by Inge Löhnig
‘Do you know what you’re going to call it?’
He hadn’t thought about that either. His mobile began to ring. ‘Sorry.’ He took it out of his jacket pocket. It was Alois. ‘I had a thorough look round Bertram’s house and found the purchase documents for his bike. He’s only had it since the summer. A Stevens S 4 Comp. The bike we confiscated was also a Stevens, but a different model. So it’s not his bike.’
Dühnfort considered the implications of this. The trace evidence in Heckeroth’s car came from the bike they’d found at Bertram’s. Other than the fact that he had a concrete motive – and a manufactured alibi – this evidence was all they had against him. And now it turned out the bike wasn’t even his. Why hadn’t he said anything? Where had he got it from? Who did it really belong to?
Something was trying to surface. Dühnfort closed his eyes and explored the feeling.
‘Tino? You still there?’
‘I think you’re on to something. I’ll call you back.’ He hung up. He had it now: time for another visit to Heckeroth’s apartment.
‘What’s the boat called at the moment?’ he asked Sylvia Ullmann. ‘Perhaps I’ll keep the name.’
She smirked. ‘Doubt it. You’re not from Munich, are you? It’s called Sissi. My dad was a fan of the Austrian empress. This was her neck of the woods, after all.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right. I’ll have to think of something else.’ Dühnfort paid for his espresso and her cappuccino, picked up the envelope and shook hands with Sylvia Ullmann. ‘You’ll have the money by Friday.’
She wished him best of luck with the boat, and watched him leave.
*
Heckeroth’s key was still in Dühnfort’s coat pocket. Entering the apartment, he went into the study. There he found the folder he was looking for: Heckeroth had glued all his receipts onto sheets of paper and filed them away. If the item came with a warranty or user manual he’d kept these documents too, tucking them into plastic pockets. It didn’t take Dühnfort long to locate the right one: at the beginning of July, Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth had bought a mountain bike at a sports shop in Munich. A Stevens S 8 Elite. Printed on the warranty was the serial number.
Taking the documents as he went, Dühnfort closed the door behind him. On the way back to his car he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Buchholz. ‘Can you check the serial number on the bike we found at Bertram’s?’
‘Right now?’
‘If you can.’
‘I’ll call you back in two minutes.’
Dühnfort waited by his car, watching the tram pull up at Kurfürstenplatz with a squeal. People got on and off. The doors closed and the tram moved away, revealing the square. A young girl with an ice-cream cone in her hand peered around inquiringly, a dachshund raised its leg against a newspaper stand, and an elderly couple walked by hand-in-hand. Dühnfort’s mobile rang. Buchholz, reading off the serial number.
‘Thanks.’ Dühnfort ended the conversation and went back to Heckeroth’s building. He rang the bell, although the practice was closed on Wednesday afternoons. When nobody answered, he made for Albert’s apartment in Kaiserstraße. There he found only Albert’s wife, Babs. He asked about her father-in-law’s bike.
‘He didn’t like riding it in the city. Too dangerous. So he took it to his cabin. It’s in the shed.’
‘Was it coincidence that he bought one so much like Bertram’s mountain bike?’
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘No. Wolfram’s been wanting one for ages. When he saw Bertram’s mountain bike, he fancied one just like it. Not an old man’s bike, something sporty. He got the more expensive model, of course.’
Dühnfort took his leave and phoned Buchholz from the car. ‘Did you find a bike in the shed at the cabin?’
‘Why are you so interested in the bike, all of a sudden? There wasn’t one in Münsing.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure as eggs are eggs.’
‘Good. We’re meeting at the office in half an hour.’ Then he dialled Alois’s number to let him know too. ‘Bring the documents on Bertram’s bike.’
Arriving at the police station, he tracked down Gina. She was sitting behind her computer, and glanced up as he came in. ‘Meeting in the conference room. Alois’s found something that could help us. Would you mind letting Meo know too?’
As she nodded, her mobile began to play a tune. ‘Sorry.’ Gina picked up. Dühnfort was about to leave the office when he saw her expression change. She turned away. ‘Yes. No. That’s fine. Hi, doctor.’ Dühnfort wanted to go, but couldn’t.
