by Inge Löhnig
‘A breadknife . . .’
‘Men and housework.’ Her eyes smiled as she cleaned the wound. She was pretty and cheerful. Suddenly he realised that he was often given looks like that, often granted a kind, inviting smile. She stuck the plaster on. He thanked her and paid.
Dühnfort unwrapped his sandwich, took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and ate lunch. As he did so he wondered whether he should pay a visit to Karl von Schmitten, the retired prosecutor who had got Sabine Groß to retract her accusation twenty years before and who had been Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth’s chess partner for thirty years.
Still chewing, Dühnfort went over to the evidence board and stared at the picture of Sabine Groß. She was one of two women in the photographs whom he suspected had been drunk or under the influence of drugs.
Alois came in. ‘I just heard about the attack. How are you doing?’
Dühnfort turned away from the pictures. ‘Not too bad. It’s just a scratch.’
‘How did it happen? What set her off?’
‘She didn’t know about the photo. When I showed it to her, she was finally holding the proof they should have been able to find twenty years ago. Instead, the prosecutor pressured her to drop the accusation against Heckeroth. Lack of evidence. When he was questioned Heckeroth said it was consensual, and threatened to report her for slander.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘Karl von Schmitten, the prosecutor, was a friend of Heckeroth’s.’
‘So you believe her. Did he rape her?’
‘You’ve seen the picture. She looks pretty out of it.’
Alois went over to the board. ‘Her pupils are dilated, and she’s hanging there like a . . . like a wet sack.’
‘He probably drugged her. She went to see Caroline, but only her father was around. He offered her a drink. She remembers suddenly finding everything incredibly funny, and that for some reason they went to the practice. After that there’s a blank. When she came to, she found herself on the day bed in his consulting room. She was dressed, but her blouse was buttoned up wrong and she felt sick. Heckeroth told her she’d collapsed and called her a taxi home. Only once she got back did she realise he’d had sex with her.’
‘So he did rape her. But that’s no reason to go lunging at people with a knife. She’s nuts.’
‘She thinks we’re conspiring to pin the murder on her. She’s emotionally unstable.’ Dühnfort looked back at the photograph. ‘I found out from her friend that she suffers from a personality disorder with paranoid tendencies, so she’s in and out of psychiatric treatment. I’m clarifying whether that’s true.’
‘Schimoni? Is she the one who brandished a gun in your face?’
‘She’s the founder of Strong Women. It’s a self-help group. She went shopping for Sabine Groß and was bringing in her groceries. When she saw us in the kitchen, she thought I was assaulting her . . .’
‘Hence the need for a strong woman. I see. Please tell me the gun was illegal and these girls aren’t mobilising against us men, armed to the teeth.’
‘Twice she’s been beaten up so badly she’s ended up in hospital, and she gets regular threats from men who don’t like what she’s doing. She has a weapons licence, and the pistol is registered.’
The telephone began to ring on the desk. Buchholz. ‘I’ve just heard that Heckeroth’s car isn’t in Poland. It’s in a hotel car park about eight hundred metres from the crime scene, as the crow flies. Want to see it in situ?’
*
As Dühnfort joined the motorway the rain eased off, a shred of blue sky peeping through. By now he’d brought Alois up to speed on the interview with Elisabeth van Arpen. ‘How did you and Sandra get on?’
Alois, who was busy texting, glanced up. ‘Much the same. All of them were in love with Heckeroth. Apart from one who was happy to play along, he talked them into taking the pictures.’
A master manipulator. Bertram’s assessment of his father seemed spot on. Alois sent the text and put his phone away. ‘But this Alex Schimoni is a man-hater, right?’
‘Because she cares about women?’
‘She’s confronted with violence against women every day, it’s impossible to stay objective. What’s her relationship with Sabine Groß, anyway? Are they just friends, or is there more to it?’
‘You think they’re in a relationship and Alex took revenge for Sabine?’
‘Relationship isn’t strong enough. There’d have to be some deep emotions at play.’
