by Inge Löhnig
‘So you didn’t love Daddy when you married him?’ Caroline had asked.
‘What does love really mean? We were friends. Your father had a good job as a paediatrician. He had something to offer me. And you know, Caroline, big emotions only exist in books and at the movies,’ she’d said, adding, ‘mostly, at least.’
The engines grew louder. Slowly the aircraft edged away from the terminal and rolled towards the runway. Caroline took the diary out of her handbag and leafed through. It spanned a period of about twelve years. Elli had torn out a few pages at the end, but why?
She’d begun by describing her new marriage, which went as smoothly as she’d expected. Only one thing bothered her.
Thank God I never had any romantic illusions on that score. It’s not called a marital duty for nothing. Like the word implies: a duty is rarely a pleasure. But does Wolfi really have to ask every day? It’s annoying and unpleasant, and I’m always glad when he’s finished. More than that – he always makes me feel like I’m doing everything wrong. Hopefully I’ll fall pregnant soon. Then I can expect a little consideration.
Was that why the three of us were born? wondered Caroline. Not from love or the desire to pass something on, but to temporarily relieve her mother of annoying marital duties?
The plane had reached its take-off position. The drone of the engines intensified and the aircraft accelerated. Caroline was pressed back against the seat as they raced down the runway, lights whizzing past, until suddenly they were airborne. Excitement prickled through her body. She always enjoyed that moment, almost like a tiny orgasm. Caroline smiled. Mum would never have let that word pass her lips.
Once they’d reached cruising altitude, Caroline opened the diary again. As she did so, the letters she’d stuck between the pages fell out. A slender bundle. At the top was an envelope with a typewritten address: the paediatric clinic her father had worked at in the early sixties. The letter wasn’t written to him, however, but to Administrative Director Peter Brandenbourg – personal. Caroline turned it over. No return address. She slid the letter out of the envelope and recognised her mother’s handwriting.
Darling!
Caroline thought she’d misread. But no – it really did say Darling!
Had her mother had some sort of affair? Clearly – she’d never have used that term with Dad. Caroline looked at the date: 11 December 1963. Her parents had been married just nine months.
Darling!
Yes, I may call you that now. Now that we’ve put our love into words, after weeks of reading our feelings in each other’s eyes, like a trove of precious stones, so sparkling and beautiful. And not only into words. The way your hands, my darling, gently explored my body, discovering and conquering a land unknown even to me . . .
My God, Mum! Caroline lowered the letter. Sentences straight out of some slushy novel, written by her mother, of all people, that level-headed pragmatist. What had she meant by unknown land? Did that mean that her womanising father hadn’t known what a clitoris was?
‘What would you like to drink? Juice, coffee, water?’
Caroline jumped. The stewardess gave her a friendly smile. A cognac, Caroline wanted to reply. ‘Do you have any red wine?’
The stewardess passed her a plastic cup and a small screw-top bottle.
As she drank her red wine, which was rather too acidic, she read her mother’s long letter to the end. It continued in much the same grandiose vein. Much was only hinted at, body parts and actions merely euphemised, but what the two of them had experienced together was unmistakeable: her mother had had the best sex of her life with Peter, on the very same day they’d admitted their love. Desires and fulfilment had surged over them like waves and carried them away.
Wow, thought Caroline. Dad couldn’t keep up with that. But what had happened to Peter? Why hadn’t Mum left Wolfi?
The seatbelt sign came on and the captain announced they were beginning their descent into Munich Aiport.
Caroline examined the letter. Mum had been a young woman then, newly married, and Peter Brandenbourg was head of administration at the clinic. It was the kind of job you had to work up to, so probably he’d been significantly older. Caroline couldn’t help smiling. What an irony of fate that Mum, of all people, who had always believed that true love existed only in novels and the movie screen, should find it in real life. When she’d said those words to Caroline, her affair with Peter Brandenbourg must already have been in the past. Had she changed her mind in retrospect? Perhaps it hadn’t been true love, but a disappointment? Or both?
