Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  Dühnfort thanked her and left. By now it was dark. Agnesstraße wasn’t far, and he couldn’t miss the computer shop. It was in an austere postwar building. He found the name Pongratz next to one of the first-floor doorbells. The main door was open. Dühnfort went inside, switched on the hall light, climbed the stairs and rang the bell. A shapeless woman answered a moment later. Grey perm, lilac polyester jumper, a swift glance from mousey-grey eyes. ‘We’re not buying anything.’ The door slowly began to close again.

  ‘I’d like to speak to your grandson. Is he there?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Dühnfort showed her his ID.

  ‘The lad hasn’t done anything, has he?’

  ‘I just have a few questions about a fellow student. Can I come in?’

  She opened the door again. The hall was laid with dark-brown carpet, the walls covered with white woodchip paper. Small oil paintings depicting rural idylls hung either side. Dühnfort’s eyes came to rest on a rooster, sitting enthroned on a heap of dung above a gaggle of hens like a king above his populace. The background was crowded with snow-capped peaks. Olav’s grandmother pointed at a door where a sign read Do not disturb my circles! ‘Nobody’s allowed in.’

  Dühnfort knocked.

  Getting no response, he opened the door and entered a near-totally dark room. In one corner blinked the red, green and yellow lights of a computer, printer and various other devices. In front of a monitor he could see the outline of a boy. The room didn’t seem to have been aired in years. The reek of sweat, socks worn several days running, unwashed underwear and food had settled like a congealed mass.

  Olav’s grandmother appeared next to him. ‘Olav, you have a visitor. This man is from the police, and he’s got a few questions about another student. I’m putting the light on.’

  The room brightened. Dühnfort had seen many things in his time, but rarely a tip like this one. It was a wild shambles of clothing, books, comics, chocolate-bar wrappers, used tissues and much, much else. In a half-empty bottle of apple juice swam an island of green mould, while a yoghurt pot was filled with gossamer threads of black mildew.

  ‘Christ, lad, just look at this place!’ Olav’s grandmother clapped her hand to her mouth in horror, then let it drop. ‘He never lets me in, and he always locks it when he’s not here.’

  The boy stood up and turned round. He wore a black beanie and was at least fifteen kilograms overweight. Blue eyes sat like buttons in his still-childish face. They surveyed Dühnfort expressionlessly. Olav wore jeans, the crotch hanging down to his knees, a white T-shirt and a blue-checked lumberjack shirt. ‘It’s about Franzi, isn’t it?’

  ‘This is shameful, lad. Tomorrow you’re leaving it unlocked so I can clean up,’ said his grandmother.

  Dühnfort nodded and glanced around as Olav came closer. He counted two PCs, two laptops and several monitors. Lights blinked on a router, a handheld device lay on a sweatshirt stained with tomato ketchup, countless hard drives were scattered on and underneath the desk, and a mobile phone sat beside the keyboard. The screensaver came on: it was a photograph of Franzi.

  Suddenly Olav shifted gear. He gave Dühnfort a shove that made him stumble, then bolted down the hall. Dühnfort dashed after him. The apartment door fell shut. He flung it open. Olav was already on the bottom floor. Dühnfort took the stairs two at a time as the main door slammed; reaching it, he tore it open and looked around. Olav was running towards Winzererstraße. Dühnfort sped after him. His heart was thudding in his throat and he gasped for air. Out of shape. Shit. No matter: he was still going to catch this overweight boy. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Olav put on an extra spurt, but Dühnfort was gaining ground. He heard himself panting, heard the slap of his feet against the asphalt, felt the burning in his muscles and the sweat running down his back. As he got closer he smelled Olav’s sour stench and heard him gasping for breath as his feet lost pace. Another two metres. Olav sidestepped. Dühnfort caught his shirt just as he skidded on a patch of wet leaves. He didn’t let go, and together they came crashing to the ground.

  *

  Meo was sitting in his lab, working on Olav’s computers. Dühnfort fetched a cup of coffee, then went into the interrogation room to speak to Olav.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’

  Olav looked at him out of blue button eyes and held his gaze, his beanie still on his head.