Her back was ramrod straight as she pressed the phone to her ear and tensed her shoulders. She seemed to have stopped breathing. Instinctively he mimicked her posture. An unpleasant chill settled in his stomach.
‘OK. Yes. I understand. Thank you, doctor.’ She hung up and turned back round. Tears glittered in her eyes. She blinked them away. In two paces Dühnfort was by her side. He hugged her tightly, unsure of what to say. Again he noticed the scent of apples. For a moment she leaned against him, as if giving in to a weakness, then she pulled away.
With an irritable gesture she brushed the tears from her eyes and took a breath. ‘Sorry. It’s just the relief. Everything’s fine. Now I’ve gone and given you a fright – I didn’t mean to.’ She ran her hand over her face again, then pulled a handkerchief from her trouser pocket. ‘I’m not normally so weepy, sorry. The results of the biopsy were negative. Which for me, of course, is positive. All in the normal range.’ She shook the handkerchief open and blew her nose.
Dühnfort was glad his fears had been unfounded. ‘Well, that certainly woke me up. No harm in a little shock of adrenalin every now and then.’ Relieved, he stroked her arm.
*
The sun was blazing into the conference room, warming it up. Dühnfort got to his feet and opened a window. By now he’d brought his colleagues up to speed, having explained about Olav and Franzi. ‘For the time being I see no need to pursue it further. But Alois has found something I hope will move us forward.’ Dühnfort summarised what they knew about the two bikes. ‘So Bertram and his dad had near-identical mountain bikes. The one we confiscated from Bertram, the one whose tread we found in the car, didn’t actually belong to him – it was Wolfram’s. This leaves us with a few interesting questions. One: Bertram knew the evidence incriminating him didn’t actually come from his bike. Why didn’t he say so, instead of letting us suspect him? Two: when and how did he get hold of the bike? Three: was switching the bikes somehow part of the crime?’
‘Four: where’s his bike now?’ added Gina.
‘Not at his house, that’s for sure,’ replied Alois. ‘And five: is the trace evidence in the boot relevant to our investigation at all? It might have got there long beforehand.’
‘That’s not true. Heckeroth took his jeep in to be serviced on the Friday before the attack. Afterwards the vehicle was cleaned and valeted,’ objected Dühnfort.
Buchholz leaned forward and glanced round the table. ‘If I may, we don’t actually know which bike the evidence came from. Both are from the same manufacturer. If they don’t have different treads, the soil could have come from Bertram’s bike after all. Can I see both sets of documentation?’
Dühnfort and Alois slid the booklets across the table. Buchholz leafed through. For a minute there was silence in the room, until he looked up. ‘Bertram’s bike, with the Continental Vapor tyres, is missing. The one in the boot was his dad’s. Kevlar folding tyres.’
Gina chewed her bottom lip, resting her chin in her hand. ‘On the first point – why Bertram didn’t tell us it wasn’t his bike – I can think of three possible reasons. One: he was a self-satisfied git who thought our mistake was hilarious and wanted to gloat when we had to sheepishly apologise. Two: he attacked and tied up his father, then made it look like Heckeroth had gone back to town. That meant the car had to disappear, so Bertram put his father’s bike in the boot, drove the jeep to the hotel car park and lef
t it there. He went back to the cabin with the bike, which he then put into the Porsche, intending to get rid of it later. Why he didn’t, though . . .’ Gina shrugged. ‘And three: he wasn’t the killer, but he knew who was, and the bike played an important role in the crime. Which would mean Bertram was blackmailing someone – that’s why he had to die.’
‘You’re overlooking the fact that his bike is missing. Where is it? And does it have anything to do with the case?’ reflected Dühnfort.
‘I asked our colleagues in the robbery and theft division to keep an eye out for it,’ said Alois. ‘But Kalle Moser isn’t holding out much hope. Only ten per cent of stolen bikes show up again.’
‘If Bertram really was blackmailing somebody over the bike, it’s possible that the real killer wanted to get hold of it. They might have taken the wrong one by accident,’ remarked Gina.