There was something Dühnfort didn’t like about the idea. ‘Sabine wasn’t aware of what Heckeroth did to her. She didn’t know about being tied up or about the photo. If the belts were a symbol of revenge – tit for tat – then Sabine must have known about the picture.’
‘Sometimes witnesses lie,’ replied Alois.
Dühnfort wasn’t convinced. ‘Her reaction to the photo . . . that wasn’t feigned.’
He reached the motorway exit and drove down the smaller road to the King Ludwig Palace Hotel, which was on a hill shortly after Münsing. By now the clouds had parted further, blue islands visible through the pale sea. The Alps stood out against the horizon, a grey silhouette. Beneath them was Starnberg Lake, a windswept mass dotted with rocking boats. A surfer with a neon board and sail buffeted across the waves near the bank. A sailing boat, thought Dühnfort, that would be nice. I should rent a boat and finally go sailing again. The thought struck a chord inside him, producing memories that echoed with longing. For a moment he thought he could smell salty sea air.
Gravel crunched under his tyres as he turned up the driveway. Ahead of them appeared a stately house coloured Tuscan yellow. In the area outside the entrance were rows of expensive cars. Well-tended lawns, giving way to woodland, surrounded the hotel. Dühnfort kept a lookout for Buchholz, finding him west of the building at the far end of the car park, where he was peering into Heckeroth’s jeep. Behind him was a tow truck, the driver leaning against it and smoking a cigarette. Dühnfort stopped and got out, while Alois grabbed his coat off the back seat and threw it on. Buchholz greeted Dühnfort with a handshake.
‘Why does an old man need such a flashy car?’ Alois inspected the silver SUV. It was a large five-door model with alloy wheels and hefty tyres.
‘To show off. What else?’ Buchholz tilted back his black baseball cap. ‘We’ll see what’s left of the trace evidence after the past few days of rain. I’ve already noticed one thing, though. It could prove quite exciting.’ He pointed at the back of the car.
The vehicle’s interior seemed to have been freshly vacuumed. On the grey velour that lined the boot, however, were black stains. Oil or grease. In the shadow of the wheel arches there were small brown crumbs. ‘Those crumbs might have been left by a shoe tread. What do you reckon?’
‘We’ll see. For now we’re going to do a thorough examination of the shell.’ Buchholz turned to the tow-truck driver.
Alois stuck his hands into the pockets of his woollen coat. ‘I’ll ask at the hotel how long it’s been here, and whether anybody noticed anything.’
‘While you’re at it, take down the names of all the guests who’ve stayed here over the past eleven days, and those of the staff on duty during that time.’ Dühnfort watched Alois stride purposefully across to the hotel entrance.
Then he took a look around. The hotel had a beer garden, a terrace café and a restaurant in a conservatory overlooking the lake. At the end of the car park there was a footpath. A sign from the local tourism association provided information about hiking routes, including distances and rough timings.
The killer had probably driven Heckeroth’s car here to give the impression that the cabin was unoccupied. But how had he left? Did he have help? Maybe one person parked the victim’s car while the other followed in another vehicle and picked up his accomplice. A lone killer would have had to go back to his car on foot. Dühnfort stared at the walking map. It was very abstract, too imprecise to be of use, so he fetched a map from the glove co
mpartment in his car and studied it.
By the time Alois returned, he’d identified two potential routes. One, taking the road, was about three kilometres, even though the cabin was only eight hundred yards from the hotel as the crow flies. The second possibility was one of the hiking paths which snaked through the woods just fifty yards or so behind the cabin. It was only one and a half kilometres long, and for someone who didn’t want to be seen it was definitely a better alternative. ‘Did anyone at the hotel notice who left the car?’ he asked Alois.
‘They don’t even know how long it’s been here. They’ve hosted several conferences over the last two weeks. The place was completely booked up. One extra car wasn’t going to stand out, especially one parked away from the main entrance. I’m getting the list of people staying here, though. It’ll be fun questioning them all.’
‘What about the staff?’ asked Dühnfort.
