by Inge Löhnig
*
Around seven Dühnfort returned to the police station and interrogated Schneider. Alois, leading the house search, had already discovered that the GPSs had been reported stolen.
‘Hey, man, that’s all bullshit. A friend gave me the GPSs. I was going to sell them for him and get a commission. No idea where he got them.’ Schneider leaned back in his chair and pulled a face at the two-way mirror in the interrogation room.
‘Mr Schneider, you don’t appreciate the seriousness of the situation. I’m not interested in where you got them. My colleagues in robbery and theft will take care of that. I’m only interested in the bike. It’s pertinent to a murder case, and you’re a suspect.’
‘Am I supposed to have knocked someone down, or what?’ Schneider grinned at his own joke.
‘Where did you get the bike?’
‘Bought it.’
‘When and where?’
‘April or May. At the flea market in Riem.’
‘I assume you don’t have a receipt.’
‘Nope.’
‘Was it April or May?’
‘April.’ Schneider scratched his nose. ‘No, wait, May.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. It was in May.’
‘I’m going to put that in the interrogation report. You bought the bike in May at the flea market in Riem.’
‘That’s correct.’
Dühnfort placed the receipt on the table. ‘That bike was purchased by Bertram Heckeroth on 22 June from a company called Radlschmied.’
‘Then it was in June.’
‘Somebody buys a bike then goes and flogs it at the flea market two seconds later? Seems a funny thing to do.’
‘There are some funny people out there.’ Schneider leaned back and scratched his crotch.
‘On 5 October, Bertram Heckeroth rode this bike to Starnberg Lake. Ten days later he was dead. Shot. And now we’ve found the bike at your house.’
‘Hey, look, I had nothing to do with that. I don’t even know the guy.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
Schneider shrugged. ‘Because you’re a good judge of character?’
‘Could you gradually edge your way round to the truth, or are we going to spend the whole night like this?’
Schneider held Dühnfort’s gaze for a few seconds, then looked away.
Gina entered the interrogation room and bent down towards Dühnfort. ‘Alois found Heckeroth’s credit and debit cards at Schneider’s house,’ she whispered into his ear.
Dühnfort looked up. ‘Good. Can you sort out the arrest warrant?’
Gina nodded and left the room.
‘Hey, what the hell! What arrest warrant?’
‘Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth. Name mean anything to you?’
‘I thought the guy’s name was Bertram?’
‘And I thought you didn’t know him.’
‘You mentioned it yourself. What is all this horse shit?’
‘We found an American Express card and a debit card in the name of Wolfram Eberhard Heckeroth at your house. His body was discovered on 13 October. That makes two objects belonging to two murder victims we’ve now found in your possession, and you have no plausible explanation for how that happened.’
‘This is bollocks.’ Schneider sat up straight. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I’m not letting you pin any murders on me.’ He leaned over the table. ‘But you won’t believe the truth anyway.’
‘It’s worth a shot.’
Schneider sank back into his chair, crossing his arms. ‘OK, fine. The bike was at the train station. It wasn’t locked. Practically an invitation, I’d say. Eventually I couldn’t stand it any more and I took it.’
‘Which station?’
‘Starnberg. More or less on my doorstep.’
‘When did you first see it?’
‘Tuesday before last. About noon.’
‘That was the fourteenth.’
‘If you say so.’
‘When did you take it?’
Schneider fidgeted in his chair. ‘Oh, all right. I didn’t wait around, I just nabbed it then and there. It was practically on a plate.’
‘OK, we’ll leave that for now.’ Dühnfort stretched his tense shoulders. ‘And how did you get hold of the cards?’
Schneider threw out his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘They were in the saddlebag. I only found them when I was putting the thing on eBay and checked to see whether there was a repair kit in there. But I didn’t take any money out with them. Thought that would be a bridge too far.’
*
After Schneider had been photographed and fingerprinted, Dühnfort phoned Alois in Starnberg. Neither Wolfram’s watch nor the keys to his cabin and car had been found at Schneider’s place, however.