  Dühnfort sat down. ‘You’re friends with Franziska Kiendel?’

  Olav now fixed his gaze on a spot on the wall behind Dühnfort. Not a muscle stirred on his face. Dühnfort was tired and hungry. It was after nine, and his patience was gradually reaching an end.

  ‘You go to the same school as Franzi. A picture of her is the screensaver on your PC. So you do know her. I’d like to talk to you about Franzi.’

  His face remained as if set in stone, his button eyes fastened rigidly on the wall.

  ‘Good, then we’ll stop here for tonight. You know what we found on Heckeroth’s computer. You know what we’ll find on your computers. At nine o’clock tomorrow we’ll pick this up again. Here, at my office. Please be punctual. If you’re not, at five past nine I’ll put out an official search for you.’

  For a second Olav’s eyes widened, and his mouth twitched.

  ‘You can go.’

  Olav got to his feet and shuffled through the doorway without turning round. Tomorrow morning at five to nine he’d knock on the office door, Dühnfort was sure of that.

  He briefly dropped by Gina and Alois’s office. Alois wasn’t there – he was still out looking into who had purchased GHB. Gina switched off her computer. ‘Tomorrow is another day, and I’ve got beef olives waiting for me. Want to join us? I’m sure there’ll be enough for you.’

  Dühnfort felt sweaty and dirty. His left hand was skinned and his trousers splotchy after taking a tumble with Olav. He thanked Gina for the invitation, but decided to go home.

  His front door closed. For a moment, he listened to the silence. Then he brought the mushrooms and parsley into the kitchen; the books he took into the living room. The light on his answering machine blinked. The message was from Sylvia Ullmann, asking him to call her back. She’d drawn up the purchasing agreement, and if he wasn’t regretting his spontaneous decision and still genuinely wanted the boat, all he needed to do was sign. Dühnfort dialled her number, and they agreed to meet the next day during her lunch break.

  Afterwards he took a shower, treated the scrape on his hand and set about preparing his mushroom risotto. As he cooked, he drank a glass of Pinot gris. When he could no longer bear the silence, which lay over him like a rain-drenched coat, he put a Norah Jones disc into the CD player.

  He ate at the kitchen table, drank wine and thumbed through the volume of poetry. Why had Agnes sent him that email? Was she sorry? Was she looking for a way to pick things up? Was it her way of casting him a line? Oh thou that I would have loved, oh thou that knew it! Would have! The possibility was gone. Wouldn’t it have been easier to write point-blank what she was thinking, instead of expecting him to interpret this poem and work out what she could have meant? He was no expert in the finer points of language, not one to read between the lines or discover meanings beyond what the words revealed at first glance. Did she expect an answer in kind? Perhaps a poem he’d written himself, like her husband had once done for her? He was no Cyrano de Bergerac.

  If kisses could be written, then, Madame,

  You would read my letters with your lips.

  He couldn’t do that sort of thing. He was a policeman. Always on the hunt for concrete truth.

  Dühnfort pushed his plate aside, refilled his glass of wine and carried both it and Baudelaire into the living room. Norah Jones’s voice washed over him. He sat down on the sofa and leafed through the pages. What should he do? Ignore the email, give no answer? For God’s sake! It was over, and he was sitting here racking his brains. Then his eye fell on another poem. ‘Love and the Skull’. He read it, and it seemed fitti
ng. With the book in his hand he went over to his desk, started up his computer and wrote Agnes an answer. He did as she had done, typing only one line, but not the one he meant. This absurd and ferocious game – when will it end? What he really wanted to say was in the next stanza: For that which your cruel mouth scatters in the air, monstrous assassin, is my brain, my blood and my flesh! Before he could think better of it, he clicked send. Two seconds later the email was gone, and there was no going back.

  He drained the rest of his glass and reached for the book of photographs, which lay on the coffee table. He spent the next hour or so flicking through it, until a vague idea began to form. He could take the boat to the holiday cottage in Sylt next summer, and from there sail through the North Sea into the English Channel. He could visit the Channel Islands, then sail further along the Normandy coast, take a break on the Île de Bréhat off the coast of Brittany for a few days, then, passing the Côte de Granit Rosé, approach his goal, the Île d’Ouessant with its five lighthouses, one of the most difficult sailing areas in the world.