‘But then where’s the right one? Whichever way you turn it, we’re one bike short,’ objected Alois. ‘And we’d better find it quickly.’
‘If Bertram did kill his father, then we can’t be sure he drove to Münsing at all that day. Cycling was his hobby. He often biked the distance to the cabin.’ Dühnfort turned to Meo. ‘Anyway, you have Bertram’s phone data. Can you put together a rough outline of his movements? Then we’ll know when he was at the cabin.’
Meo shook his head. ‘I only have the call log. That’s not going to help us track his movements. For that I need to know when his mobile connected to which radio cell.’
‘Do providers store that data?’
‘Sure. But they won’t hand it over without a warrant.’
‘Fine. I’ll get one. Then we’ll see where we are.’ Dühnfort ended the meeting, tracked down Christoph Leyenfels and convinced him to request a warrant for Bertram’s mobile phone data.
He’d just left the prosecutor’s office when he got a call. Kalle Moser from the robbery and theft division. ‘The bike you’re after is on eBay. Or one that looks damn near identical, anyway. Come and have a look.’
Dühnfort thanked Moser, let Alois know and drove back to the station.
Alois was already in Moser’s office when Dühnfort appeared. He was gazing at the monitor, where an item listing on eBay was displayed. Offered for sale was a Stevens S 4 Comp.
Kalle greeted him with a handshake. ‘I mean, I’m not a hundred per cent sure. But it’s the right model.’
Alois turned round. ‘It’s in Starnberg. Seller by the name of Roswell67. The size fits. If we want the seller’s real name from eBay, then –’
‘Then we’ll need another warrant. But perhaps we can manage without.’ Dühnfort had noticed something about the photographs uploaded to the site. The bike was leaning against a tree trunk, behind which was parked a dark-blue Smart car. That area of the image was blurry, but Dühnfort deciphered part of the licence plate. STA – W and a three. Picking up the telephone, he called the registration office and asked them to identify the owner.
‘Just a minute,’ said the woman on the other end. He heard the clatter of a keyboard, and after a while she picked up again. ‘There’s only one blue Smart car it could be.’
*
Babs stared at the bed she’d just made. She had no idea what was going to happen with her and Albert. He’d changed so much. In the past he’d not been hurtful, more indifferent. But that was no basis for a marriage, of course. Probably she’d been fooling herself for thirteen years. If that was true, wasn’t it high time to act? And yet . . . could she really take the boys’ father away from them? It wasn’t like he had much time for them anyway, and he showed very little interest – except when it came to their grades, which were very important to him.
Babs thought back to the school concert. Leon had been so excited about it, and so relieved and proud afterwards. His playing was fantastic. Everyone had gone crazy about it, praising him and predicting a glowing future as a musician. Everyone but Albert. While the applause went on and on, he simply inspected his fingernails, and afterwards he said that the flute was an instrument for girls. The corners of Leon’s mouth had dropped, and Babs had noticed a telltale shine in his eyes. She’d been tempted to stomp the heel of her shoe into Albert’s foot, but stopped herself in time.
She rubbed her temples. Separation was probably best, giving them time to collect themselves and find some clarity about what they meant to each other. And if it did come to a divorce, she was hardly the first wife to go through it. She didn’t have to just accept everything. Once again she saw the humiliating scene in her mind’s eye. The dropped trousers twisted around his legs, his bare buttocks, Margret Hecht’s triumphant gaze. Why had he done it? What had driven him to hurt her like that?
As if taunting her, the sun shone into the room. Still, a grey sky would have sent her plummeting even further. Babs smoothed the bedclothes, deciding to take advantage of the nice weather and air the apartment thoroughly. Afterwards she’d take a walk. She needed a clear head before she could think about the detailed design for the bathroom.