Dühnfort fetched a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He was inclined to believe Schneider. Pure gut instinct. The man was a small-time crook and off-the-books tradesman; he had no previous convictions and didn’t seem prone to violence. He hadn’t even had the guts to use the cards. He was a dodgy dealer, a fence, an opportunistic thief – but probably not a brutal killer.
If Schneider’s story about how he’d come into possession of Bertram’s bike were true, then it gave rise to plenty of questions. Who’d left it at the station, and why? What role had it played in the Heckeroth murders? And was he right about the date? Tuesday, 14 October? One day after the body was discovered at the cabin. Was that significant? And how had Bertram got hold of his father’s bike? Had he switched them at the barbecue one week earlier? It was possible. The bikes looked very similar. Yet Bertram must have noticed.
Dühnfort leaned back. Something was just on the edge of his conscious mind. The Sunday barbecue. Bertram cycling to the lake. It was beautiful that day, perfect for a bike ride. Cycling is my hobby, I bike whenever I can. It had been beautiful all week long. Not until Monday the thirteenth had the skies clouded over, rain setting in around evening.
Mrs Kiendel. Dühnfort sat bolt upright. That was it. On the afternoon of Monday the thirteenth, Bertram had phoned Mrs Kiendel because he was concerned about not being able to get hold of his dad. Assuming Bertram had been genuinely worried, what did he do after the call? Go to the lake? Take the bike? Surely if he’d been worried, he’d have wanted to reassure himself as soon as possible.
If Bertram had murdered his father, it would have been high time to get rid of the body, or at least some of the evidence. Was that why he’d phoned Mrs Kiendel, to find out whether his father had already been missed, whether somebody was already on their way to Münsing? But then why had he waited so long?
Dühnfort felt a creeping sense of unease. Getting to his feet, he began to pace round the room. Was he just not seeing the wood for the trees? He was certain there was something he had overlooked, something that hadn’t clicked. But what?
Motive, means and opportunity. Bertram had had motive, and he’d had opportunity. His alibi was false. But what about means? What had he needed for the murder? Fear of ruin, rage at the father who had refused to help, and the cold-bloodedness required to live for a week with the knowledge that his father was slowly and horribly wasting away in his cabin. Why hadn’t he shot or beaten him? Why such a long, agonising death? Had that been Bertram’s revenge? Punishing the father who didn’t love him, who rejected him and abandoned him in his hour of need? Or was it merely a diversionary tactic?
Dühnfort stood at the window, gazing down onto the brightly illuminated square outside the Frauenkirche cathedral. He let his eyes wander over the near-deserted space, up the floodlit spires towards the onion domes. His sense of unease wouldn’t settle.
Going down to the second floor, he found Meo sitting in front of a computer.
‘Have you got the geolocation data yet?’ asked Dühnfort.
Meo glanced over his shoulder. ‘Came in half an hour ago. I’m looking at it now.’
‘How long will it take to analyse?’
‘When d’y
ou need it by?’
‘As soon as possible, ideally. All of it, the whole week, from the sixth to the thirteenth.’
‘Good thing I don’t have a girlfriend.’ Meo turned back to the monitors. ‘Couldn’t grab me a kebab, could you?’
*
Closing the door of her flat behind her, Caroline set off for the Rue des Halles, a French bistro in Haidhausen. Christian Brandenbourg had suggested meeting there when he’d rung back yesterday evening. It had been a brief conversation: very friendly, but succinct. Yet it had left Caroline with a vague sense of uncertainty. Brandenbourg had seemed pleased to hear from her. ‘I remember Elli very well,’ he’d said, but emphasised the very well a little too heavily, lending the words a certain ambiguity, as if his memories weren’t pleasant.
Caroline climbed into the waiting taxi and gave the driver the address. Suddenly the meeting seemed pointless. Would she really learn more about her mother? See new sides to her? Brandenbourg had been twelve at the time. A child. Now, however, she was on her way, and an evening in a nice restaurant in the company of a famous musician was certainly more interesting than sitting home alone and waiting for Marc, who wouldn’t arrive on the train from Budapest until shortly after midnight. I could pick him up, she thought. It would be a surprise. He’d be pleased.