The plane touched down on the landing strip and rolled towards the gate. Caroline packed up her things. As she exited the plane, she was looking forward to seeing Marc.
*
‘Why don’t you tell the police, if you’re sure he killed his own father?’ Marc reached for a piece of sushi, dunked it in soy sauce and put it in his mouth. He gazed at her expectantly. She’d told him about the conversation with Katja and about her suspicion that Bertram was forcing her to lie.
Caroline didn’t have an answer. Something in her bristled at the idea of sharing her suspicions with the police. In any case, she had no proof. ‘I’ve probably been infected with the Heckeroth Virus. Families stick together! What will the neighbours think? Plus I’m afraid. If he finds out I grassed him up he’ll definitely want to get me back.’
Caroline had lost her appetite. She pushed away the half-empty plate of sushi Marc had bought at the airport. He eyed her in concern. Again she was struck by his good looks. Blue eyes, luxurious black hair, and a face and body that looked as if he’d climbed straight out of the Iliad for a quick trip into the twenty-first century. He was also considerate, attentive and polite.
‘Aren’t you exaggerating a bit? I’ve always found him rather nice. An interesting guy.’
‘At the very least he’ll key my car. At Babs’s place he knocked over a cabinet full of Murano glass. He’s a real arsehole, and a loser to boot.’
‘I wouldn’t call him that.’ Marc folded his napkin and put it beside his plate. ‘To me he seems more like a hero in a tragedy.’
Caroline tried to suppress the anger that inevitably welled up. ‘Have you been taking the sophistry course at the adult education centre?’ It was meant ironically, but sounded irritable.
Marc laughed. ‘I’m just seeing your family from the outside – it’s another perspective. You’re all acting out the usual struggles for parental affection and approval, and Bertram’s ended up on the wrong track. Probably he’d have made a decent doctor, but the role of heir apparent had already been given to Albert.’
‘You could see it like that, of course. But then he hooked himself a princess whose money he could live off.’
‘Katja let herself in for it. She’ll have had her reasons. I doubt he’s the only one who profited from that marriage.’
Caroline got up, unwilling to continue the conversation. ‘I need a cognac.’
Marc pushed back his chair. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’ They’d gone back to his apartment. His territory. Caroline flopped back onto the leather sofa. ‘A double, ideally.’
While Marc was in the kitchen, Caroline gazed at the lights of the city, blurry in the rain beyond the panoramic window of his penthouse apartment. She kicked off her pumps and put her feet up on the sofa. She could feel the meal sitting in her stomach; she was bound to get heartburn. But she couldn’t be bothered to get up and fetch the tablets in her handbag. Marc came back with two glasses, handed her one and sat down next to her. Silently they sipped their drinks. Then Marc took her legs, put them over his knees and massaged her toes. It felt good. Probably his hands would soon be wandering in another direction. Caroline was tired and a little annoyed. ‘What do you think Bertram gave Katja in return for her generosity? Love, perhaps?’
‘Independence,’ said Marc.
Caroline laughed. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘Do you remember the party they threw the summer before last?’<
br />
Of course she remembered. It had been a grand affair. Käfer had done the catering, champagne had run like water, and Bertram had played the grand architect – the international jetsetter known to everyone.
‘That was when Katja told me she couldn’t have opened the gallery without Bertram’s support. He gave her the courage to finally wriggle out of her parents’ grip and stand on her own two feet. She said he was the first person in her life to take her seriously and see her as an independent human being. Until then she’d been a child to her parents and the spoiled daughter of a wealthy family to everyone else –’
‘A spoiled daughter you could exploit,’ Caroline interrupted. ‘And Bertram did more than his fair share of that.’
Marc sighed. ‘So what? It’s their affair. It’s none of our business.’ His hand released her toes and slid gradually up her ankle and calf to her knee. He leaned towards her, stroked her hair out of her face and kissed her. She returned the kiss. Sex was always preferable to a fight. Funny – it had been weeks since he’d last mentioned Kerity going public. Abruptly her stomach rebelled. She just managed to pull away before the sour wave rose up and burned her throat. ‘Sorry.’