  Maybe Dad would fancy coming along. For years they’d hardly been in touch – until this summer. The first approaches had already been made. Perhaps a sailing trip together would strengthen the bond that had been essential to him as a child and burdensome during puberty – and which he’d flatly broken as an adult. For everything there was a season. Perhaps they should patch things up before their final, hopefully very distant, separation.

  Dühnfort’s thoughts wandered to the Heckeroths. Their family had parallels to his own. His brother Julius was like Albert. He’d always wanted to keep their father happy, clearing one hurdle after another. At every stage he’d been rewarded with approval and affection. Was that really love? Then again, it was understandable that men might want to see their life’s work in the hands of a son who would continue what they had built.

  Dühnfort rubbed his eyes wearily. But what about the sons? They were dropped down at the starting line and ran for their lives. The ones who made it to the end got the appreciation and tenderness they so desired. The ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t catch up with their opponents, who thought differently, who left the battleground known as the family, had to stay there. On the sidelines. Ideally unobserved.

  Wednesday, 22 October

  Overnight the weather had changed. A warm wind had climbed across the Alps from Italy, sweeping the skies clear. It was already fifteen degrees when Dühnfort entered his office shortly before eight.

  Two minutes to nine, there was a knock at the door. Olav shuffled in without a word of greeting after Dühnfort shouted come in. He still wore his beanie, and he met Dühnfort’s gaze with stoic calm, just as he’d done the night before.

  ‘Please.’ Dühnfort gestured towards a chair. Olav flopped down sideways, his body turned at a forty-five-degree angle. This was going to be fun.

  Dühnfort was in no mood for speeches, and picked up Meo’s report on the contents of Olav’s computers. Assuming no one else had had access to them, Olav was the one who’d smuggled the keylogger on to Heckeroth’s PC using the fake website. He’d also emailed the password to Franzi after the keylogger sent it to him. It didn’t get much more clear-cut than that. Dühnfort passed Olav the file. Olav hesitated, then took it and read the contents. While he read, a smile crept across his lips.

  When he was finished he closed the file, put it on the table, crossed his arms and stared at Dühnfort challengingly.

  ‘Good, so that’s established,’ said Dühnfort. ‘What happened after you emailed Franzi the password?’

  Olav’s eyes grew rounder, and he spread out his arms. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I’d like to hear it from you.’

  ‘Franzi nicked the key off her mum.’ Olav seemed to think that said it all. While Dühnfort waited, he heard the whir of the computer and footsteps hurrying in the corridor. ‘The one from his flat. She went in and deleted the photos that arse took of her.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Monday. Monday 6 October. It’s in the log files.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘Nope. Really.’

  ‘And where was Heckeroth?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Franzi didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Nah. Why would she?’

  ‘So you knew about the photos?’

  ‘She told me. That twat tried to blackmail her. Said he was going to upload it to the school site.’

  ‘What did you do that evening?’

  Olav grinned. ‘Was with the police.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘As a witness.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘There was a fight at the Tube station.’

  ‘On Monday 6 October, around ten p.m.?’

  Olav nodded.

  ‘Which police station?’

  ‘Chiemgaustraße.’

  ‘Do you remember who took your statement?’

  Olav frowned. ‘Hamberger, I think his name was.’

  ‘Did Franzi tell you whether she managed to delete the photos?’

  ‘She called me. It all went fine.’

  ‘Why was she on her bike just before midnight?’

  ‘To get a kebab at the station. I was going to meet her there, but she never arrived.’ Olav blinked. ‘Some arsehole knocked her flying.’

  Dühnfort picked up the telephone, rang the station at Chiemgaustraße and asked for Officer Hamberger. A minute later he had him on the line. Dühnfort introduced himself and explained the reason for his call. When he was finished, he asked whether Hamberger could confirm the boy’s story.

  ‘Of course I remember Olav Pongratz. Good lad. We need more like him. Most people couldn’t give a shit about some tramp getting beaten up.’

  Dühnfort eyed Olav, who was staring at the floor. ‘He tried to help a homeless person?’

