Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  Heckeroth’s upper body whipped forward. ‘OK,’ he said, rising abruptly. ‘That’s enough. I can see you suspect me. From your narrow perspective I do have a motive, after all. But money isn’t everything. You’re deliberately ignoring other aspects. You’re trying to stitch me up, but I won’t stand for it. I’ll have you taken off the case.’ Heckeroth was already at the door.

  ‘One moment, please. When you drove to the petrol station, did you put your bike in the boot?’

  ‘That’s an idiotic question. Why would I do that?’

  ‘Then you have no objection to us examining it?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We found traces of chain oil and earth that came from the tread of a mountain bike. I’d like to compare these traces with your bike.’

  ‘Can I refuse? Don’t you need a search warrant for that?’

  ‘In principle, yes.’

  ‘Then I’d like you to follow procedure. Wave the piece of paper under my nose and you’ll get my bike.’

  ‘In practice, however, it’s enough if there’s imminent danger. And I think there is.’

  *

  Dühnfort asked Alois to go with Bertram Heckeroth. Scarcely had the two of them left the office before he got a phone call from a colleague. ‘I wanted to let you know that Sabine Groß has been transferred to Haar Hospital. To the closed ward.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She went completely crazy, tearing off her clothes, scratching her arms till they bled and threatening to kill herself. But the worst thing was the screeching. We called an emergency doctor and he ordered the transfer. Things have calmed down now.’

  Dühnfort felt vaguely guilty. If he’d had any idea she wasn’t aware of the photograph . . . but he was only human, after all, and no clairvoyant. He thanked his colleague for letting him know and hung up.

  Shortly before six, Alois came back. He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down at the conference table. A double buzz came from his top pocket. Taking out the phone, he read a message and put the device on the table. ‘Bertram’s bike is with forensics. If the soil came from those tyres, things are looking pretty dicey for him. What do you reckon?’

  ‘In theory, there are several possibilities: Bertram drives his car to Münsing with the bike in the boot . . .’

  ‘In the Porsche? He’d have had to take off the front wheel.’

  ‘Well, who’s to say he didn’t?’ countered Dühnfort before continuing. ‘So he drives to the holiday cabin, attacks his father and abandons him to his fate, tying him up like that – I’m assuming he knew about the album beforehand – as a red herring. Then he arranges it so the house looks abandoned. This means Dad’s car has got to go. So he puts his bike in the boot of the jeep, drives to the hotel car park under cover of darkness, leaves the car, gets out his bike and pedals back to the cabin. There he puts it back in his car and drives home. Or maybe he biked the whole way from Harlaching to the lake and back,’ mused Dühnfort.

  ‘Well, that is what he did the day before.’

  ‘We should request traffic CCTV footage. Bertram drives a thirty-year-old orangey-red Porsche. Not the sort of thing you’d miss.’

  ‘He could have hired a car, though. I’ll check with the rental agencies.’

  Dühnfort’s computer pinged, indicating that another email had arrived in his inbox.

  Alois got up. ‘Buchholz will get back to us tomorrow.’

  ‘Good.’ Dühnfort looked at the clock. Already after six.

  At the door Alois turned back, doing up the middle button on his jacket. ‘I’d like to take three weeks’ holiday at the beginning of November. Is that all right?’

  ‘If we’ve closed the case by then, it should be fine.’ Dühnfort thought of Gina. If she was out of commission for a while . . . he dismissed the thought.

  ‘I need those three weeks. My dad’s going in for a course of treatment. The dates are fixed, and my mother can’t manage the butcher’s and the pub all by herself.’

  Alois had only been on the team since spring, and so far he’d revealed little of his past. Dühnfort only knew that he came from Regensburg and that he’d conceived a son on the banks of the Danube during the May Day Fair, the consequence of too much alcohol and testosterone, with a woman he barely knew.

  Alois raised his arms and let them drop. ‘Fünfanger’s in Regensburg, the best roast bratwurst in Oberpfalz. After I left school I turned butcher. Didn’t suit me, though.’

  Another son who’d disappointed his father. ‘Don’t you have any brothers or sisters who could step in?’