She went through the apartment, opening the windows in all the rooms, as well as the door to the balcony in Albert’s study. Frankly she’d wanted to tidy it weeks ago. Unlike the living-room balcony it was rarely used, home to a few empty flowerpots, an old watering can and a deckchair. Babs decided to postpone her walk and take it in hand. She fetched a cardboard box from the pantry and stacked the flowerpots inside it, intending to take them down to the basement later. The watering can had a hole, and belonged in the bin. Babs picked it up and discovered a dead bird in the corner between the wall and the balcony railing. It was a blackbird. It lay on its back, its wings spread as if in flight, its beak pointing upwards and its head strangely twisted, as if its neck were broken. It was already decomposing. White maggots writhed in its dull eyes. Nausea welled up inside Babs. She went into the kitchen, fetched a bin bag and put on rubber gloves. It took an effort of will to pick up the bird, but it had to be done. After she’d stuffed it into the bag, she pulled off the gloves, turning them inside out, and dropped them into the bag too. Then she deposited the whole lot into the wheelie bin in the courtyard and finished clearing the balcony. The blackbird must have been lying there for more than a week, she was sure. It couldn’t possibly be the one Bertram had used as an excuse to enter Albert’s study.
*
Dühnfort took the motorway to Starnberg, followed by Alois in the Mini. His colleagues on the Starnberg force had been tasked with searching the house. With a bit of persuasion, Dühnfort had managed to convince Leyenfels and the relevant judges that they had reasonable cause to carry out a search of the premises belonging to Marcel Schneider, alias Roswell67.
The afternoon passed into evening. The sun lost its warmth, and the snow-topped peaks of the Alps reflected the golden light, which had a hint of rose. Any attempt to preserve the image would destroy it, turn it into a cliché. To Dühnfort, the very transience of the moment made it more glorious.
Twenty minutes later he was standing outside the door of a terraced house in Starnberg that had seen better days. The paint on the window frames was peeling, the small front lawn was full of weeds and moss, and the letterbox next to the door was bulging. In front of the garage was the blue Smart car. It was registered in the name of Marcel Schneider. Alois had done a little online research. Roswell67 sold mainly mobiles, CD players and car radios at very reasonable prices. ‘Fallen off the back of some lorry, almost certainly,’ Alois had said. ‘And he also offers his services as a painter and decorator on various online platforms, under his real name. Probably the tax office only gets to hear about a small portion of his income.’
Alois pressed the bell by the front door. It was answered by a man around forty years of age. He wore a ponytail, jogging bottoms and a paint-spattered sweatshirt.
Dühnfort introduced himself and handed Schneider the warrant. ‘I’m interested in the bike you’ve got on eBay.’
Schneider crossed his arms over his chest. ‘No idea what you mean. I’m not sell
ing anything on eBay.’
‘You are Marcel Schneider? This is your vehicle?’ Dühnfort pointed at the Smart car.
Schneider shrugged. ‘So?’
‘Good. Then I’d like to take a look in your garage.’
‘Why?’
‘To take a look at the bike.’ Dühnfort was gradually losing patience.
‘Deaf, are you?’ Schneider stepped back into the house and made to close the door.
Alois braced himself against it. ‘Don’t think so, my friend.’
For a moment they were both pushing against it, until the man suddenly let go. Alois stumbled inside and caught himself just in time.
‘That’s enough, Mr Schneider. Where’s the key for the garage? Or should I have them break it open?’
Schneider stared at Dühnfort in fury, but drew out a bunch of keys and tossed them to him. The van full of officers ready to search the house drew up. Schneider’s eyes widened. ‘What’s all this bollocks? Think I’m a terrorist or what?’
‘Not a terrorist,’ said Dühnfort, heading for the garage.
‘Fucking pigs. Nothing better to do than push the little guys around,’ Schneider yelled after him.
Dühnfort opened the garage and entered. To his right was a set of shelves stacked with boxes. According to their labels, they contained car radios, GPSs and MP3 players. Beyond them, a bike leaned against the wall. Dühnfort checked the serial number. It was Bertram’s. He removed the leather handcuff case from his waistband, took them out and returned to the front door, where Marcel Schneider was still standing next to Alois, watching the squad of officers in his small front garden and shaking his head.
‘Mr Schneider, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’ He reached for Schneider’s wrist and snapped on the cuffs.
Taken aback, Schneider stared at him. ‘Arsehole,’ he blurted. A cascade of other swearwords followed.
