basket beside it. Once she had a small fire burning she added two pieces of beech, fetched a glass of red wine from the kitchen and sat down in the leather armchair in front of the fire. She enjoyed the snugness of her apartment. Antiques and designer furniture, a palette of warm cream tones, one wall painted ox-blood red. Not too elegant and not too modern. Precisely what Caroline had imagined and Babs had successfully realised. It was high time her sister-in-law used that talent to start earning money.
The telephone began to ring. Albert, most likely. He probably wanted to go over the details of the funeral. When she’d explained how stressed she was at work he’d immediately offered to take care of everything, and she was grateful for that.
But it was Marc. He’d returned from New York, where he’d been on a three-day work trip, about two hours earlier. ‘I thought I’d drop by and bring something to eat. And if you need a shoulder to cry on . . .’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you immediately. It’s a shame teleporters only exist in films.’ She heard the smile in his voice, as well as his concern. ‘Do you fancy a curry or Italian?’
‘You must be worn out. The long flight and the jetlag. You should probably get a good night’s sleep.’
‘Isn’t there anything I can do for you?’
‘I’d rather be alone this evening. Don’t be cross, all right?’
She could hear him yawn. ‘Sorry. A good night’s sleep sounds nice, actually. Tomorrow morning I’ll pick you up and take you to the airport. I’m heading there anyway.’
After they’d finished talking she took the diary and letters from her handbag and nestled down again in the armchair. The leather binding was dry and cracked, much-thumbed at the edges. Mum had asked her to burn it. She hadn’t said anything about not reading it first. Still, diaries contained thoughts that were private, thoughts not everyone was supposed to hear. Caroline hesitated a moment, then curiosity got the better of her. She opened the book. If her mother hadn’t wanted her to read it, she would have said so. The fire flickered, and Caroline took another sip of red wine as she tried to decipher her mother’s upright hand. The first entry was dated 15 October 1962. Today’s date, more than forty years ago.
*
Noel and Leon disappeared into Noel’s room after dinner, ostensibly to revise. Babs smirked. They’d probably be glued to the gaming console Noel had borrowed from his friend Patrick. Albert sat at the table, his head in his hands. Babs cleared away the dishes to create a bit of space where she could work on her sketches, although she was dead on her feet. A coffee would wake her up a bit. ‘Would you like an espresso?’
Albert looked up. ‘Yes, please.’ His eyes were red, and he rubbed a hand across his brow. He’d spent the afternoon going through old practice files, looking for the names and addresses of his father’s receptionists – the ones who’d also been his lovers. Before dinner he’d faxed the information to Dühnfort.
‘I can’t believe Dad was such a bastard . . . I thought I knew him, what he thought and valued, and then something like this comes to light.’ Albert massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘When we were kids he drilled that sort of stuff into us. Do this, don’t do that. You’re a Heckeroth, there’s a lot expected of you, you’ve got to have some moral backbone.’ Albert laughed. ‘Moral backbone. How did Caroline put it? Outside swank, inside rank. She was right. So was Bertram – he always said the old man was a sanctimonious hypocrite. And I was the idiot who didn’t see through it.’
Babs was taken aback at this outburst, although she also found the images repellent and upsetting. They reflected another Wolfram, a man she’d never known and didn’t want to. You didn’t have to try and understand everything, justify everything, excuse everything. But the pictures had shocked Albert to the core. ‘Wolfram hid that side from you. It’s understandable. Caroline phoned this morning, and she’s just as horrified as you are.’ Babs shook her head involuntarily. ‘She thinks it was Bertram, and that Katja’s giving him a false alibi. Why would she do that?’
‘Are you really so naïve?’ He didn’t say it aggressively, but wearily. ‘Maybe he’s threatening to beat her or chuck her into the Isar or burn down the gallery. You haven’t forgotten his performance round here, have you?’
Babs didn’t like to think about it. Two weeks ago Bertram had shown up at the flat, asking whether she could put in a good word for him with Albert. He was sorry about the thing with the money, he wanted to settle his debts, but first he needed a larger sum – just short-term – and wanted Albert to lend it to him. With interest, of course. Albert had seen the visit coming and instructed Babs to tell Bertram he wasn’t getting a cent. ‘If he can’t afford that house he’s got to sell it
, or else find another woman who can put up with him.’ She hadn’t passed that on to Bertram, of course. But she had suggested selling the house, and that’d really set Bertram off. ‘Over my dead body,’ he’d said, calling her a money-grubbing tart who lived off her husband. He’d stormed out of the apartment, knocking over the cabinet in the hallway as he went. Babs’s collection of Murano glass, assembled over the course of fifteen years, had shattered. She’d battled back tears as she cleaned up the shards. Yet, although she was furious with Bertram, she didn’t think he’d killed his dad.