  Alois’s face darkened. He was still standing in the doorframe, half in, half out. ‘My sister also learned the trade. Killed two years ago, though. Motorbike accident.’ As ever when Alois’s emotions were rising to the surface, his speech became more fragmented.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ In such situations Dühnfort often felt helpless, and the phrase struck him as a platitude. But it was all he had.

  ‘Well, anyway, there’s still two weeks to go.’ Alois closed the door behind him.

  When he made to switch off the PC, Dühnfort found an email. It was from Agnes. He hesitated a moment before opening it.

  Dear Tino,

  Interesting picture. Could read lots of different things into it. But I don’t want to. I did that once before, and look where it got me. I don’t need any more catastrophes. But we’re over, I guess?

  I don’t know what you expect, although I have an idea. But, like I said, reading emotional states isn’t my strong point, just as your strong point clearly isn’t talking about your feelings. Shall we give it a shot anyway? My place, tomorrow evening?

  Agnes

  It was so annoyed, so brittle and dismissive. Why on earth did she want to talk to him, then? To have the last word? That wasn’t like her. He didn’t know whether to accept the invitation. No more needed to be said. He didn’t want to keep playing this game, not on such unequal terms. The only conceivable reason was hope. The hope that something would change about this difficult situation. How long was he prepared to wait? He didn’t know. Reaching for the telephone, he dialled her number. She picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Hi, Tino.’ Her voice was soft. Music played faintly in the background. Norah Jones. The CD he’d given her. Probably she was sitting on the red sofa in the living room. It just wasn’t the right time. Why had he called? Hope dies last, he thought. ‘Shall we cook together?’ Talking was easier when he had something else to do at the same time.

  ‘So you’re coming?’

  Did she sound relieved? ‘I’m sorry. I should have called you back ages ago.’ He didn’t want to offer any lazy excuses, and didn’t quite know what to say.

  ‘I’m sure the murder of that old man’s keeping you on your toes.’

  ‘That too, yes. Let’s talk it over tomorrow. Do you fancy scallops with julienne vegetables and wild rice?’

  ‘Sounds tempting. Will you bring the scallops? I can’t get them out here.’

  ‘Sure. And a bottle of Pouilly Fumé to go with them?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ he said. I love you, he thought.

  ‘Me too. Till tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Till tomorrow.’ Before he hung up, he heard another few bars of Norah Jones. Maybe it would all be fine. For a while he pondered the feeling that surged within him like a gentle swell.

  When he stepped outside the police station, an icy wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his coat. The air prickled like champagne. In a cheerful mood, he went into Dallmayr’s Deli.

  In the confectionery department he picked out orange truffles and Armagnac cherries for Gina, in the wine section two bottles of Pouilly Fumé, and at the fish counter he ordered a dozen scallops for the next day. As he was leaving the shop, he bumped into a young woman. He held the door open for her, and she smiled at him. ‘Cool song.’ Only then did he realise he’d been humming Norah Jones to himself. He returned her smile and crossed the street, headin
g through Marienhof into the catacombs of the Underground. When he reached the trains, he took the U6 to Großhadern. Fifteen minutes later he was getting out at the stop by Großhadern Hospital. There he had to orientate himself, finding the right exit after a bit of searching.

  In front of him was the university hospital, looking like a UFO that had arrived decades ago from some distant galaxy, landed in a field, and couldn’t return to the expanses of the universe. It was getting old; a patina of grey dirt clung to the aluminium cladding, and bare windows stared like lashless eyes into the night. The revolving doors at the main entrance spat a weary-looking man outside. Stepping through them, Dühnfort found himself a moment later in the hospital’s neon-bright lobby. Escalators rolled soundlessly up and down. No one was manning the numbered reception desks at this hour. It smelled of cleaning supplies and cigarette smoke, the soft hum of the air conditioning hanging above the silence. An elderly man sat behind a pane of glass under the word Information. Dühnfort asked him where the urology department was, and followed his directions to the fourth floor. Then, making his way down a corridor that smelled of bleach, he went into Ward H4.

  His good mood was gone, and all at once he felt depressed. A man in pyjamas was shuffling a metal frame with a drip and colostomy bag along next to him. A nurse came out of the office. Christine, read the nametag on her white coat. He asked for Gina Angelucci.