The taxi pulled up, and Caroline paid and got out. The night air still held a trace of the day’s warmth, but a chilly wind was already sweeping round the corner. She hurried inside the Rue des Halles. The blended aroma of lamb and gratin, oysters and wine, gâteau au chocolat and cheese rose to greet her. The restaurant wasn’t quite as elegant as Caroline had expected, but its tasteful simplicity reminded her of the small bistros typical of Parisian side streets, which she liked very much. A waiter approached and led her to the table reserved for them. ‘Mr Brandenbourg will be a few minutes late. He asked me to convey his apologies and offer you an aperitif. Perhaps a glass of champagne?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Caroline passed the waiter her coat and sat down. The restaurant was popular, nearly all its tables occupied. She liked the mixture of customers: businesspeople, families and couples. The waiter set down a glass of champagne and withdrew.
Caroline took a sip, gazing out of the window onto the illuminated street and thinking of her mother.
Yesterday Caroline had read more of the diary, wondering whether marital rape was considered a criminal offence. Today, yes. But then? Even if it was, her mother had never done anything about it. Why hadn’t she been able to leave Wolfi? Wolfi, who’d been so insistent on exercising his marital rights, to put it mildly. In those days divorce wasn’t as common, of course, and anyway, how could Mum have coped alone? She wasn’t just financially dependent on him, she was pregnant. That wretched pragmatism of hers had made her incapable of action. She’d entrenched herself behind it, as if there were no alternative. And perhaps she couldn’t see any. After Peter’s death she’d fallen into a black hole that stripped her of nearly all willpower. That was what Caroline had interpreted from her words, at least. None of it mattered.
Somebody was approaching the table. She looked up and found herself gazing into smiling grey eyes.
Some men simply suit a certain age better than women. On their faces life’s marks appear interesting, their maturity attractive, even sexy. And Christian Brandenbourg was one of those men. He gave her his hand. ‘Caroline? May I call you that?’
She nodded.
‘Christian.’ His hand was cool and wiry. ‘Forgive my lateness. The rehearsal ran over a little.’ It sounded more like an order than a request.
‘Of course,’ she said, as he passed the waiter his coat, ordered a dry sherry and sat down.
He wore corduroy trousers with a mocha cashmere turtleneck. His build was sturdy but not bulky, his wide, angular face hinting at a strong will. His brown hair was streaked with grey; obstinate tufts floated languidly, as if tousled by a Mediterranean breeze.
He pulled up his chair and surveyed her with friendly interest. ‘You’re astonishingly like your mother. How long has it been? More than forty years? Yet I recognised you at once.’
Caroline smiled. The waiter brought the sherry, giving first Caroline then Brandenbourg a menu.
‘Yesterday you spoke of her in the past tense. Is she . . . I mean, she’s no longer alive?’
Caroline nodded. ‘Mum died a few weeks ago.’
‘I’m so sorry. She was a warm-hearted person. But that’s not news to you, of course.’
Yes it is, thought Caroline. Warm-hearted wasn’t the word she would have used.
Brandenbourg eyed her. ‘You look like you don’t quite agree.’
She attempted a smile. ‘Perhaps that quality was somewhat overshadowed by others.’ She was about to tell him that the death of his father had been a caesura in Elli’s life when it occurred to her that he probably wasn’t aware of the affair.
‘How did you find out I knew Elli?’ asked Brandenbourg, reaching for his glass.
‘From some letters among my mother’s things.’
He took a sip of sherry and set the glass down. ‘Shall we order first? I can recommend the duck breast, and perhaps a nice hearty soup to start.’
‘Wonderful.’
Christian waved over the waiter, gave him their order and asked him to bring a bottle of rosé and some water. Then he leaned back and emptied his glass of sherry. ‘So you found the letters. Didn’t you wonder how they ended up back in your mother’s possession?’