‘I spoke to some of them. Nobody noticed the car.’
Dühnfort took his phone out of his pocket and dialled Schmockmöller’s number. ‘We need to put out a call for witnesses in the media.’ He explained to the head of the press office what it was about, and that he hoped somebody had seen Heckeroth’s car being left in the hotel car park on or after 6 October.
Then he went back to Buchholz, who was watching the vehicle being winched up by the tow truck.
‘When do you think you’ll have something for us?’
‘If I could work magic, straight away. But I can’t, so you’ll have to cool your heels until tomorrow.’
*
Shortly before four, however, Buchholz popped his head into Dühnfort’s office. ‘You were right about that tread. It’s not from a shoe, though – it’s from a mountain bike.’ Hitching up the waistband of his black leather trousers towards the circumference of his belly, he sat down in the visitor’s chair.
‘A bike, right. And the oil stains?’
‘Probably chain oil. Not sure about that, though.’ Buchholz rubbed his right hand over his stubbly scalp. ‘Practically no fingerprints. Somebody cleaned up, albeit not very well. We found a few of the victim’s prints on the glove compartment and also . . .’ Buchholz grinned. ‘Have you ever noticed how people open their boots?’
‘They use the handle?’
Buchholz nodded. ‘Yeah, and it was wiped clean, but when the boot’s open halfway people reach underneath and push it up. And that’s where we found a thumbprint. Guess whose.’
‘Bertram’s?’
He’d spoiled Buchholz’s punchline. He nodded. ‘But you won’t get him with the tyre prints. About a third of all mountain bikes sold have tyres like that as standard. And there aren’t many different kinds of chain oil either.’ Buchholz got to his feet. ‘We’ve been doing excellent work over the last few hours, you know. We really are top brass.’ He patted himself on the back and left the office.
‘Yeah, you guys are the best!’ shouted Dühnfort after him. Then he called the garage at Herrsching, reaching the same employee as the day before on the second ring. ‘I have another question about Heckeroth’s jeep. Was it clean after the tune-up?’
‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘It’s part of our customer service. We do one free interior valeting, too. I hope that helps.’
‘It does, thank you.’ Dühnfort hung up. So the fragments of earth and fingerprints could only have been left there after Friday.
How should he proceed? The trace evidence pointed in one direction, but it wasn’t much to go on. It was probably best to rattle Bertram’s cage. Dühnfort reached for the phone and dialled his number. When nobody picked up, he tried Bertram’s mobile and got through. He could hear traffic in the background. ‘We found your father’s car. We have a few questions for you. Do you have time to come in?’
‘Sure. Now?’
‘If that’s all right.’
‘Not really. Will it take long?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘OK, fine. I’m in the neighbourhood anyway.’
Dühnfort used the wait to check his email. He had four new messages, one from Agnes.
Dear Tino,
I feel a bit silly, to be honest. If you’re not taking my calls, you won’t answer an email. But I’d like to know whether the radio silence is your way of ending the relationship. Recently I’ve become a fan of plain speaking, as you know. On the other hand, your behaviour could be a strategy to keep me keen. In that case, watch out! ;)
Agnes
She’d included a link. Dühnfort clicked on it, and it took him to a scientific magazine. He read:
Sneaky Male Spiders – Playing Dead Helps with Mating. Cannibalistic females are forcing male spiders into displaying unusual courtship behaviour: they’re playing dead. The ones that use this tactic get much further than others of their species . . .
Cannibalistic females. He loved her, but she was using him. And the worst thing was that he understood – he just couldn’t play along. He typed breakers into Google and scanned through the image results. Soon he’d found one that resembled what he was picturing. He clicked Reply, copied the image into the email and wrote: I’m sorry. My behaviour was thoughtless. It’s not a strategy, I just don’t see any future.
Before he could think twice he clicked send. Then he got up and looked out of the window.
The twin slender spires of Frauenkirche Cathedral rose into the sky. The cut on his hand throbbed. It had been so much easier to write those words than to say them to her face.