‘Your stomach again?’
Caroline nodded. She needed her tablets, and was about to go and fetch them. But Marc was already on his way. Why was he doing that? Well, it wasn’t about her. He’d have done the same for any other woman.
He came back with the bag. Searching for the box, Caroline instead found Tanja’s gift, which had been sitting forgotten in there since yesterday.
‘What’s that?’ Marc sat down beside her.
‘A present from my secretary.’ Caroline removed the bow and wrapping paper, revealing a small book. Let Your Grief Grow Wings: Saying Goodbye to a Loved One. A self-help book. Her first response was to be touched.
Marc examined the book. ‘That’s very kind of her. Most people would send a card in these circumstances, but she’s thinking about how difficult this time must be for you.’
‘Her probation period’s running out soon. She’s probably looking to get brownie points so we’ll put her on a permanent contract.’
A change slid across Marc’s face that shocked Caroline. The warm blue of his eyes acquired a metallic glint, and his features hardened. ‘For God’s sake, why can’t you just believe that people are thinking of you, that they like you, that they’re considering your feelings? Don’t you realise how hurtful your behaviour is? Next you’ll be telling me I only asked you to be my wife so I’d get the Kerity flotation.’
She jumped.
He read the truth in her eyes before she could lower her gaze.
For a moment there was silence. Then Marc stood up. ‘I’m tired and I’d like to be alone now. I’ll call you a taxi.’ His voice was softer and a shade deeper, as if she were buried underneath something.
*
Noel and Leon had gone to their rooms after dinner. Babs ironed the boys’ shirts and one of Albert’s for the funeral the next morning. On Saturday Noel and Leon were going on a school trip for a week. A retreat. It was exactly what they needed after two deaths in the family. Babs had spoken to the teachers accompanying the class that afternoon. She had mentioned the children’s unusual situation and asked the teachers to be sensitive to that.
Albert still hadn’t come home, and his phone was still off. Her mind began to whirl again. Maybe something had happened to him, after all. But if he’d had an accident, the police would have been round ages ago. He was simply being thoughtless. Probably he was lying in bed with his receptionist, that pinched-faced little woman who wasn’t so stupid she’d failed to drop a subtle hint by using Albert’s first name. She dismissed the thought, ironing the collar and spraying the cuff.
A key was turned in the lock and the apartment door opened. A moment later it shut. Babs’s emotions wavered between fury and relief. She was keen to hear his explanation. They’d had few quarrels in their marriage, but now Babs found herself wanting to fling crockery against the wall.
First a hand holding a bouquet of red roses appeared round the door, then the other, carrying a bottle of gin. Then Albert’s face. ‘Do you forgive me? I’ve behaved abominably, I know.’ He looked at her guiltily, his eyes ingenuously wide, like a little boy who’d done something naughty. She couldn’t help but laugh.
He came into the kitchen, gave her the flowers, put the bottle on the table and pulled her close. ‘Of course you can use my study. I hope you know that, and that you already have.’
Good girl that I am, she thought, I haven’t. How silly of me. Today her back was hurting even more than yesterday.
‘I’ll make us a gin and tonic.’ Albert winked at her and went over to the fridge.
So that’s how easily he thought he could sweep it under the rug. Gin and tonic played a strange role in their marriage. A kind of foreplay.
‘Where were you?’
He took ice cubes out of the freezer. ‘I spent the night at Dad’s apartment and the day sentimentally wallowing in memories. I looked through the photo album and even watched the old Super 8 movies. Heckeroths going skiing, sledging, fishing and swimming, picnicking on the Isar and going on holiday to Crete. Just time-travelling. I thought we could invite Caroline and Marc over to watch them after the funeral. Bertram, too, as far as I’m concerned. Got to put an end to the fighting sometime.’
Babs was relieved at this change of heart. ‘That’s a nice idea.’
‘Which one?’ Albert went over and put his arm round her. ‘Watching films or patching things up with Bertram?’
‘Both.’
Albert leaned in and kissed her. She returned the kiss, glad the whole situation had blown over.