Good point – she hadn’t thought of that. ‘My nose for detective work isn’t very well developed.’ But if she had interpreted his question correctly . . . ‘It was you?’
He nodded, reaching across the table and taking her hands. His fingers were long and slender, wiry yet muscular. Beautiful male hands. The hands of a violinist. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not in a minefield. I know about the relationship between your mother and my father. Elli was the love of his life. But you know that, of course, if you’ve read the letters.’
Caroline didn’t like him touching her. It was possessive, proprietorial; it demonstrated how much Christian thought of himself. They’d known each other for three minutes and he was already holding her hands in his. Caroline pulled them away and picked up her champagne glass.
‘I thought nobody knew. At least, that’s what the letters suggest.’
‘That’s not quite correct. My mother knew about the affair.’
The waiter returned to their table, opened a bottle of wine and let Christian taste it before pouring a whole glass. Then he served the cream-of-tomato soup.
‘As I was saying, my mother knew the truth. She found a letter in Dad’s jacket pocket. It resulted in a broken crystal vase – proper lead crystal, a family heirloom. Not to mention a few less valuable pieces of porcelain. At the time I found the performance rather impressive. My usually cool and collected mother, glowing with rage. She exploded while she was alone, technically – I just happened to witness it without her noticing. By dinner time she was quite the lady once more. Hair smooth, blouse starched, skirt creaseless, complexion aristocratically pale. She didn’t let anything show.’
‘They seem to have been very different, our mothers.’ Caroline laid her spoon on the edge of the plate. ‘In the letters my mother wrote to your father, I scarcely recognise her. I never knew her like that. Warm-hearted? Maybe. But only some days.’
‘Oh, she was very merry, almost silly, like a young girl.’
‘You met her often?’
‘I caught them. Your mother and my father.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Not the way you think, Caroline.’ A smile flitted across his face, and he told her how he’d taken a detour through the park at Nymphenburg Palace on his way home from a violin lesson one day. ‘It was autumn, colourful leaves everywhere, the sky stretching blue above the city, and as I was walking past the old royal baths I saw a couple embracing, kissing quite openly. I was twelve, just entering puberty. Naturally I wat
ched with interest, until I realised it was my father. He saw me, and admitted the truth. From then on I met with them often, and we had a lot of fun. I remember we pretended to be statues that day. We tried to stand still on the empty marble plinth and gaze earnestly into the park. Didn’t work, of course. One of us always burst out laughing.’
Caroline stirred her soup contemplatively. ‘My mother only wrote about you in her diary once, about a dinner party. That must have been before your mother found out about the relationship.’
Christian told her he remembered the evening well. He’d been allowed to perform, and Elli had clapped enthusiastically. ‘At that point they’d decided to stay together for ever, though their better halves were still in the dark.’
‘Elli didn’t find it easy. She was very worried about what would happen to you and your sister.’
‘Why? As far as I was concerned, it was straightforward. I’d stay with my dad and Elli, of course. But then . . . it all came to nothing. And it was your father’s fault.’ Christian looked up. His grey eyes had darkened, like the sky before a coming storm.
*
Dühnfort sat at his desk, reading interrogation reports while he waited for the geolocation results from Bertram’s mobile. He’d fetched a kebab for Meo and a baguette with Roquefort and pear for himself, which by now had long since been eaten. It was nearly half ten. He turned another page listlessly just as the telephone rang. ‘Done,’ said Meo. ‘Want a look?’
‘I’m on my way.’
By the time Dühnfort reached Meo’s lab, he’d projected a map of Munich and the surrounding area onto the wall. The map was divided up into hexagons. Within the conurbation of Munich, the hexagons were smaller than in the rural areas. Inside these hexagons, Meo had added colourful banners of text showing the date and time. Reaching for a laser pointer, he shone it at the map. ‘Each day is colour-coded differently. Blue is for Sunday, 5 October, when Bertram and his dad had a barbecue. Let’s look at that first.’ Meo pressed a button on the keyboard and all the markings except the blue ones disappeared.
‘What do the hexagons represent?’ asked Dühnfort.