  ‘Room 223. But she’s not there. She’s working at the desk outside the doctor’s office.’ Nurse Christine grinned. ‘I’ll never complain about lazy public servants again,’ she said, holding up her hand in a mock vow. She gave him directions. Dühnfort thanked her, taken aback, and two minutes later he entered the doctor’s waiting room, which was adjacent to the outer office. The door was ajar. He could hear the clattering of a computer keyboard, and knocked.

  Gina called: ‘Come in.’ She sounded cheery, and beamed at him as he opened the door. ‘Hi, Tino, perfect timing. I’ve got them. All three of them.’ She was sitting behind the desk, on which were a pad, a pen, and copies of three photos from Heckeroth’s album. ‘Bullseye. Am I good or am I good? All three work for escort agencies.’

  Dühnfort was relieved to see Gina back to normal: lively and excited. ‘You’re better than good, but you’re also on sick leave. Shouldn’t you be taking it easy?’

  Gina gathered up her things and stood up. She wore a fleece and cargo trousers, as always. ‘Don’t you start! All day long they’ve been telling me to put on my pyjamas and lie in bed like a good girl. But I’m not ill. At least, I don’t feel like I am. And the tests today didn’t come up with anything.’ A worry line appeared between her eyebrows. Then she saw the Dallmayr shopping bags. ‘But if I have to pretend to be ill to get inside those bags . . .’ She came out from behind the desk.

  He gave her a hug. For a brief moment he caught the scent of Altes Land again. ‘You’re doing well. That’s great,’ he said, genuinely pleased. ‘Still: just in case you need to keep your spirits up.’ He took out the small cellophane bags.

  ‘Hey, my favourites. How did you know?’

  In Gina’s chocolate eyes was an expression he couldn’t place. ‘You said so once.’

  Gina broke her gaze away from his. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve got to be back in my room by eight or I’ll get all sorts of grief from the night nurse. Hey, what did you do to your hand?’

  ‘I cut myself. Not worth talking about.’ He didn’t want to upset her.

  ‘Since when were you a leftie? I mean, the cut’s on your right hand. Or have you started juggling with knives?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Gina wouldn’t give up, so he told her the story, trying to minimise the drama of what had happened. He hadn’t let himself think about it that way yet. ‘Suddenly she had the knife in her hand. I decided to take it off her before something happened.’

  Gina surveyed him sceptically. ‘She lunged at you with a knife? Um, hello. She must be unstable. You did a report?’

  ‘Sure.’ Dühnfort walked beside her down the corridor. The floors were worn, the windows urgently needed cleaning, and the white walls were scratched black from the rubber buffers of the trolleys wheeled past them. The whole atmosphere oppressed him. ‘So you’ve been hard at work, despite being off sick?’

  ‘It was a good distraction. And I was right: Rebecca Engelhardt works under the name Trixie at Diamond Escorts.’ Gina handed him an internet printout. ‘It’s possible Rebecca Engelhardt isn’t her real name either. This is Mandy, twenty-two – I found her at Sexy Lady Escorts – and this is Svetlana, twenty-three, from Aphrodite Escort Services.’ She gave him two more printouts.

  ‘Thanks. Sandra can question them tomorrow. We’ve missed you today. Will you be back on Monday?’

  ‘If the doctors don’t find anything tomorrow I’ll be out of this nightmare faster than you can say MRI. In which case you’ll have me back by the afternoon. The procedure’s not so bad. They examine the bladder wall with a special lamp, and when something flashes blue it’s bad. They’re also taking a biopsy from the swelling the urologist found. I’ll have to wait a few days for the results. So give me plenty of work, then I won’t have time to worry.’ The smile Gina attempted got stuck halfway.

  Dühnfort opened the bag of orange truffles. ‘A bit of self-medication?’

  ‘An overdose, please.’ Gina took two and popped them into her mouth. By now they’d reached the ward. ‘Let me show you the kind of luxury we private patients live in,’ said Gina with her mouth full, opening the door. The neon light flickered on, laying the tiny room bare in all its dreariness. It was just big enough to squeeze in a bed, a nightstand and a table, which was wedged into a corner with a chair. Grey linoleum and a bare, curtain-less window. Nothing but an aluminium roller blind. Everything was battered, dented, damaged; even the mirror over the sink was missing a corner. ‘When I checked in this morning I was almost embarrassed, because as a public servant I have the privilege of being a private patient. Until I saw the room. I don’t want to know where the health service patients are kept.’ She sat down on the bed and offered Dühnfort the only chair.