Friday, 17 October
Overnight the clouds had disappeared, and the air was clear and cool. The autumn sun bathed Bertram’s house in golden light. The Porsche stood outside the garage. It was ten past ten when Dühnfort parked his car there, Alois pulling up behind him. The van full of officers ready to search the property had stopped at the edge of the street. Dühnfort got out and rang the bell.
Shortly after eight Buchholz had come back with the results of the forensic examination of Heckeroth’s car. The dried earth came from the tread of Bertram’s bike, the flecks of oil from its chain. Dühnfort had obtained a warrant for his arrest and a search of his house.
Alois appeared beside him. Dühnfort rang again. ‘We won’t arrest him until we’re done here. Did the traffic CCTV come back yet?’
‘Not until tomorrow.’ Alois buttoned up his dark wool coat, drawing his cashmere scarf more tightly around his neck.
‘What’s taking so long?’
Shivering, Alois rubbed his hands. ‘They’ve already been archived. Somebody’s got to dig them out.’
Since nothing was stirring, Dühnfort opened the garden gate and went up to the front door. He knocked. More silence. The funeral wasn’t for two hours; Bertram was supposed to be at home.
‘Maybe he’s nipping out the back.’
‘You go round there’ – Dühnfort pointed to the cube on his right – ‘and I’ll go this way.’ He turned left round the corner of the house, following a gravel path to the terrace, which was separated from the living room by a sliding glass door. The door stood open a crack. Glancing inside, Dühnfort saw an elegant black leather suite, Bertram sitting in one of the armchairs. His head, or what was left of it, was tilted back, resting on the edge of the leather cushion. On the floor lay a gun.
The wound on Dühnfort’s hand began to throb. At the same time he felt a mixture of rage, sorrow and guilt brew deep inside him; his stomach filled with liquid lead, forcing him to sit down on the edge of a planter full of asters in bloom. Had he missed something? Had he been too slow? If he’d turned up the pressure and got the warrant last night, would Bertram still be alive?
Alois came round the corner. ‘No sign of him. We should put out an alert.’
‘Not necessary.’ Dühnfort gestured at the l
iving room.
Alois threw a glance inside, then sat down beside Dühnfort as if jerked off his feet by an invisible force. He rested his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s one way to do a runner.’
‘Can you let Buchholz and the coroner know?’ Dühnfort picked himself up and went back to his car, fetching overshoes and latex gloves.
When he came back, Alois was putting his phone back in his pocket. ‘You’re going in already? Buchholz won’t like that.’
Ignoring that remark, Dühnfort entered the living room through the terrace door.
The dead man’s expression confused him. He looked relaxed and peaceful, although he’d shot himself in the mouth, blowing off the bottom half of his skull. The surest way to commit suicide.
At the moment of death his muscles had slackened, his arm dropping and letting the gun fall to the floor. It lay on the carpet beneath his right hand. Dühnfort crouched down. It was a Česká. The pistol came from the Czech Republic, a weapon of choice for criminals from the East.
Dühnfort got up and looked around. Particles of skull, brain matter and blood were splattered as far as the table in the dining nook. The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, and – since the bladder and colon emptied at the point of death – of urine and excrement too.
On the coffee table was a letter that ran to several pages, all stapled together. Dühnfort bent down. It wasn’t a note. What jumped out first was the signature of a notary, and the stamped word copy. This was Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth’s last will and testament, drafted on 18 September. Dühnfort flicked through the pages until he found the crucial passage. Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth had changed his will only four days after his wife’s death, reducing Bertram’s inheritance to the statutory minimum and introducing some well-intentioned conditions. If Dühnfort understood correctly, not only would Bertram receive significantly less from his parents than originally planned, but he would get it only in small annual instalments. No large lump sum, no saving the house. Dühnfort searched for the envelope, but couldn’t find it. He went back onto the terrace, where Alois was just pocketing his phone. ‘Looks like suicide, but we’ll treat it as murder until we’re sure. Forensics, full search, interviews with the neighbours. The works. Can you sort that out? I’ve got to speak to the siblings and his ex-wife.’