There was a knock. Dühnfort threw another glance at the cathedral, then he turned and called, ‘Come in.’
Bertram Heckeroth appeared. Yet again, he was head to toe in black. Dühnfort offered him a seat. Unbuttoning his elegant coat, Bertram sat down and leaned back, his legs spread wide.
‘So you’ve found Dad’s car. Where?’
‘In a hotel car park.’
‘Ah.’ Bertram seemed surprised. ‘Was it damaged?’
‘No. It was neatly parked and locked. The keys to the car and cabin are still missing. They weren’t in the vehicle.’
‘Then presumably the man – or more likely woman, I think – who killed him still has them.’ Bertram Heckeroth’s legs were still splayed, his hands resting casually on his thighs. Yet beneath his left eye, just along the edge of his black glasses, Dühnfort caught the nervous twitch of a muscle.
‘A woman, then?’
‘It stands to reason.’
Dühnfort leaned back. Whatever it was, Heckeroth was about to get it off his chest.
‘My father’s murder was cowardly and devious. Those are typically female qualities. A man would have been aggressive. He would have shot him or hit him. He wouldn’t have shied away from direct confrontation.’
‘Above all I think the death your father suffered was cruel. Is cruelty typically male or female?’
Heckeroth’s brow smoothed, his lips thin.
‘I prefer to stick to motives or facts. Facts are a wonderful thing. They speak for themselves,’ continued Dühnfort.
‘Revenge. Isn’t that a motive?’ Bertram straightened in his chair.
‘What are you driving at?’
‘I think that’s obvious. I mean, you’ve seen those photos. Do you really think any of those women went along with the old man’s perverted games of their own free will? They’d probably feel sick at the very idea.’
‘You’re thinking rape?’
‘Possible, but unlikely.’ Heckeroth’s posture relaxed again. ‘My dad got his way using words. He even managed to convince my mum that having the occasional bit on the side was his God-given right.’
‘So you did know about your father’s affairs?’
‘I knew he was cheating on my mother. Constantly, in fact. We all did. But we didn’t know what he was doing with those women. And I can easily imagine one of them realising that he brainwashed her – they were young, immature, impressionable things.’
‘But you don’t know any names beyond those you’ve already given us? S
o it’s all just supposition.’
Bertram tugged his earlobe and smiled. ‘That’s your job, not mine.’
‘We found your fingerprints at the crime scene, including on the kitchen window frame, as if you’d climbed out.’
Bertram’s posture didn’t change, but Dühnfort noticed his muscles tense involuntarily.
‘Crime scene. It’s a holiday cabin. I was in and out all the time. I was there the Sunday before the attack, and since I’m not in the habit of wearing gloves I obviously left fingerprints. The kitchen window was sticking. When I was there on Sunday I tried to fix it.’
‘Do you also use your father’s car?’
‘No.’
‘But you drove it. Not too long ago, at that. Your prints are on the boot.’
‘Oh, that.’ Heckeroth turned his palms upwards in a gesture of innocence. ‘We had a barbecue on Sunday and there wasn’t enough charcoal, so I went to the petrol station and bought a bag. I took Dad’s car, of course. I only had my mountain bike.’
‘Do you still have the receipt?’
‘I think so.’ Heckeroth took his wallet out of his coat, but searched in vain. ‘It’s not there,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe I didn’t take it in the first place.’ He looked at Dühnfort. ‘In any case, it’s not there. But they’ll remember me at the petrol station. I went to the one on Sauerlacher Straße in Wolfratshausen. You can check. All this is bollocks, anyway. There must be other people’s prints in the house and car besides mine. Aren’t there?’
Dühnfort surveyed him.
‘Of course not,’ continued Bertram after a moment’s silence. ‘Nobody’s stupid enough to commit a murder and not wear gloves. At least, I wouldn’t be that dumb.’
‘You wouldn’t need to wear gloves. Your prints would be easy to explain. What’s surprising is that they were only on the boot, not inside the car. Yet you drove it on Sunday.’