  ‘Really pretty here,’ he said. ‘So minimalist and authentic. The claustrophobia reminds me of Gregor Schneider’s Haus u r.’

  ‘It makes me think of Psycho. Thank God there’s no shower. That’s spared me a bit of anxiety. Very thoughtful.’ Gina laughed.

  A nurse came in without knocking and gave Gina a series of instructions for tomorrow’s tests. Then she placed two tablets and thrombosis stockings on the nightstand and wished them a good night.

  Dühnfort watched her go. ‘I’ll come back at noon tomorrow, if I can manage it.’ He stuffed the papers next to the wine bottles in the Dallmayr bags.

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ replied Gina. ‘But it would be nice. I’ll walk you to the lift.’

  They left the ward. Outside the lift, Dühnfort was lost for words. He didn’t know how to give Gina courage.

  ‘It is what it is.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Like you always say. Either I have cancer or I don’t. It’s a done deal – tomorrow’s just confirmation. And even if I do have it, I’ve caught it early enough to treat. Some people don’t go to the doctor until they start pissing blood.’ Her tone sounded to Dühnfort like she was whistling in the dark to keep her spirits up.

  ‘It’s nothing, you’ll see.’ He didn’t know why he was so sure. The lift arrived, the doors opened. Two nurses pushed out a bed carrying an old man, wizened like a forgotten apple. That’s what awaits us all, thought Dühnfort. Assuming we don’t get our throats cut first.

  *

  Caroline stowed her laptop bag in the hand-luggage compartment and sat by the window. Her handbag she placed on the seat beside her. The Global Marketing Conference had gone as she’d feared. Wasted time, on the whole. One more hour and she’d be in Munich. Marc had rung as she was waiting at the gate to board. ‘I’m on my way back from Nuremberg and driving past the airport. I’ll make a detour and pick you
up, OK?’ She’d gladly accepted the offer.

  An overweight man in his mid-fifties flopped down in the aisle seat. He loosened his tie and buried himself in a management journal.

  Caroline leaned back and shut her eyes. Yesterday, after getting over her initial aversion, she’d begun to read the diary. It brought her mother Elli back to life, both painful and comforting at the same time.

  Elli had been a sober-minded woman who mistrusted big emotions. She came from a family of Munich businessmen, whose interests lay in debits and credits, markets and sales opportunities, competitors and allies, so naturally she’d been brought up with a dose of healthy common sense. Literature and music, painting and theatre, highfalutin conversation and educational travel were dismissed as fanciful nonsense or considered extravagant. No wonder Elli had ended up without any sense of romance. She studied business, learned to juggle with figures and value a decent bargain, to negotiate credit terms and hold her own in a masculine world. The only weakness she allowed herself was the cinema. The moment a new film was released she would head down to the New Arena or the Theatiner Picturehouse with her friend Thea and forget the world for two hours. She was as fond of American movies as of postwar German slush. Elli knew them all. Cinema was about big emotions, the ones she didn’t really beliefve in.

  Wolfram and Elli met through Thea, whose mother rented rooms to students. Wolfram had moved into one at the beginning of his medical studies. He and Elli became friends, and out of friendship grew a flirtation that ended in marriage. When he began his specialist training and started earning money, he proposed.

  ‘Excuse me, that’s my seat.’

  Caroline looked up. An older woman was pointing at the middle seat. Caroline put her handbag on her lap. The fat man stood up to let her pass, and the woman sat down. It had been dark for ages by now. The lights of the terminal building, the planes and the runways glittered like a fairground. Caroline’s mind returned to the diary.

  As a teenager she’d wanted to know why Mum had married Dad. He had other women, and she didn’t understand why Elli allowed it, making Caroline even more afraid they’d divorce. She’d never forgotten Elli’s answer. ‘A solid friendship is the best basis for a marriage, better than infatuation. When that fades, and it will, what’s left? Nothing, mostly.’