  ‘Two skinheads attacked a beggar on the concourse at Mangfallplatz Tube Station. Nobody even looked, they all walked past. Just wanted to get out of there. Only Olav intervened. Decent boy.’

  ‘And that was 6 October around ten p.m.?’

  ‘Correct. If you want I can send you the CCTV footage.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s not necessary.’

  Dühnfort leaned back and surveyed the boy. He was eighteen, but didn’t have a driving licence. They’d found out the password using the keylogger, and it looked as if Franzi had managed to access Heckeroth’s PC. So she had no reason to travel to Münsing and attack Heckeroth. Dühnfort thanked Olav for coming and chatting with him, then watched as he slouched out of the office.

  Then he went to see Alois and Gina. She was at her computer; Alois wasn’t there. ‘He’s gone to Bertram’s house. Seems your example has rubbed off on him – he said he wants to take a look around. Worried he’s missed something.’ Gina finished typing and smiled up at Dühnfort.

  ‘Getting any further with Sabine Groß?’

  Gina nodded. ‘Slowly but surely.’

  ‘How did she explain her fingerprints at Bertram’s house?’

  Gina turned to face Dühnfort. ‘Bumping into Bertram stirred up ancient history. She said she doesn’t even know herself why she tracked down his address and hung around outside his house. Not just once, by the way – often. At some point Bertram noticed. He remembered her and asked her in. When she told him what happened back then, it seemed to be grist to his mill. She says he hated his father and wanted Sabine to report him for the rape, but the statute of limitations had run out. He had too much negative energy, she said. So she broke off contact with him.’

  ‘Did she believe he was capable of killing his father?’

  ‘He told her about his financial troubles and that his old man was only too happy to watch him go under. She’s convinced Bertram’s our man.’

  But that wasn’t enough on its own. They needed proof. Once again Dühnfort felt like he was lost in a labyrinth, vainly seeking the way out.

  *

  Around twelve Dühnfort left the station.
The sun shone in an immaculate blue sky. A warm wind swept through the streets, seeming to drive the Alps before them and encouraging pub landlords to fetch tables and chairs from their basements and set them up outside. By lunchtime, Munich had transformed once more into a Bavarian Florence. For the last time this year, perhaps. People in sunglasses sat in cafés and restaurants, drinking cappuccinos or pale beer and eating insalata caprese or tortellini, veal sausage or roast pork. In short skirts, sleeveless tops or shirtsleeves, they offered up their skin to the sun one final time before the arrival of winter.

  The sunshine did Dühnfort good, too. His bad mood vanished, and suddenly he felt full of energy and vigour. It wasn’t just the weather; mainly it was the prospect of his sailing trip. Looking forward to seeing Sylvia Ullmann and signing the agreement, he made his way towards Bonner Platz.

  He reached the Italian café near Schwabing Hospital, where he’d agreed to meet her, found a table in the sun and ordered a double espresso. Then he unbuttoned his jacket, closed his eyes and let his mind wander back to the summer. The summer with Agnes. Would she answer his email? Probably not. The words he’d chosen were harsh and hurtful.

  ‘Espresso doppio.’ The waiter set down the cup. Dühnfort glanced up and saw Sylvia Ullmann weaving towards the table. She ordered a cappuccino from the waiter, who was already hurrying away, then sat down.

  As he read through the purchasing agreement and signed it, she drank her coffee. He passed her the pen.

  She scribbled down her bank details then handed him a padded envelope. ‘You’re a policeman, so I’m sure you won’t rip me off. I’ve brought all the documents with me. The key’s in there too. Plus the ones for the cabin and outboard motor. Schorsch knows all about it, and he’s offered to take the boat to its mooring. It weighs quite a bit, so you’d need a powerful vehicle – if you can’t manage it, Schorsch’ll help you. He can’t do this weekend, though. Monday at the soonest.’

  He hadn’t considered that point. His car didn’t have a coupling device, or, for that matter, the power to pull a boat that weighed at least two tons. ‘That’s a kind offer,’ said Dühnfort. ‘And I’m afraid I’ll have to accept it. My vehicle won’t cope.’