The machine had warmed up. Babs tamped ground coffee into the filter handle and watched as the espresso ran into the cups.
Albert was still staring at the table. ‘How could he have kept it secret for so long?’ He’d circled back to the pictures again. ‘The first ones are from when we lived in Germering. My parents had just got married, and I was a baby. It’s just not possible that Mum never found them all those years.’
‘Maybe Elli didn’t want to see it.’ Or Elli and Wolfram had a kind of agreement, thought Babs. He liked bondage, she definitely didn’t. Certainly none of the pictures was of her. Maybe Wolfram hadn’t managed to coax her into it, or he hadn’t tried. That was probably nearer the truth. There were two sides to him. One side for his family, his practice, his title, everything outward-facing. The other for very young girls, and sexual fantasies that would have been far from acceptable back then. No doubt Wolfram had compartmentalised them neatly. Babs put the cups on the table and sat down next to Albert. He glanced at the clock. Did he have somewhere else to be? She thought of her sketches and her aching back. In Albert’s study there was a proper desk. ‘Do you mind if I clear your desk and do a bit of work?’
Albert grimaced as if she’d made him some sort of indecent proposal. He knocked back the espresso. ‘Yes, I would. It’s my room. I need at least one space for myself.’ He looked again at the clock.
‘Ah. And my domain is the kitchen, I suppose.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, you don’t have to work.’
He stood up, went into the hall, took his coat down from the peg and put it on.
‘I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for me!’ she shouted after him. But the door was already swinging shut.
*
Alois entered the room and stood by the evidence board, facing Gina and Dühnfort. ‘Turns out our Bertram doesn’t exactly have a clean slate. He’s been done for tax evasion, plus a bit of trickery with bogus companies while he was building a dairy, and he’s been reported twice for assault. Apparently he’s fond of the occasional punch-up after trips to the pub.’
‘What happened with those reports?’ asked Dühnfort.
‘The cases were shelved. One shiner, one missing tooth. Bertram took a bit of a beating too. They settled out of court. Any news on the women?’ Alois looked at the evidence board.
Gina had stuck the photos up on the board with magnets, organised by decade into six groups. They weren’t totally sure they’d got it right: all they had to go on were the objects and clothes in the pictures, the order in the album and the information given by Heckeroth’s children. Under nine of the pictures were names, some with addresses beneath. Nicole Preuss, a former tenant at Kurfürstenplatz, Irene Schönhofer, the baker’s wife, Elisabeth Weiß, daughter of Heckeroth’s wife’s best friend, Sabine Groß, a uni friend of Caroline’s, Hannelore Graf, Heckeroth’s last receptionist and Martina Rucker, Sandra Bleylein and Natascha Kovlac, three former receptionists.
Under the most recent images Gina had written P?. Under the second-to-last was a name. Rebecca Engelhardt. ‘Why do you think they’re prostitutes?’ asked Dühnfort.
‘It was Caroline’s idea. A logical one, actually. The man was seventy-two, well-to-do but not rich or prominent enough for a young woman to jump into bed with him willingly. I’m checking with escort agencies.’
Alois looked at the clock. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He turned to the door.
Gina grinned. ‘Date number 211 this year, eh? Or thereabouts.’
‘I’m not keeping a tally.’ The door closed behind him. It was time to head home. Dühnfort went over to his desk.
Gina added two magnets to the board, seeming tense. ‘I’m off too.’
‘Are you worried about something?’ For a moment he saw fear flash in her eyes.
‘Nope. It’s all fine.’ Avoiding his gaze she made to leave, then turned round at the door. ‘Bye.’ That, too, was unusual. Normally she said, See you.
Dühnfort glanced at his inbox. Nothing from Agnes. It appeared that she had accepted his rejection. The thought stung. What had he expected? She’d asked him several times to call her back and he hadn’t. That was more than impolite – it was hurtful, and not his style. Suddenly he felt ashamed. Picking up the phone, he dialled her number. After the third ring it switched to voicemail. He hung up.
Fifteen minutes later Dühnfort left the police station too. On the way home he bought cheese, olives and a fresh farmhouse loaf. Back at his flat, he fetched a bottle of wine from the fridge, set out his dinner on a wooden tray, pulled on his fleece and went to sit on the balcony. It was growing dark. A faint glow from the kitchen illuminated the makeshift table. While he ate bread and cheese and emptied the glass of wine, he wondered whether he’d be eating alone for the rest of his life. Something inside him flinched in pain. He got to his feet and went into the kitchen, found an Eartha Kitt CD and put it on. At that very moment, the doorbell rang. Maybe it’s Agnes, he thought, although she usually called first. But it was Gina.
‘Can I come in? I have a couple of things I want to discuss.’
Dühnfort let her in and offered her a glass of wine. ‘Have you already eaten?’
‘No. Thanks. I don’t want anything to eat. But don’t let me stop you.’
They went onto the balcony. Gina sat down near him, drawing her jacket more tightly around her shoulders.
‘Bertram’s got a criminal record, and he’s on the verge of losing his house.’
Dühnfort washed down a piece of bread with his wine, and wondered what Gina really wanted.
‘It was pretty clever the way he organised that thing with the bogus companies. I mean, he’s not stupid. If he really is our guy, then he must have realised he’d make a prime suspect. Maybe he knew about the album and used it to distract us from the real motive.’
In the half-dark he could sense Gina’s eyes rather than see them. She averted her gaze and reached for her wine glass, downing half in a single gulp.
‘What’s wrong, Gina?’
Her mouth twisted. ‘Which brings me to point two.’ She sucked in her top lip for a moment, then exhaled. ‘Tomorrow morning I’m checking into Großhadern. Quick mini-break. I’ve been wanting to tell you all day. You’ll have me back on Monday.’
‘You’re going into hospital? Is it bad?’
Her jaw clenched. ‘I might have a tumour.’
Dühnfort winced, then put his arm round her and held her close. She smelled nice, like apple pie, and the scent reminded him of his childhood. Of his grandparents in Altes Land near Hamburg, of apple trees and carefree summers. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Just because they think you might it doesn’t mean you do.’
‘That’s what the urologist said.’ Gina pulled away. ‘At first she was making stupid jokes the whole time she was examining my bladder – Not exactly going paddling!, that sort of thing – and then she suddenly fell silent. When she finally opened her mouth again, she was really nervous. Just because there might be a tumour that doesn’t mean there is, but she made me an appointment at the hospital pretty sharpish. Best not to put it off. But the real clincher was when she said goodbye. She takes my hand – like this, you know.’ Gina took his hand and folded it in hers. ‘Then she gazes deep into my eyes. I wish you all the best. Trembling voice, the works. That was when I knew . . . I was fucking terrified . . . chemo, going bald, dying slowly . . . I’ve got so many plans, you know? Proper middle-class stuff like find
ing the man of my dreams, getting married, having kids.’ She let go of his hand.
‘Don’t get too upset. It’s not for certain. Have you got any symptoms?’
‘Nah. Just a few molecules of blood in my urine. My GP kicked up such a fuss about it. It’s been happening for months and it won’t go away.’
‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.’
‘I did some googling this afternoon, of course, although I swore I wouldn’t. Bollocks.’ She exhaled sharply.
‘There’s a lot of bullshit on the internet. Did you search for benign bladder tumours too?’
Gina looked up in surprise.
‘Then how about we do that now?’
Thursday, 16 October
She’d already run through the whole gamut of emotions. Irritation, worry, fear, and now rage. No, she bloody well wasn’t going to start calling hospitals. If something had happened to Albert she’d have heard by now. He was simply being thoughtless. He’d switched off his mobile, he wasn’t at the practice and he wasn’t at his dad’s apartment either. At least, he wasn’t answering either of the phones. Had he spent the night with another woman? No, she didn’t want to think more deeply about that. She didn’t want to consider that she might soon be faced with a choice: be a tolerant wife or a jealous shrew. She would simply wait for Albert to come home and explain where he’d been all night.
The dryer was still trundling through its first load of laundry. She stuffed a mountain of towels into the washing machine, set it going and went back to work in the kitchen. She’d sat in here for two hours yesterday, hunched over the drawing board. Her shoulders were rigid with tension, her back hurting, but she was pleased with what she’d come up with. She had just taken out her pad to sketch ideas for the next solution, wondering whether it might be possible to integrate a free-standing bath, when the doorbell rang.
